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

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?”

"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?"

“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.

Edited 2024-03-19 18:19 (UTC)

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.

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.”

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.

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.”

"Ay, say on," says Laertes. There's a deep, brewing dread in him--Claudius is at his most brisk when something upsets him--but he can't quite wrap words around that understanding.

Claudius kneels by the bedside, rather than hover above him. He wants to be humble. "I believe Sagramore is doing harm to himself. I say this not to stir discontent in thee, or drive thee toward an end of my choosing. I speak to thee as a man who loves him, whose sentiments have mirrored mine. And if there is no counsel in that, at least there may be fellowship. Wilt thou hear me?"

Laertes uncurls. His eyes focus on Claudius's. (Everything feels too bright.) "Ay. Is it drink again? Or some new harm?"

"The drink is how he bears with it, and that in turn does harm to him." It feels like a betrayal, unclasping Sagramore's secrets, when Sagramore lay in this bed not long ago and trusted Claudius to touch his hair and care for him. "He told me he was doing penance. Hearing confession of another man's crimes, a man whom he still loves. His penance is for that love. I said to him without some end, reconciliation with God or reconciliation among men, penance is only torture. That was my aim, the night I confessed to thee my sin -- to do harm myself, to ruin all my relationships, because that was my desert. I had no hope of reconciling, but thought to drive thee from me. But if thou cam'st to me again and again, to hear more and more of my sins, hating all that thou didst hear, hating thyself when thou couldst not kill thy regard for me ... it would be torture to us both, in time. And so it is with Sagramore. He believes, too, this is his desert, for the love he bears this man."

Laertes frowns. The pressure of sickness in his throat threatens to overwhelm him--it feels as though the floor has collapsed beneath him, and he's falling. "He told me that these meetings were remembrances," he says. "That ... that they were speaking of the lives and works of those musicians. Ensuring that their voices lived on. I offered to learn their songs, as well, and he was quick enough to bring me music--"

And then he had told Laertes of how Gaheris had butchered his mother while she lay abed with Lamorak, and spoken of all the men he'd killed and forgotten.

"--he asks Asmodean to tell him of what he did to them," Laertes realizes.

Ah. Claudius weaves that information in with what he knows, what he's been told and what he's surmised -- about Asmodean under all his names, his ambitions for immortality, his ambitions for his art. And with what he knows of Sagramore, too. "They likely began as remembrances. His intention was compassion, for these musicians and their memories, for the man he loves. But to me he only spoke of crimes.” There’s a flickering ember of the fury he felt, but it’s cooled. He can touch it now, examine it, but he still mislikes it. He can’t possibly know, he tells himself. He never told Sagramore the whole sordid story. It isn’t that his pain means less than that of people in the past. Because that was the pain of innocents.

"What can be done?" asks Laertes, looking away. His fingertips trace the stitches on the blankets. He feels very far away from himself, as though the self observing is many years older or many countries distant. "He hates for me to aid him, or even to worry for him, when he hurts himself. It isn't pride--nor even fully shame, although shame hath its part. He does not think himself deserving of aid. He does not think help is possible. I know not what to do, except to stay at his side."

"All his life, help has been impossible for him,” Claudius says. He puts the ember down before it can begin to burn again. “He had an illness none could cure. The ones who claimed that they could cure him only caused him further misery. They treated him less like a child than a broken clock, still a-repairing, ever out of frame, its only value how it was meant to work, and never how it does. When he's offered aid, he must feel like someone's come again to fix him, and will put him aside in frustration when they see he can't be fixed. I understand it. But I do not like it." He sighs. "Hast thou had this argument with him before?"

"I have," says Laertes. "And come close to having it again many a time."

"Wert thou not ill, I would offer thee a toast in commiseration." Claudius gives his knees a rest, shifts and leans back with his head against the hanging coverlet. "I love him no less, thou know'st. But to not care for my lover's hurts, I would have to be a different man. And I would not call it loving, without care."

"What wouldst thou have of me?" says Laertes. "If thou hast a better answer for his pains, then I will try it."

"I told thee I spoke not to drive thee to an end. If I spoke to Asmodean, I would have an end. I would tell him to break with Sagramore, then pretend I knew nothing of it, and comfort him through his heartache." It's a rather miserable thing to admit. "If I told thee how to deal with him, it would be no better -- only using thee as a proxy for me, a piece upon the board. I suspect the answer lies closer to thy way than mine. To be direct, rather than make deals in secret."

"I'll speak to him of it," says Laertes, suddenly firm. (It does very much send a little bolt of pain through the left side of his head.) "He need not break with Asmodean--but he must find another way. He cannot love him, and punish himself for loving him; that can have no other end than poisoning that love."

Claudius cannot help but smile at that spark of conviction. Laertes would not, he think, be himself without it. And perhaps Claudius would not be himself if, despite all his protestations that will not steer Laertes, he did not offer his opinion. "Be gentle," he say, touching curled fingers to Laertes's forehead, "when thou speak'st to him, or he will think thou art censuring him. He will think it regardless ... but thou shouldst not cease to offer aid, or he will never learn to take it. Old men such as we, who have only ever relied on ourselves, have stubborn hearts." He laughs, soft. "Thou shouldst hear how Galahad scolds me."

"And if I drive him away by it?"

"Dost believe he can be driven from thee?"

"At times--I fear he hates himself more than he loves me."

"Oh, my heart." Claudius can no longer crouch apart from Laertes; he climbs up on the bed to be with him. It's a heavy fear to hold, and hold alone.

Laertes immediately gathers Claudius into his arms, tucking his face against Claudius's hair. "I do not fear he would be driven from me by rage," he says. "I fear he would tell himself that he has disappointed me, and that I no longer want him, and nothing I say will convince him that he cannot lose my love."

Claudius cannot promise it will never happen. He could, could say it soothingly, with honey-sweet words to hide bitter medicine. There are times when one must tell a kind lie to deliver a truth. No perfect advice will protect him, so better to say trust to thy love than thou canst do naught but trust, and trust is no guarantee. Love is no guarantee. Love and self-hatred are unhappy bedfellows — Claudius believed himself poison to all that he loved, believed he could no longer keep serving his dear ones poison. Perhaps this bout of self-harm, the one that left Sagramore seizing in the sheets when he had too much to drink, will wake something, the way Claudius woke from the exquisite self-sabotage of loosening his tongue with laudanum. Or perhaps they’re both too set in their ways — perhaps even Claudius’s reprieve won’t last, and when it comes to the point he won’t go through with the folly of binding Galahad to him with dicer’s oaths.

“He may,” he says instead. He folds his hand over Laertes’s heart. “An he does, come to me. Do not bear it by thyself, or destroy thyself in turn. I will help thee decide thy next course.”

"Is there aught else I should do?" Laertes asks. "Aught else I should say, when I speak to him?"

"What else hast thou feared? Has he heard thy fears from thee?"

Laertes shakes his head. "He already fears that I'll be disappointed at every turn--how much greater would be his fear, if I gave this dread voice? When I know in my heart that he would always choose me?"

"Thou art a saint, if thou canst have perfect faith without evidence or reassurance, and he is not thy husband, but thy idol." He sighs, steadying himself by the rise and fall of Laertes's chest. "Forgive me my grim oracle, but this is what I foresee. He will fear so much to disappoint thee, he will look for any sign of wavering in thee, whether thou voicest it or nay. Thou wilt cloak thy doubts to spare him agony, and he will take thy silence to mean my husband will not tell me when I have offended him most. He will invent offenses on his own, and they will take the shape of his self-hatred, what he already knows and regrets in himself. What he cannot change, he will hide from thee. The more he hides, the more thou wilt see him pull from thee, the greater thy doubts will grow. If I am wrong, then tell me. Perhaps thou art that very saint, to bear all his doubts while resisting thine own, and like Job thou wilt be rewarded sevenfold. But even Job had questions."

Edited 2024-03-21 15:04 (UTC)

"--no," Laertes admits. "Thou art right. With anyone else, I would advise them to speak plainly, for just the same reasons thou hast laid out so clearly. And he has asked me to set boundaries for him, and punish him when he fails--he's asked for discipline. To have it proven that if he does me disservice, I will not permit it."

For a slow moment, Claudius circles his thumb on Laertes's chest, soothing himself by the repetition, the bunching-and-unbunching of shirt fabric. "Think on what would be a disservice to thee. Decide what boundary thou wouldst not have crossed. Is it clear to thee? Dost thou know thine own desert?"

"No," Laertes answers. The great tide of his pain is rolling back over the shores of his head again; bile rises in his throat. He closes his eyes and tucks his head a little further between Claudius and the pillow. "I know that I would not have him hurt himself. But it seems a cruel thing, to punish him for his pain."

“Speak to him on that,” Claudius murmurs, and kisses his temple. "Say what thou wouldst have. Ask what he believes thou deservest of him, and what he deserves of thee. And then decide together. None else can.”

"My wise man," says Laertes. "May I stay a little while, and rest my head?"

"I would've insisted, if thou hadst not asked."

"There's more I would speak on--but I cannot put three words together without feeling iron clashing in my brain."

“Then put them down. They will wait for thee, and I will wait to listen.”

At that, Laertes subsides. The pain shifts and moves, ebbs and swells, but does not go; it is a squall grinding a rocky shore, and he can do nothing but shelter in the lee of Claudius until it has blown itself out.

Claudius guards Laertes while he sleeps, guards his peace if not his life, breathing slowly in Laertes’s arms. It lets Claudius rest, too, losing some of the brisk tension he first approached Laertes with. He just focuses on their breath.

When at last Laertes stirs again, the storm has broken. He nestles a little closer--not for comfort, but out of gratitude and affection; his lips find Claudius's temple, his cheek, his lips.

Claudius hums a little against Laertes’s lips, returning a lazy, contented kiss.

"My thanks," says Laertes, low, still half-drowsing. "I fear I spoke some dire nonsense to thee earlier."

“And I made some dreadful prognostications to thee as well,” Claudius says, but he smiles as he says it. “Wilt thou forgive me?”

"I will. And I will speak to Sagramore."

"Good. I've befriended too many divorced women to watch you two become strangers to each other. Thou hast married thy first love, for which I admire thee, but there will be new trials and changes for every year thou art together." Reluctantly, Claudius rolls off of Laertes, looking up at the ceiling. "It's why I believe Sagramore is at times short-sighted. Thou livest and lovest for the moment, I know, and think not on a future so distant as to be untouchable. But when thou dost wed someone, thou wed'st thy futures and thy fortunes. Were he in perfect health, it would still decline as he grew older ... as will thine, in ways the young never anticipate. By learning to bear your ills together now, thou wilt be better prepared for what's to come."

Laertes is quiet for a moment. He knows that Claudius means well--that he feels his own years, and that he seeks to grant Laertes the wisdom that he's earned by them and spare Laertes the suffering of earning it himself. But there is a trace of unintended condescension in his words, and it rankles. "Thinkest thou that I never think on that future?" he asks. "Thinkest thou I have not already carried my husband when he's drunken, cleaned him when he's been sick, tended him when he's been melancholy? I have had a hundred chances to consider whether I can bear this for the rest of my life--and I choose it, Claudius. His ailments are not new to me. I knew them when I wed him, and I chose him. I have chosen to bear them."

"I know that. Does he?"

"I think he wishes it were otherwise. He knows I've chosen him, and wishes I had not, for he hates the burden it places on me." He rolls his eyes. "He does not see how he eases mine own melancholy, and tends mine own aches, and charms me every day with some new scheme for my delight. It's a partnership--an equal partnership. But he sees only my charity toward some poor, undeserving wight."

"Then perhaps 'short-sighted' isn't the word for it. He sees the future well enough, but not the ways mutual care will be a balm to you both in old age. He thinks it will forever be one-sided, which only seems short-sighted to me because I see how many ways that could change. But even now, it isn't one-sided, and something else prevents him from seeing it."

"What else but his youth, which taught him that he was an incurable burden, worthy of love only if he could be well?"

"Thou art in the right. Thou know'st him best," he adds, turning an eye towards Laertes. "I only wish I understood him well as thou dost."

"Dost understand him well," says Laertes. "It does not slight thine understanding, that thou canst not play thy tune upon him--someone has cut his strings long ago. He will want care, before he can be plied as thou might'st wish."

"Does thou know," Claudius asks, soft, preparing himself to accept any answer, "why Asmodean's crimes weigh heavy on him, and Luo Binghe's do not? Is he unaware of Luo Binghe's history?

Laertes leans back against the pillows, gesturing Claudius to follow. He forces himself to think this through objectively--for although he hates Asmodean, although he would rather Sagramore and Asmodean had never met, he knows that Sagramore loves him as well as he does Claudius. "I think there are three parts to it," he says, after a moment's consideration. "First: he does not know all that Luo Binghe has done. He knew not about the blood parasites until I told him; if he knew not that, he doubtless knows little else. And he may have told himself that if thou didst not urge him to revenge, then thou hadst forgiven the trespass. Second: he loves Asmodean, and does not love Luo Binghe. The crimes of a man whom he knows only distantly must necessarily weigh less upon him than the crimes of a man whom he adores as he does us. That adoration, held in tension with the condemnation that he so rightly feels, threatens to rip him in twain. And, finally: Asmodean feels guilt and shame for what he's done. I do not believe Luo Binghe capable of shame. Having taken his cue for how to feel about their crimes from the men who did them, how could Sagramore fail to condemn Asmodean more roundly?"

Claudius nods through each point, curling close by Laertes's side, curling down the sleeves of cardigan to make himself more comfortable there. He understands why Galahad wears the sleeves of his sweater down, how soothing it is to run his fingers over the ribbing in the wool. Soothing enough that it doesn't hit Claudius like he feared it would, he knew not about the blood parasites until I told him -- he'd been hoping Sagramore didn't know at all, and he thought it would sting like betrayal if he was wrong. Sagramore doesn't have the character Galahad does, to see without urging when Claudius is sheltering some secret hurt or to carelessly challenge Luo Binghe on Claudius's behalf. As much as Claudius loves and adores Galahad for it, it was careless. So Claudius understands how, as a different man, Sagramore would err on the side of believing all's well. That point makes sense, and so do all the others.

Nevertheless, he finds himself pausing with his face hidden against Laertes's shoulder a little longer, just in case some bitter feeling arises in him and he can't control his expression expertly enough. "It follows," he says. "Well, I cannot fault Sagramore for feeling more strongly about those he loves most. I love that tendency in him. I love his strong-heartedness."

"Thou art one of them," says Laertes, a little softer. "If thou didst tell him that the pain of having trusted and been hurt still burns in thee, he would hear thee."

Claudius laughs, lightly. "Now here is where I best understand Sagramore's perspective. I feel like I'm discovering news pain every day, and they always come when someone tells me I deserved better. Lan Wangji and Galahad do it most often, I think, but you do your share of it, too. I remember when thou didst tell me I was jumping at my brother's shadow ... I still struggle with it, thou know'st. For a very long time I had to believe everything that happened to me was justifiable and excusable, so I wouldn't feel betrayed by anyone who let it happen. I even invent cover stories on instinct, so that no one finds out something painful happened to me, or that it pained me at all when it happened. That also lessens any feelings of betrayal because if no one knows, no one can can be expected to help. I figured this all out when I was a child, but children have terrible logic." Sighing, he says, "Thou wilt say I am talking around the point. The pain is fresh, because I did not let myself think on all the ways it hurt before. Perhaps I'll speak to him when I've thought longer."

"Do," says Laertes. "Because if thou couldst hear one thou lovest saying, I deserved to be hurt because the world is cruel, and I forgot that for a single moment, thou wouldst feel the same righteous fury that touches me now. And what if the world is cruel? Then making it kind is our charge."

"I feel that fury often. But 'tis with thee I most often feel such a charge is possible ... Have I congratulated thee fully for Wanderers Gather?" He lets fondness slip into his voice. "Not only for the effort of preparing the feast, but for kindling the idea of a holiday, and basing it on kindness."

"The credit is Sagramore's," says Laertes immediately. "I only helped him to prepare for it."

"The credit belongs to you both, for what you both accomplished together. Like training Szarka together, or any other end thou dost share."

It's on the tip of Laertes's tongue to say, But Sagramore has full charge of Szarka's training--but that will only get him the same argument from Claudius, so he subsides. "I'd also meant to ask thee what I should say, when I speak to Avernus,"¹ he says. "The time is nigh when I mean to do it. What wouldst thou learn of her?"

¹ Pong!

Claudius turns on his side, then, so he can look Laertes in the face again. "Avernus? Ah -- thou wouldst do well to call her that. I learned something very interesting about her, during the last round of changes we had. She can sense whenever her name's spoken, even from a distance."

"She can--what?"

"Wangji told me¹," Claudius says simply. "Because of all the shuffling around that happened, Magnus ended up in her body and noticed it. It's made me question some of my earlier assumptions ... which means my questions for her are likely to change. I started a whispering campaign about her, more or less. But she knew every time her name was spoken. Was I playing into her hands? Did she want a certain reputation to spread, even if it was one that made people wary of her? And the list where your and Sagramore's names were circled ... well, when I think of what I would do, if I had the power to tell whenever people were talking about me, dropping a mysterious list and seeing if it starts any gossip wouldn't be beyond me."

¹ And would confirm he did. Absolutely.

"Thou wouldst." Laertes inhales through his nose. "Let us assume that she shares some of thy temperament, then. What would I say, to make thee reveal thy plans? What would be best calculated to make thee drop the veil?"

“I’m softer now than I once was,” Claudius says, affecting droll tones. “Thou wouldst have to convince me thou wert on my side.”

"How would I do that, not knowing which side was thine?"

“Show thou canst be molded to my side.” Claudius thinks it over further, and sighs. “Don’t play dumb. We were going to take advantage of the fact thou hast not met her, but thou canst not pretend thou hast never heard of her. She knows she’s being spoken about. I've started a whispering campaign, let it grow, and let discerning minds filter information back to me, but I've no doubt the rumors have taken more alarming shapes. Be open about what you've heard, and open to hearing the truth as she would tell it. But temper your expectations -- she's unlikely to reveal everything at the first conversation. If she reveals anything at all, it's because she believes she has an advantage. It's worth finding out what those areas of advantage are."

"Then I'll go to her, an anxious young man willing to be soothed." There are normally very sweet actors cast in your role, Dionysus had said; he can be that sweet actor for her. "Afraid that she'll take me back to Elsinore, begging her to let me stay where I've found happiness. She may find my pleading pathetic, but perhaps that will assure her of her power. She may let more information slip, either to assure me or simply to quiet my pleading. Thou wouldst draw a curtain on that act by changing the subject; we will see where her inclinations direct her, if she does the same. Then--still pathetic, but now pathetically grateful--I'll let her lead me where she will."

"We've a plan," Claudius says, assured by it. The more pathetic Laertes appears, the less he'll look like a threat to be taken care of. It's a difficult balance to strike. Too unassuming, too nonconfrontational, and they won't learn anything. Too direct, too close to the target, and he'll put himself in danger. Claudius can share what little information he has, at least. "At Enjolras's meeting of minds, I did sound out her approach to conflict. She's the type to assess weaknesses and exploit them efficiently. Someone like her is likely to hold her cards close to the chest, then play them all when she sees a winning hand. If she shifts from conversation to open conflict, it will seem to happen quickly. So take care. And," he says, reinforcing the plan, "show her the weakness you want her to focus on. She'll be looking for it, anyway."

"I fear that," Laertes says softly, "for my greatest weaknesses are those I love, and I fear she will hurt them, as she may have hurt Galahad."

For a moment, Claudius was considering asking Laertes whether he truly wanted to do this, when facts are so thin on the ground. (Thinner than they should be, honestly, even relying on Sagramore's discretion and Lan Wangji's prudence.) That moment ends abruptly. Slow and and even, he asks, "What has she done to Galahad?"

A frown--they'd spoken of the possibility that she might hurt Galahad before, when Laertes had found the fallen page without Aornis's name on it, but they hadn't spoken of it again afterward, and then time had bled like ink into water, and Laertes had managed to forget that that conversation hadn't been about Galahad's dreams. "I know not that she has," says Laertes hastily. "Only that Sagramore had it from Lan Wangji that someone was sending Galahad nightmares, and and that after some scrupulous investigation, they'd had no better suspects."

Ah. Two thoughts connect. “Lan Wangji was concerned about starting a witch hunt,” he says. “Against Luo Binghe, in fact. Galahad tried to fight Luo Binghe on my behalf … and his anger was clarifying for me. To everyone else, I'm sure I seemed reeling and unreasonable for unearthing a settled grudge. But I’d never expected anyone to take my part the way Galahad had. I’d never been told, in the way Galahad told me, that my pain mattered. I was alert for consequences. Galahad's nightmares were it, I thought -- petty cruelties to salve Luo Binghe's wounded pride. But I confided in Lan Wangji, and it's for my peace of mind that he's been investigating. He and I both interviewed Shen Yuan, and we both came to the same conclusion. Luo Binghe wouldn't harm one of Shen Yuan's friends. To Shen Yuan, I'm sure I seemed as unreasonable for suspecting it as I am for still dwelling on any harm Luo Binghe's done to me."

Another reason, Claudius thinks, not to push the feelings he's tried to suppress on Sagramore. It's safer for him to be Shen Yuan's friend, and safer to be Luo Binghe's friend, too. This is the peace you wanted, he reminds himself. Sighing, he says, “It’s true Lan Wangji hasn’t found other suspects. But she wasn’t on the list to be considered. She was on the list of victims. She spoke of bad dreams ... and I confess I encouraged her to think of them as Luo Binghe’s doing. She mentioned them to Lan Wangji before me -- and Luo Binghe was also his first thought, for all the effort we’ve gone to clear his name.” And so? How did it all circle back here? Was it just the inevitable tangle of information, rumormongering gone awry, conflating victim and suspect in the end? If Luo Binghe seemed so obvious, and yet was cleared of suspicion by the two who suspected him first, why suspect Aornis without even a flicker of a motive? What motive could there be? Claudius forces himself to think.

“Was it ... provocation, perhaps?” he muses aloud. “Or if not provocation, pulling strings, to see how they connect. Speak of dreams, and see whose name is mentioned. Send dreams, and see who’s blamed for them.”

"If she's looked for connections, she'll surely see that Sagramore and I lie at the center of a web of them--we've hosted the last two major events, and participated in the one before them." It's not a boast; the fact that this might reflect well on Laertes seems not even to occur to him. "If she means to rattle the entire web, she may do worse than starting with me."

Claudius thinks again of the list, where both their names were circled. As a private notation, it might’ve marked them as centers of the web … but as provocation, it would make those names stand out, make someone more likely to stoop over and look closer, as they recognized the name of a friend.

There’s still too many ifs. Claudius corrals his speculation, and says, “During our tête-à-tête, she came up with quite a cunning plan to theoretically oust the mansion spirits by exploiting their attachment to us. It’s not beyond her. But if that’s the case, the poison is also the antidote, in its way. Our loved ones are our weakness, but the more care and attention we pay each other, the more likely we are to notice when something’s awry. Even an ordinarily private pain, like a nightmare.”

"Pay heed to me," says Laertes quietly. "I may lack the perspective to see my pains as they are."

“I promise thee I will.” He curls his fingers against Laertes’s cheek. “How dost thou fare? How is thy head, and how is thy heart?”

"My head is well, though my heart is ill at ease," he answers, and turns to kiss Claudius's knuckles. "And thine?"

"Miserable," Claudius admits, even as he smiles through it. "But even so thou art like a shelter to me. I want to stay in thy arms until the storm passes."

"Here, then." And he draws Claudius's head down against his chest, gathering him in as though he's no more than a shivering kitten.

He curls there like a cat would, stealing heat and holding it in, drawing comfort from the solid body under him. It's too many thoughts, as always, and a bright streak of self-awareness that's too blinding in the dark to chart a clear path by. To thine own self be true is the maxim, but Claudius never found it useful. He doesn't know what the truth of himself is, whether he's come closer to it or farther away. But he closes his eyes, and comes to a conclusion. "Whenever thou dost need to speak on something," he says, "know that thou canst speak to me. I will try always to understand thee, even when thou know'st not thyself what thou art feeling. And thou canst chide me for condescension, as thou need'st."

"I will," says Laertes. "Thou knowest as well as I that I was not raised to confide my hurts in others--they were matters to be locked within the safe sphere of the family, and managed by that family's head. It was worse for thee; even the sphere of the family was not a safe place for thy hurts, so they had no compass but within thine unquiet breast. But perhaps we can learn another way together."

"I often wonder what a family is for," he says, making a soft confidence. "It's so essential to understanding people. Not only the way it's used in Elsinore, where knowing someone's family lets you know their status and connections ... it's the way people think about their families, about the roles family members play. By the time I was born into the royal family, everyone's role as a mother or father or son had become so eclipsed by roles that were impersonal and political. When I heard other mothers speak of the way a mother cares for her children, or other older brothers speak of a protective instinct, I perceived the differences. But at times I look to Lan Wangji, and imagine he could easily be such a brother to me. I also look to him as a confidante."

"Couldst make a family here," says Laertes. "A brother, a husband--it's a start."

"Ay, well, Tress is my niece." He says it lightly, with the light flicker of a smile, hidden against Laertes's chest. "Magnus and I are bamboo shoots growing from the same rhizome. And thou? Canst thou be family to me?"

"What wouldst thou have me be?"

"Of all the things to ask," Claudius laughs, though it's the most natural question in the world. It's only Claudius's first thought that's unnatural -- he's beginning to understand why it felt like a fantasy he had to shield from judgement. It was on the verge of admitting something painful and personal. "All my family's roles were eclipsed by political ones, but it's not as though we fulfilled those roles any better. A king is more a symbol than a man, but symbols can be inspirations or corruptions. Sometimes, in my private moments, I imagine thou wouldst be a king to inspire. In truth, it's not because thou art the ideal leader, but because thou art the ideal citizen of some society where people inspire and aid another freely without being organized by status. Unusual, I know. But thou dost it every day thou suppliest a dinner, or works't to make something someone else might use or like ... or even when thou hast planned through many conversations to address a threat uncertain to us. Thou dost it in working with others. In imagination, I can keep dreaming of my just and handsome king, but in reality thou art still my compatriot. Perhaps thou art a better version of home to me."

"It's a kind of game," Laertes ventures. "Just a thou wouldst not have Lan Wangji as thy brother in blood--thou wouldst not have him the son of the same mother, the brother of thy brother. Neither wouldst thou have me pass laws, or sit in judgement over petitioners, or make treaties and wars with foreign lands. But thou wouldst imagine me as king, because thou wouldst imagine a king who has not hurt thee, as thou wouldst imagine a brother who has not hurt thee. That thou mayest permit thyself to believe in kings, and brothers."

“As thou say’st. E’en now, thou didst speak of the charge to make a cruel world kind. Sometimes the refuge from a cruel world is fantasy. Sometimes fantasies shelter tender truths, like the unborn chick beneath the shelter of an egg. The game lets me escape to a kinder world, for a time, and envision what kindness is possible.” Wryly, he says, “But do not mistake me. It is also for my own gratification. Dost thou have thine own fantasies that gratify thee?”

"Ay, but never to be king," Laertes laughs. "To be master of one unruly dog is nearly too much for me. I ..." He reaches up to touch Claudius's hair, to find all those soft silver roots that he loves so well. "I dream of knowing what's expected, as clearly as though it were written in black ink, and then being able to do it. No conditions or exceptions; just a task and its completion. And perhaps praise, if I do well."

It is not hard to hear how, just as Claudius has never known good kings or good brothers, Laertes has never known what it was to have expectations made plain.

And it's as easy to trace back to a household that blurred the personal and political. There was little separation, Claudius knew, before Polonius the father and Polonius the spymaster, for whom clarity was a liability, and whose methods of control were indirect. His tests were unexpected, his evaluations mixed. It's too much for a child who only wants to hear he's good.

"That's a fantasy I'm too happy to fulfill for thee," Claudius says fondly. "I love to tell thee exactly what to do."

"And it would do me no harm, to have thee sit at my feet while I negotiate a treaty with the Prince of Hungary," says Laertes, just as fondly. "I would not be a king in truth, but neither would I be the strict master that Sagramore craves--I spoil my daughter too much."

Claudius shudders at the thought, something Laertes can feel wherever they touch. "Wouldst thou keep me at thy feet as an ornament to thee? Or wouldst thou have me serve thee, and please thee with my mouth?"

"We would not want distraction from important matters of state," muses Laertes, a little teasing now. His fingers tighten in Claudius's hair. "And yet the display of thy service might itself prove fine distraction for lascivious Hungary."

"How gracious thou art to give entertainment to thy guests." And it's a pleasant thought, being the entertainment offered.

"Not only entertainment--thou art our most cunning advisor, our best judge of men. And none will ever suspect thee of scheming, while thou art groaning and writhing upon the organ of state."

Our strikes something in him, like flint striking up fire, and he bites back a groan in the moment. "Thy hidden advantage," he says, the rasp coloring his voice. "I would be that for thee."

"Presumptuous, to speak so to thy king," says Laertes, and he is fully teasing now.

"For you," Claudius corrects, shifting a little and smiling. "Yours. Is that what your majesty would have of me?"

And at that, Laertes has to laugh and haul Claudius up to kiss. "One day," he says. "Only let me know when thou art in a mood to play that game."

Claudius smiles even wider at that, a smile contented but not completely sated. "Wouldst thou play a little now?" he asks, asking familiarly first. "Play with practicing thy sovereignty over me?"

Laertes hesitates. A part of him--the part that longs to please, to impress, to be accounted worthy of love--wants to say yes. But he's just been speaking with Claudius about the importance of setting boundaries, and he's more than usually aware of his own discomfort. "Not today," he says at last. "Once this business is over, I will. I swear it."

"Thou need'st not swear," Claudius says with a laugh. "It's only play. Swear, and thou wilt make it sound like some solemn duty thou must pay or else prove thyself forsworn. Thou dost not owe me anything we do in bed -- thou knowest that?"

Edited 2024-03-28 19:57 (UTC)

"I do. But I know that I forget more often than I should, and I would not have thee believe that my forgetting is a refusal. It's only that, when I remember after midnight how I'd longed to fence for thee, it seems churlish of me to drag thee out of Galahad's bed."

“Oh, I’ve given up any hope of that.” He sighs and shakes his head. “If there were anyone else who watched thee fence, I might feel some chagrin, and wonder how thou couldst remember them and not me. Otherwise I assume whenever thee and Sagramore decide to fence, thou art thinking only of each other, which is romantic. It’s a private exercise for the two of you. If it’s been so for these many months, it’s not likely to change. Thou needst not force thyself.”

Quietly, "I wish thou wouldst not think of it thus. I want it. Forgetting doesn't mean I want it less--it doesn't mean I want thee less. Every time I remember too late, shame goes through me like a blade, and I recriminate myself for forgetting. I want to remember. If I could, would I not spare myself the pain of that shame?"

“I did not mean that.” He lets his head rest on Laertes’s chest. “I am sorry I made it sound so. But if thou canst not remember, and can only feel shame for it, then I would rather I accept it and thou feel’st no shame at all. What else is there for me to do?”

"Because what thou wantest is not the fencing, but to be thought of," says Laertes. "And I can't prove to thee how often I think on thee. I can't show thee how often I'll be in the bath, or making a sauce for supper, or beginning to fall asleep, and my heart will burn with the thought of thee."

“Thou canst. Thou art, by telling me. Thy words are enough to content me. Dost thou think I need more?”

Laertes closes his eyes. "I would I were better for thee."

“I love thee as thou art.” Softening, he says, “I know thou art forgetful. In the workshop, thou hast little sense of the time that has passed, and thou wilt oft mislay thy tools. But those are trifling things. Thy mind is always engaged with something, some question or inspiration thou wilt follow to its end, creating a trail of brilliant connections … the shame would be to stymy them. I let thee work in the way that suits thee, supporting thee with mine own strengths, with the space arranged so thou canst easily move from one idea to the next. If thou dost want this — truly want this, for thy sake and not only mine — thou must do it in a way that suits thee. Thou canst not simply hold it in thy head, expecting to remember. When thou wak’st at midnight, and I am abed, write what thou mean’st to do down. Leave it where thou wilt see it again — an thou must, tie the message to thy sword. Experiment, as thou dost in the workshop. Do not try to make yourself another man. Thou art the man I love, and all I desire is to see him flourish.”

That faith is overwhelming. Laertes has almost come to accept faith from Sagramore, but Sagramore is like him, and he can forgive Laertes's failings because his are the same. But from Claudius--Claudius, who forgets nothing, not a name or a slight or a debt unpaid--it feels like a miracle. It humbles and uplifts him at once; it makes him long to be the man Claudius loves, and no other.

His eyes sting. He crushes Claudius to his chest, and kisses his brow with all the tenderness in him.

In those arms, Claudius can never feel unwanted. He feels, as he often feels when falling in love, like he’s being held in orbit, and no matter how far he drifts he’ll always be pulled back some inexorable force. He feels it in the force of Laertes’s arms, crushing him close.

“I admit,” he says, tone turning flirtacious, “this is the first I heard that thou didst long to fence for me. Sagramore said nothing of thy assent, whether it was obliging or eager, or whether thou wert wary of me still. Thou canst prove thy thoughts to me in voicing them, but ere now this desire of thine has been voiceless.” Flirtacious and demanding, he says, “Tell me. What makes thee want it?”

"It pleases thee, to see displays of skill," says Laertes. "I know that my skill is no equal for the peerless swordsmen of this place--but I want thee to see it all the same, and I want it to heat thee the way it heats thee to watch Sagramore ride."

"He praised thee so for thy prowess with a weapon," Claudius says, winding back through the memory, "and thou him. The coincidence delighted me. He spoke of thy speed, how it was but a sport to thee but couldst steal his breath and end his life, and I could tell it thrilled him in his blood, to be so at thy mercy. Thou toldst me how he took to the Italian style like he'd been born with a foil in his hand. Thou wert new to love, but even then, thou hadst such untiring admiration for him, in every new thing thou didst share. I remember thou saidst thou couldst fight him every day and bed him every night," he laughs. "Even then, I must have had some sense of intruding, of demanding. Of playing the imperious prince, asking thee to show thy skills for my pleasure. But I did long to see thee. Thou art a thing of beauty, when thou giv'st thyself to what thou dost love."

"I want thee to see me as beautiful. I want mine imperious prince to demand that I show my skills for his pleasure."

"I should've known," Claudius says with a fresh laugh, rejuvenated through their shared understanding. "But I'm glad thou hast told me. Thou know'st how well I desire to be begged."

"I do," says Laertes, and he presses a kiss to Claudius's brow. "Then let me plead with thee--thou hast a place between us. Our bed is thine; thou wilt never be an intruder there. I beg thee, know thyself welcome."

“Then let me make princely demands of thee,” Claudius says in a lofty, teasing tone. “Be gentle with thyself, because thou art mine, and I take great pride in what I own. Know thy lord is not testing thee and waiting for thee to fail, because it is a poor lord who lays traps for his servants that make it harder fulfill commands. If a plan we’ve made doesn’t work, I’ll change it to better suit thy strengths, but I won’t judge or blame thee. Blame thyself a little less.”

"Dost ask a hard thing of me," says Laertes, and although he matches Claudius's teasing tone, there's real rue in his voice. "But I didn't ask to be thine for the ease of it."

"Thou knew'st I was difficult," Claudius says, levering himself up and lightly touching Laertes's cheek. "But I will not ask the impossible of thee. I want thee to succeed, and be happy."

"I am happy," says Laertes. "Not at every moment, perhaps--but happiness hath the greater part of my heart. I hope thou canst say the same."

Claudius laughs, at what would've seemed like an impossible challenge not long ago in his life. It's changed. "I am. Even when I'm in sorrow, it's because I've found a happiness it would hurt to lose. It's easy to gamble when thou hast little to wager. When I hated every moment of my life, for instance, it was easy to accept something like condemning my soul to Hell. Now I'm happy enough that I'd prefer to keep living." He sighs, admitting, "That still sounds rather sad, doesn't it? But I have a worthwhile life. That's the main difference. When Gertrude came, she said she felt like she didn't have to worry about me here, and I imagine that's why."

"Hast thou been thinking of her often, of late?"

"Very often," he says, tone softening.

"Because thy thoughts tend toward marriage?"

"It may be," Claudius says, a way of wryly admitting he doesn't know why. "She oft would tease me, when we both were younger, about who I liked and who I would marry. It started far before I knew I wished to marry her. And she gave Galahad and I her blessing, when she was here, she's ... always hoped for me, unselfishly, to find happiness in love."

"And so thou hast. Thou hast found the other half of thyself."

"I love him so," he says helplessly, and sighs. "What would have I done if I did not have thee to tell me what a jonquil meant?"

"Thou wouldst have managed," says Laertes, grinning. "A love like thine could never be restrained for long."

Claudius laughs. "A love like mine? And what sort of love is that?"

"A once-in-a-lifetime love," says Laertes, laying his hand upon Claudius's breastbone. "Galahad is the other half of thy heart, as thou art of his."

"I've felt it, too," Claudius says, smile growing. "I've come to esteem my heart more, sharing it with him. This life of mine will have more worth, being wedded to him -- it already does, being his betrothed. Is it how thou feel'st for Sagramore?"

"It is," says Laertes. "We're necessary to each other, like a pair of shoes; each of us requires the other."

"Like Tress's pair of gloves." Claudius smiles with fondness. "Has she told you about that metaphor her Charlie made?"

"I think I've heard it, but can't remember whether she told me of it or Sagramore did. It's apt."

"Her young man is a poet," Claudius says, with a laugh. "Which I approve of. It means he's better able to praise her with all the terms she deserves."

"And how wouldst thou be praised?" Laertes asks, leaning back to regard Claudius with mirth in his eyes.

"Wouldst thou write poetry to me?"

"An thou wish it so."

"Then do. The next time thou art in longing for me," he teases, but he also entirely means it. "Write something praising my wit, or my skill at dancing, or something else thou dost admire in me. Hast thou ever written a sonnet for a pretty girl ere now?"

"... I have," Laertes admits, "but I burned it, lest it be found."

“I did the same with my most earnest letters. I always expected them to be read, and prided myself on how coy and evasive I could be. Anything too truthful ended up in the fire.” He smiles softly, and says, “It’s a shame thy sonnet was never read by its subject. What sort of girl was she?”

"Bold, and quick," says Laertes, after a moment. "She was the sister of a friend--I say a friend, but thou knowest all my friendships were shallow in those days. She knew Latin and Greek and Italian, and had many impertinent questions about the writings of Plato and Aristotle; she and her brother almost came to blows over the Divine Comedy more than once. She had thick black hair and eyes very near to black--but in sunlight, thou couldst make out a golden ring around her pupils, like the halo of the sun shining out from behind the eclipsing moon. Her laugh was like warm honey; it made me ache to hear her laugh at me."

“I can see her, when thou speak’st of her,” Claudius says with a smile. “I can hear her laugh. Preserve me in such poetry. I want to read what thou wouldst write of my hair and eyes and the books I argue over.”

"I will," Laertes promises. "I swear it."

Claudius lets this I swear it pass without teasing, and simply gives Laertes a kiss. "I know thou wilt. Thou art good as thy word."

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.

"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."

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

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."

"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?"

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

¹ Pong!

"Hmm. No, I can't say that I have. Is she new?"

"She's been here for some months--not a tall woman, nor one of overwhelming presence, but possessed of great poise and beauty. Fair of both hair and face." A sip of his coffee; the nausea rises and recedes in a rolling wave. "Sagramore and I have reason to believe that she has been influencing dreams."

"Well, the physical description sounds like Aornis; she'd hardly be the first person here to go by multiple names. As for influencing dreams..." Nightingale trails off for a moment as a memory sparks. "Claudius asked me about something similar - is he part of this situation?"

"Damn me, I always misremember her name," says Laertes with a wince. "Ay, that is she. And ay, he is a part of it. If it's true that she is interested in stories, then I could not fail to catch her interest: a character ignorant of the substance of his own famous play, who has made a life and a home apart from it and has no desire to return. If she means us ill, I can learn of it. But we know not what arts--if any--might be marshaled in my defense."

"What do you mean to do exactly?" Nightingale is groping around for a notebook he hasn't used in weeks, wincing as he fails to find it in the shredded breast pocket of his uniform. "And what interference have people been experiencing in their dreams?"

"I mean to speak with her, and to learn all that I can of what she has done and may yet do, and why," says Laertes. "I do not expect her to be truthful with me, but to that end, I'll have some spies close to hand, watching her from near and far, who might better be able to guess at her true meanings than I. I haven't met her yet, except in passing," he admits. "Nor have I spoken to anyone of the dream interference who had it directly--only to those who have stories secondhand."

"Forgive me for saying so, but this all sounds a little vague. I wouldn't wish for you to put yourself in harm's way without a clear picture of what might occur."

"You've dealt with dangerous people," says Laertes. "How--knowing they may do harm, and knowing that they may lie or conceal their plans to better do that harm--would you find them out?" A hesitation. "And how--suspecting, as I do, that the mind is where her greatest power lies--could you trust yourself to have a clear picture of what might occur?"

"In my experience, the only way to protect oneself from undue mind influence is a fortitude that comes from experience and practice, and unfortunately that's not something I'm able to provide. Perhaps I should join the ranks of your spies."

"Have you the power to observe from afar? If not, I've made arrangements with SecUnit for it to observe through its drones, and to share what it sees with Claudius upon a CRT. You may join him in that vigil, if you wish."

"Will the setup be close enough for us to intervene, should it become necessary?"

"It will, I think--and I'll have another closer by, should more timely intervention be needful."

He nods. "I would like to sit in."

"Then so you may," says Laertes. He draws in a long, slow breath. "Is there aught I can do to guard myself against the kind of magic that might send dreams? Perhaps against other magic that influences the mind?"

"You've reached a point of being able to confidently pick out the feeling of magic being used. Be on guard for signare that doesn't match yours or mine, for any thoughts or impulses that don't seem rationally yours. Do all you can to hold fast against them. Remain confident in yourself, your own truths and foundations."

A nod, as slow as the breath. "I will. Thank you. This has weighed on my mind--but as ever, you have practical solutions for outlandish problems."

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.

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."

"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.

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?"

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

"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?"

Dionysus thinks for a moment. To be honest he was fairly occupied that night. "I think I remember someone who would fit that description, though I never quite made it over to introduce myself unfortunately."

"Could you tell, if she were a goddess?"

Normally if someone is asking if a beautiful, well-dressed woman is a goddess or not it's because they're infatuated, and exaggerating. Considering this conversation started off warning of danger though, that's definitely not where this is going.

"Generally, yes. I think so." There's always a chance someone is more skilled at disguises than others, not to mention the whole multiverse situation might throw him off, but he is judging based on the rules from his home right now. That's all he can do. "What happened?"

"Perhaps nothing," says Laertes hastily. "She claims that she is a kind of constable of stories, tasked with returning characters to the tales from which they came--but she has done nothing of the kind here, nor even tried to enforce the laws of her world, and so I must wonder if she is being truthful. And some friends of mine have been plagued by nightmares that feel as though they were sent by some outside force, and those few here have the power to compel dreams have one by one been discarded as suspects. If she has power over dreams, she may have other powers of the mind--and if she is not truthful about herself and her origins, I would know all I can of the extent of her abilities. If she is a goddess, I fear she is beyond our reach."

Dionysus listens, growing more and more worried as Laertes goes on. So it is something serious.

"I know several people who might be able to do what you're describing. The nightmares and mind powers part, anyway. But I trust I would have recognized them, had they been present at the party. I -- I still want you to be careful, Laertes." The last thing he wants is Laertes getting returned to the tale from which he comes. That's not even getting into the implications regarding 'mind powers' that Dionysus is all too familiar with.

"Have you any insights? Any senses that I lack that might divine her nature and purpose?"

"Not -- not without talking to her, I suppose. I'm sorry, my dear, I know this is probably not the answer you wanted to hear. Has she made implications herself about what her goal might be? Or what all she might be capable of? Or has she only mentioned the fictional character thing?"

"I've not yet spoken to her myself. That was why my friends thought I would be the best choice to learn more of her--I had not yet made an impression of any kind."

"Please be careful, my dear, I -- I really don't like the idea of you getting messed up in something like this. Even if her only power is sending people back to where they came from -- well, we would all miss you terribly." Among other reasons. "But if she can really mess with people's minds, that's another reason to stay away. Madness is... a terrible thing to experience. Trust me."

He reaches for a glass of wine to sip, realizes he's only made bottles and not glasses, and gives up. "I should be the one to talk to her. Even if she is a goddess, which I doubt, not even Hera can harm me in that way anymore." He's a little bitter there towards the end.

"But you are not at the beginning of a famous story, following a course that will never return you to it." Laertes gives him a wry look. "It must be me, if we are to tempt her."

“What?! No. You can’t be bait.”

"Why not?"

“Because!” He lets out an exasperated noise. “What if something bad happens to you?”

"Then perhaps those I love will be preserved by it."

"I'm sure we can figure out some way to resolve this that doesn't involve you being put at risk."

"Wiser men than I have tried," says Laertes doubtfully. "But if you have a better plan, then I'll hear it."

"I -- well, I just found out about the situation, I haven't had time to formulate one yet. I still like the idea of me talking to her instead of you, though. You might be better bait, but I'm better equipped to actually handle the situation should anything go wrong." Somewhere in the middle of all that, he started fidgeting with the hem of his peplos.

"If you wish, you may try," says Laertes. "But you are not less dear to the general company than I. Have a care, sir. I would not draw you into harm in my place."

"Any chance she's just making everything up?"

"Oh, ay. Perhaps a strong chance. But even should she not intend to return me to my story, that does not mean she will not torment our dreams. This, she does in secret--if indeed she does it at all; we suspect her less because she has given us cause to doubt than because we have eliminated all others from consideration. There may be much she can do that I cannot guess."

"What if the nightmares are simply being caused by the mansion spirits?" He's not trying to be contrary, he's just trying to get as much information on the subject as he can. "It seems like they can do whatever they want, nightmares seem pretty in line with other things. Were you able to rule them out?"

"No," Laertes admits. "But I know not how we would oppose them if they did mean us harm. And it seems easier to rule out one of our number than something so ... numinous."

"That's fair, I suppose. Next question, what is it about the nightmares that has led people to assume they are being given in the first place, rather than coming naturally?"

"There are some here who have received divine visions, and others who have the ability to enter and alter dreams--and others still who have been given dreams before by those with the power to work them. I know not the details; I was told of them indirectly, by other parties. But these dreams seemed to those who knew better than I less like divine visions than like dreams given or altered."

"I suppose if it's happened before, you'd know what signs to look for when it happens again, yeah. That, unfortunately, makes sense. Who all has been suffering?"

"That, I will not say without their leave."

"Fair enough. Can you tell me how many it is though?"

"At least one. There may be more I know nothing of." He looks away. "I fear I have few answers for you. If I had them, I wouldn't be doing this in the first place."

Dionysus makes a soft, noncommittal noise. He hates everything about this, of course. He hates that he can't be of more use, he hates what could potentially happen to a sweet friend, and he hates that he doesn't know what on Earth is going on.

"So what is your plan exactly? Walk right up and say 'hello, I'm Shakespeare's Laertes, are you a goddess and are you planning on sending me to -- back to my story? Also, while we're chatting, have you been dishing out nightmares? What are your thoughts on driving people mad?'" He rubs his face. This day just keeps getting worse. "Sorry. That was mean, I'm sorry. I'm just worried."

"Forgive me," says Laertes. "I'll go." He turns to get the door.

"Laertes, no, please wait! I'm sorry!"

"I only--I am being directed by wiser men. I'll seek counsel as to what I will ask, and how; I want to answer thy questions, but I cannot. The hand knows not what the brain decides."

Well that he also hates. Dionysus moves to give Laertes a tight embrace. "Look, if you -- if you start to suspect she's done something to you, come find me? I might be able to help." He brushes his fingers through Laertes' hair. "Mastery of madness works in both directions."

A pause (and a lengthier kind of pause, because he is still feeling deeply rotten and this is an unexpectedly very nice hug). "If you knew whose dreams had been afflicted--could you trace them back to their origins? Master that madness?"

He considers this. "Potentially? I've never tried that, and it might depend on how the nightmares are being given, but I could try?"

"Let's try if I fail," he says. "Ask Sagramore whose dreams have been clouded; he knows."

“Let’s hope whatever the plan is, it works better — better than expected, you know? Then it won’t come to that at all.” He offers what he hopes is an encouraging smile.

There is still absolutely nothing about this entire situation he approves of, but it doesn’t seem like he has any choice in the matter.

Laertes smiles back--strained at the edges, but he means it, and maybe Dionysus will be able to feel how much he means it. "I'll be careful. After all, I have yet to take advantage of your acting lessons, and Nina does so want me to be in her play."

Dionysus allows himself another moment of seriousness, then forces his smile even larger. "Of course! You can't back out on those lessons now, not when I've already started planning and you've gotten my hopes up!"

"I'll see you again soon," Laertes promises, and goes.

Once the door closes behind Laertes, Dionysus allows himself to start crying. He picks up a bottle of wine from the table and moves to a small altar tucked away in a corner of the room. He's fairly certain nobody from his family will be able to hear him, trapped as he is here, but he's going to try to call in a few favors anyway.

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.

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

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

"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?"

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.

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?"

This time it does frown. "Wait, you were planning-- you want the screen to show stuff as it's happening? Because that definitely won't work."

He nods--with the prospect of Asmodean as an invisible witness, the need for a live feed is somewhat reduced, but he had hoped for it, and it's a little disappointing to see that avenue foreclosed. "What manner of delay will work, then?"

"Yeah, I'd need a real feed for that. Or an-- internet, whatever." It's still disgruntled about that too. "So, I can watch what the drone sees, myself, in realtime. And I think I can jury-rig a way to replay parts of that on the CRT-television. I just can't do it simultaneously, because of the data limit."

It sits forward, elbows on knees in a more human posture than Laertes has yet seen it take. "If I'm in the room with the screen, I can relay the video as fast as I can edit it -- cut it down into pieces the game machine can handle. That's still going to be a delay of several seconds. And I have to be connected the whole time; if something goes wrong, I'll have to stop the display before I can go handle it."

"Ah--several seconds is no matter. I'd thought it would be a delay of hours," says Laertes, relieved.

"That's per segment. It'll add up." Look, it knows seconds don't sound like much to humans, but a lot can happen in a second, okay? (Like an entire emotional crisis, if you're Murderbot.)

Really it would like a lot more concrete information on this whole operation. But a second is also more than long enough for it to conclude that Laertes is not an optimal color for humans right now, and probably not in a great frame of mind to discuss tactics. "Anyway, the short answer is yeah, I can do that for you."

"Excellent. Do you have a drone already in the library? That's where I mean to speak to her. The earlier it can be placed, the less she will come to regard it with suspicion, or to associate it with my coming." Laertes reaches up to dig his thumb into the hollow of his left temple--at first it's meant to be just a quick little gesture, but the pressure doesn't ease, so he keeps rubbing that spot as though trying to dig the ache out of his skull.

"Three of them, usually." It's big, and the sight lines are terrible. "They've been in there for a while. Probably before she even showed up here." Then, eyeing the temple-gouging with misgiving. "Are you sure you don't need an analgesic or something?"

Edited (random line break wut) 2024-03-23 02:31 (UTC)

It takes a solid twenty seconds for Laertes to process the word. He has to drop back into Greek, algos, and then he briefly detours into trying to remember why it isn't an anaponic. Then he remembers that he is actually talking to a person, who asked him a question, that contains the word analgesic. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I would love an analgesic. They may be difficult to find, though, in this season." By now, Sagramore has apprised him of the problem with the cabinets.

It's already on its feet, but pauses to ask. "What do you mean, in this season?"

(Because SecUnit, introvert that it is, hasn't actually clocked this yet -- it never needs food or medication itself, it's used to wearing the same outfit for months, and even it can only read so many books at a time.)

"The house no longer yields up food or drink as it did before," he says. "Sagramore thinks it's because the season is no longer Winter, but Dark. I know not whether medicine is any different."

SecUnit's expression sharpens. It hasn't paid much attention to the calendar, either, since its own internal timekeeping is far more precise, but clearly it needs to take another look. Meanwhile, Susan and her nonperishable supplies are starting to make more sense. "Great," resignedly. "Well, I don't know either, but I know there were some in the bathroom cabinet in my room, the last time I looked, and I know I haven't used them. I'll go check."

"My thanks. I'll wait upon you," says Laertes--and at long last, he allows himself to stagger into a seat.

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

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