[Despite the rising thrum of readiness in him, Paul finds a laugh to offer up at Palamedes' joke about his vision. It echoes in the still air where the sounds of the living forest should be, their absence conspicuous in the quiet that follows. It's not an easy laugh, and the look he shares with Palamedes is uneasy in its wake, apprehension and anticipation twin sides of a thin coin.]
Soon.
[There's one more thing to produce from the bag. It's a vial no larger than Paul's little finger, sealed with a rubberized dropper he half unscrews as he watches the edges of the clearing. He whistles, a rise and fall of four notes.]
I think you're right about will. Think about how magic manifests through our blood. All the differences...all that time I spent trying to categorize manifestations, and I was forgetting what I already knew. 'My mind controls my reality'. It's an old Bene Gesserit proverb I've been reflecting on.
[The trees rustle. Paul is poised like a bird of prey as a fishbelly pale arm reaches into the moonlit meadow, followed by another, and another, as the guest of honor makes its appearance.
This Beast is a small one, no larger than a human being, but radically different in arrangement. Nine white, hairless arms with too many elbows support an oblong torso with a scraggling coat of grey fur, while three hands are folded across the protuberance at the front of the creature that might be presumed to be a rough approximation of a head. It does seem to be where the whuffing, wet sounds of investigation are emerging from. It's an oddity, but all Beasts are. What stands out about this one, as it approaches the bundled offering, is the silver band wrapped around one of those bony wrists.]
These aren't our idealized selves. Neither are the squid, and neither are the Beasts. But they're all us.
[Paul produces the dropper from the vial, and the black fluid inside of it whispers wordlessly as he opens his mouth and tips back his head to place one void-black, shining drop of the mixture on his tongue. He takes a shuddering breath as he tamps down his gag reflex, letting the astringent, iron-rich substance coat his tongue.
And then, without a word, he launches himself from the tower.
It's not so far of a fall that he can't roll through it, across the cleared patch free of stones he scouted out weeks ago, when he started on this project. He uncurls smoothly to his feet at its end, straightening to a graceful, confident column, as the Beast rears back on hindarms.]
Still.
[The Voice that comes from Paul is not a voice after it leaves him. It splits and refracts, a voice shattered into a spectrum of voices as it sweeps across the space between him and the Beast, the air it resonates through skimmed over with a sheen of unlight that Palamedes wouldn't be able to see even with perfect vision, and wouldn't be able to not see even with his eyes firmly shut against it.
The Beast stills. It falls to its palms and curls up on itself like a dying spider, twitching and trembling. Paul is its dim reflection, his shoulders heaving from whatever exertion it took to issue that wrenching command.
When he looks up at the tower, his eyes almost look blue (but they aren't; not really). In his own voice, shivering and elated, he calls out.]
[The hairs on the back of Palamedes' neck start to stand on end as soon as the Beast comes lumbering into view, although not any more profoundly than other encounters he's had with Beasts-from-afar. He glances at Paul half questioning, half to nod slightly at his assessment of their powers - yes, he's had that discussion too, there's a trick to manifesting their abilities that may just be cracked one of these days, if it can be done carefully enough.
Anyway, what the fuck is that liquid, young man. He has a terrible, disgusting guess, which he decides means he's probably correct. There's a conversation to be had about how squids to Sleepers to Beasts and around and around again is "all us," and if no single step is the idealized self then how is the cycle broken?— but there goes Paul, down into the clearing.
Palamedes stands from his crouch automatically, hand braced on the broken tower wall as he leans out to watch. Paul can take care of himself, but he also just leapt out of a tower, and Palamedes reserves the right to find that somewhat concerning.
He isn't sure what happens next. Oh, he hears it, and he watches its result put the Beast on the ground in a heartbeat, and he thinks, Oh.
Oh, and the silhouette of Paul is that of a conqueror, breathing hard and gaze brittle-bright, the way his confident stroll up to the Beast had been only a boy. Palamedes stands in the broken tower and gazes down at him, arms folded, hand up to his chin and brow furrowed.
A moment passes. The tension fades out of him a fraction, and if what he mutters to himself up here carries down there, it's a complaint about how he just walked up all these stairs, Paul, and now he has to walk back down? Good god. But he turns to do just that, coming around the base of the tower soon enough.
He remembers speaking to Harrow at Canaan House about control, and he can recall with pristine clarity the precise tone with which she told him not to be feeble, and he wonders if this is another one of those. If he's being feeble about whatever is going on here, already. Obviously, Paul deserves the chance to explain what in hell he's doing before Palamedes forms any cogent opinions, but:]
[Under other circumstances, Paul might have a few comments about the value of strengthening oneself through gentle exercise, but he's lingering too much on Palamedes' troubled look for that. When Palamedes emerges from the tower, Paul is closer to the Beast, the bundle he tossed down back up in his arms as he waits with a thrum of tension that might as well be anxiety.
That it feels like something else isn't important. Feelings have as much weight as he chooses to give them, when he has the proper control of himself, and he has to have had that control in order to manifest it outside of himself.]
It shouldn't hurt.
[Palamedes' feelings, on the other hand, weigh heavy in his calculations, intersecting the tender part of his heart reserved for the people he cares for and the apprehension of a student facing a teacher he respects.]
They don't enjoy it, but it's the only way I can get close enough to work with them. [His attention flits to the Beast, still huddling in abjection.] Necessary compromises.
This is Epsilon, or at least that's what I've been calling them until they can tell me what their name is. They're the one who's been showing the most improvement. The bracelet is a corruption sink, or it's meant to be. They don't always work, but I'm getting better.
[Somewhere at the back of his mind, Palamedes notes that Paul almost certainly hoped he would react with more enthusiasm to this. It's the way he answers that makes Palamedes think, well, he isn't entirely the little conqueror then, using whatever that ability was on beasts for the control. The little conqueror wouldn't humor Palamedes' concern about hurting the beasts, so— well, so.
That helps; that tips the scale, makes the difference between Palamedes staying to look at this experiment and just going home right now.
He hums, shuffling closer to the beast to crouch beside it, mostly to peer at the bracelet. Credit Paul's uncomfortable methodology this: Palamedes doesn't need whatever that voice was explained to him to trust that this beast is down for the count.]
I wouldn't call it a compromise, [he says, glancing up at Paul for a moment.] At least, not with them.
[It's not a judgment, necessarily; he would be markedly more clear in his intentions if it were. But it is a nudge of sorts, a tap on the glass to gently suggest not slipping into the pit of justification, from which there is no reasonable return.
Just a suggestion, anyway. He steeples his fingers under his chin, brow furrowed as he stares at the bracelet and thinks about implications. Now, it still looks like a beast to him, so he's going to need to see the whole archive of notes, which he assumes Paul has taken because he's not a hack, but baby steps.
After a moment he puffs out a breath, evidently deciding something, and nods.]
[There are people Paul could have shown this to that would have offered no judgment at all, or even admired his efforts. If he brought this to Teacher, he can imagine the slight upturn of his eyes that show when he's truly pleased with something. If he brought Lazarus to see it - he would have thought he'd known once, but isn't so sure any longer. There are people he could talk around to acceptance, given the right balance of words.
Something unsticks in his shoulders at the corrective, their sharp line easing into a curve as he crouches near Epsilon and Palamedes to unwrap the bundle on the ground. Inside is a brown paper packet he unfolds to reveal the carcass of a chicken broken down and deboned.]
You're right. I wouldn't say it's a compromise with them.
[He acknowledges this quietly, pulling black gloves from his pocket and onto his hands before he reaches for the clasp on the bracelet. As he slides it free, the dark bloodstone in its inward facing setting comes into view, and Paul lays it out on the grass between them for Palamedes' further inspection. It's cracked down the center, a fine hairline fracture, and it's difficult to force the eye to linger on.
(At its removal, the Beast shivers even more acutely, a faint weh of noise trickling out between its fingers in a rhythm just two steps removed from whimpering.)]
It's largely a synthesis of things people were already doing, just differently applied. You could call it a fusion of Blood Ministry and Discipledom - the principles of like blood calling to like, fit into the framework of purification. That's my blood, tempered with the salt waters of the Moon Presence's lake. The discoloration is from Epsilon, and whatever they've been doing out here.
[He produces another bracelet, a twin of the one on the ground, and secures it around a different wrist before returning to the first, leaning in closer to look for wear marks or injuries. The Beast stops its rasping un-whimper to flex the planted fingers of the newly decorated hand into the dirt.]
I tested it on myself first. [He glances sideways, gauging.] I know it's not much of a control, but - we work with what we have. Don't we?
[Paul is intelligent and capable and a pusher of boundaries; Palamedes wants to continue to believe he isn't cruel. That this beast lies in its pathetic heap with slightly more clarity of mind than it had before Paul started putting bracelets on it; that the end will not justify the means, but at least somberly explain. He watches Paul swap the trinkets, leaning over the cracked bloodstone as is expected of him, and he listens to the explanation.
The rules and parameters of blood magic are uncertain at best; he knows this, he's a goddamn necromancer, the rules were uncertain even before he woke up in a place where blood so thoroughly seeped into the earth and every facet of life besides. That Paul is doing potentially dangerous things on the whim of theory is, hm - fine, Palamedes supposes. He would be a hypocrite to dismiss the entire affair, given his own predilections towards bleeding into vials every time Viktor says bloodstone tech, or the suggestions he adamantly makes to the other blood ministers day in and day out, a battle of attrition for doing Slightly Different Techniques.
It's none of that. He sets his fingertips against the dirt just next to the broken bracelet, not keen on touching a thing that's just been peeled off a beast making suffering noises. Corruption nothing; it's the things his psychometry will pick up whether he likes it or not that stay his hand.
No, it's not the experiment itself— it's only the frame.]
Technically, you don't 'have' beasts, [he says, eventually, and he thinks of the soul melanges wasting a myriad in Canaan House as something similar.] So that's something to keep in mind. You didn't ask a Sleeper for help? I can guess why you wouldn't; I don't agree. But it's been done; you can't unring a bell. I'll leave it at cautioning you against losing perspective.
[He very pointedly continues not to judge, not to admonish, because he believes firmly that guilt is a poor teacher at the same time he believes being clear about his disagreements is better than letting them fester. They're not mutually exclusive.]
So, with that out of the way: is it working? Is the stone a conduit for removal, or a guard against further contamination?
Edited (changed a phrase and forgot to delete a sentence about it oopsie doodle) 2022-05-13 20:48 (UTC)
[Paul stills at Palamedes' caution verging on warning, his spine sharpening to a straighter edge even as he stays crouched. He notes the carefulness with which Palamedes does not touch the bracelet, and there's something hot and leaden in the hollow of his throat that makes his voice stick too much when he speaks.]
I know that. I meant-
[It doesn't matter what he meant. It matters what he conveys, and he should know better than to try to offer justifications without proof. Palamedes is only seeing the process halfway, undone - Paul has to keep guiding him through it.]
It's both. I thought it might only work as a guard, but at least for this one...
[Paul reaches out to the Beast with a soft hushing sound, alighting gloved fingertips on the folded hands. He brushes the trembling knuckles and traces the lines of the tightly sealed fingers to their ends, and then, with a faint tug of breath that's the only outward sign of his apprehension, he begins to coax them apart.
Epsilon is reluctant to be coaxed, a duller, mewling rendition of weh accompanying the shuddering drawing back of fingers one by one (coiling like insect legs more than human hands might) to reveal an eye that's nearly human. It might take a moment to realize it is upside down, a brown irised, red-rimmed inversion. Paul, despite everything, lets out a shaky open sound of relief, a half-smile ghosting across his face.]
There you are. [He murmurs to the Beast, then lifts his voice to add, for Palamedes:] They were red last time. Hourglass pupils. They're getting better, Palamedes.
[Palamedes glances sidelong at Paul, when he tries to course-correct. He means it about leaving it where it is, the bell already rung, etc.— they can argue about what Paul's intentions are until they're both blue in the face and the beast gets bored and just leaves, but neither mind is going to change. So, then, better to see the rest, to believe that Paul has some tangible results here, and would not simply ask him to come all this way for something that won't overshadow the - the mind control voice, or whatever it was.
He's put a pin in that. He'll get to it. That's the part of this he likes the very least, after all.
For now, the beast, and he leans in to see as Paul gently pries their hand-appendages back to show a human eye. Something turns over in his stomach, a little sick and a little thrilled at once— proof, slight as it is.
There are other things he can't help but think of; how long will this take, does the mental awareness come back sooner than the physical evidence and if so is it torment, is there a way to expedite the process with a larger stone? Would doing so cross some threshold that would hinder more than it helped, damaging the beastly mind before it can be restored?
But there's proof, and he looks at Epsilon's human eye for a long beat before he reaches over and clasps Paul on the shoulder, squeezing. Well done, this gesture says, Well done, I have faith in you.]
Would you look at that. [Quiet, and a little awed. He may retain some ethical concerns, but he won't sit here and pretend progress isn't impressive. Look at that.
And look at the bracelet, which he does again, after a beat.]
That thing's a ticking time bomb of condensed corruption, isn't it? What do you do with them?
[Paul leans into Palamedes' hand slightly, a momentary sideways unbalancing that trusts Palamedes not to let him fall too far off his center of gravity. He brushes the back of Epsilon's third hand as he pulls away, which isn't a cue, but looks like one anyway as the Beast covers themself protectively once more.
Paul doesn't attribute anything sentimental to Epsilon's feelings about him, if they exist at all - but he knows his own exist, and as one-sided as they are, they're real. He remembers every bruise Epsilon gave him in the first days, especially the dark, mottled one on his lower back from being slammed onto one of the mossy tumbled stones all around them; he remembers their old teeth, their old slaver, the stark ridged spine of razor-glass that sang in west winds. If Palamedes weren't here, Paul would have other things to murmur, but here, a snag - that part of this is between the two of them, and maybe he's not as careful about emotional attribution as he wants to be. He settles for a smile he knows Epsilon can still see, covered eyes or not.]
I have a storage site outside of the city, in the sea caves. It must have been some cultist den, once - already wrecked with it, stem to stern. I know that's not a long term solution.
[This, on the other hand, is only between him and Palamedes. He rocks back on his heels, stabilizes, and turns his relief to that side.]
I was expecting it to dissipate like it seems to when the process is reversed normally, but I think that might only happen when it's complete. Or it might not at all. I won't know until they revert to form, so I'm holding onto them to observe. So far there hasn't been any leakage I can see, but I'm acting on the assumption I'm missing something.
[He knows what assurances he'd want to hear, but he assumes Palamedes will want more than that. He'll see another gap Paul doesn't, and that will be another sign of understanding, if not approval.]
I'm not asking anyone else to take on that risk, if that's something else you were wondering.
[Palamedes' gaze remains on the bracelet, trying to picture a cavern dotted with little piles of them and wondering how bad an idea that is. How far can corruption seek into the earth in this form, a crystal, solid and bound already to hardened blood? How dangerous is that storage site, should someone wander into it without knowing what to expect? Can a bloodstone attract a beast as easily as blood itself?
Much to think about. He glances at Paul and says,] I know you aren't.
[Which is as much tacit approval as it is a gentle chiding, in the end. It's good of Paul not to risk others with this the same way it's... less good of him to involve creatures like Epsilon in the testing stages, Palamedes thinks, and so he can't disapprove entirely of that. But to shoulder something like this entirely on his own, well...
Less good.
Idly he presses a finger into the dirt beside the used up bracelet, still quite unwilling to actually touch it.]
I suppose the question is where does corruption originate, if it doesn't dissipate as you'd expect it to, when held in this form. There would be a saturation point to this world if it could only grow, and I'd think it'd have hit by now. Even with all of the efforts to draw corruption out before beasthood hits.
[All the lunar orbs in the world can't stave off corruption forever, if it's a thing that can be, as it were, bottled independent of a corrupted body. Like in a bracelet.]
I'm sure you've read into blood pollution, but look: I can stick my hand into the dirt and not become corrupt, although I guarantee blood has been spilled close enough to this spot before. If someone cracks open your corrupted stones, where does it go?
[He waves a hand.]
Thinking out loud. Keeping the sea cave is walking a knife's edge; you know that. Let me get back to you— there's surely a way to force dissipation faster without corrupting anyone or anything nearby.
[damn it's like he's taking on that risk or something oopsie doodle]
[There are cairns on a thousand worlds in the Empire where half-lives tick down like clocks. When Palamedes speaks of cracking open, that's what Paul remembers, vast caverns of stillness and death traced in the ghostly projection of a filmbook.
There are things that cannot be made safe; things that can only be contained and hidden away. The thought that rises like a drifting body in water is of a cold, small world husbanded by skull-painted acolytes, a thought he lets sink back into an abyss, as he always does.]
I'd be glad to try anything you come up with. [He reaches past Palamedes, picking up the bracelet by its links, the stone refracting slickly as it moves.] That's exactly the question, isn't it? Where does it come from, and where does it go? It's like the storms. There has to be a source.
We should give them some space. Come on.
[He straightens to standing, looking down at the them in question, who trills wetly, scuffling in the dirt with ragged fingers. The new bracelet gleams securely around a wrist, and he tries not to see a cuff.]
...I won't say no to your help, but- [He shakes his head, twining the bracelet around his fingers, stone still untouched.] -I wouldn't...I would not have you be complicit. If anything does go wrong, or if anyone objects - I started this alone. Anything that comes of it falls on me.
Palamedes hums in agreement; the source and the independent nature of corruption-as-force, call it, are fascinating on an academic level; he's sure that understanding both of those would shed new insights on how to deal with the immediate problem of corruption turning people into beasts; it's the part where the beasthood problem is immediate that puts a wrench in the plan to write a series of papers about the topic. Because someone could. Write papers about it. But in the face of immediate, commonly occurring misery like corruption and beasthood, the joys of academic productivity should take a respectful backseat to a solution, as immediate and widespread as it can be made.
So the cave full of corrupt beads is going to have to sit and wait a while, much as he doesn't like it. He stands, giving Epsilon one last look before turning to step pointedly away, while Paul fusses with the spent bracelet.]
I'll work on it, [he says, for the dissipation strategies, and shakes the dirt off his fingers.
Then, hm. He wouldn't say he's involved himself as a purely unrelated party; Paul's methodology might be a touch stomach-turning, that voice, but turning back beasthood is already a pie he's got fingers in elsewhere, in various places in the city. Understanding the makeup of Sleepers as it corresponds to the shape, Paul's imago, that too— so. Then.
He cants his head slightly, considering Paul, not critically or with an eye to pick on his continued insistence on doing dangerous things on his own, but - with an eye to size him up, perhaps differently than before. It's fatalistic on some level, but there's a maturity to Paul's words that Palamedes respects; making clear his stance, very Sixth of him.]
Trust me when I say I'm not throwing my lot in with you without thinking about it; I know better than that. And because I've thought about it, I can tell you this: you are my friend, and almost all of the time, I support whatever misdemeanor you come up with.
[Not The Voice Though, and he's still not belaboring it. He picks at his fingernail to get the last of the soil out from under it, continuing:]
So I think you'll understand where I'm coming from when I say that if this goes sideways and other people are endangered by what you're doing here, I'm going to help them first. Right now, this is almost entirely people who have consented to be here; if something happens that drags in people who have no part in it, I'm not going to worry about anybody's reputation.
[It's still notably not a criticism, particularly not when he smiles, bright and clear.]
Don't lose your focus, but you can count on me for that much of a security net.
[This is a threshold Paul has stood on before, watching someone's sense of him shift another inch towards respect more like an equal than a junior. He straightens up as he follows Palamedes away, to a distance he can count on to be sufficient to react in if his control does somehow slip. Behind his back, he makes a rolling permissive gesture of the hand at Epsilon, who hunches over the bait at last, facial fingers peeling back and forearms rising up to hide the mouth they reveal. It's for the best. The teeth sound the same.
Palamedes lays out his terms, and Paul doesn't try to hide his relief this time. They're past the point where he's concerned his desire for approval might sway Palamedes' decision, whether either of them realized it.]
Thank you.
[The bracelet hangs at his side now, not between them. Palamedes' smile shines out like the kind of warding light that might have once sat on top of the broken tower beside them.]
I'll do my best to keep you from having to make a choice, but I feel better knowing you'll make the right one, if it comes to that. [He runs his free hand through his hair, ducking his head.] I don't always see things the way most other people do, I think.
[It's meant to be light, like an invitation to a joke (something he's picked up from Gideon, without realizing), but there's an off-note to it, skating dangerously close to another layer of confession. He doesn't always see things the way other people do; he sees them wrong, and what kind of burden is that to ask anyone else to carry for him more than he already does?]
I suppose neither do you. [A flicker of a smile.] Do you ever wish you'd lied, instead of telling the truth? Not about this. About anything.
[That's light, if otherwise neutral. For his part, Palamedes has never concerned himself overmuch with what other people think of his point of view; it comes with the territory of studiously refusing to lie to save face or feelings, ultimately. Not that he aims to be callous, or cruel, but a lie to spare feelings inevitably does more harm than good.
He supposes his mindset is somewhat black and white, in that way. He likes to consider himself more nuanced, even as he says:]
But again, no. There aren't too many trappings of home I'm all that enamored with these days, but it'd be an ordeal to part with 'truth over solace'.
[A shrug, and he doesn't offer any other specifics as far as what constitutes trappings of home.]
Let's get out of here. I want to draw up a chart of things to do with a cave full of malicious stones.
[The juxtaposition of truth and home in such proximity is like a cross-tabulation that summons a memory, one of those rarely recalled ones that Paul holds, but doesn't dwell on.]
My father once told me that respect for truth comes close to the basis of all morality.
[The breath he takes after that is swift and expansive, almost and not quite the kind of inward drawn shock that comes after brush a hand across searing metal. He settles himself as fast as he unsettled, tamping himself down with the coolness of the breeze coming in from the sea, but there's a trace preoccupation left behind like an after image.]
I suppose you'd agree on that. [Paul pulls back his shoulders, scans the treeline for anything else lurking there not already at his back.] Yes. Let's go. I'd like to see that chart.
[Palamedes almost certainly recognizes the look of someone who finds themselves considering a problem from a novel angle, not yet sure if it's a useful one, but not yet rejecting it out of hand.]
no subject
Soon.
[There's one more thing to produce from the bag. It's a vial no larger than Paul's little finger, sealed with a rubberized dropper he half unscrews as he watches the edges of the clearing. He whistles, a rise and fall of four notes.]
I think you're right about will. Think about how magic manifests through our blood. All the differences...all that time I spent trying to categorize manifestations, and I was forgetting what I already knew. 'My mind controls my reality'. It's an old Bene Gesserit proverb I've been reflecting on.
[The trees rustle. Paul is poised like a bird of prey as a fishbelly pale arm reaches into the moonlit meadow, followed by another, and another, as the guest of honor makes its appearance.
This Beast is a small one, no larger than a human being, but radically different in arrangement. Nine white, hairless arms with too many elbows support an oblong torso with a scraggling coat of grey fur, while three hands are folded across the protuberance at the front of the creature that might be presumed to be a rough approximation of a head. It does seem to be where the whuffing, wet sounds of investigation are emerging from. It's an oddity, but all Beasts are. What stands out about this one, as it approaches the bundled offering, is the silver band wrapped around one of those bony wrists.]
These aren't our idealized selves. Neither are the squid, and neither are the Beasts. But they're all us.
[Paul produces the dropper from the vial, and the black fluid inside of it whispers wordlessly as he opens his mouth and tips back his head to place one void-black, shining drop of the mixture on his tongue. He takes a shuddering breath as he tamps down his gag reflex, letting the astringent, iron-rich substance coat his tongue.
And then, without a word, he launches himself from the tower.
It's not so far of a fall that he can't roll through it, across the cleared patch free of stones he scouted out weeks ago, when he started on this project. He uncurls smoothly to his feet at its end, straightening to a graceful, confident column, as the Beast rears back on hindarms.]
Still.
[The Voice that comes from Paul is not a voice after it leaves him. It splits and refracts, a voice shattered into a spectrum of voices as it sweeps across the space between him and the Beast, the air it resonates through skimmed over with a sheen of unlight that Palamedes wouldn't be able to see even with perfect vision, and wouldn't be able to not see even with his eyes firmly shut against it.
The Beast stills. It falls to its palms and curls up on itself like a dying spider, twitching and trembling. Paul is its dim reflection, his shoulders heaving from whatever exertion it took to issue that wrenching command.
When he looks up at the tower, his eyes almost look blue (but they aren't; not really). In his own voice, shivering and elated, he calls out.]
You can come down, if you want to. It's safe.
no subject
Anyway, what the fuck is that liquid, young man. He has a terrible, disgusting guess, which he decides means he's probably correct. There's a conversation to be had about how squids to Sleepers to Beasts and around and around again is "all us," and if no single step is the idealized self then how is the cycle broken?— but there goes Paul, down into the clearing.
Palamedes stands from his crouch automatically, hand braced on the broken tower wall as he leans out to watch. Paul can take care of himself, but he also just leapt out of a tower, and Palamedes reserves the right to find that somewhat concerning.
He isn't sure what happens next. Oh, he hears it, and he watches its result put the Beast on the ground in a heartbeat, and he thinks, Oh.
Oh, and the silhouette of Paul is that of a conqueror, breathing hard and gaze brittle-bright, the way his confident stroll up to the Beast had been only a boy. Palamedes stands in the broken tower and gazes down at him, arms folded, hand up to his chin and brow furrowed.
A moment passes. The tension fades out of him a fraction, and if what he mutters to himself up here carries down there, it's a complaint about how he just walked up all these stairs, Paul, and now he has to walk back down? Good god. But he turns to do just that, coming around the base of the tower soon enough.
He remembers speaking to Harrow at Canaan House about control, and he can recall with pristine clarity the precise tone with which she told him not to be feeble, and he wonders if this is another one of those. If he's being feeble about whatever is going on here, already. Obviously, Paul deserves the chance to explain what in hell he's doing before Palamedes forms any cogent opinions, but:]
Does that hurt it?
cw: Beast experimentation
That it feels like something else isn't important. Feelings have as much weight as he chooses to give them, when he has the proper control of himself, and he has to have had that control in order to manifest it outside of himself.]
It shouldn't hurt.
[Palamedes' feelings, on the other hand, weigh heavy in his calculations, intersecting the tender part of his heart reserved for the people he cares for and the apprehension of a student facing a teacher he respects.]
They don't enjoy it, but it's the only way I can get close enough to work with them. [His attention flits to the Beast, still huddling in abjection.] Necessary compromises.
This is Epsilon, or at least that's what I've been calling them until they can tell me what their name is. They're the one who's been showing the most improvement. The bracelet is a corruption sink, or it's meant to be. They don't always work, but I'm getting better.
no subject
That helps; that tips the scale, makes the difference between Palamedes staying to look at this experiment and just going home right now.
He hums, shuffling closer to the beast to crouch beside it, mostly to peer at the bracelet. Credit Paul's uncomfortable methodology this: Palamedes doesn't need whatever that voice was explained to him to trust that this beast is down for the count.]
I wouldn't call it a compromise, [he says, glancing up at Paul for a moment.] At least, not with them.
[It's not a judgment, necessarily; he would be markedly more clear in his intentions if it were. But it is a nudge of sorts, a tap on the glass to gently suggest not slipping into the pit of justification, from which there is no reasonable return.
Just a suggestion, anyway. He steeples his fingers under his chin, brow furrowed as he stares at the bracelet and thinks about implications. Now, it still looks like a beast to him, so he's going to need to see the whole archive of notes, which he assumes Paul has taken because he's not a hack, but baby steps.
After a moment he puffs out a breath, evidently deciding something, and nods.]
Okay. Walk me through it.
cw: animal parts
Something unsticks in his shoulders at the corrective, their sharp line easing into a curve as he crouches near Epsilon and Palamedes to unwrap the bundle on the ground. Inside is a brown paper packet he unfolds to reveal the carcass of a chicken broken down and deboned.]
You're right. I wouldn't say it's a compromise with them.
[He acknowledges this quietly, pulling black gloves from his pocket and onto his hands before he reaches for the clasp on the bracelet. As he slides it free, the dark bloodstone in its inward facing setting comes into view, and Paul lays it out on the grass between them for Palamedes' further inspection. It's cracked down the center, a fine hairline fracture, and it's difficult to force the eye to linger on.
(At its removal, the Beast shivers even more acutely, a faint weh of noise trickling out between its fingers in a rhythm just two steps removed from whimpering.)]
It's largely a synthesis of things people were already doing, just differently applied. You could call it a fusion of Blood Ministry and Discipledom - the principles of like blood calling to like, fit into the framework of purification. That's my blood, tempered with the salt waters of the Moon Presence's lake. The discoloration is from Epsilon, and whatever they've been doing out here.
[He produces another bracelet, a twin of the one on the ground, and secures it around a different wrist before returning to the first, leaning in closer to look for wear marks or injuries. The Beast stops its rasping un-whimper to flex the planted fingers of the newly decorated hand into the dirt.]
I tested it on myself first. [He glances sideways, gauging.] I know it's not much of a control, but - we work with what we have. Don't we?
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The rules and parameters of blood magic are uncertain at best; he knows this, he's a goddamn necromancer, the rules were uncertain even before he woke up in a place where blood so thoroughly seeped into the earth and every facet of life besides. That Paul is doing potentially dangerous things on the whim of theory is, hm - fine, Palamedes supposes. He would be a hypocrite to dismiss the entire affair, given his own predilections towards bleeding into vials every time Viktor says bloodstone tech, or the suggestions he adamantly makes to the other blood ministers day in and day out, a battle of attrition for doing Slightly Different Techniques.
It's none of that. He sets his fingertips against the dirt just next to the broken bracelet, not keen on touching a thing that's just been peeled off a beast making suffering noises. Corruption nothing; it's the things his psychometry will pick up whether he likes it or not that stay his hand.
No, it's not the experiment itself— it's only the frame.]
Technically, you don't 'have' beasts, [he says, eventually, and he thinks of the soul melanges wasting a myriad in Canaan House as something similar.] So that's something to keep in mind. You didn't ask a Sleeper for help? I can guess why you wouldn't; I don't agree. But it's been done; you can't unring a bell. I'll leave it at cautioning you against losing perspective.
[He very pointedly continues not to judge, not to admonish, because he believes firmly that guilt is a poor teacher at the same time he believes being clear about his disagreements is better than letting them fester. They're not mutually exclusive.]
So, with that out of the way: is it working? Is the stone a conduit for removal, or a guard against further contamination?
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I know that. I meant-
[It doesn't matter what he meant. It matters what he conveys, and he should know better than to try to offer justifications without proof. Palamedes is only seeing the process halfway, undone - Paul has to keep guiding him through it.]
It's both. I thought it might only work as a guard, but at least for this one...
[Paul reaches out to the Beast with a soft hushing sound, alighting gloved fingertips on the folded hands. He brushes the trembling knuckles and traces the lines of the tightly sealed fingers to their ends, and then, with a faint tug of breath that's the only outward sign of his apprehension, he begins to coax them apart.
Epsilon is reluctant to be coaxed, a duller, mewling rendition of weh accompanying the shuddering drawing back of fingers one by one (coiling like insect legs more than human hands might) to reveal an eye that's nearly human. It might take a moment to realize it is upside down, a brown irised, red-rimmed inversion. Paul, despite everything, lets out a shaky open sound of relief, a half-smile ghosting across his face.]
There you are. [He murmurs to the Beast, then lifts his voice to add, for Palamedes:] They were red last time. Hourglass pupils. They're getting better, Palamedes.
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He's put a pin in that. He'll get to it. That's the part of this he likes the very least, after all.
For now, the beast, and he leans in to see as Paul gently pries their hand-appendages back to show a human eye. Something turns over in his stomach, a little sick and a little thrilled at once— proof, slight as it is.
There are other things he can't help but think of; how long will this take, does the mental awareness come back sooner than the physical evidence and if so is it torment, is there a way to expedite the process with a larger stone? Would doing so cross some threshold that would hinder more than it helped, damaging the beastly mind before it can be restored?
But there's proof, and he looks at Epsilon's human eye for a long beat before he reaches over and clasps Paul on the shoulder, squeezing. Well done, this gesture says, Well done, I have faith in you.]
Would you look at that. [Quiet, and a little awed. He may retain some ethical concerns, but he won't sit here and pretend progress isn't impressive. Look at that.
And look at the bracelet, which he does again, after a beat.]
That thing's a ticking time bomb of condensed corruption, isn't it? What do you do with them?
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Paul doesn't attribute anything sentimental to Epsilon's feelings about him, if they exist at all - but he knows his own exist, and as one-sided as they are, they're real. He remembers every bruise Epsilon gave him in the first days, especially the dark, mottled one on his lower back from being slammed onto one of the mossy tumbled stones all around them; he remembers their old teeth, their old slaver, the stark ridged spine of razor-glass that sang in west winds. If Palamedes weren't here, Paul would have other things to murmur, but here, a snag - that part of this is between the two of them, and maybe he's not as careful about emotional attribution as he wants to be. He settles for a smile he knows Epsilon can still see, covered eyes or not.]
I have a storage site outside of the city, in the sea caves. It must have been some cultist den, once - already wrecked with it, stem to stern. I know that's not a long term solution.
[This, on the other hand, is only between him and Palamedes. He rocks back on his heels, stabilizes, and turns his relief to that side.]
I was expecting it to dissipate like it seems to when the process is reversed normally, but I think that might only happen when it's complete. Or it might not at all. I won't know until they revert to form, so I'm holding onto them to observe. So far there hasn't been any leakage I can see, but I'm acting on the assumption I'm missing something.
[He knows what assurances he'd want to hear, but he assumes Palamedes will want more than that. He'll see another gap Paul doesn't, and that will be another sign of understanding, if not approval.]
I'm not asking anyone else to take on that risk, if that's something else you were wondering.
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Much to think about. He glances at Paul and says,] I know you aren't.
[Which is as much tacit approval as it is a gentle chiding, in the end. It's good of Paul not to risk others with this the same way it's... less good of him to involve creatures like Epsilon in the testing stages, Palamedes thinks, and so he can't disapprove entirely of that. But to shoulder something like this entirely on his own, well...
Less good.
Idly he presses a finger into the dirt beside the used up bracelet, still quite unwilling to actually touch it.]
I suppose the question is where does corruption originate, if it doesn't dissipate as you'd expect it to, when held in this form. There would be a saturation point to this world if it could only grow, and I'd think it'd have hit by now. Even with all of the efforts to draw corruption out before beasthood hits.
[All the lunar orbs in the world can't stave off corruption forever, if it's a thing that can be, as it were, bottled independent of a corrupted body. Like in a bracelet.]
I'm sure you've read into blood pollution, but look: I can stick my hand into the dirt and not become corrupt, although I guarantee blood has been spilled close enough to this spot before. If someone cracks open your corrupted stones, where does it go?
[He waves a hand.]
Thinking out loud. Keeping the sea cave is walking a knife's edge; you know that. Let me get back to you— there's surely a way to force dissipation faster without corrupting anyone or anything nearby.
[damn it's like he's taking on that risk or something oopsie doodle]
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There are things that cannot be made safe; things that can only be contained and hidden away. The thought that rises like a drifting body in water is of a cold, small world husbanded by skull-painted acolytes, a thought he lets sink back into an abyss, as he always does.]
I'd be glad to try anything you come up with. [He reaches past Palamedes, picking up the bracelet by its links, the stone refracting slickly as it moves.] That's exactly the question, isn't it? Where does it come from, and where does it go? It's like the storms. There has to be a source.
We should give them some space. Come on.
[He straightens to standing, looking down at the them in question, who trills wetly, scuffling in the dirt with ragged fingers. The new bracelet gleams securely around a wrist, and he tries not to see a cuff.]
...I won't say no to your help, but- [He shakes his head, twining the bracelet around his fingers, stone still untouched.] -I wouldn't...I would not have you be complicit. If anything does go wrong, or if anyone objects - I started this alone. Anything that comes of it falls on me.
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Palamedes hums in agreement; the source and the independent nature of corruption-as-force, call it, are fascinating on an academic level; he's sure that understanding both of those would shed new insights on how to deal with the immediate problem of corruption turning people into beasts; it's the part where the beasthood problem is immediate that puts a wrench in the plan to write a series of papers about the topic. Because someone could. Write papers about it. But in the face of immediate, commonly occurring misery like corruption and beasthood, the joys of academic productivity should take a respectful backseat to a solution, as immediate and widespread as it can be made.
So the cave full of corrupt beads is going to have to sit and wait a while, much as he doesn't like it. He stands, giving Epsilon one last look before turning to step pointedly away, while Paul fusses with the spent bracelet.]
I'll work on it, [he says, for the dissipation strategies, and shakes the dirt off his fingers.
Then, hm. He wouldn't say he's involved himself as a purely unrelated party; Paul's methodology might be a touch stomach-turning, that voice, but turning back beasthood is already a pie he's got fingers in elsewhere, in various places in the city. Understanding the makeup of Sleepers as it corresponds to the shape, Paul's imago, that too— so. Then.
He cants his head slightly, considering Paul, not critically or with an eye to pick on his continued insistence on doing dangerous things on his own, but - with an eye to size him up, perhaps differently than before. It's fatalistic on some level, but there's a maturity to Paul's words that Palamedes respects; making clear his stance, very Sixth of him.]
Trust me when I say I'm not throwing my lot in with you without thinking about it; I know better than that. And because I've thought about it, I can tell you this: you are my friend, and almost all of the time, I support whatever misdemeanor you come up with.
[Not The Voice Though, and he's still not belaboring it. He picks at his fingernail to get the last of the soil out from under it, continuing:]
So I think you'll understand where I'm coming from when I say that if this goes sideways and other people are endangered by what you're doing here, I'm going to help them first. Right now, this is almost entirely people who have consented to be here; if something happens that drags in people who have no part in it, I'm not going to worry about anybody's reputation.
[It's still notably not a criticism, particularly not when he smiles, bright and clear.]
Don't lose your focus, but you can count on me for that much of a security net.
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Palamedes lays out his terms, and Paul doesn't try to hide his relief this time. They're past the point where he's concerned his desire for approval might sway Palamedes' decision, whether either of them realized it.]
Thank you.
[The bracelet hangs at his side now, not between them. Palamedes' smile shines out like the kind of warding light that might have once sat on top of the broken tower beside them.]
I'll do my best to keep you from having to make a choice, but I feel better knowing you'll make the right one, if it comes to that. [He runs his free hand through his hair, ducking his head.] I don't always see things the way most other people do, I think.
[It's meant to be light, like an invitation to a joke (something he's picked up from Gideon, without realizing), but there's an off-note to it, skating dangerously close to another layer of confession. He doesn't always see things the way other people do; he sees them wrong, and what kind of burden is that to ask anyone else to carry for him more than he already does?]
I suppose neither do you. [A flicker of a smile.] Do you ever wish you'd lied, instead of telling the truth? Not about this. About anything.
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[That's light, if otherwise neutral. For his part, Palamedes has never concerned himself overmuch with what other people think of his point of view; it comes with the territory of studiously refusing to lie to save face or feelings, ultimately. Not that he aims to be callous, or cruel, but a lie to spare feelings inevitably does more harm than good.
He supposes his mindset is somewhat black and white, in that way. He likes to consider himself more nuanced, even as he says:]
But again, no. There aren't too many trappings of home I'm all that enamored with these days, but it'd be an ordeal to part with 'truth over solace'.
[A shrug, and he doesn't offer any other specifics as far as what constitutes trappings of home.]
Let's get out of here. I want to draw up a chart of things to do with a cave full of malicious stones.
no subject
My father once told me that respect for truth comes close to the basis of all morality.
[The breath he takes after that is swift and expansive, almost and not quite the kind of inward drawn shock that comes after brush a hand across searing metal. He settles himself as fast as he unsettled, tamping himself down with the coolness of the breeze coming in from the sea, but there's a trace preoccupation left behind like an after image.]
I suppose you'd agree on that. [Paul pulls back his shoulders, scans the treeline for anything else lurking there not already at his back.] Yes. Let's go. I'd like to see that chart.
[Palamedes almost certainly recognizes the look of someone who finds themselves considering a problem from a novel angle, not yet sure if it's a useful one, but not yet rejecting it out of hand.]