[Semi-Closed Post: Aornis Is a Real Headache]

[timebethine]

Somewhere around midnight, a migraine descended on Laertes like a thunderhead, and he still hasn't come out from beneath its anvil. He's spent most of the day hiding in bed with the curtains drawn, feeling as though he's about to be sick--and that feeling's only grown worse as the sun has drifted sluggishly to a low apex in the sky.

It isn't until mid-afternoon that he feels well enough to make progress on all his plans. He needs to speak to SecUnit about its drones, to Dionysus about whether Avernus (that is her name, isn't it?) is a goddess, and to Nightingale about whether he can offer magical support in case their confrontation goes sour. He needs to talk with Claudius about what to say when he does speak to her.

So it is that he starts making his rounds through the mansion and its grounds, seeking out friends old and new, clinging grimly to the thermos of coffee that smells sickeningly strong but also helps drive back the pain. His face is wan, his eyes shadowed. He would rather be doing anything but this.

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[wickedwit]

As it happens, Claudius is seeking out Laertes, too. “Laertes,” he says when he sees him in the hallway, with a brisk-business-like clap of hands, “just the man I wanted to see —“ But he stops short when he sees the haggard look in Laertes’s eyes. More soft, he says, “How dost thou?”

[timebethine]

"Ill," says Laertes tersely. "But let that pass. I would speak with thee. Could we repair to--" the smells in the laboratory will absolutely be too much for him "--thy rooms?"

[wickedwit]

“Ay, come, come.” He offers Laertes a hand, already second-guessing his resolve with Laertes appearing as a haint loosed from the grave to speak of portents. You knew what to do in the first place, a voice tells him. Asmodean owes you a favor. Use it, don’t trouble Sagramore’s husband when he has troubles enough. Neither needs to see your hand in this, and no one will thank you, anyway.

[timebethine]

Laertes frees a hand from the coffee thermos to press Claudius's hand. "My thanks," he says, and lets himself be led. It's easier, to bob along behind Claudius like a boat tugged on a merciful tide.

[wickedwit]

Leading Laertes back to his room, he can’t help feeling like he’s done before, like the days are repeating and the only thing that’s changed is the man at the end of his hand. He doesn’t think twice, this time. This room isn’t a place he needs to hide anymore — or if it is, they can hide there together. He opens the door and ushers Laertes inside. “Take a seat,” he says. “Or lie down. Whatever thou wouldst.”

[timebethine]

Laertes considers dignity for the briefest of moments, then sets his coffee aside and curls up like a shrimp on the bed. "What didst thou want?" he asks. He's fairly sure Claudius had said he was looking for Laertes--but it feels as though someone's boring a hole the size of a broom handle behind his left eye, and he can't quite make himself remember.

[wickedwit]

Several lies present themselves. If he wanted to draw on the happiest thing in his life, he could say something about wedding announcements, ask about his and Enjolras’s printing press — but that seems a violation, for reasons Claudius can’t place. He can’t use his betrothal as a cover. He needn’t get into it at all, only wave his hand, say it was a trifling thing, and they can talk about it all later. He can deflect. Instead, he says, “To speak with thee on Sagramore.”

[rememberettersberg]

Nightmares are nothing new to Nightingale, but this morning had brought new and interesting torments. He sits, grimly, in the cafe, picking at the curling crust of a stale sandwich.

He's wearing his WWII uniform, rendered exactly as he remembers it moments before the medics cut it off him. It was the only thing in his wardrobe when he awoke and the only outfit the mansion seemed inclined to provide.

[timebethine]

"Sir," says Laertes, shuffling in to sit alongside Nightingale at the table. He doesn't meet Nightingale's eyes; his own vision pains him less when he looks down, away from any source of light. "You look new-risen from a sepulcher."

[rememberettersberg]

"And you look fit to lie down in one," he replies with considerable concern. "Are you well enough to be up and about?"

[timebethine]

Laertes musters a smile. "This is the best I've felt thus far today. I was hoping I'd find you--I was seeking a lesson, and advice. But perhaps I'm in more fit shape for the advice than the lesson."

[rememberettersberg]

"Indeed, I don't feel particularly well-equipped to teach today." Nightingale frowns at his sandwich and pushes the plate away. "But advice may not be beyond me. What do you need?"

[timebethine]

"Have you met a woman here, named Avernus?¹"

¹ Pong!

[vineleaves]

Dionysus has retreated to his room, so should Laertes come knocking he will find Dionysus sitting at a small table off to the side. The room is well on its way to being what someone might describe as 'maximalist' style, though Dionysus hasn't yet been at the mansion long enough to have accumulated quite enough things for that. Cushions, fabrics hanging from the walls, a growing collection of plays he 'borrowed' from the library, some candles, and a few other odds and ends all over the place.

There's a few bowls sitting on the table, each overflowing with grapes. Some are significantly tastier looking than others. There's also a few bottles of wine. Dionysus himself looks a little like he has just come back from a lengthy hike or some other medium-strenuous activity. He's not exactly dripping with sweat or anything, but he's a little dewey.

[timebethine]

Upon getting a glimpse of Dionysus, Laertes immediately regrets summoning his strength for the occasion. "Forgive me. I can return another time," he offers. "You look ... strained."

[vineleaves]

"Oh, no, I'm fine!" He's all smiles. Outwardly, anyway. Is he internally freaking the hell out over the thought he might be losing control of his powers and the house might run out of food? Maybe. "Come on in, sit down! How're you doing?" He motions to a second chair at his table.

[timebethine]

By now, Laertes is feeling a little more steady--the pain has shifted from piercing to grinding, which might as well be the same thing as no pain at all--and he takes a seat. "I had hoped to speak with you on a matter of potential danger," he says. "Are you able to recognize other gods, through sight or some other, inward sense?"

[vineleaves]

Dionysus sits up straight. Congratulations, Laertes, you have his full, undivided attention. "You're scaring me now. What's going on?"

[timebethine]

"There is a woman here--you might have seen her at Enjolras's meeting," he says. "Blonde of hair and fair of face; dressed well, with a singular self-possession and poise. Do you recall such a woman?"

[recognizance]

Murderbot is, to all outward appearances, completely zoned out: slouched on the sofa in one of its preferred lounges, and staring into space.

As Laertes hesitates in the doorway, however, it blinks once, asks in its usual flat way, "Are you all right?" and only then looks in his direction.

[timebethine]

Laertes shakes his head a little. "A migraine," he says. "It's lingered long today. How do you?"

[recognizance]

A little furrowing between the brows, not as obvious as a frown of concern. "Shouldn't you be lying down or something?"

[timebethine]

"I've been abed all day," Laertes protests. "It's much better than it was. And I wanted to ask you--have you managed to connect your drones to the device? The--" his electrical engineering books have told him what it's called, he knows this "--CRT television?"

[recognizance]

Is that what it's called? Huh. Murderbot sits up a bit. "Not exactly. It's complicated, but--" It debates for a second whether to try explaining the technical details to a sword human, then compromises with, "I can connect me to it, through Shen Yuan's game console, but the console can't handle too much data at once. What I'm pretty sure I can do is transfer clips -- short pieces of the videos -- from the drone's memory to mine, and from there to the screen. Probably," it adds, because old habits die hard.

[timebethine]

Laertes thinks about this a little more. "Both video and audio?" he asks. "Am I right in believing that there will be some delay between the drone seeing and your memories appearing on the screen?"