Palamedes Sextus (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hellonspectacles) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
come_sailaway2022-09-03 02:27 pm
hellonspectacles) wrote in come_sailaway2022-09-03 02:27 pm
Anyone can learn to fight. Hardly anyone learns to think. [Open + Closed]
Who: Palamedes and you! (closed prompt for Clarke)
What: Pre-Setepmber 16 catch all, feat. necromancy research + moral arguments.
Where: Sand Dollars, Cabin 105, out and about
When: late August/early September
Warnings ETA: Gideon the Ninth spoilers within, particularly in any threads regarding Pal's notes!
1. Truth unvarnished, and truth unclean [Closed: for Clarke]
As Palamedes walks to Clarke’s cabin, he can feel his adrenaline spike and his body reduce its blood flow to his digestive track.
In other words, he has butterflies in his stomach.
Pal tells himself that this silly physiological reaction is merely a result of concern over his friend’s wellbeing. A few days have passed since their near-death experience at the hands of a zombie horde, and Pal has spent much of that time dead asleep from exhaustion. Now that he has fully returned to the waking world, he sets about doing his doctorly duty to check on his friends injuries. He starts with Clarke because he hadn’t had the chance to examine her before they had parted. She’d brushed him off, and he’d let her, and he needs to make sure that that was the right call.
Are there other reasons he is going to see her? Sure, yes, maybe. But he would much rather stick to the practicalities for now. After all, Palamedes has far more experience with those than he does with matters of the heart.
2. Hold on to that edge, and keep holding. [Semi-open: for anyone who has expressed interest in necromancy or figuring out the Captain's Whole Deal]
Each carefully-wrapped gift appears innocent enough, but Palamedes knows by now not to be placated. He had picked them up from Sundries the day before, and now they each sit on his desk in his cabin while he stares at them, trying to guess what wonder or horror might wait inside. Four are clearly books; another is a jar; the last an annoyingly nondescript box.
Merely looking at them reveals nothing, of course—x-ray vision is not among Pal’s many skills—and he finally gives up on hypothesizing and tears the wrapping off the damn things. The first package he opens is one of the books, Applied Spirit Microchemistry, and he smiles with wary relief. Well, that will be useful. His relief only grows: each book is a primer on some aspect of necromancy, and the jar contains a conductive gel known to improve psychometric abilities.
But the last box is where things get really interesting. Pal unwraps it, lifts the lid, and murmurs, “Hot damn.”
Immediately, he takes out his phone and sends a text to a handful of select friends.
Good morning!
Yesterday I received a box of notes related to a pre- Serena Eterna research project of mine. I believe they may be relevant to our current predicament, and I would greatly appreciate a consultation. If interested, please stop by Cabin 105 at your earliest convenience.
PS
[ooc: have you had a conversation with Pal about either necromancy or the Captain? You're getting a text!]
3. An afterlife subscription to Palamedes Sextus’ Top Nerd Facts [Open to all]
The packages are useful for reasons that go beyond his search to learn more about the Captain and free the ship’s passengers from bondage—they have a more immediate application as well. Over the past few weeks, Palamedes has spoken to a number of people who have expressed interest in learning necromantic theory. Each request thrills him, for the only non-necromancer he has ever known to show such interest is Camilla Hect.
He has begun to share the basics with a select group of people already, but now he has the textbooks to help him along. Camped out at Sand Dollars, the books laid open on the table, he busily sketches lesson plans in his notebook, periodically looking up to refer to one of the texts or turn a page.
His box of notes—photographs, in fact, showing the walls of a small room covered in necromantic theorems—also sits on the table. While not exactly basic necromancy, his research on lyctorhood is now rarely far from his mind.
4. Use that big, muscular brain of yours [Wildcard]
[Got another prompt you want to throw into the mix? Go for it!]
What: Pre-Setepmber 16 catch all, feat. necromancy research + moral arguments.
Where: Sand Dollars, Cabin 105, out and about
When: late August/early September
Warnings ETA: Gideon the Ninth spoilers within, particularly in any threads regarding Pal's notes!
1. Truth unvarnished, and truth unclean [Closed: for Clarke]
As Palamedes walks to Clarke’s cabin, he can feel his adrenaline spike and his body reduce its blood flow to his digestive track.
In other words, he has butterflies in his stomach.
Pal tells himself that this silly physiological reaction is merely a result of concern over his friend’s wellbeing. A few days have passed since their near-death experience at the hands of a zombie horde, and Pal has spent much of that time dead asleep from exhaustion. Now that he has fully returned to the waking world, he sets about doing his doctorly duty to check on his friends injuries. He starts with Clarke because he hadn’t had the chance to examine her before they had parted. She’d brushed him off, and he’d let her, and he needs to make sure that that was the right call.
Are there other reasons he is going to see her? Sure, yes, maybe. But he would much rather stick to the practicalities for now. After all, Palamedes has far more experience with those than he does with matters of the heart.
2. Hold on to that edge, and keep holding. [Semi-open: for anyone who has expressed interest in necromancy or figuring out the Captain's Whole Deal]
Each carefully-wrapped gift appears innocent enough, but Palamedes knows by now not to be placated. He had picked them up from Sundries the day before, and now they each sit on his desk in his cabin while he stares at them, trying to guess what wonder or horror might wait inside. Four are clearly books; another is a jar; the last an annoyingly nondescript box.
Merely looking at them reveals nothing, of course—x-ray vision is not among Pal’s many skills—and he finally gives up on hypothesizing and tears the wrapping off the damn things. The first package he opens is one of the books, Applied Spirit Microchemistry, and he smiles with wary relief. Well, that will be useful. His relief only grows: each book is a primer on some aspect of necromancy, and the jar contains a conductive gel known to improve psychometric abilities.
But the last box is where things get really interesting. Pal unwraps it, lifts the lid, and murmurs, “Hot damn.”
Immediately, he takes out his phone and sends a text to a handful of select friends.
Good morning!
Yesterday I received a box of notes related to a pre- Serena Eterna research project of mine. I believe they may be relevant to our current predicament, and I would greatly appreciate a consultation. If interested, please stop by Cabin 105 at your earliest convenience.
PS
[ooc: have you had a conversation with Pal about either necromancy or the Captain? You're getting a text!]
3. An afterlife subscription to Palamedes Sextus’ Top Nerd Facts [Open to all]
The packages are useful for reasons that go beyond his search to learn more about the Captain and free the ship’s passengers from bondage—they have a more immediate application as well. Over the past few weeks, Palamedes has spoken to a number of people who have expressed interest in learning necromantic theory. Each request thrills him, for the only non-necromancer he has ever known to show such interest is Camilla Hect.
He has begun to share the basics with a select group of people already, but now he has the textbooks to help him along. Camped out at Sand Dollars, the books laid open on the table, he busily sketches lesson plans in his notebook, periodically looking up to refer to one of the texts or turn a page.
His box of notes—photographs, in fact, showing the walls of a small room covered in necromantic theorems—also sits on the table. While not exactly basic necromancy, his research on lyctorhood is now rarely far from his mind.
4. Use that big, muscular brain of yours [Wildcard]
[Got another prompt you want to throw into the mix? Go for it!]
unvarnished & unclean
She's kept mostly to herself since that night, save a few chats with Jinx (of all people) and Natsuno. The adrenaline hangover is rough, ultimately passes, but leaves a mark of regret on Clarke's soul for every misstep. She never should have stayed, or let her friends stay, in the diner dimension past that first day, shouldn't have dragged them out in the desert in pursuit of the Bentley and Porsche, and — though indirectly related, he'd already been dead at the time — feels very strongly she ought to have argued against Skulduggery's voluntary sacrifice harder, things could have gone different... She thinks of Natsuno flying out the top of the Rover and covered in road rash no matter how quickly it healed; thinks of Jade, covered in blood and concussed to the point of near unconsciousness; frets over what would have befallen the likes of Darcy, Rich, Dimitri and Phil if not for the timely intervention of the other vehicle; and feels conflicted about but ultimately guilty over Rita, who easily could have broken her arm or something worse in the crash.
And, of course, thinks of Pal too. In the context of things went so badly so quickly, mostly. It only took a day for them to go from sandwiched in the passenger seat together to him screaming at her to turn around. That has to be a new personal record of how quickly she'd managed to ruin something nice. And as such, Clarke doesn't expect to see him any time soon, let alone be sought out.
So the inevitable knock on cabin 108's door is a bit of a surprise. The ache from her spine is threatening to creep up, into her skull, and Clarke briefly considers ignoring it in favor of remaining motionless on her couch bed, an arm thrown across her eyes to block out the light filtering in from the porthole window. But it could be something urgent. If someone somewhere needed her for something, personal discomfort took an easy backseat. So she's up pretty quick, movement accompanied with a low groan. Crossing to open the door with an unintentional scowl that evaporates the second she registers who's come calling and —
"Uh."
Great opening. Moment of surprise quashed, and then a second (only slightly better) attempt.
"...hi? What —" are you doing here? "— do you need?"
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Then, suddenly, the door swings open and she’s standing there. For a few moments they just stare at one another, blinking foolishly. Pal finds himself wondering the same thing that Clarke is: what is he doing here?
But Palamedes Sextus excels at appearing calm under pressure, and he recovers quickly enough. “Right, right. You can consider this a necromancer house call. I’ve come to see how you’re faring, and this time I won’t be going anywhere until you’ve let me look you over for any lingering injuries.”
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That beat of silence does wonders for both their composures, it seems. Pal recovers, and Clarke manages to school her features into something less surprised and more... good natured. Assured. Inching towards outright warm and friendly, in effort to be convincing.
"I'm still fine, Pal. Promise. Maybe a little sore —" This is a grievous understatement, but she'll do her best to sell it. "— and with a healthy new fear of zombies, maybe. You should check in on Jade."
And ignore the fact her teeth practically grate when she makes an effort to nod across the hall behind him, at cabin 109.
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His whole show of doctorly authority, his cheerful dismissal of her attempt to shoo him away, the way he folds his arms and looks expectant, would all be much more convincing if it weren’t for the way he can’t quite keep still, his fingers drumming lightly against the side of his leg.
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The room's interior hasn't changed much in the a while; it's sanitary thanks to the ghostly housekeeping staff, but bordering on cluttered and quite lived in. Hand drawn maps, lists (of passengers, of movies watched, of bullet pointed information, etc), and rendered timelines decorate a good chunk of the wall behind the desk — a few hints of portrait drawings sticking out from vital information tacked over them. Stacks of unreturned library books sit on the floor between the couch and desk as well, and are only rivaled in height by the hoard of nonperishables and bottled water lined between the bed and wall beneath the window. She has a roommate again, but Ruby neither takes up a lot of space nor complains about the ways Clarke does. A plain assortment of Tommy Bahama athleisure fills a few drawers of the dresser, the bed is made neatly, a line of origami butterflies hangs from the ceiling in the corner, a stark white feather is weighed down by a cartridge of bullets on the desk writing mat. Pens, stray ammo, stolen medical supplies and a wealth of notebooks clutter the desk drawers should he deign to dig, and one specific composition book — Clarke realizes with a slight thrum of alarm — sits directly out in the open, nestled among water glasses and over the counter pill bottles on the coffee table beside her messy couch bed. There's no immediate way to conceal it, however, without giving off suspicious vibes and thus she does her best just not to acknowledge its existence.
An effort helped greatly by the wake of Pal's stern talking to — insults? and when did they revert to surnames? that accusation is spot on though, so long as she's still breathing, everything else is managed through sheer force of will — to which Clarke raises both eyebrows. Valiantly resists any urge to stick her tongue out at authority, and after a moments pause, she's reaching just past him to drag the desk chair out a few feet.
"Fine. Let's do this, then." Quickly, get it over with, bring an end to this tense interaction, and let Pal continue on to other friends who were more grievously wounded a few days ago. She sits down easily enough, though every movement screams moody rather than obedient.</>
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“Good. Sit,” he says, even as she has already begun to do so. Anything with half a brain would be able to tell that he is retreating into professional distance as a way to cope with his own uncertainty, but he likes to think that he’s just being practical. Clarke’s well-being comes first. Feelings can come later. Or maybe he can avoid them altogether.
Ignoring the defiant tilt of Clarke’s chin, Pal checks her over. He takes her pulse, gently moves her limbs to check for pain or swelling. He puts his palms on her skull, checking for internal swelling and relieved when he finds none—why did he let her run off before?—and with only the slightest hesitation pats down her torso.
“Three bruised ribs,” he declares finally, voice calm despite his racing heart. “Your feet are healing well--no infection, thank goodness--but you should really avoid walking on them for a couple more days.” She’s also one giant bruise, but that seems obvious enough that he doesn’t bother to comment.
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Clarke's silent during the exam, watching what she can see of Pal's face as he dips his head and looks her over. Tension doesn't dissuade her from seeking eye contact, but if he favors diving into his work then that'll just leave her mind to wander. It's... disappointing, that they'd gone from tenderly touching each other's faces to vehemently clashing over escape plans in little more than a day. Most of her attention had been on evading magical meteors and mowing down the undead while hellbent on getting back to the diner and safety of the portal, but that didn't mean Pal's sharp, curling anger at her refusal to look for other stranded passengers hadn't hit like a white-hot brand. A heroic idea, one she couldn't see panning out well for any of the nine passengers of the Rover, and thus one she'd staunchly ignored when he'd tried to press further. Fine up until driving out in the desert, and then barely a word since. And that sucked, because she'd much rather have gone in for a comforting embrace rather than blowing him off fresh out of the metal detector. But the magic had been gone, the butterflies in her stomach dead. And a heavy layer of defensiveness spread out on top of other guilts.
Physically, she's pliant under his assessment. Lifts her wrist for her pulse to be gauged, raises an elbow so he can better palpate the tender skin of her right flank (which is a healthy shade of purple beneath her shirt). But obedience in the face of professionalism has it's limit, and once Pal's given his findings and prescription, Clarke's not having it.
"Yeah... No thanks. I've had enough of bedrest, and there's too much to do around here."
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Her refusal to listen to him isn’t helping matters, either. He exhales sharply. “Clarke.” Scrubbing his hand through his hair, he asks, “Will you at least let me try to repair the dermis? I can at least help things along so you don't end up with an infection.” He meets her gaze then, something of his uncertainty flickering through his eyes. “Please.”
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It's always just a matter of if that fight is going to be smoothed over by the next conversation — by necessity of the situation, or calming of tempers — or persist into the next interaction. How long's a grudge going to be held? How deep did one wound the other? Be overtly angry or openly affectionate, this reserved professionalism isn't enough of a foothold for Clarke to gauge if they're still fighting or not.
But Pal says please and looks at her with something less stiff about his eyes, she sees it as imploring and in equal measure, that stiff upper lip melting into slightly parted lips. Like she means to say something immediately, but it catches in her throat.
"...I'm fine, Pal." A familiar refusal by this point, but an internal switch has flipped: less staunch and stubborn refusal, more an attempt at gently convincing. "I've had way worse than this." Which he (probably) got to see, the gnarled and puckered scar tissue sleek from cauterization.
"And I'm not going to let a few scratches do me in. We probably have a little time before we're made to run for our lives again, I'll heal by then. You should save your skills and energy for people who actually need it."
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He runs his hand over his face, frustration beginning to bubble to the surface. Pal is tired. Hell, when did he last feel well-rested? When did he last wake up in the morning without immediately cataloging the battles that would be fought, the risks to himself and others that he’d be required to take? When did he last understand his place in the world, what was expected of him, what he wanted? Before he left for Canaan House, surely.
And at Canaan House he’d had Cam. Fuck, he misses her. He misses her calm, he quiet power, her practicality. He misses having someone he knows is on his side, no matter what.
“Fine.” This time the sharpness isn’t an accident. “But Emperor’s bones, Clarke, you might consider listening to me at least some of the time.”
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"I do listen to you." ...sometimes.
Every conversational scrap of sigil magic rules and loopholes has been carefully categorized in her thoughts, and present themselves in Pal's excited, educators voice every time she even thinks of magic. And he's yet to give a reading of land or body that she hasn't taken immediately to heart, never disputed, and never been let down by. Hell, she'd just toted his knowledge of Gil's Diner's parking lot to Number 6 with conviction enough it was almost like she'd been the one to touch hundreds of dead souls beneath the pavement.
"When it's important, at least."
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Palamedes could have conceded her point. He might have, too, if it were not for her final barb.
He blinks. “Pardon? When it’s important? Clarke, tell me I’m wrong, tell me to get out, but don’t condescend to me. Don’t stand there and tell me that you’re well-being isn’t important.” His fingers flex at his sides. “Don’t tell me that, when danger strikes, it isn’t important to ensure the safety of as many people as possible.”
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But before Clarke can even formulate a proper response with no room for argument to his first point, they're seemingly slipping past it into an older debate. Because she knows immediately and without question exactly what he means here.
Some of the air in her lungs lets out, an aggrieved but resigned sigh. And examination seemingly complete, she's standing and pushing the chair back towards the desk. So they're doing this...
"Of course it is. But there's still a point where you just have to close the doors and go."
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That would have been an interesting sentiment coming from someone who once made a grand gesture of his own and left his best friend to literally pick up the pieces. But that’s not the argument they’re having right now, in any case.
This argument deals with something significantly more immediate. Pal hadn’t planned to bring it up; he’s still angry with her, but it’s an anger that doesn’t negate the fact that he admires the way she did get so many of them back safe. It’s a lingering frustration that reminds him that, yes, someday they will need to have a serious discussion about triage and rescue strategies, while being tempered by his immediate concern over her well-being.
So much for that.
“Well, at least you’ll concede that point,” says Pal dryly, still smarting over her retort that his opinion wasn’t important. “I know that point exists. But it changes based on one’s own position, does it not? I warded the rover; that gave us an edge, and we should have used that edge to help those who were far less lucky than us.”
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It's only just the beginning, and thus far she wouldn't class this as a full-scale argument yet. They're not going in screaming, no one's throwing absolutely horrible accusations in the others face, voices still at even measure, hands more twitching nervously than gesturing wildly or prodding vehemently at each others chests. It's just... a mild disagreement. A give take of concessions and acknowledgements without moving an inch from the position one stood.
And thus Clarke's tone is still gentle, inviting. See it my way.
"And we needed every inch of that edge just to get back to the diner. It wasn't a smooth ride, we could have really lost people if not for that other car showing up when it did. I wasn't about to spend more time out in that hoard than we had to."
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“No doubt. And I commend you for getting us to safety even under such perilous circumstances.” See, Pal has even got compliments! “But it wasn’t a straightforward race to a finish line, and it never could have been. We could have gotten more people safe inside the car—the margins were slim, but it was possible. I did the math.”
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Because the cracks in Clarke's patience have been established long before this conversation; they're tired and weathered grooves in her self restraint. And while she could follow conversational norms and matches the complimentary cadence Pal sets forth (almost says something to the effect of math in the middle of the zombie apocalypse is admirable), it's a bit of a big ask over the frustration (who does math in the middle of a mad dash for our lives? that's the time for action and instinct, not equations.)
"We had nine. And I wasn't about to gamble those nine on slim-to-none margins and a possibility. Nine — so that's everyone I dragged out there in the first place, plus one. All the rest had their own mode of transportation, they could get themselves out."
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The guise of amenable and receptive is still in place, there's even the hint of a forced smile around her mouth when she snaps — "Or next time, you can just drive and be the one actually in charge of the lives of everyone on board."
It's an easier seat, the passenger side. A lot more time to do math and think about heroics when someone else is driving.
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This might have been Clarke’s snapping point, but her response actually makes Pal deflate a little. He sits in one of the cabin’s chairs and runs his hand through his hair. “That’s precisely why I told you to turn back, Clarke. I was trying to offer guidance. You had a massive task ahead of you in merely steering the damn rover, whereas I had the capacity to focus on the bigger picture. That’s what I do. That’s what Cam and I—“
He cuts off, shaking his head. That’s what Cam and I would have done, he nearly says, but something catches in his throat. And maybe, here, is the real source of his frustration, his disappointment. If Camilla were here, she would have been in the driver’s seat. He would have warded the car, and told her to turn around, and she would have done it. What he feels for Clarke isn’t what he feels for Camilla Hect, but the connection the two of them have built on the Serena Eterna has been real, and deep, and important. And when she had ignored him it had surprised him. It had stung, not only from disappointment, but from the reminder of how far he is from home.
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But he lays bare the truth of the matter. Intentionally or not. Cut off or not. The urge to unglue her feet from the tacky Serena Eterna carpet and flood towards him in this moment of emotion is strong. It'd be so easy to bridge that distance between them and sink to her knees in front of his chair, reach out a hand, wrap her arms around his torso and squeeze, offer anything more tangibly comforting than space. But she's rigid.
"...I'm not your Cavalier, Pal."
Can't be. Won't be. Wouldn't ever want to encroach on the bond he shares with the infamous Camilla Hect the same as she hopes he'd never stand between her and Bellamy Blake if he ever returned. The two of them, they'd friends first. And friends don't do that to each other. Whatever purposefully unnamed addition had been sprinkled in somewhere between laughing in the dust at the base of a cliff face and laughing over scars in the passenger seat of the rover isn't supposed to change that. For whatever it's worth, Clarke's tone struggles but ultimately drops; dips into something gentler, understanding. The grief is genuine when she says —
"And I'm sorry for that."
Well and truly. For all the existential harm it did her, conversing with Gal Friday had really hammered home what it would mean to be separated from the person who holds the largest part of your soul in their hands.
"But small picture first. I won't apologize for doing what I felt I had to in order to get all of us — and you, especially — out of there alive."
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But Pal is rational and fair to a fault, and throwing accusations at Clarke is neither fair nor rational. He takes off his glasses and presses his thumb and forefinger against his closed eyes. “I know,” he says, quieter now. “And I don’t expect you to be. I swear it.” He swallows and opens his eyes to look at her. “And I do apologize for implying otherwise.”
He huffs, the sound a laugh, if a weary one. “Oh, I’d never expect you to apologize for that. You made a calculation and acted accordingly. I still say you were wrong, and I won’t apologize for telling you as much, but I don’t expect you to say sorry for disagreeing in good faith.”
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But Clarke does get it. Doesn't want to think too hard on who she'd inadvertently chosen to fill the void Bellamy Blake left; her other hand, arguably a part of her soul, her support beam and the poor soul that has to bear the weight of every heavy subject she spits out. The heart to her head — though maybe it was the other way around this time. Still, projection only gets you so far. Ghosts don't fill the space nearly as easily as the very real people in front of you, no matter how hard that is to swallow.
Pal looks at her, and Clarke would still very much like to crowd forward and ease those lines on his face — the ache in his chest — with the distraction of touch. Just a hand on his shoulder, a solid and reassuring squeeze. But as of yet, she makes no move.
"So does that mean we're at an impasse? And is it one we can still coexist in?"
Clarke will listen, but not take blind orders. And never at the expense of following what her gut tells her is the right course of action. This feels a lot like a peace talk, and contingent on both sides making concessions that detract from their sole ideals.
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He puts his glasses back on his face and clasps his hands together. Suddenly shy, his gaze flickers away from her. “Thankfully, learning from one another is something I’m quite certain we can do.”
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The best Clarke can immediately give is... a small correction.
"It's also solar powered." In regard to the Rover and gasoline. There'd been solar panels along the siding, and last she'd seen they'd been splattered in gore and cracked from zombie impact, but it's a sticking point. Not everyone can resist dipping their toes in tangents, but like beguiled corpse she reigns in the renewable energy discussion. Neither mattered in the grand scheme. No, instead Pal's offering what feels like a level ground, carved out flat amidst a series of what could have been deep crevasses that swallow people and their high horses whole. A better and easier place to meet, an offer to learn — and maybe to agree.
And that's decidedly enough. He won't look at her for long, and the best way to fix that is take the few steps it takes to crowd into his space, and sink onto both knees between his feet at the wheels of the desk chair.
"Okay." Clarke will concede first, then. Though every concession she gives comes with fragile, break in case of emergency strings attached. Both her elbows take up his own recently vacated spots on this thighs. And she dips her head, trying to get under his gaze and drag stone grey eyes back to her face by sheer force of (beseeching) will. Look at me, in unspoken terms. Palamedes Sextus clasps his hands together in composure, and in opposition Clarke Griffin holds both of hers palm up and open in the small space between them.
Let's do that.
"Then let's discuss variables."
Let's learn.
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