[He sighs, though he wasn't holding his breath. He can tell when someone has made up their mind and it won't be changed by little things like "danger" and "hopelessly massive" and "so many sharp teeth".]
If you're truly decided on the matter, I consider myself involved; I can help.
Before that, I have a favor to ask. If we're going to prepare, I need to see more of it. I am not asking you to come in with me. Only to pull me out, if I can't do it myself.
[As much as losing the context of expression and voice is a downside to this method of communication, that goes both ways. Paul's next reply comes slower, minutes later.]
I lost my nerve. I need to see it through to the end.
[More than observing a sleeping body, more akin to the work of the disciples who could retrieve a dreamer in trouble. Almost as though he guessed he might need it. Who needs the gift of prescience when they have deductive reasoning on his level?]
I'll need a proper connection to your mind. Think of it as a tether or a lifeline, so that you don't drown or get eaten while you're "only" dreaming.
[A pet peeve of his has always been underestimating or minimizing a known risk. He's glad that Paul asked him, glad that the teenager had that vital wisdom.]
It goes without saying that I won't let that happen.
Do you remember what happened when I was dreaming? Specifically, when you were pulled into it. I've been trying to recreate and refine that process ever since for a more controllable situation.
It's subtle, but significant. Like the difference between a slipknot, and a square one.
[L arrives when the moon is in the sky. Having shed back to his original form, he is both relieved and bereft, because gone are the strangers' smiles on the street and the blissful absence of back pain.
Lycka, at his side, never changed. She nudges him gently, aware of his conflicted thoughts on the matter, offering her silent assurance of whatever he might feel he's lacking or lost.
He wraps his oversized grey peacoat more tightly around his skinny frame to block out the chill as he approaches the Santuary. Some of the disciples eye him nervously, remembering his brush with peril when he'd been here with Paul. Others have seen his more recent efforts, and nod their respect to him as he passes.
He casts a careful and probing telepathic net, searching for the complex clockwork that is uniquely Paul's in the sea of dreams and murmurs.]
[Paul is cross-legged on a thin mat at the base of the first descent of stairs, where he met Palamedes for his confession, and he has spent the last hour meditating to the sound of passing footsteps. His mind still hums with purpose, but it's quieted, restorative. If he wants to be taken seriously, he needs to behave seriously, and showing self-control is part of that.
A certain degree of instability is not only accepted in Disciples, it's all but expected. He anticipated being shunned when he returned and found himself welcomed back as if nothing had happened. His nook had already been cleaned for him, the first aid kit restocked. He'd sought out a new, more secluded place at once.
When Lazarus approaches Paul blinks his eyes open and smiles slightly, rolling back his shoulders. He's dressed in the same robe as last time, marked by faint stains where he almost scrubbed out the drops and smears of blood on his sleeves from Lazarus' injuries.]
[Lycka trails after the silver string that L can see when he closes his eyes. Reliably, it leads him to Paul, postured meditatively in a different alcove than the one they'd utilized the last time.
He nods at the neutrally-phrased observation. It means that he looks younger, smaller, and sadder, but he owns, at least, what the years have done to his flesh and bone. The twisted back and haunted, hollow eyes make a kind of sense that the solid muscles and even features never could.
A whistling keen like a warning emanates from Lycka, whose dark back glistens under the glow of the nearby bloodstone.]
You look like you've considered this carefully. That being said...everything is amplified here. Revelations, and danger.
[A whistling keen like a warning emanates from Lycka, whose dark, glossy back glistens under the glow of the nearby bloodstone.]
She wants to go with you, though the tether should be enough to bring you back safely. If she had a pod, I suspect she'd be the matriarch.
[He goes to one of the nook's corners, testing a slightly difficult lever.]
Good... this one's equipped with a sky well. We'll need some moonlight.
[Paul looks at Lycka when she whistles for attention, and when Lazarus says matriarch two images rise to the surface of his thoughts: a coolly elegant woman with high cheekbones that match the lines of Paul's, and a younger one with calm, curious eyes framed by short-cropped dark hair. He half-smiles at the orca, whose reflected mental image now swims alongside them.]
So that makes three of you. All right.
[He rolls back his shoulders, tipping his head lightly from one side to the other.]
If it's too much, next time, we'll go somewhere else. [He shifts to his knees and produces a thermos from his nearby satchel, along with two small handleless cups.] Before we start, I wanted to apologize for my behavior last time. You were right. I was acting beneath myself, and you...
[You came back for me would be repetitive, and he falters on it as he pours chilled black tea, substituting:] Are you all right? Your arm.
[The "three of you" remark is nonsensical in the current context; L skirts the edges of Paul's thoughts, as politely as one can, and the outlines of the women are visible through the fog.
Mothers, or figures near enough? Maybe it's a hunger they share. L lowers his eyes until the image passes.]
Apologize?
[He sounds surprised, crouching across from Paul as he takes the cups out.]
It's not necessary... High stakes and high expectations rarely bring out the gentlest side of a person.
[And you're young, so young, he doesn't say, but it's in his thoughts, the notion that there's nearly a decade between them that Paul hasn't had a chance to live yet. It feels like a lifetime ago for L, when something was still alive and fighting in him that he suspects he's since lost for good.
Before he takes the tea poured for him, he rolls up his sleeve, showing the tooth marks on translucently pale skin.]
It's fine... I've never had a scar before, but I've always liked the idea. Something that says "this happened, and I survived," right?
[A fleeting, tentative smile flashes across his features, lights up his eyes with something childishly excited.]
[The ideas Paul has about femininity and nurturing are shaped by a mother who also taught him how to kill a man with his bare hands, so of course he sees their echo in a sworn cavalier and an open ocean apex predator. She's on his mind, close to the surface, when Lazarus rolls up his sleeve and brightens about his new scars.
The 'this' that happened, the one Lazarus survived, was him. Guilt surges, and then he thinks of Palamedes' hand pressing on his, the half-promise, half-admission he extracted from Paul about portioning out responsibility. It doesn't ease all of it, but it helps.]
They should have known that already. [He steadies himself with a breath, in and out.] That's a good way to think of scars, but I don't want you to end up with more because of me.
[He picks up his tea and sips it, eyes shaded down.]
[L's attempts at levity are like a balloon drifting loose. It might find and delight a child, or choke and kill an endangered animal.
He senses that the attempt has perhaps the opposite intended effect. Is it because everything, even his jokes, has that undercurrent of tragedy, a life not lived in a completely different way?
He follows suit, reaching for the other cup. He reaches into his backpack for sugar cubes, which he carries with him everywhere for occasions like these, because no one ever gives him tea that's sweet enough.
He drops them in until it's too many to be anything but disgusting, and then he drops more.]
Several reasons... some are easier to explain than others. Some are more selfish than others.
[With each reason, he drops another sugar cube into his tea.]
I'm involved, and it rankles me to leave something unfinished. [Plunk.]
I don't think your grandeur is a delusion, or that this is folly. [Plunk.]
I'm not really a person, at least... not in relation to other people. But if someone like that can do something that's really needed, it can feel like being a person for a little while. That's my selfish reason.
[He sips the tea, more paste than liquid at this point.]
[Lazarus had told Paul that he doled out secrets sparingly. That to give them up was to diminish himself. So either this is not meant to be a secret, or this self-dissection of motive in front of him is a gift. Paul can't tell which, or which he would prefer it to be. The only thing he's certain of is that it's not an attempt to curry his pity; the idea of pitying Lazarus, after everything, is repugnant.
(And how much does the last reason resonate? Enough that Paul wonders if it's intended to.)
Either way, his back straightens and his eyes grow resolute. He adds another link to the mantle of responsibility draped across his shoulders, and nods.]
Those seem reason enough. [He sets down his cup, drained of tea.] Thank you.
I am asking for other help. I won't put this all on a handful of shoulders. That would be folly. [He sets his hands on his knees, tilting his head slightly to the right.] We need to find out when it comes, as close as we can, and I need to find out how to kill it or drive it back.
[No real change comes over him, no pause to see if some intended significance landed or was understood. What makes L peculiar is, largely, his tendency to see some very typical things as strange and alarming, and some extremely strange and alarming things as typical. Eventually, a sort of predictable distribution emerges as a pattern, before it too is dislodged.]
I'm glad, also, that you're treating this with the gravity it merits. Central command wouldn't mean much without teams to manage.
["Armies," he decides, might be a little too grand, create higher blood pressure than is desirable, because...]
We're going to make a stone with my blood and yours after exposing it to the moonlight from the sky well in this chamber. We both repeat the same incantation, and you fall asleep with the stone in your hand. Once you're dreaming, I take the stone in my hand. It warms according to the danger you're in or the injuries you've suffered; if you were to die, it'd become ice-cold very suddenly.
At the point the stone is too warm to hold comfortably... hopefully, before it's hot... the way to retrieve the dreamer is to induce a trance with another incantation. Wherever you are in the dream, you'll see a door near to you, no key required because I'm the one holding it open. You'll have about a minute to get through, which should be plenty of time. Oh, and...
[An afterthought, but one that seems very important to mention.]
Don't let anything follow you through. I'd probably end up possessed, or at the very least corrupted. Just a few drops is fine...
[He rummages in his backpack, handing over a covered, delicate, scalpel-like blade and a vial that already contains a small amount of blood.]
[The strangest thing about all this, Paul thinks as he accepts the scalpel and the vial, is how unstrange it is. Lazarus' plan is practical, realistic and accepting of risk. It's also a plan that relies on trusting that Paul will be able to hold up his end. He's used to both things, but not here, and it's
So he pulls off his left glove and makes a small incision in the pad of his ring finger, pressing the tiny wound against the edge of the vial and encouraging blood flow to the digit. This also reveals the black and silver signet ring on the middle finger of that hand, emblazoned with a hawk.]
I thought you might try to tell me not to get hurt. [He's slightly wry as he says it, a touch of self-deprecation for his lack of confidence.] I keep underestimating you.
[Blood sample collected, he recaps the vial and returns it, along with the scalpel, to Lazarus. The incision he presses against his thumb until it stops.]
Are you sure you're not overestimating me?
[He didn't mean for that to sound so faintly plaintive. He doesn't quite grimace at himself, but it's a near thing.]
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text; un: younghuman
I know what we're going to do. I want your help, if you'll give it.
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[He was 99% sure that Paul would. The 1% of any near-certainty has always been what keeps him up at night.]
You're not going to stay out of the water, are you?
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[Does he know that's not what Lazarus means? Yes.]
I'm looking for strategists.
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If you're truly decided on the matter, I consider myself involved; I can help.
[A few seconds pass, before he amends]
I will help.
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[It's not quite an order. He's trying.]
Before that, I have a favor to ask. If we're going to prepare, I need to see more of it. I am not asking you to come in with me. Only to pull me out, if I can't do it myself.
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[An agreement and a commendation, in one, for Paul's resource allocation instincts.
There's a pause before he answers that second request, for almost a full minute.]
Is your surety greater than 50%, that the risk is worth the potential advantage?
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Yes. I know what went wrong last time.
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[He has his hunches, of course, but the answer Paul has arrived at is crucial to be aware of.]
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I lost my nerve. I need to see it through to the end.
It's only a dream.
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[More than observing a sleeping body, more akin to the work of the disciples who could retrieve a dreamer in trouble. Almost as though he guessed he might need it. Who needs the gift of prescience when they have deductive reasoning on his level?]
I'll need a proper connection to your mind. Think of it as a tether or a lifeline, so that you don't drown or get eaten while you're "only" dreaming.
[A pet peeve of his has always been underestimating or minimizing a known risk. He's glad that Paul asked him, glad that the teenager had that vital wisdom.]
It goes without saying that I won't let that happen.
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[Paul doesn't quite know how to touch the rest of that.]
I hope you've evaluated your own risk by the same criteria.
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It's subtle, but significant. Like the difference between a slipknot, and a square one.
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All right. A trial run first. Tomorrow?
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There are pros and cons to attempting this in Cassandra by the bloodstone. It should be considered carefully.
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[Adding 'you can't tell me what to do' in any variation after that would be childish. He simply implies it very hard.]
Action;
Lycka, at his side, never changed. She nudges him gently, aware of his conflicted thoughts on the matter, offering her silent assurance of whatever he might feel he's lacking or lost.
He wraps his oversized grey peacoat more tightly around his skinny frame to block out the chill as he approaches the Santuary. Some of the disciples eye him nervously, remembering his brush with peril when he'd been here with Paul. Others have seen his more recent efforts, and nod their respect to him as he passes.
He casts a careful and probing telepathic net, searching for the complex clockwork that is uniquely Paul's in the sea of dreams and murmurs.]
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A certain degree of instability is not only accepted in Disciples, it's all but expected. He anticipated being shunned when he returned and found himself welcomed back as if nothing had happened. His nook had already been cleaned for him, the first aid kit restocked. He'd sought out a new, more secluded place at once.
When Lazarus approaches Paul blinks his eyes open and smiles slightly, rolling back his shoulders. He's dressed in the same robe as last time, marked by faint stains where he almost scrubbed out the drops and smears of blood on his sleeves from Lazarus' injuries.]
You look more like yourself.
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He nods at the neutrally-phrased observation. It means that he looks younger, smaller, and sadder, but he owns, at least, what the years have done to his flesh and bone. The twisted back and haunted, hollow eyes make a kind of sense that the solid muscles and even features never could.
A whistling keen like a warning emanates from Lycka, whose dark back glistens under the glow of the nearby bloodstone.]
You look like you've considered this carefully. That being said...everything is amplified here. Revelations, and danger.
[A whistling keen like a warning emanates from Lycka, whose dark, glossy back glistens under the glow of the nearby bloodstone.]
She wants to go with you, though the tether should be enough to bring you back safely. If she had a pod, I suspect she'd be the matriarch.
[He goes to one of the nook's corners, testing a slightly difficult lever.]
Good... this one's equipped with a sky well. We'll need some moonlight.
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So that makes three of you. All right.
[He rolls back his shoulders, tipping his head lightly from one side to the other.]
If it's too much, next time, we'll go somewhere else. [He shifts to his knees and produces a thermos from his nearby satchel, along with two small handleless cups.] Before we start, I wanted to apologize for my behavior last time. You were right. I was acting beneath myself, and you...
[You came back for me would be repetitive, and he falters on it as he pours chilled black tea, substituting:] Are you all right? Your arm.
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Mothers, or figures near enough? Maybe it's a hunger they share. L lowers his eyes until the image passes.]
Apologize?
[He sounds surprised, crouching across from Paul as he takes the cups out.]
It's not necessary... High stakes and high expectations rarely bring out the gentlest side of a person.
[And you're young, so young, he doesn't say, but it's in his thoughts, the notion that there's nearly a decade between them that Paul hasn't had a chance to live yet. It feels like a lifetime ago for L, when something was still alive and fighting in him that he suspects he's since lost for good.
Before he takes the tea poured for him, he rolls up his sleeve, showing the tooth marks on translucently pale skin.]
It's fine... I've never had a scar before, but I've always liked the idea. Something that says "this happened, and I survived," right?
[A fleeting, tentative smile flashes across his features, lights up his eyes with something childishly excited.]
Maybe people will think I'm tough, now.
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The 'this' that happened, the one Lazarus survived, was him. Guilt surges, and then he thinks of Palamedes' hand pressing on his, the half-promise, half-admission he extracted from Paul about portioning out responsibility. It doesn't ease all of it, but it helps.]
They should have known that already. [He steadies himself with a breath, in and out.] That's a good way to think of scars, but I don't want you to end up with more because of me.
[He picks up his tea and sips it, eyes shaded down.]
Why are you helping me?
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He senses that the attempt has perhaps the opposite intended effect. Is it because everything, even his jokes, has that undercurrent of tragedy, a life not lived in a completely different way?
He follows suit, reaching for the other cup. He reaches into his backpack for sugar cubes, which he carries with him everywhere for occasions like these, because no one ever gives him tea that's sweet enough.
He drops them in until it's too many to be anything but disgusting, and then he drops more.]
Several reasons... some are easier to explain than others. Some are more selfish than others.
[With each reason, he drops another sugar cube into his tea.]
I'm involved, and it rankles me to leave something unfinished. [Plunk.]
I don't think your grandeur is a delusion, or that this is folly. [Plunk.]
I'm not really a person, at least... not in relation to other people. But if someone like that can do something that's really needed, it can feel like being a person for a little while. That's my selfish reason.
[He sips the tea, more paste than liquid at this point.]
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(And how much does the last reason resonate? Enough that Paul wonders if it's intended to.)
Either way, his back straightens and his eyes grow resolute. He adds another link to the mantle of responsibility draped across his shoulders, and nods.]
Those seem reason enough. [He sets down his cup, drained of tea.] Thank you.
I am asking for other help. I won't put this all on a handful of shoulders. That would be folly. [He sets his hands on his knees, tilting his head slightly to the right.] We need to find out when it comes, as close as we can, and I need to find out how to kill it or drive it back.
What's your plan, for this? The dreaming.
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[No real change comes over him, no pause to see if some intended significance landed or was understood. What makes L peculiar is, largely, his tendency to see some very typical things as strange and alarming, and some extremely strange and alarming things as typical. Eventually, a sort of predictable distribution emerges as a pattern, before it too is dislodged.]
I'm glad, also, that you're treating this with the gravity it merits. Central command wouldn't mean much without teams to manage.
["Armies," he decides, might be a little too grand, create higher blood pressure than is desirable, because...]
We're going to make a stone with my blood and yours after exposing it to the moonlight from the sky well in this chamber. We both repeat the same incantation, and you fall asleep with the stone in your hand. Once you're dreaming, I take the stone in my hand. It warms according to the danger you're in or the injuries you've suffered; if you were to die, it'd become ice-cold very suddenly.
At the point the stone is too warm to hold comfortably... hopefully, before it's hot... the way to retrieve the dreamer is to induce a trance with another incantation. Wherever you are in the dream, you'll see a door near to you, no key required because I'm the one holding it open. You'll have about a minute to get through, which should be plenty of time. Oh, and...
[An afterthought, but one that seems very important to mention.]
Don't let anything follow you through. I'd probably end up possessed, or at the very least corrupted. Just a few drops is fine...
[He rummages in his backpack, handing over a covered, delicate, scalpel-like blade and a vial that already contains a small amount of blood.]
cw: self-injury (magical purposes)
So he pulls off his left glove and makes a small incision in the pad of his ring finger, pressing the tiny wound against the edge of the vial and encouraging blood flow to the digit. This also reveals the black and silver signet ring on the middle finger of that hand, emblazoned with a hawk.]
I thought you might try to tell me not to get hurt. [He's slightly wry as he says it, a touch of self-deprecation for his lack of confidence.] I keep underestimating you.
[Blood sample collected, he recaps the vial and returns it, along with the scalpel, to Lazarus. The incision he presses against his thumb until it stops.]
Are you sure you're not overestimating me?
[He didn't mean for that to sound so faintly plaintive. He doesn't quite grimace at himself, but it's a near thing.]
Never mind. What's the incantation?
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cw: discussion of hallucinogenic drug use
cw: discussion of hallucinogenic drug use
cw: discussion of hallucinogenic drug use
cw: discussion of hallucinogenic drug use etc
cw: discussion of hallucinogenic drug use etc
cw: discussion of hallucinogenic drug use etc
cw: basically the worst case DARE scenario
cw: basically the worst case DARE scenario lmao
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