come_sailaway | In her sepulchre there by the sea

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In her sepulchre there by the sea

Who: Palamedes Sextus and his cavalier, Camilla Hect, the rest of the House Heirs, a gaggle of spooky monks, some skeletons, a murderer, and you!
What: Memshare adventures! All memories are open to all.
When: Anytime in March
Where: Canaan House, Earth!
Warnings: Canon-typical blood, violence, and mild body horror
Notes: Below the cut you will find some scene-setting and descriptions/notes for each of the prompts. Prompts themselves are in the comments!

In general, characters will assume that you arrived with the other visitors to Canaan House a few weeks before any of the events described below, but they will have no idea who you are and why you’re there, and will be extremely suspicious of your presence.

Canaan House rises out of the sea like a castle, a tower, a crumbling mausoleum. Outside the small island on which it stands, the ocean stretches as far as the eye can see, sparkling under the bright rays of Dominicus. The building itself is clearly old, crumbling in places, windows cracked and bricks pitted; even on a thanergenic planet, where life must fight for its existence, nature is slowly overtaking one of the last symbols of humanity on the planet all people once called home.

Inside, the sense of grand decay continues. If you squint, you might notice the way it resembles a university building, some wings made up with wood floors and elaborate bannisters, fading paintings and rotting tapestries on the walls, while others are full of large, light-filled spaces, all glass, and steel, and concrete. There is a large courtyard with a dry fountain, broken elevators and flights of stairs that end halfway up, and dozens of doors with numbers above the threshold, each with its own unique lock, each requiring a key to open. Listen closely and you might hear an ambient hum of electricity, or the quiet clatter of bone from the dozens of otherwise-silent skeleton constructs that clean, and cook, and gather food for the planet’s first guests in nearly ten thousand years.

Welcome to the First House. Don’t stay any longer than you have to.

The Wind Came Out of the Cloud By Night
Investigate a murder scene! This is the best chance of meeting lots of other characters or exploring Canaan House more broadly.

The Demons Down Under the Sea
Solve a puzzle, fight a skeleton monster, hang out with Palamedes and Camilla

We Loved With a Love That Was More than Love
Experience Palamedes death! Please note that unless previously discussed, characters will not be able to interact with this memory, only observe.

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Out of a sort of amused curiosity, Palamedes skims the first few pages of The Necromancer’s Marriage Season. Where had it come from? Was this book pulled from the deep recesses of his memory, something so far back and inconsequential that he doesn’t even recall it? Or is it some subconscious amalgamation of every ridiculous romance novel Dulcinea had forced Pal and Cam to dig out of the Library in their youth? Either way, it’s unfamiliar enough to him now that he is soon reading the story in earnest, and never mind that the writing itself is sub-par.

The girl’s coughing interrupts him. He looks up from the pages, blinking at the same blond he had seen seconds before his thanergenic explosion had detonated.

Almost immediately, he decides that she must be a figment of his imagination—like the book in his hands, some strange combination of memories and experiences, built into a form he can’t quite recognize.

“Er. Hullo there.”

He doesn't recognize her, but that's fine. Distantly, Clarke can line up the logic of these shared memories and acknowledge that he has no reason to; that this isn't real, it won't matter, and nothing can be changed. Even if she could have gotten into the room with Palamedes and Cytherea, somehow talked him out of blowing himself up and managed to get them both out of harms way, once she returns to the Serena Eterna, Pal would still technically be dead.

But god did it feel real. From the settling dust to the reverb of voices; from the oily smear of sweating paint on Gideon's jawline to the ache in her chest when faced with an immovable barrier. Sometimes logic needs to take a backseat to emotion, and a strange mix of grief and relief currently have her in a chokehold, so.

He acknowledges her fully this time — not just a sad little side glance — and Clarke's subconsciously confident enough there's no barrier to prevent her from reaching him this time. She's up and off sore knees in a heartbeat, crossing to where he's seated in an instant, and — brace yourself, memory Pal — immediately crashing into his personal space with a desperate hug that puts her half in his lap.

Her lungs rattle with a wet, painful inhale; a swallowed sob. Cheek sandwiched to the side of his face, Clarke notes: he smells wrong, here. There's no scent of the standard issue Serena Eterna soap or shampoo clinging to his clothes or hair, but maybe she can delude herself into thinking there's still the faint aroma of tea hanging around his mouth. Not her Palamedes, but still familiar. A few tears prick at the edges of her eyes, but don't fall yet, and Clarke's voice is so thick it chokes her to say —

"I just watched you die."

...well, yeah, obviously. It's just going to take her a little while to get over that.

This mysterious girl crashes into Palamedes like a long-lost friend, a lover—like a cavalier, though even Camilla would hesitate to make such a display. He’s still for a moment, more out of surprise than anything, and then slowly, awkwardly pats her on the back.

He might not have any idea who she is, but it seems like a nice thing to do.

He clears his throat, uncertain what one says to a distressed figment of one’s imagination. I’m sorry? What are you doing here? Who are you?

“Ah, yes,” he says finally. “I was hoping nobody would see that.” With a grimace he adds, “Poor Gideon.”

Yeah, the back pats are nice and wholly professional. They're surface level comforting, and so very much not enough right now. The tight hold in her chest, like an invisible hand encircling her entire ribcage and crushing it to bits — that's sort of what she imagines Pal had felt finding her in the hallway the day after Halloween. The dead are alive again, and seemingly whole. But that hadn't made it easy for him to look at her covered in gore, right? And it certainly doesn't make it easier for Clarke, who can still smell the dust after the explosion, and whose ears are still ringing slightly.

Poor Gideon. Yeah, poor Gideon but also — in a short lived flurry of utter selfishness Clarke can't help but think poor me, too! She hadn't known, she'd walked into this memory blind, only to then watch one of her most cherished people on the ship die, and — and —

She finally unglues the sides of their faces, leans back. And the grief snaps, turns over on itself — becomes something more like anger. Her hands are on his shoulders, fingertips biting through fabric hard enough to bruise. And she shakes him a little, just once or twice.

"You never told me this is how it played out. You never told me that's how it happened, you —" Whatever sentence is stuck in the back of her throat turns on itself; cannibalizes itself until she's left with nothing to say, and only moderately aware of the fact her eyes are wet and swimming with tears.

The girl’s distress would have been touching if Palamedes had been able to make any sense of it. His ears may not be ringing—he has no ears to ring, not really—but still he remains dazed by the act of self-sabotage that led him to this place. At least half of his prodigious mind must remain dedicated to keeping this little bubble bobbing along on the banks of the River; the rest of his thoughts are crowded with Cam, and Dulcinea, and Cytherea, and God, with you lied to us and a theorem he is on the very cusp of cracking.

She shakes him almost painfully; he blinks rapidly and stares hard at her, increasingly thinking of her as an anomaly that must be sorted out. “Are you a manifestation of my guilt?” he wonders aloud. “Or something snuck in from the River?” Carefully, he peels her grip away from him. “In either instance, I’m afraid I cannot allow you to stay. The stability of the bubble is of upmost importance, you see.” And because even mad revenants and hallucinations deserve kindness, he adds, “I am sorry.”

He'll need to be rather firm hand to undo the stranglehold of her fingers in his clothing. But once accomplished and he starts thinking aloud, it's like she was slapped in the face.

"What?" Logicially, Clarke knows they're strangers to him; shouldn't fault that, shouldn't take it personally, and should shift the curtain of emotion aside. But illogically, Pal not knowing her now is a little like Jade and Rita thinking she'd murdered them near Halloween. Only it's worse, because it's not a burning anger he's looking at her with, more a gentle sort of practical indifference. It hurts, to cut to the chase.

And sucks way more when she realizes he's about to throw her out of the Bubble. Is that even possible? Would that even work in a memory? On the off chance it's entirely possible, the River sounds scary — too much like the Nothing. It's a little funny, how in most other memory cracks she'd fallen into, she'd been desperate to get out of. But in Palamedes', she doesn't want to leave.

"What? W — no. No no no." If Pal's still holding on to the hands he'd pried off himself, Clarke's now trying to wriggle her fingers free in order to grasp at his wrists. Desperately:

"We know each other! We meet — after this, after you died."

She holds onto him tightly, like he’s a lift raft, and that does nothing to dissuade him from the conclusions he is reaching about her. He needs to get her out of here, he knows that, it’s vital, but even if she is a revenant—even if she is a figment of his imagination—it feels cruel to throw her out of this tiny corner of safety, especially when she is so distressed.

Just a few minutes, he thinks. Surely he can hold the bubble steady for just a few minutes, enough time to send this desperate intruder gently on her way. He doesn’t pull away from Clarke’s grip on his wrists, though he shuffles very slightly backward to get some space between them.

“After—? Well, time doesn’t have meaning anymore, does it?” He’s speaking to himself more than he’s speaking to her—though perhaps there isn’t much difference between the two.

“Tell me how we know each other.”

This feels a little like being asked to plead her case in order to avoid a death penalty. Which... given the River around them, it may actually be. And which she'd never been allowed to do before being consigned to solitary in the Skybox, but she's actually ready for this time.

Even if she stammers through the beginning.

"We're — It's —" Complicated? No, buckle down Griffin, you know this man appreciates facts, even if they sound nonsensical to the ear.

"You're going to leave this Bubble and be interdimensionally transported onto a haunted ghost ship. We're going to meet there, we're not going to trust each other at first, but you're going to end up being the first person I go to whenever I have questions. The whole thing's powered by magic you're not familiar with, and I don't even understand — but you teach me, and I listen. And we go through a lot, we die a lot. I die a lot. But between all of that —"

Her voice breaks here, one can only impassionately plea for so long before it feels like their larynx is shattering against a swell of emotion. And Clarke doesn't sense it against her cheeks, but a few tears have finally broken loose of her waterline and are slipping down her jawline.

"We're friends."

But it's not just that, is it?

"And I — I walked into a rift that has me stuck in your worst memories, and can't leave you. You're important to me."

Palamedes expression remains concerned, even gentle, but there’s still a sense of remove in his eyes. He cares about this person because she is in distress, but it remains that he does not know her, cannot know her, in fact. And perhaps, too, the sheer emotional exhaustion of the day’s events and the nature of the bubble itself create an even further divide between himself and anything that could be considered deep emotion.

Yet he remains kind, terribly kind. Does he believe her? Palamedes isn’t even sure he can understand her, but clearly she believes what she is saying. “All right, all right,” he says gently. “Take a breath.” And he takes his own advice, too, because for all his outward calm, he can hardly see straight.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. And I understand that you do not wish to leave. I appreciate it, truly. But this room—I know it looks solid, but it’s as delicate as a soap bubble. The slightest bit of interference and it will pop, and we’ll both go tumbling into the River, and I—“ he falters, something of the hope, and fear, and despair he is holding back flickering across his face, “I cannot allow that to happen.”

He closes his eyes suddenly, wincing. “God, I have such a headache—well, not a headache, I suppose. Except in the metaphysical sense. Not without blood vessels to constrict or pain receptors to fire. But it sure fucking feels like it.”

Pal commands her to breathe, and Clarke tries. But it's easier said than done, all that she can manage at first is an ugly, shuttering half inhale that doesn't come close to filling her lungs. First attempt, abysmal. Second, painful. Third, a little easier. Fourth, just relieving enough that she can get back to herself a little. She's cried over boys before, but only ever allowed brief stints of shameless emotion before folding hurt over on itself and compartmentalizing.

It's harder this time, somehow. But is still done. She's reduced to a few wet hiccups, but finally manages to peel her hands off his wrists. Extricate herself from his personal bubble (of the personal space variety, not the only thing keeping them from plunging into an abyss variety) and step back. This was so, so selfish, and she ought to be ashamed for making his afterlife harder just because she hurt.

"Sorry."

It won't matter in the end, Clarke tries to remind herself. But god, in the present? The present is a nightmare.

"...sorry."

Give her a few moments longer to harden her resolve. To lift her hand and vigorously drag her sleeve across her eyes. To sniff once, then force herself to stop. It doesn't matter.

"I'll go."

Maybe being shoved into the River would actually be her ticket home anyways, but the fact of the matter remains that Clarke doesn't know how to try that and... really still doesn't want to leave him. Her eyes are still damp, and pinch around the corners at the prospect. How long is he fated to stay stuck here himself, alone?

Palamedes is taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose as she steps away. “No, no—goodness, don’t apologize. This—“ he gestures at the room, “is of my making, so it is reasonable to conclude that you are here because of my interference. When one plays fast and loose with reality, one most expect the unexpected.”

He returns his glasses to his face and looks at her gently. “Please, take a moment to collect yourself. It’s the least I can do, and it may, in fact, help you return from whence you came. There isn’t a traditional sort of exit, you see.”

The politeness of his rejection just continues to smack. Cold but not too cold; warm but not warm enough she could melt into it. A moment is offered in which to further compose herself and Clarke takes it; half turns away from him and exhales a ragged, rattling breath. Her eyes still burn, but the tears have been firmly locked away.

And it's then that she reminds herself how these memories usually come to an end. Another rift will open up, and touching it will drag her back through space and time, depositing her unceremoniously on a carpeted hallway of the Serena Eterna. If she could will one into existence right now, she would. Would paint it against the wall of his Bubble and willingly reach out, just to save them both the headache.

But at least for the moment, the room just looks like a room. Uninterrupted, whole. Flimsy maybe, but still a safe haven. It strikes her that she has no idea why or how this whole place was manifested in the afterlife.

"What are you going to do next? How do you plan to get out of this?"

“Now, I wait.” This is a topic with which Palamedes is infinitely more comfortable. He has only been thinking about it in minute detail for years. “…Though I didn’t expect to have to pull the trigger, so to speak, so soon, or in such imperfect circumstances.” Even more than usual, his thoughts flow into his words, barely divorced from one another in this creation that is, after all, a product of his own mind.

Restless as ever, Palamedes stands from the sofa and begins to inspect the room. “I anchored my soul to my body such that, when the circumstances are right, I might be returned to it. Because of the nature of, well,” he makes a vague kind of gesture, “it had to be hundreds—thousands—of anchors, instead of just one. I don’t know how much material will survive, or what Cam will be able to get her hands on.” A breath. “But as long as she gets her hands on something, and finds a clever enough necromancer, and gets out of Canaan House alive…” He trails off as he runs directly into a line of thinking he cannot waste energy contemplating—what if she doesn’t get out of there alive. “Harrow will help, and she’s clever enough to understand my notes. So that should be relatively straightforward, at least.”

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In her sepulchre there by the sea

Re: bubble time!!!

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