Palamedes looks down and begins the arduous process of unfolding himself from this atrocious goth children blanket, shrugging it off after a long beat to reveal, unsurprisingly, sedate Sixth greys. As he's bunching up the blanket to leave it in a rumpled heap on the other end of the couch, he says, "You're even less persuasive than he is."
And he unfolds the rest of himself to put both feet on the floor and wobble upright, with the steadiness of someone whose longest walk in the past five weeks has been from one room to another in this very house, earlier this very morning. He shifts from one foot to the other, testing his ability to not wipe out immediately on first step, and judges it good enough.
"Honestly, 'I bet you take notes real good'? Who does that work on?" The Emperor's earlier attempts to ply him with notebooks and apologies he'd never want or ask for still rankles; he doesn't feel like doing this again. He nods, once, to the Saint.
"This has been completely unilluminating, thanks. I have to get my own house in order, so I'm going to go. Ask him about his notes, he's desperate to share them."
The Lyctor does not appear to be particularly surprised, nor even particularly displeased, at this dismissal; but Palamedes would be forgiven by anyone, surely, if he missed the brief sharpening of Patience's gaze on him, at the confession that God has attempted to persuade Palamedes of something — and, apparently, did not do a tremendously good job of it.
(That sharpened look is somehow shark-like: dead-eyed, hungry — and here, look, a scrap of flesh to consider, to track down.)
By the time Palamedes is actually looking at him, giving him his barest-modicum-of-politesse in the form of a nod, the Saint just looks dryly amused.
"Oh, please," he scoffs lightly, and picks up his teacup again. "You haven't had your tea — it's actually tolerably decent, surprise surprise — and anyone would think you couldn't recognize that that was just the blatant flattery, to butter you up a bit. I don't know you, Master Warden," or even your name, but heir to the Sixth does come with some logical titular assumptions, at least, "and I have no idea what you want, but that doesn't mean I don't expect you to be, in fact, real good at taking notes. Which will not, logically, be identical to the Emperor's notes."
(Which he's going to have to have some Words with John about — or, more likely, just go help himself to reading, and talk about later.)
"You've asked any number of tangential questions, but you have not, as yet, asked me any questions for me to provide you with illuminating answers, whether or not you're going to turn them into manuscripts; I don't even know if you can doodle, much less illustrate." As an example, gestured vaguely with the teacup, perhaps meant to urge that Palamedes in fact consider drinking that nice fresh of left-on-read tea that was made for him, right in front of him, in an acknowledgment that he has zero reason to trust that a Lyctor isn't going to poison him.
He makes a point of not asking where Palamedes lives, what house he wishes to get in order, when it so obviously isn't spoken of as a House — whether or not this is going to be registered as a diplomatic point.
"Aren't you from academia? I should think you would be quite well practiced at working with people you dislike. I certainly can."
"'Can' and 'have to' are remarkably different states of mind," Palamedes says, as he takes a look around for a beat before crossing, slightly hobblingly, to where his Sleeper bag sits on an unused chair. He picks it up to flip it open and rifle through it, mostly to take out the cloak, but also to make sure everything that's supposed to be in it is still in it.
"That's your tea; I didn't ask for it. If it helps, flattery doesn't work on me."
He shakes the cloak out, then pulls it around his shoulders to fiddle with the fastenings. For all intents and purposes, he is ready to hobble right out the front door in a minute here, but.
"It's nothing personal; I don't know you, either. You can blame him, if you like. He tried the 'dear Sixth academic' routine first, and we had a slight disagreement in the middle." He makes a face, not quite a grimace, but thin-lipped and displeased all the same. Boy, does it still rankle. He's never been one for going through the motions of social theatrics, so sitting and drinking the tea with some old man he's not keen on twice in one day has been a nonstarter.
As always, God takes and takes and takes.
After another moment of rooting in the bag, he closes it up with a decisive tug. He looks at the Saint. "What was your Seventh's name?"
"I'm sure it will be utterly delightful for me to discuss with him, at some point," possibly never, says the Saint, as bland background noise for Palamedes's bag-rooting.
When the Master Warden looks at him again, there is a particularly inhuman quality to him; something static, perhaps, the sort of 'unmoving' that includes 'unchanging' but also includes a hint of television snow — the uneasy sense of someone who has only lived through ten thousand years (and more than that besides) by not really living through them, just — counting them off — holding them at arm's length, waiting for them to pass him by.
Approximately five and a half seconds pass, between question and answer:
"Cytherea Loveday, known for the Miracle at Rhodes," he says, distantly, as if reciting something he barely remembers, or possibly as if he's remembering it so thoroughly that his voice is echoing through a ten-thousand-year-long tunnel; is there any real difference, at this point?
And then his gaze sharpens, ash-grey vs lambent-grey, and he asks (quite thoughtfully), "What was yours?"
Vaguely, Palamedes had expected knowing her name to inspire some kind of feeling. He's sure it does, somewhere in the space where he's put her face and her words and her dispassionate disregard of the lives she took, her impotent fury. Somewhere down there an emotion stirs to think of her as Cytherea, not the Lyctor, and damningly— he doesn't know if it's anger of his own. A fresh application of rage would be perfectly reasonable, and anything else - well.
Risky.
He nods and picks up the bag, heading for the door. His first instinct is to go in silence, damn God and damn his Lyctors and maybe go scrape Cytherea off whatever she eventually died upon and ask her what anybody else's name is; Palamedes doesn't believe the Saint, like, cares. About his Seventh.
But for her sake, then. He's at the door; he half-turns, hand against the doorframe.
"Dulcinea Septimus," he says weightily, without embellishment, and then turning to go, "I'll see you around, Saint."
Like, Ah, good, a much less cloyingly insipid name; well done, her.
Like, It's a very pretty name.
Like just repeating it — but he knows the look of a man who absolutely does not want a specific name to be in his mouth; he doesn't say it.
Only: "I'm sure," because he isn't God to offer the eternally obnoxious 'not if I see you first' — and then picks up the rejected tea, and takes a sip, letting Palamedes leave without further objection.
no subject
And he unfolds the rest of himself to put both feet on the floor and wobble upright, with the steadiness of someone whose longest walk in the past five weeks has been from one room to another in this very house, earlier this very morning. He shifts from one foot to the other, testing his ability to not wipe out immediately on first step, and judges it good enough.
"Honestly, 'I bet you take notes real good'? Who does that work on?" The Emperor's earlier attempts to ply him with notebooks and apologies he'd never want or ask for still rankles; he doesn't feel like doing this again. He nods, once, to the Saint.
"This has been completely unilluminating, thanks. I have to get my own house in order, so I'm going to go. Ask him about his notes, he's desperate to share them."
no subject
(That sharpened look is somehow shark-like: dead-eyed, hungry — and here, look, a scrap of flesh to consider, to track down.)
By the time Palamedes is actually looking at him, giving him his barest-modicum-of-politesse in the form of a nod, the Saint just looks dryly amused.
"Oh, please," he scoffs lightly, and picks up his teacup again. "You haven't had your tea — it's actually tolerably decent, surprise surprise — and anyone would think you couldn't recognize that that was just the blatant flattery, to butter you up a bit. I don't know you, Master Warden," or even your name, but heir to the Sixth does come with some logical titular assumptions, at least, "and I have no idea what you want, but that doesn't mean I don't expect you to be, in fact, real good at taking notes. Which will not, logically, be identical to the Emperor's notes."
(Which he's going to have to have some Words with John about — or, more likely, just go help himself to reading, and talk about later.)
"You've asked any number of tangential questions, but you have not, as yet, asked me any questions for me to provide you with illuminating answers, whether or not you're going to turn them into manuscripts; I don't even know if you can doodle, much less illustrate." As an example, gestured vaguely with the teacup, perhaps meant to urge that Palamedes in fact consider drinking that nice fresh of left-on-read tea that was made for him, right in front of him, in an acknowledgment that he has zero reason to trust that a Lyctor isn't going to poison him.
He makes a point of not asking where Palamedes lives, what house he wishes to get in order, when it so obviously isn't spoken of as a House — whether or not this is going to be registered as a diplomatic point.
"Aren't you from academia? I should think you would be quite well practiced at working with people you dislike. I certainly can."
no subject
"That's your tea; I didn't ask for it. If it helps, flattery doesn't work on me."
He shakes the cloak out, then pulls it around his shoulders to fiddle with the fastenings. For all intents and purposes, he is ready to hobble right out the front door in a minute here, but.
"It's nothing personal; I don't know you, either. You can blame him, if you like. He tried the 'dear Sixth academic' routine first, and we had a slight disagreement in the middle." He makes a face, not quite a grimace, but thin-lipped and displeased all the same. Boy, does it still rankle. He's never been one for going through the motions of social theatrics, so sitting and drinking the tea with some old man he's not keen on twice in one day has been a nonstarter.
As always, God takes and takes and takes.
After another moment of rooting in the bag, he closes it up with a decisive tug. He looks at the Saint. "What was your Seventh's name?"
no subject
When the Master Warden looks at him again, there is a particularly inhuman quality to him; something static, perhaps, the sort of 'unmoving' that includes 'unchanging' but also includes a hint of television snow — the uneasy sense of someone who has only lived through ten thousand years (and more than that besides) by not really living through them, just — counting them off — holding them at arm's length, waiting for them to pass him by.
Approximately five and a half seconds pass, between question and answer:
"Cytherea Loveday, known for the Miracle at Rhodes," he says, distantly, as if reciting something he barely remembers, or possibly as if he's remembering it so thoroughly that his voice is echoing through a ten-thousand-year-long tunnel; is there any real difference, at this point?
And then his gaze sharpens, ash-grey vs lambent-grey, and he asks (quite thoughtfully), "What was yours?"
no subject
Risky.
He nods and picks up the bag, heading for the door. His first instinct is to go in silence, damn God and damn his Lyctors and maybe go scrape Cytherea off whatever she eventually died upon and ask her what anybody else's name is; Palamedes doesn't believe the Saint, like, cares. About his Seventh.
But for her sake, then. He's at the door; he half-turns, hand against the doorframe.
"Dulcinea Septimus," he says weightily, without embellishment, and then turning to go, "I'll see you around, Saint."
no subject
Like, Ah, good, a much less cloyingly insipid name; well done, her.
Like, It's a very pretty name.
Like just repeating it — but he knows the look of a man who absolutely does not want a specific name to be in his mouth; he doesn't say it.
Only: "I'm sure," because he isn't God to offer the eternally obnoxious 'not if I see you first' — and then picks up the rejected tea, and takes a sip, letting Palamedes leave without further objection.