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Time felt odd after the bomb. Palamedes Sextus expected it to, but he got caught in the little details, considering there was not much else to think of. Time at the First had always been an odd thing. The days were fairly similar when it came to daylight, but there wasn't much natural light at Canaan House anyways.
However, now the daylight never left. It was always pleasantly sunny, and it was the first thing that started bothering Palamedes. He timed himself, every 12 hours and 19 minutes he would open or close the blinds at the window. It wasn't perfect, of course it wasn't, he didn't take into consideration the fact that the days should be getting longer, but the blinds were simply a means to an end. A way to have a semblance of what days looked like on the Sixth.
He thought of trying to open the door to leave the sick room he was in, but he knew better than that.
Palamedes also refused to sleep on the bed, it wasn't Dulcinea's, no, but he would much prefer to sleep elsewhere, even in the chair he died in, even if sleep wasn't truly obligatory where he was.
He started reading the book beside him, because of course he did, a part of Palamedes wanted to savor it, since no matter how much he looked, there were no other books here. It just so happened that the book he had 'The Necromancer's Marriage Guide' was the last book he wanted to remain in the River with. Well, perhaps not the last, but certainly not something he would bring willingly. Sextus read the first 100 or so pages in a row, only stopping to close the blinds, and then stopped, taking in what he had read, having a good idea of what the book was about, understanding that this fiction was a story that took place centuries in the past but was clearly written today by someone who knew nothing of the historical period it was written on: Abella, a member of the Third House, arrives at the palace in hopes of being chosen by its princess as the necromancer that will represent the season, but she finds that she is not nearly attractive enough to make the cut and finally get married.
Palamedes looked at the bed then, at the bed that had the person who impersonated Dulcinea, the Lyctor who he didn't know if was alive or dead, and decided to keep reading, it was a welcomed distraction after all,
-
To Whoever Finds This Letter,
Greetings, my dear stranger, how do you find yourself? I could feel better than I currently do and hope my heart won't feel as heavy after writing this, after confiding in you, as it currently does.
I am a member of the Seventh House and I am surrounded by flowers, a stereotype as of in itself, but these flowers are not those of fields. They are picked and sold and given to me in a jar, with a note that says, 'Get better soon'. I've received so many that I can see almost no bare space in the walls. Some of them have rotten and the idea that I might 'Get better soon' sounds like a joke, it always did, but it became apparent with time. I was told to throw them away, but see, even though I have grown to hate them, I enjoy watching them rot and die. I hope I am next. I hope that the next flower that starts to wither is the last that I see doing so. I don't hope to get better soon, I haven't in a while, but I hope to be one of those flowers.
I have left my address in the back of the letter if you want to answer me, Sixth, I no longer care if someone comes after me, perhaps it would be a blessing, but if I'm going to send a letter to any house, might as well be yours write?
Eagerly awaiting an answer, Dulcinea Septimus
-
Palamedes finished the book soon enough, he would like to say he hated it in its entirety, but in truth, he did not. He was thinking of reading it once more. It was silly, badly written, horribly misunderstood its time period, wrote bland characters and spat platitudes, but perhaps that's what made it enjoyable, the fact that the interesting characters were not explored that made him frustrated, the so called romantic scenes between the main characters that made him laugh at how awful it was. Abella Trine was the last protagonist he would ever read about, her and her hair tied up in a bun, her and her husband that couldn't do more than 'eye her with a look that she couldn't quite understand' or his eyebrow that 'shot up incredibly once he understood what she had done for him, that she had, somehow, saved him with flesh magic and, by thanking her, let her release a breath she didn't know she was holding'.
He wished he could write down his thoughts about this book, everything that was wrong with it, and so he searched for paper. The drawers had some scribbled flimsy and prescriptions, which was, in Palamedes' opinion, good enough to use. He wondered if whatever he wrote would stay written there and if, by disappearing, it would mean he was in some sort of loop, perhaps it would mark the days pass by, perhaps it wouldn't.
Palamedes caught the pen that was deep in his pockets and sat down to write his critique. He wished that Camilla was there with him, it always helped to have her watching over his shoulder, making sure that he didn't write any spelling mistakes (how embarrassing it would be if the Warden made spelling mistakes) or simply hearing his thoughts so that they would be organized, or giving her input on his writing.
A part of Palamedes wishes he could think less about Camilla and about whether she would be able to achieve their goal or not (*when* she would be able to) the other part can't stop thinking of her, his cavalier, his cousin, the one that he was always with, the one that was almost as much Palamedes as he was, his person.
He thought twice and decided that he would not write a critique about his book, or rather, he would write the critique for Cam. He hoped that he would know about it someday, through him or someone else.
-
Dear Palamedes,
Oh how I'm glad that my letter reached you! A voice in the back of my mind told me nobody would, but it did! So, I'm pleased to write to you once more.
To answer your question: I have a rare disease, one that keeps me in hospital rooms, which is where the flowers lie. I should have put more thought into explaining my situation, I was too busy with my feelings towards it and less so with my actual circumstances. It is my bad.
I'm also thrilled to hear you may soon become a Warden! May your wish come true and congratulations on your accomplishments thus far.
I'm also going to move soon, if things go according to plan. My health is not getting better, but they have found it is useless to keep me holed up here for the time being. I won't bring any flowers with me, I'm sure I'll have many more wherever I end up, but I will bring your letter.
Best wishes,
Dulcinea Septimus
-
When they were 14, Palamedes decided to write a poetry book. Camilla told him he didn't even like poetry. He told her that wasn't true, he just wasn't its biggest fan.
He had all his duties and he committed to them, but perhaps not with the same focus as he should. Camilla didn't say anything then, she didn't say anything when he admitted he was doing it for Dulcinea, she knew, he knew that she knew, and she didn't say anything when he decided that poetry wasn't for him, and it would only be embarrassing to publish about on it.
"That's a practice of the Seventh." Camilla Hect had told him when they were both sitting in the library, as they often did.
"I know." Her necromancer had told her.
"You don't even like poetry."
"I know." He said once more.
"You should do something that is practiced in the Sixth instead."- she said.
"I kn- What?"- he was stunned by such a proposition. Camilla had never been very approving of Dulcinea, even if she never said anything about their relationship aloud. When Palamedes asked her about it she said: "If you're going to embarrass yourself for this girl, at least do it in the way of our House, do it your own way."
He was surprised that she could still surprise him, but he did as he was told, there would be no poetry book, but there would be a lesson on psychometry.
When they were 16, Palamedes had been told to rest for a week after nonstop paperwork and necromancer training. Camilla stayed by his side, he was told that there was no point in her training without her necromancer, and this was true to some extent, it was also true that they spent their every moment they could by each other's side by this point and Camilla would probably prefer to be next to him as much as Palamedes wanted to be next to her.
For some reason or another, he started to list what would have to be done in the circumstances of his death and for some time Camilla entertained him.
"Make it a mystery game." - he said- "Only the one who can solve it gets the will."
"What's the mystery about?"- she asked-" Yourself?"
"I was thinking about it."- admitted the necromancer lying in his bed- "But now that you said it, it sounds self-centered."
"It's your funeral, after all."- retorted his cavalier.
What Palamedes didn't say was that she would win it. There was no need, she probably knew.
"And you can't die, anyway." - she continued- "What would happen to that flower of yours?"
"She'd live, I'm sure." They were pen pals after all, as much as he wanted to meet her, to help her, as much as he cared for her, Palamedes was certain he wasn't the most important person in Dulcinea's life and that she didn't love him like he did her.
"I would not."- said Camilla.
He didn't expect her to say it, or, no, he hoped she wouldn't.
"Yes, you would."- said Palamedes, sitting up straight in the bed, at eye level with his cavalier.
"I wouldn't and you know it."
"You have to, or I'd have to come back and make you live."
"Then do it. If you die, haunt me or kill me, I don't know what other option there is for me.”
In truth, Sextus also didn't know what he would do without her. He didn't know what to do without her in that sick room. So, he did nothing. He had found this way of surviving (because it was not living), after that conversation, he would make Camilla live. He would live, even if this wasn't considered living.
-
Dear Pal,
There are so many flowers in Pro's garden. They are not like the one's in my various hospital rooms over the years. They wither and die, but new ones are born, and you can't tell the difference. The only flower in my room is one that Protesilaus child picked, she has the same name as her mother, Polidora gave me once when we were both in the gardens. It's the only one I keep. Polidora Senior taught me how to not make it rot, I let her teach me, but I'm not sure if I can bring myself to repeating the process. Not because I'm physically incapable, don't worry, but because I still view myself in everything that dies. I am the flowers, I am the pig that was killed so that we could eat dinner, I am my friends' stillborn.
I no longer wish to die. It's odd to add that after all I've just written, is it not? But it's true. I know I will die, I can see it, but I don't want to. I am a necromancer just like you, and despite being told not to, I practice. I practice with whatever dead animals there are in this farm. Rotting is beautiful, but it is not fun. I wish to die a necromancer's death and Pro is my cavalier, he understands now what I want and is ready to follow me when the time comes. I don't want to take away his happiness here, but if it's going to be anyone that comes with me, I'm glad it's him. You too are a necromancer, even if you are not in the same circumstances as I, would you not also prefer to go down fighting?
Yours,
Dulcinea
-
Palamedes read and reread and rereread The Necromancer's Marriage Guide and it did not get better upon those rereads, but there was one character that he did enjoy, perhaps because it was so often criticized by the narrative she was, a swordswoman that spent her spare time in sexy parties, Callus was her name. It was interesting how often she was shamed by the narrative despite never doing anything but help Abella and her idiot husband. That could be because of the time it was written it, but Palamedes was sure by now that this book was relatively recent, and the signature on in even more so: P. E. (so it wasn't Dulcinea's or the Lyctor's).
He found it fun to try and place Callus in his reality, he sometimes did that, despite knowing he shouldn't, and wondered if the Princess Coronabeth was similar to this character, he had never known her too much and Callus gave Palamedes the impression that she was more so a bodyguard, and wondered if Nav could suit this part more, he wondered what the Reverend Daughter would think of this prospect, he wondered where she was and if she would take much longer.
But Callus wasn't as comical or large as the Ninth's cavalier was, no, she kept more to herself, her humor was drier, she was more intelligent, and although she did go to these parties she was there, first and foremost for her friends. He knew who she reminded him of.
Palamedes’ pieces of paper and flimsy were written on to the brim. With everything, with nothing, there was so much written but so little to write on, only one person he had written to, but it was the person he wanted to write the most to. He wrote all he knew of Lyctorhood, all Palamedes knew of Cytherea, all he found out in the Canaan House she may not know (very little) and possible instructions for the future. But Palamedes could never write what he wanted. That he missed her. That he was haunting her hopefully, that he couldn't see it, but that she would, that even if he didn't haunt her, Camilla Hect haunted him more and less than he thought he would. He didn't hear her voice in his ear, but she stood beside him and behind his chair. She fought outside the window, she was there when he needed input, never spoken, but in his thoughts. Always in his thoughts, because there was nothing else. Camilla Hect was everywhere, but she wasn't real and never had Palamedes Sextus ever wished more that he was deaf, at least that way he could blame her lack of vocals on himself, at least that way he could pretend she was real.
-
Dearest, Palamedes Sextus
I have to say this right off the bat: No, I'm sorry, I cannot accept your proposal. You're too young, I'm too sick.
I won't tie you to me and I find I can't tie myself to you, you're my treasured friend and I will not do that.
See, Palamedes, I'm a flower, I live a fragile life, I will rot, and I will die. But you will not, you will grow, I won't see you grow all the way, I will not live long enough to be there.
You have your whole life in front of you, and I don't want you to see this as me telling you to wait for me. Don't. I'm a flower and I'm fragile, but just as flowers are beautiful, my word is final.
Take care,
Dulcie
-
Palamedes Sextus had been moved, the Sleeper was no longer after him, Camilla had done it, Harrowhark had done it. He was moved, but he was still in the same room.
He felt he might as well lie in the bed, if he couldn't see change any other way. Lyctorhood didn't demand the death of the cavalier, that was worth studying. Could it mean something for him? Was Cam already studying that if she knew Nav remained, in some way, alive? If she had the same information that Palamedes had, then she must be.
Dulcinea had been right, she was a flower, but he wasn't. And he hasn't waited for her just like she asked. However, Palamedes would not grow any more, not in the way she meant. He would wait, for his House, for his research, for his release of this jail, but most importantly for his cavalier, and with that thought in mind, he fell asleep.