No resurrections. Necromancy uses thanergy- death energy- which you can get anywhere. Cell death in an individual necromancer powers the basics. My friend Harrowhawk can generate a full skeleton from a single chunk of osseo— totally original construct.
Like I said, though, my specialty is psychometry. It's like reading energy signatures; I could tell how old something is, things like that.
And you can do the... the blood locks. ( a quick breath. ) Blood wards. I mean.
Does that mean you can... Have you read the energy of some of the other arrivals, here? Does... No, that's not... Mmmnngh. ( a little grumbly sound, like all his thoughts are getting in the way of his other thoughts. )
So then Camilla protects you, so that you can perform your abilities. Or something like that. Without her here, then...Are you still able to?
I could read people here, but I don't. General rule. Well- personal rule, I suppose. I think it's rude to do it without asking.
[It's already been floated, as an option for how to identify any further missing people from East Sophia, but he would feel too dishonest if he didn't explain the entire thing to every person. Kind of time-consuming.]
Camilla doesn't impact my necromancy, though. This place has given me a hard time, but it still functions.
Mm. ( in agreement, and then, a little teasing: ) Sweet.
( to hold back like that, when technically it could be easier to just do it all the time--well, maybe not, given that this place seems to be giving him a hard time. )
If you wanted to read me, I wouldn't mind. But then if you don't like what you learn, I'd like you to un-read me.
( it's not possible, but: easier to make a gentle joke, like that, than admit that it would be hard on him. )
If I can help, any time...Please tell me. I don't have a lot I can offer, except copious amounts of blood, but that may not be helpful to you. At best, I can make a good shield when necessary. And I'll learn a sword. ( oh, now he sounds determined. )
[That is an interesting way of putting it, he thinks, and he pauses to turn that over in his thoughts a few times. He could guess, but he'd rather ask—he'll get there, soon.]
Ask me next time you see me, but I don't think I could dislike it, if it's you.
[He's attached; even if he wasn't, who is he to be the arbiter of- good-things-to-learn. Secrets.]
Please don't open a vein for my sake. [That's- all of it, really, it brings him right back to being of use, and as enamored as he is with these declarations of dedication, he wonders if he isn't allowing Choso to give too much. To want to give too much.] Can I see you?
[He doesn't want to go anywhere with his ridiculous arm, not yet. But it feels significant to talk to Choso about these things without the Syntrofos and the distance in between.]
( so he doesn't answer, instead leaving the device behind--it's not important, really, not something that he needs to have with him, as he takes to the stairs, carefully climbing them up to palamedes' room. soon, none of them will likely live in this place, so he should enjoy what he can while he can: the close proximity, the relief of being able to check up on someone without traversing the whole city, or beyond. still, a part of him feels like he's being summoned for something he won't like--something that makes him feel a little nervous, a little uncertain. something that he's said wrong? well, the blood offer is easily explained, it's nothing to him, but--
he stands there for a moment, staring at the door, before he lifts a hand to knock. he's not the type to simply open the door and barge in, not when it's like this; rather than wearing his usual garb from home, it's a pair of black sweatpants and an equally casual, deep purple sweatshirt that he's sunken into, the sleeves long enough to hide under, his hair loose around his neck. now that he thinks about it, maybe he should have arrived more...presentable, but it's too late to go back now.
instead, he waits, patient, staring down at his untied shoes: he'd just pushed his feet into them as a means to an end, really. )
Ah. ( his chin lifts, sudden, cranes himself closer to the door. ) It's Choso.
( should have lead with that, instead of just ominous knocking. )
[It isn't the blood offer, but it is the blood offer. He just wants to be... reassured, that's all, and he would rather be reassured with Choso in front of him, where he can reach out and touch him and make sure all of his blood is still in the right place. He'll explain- he will.
He's tugged his sleeve back down by the time he answers the door, not to conceal his new tentacles, but to get them used to being in the vague shape of an arm. He still feels lopsided; they're longer than his arm was by just enough to be noticeable, and even with all the other very noticeable differences, that's the one that's bothering him.
Of course it's Choso, he wouldn't double-book, and— oh, this outfit is cute, actually. Very soft; Palamedes reaches for his hand- with his own actual hand, for now- and draws him into the room, shutting the door. The room is much the same as the last time, a few different books in different spots, the same kind of controlled chaos.]
Hi. [.....] Are you really going to learn to use a sword? —Hang on.
[No, let him start over. Not that he doesn't want to know the answer to that, but one more try-]
Tell me you won't be reckless and self-sacrificing for me, because I just couldn't forgive myself if something happened to you. Tell me that, and I'll believe you.
[And then maybe they can talk about the sword, or the blood thing.]
( the door opens, his gaze rises--and then falls, as though taking in the sight of him, careful, and then more careful not to trip over anything as he's pulled inside. his shoes, more deliberately this time, get left by the door, but then they're not going very far to begin with.
his mouth opens, then closes--then opens again, a soft, rumbling sound in his throat, before he snaps his lips shut. so it's this, it's this part that's bothering him; he's not sure how to be reassuring in a way that isn't despairing, doesn't know what's best to say, or what not to say. well, there's at least some of it that's easy-- )
...I'm rarely reckless. ( quietly, matter-of-fact: he thinks things through, weighs the options quickly, acts with definitive purpose, but never without reason. )
It's not reckless to want to protect someone, even in some small way. ( that, he believes is a universal truth, or maybe just his own truth, private as it is. ) But I'm not... It isn't like I would open a vein and pour my life out for you just to prove that I would, it isn't like that. It couldn't be like that, anyway.
( no, now he's getting jumbled--his gaze goes past palamedes, towards all the books, most of them seemingly in the same place as before; that steadies him, somehow. )
Special things should be cherished. I'm not a tool, but I want to be something that...takes care...of you. That doesn't mean I'm throwing myself away for it.
[To his credit, Palamedes listens without interrupting. It's not a bad reassurance at all, it's... very Choso, direct and to the point and honest, in the way Palamedes likes. He doesn't let go of his hand, keeping that small source of warmth and comfort as they just stand in the middle of the room like this.
In the Nine Houses' court of public opinion, he thinks, Choso would make a terrible cavalier; the expectation is to throw oneself away for the necromancer, to open the vein, to be ultimately expendable. He's found it repulsive at best in the general sense, and has never liked it when Camilla goes just that moment too far for his sake, tells him that those things he blames himself for were never his agenda anyway...
Everyone is always running off to play fast and loose with their lives- he is not exempt from this, he knows, a guilty twist in his stomach- and, well.
Well, Choso is not a cavalier, and it's grounding to hear him say that he's not throwing himself away, that he's not a tool. Palamedes considers him for a long moment before he nods.]
Alright. I believe you. I just... had to be sure.
[And he trusts in this moment that Choso wouldn't lie to him, so even if the feelings are too heavy to bear half the time, it's as easy as that to say, I believe you.]
Let me take care of you, too. [It is not a question, and for emphasis he repeats back,] Special things should be cherished.
( the urge is there, to shake his head--to reassure that there's no need to take care of him, that he's not even deserving of it, really. to be considered something special: that's the kind of desire that he would want for his brothers, for them to be someone's special thing, for them to be treasured, and loved, in a way different from the way that he loves them. there's no way to express that in words that won't get him scolded--he can tell that much, at least, by the emphasis.
so his gaze drops down to their hands, and then sidelong, slightly, to the mildly too-long edge of palamedes' other arm, the little tips of tentacles that he can see, and then back up again. )
I'm nothing special. ( he can say, at least, can admit without trouble--calmly, quietly, as reasonable as he thinks he can be. still: ) But I would like it if I could be.
( a sea of fascinating strangers, in a world that doesn't make sense, in a place that will probably be the last place he sees--maybe, or maybe not. he hasn't figured that part out yet. but amongst all of them, he doesn't know if he can be that selfish; he doesn't know if he can consider himself special enough to be the one standing here, receiving those words back.
with a faint squeeze to his hand, and a small, almost pinched smile-- )
I don't understand this feeling, but I like it. I like...wanting to be cherished, by you. It feels good to think I could be, but I don't know if I should be. Do I deserve something good like that? Mm. I don't know.
[He's going to talk either way, though. Whatever the reason Choso feels this way, nothing special, do-I-deserve-something-good— Palamedes doesn't know, but he knows he can't let a question like that go unanswered when it's asked right in front of him.]
I think—two things. [His other 'arm' twitches, an automatic urge to hold up two fingers and count them off, but right—] First, I had to really work at absorbing this one myself, how much other people care about you isn't actually up to you.
[This isn't a scolding; this is an echo of Palamedes agonizing into a tape recorder, into so many letters, uncertain of that same question, Do I deserve this? Camilla- and the letters- had made it abundantly clear that he doesn't need to be the arbiter of his own worth; he'd found comfort in it, eventually.
Maybe he could phrase it more delicately, though. He hums.]
Deserving is... loaded, as a term. So is should. Camilla had to get me out of my own head a few times, remind me that I don't need to make all those decisions alone. Really, we shouldn't.
Second, you can't un-ring a bell. I already care about you. That persists.
[The non-quippy version of "oops, you're stuck with me"— but the sentiment is similar. He swings their hands a little, lingering as he lets go, only to hold both arms out and give Choso an expectant look. Bring it in, get cherished.]
Come here. You look eminently huggable in that outfit, and now is the time.
( he listens, dutifully, and the only real reaction is the slow purse of his lips, a soft 'tch' against his teeth as his tongue clicks there, both embarrassed and playfully grumpy--it's not that he feels like he's being lectured, but more that he doesn't know how to deal with this feeling, either, where things are out of his hands, out of his control. to be hated is easy: he's experienced that well enough, and had hoped that if he lived as a curse among the others, then maybe that hatred could be put onto his shoulders, entirely, like an umbrella in a downpour. but to be cared about is something different: something that feels unfair, something that feels like he should earn it more than just being here, an enigma outside of the few things he's decided to share.
but, apparently a bell can't be un-rung, and probably he can't be un-read, either, despite how he wishes he could have that as a failsafe. nothing that he can do, either, when their hands swing just slightly, fingers slipping from his, and that warm comfort terminates in a feeling that has him stepping forward regardless of the invitation. he doesn't want to sever the contact completely.
he doesn't know about 'huggable', but he does get his arms up around palamedes' waist, dragging him the few scant inches between them to bring them chest to chest; despite the fact that palamedes' is a little taller, he loops his arms tight around him, tight enough to lift him, easily, just slightly off his feet. playful, a little, before he plants him back down again, a firm, squeezing hug. )
It's supposed to be casual, not huggable. ( this is muffled somewhere in against palamedes' shoulder, where he's now decided to bury his face down, tucked near his neck. ) Comfortable western-style clothing. I don't know anything about clothes.
( especially given that the times here--even back home--are far beyond the times when he 'lived', for whatever short time that may have been. )
If I think you're huggable all the time, then it's not a matter of clothing.
[By now Palamedes doesn't expect to have to wheedle for hugs, but he still gets a pleased little flutter in his chest when Choso follows his hand and wraps so snugly around him. He actually doesn't expect to be lifted off the floor, and it catches him in a surprised kind of sputtering noise, too soft to be a full laugh, half-anticipating a spin afterwards, or something.
He slips his arms up over Choso's shoulders and squeezes into him in turn, savoring the fresh rush of warm contentment. The thought of un-ringing this bell is laughable, an impossible task on its face, and so bleak and undesirable compared to the rumble of Choso's voice as he speaks this close, the satisfaction of being wrapped up in each other so tightly. Like this, the bell just keeps ringing and ringing.]
I don't know anything about "western," [he says, laying his cheek against Choso's hair at the same time he winds one, two, three of his new tentacles into the loose strands, ink-dark against red-brown. The motion of leaning into Choso pushed his sleeve up to the... 'elbow'; he doesn't bother reaching for it to adjust it back.] But it looks like it can be two things.
[Casual, huggable, etc. He's never considered himself huggable-all-the-time— people complain about his bony elbows a nonzero amount; he can nitpick about that later. For now he slides his human hand to rest at the back of Choso's neck, mindful of where the Augmenter sits underneath, drawing a loopy, nothing shape with his index finger.
Quietly,] Do you still want me to read you? You can say no.
( perhaps it's a little stark, a little inhuman, to say that he's used to it--that when the tentacles come up, winding through his loose hair, that he doesn't even fully recognize that it isn't the same short pass of fingers; but he's lived long years amongst all kinds of shapes and sizes and curses, of course it wouldn't trigger to him as anything unnatural. it's the first time he's wondering, though, if it should--but then, what was it they said?
'should' is complicated, and maybe not even necessary, here. it feels good to be touched, in any capacity, by palamedes, and he takes comfort in it no matter what it reveals about himself. to breathe him in, press his nose along his shoulder, tuck his mouth in near the crook of his neck: but he can't speak that way, forever, so he reluctantly lifts his chin.
it hooks, above his shoulder, tilted just slightly given the mild disparity of their height--not enough to be bothersome, but enough that his head angles upward. )
...Do you want to read me? ( it feels like the more important question, as his arms stay tight around palamedes' middle, palms pressed gently to the small of his back, now, as though keeping even their hips in tow. )
Is it just age, you'll discover? That's fine. If it's other things, too, I can...explain. It isn't a problem.
( the explaining of it, anyway. what palamedes might feel is a different story, but he can't speak to that. he just doesn't want anything that he senses to tear them apart in this moment, at least; if he can hug and hold him just a little longer, just long enough to be able to remember it fully, then that will have to do. )
[Maybe they could just spend a while like this, in idle comfort; perhaps they will soon, can crawl back into his bed and forget about the rest of the city and the world for a while again, just be... slow, unlike the rest of this place. A corner of Palamedes' brain feels like it's slightly on fire, the way his changed arm processes touch unlike anything he's used to- Choso's hair feels different, new, and his train of thought runs away with the rest; how different would Choso's skin feel, will he let him touch him, and for how long? He'd already mentioned holding his 'hand,' so—
Well, there's so much to think about. The rapid-fire questions about his own new arm run rampant into the simple pleasure of being held like this; the psychometry diverts from both, can maybe clear his head for a moment or two.
And he would like to know. From what little he's picked up from what Choso doesn't say, he could take a guess; but no matter the answer he would like to know, the same way it felt necessary that Choso know about his necromancy. More important than the answer is the element of trust, of connection; outside of an academic context it is a rather intimate and personal thing to know about a person.]
Age, yes. I won't suddenly have visions of all your memories, or anything like that, but I'll know your personal energy signature. Maybe a bit about your insides, that kind of thing; it's actually not dissimilar to an... x-ray, with a bonus. You won't feel it.
[He only needs a second; they're already touching. He turns his head- barely, in this configuration- to press nose and mouth into Choso's hair, affectionate.]
( age, then. a personal energy signature. likely something along the lines of sensing someone's cursed energy, except different, because it is different--he doesn't have a problem with any of that. his insides, which aren't really his insides: this body, which is only his body in the sense that he's made it his body, in the sense that he had been stronger than the original owner, who had been forced to ingest him. a body that's now changed to fit his sense of himself, rather than anything else. maybe he would have truly looked like this, in life, if he had truly lived at all; but for someone like palamedes, maybe he won't mind the inherent circle of death that surrounds him, even while he's technically alive.
one hundred and fifty years trapped as a cursed object, speaking only to his brothers, trapped alongside him; only a few months, maybe half a year, incarnated like this, but still not fully human.
if he can taste the cursed energy inside of him, he'll explain it. if he can tell anything else about him--a stillborn child, an experimented child, a child that had three parents, a child that should have never existed--he'll tell him as much as he knows. palamedes wouldn't be the first to hear of it; but he would be the first person here, and even gojou satoru doesn't know the whole truth of it, and likely doesn't want to. he had been dismissed, at first, as a curse needing exorcism, even here: luckily, that had changed before either of them had engaged in a fight.
he can feel palamedes' mouth, brushed against his hair, and wishes he could kiss him; that's a strange thought, new, warm and a little melancholy. )
Alright. ( an easy agreement, calm and trusting--he doesn't know what palamedes needs, so he only pulls back enough to look at him, to bat tired, rimmed eyes at him, to stay, passive, with his arms around him, holding him close.
patient, as he waits for what might be a terrible thing, or a wonderful thing. funny that this is what he had hoped to have his two brothers avoid: he hadn't wanted them to be judged by humans, and now here he is, submitting himself in their stead. that makes him feel, at least, a little better. he's doing things right this time. )
[Oh, and he could have stayed where he was, the loss of that particular bit of warmth a bit unfortunate; Palamedes' own fault for not specifying that he doesn't need to do anything in particular, outwardly. There aren't incantations to chant or gestures to make, just skin on skin, and the rest is behind the curtain, as it were. There's no visible clue that he's doing anything at all— which is half the reason he prefers to ask first.
Psychometry never gives the full story, only the end- and an ending is so much clearer on a body that's died, the thanergetic bloom of death laying a blanket of trace energy that lasts for years and years and years. Items smeared with thanergy are easy to read, will open at the cracks and let out their unseen secrets for him with a little push. The living are harder, but not impossible; he would know if Camilla had passed through a room by the objects that she'd touched.
Still, it's an imperfect thing, and further under the haze thrown over the full scope of his necromancy, and the difference in worlds. Age, simple enough— multiple ages, which for a moment he assumes is the Natural Soul's influence, but- no.
Huh.
Choso's full past he can't see; only this thing about his age, and his insides, and the vague squirming presence of the Natural Soul- left alone, because he's already learned his lesson about that one. All of that and what he can only think of as a strangeness, the energy he doesn't recognize, like a blind spot; he can stare right at it and see nothing at all but the absence of a thing, here in the psychometric context. Thanergy, no, thalergy, absolutely not— closer to the former, maybe, if he had to guess.
He'll ask. But first he says,] Thank you. [For letting him do it, trusting him to do it. With a tilt of his head he presses a kiss to Choso's forehead, like a punctuation mark; he's finished doing the invisible magic, now.]
Can I ask about the... mystery energy? I've never seen anything like it.
( it really is just--over, quickly, more quickly than he thought. a kiss to his forehead, which stuns him out of his waiting; a few slow blinks, as though realizing that nothing, at all, has changed. is it terrible to think of it as a relief? his arms loosen, just slightly, but mostly to keep from letting them get too worked up from the tension.
it takes a moment to process, despite all the overthinking--a small, narrowed dent of his brows. )
Mystery energy... Ah. ( a little sheepish, but he can't cover his face with his hand, rub over the bridge of his nose, or do much of anything to expend the slightly nervous trickle that starts down his spine, like he wants to fidget away from the question. )
Cursed energy. ( said slowly, but not as though he thinks palamedes won't understand--more like he's trying himself, on his end, to figure out how to explain it. ) It's a kind of spiritual energy. I imagine... Well, energy is not a foreign concept to you, or necromancy in general, as you've said. Cursed energy comes from...humans. Fear, worry, grief, anger, hatred, envy...Human emotions, which create cursed energy, which creates, if there's a significant amount of it...curses.
Sorcerers exorcise curses, as they haunt and harm humans, and human society. Sorcerers use cursed energy like a weapon, to fuel their attacks, their special techniques, their swords and blades...That sort of thing.
( his gaze swims, somewhere over palamedes' shoulder, to focus on a point further in the room; he's trying to figure out a prettier way to say it, but there's never been a pretty way to begin with. )
I'm not human. Not fully. I'm not a sorcerer, either. A curse, but not fully that, either. ( gaze narrowing, like a wince. ) A complication, maybe. It takes...some explaining.
[Well, the phrase alone, cursed energy, explains why Choso had asked him to un-read if he didn't like what he found. Palamedes can only halfway understand living under the shadow of base human fear; necromancers are the enemy everywhere except their own Nine Houses, but for the majority of his life he hadn't had to actually go out and understand that face-to-face. Cursed energy, being a curse in whatever way that means, is beyond his scope.
He nods anyway; at least academically, he's following the concept of cursed energy.]
Thanergy is like that, sticking around in greater quantities when strong emotions are involved, usually negative. Not quite the same.
[And the necromancers use it, although perhaps not as creatively as swords and blades, considering the cavalier. Not important.
Three of his tentacles are still curled into Choso's hair; he slides a fourth over Choso's shoulder, tracing along his jaw, not quite urging him to look Palamedes in the face again. Just a touch, anchoring, as the tension zigzagging through Choso is hard to miss when they're this close. He's still listening; he's not letting go.]
I wondered if that's what it was, when you asked me about attributes earlier. The human part, of course. [Not this brand new curse thing, specifically.] Do you want to explain?
[Even if he doesn't- Palamedes would consider this wildly fair and reasonable- now they should sit; Palamedes tilts his head towards the bed, significantly. Yes?]
( it's something interesting to comprehend: to think that in another world, that negative energy could maybe be utilized differently; could sorcerers someday evolve like that? the eradication of the human race, while perhaps the goal of some sorcerers, some curse users, isn't exactly feasible, at least not in his eyes, so there needs to be something else: some other way, something that works on both ends, something that doesn't create an imbalance. that thought is useless, here, where there's nothing he can do anyway--except keep thinking that he should have found a better way to blend in.
tethered by palamedes' touch, he thinks about apologizing. three tentacles nestled in his hair get flanked by a fourth, which slips over his shoulder, soft and nearly unnoticed; once it rolls along his jaw, the faintest pressure, he realizes that he's still not making eye contact.
briefly, embarrassed, he looks up--his lips jut out, something of a pout, which might be charming in any other situation; his arms loosen, slip away, but it's only so that he can lift a hand to run his fingertips down along that particular tentacle, tracing it until he can't. )
Is it better if I don't? ( he asks it, genuinely: there's a moment where he allows himself to move forward, to artfully sidestep a neat pile of books, to ease towards the bed, but his hand reaches out for palamedes, first, like he's the guide that's just clearing a path for him, instead. once he's got palamedes seated on the bed, only then will he sink down next to him. )
It doesn't bother me, really. It only bothers me if it...bothers you. ( a slow, careful way to say whatever this is, i would hate to ruin it. )
[It's not not charming, the pout— but it's overridden by the distraction of touch ghosting over that tentacle, setting that newly-aware, different part of his senses alight again. The tentacles in Choso's hair curl tighter before withdrawing, trailing after him as they make the brief trek to the bed.
Seated, Palamedes turns to draw one leg up on the bed, facing Choso with his chin resting on his knee. He reaches out with the tentacle again, curling around Choso's wrist, snug and secure.]
It doesn't bother me. Truth over solace, which is to say, I would rather know than turn away. Technically the "solace" refers to lies, but...
[He holds up his hand, stopping himself. No, not the time.]
( the touch has his gaze dropping, but not out of concern--more to let his other hand lift, to adjust himself so that they're sitting more facing each other, than hip to hip; one of his legs bends onto the mattress to allow them space, and his free hand, untethered, moves so that he can gently, methodically, stroke down the length of one particular tentacle--and then the next, acclimating himself just as much as palamedes. there's something soothing about it: being able to touch him in a way that likely no one else has, yet, a secret little way that's just theirs, for now. something repetitive, easy, gentle.
his head tilts, slightly, watching his own touch wander. ) Truth over lies? Mmm. Truth over lies.
( or 'lying by omission' maybe, something that he's learned all the same. )
It...There was a woman, a long time ago. Over a hundred years ago, who somehow gave birth to a strange child. Part curse, part human child. That's not something that's supposed to happen, and I think she...must have been terrified, and took the child to a temple, where sorcerers gathered. Likely asking for help, or for...some kind of support.
This...sorcerer. ( the word comes out harsh, tinged with the edge of anger; his hand stills. ) ...forced her to become his property, and carried out a series of experiments. Nine children, he forced her to bear, terminating them at a different point, a different month, each time. A mix of his sorcerer blood, her human blood, and...a curse. Children with...mm, children who became cursed objects, in their death. Full of cursed energy. Alive, but not alive. Aware, but not aware.
These...objects. ( him. his siblings. one hundred and fifty years, just like that. ) ...were stored, protected, at the sorcery school. But cursed objects are...quite powerful, especially when incarnated. A curse user, someone against sorcerers, took these...cursed wombs, from the school.
( a soft swallow, like he doesn't like the feeling--can feel all of his calm, all of his careful explaining welling up in his throat. ) And I am one of them. They incarnated me, and two of my younger brothers, into new flesh bodies. Part human, part curse. That is the...That is how I came to be.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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( the rest, though, takes a little studying and thought, since it's like trying to understand a completely different universe. )
So then... You use bodies, for magic? Or just blood? Or just the...dead? Can you bring them back, or is it just animating...the flesh?
...This is a lot of questions, I'm sorry. We don't have wizards, or...magic, really, back home. Just other things. I'm studying.
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[Hmm, yes— but focus, Palamedes.]
No resurrections. Necromancy uses thanergy- death energy- which you can get anywhere. Cell death in an individual necromancer powers the basics. My friend Harrowhawk can generate a full skeleton from a single chunk of osseo— totally original construct.
Like I said, though, my specialty is psychometry. It's like reading energy signatures; I could tell how old something is, things like that.
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Does that mean you can... Have you read the energy of some of the other arrivals, here? Does... No, that's not... Mmmnngh. ( a little grumbly sound, like all his thoughts are getting in the way of his other thoughts. )
So then Camilla protects you, so that you can perform your abilities. Or something like that. Without her here, then...Are you still able to?
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[It's already been floated, as an option for how to identify any further missing people from East Sophia, but he would feel too dishonest if he didn't explain the entire thing to every person. Kind of time-consuming.]
Camilla doesn't impact my necromancy, though. This place has given me a hard time, but it still functions.
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( to hold back like that, when technically it could be easier to just do it all the time--well, maybe not, given that this place seems to be giving him a hard time. )
If you wanted to read me, I wouldn't mind. But then if you don't like what you learn, I'd like you to un-read me.
( it's not possible, but: easier to make a gentle joke, like that, than admit that it would be hard on him. )
If I can help, any time...Please tell me. I don't have a lot I can offer, except copious amounts of blood, but that may not be helpful to you. At best, I can make a good shield when necessary. And I'll learn a sword. ( oh, now he sounds determined. )
no subject
Ask me next time you see me, but I don't think I could dislike it, if it's you.
[He's attached; even if he wasn't, who is he to be the arbiter of- good-things-to-learn. Secrets.]
Please don't open a vein for my sake. [That's- all of it, really, it brings him right back to being of use, and as enamored as he is with these declarations of dedication, he wonders if he isn't allowing Choso to give too much. To want to give too much.] Can I see you?
[Hmm,] Reading optional.
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Now? ( a considering pause. ) You can. Where?
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[He doesn't want to go anywhere with his ridiculous arm, not yet. But it feels significant to talk to Choso about these things without the Syntrofos and the distance in between.]
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he stands there for a moment, staring at the door, before he lifts a hand to knock. he's not the type to simply open the door and barge in, not when it's like this; rather than wearing his usual garb from home, it's a pair of black sweatpants and an equally casual, deep purple sweatshirt that he's sunken into, the sleeves long enough to hide under, his hair loose around his neck. now that he thinks about it, maybe he should have arrived more...presentable, but it's too late to go back now.
instead, he waits, patient, staring down at his untied shoes: he'd just pushed his feet into them as a means to an end, really. )
Ah. ( his chin lifts, sudden, cranes himself closer to the door. ) It's Choso.
( should have lead with that, instead of just ominous knocking. )
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He's tugged his sleeve back down by the time he answers the door, not to conceal his new tentacles, but to get them used to being in the vague shape of an arm. He still feels lopsided; they're longer than his arm was by just enough to be noticeable, and even with all the other very noticeable differences, that's the one that's bothering him.
Of course it's Choso, he wouldn't double-book, and— oh, this outfit is cute, actually. Very soft; Palamedes reaches for his hand- with his own actual hand, for now- and draws him into the room, shutting the door. The room is much the same as the last time, a few different books in different spots, the same kind of controlled chaos.]
Hi. [.....] Are you really going to learn to use a sword? —Hang on.
[No, let him start over. Not that he doesn't want to know the answer to that, but one more try-]
Tell me you won't be reckless and self-sacrificing for me, because I just couldn't forgive myself if something happened to you. Tell me that, and I'll believe you.
[And then maybe they can talk about the sword, or the blood thing.]
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his mouth opens, then closes--then opens again, a soft, rumbling sound in his throat, before he snaps his lips shut. so it's this, it's this part that's bothering him; he's not sure how to be reassuring in a way that isn't despairing, doesn't know what's best to say, or what not to say. well, there's at least some of it that's easy-- )
...I'm rarely reckless. ( quietly, matter-of-fact: he thinks things through, weighs the options quickly, acts with definitive purpose, but never without reason. )
It's not reckless to want to protect someone, even in some small way. ( that, he believes is a universal truth, or maybe just his own truth, private as it is. ) But I'm not... It isn't like I would open a vein and pour my life out for you just to prove that I would, it isn't like that. It couldn't be like that, anyway.
( no, now he's getting jumbled--his gaze goes past palamedes, towards all the books, most of them seemingly in the same place as before; that steadies him, somehow. )
Special things should be cherished. I'm not a tool, but I want to be something that...takes care...of you. That doesn't mean I'm throwing myself away for it.
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In the Nine Houses' court of public opinion, he thinks, Choso would make a terrible cavalier; the expectation is to throw oneself away for the necromancer, to open the vein, to be ultimately expendable. He's found it repulsive at best in the general sense, and has never liked it when Camilla goes just that moment too far for his sake, tells him that those things he blames himself for were never his agenda anyway...
Everyone is always running off to play fast and loose with their lives- he is not exempt from this, he knows, a guilty twist in his stomach- and, well.
Well, Choso is not a cavalier, and it's grounding to hear him say that he's not throwing himself away, that he's not a tool. Palamedes considers him for a long moment before he nods.]
Alright. I believe you. I just... had to be sure.
[And he trusts in this moment that Choso wouldn't lie to him, so even if the feelings are too heavy to bear half the time, it's as easy as that to say, I believe you.]
Let me take care of you, too. [It is not a question, and for emphasis he repeats back,] Special things should be cherished.
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so his gaze drops down to their hands, and then sidelong, slightly, to the mildly too-long edge of palamedes' other arm, the little tips of tentacles that he can see, and then back up again. )
I'm nothing special. ( he can say, at least, can admit without trouble--calmly, quietly, as reasonable as he thinks he can be. still: ) But I would like it if I could be.
( a sea of fascinating strangers, in a world that doesn't make sense, in a place that will probably be the last place he sees--maybe, or maybe not. he hasn't figured that part out yet. but amongst all of them, he doesn't know if he can be that selfish; he doesn't know if he can consider himself special enough to be the one standing here, receiving those words back.
with a faint squeeze to his hand, and a small, almost pinched smile-- )
I don't understand this feeling, but I like it. I like...wanting to be cherished, by you. It feels good to think I could be, but I don't know if I should be. Do I deserve something good like that? Mm. I don't know.
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[He's going to talk either way, though. Whatever the reason Choso feels this way, nothing special, do-I-deserve-something-good— Palamedes doesn't know, but he knows he can't let a question like that go unanswered when it's asked right in front of him.]
I think—two things. [His other 'arm' twitches, an automatic urge to hold up two fingers and count them off, but right—] First, I had to really work at absorbing this one myself, how much other people care about you isn't actually up to you.
[This isn't a scolding; this is an echo of Palamedes agonizing into a tape recorder, into so many letters, uncertain of that same question, Do I deserve this? Camilla- and the letters- had made it abundantly clear that he doesn't need to be the arbiter of his own worth; he'd found comfort in it, eventually.
Maybe he could phrase it more delicately, though. He hums.]
Deserving is... loaded, as a term. So is should. Camilla had to get me out of my own head a few times, remind me that I don't need to make all those decisions alone. Really, we shouldn't.
Second, you can't un-ring a bell. I already care about you. That persists.
[The non-quippy version of "oops, you're stuck with me"— but the sentiment is similar. He swings their hands a little, lingering as he lets go, only to hold both arms out and give Choso an expectant look. Bring it in, get cherished.]
Come here. You look eminently huggable in that outfit, and now is the time.
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but, apparently a bell can't be un-rung, and probably he can't be un-read, either, despite how he wishes he could have that as a failsafe. nothing that he can do, either, when their hands swing just slightly, fingers slipping from his, and that warm comfort terminates in a feeling that has him stepping forward regardless of the invitation. he doesn't want to sever the contact completely.
he doesn't know about 'huggable', but he does get his arms up around palamedes' waist, dragging him the few scant inches between them to bring them chest to chest; despite the fact that palamedes' is a little taller, he loops his arms tight around him, tight enough to lift him, easily, just slightly off his feet. playful, a little, before he plants him back down again, a firm, squeezing hug. )
It's supposed to be casual, not huggable. ( this is muffled somewhere in against palamedes' shoulder, where he's now decided to bury his face down, tucked near his neck. ) Comfortable western-style clothing. I don't know anything about clothes.
( especially given that the times here--even back home--are far beyond the times when he 'lived', for whatever short time that may have been. )
If I think you're huggable all the time, then it's not a matter of clothing.
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He slips his arms up over Choso's shoulders and squeezes into him in turn, savoring the fresh rush of warm contentment. The thought of un-ringing this bell is laughable, an impossible task on its face, and so bleak and undesirable compared to the rumble of Choso's voice as he speaks this close, the satisfaction of being wrapped up in each other so tightly. Like this, the bell just keeps ringing and ringing.]
I don't know anything about "western," [he says, laying his cheek against Choso's hair at the same time he winds one, two, three of his new tentacles into the loose strands, ink-dark against red-brown. The motion of leaning into Choso pushed his sleeve up to the... 'elbow'; he doesn't bother reaching for it to adjust it back.] But it looks like it can be two things.
[Casual, huggable, etc. He's never considered himself huggable-all-the-time— people complain about his bony elbows a nonzero amount; he can nitpick about that later. For now he slides his human hand to rest at the back of Choso's neck, mindful of where the Augmenter sits underneath, drawing a loopy, nothing shape with his index finger.
Quietly,] Do you still want me to read you? You can say no.
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'should' is complicated, and maybe not even necessary, here. it feels good to be touched, in any capacity, by palamedes, and he takes comfort in it no matter what it reveals about himself. to breathe him in, press his nose along his shoulder, tuck his mouth in near the crook of his neck: but he can't speak that way, forever, so he reluctantly lifts his chin.
it hooks, above his shoulder, tilted just slightly given the mild disparity of their height--not enough to be bothersome, but enough that his head angles upward. )
...Do you want to read me? ( it feels like the more important question, as his arms stay tight around palamedes' middle, palms pressed gently to the small of his back, now, as though keeping even their hips in tow. )
Is it just age, you'll discover? That's fine. If it's other things, too, I can...explain. It isn't a problem.
( the explaining of it, anyway. what palamedes might feel is a different story, but he can't speak to that. he just doesn't want anything that he senses to tear them apart in this moment, at least; if he can hug and hold him just a little longer, just long enough to be able to remember it fully, then that will have to do. )
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Well, there's so much to think about. The rapid-fire questions about his own new arm run rampant into the simple pleasure of being held like this; the psychometry diverts from both, can maybe clear his head for a moment or two.
And he would like to know. From what little he's picked up from what Choso doesn't say, he could take a guess; but no matter the answer he would like to know, the same way it felt necessary that Choso know about his necromancy. More important than the answer is the element of trust, of connection; outside of an academic context it is a rather intimate and personal thing to know about a person.]
Age, yes. I won't suddenly have visions of all your memories, or anything like that, but I'll know your personal energy signature. Maybe a bit about your insides, that kind of thing; it's actually not dissimilar to an... x-ray, with a bonus. You won't feel it.
[He only needs a second; they're already touching. He turns his head- barely, in this configuration- to press nose and mouth into Choso's hair, affectionate.]
I would like to; I'll do it now?
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one hundred and fifty years trapped as a cursed object, speaking only to his brothers, trapped alongside him; only a few months, maybe half a year, incarnated like this, but still not fully human.
if he can taste the cursed energy inside of him, he'll explain it. if he can tell anything else about him--a stillborn child, an experimented child, a child that had three parents, a child that should have never existed--he'll tell him as much as he knows. palamedes wouldn't be the first to hear of it; but he would be the first person here, and even gojou satoru doesn't know the whole truth of it, and likely doesn't want to. he had been dismissed, at first, as a curse needing exorcism, even here: luckily, that had changed before either of them had engaged in a fight.
he can feel palamedes' mouth, brushed against his hair, and wishes he could kiss him; that's a strange thought, new, warm and a little melancholy. )
Alright. ( an easy agreement, calm and trusting--he doesn't know what palamedes needs, so he only pulls back enough to look at him, to bat tired, rimmed eyes at him, to stay, passive, with his arms around him, holding him close.
patient, as he waits for what might be a terrible thing, or a wonderful thing. funny that this is what he had hoped to have his two brothers avoid: he hadn't wanted them to be judged by humans, and now here he is, submitting himself in their stead. that makes him feel, at least, a little better. he's doing things right this time. )
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Psychometry never gives the full story, only the end- and an ending is so much clearer on a body that's died, the thanergetic bloom of death laying a blanket of trace energy that lasts for years and years and years. Items smeared with thanergy are easy to read, will open at the cracks and let out their unseen secrets for him with a little push. The living are harder, but not impossible; he would know if Camilla had passed through a room by the objects that she'd touched.
Still, it's an imperfect thing, and further under the haze thrown over the full scope of his necromancy, and the difference in worlds. Age, simple enough— multiple ages, which for a moment he assumes is the Natural Soul's influence, but- no.
Huh.
Choso's full past he can't see; only this thing about his age, and his insides, and the vague squirming presence of the Natural Soul- left alone, because he's already learned his lesson about that one. All of that and what he can only think of as a strangeness, the energy he doesn't recognize, like a blind spot; he can stare right at it and see nothing at all but the absence of a thing, here in the psychometric context. Thanergy, no, thalergy, absolutely not— closer to the former, maybe, if he had to guess.
He'll ask. But first he says,] Thank you. [For letting him do it, trusting him to do it. With a tilt of his head he presses a kiss to Choso's forehead, like a punctuation mark; he's finished doing the invisible magic, now.]
Can I ask about the... mystery energy? I've never seen anything like it.
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it takes a moment to process, despite all the overthinking--a small, narrowed dent of his brows. )
Mystery energy... Ah. ( a little sheepish, but he can't cover his face with his hand, rub over the bridge of his nose, or do much of anything to expend the slightly nervous trickle that starts down his spine, like he wants to fidget away from the question. )
Cursed energy. ( said slowly, but not as though he thinks palamedes won't understand--more like he's trying himself, on his end, to figure out how to explain it. ) It's a kind of spiritual energy. I imagine... Well, energy is not a foreign concept to you, or necromancy in general, as you've said. Cursed energy comes from...humans. Fear, worry, grief, anger, hatred, envy...Human emotions, which create cursed energy, which creates, if there's a significant amount of it...curses.
Sorcerers exorcise curses, as they haunt and harm humans, and human society. Sorcerers use cursed energy like a weapon, to fuel their attacks, their special techniques, their swords and blades...That sort of thing.
( his gaze swims, somewhere over palamedes' shoulder, to focus on a point further in the room; he's trying to figure out a prettier way to say it, but there's never been a pretty way to begin with. )
I'm not human. Not fully. I'm not a sorcerer, either. A curse, but not fully that, either. ( gaze narrowing, like a wince. ) A complication, maybe. It takes...some explaining.
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He nods anyway; at least academically, he's following the concept of cursed energy.]
Thanergy is like that, sticking around in greater quantities when strong emotions are involved, usually negative. Not quite the same.
[And the necromancers use it, although perhaps not as creatively as swords and blades, considering the cavalier. Not important.
Three of his tentacles are still curled into Choso's hair; he slides a fourth over Choso's shoulder, tracing along his jaw, not quite urging him to look Palamedes in the face again. Just a touch, anchoring, as the tension zigzagging through Choso is hard to miss when they're this close. He's still listening; he's not letting go.]
I wondered if that's what it was, when you asked me about attributes earlier. The human part, of course. [Not this brand new curse thing, specifically.] Do you want to explain?
[Even if he doesn't- Palamedes would consider this wildly fair and reasonable- now they should sit; Palamedes tilts his head towards the bed, significantly. Yes?]
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tethered by palamedes' touch, he thinks about apologizing. three tentacles nestled in his hair get flanked by a fourth, which slips over his shoulder, soft and nearly unnoticed; once it rolls along his jaw, the faintest pressure, he realizes that he's still not making eye contact.
briefly, embarrassed, he looks up--his lips jut out, something of a pout, which might be charming in any other situation; his arms loosen, slip away, but it's only so that he can lift a hand to run his fingertips down along that particular tentacle, tracing it until he can't. )
Is it better if I don't? ( he asks it, genuinely: there's a moment where he allows himself to move forward, to artfully sidestep a neat pile of books, to ease towards the bed, but his hand reaches out for palamedes, first, like he's the guide that's just clearing a path for him, instead. once he's got palamedes seated on the bed, only then will he sink down next to him. )
It doesn't bother me, really. It only bothers me if it...bothers you. ( a slow, careful way to say whatever this is, i would hate to ruin it. )
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Seated, Palamedes turns to draw one leg up on the bed, facing Choso with his chin resting on his knee. He reaches out with the tentacle again, curling around Choso's wrist, snug and secure.]
It doesn't bother me. Truth over solace, which is to say, I would rather know than turn away. Technically the "solace" refers to lies, but...
[He holds up his hand, stopping himself. No, not the time.]
Never mind. Tell me.
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his head tilts, slightly, watching his own touch wander. ) Truth over lies? Mmm. Truth over lies.
( or 'lying by omission' maybe, something that he's learned all the same. )
It...There was a woman, a long time ago. Over a hundred years ago, who somehow gave birth to a strange child. Part curse, part human child. That's not something that's supposed to happen, and I think she...must have been terrified, and took the child to a temple, where sorcerers gathered. Likely asking for help, or for...some kind of support.
This...sorcerer. ( the word comes out harsh, tinged with the edge of anger; his hand stills. ) ...forced her to become his property, and carried out a series of experiments. Nine children, he forced her to bear, terminating them at a different point, a different month, each time. A mix of his sorcerer blood, her human blood, and...a curse. Children with...mm, children who became cursed objects, in their death. Full of cursed energy. Alive, but not alive. Aware, but not aware.
These...objects. ( him. his siblings. one hundred and fifty years, just like that. ) ...were stored, protected, at the sorcery school. But cursed objects are...quite powerful, especially when incarnated. A curse user, someone against sorcerers, took these...cursed wombs, from the school.
( a soft swallow, like he doesn't like the feeling--can feel all of his calm, all of his careful explaining welling up in his throat. ) And I am one of them. They incarnated me, and two of my younger brothers, into new flesh bodies. Part human, part curse. That is the...That is how I came to be.
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