hellonspectacles | The beginning of a beautiful friendship

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The beginning of a beautiful friendship

Palamedes has been in Darrow for two weeks, and the days have begun to blend together. Some days, he stays up so late that it’s nearly early, other times he rises before the sun. Most days he works on theorems that have begun to wallpaper his apartment, or sips tea in Gideon’s kitchen, or surrounds himself with a citadel of books in some corner of the public library. Darrow has yet to give up its secrets, but Palamedes is still determined, and he often pontificates at Gideon about his latest theories. Sometimes he talks to the kitchen table instead, since it’s less likely to talk back.

“Warden, you need to get out more,” says the voice in his head—the one he thinks of as Camilla’s—as he paces his apartment restlessly. She’s right, of course. Camilla usually is. On impulse, he picks up his phone and texts one of the few people he actually knows in this strange city.

Mr. Darlington,

Do you like tea? I would be very interested in meeting up to learn more about these portal magicians of yours.

I promise, I’m slightly less of a raving lunatic these days, though my furniture may believe otherwise.

I look forward to your response,

Palamedes Sextus.

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"It's one of my favorite features of the house," he admits, grinning when Palamedes admits his jealousy. "My Dante year, the delegate I was learning from had to set a limit on the number of requests I was able to make per week." It's a bit of terminology he realizes his friend has no cause to know, and Darlington inclines his head slightly. "It's the titles of our offices," he explains. "New delegates are always Dante, and the senior ones are Virgil. Alex was perpetually calling them our code names."

Turning his attention back to the initial question, Darlington slips a little further into easy explanation. "The more specific you can make the query, the better," he says. "Just like any search parameter. You write it in the book, and put it back in its place on the shelf. Once it's done gathering everything--which you know because the bookcase itself stops shaking--you open the door to the library and everything in the collection pertinent to the request is there."

Palamedes grins. The specific reference to Dante and Virgil mean nothing to him, but he can hear the gravity in such words. Code names doesn't seem too far off the mark. "Well, it wouldn't be a good title if it weren't just a little bit ridiculous," he muses. "Mine's Master Warden. I've never quite figured out if it's meant to make me feel like a prison guard, or if that's just a coincidence."

Darlington's description of the retrieval process makes him lift his brows, particularly at the bit about when the bookcase stops shaking. "Remarkable. I do feel professionally obligated to ask: the collections aren't harmed by the process?"

Darlington laughs. "There is something vaguely carceral about it," he agrees. "Impressive, sure, but..." He laughs again, shaking his head. "Although I can think of a few folks at the Yale libraries who'd have appreciated that kind of weighty title and the power it suggests."

The interest and mild shock on Palamedes' face is more than a little entertaining, a bonus to the already-present thrill in enumerating one of Lethe's secrets for an appreciative audience. "The collections are perfectly safe," he says. "I admit I don't know all the nuances of what Albemarle created--he was brilliant, designed it all when he was still a student himself--but as long as the portal magic's maintained, everything works the way it should." There was the cautionary tale of 1928 and poor Chester Vance, but at least that had only happened once.

As long as the portal magic is maintained has a sort of ominousness to it, but Palamedes knows that no system is perfect. "Well, you've officially made me wish for an access to portal magic," he says with a grin. "Being a space station, the Library has some inherent storage limits, and regardless of what some people might think, we really cannot encroach further on residential quarters. Emperor's bones, it would save me a headache if I could move some of the collections off-site."

Technically, it's no longer his headache, not in this universe or the one he left behind, but that's not something Pal has quite allowed himself to comprehend.

"I can imagine," he says, politely sympathetic but also finding that he could in fact imagine it, or near enough. There was only so much space, even--especially, as it appeared--in the vastness of space itself. "I only wish I had a better grounding in the specifics of what the Locksmiths can do, else I'd offer to teach you. Or at least find some way of adapting it to what you can do already."

Darlington picks up his mug again, half-surprised to find it empty. "Speaking of what you can do, though...should we head out to the house? I'm parked around the corner."

“If I ever get back, I’ll look into it. I’ve never heard of a necromancer creating a portal anything like what you describe, but someone may have attempted it.” He brightens. “And if not, then I will just have to figure it out myself.”

Of course, Palamedes will never been the Warden of the Library again. Even if he were to be taken from here, he would be returned to his revenant self, waiting for Camilla to bring him back to some semblance of a body. His research could continue, but his life would never be the same.

He tries not to think about it, and thankfully, Darlington offers a distraction quickly enough. Palamedes stands up and collects their mugs, taking them to the sink. “I’d be delighted. Let me just get my keys. And a notebook. And- oh, I’ll just bring my bag.” Shortly after his arrival, Pal had acquired a messenger bag, and he thinks it might be one of the most brilliant things ever invented.

"Whatever you need," he says, reminded all over again that he knows close to nothing about the things Palamedes wants to test when they get to Black Elm. Far from being unnerving, there's an excitement to that, a mystery like the ones he's spent his life wanting to chase and understand. Whatever happens, it'll be fascinating.

Palamedes finishes collecting his bag and everything else, and they head out of the apartment and downstairs, out onto the street. Their car here isn't as elegant as the old Mercedes he used to have, without the same sentimental attachment, but it's more than serviceable.

“Thankfully, I don’t need much.” He gets a thrill, again, remembering that Darlington only has the vaguest idea of what he can do. Psychometry isn’t seem as the most exciting of the necromantic arts, and it’s rare that he gets the chance to impress someone with it. Even though it’s not flashy, he’s pretty sure Darlington just might be.

While Palamedes has ridden on city buses often enough, this is his first time traveling in someone’s personal car. It still surprises him how common they are, how wasteful they seem, though he can't argue against the convenience. He remembers, too, that Darlington had had an entirely different vehicle back home. “Do most people know how to use cars?” he wonders aloud.

"It seems like most people here do," Darlington says, hitting the button to unlock the doors as they approach the car. "Whether that's a result of the majority of people coming to Darrow from places where it's habitual to have learned how to drive, or that the nature of the city and its surroundings sort of...invite the idea of learning for those that don't, I can't say. Most likely, it's both."

He goes around to the driver's side, nodding Palamedes over to the passenger door. "Given that Alex and I live out in the countryside now, it's useful to have the car, but when we were still in the city proper I mostly took the bus. Or walked."

"Fair enough," says Palamedes as he gets in the car. The door's handle is familiar, and the seat similar enough to those on buses and space ships alike, and neither trips him up. "Where I come from, the combustion engine is an ancient technology. Even if you could somehow get your hands on enough petrol to get one running, they've been out-of-date for a myriad at least." He gives a shrug and laughs a little. "And now, here I am inside and automobile."

For the most part, Darlington doesn't think about the vast gulf of time that separates the world he knows from the one Palamedes does. Even if they aren't the same one--and he has to be agnostic on that point in general, for the sake of doing something with his days that isn't filling them with research and experimentation--there's enough of a parallel to invite the possibility. He tries not to think about it, but at moments like this the reminder is impossible to ignore.

"Here you are," he says, fitting the key in the ignition. "Doubtless it's not as flashy as a spaceship, but for an ancient piece of equipment it isn't too bad." He grins, turning the key and letting the car rumble to life. "Although please tell me you know about combustion engines only because there's...diagrams or something in the Library's collections and not because you've had to work at preserving a physical example for thousands of years."

“Spaceships aren’t half as glamorous as it probably sounds,” Palamedes says with a grin. “And space itself is a nightmare—gives me awful headaches. Honestly, I never traveled away from the Library very often.”

As they drive down the road, Pal gazes out the window, mesmerized by the sight of the scenery going blurry as they speed up. “Even less than that, in fact. People just write about combustion engines from time to time. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a find-hand account of an automobile in the archives. But they tend to get a mention in discussions of the precipitating events that led to the Resurrection--petroleum’s impact on climate catastrophe, that sort of thing.”

He winces. “Sorry, that probably sounds quite grim from your perspective.”

"Reality does rarely measure up to the glamorous hypothetical," he says, pulling away from the curb, his eyebrows ticking up just slightly when Palamedes mentions space giving him headaches. It's an unsurprising reaction, maybe, but still mysterious. "Which goes as much for space as anything else, I guess."

Darlington starts towards the edge of town, on a whim choosing a route that's a little more scenic. You might only be able to get so far in Darrow, but that doesn't mean they can't enjoy the journey a little. He listens as Palamedes explains, grimacing almost as the same time as the other man winces. "Just a bit, yeah," he says ruefully. "Though as far as I know, back home we at least haven't tipped from climate change to catastrophe. Small mercies." Palamedes' mention of a Resurrection is something Darlington heard from him before, albeit still rare given the newness of their friendship. Something in the way he says it now suggests import and mystery, a meaningfulness he can't help but grab onto.

"Is that the precipitating event, then? What tips a world like...well, like this," he lifts one hand from the steering wheel to gesture at the road in front of them, the outskirts of town just starting to give way to the fields and trees of the countryside, "into the world you know?"

Before Darrow, Palamedes had little reason to think about the Resurrection itself, for concrete evidence about what happened is scarce, and original records almost nonexistent. Now, he finds himself explaining it regular and often reflects, as he does now, just how little he knows for certain. "Climate catastrophe was part of it. People left the planet, in fact, as it became less and less habitable. And then there was some kind of nuclear accident--or it may have been a war." He shrugs, disliking how little he can say for certain. "Understand, it was ten thousand years ago, and the best accounts we have were written hundreds of years after the fact. Records are awfully scarce from the period immediately pre- and post-Resurrection."

"For understandable reasons, I'd imagine. Difficult to maintain records when it's one disaster after the next."

The scale of time Palamedes is working with--and coming from, in a certain light--still boggles his mind just slightly. His interest in history was only ever specific and compact, the rise and fall of one town forever on the brink of something great and the uncanny forces that may well have helped or hindered it on its way. Thinking of something ten thousand years in the past only brings to mind the artifacts in the Peabody, things so old it's uncomfortably easy to divorce them from any connection to the here and now, to consider them only as relics in a glass case.

Darlington guides the car around a curve in the road, surprise and a faint resignation warring in his expression. The idea of people fleeing the planet, choosing to go before war or catastrophe or something equally as unfortunate forced their hand, smacks of a privilege that he thinks would infuriate someone like Alex or Blue. It doesn't sit well with him, either, though there's a small part of him that can understand it--that might, if the Arlington fortune had stretched to it, have made a similar choice himself. "So those who could, fled, and those who didn't had to contend with whatever apocalypse was on the horizon."

There’s something in Darlington’s expression that Palamedes can’t read—he’s rather good at reading people, but they don’t know each other well, so fair enough. He must be digesting the unsettling truth of the world’s destruction, or so Pal assumes until Darlington speaks. The comment quite surprises him. Pal is used to imagining those early refugees and their descendants as the unlucky ones, most of them still stranded outside the security of the Empire. But the perspective must have been very different when they were fleeing a dying planet. “I suppose so. To be honest, I don’t know why some people left while others stayed. Perhaps they had the means when others didn’t, or perhaps they had lost everything and no other options remained to them. Or perhaps they were just better at predicting what lay ahead.” He shrugs. “I do wish I knew more. There are so many myths, you know? So many concepts that everyone takes for granted. And it’s all based in history with scant documentation.”

Darlington nods, understanding the faint and familiar note of frustration in Palamedes' voice as he finishes what he's saying. "Context gets lost. Hell, events only a few centuries old are still ripe with conjecture sometimes. You can't always have all the answers, it seems." His smile is wry as he makes the turn onto his street; a lack of answers has never been an easy thing for him to accept, and he suspects the same is true for Palamedes.

He guides the car between the stone pillars marking the entrance to Black Elm's long drive, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as they make their way up to the house. After so many months, it's slipped back into feeling routine, but there's still a part of him that holds its breath a little, afraid that somehow the house he loves will have vanished again as quickly and mysteriously as it appeared.

Palamedes hums in agreement, watching as the house comes into view. By his own reckoning it’s enormous—but then, most things in Darrow are. He thinks this house might be bigger even than some of the homes further away from the center of town that he has sometimes passed. Still used to thinking on the scale of a crowded space station, he just stares for a long moment.

It’s filled with history, too. Even from the drive, Palamedes can detect the swirls of thalergy and thanergy of the lives that have passed through it. His instincts had been right. This will make for an excellent demonstration.

As he gets out of the car he says, “And this just…appeared one day? Must have been quite a surprise to the local wildlife.”

Darlington's always been fascinated by people's first reactions to Black Elm--not out of snobbishness or ego, but something a little harder to define. It shows him what they're really like, or solidifies what impression he's already formed; suggests what they value and what they don't. Michelle's near-instantaneous How much do you think it's worth? had been just as revealing as Sandow's studied non-reaction, or the brief moment where Alex's eyes had gone wide before her tough Van Nuys mask slipped back down.

In a way, it's a different version of that moment he'd been looking forward to for three years with Lethe, the chance to reveal something beautiful and extraordinary to an unsuspecting soul. As Palamedes sits and stares through the windshield at the house, Darlington can't help but smile as he undoes his seatbelt and slides out from behind the wheel. There's an academic curiosity in that look along with the surprise, a desire to know more not out of acquisitiveness but as a chance to understand Black Elm's bricks and trees and the beams of its roof a little better. It's exactly what he might have expected--exactly, he thinks, what he'd hoped to see from the other man.

"Out of nowhere just like the rest of us," he says. "I'm honestly not sure what was here before, but we see enough wildlife on the edges of the property that it's safe to assume it was just woods. Not unlike where the house was situated back home, come to think." Westville had expanded considerably since the first Daniel Tabor Arlington began work on Black Elm, the lot itself sold off in bits and pieces as time went on, but there was enough there still for it to feel utterly different from the regimented lines of downtown New Haven.

“Just like the rest of us,” Palamede echoes. “I really do think that must be true. Whatever mechanism brought us here—I’d call it a theorem, but even doing that requires making more assumptions than I’m comfortable with—must also draw these things of ours. There must be a veritable web of connections crossing dimensions and universes—“ He grins and shakes his head. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. Can I see inside?”

Pal doubts that he could get a read on an entire building all at once. He needs to focus on some portion of it, some detail he can isolate.

"It's enough to make you want to map it, just to see if you'll understand a fraction of it," he says, understanding completely. Whatever power fuels Darrow is different from the nexuses under New Haven, the pools and streams of magic whose ongoing existence no one could satisfactorily explain, but the general principle applies. Nothing was truly unknowable, not if you were willing to put in the effort.

Palamedes asks to see inside, and Darlington nods. "Of course. Although..." He looks up at the house, musing for a moment. "You should know the house is warded. Basic stuff, but for Alex's sake I'm wary of taking it down completely. Is that going to interfere with what you're hoping to do?"

The question surprises Pal, and he looks at Darlington with renewed curiosity. He had already gotten the impression from their initial meeting that Darlington understood more than most people about matters of necromancy, even if they called most things by different names. Their conversation this afternoon further confirmed this impression. But he hadn’t expected wards.

“They shouldn’t, though it might depend on the wards. You said Alex is your girlfriend, right?”

Darlington smiles a little at the sudden surprise on Palamedes' face; he hadn't meant the question to startle, but neither is it a complete mystery why it had. "She is," he says. "Back in New Haven, we'd only just started to become friends, but that developed into more here." He can see how it might have there, too, if whatever occurred that night in Rosenfeld hadn't happened the way it did--or the way it would, a distinction he still finds strange to consider. Before he can sink too far into thought, he pulls himself back to the matters at hand.

"It's understandably not something she shares with most people," he says, "but Alex sees ghosts. And has for...as long as she can remember. They've always been there for her, whether she wanted it or not. It's why Lethe was so interested in bringing her in as a delegate." He looks up at the house, at its looming tower of crumbling stone and the wide bank of windows that marks out the nearest wall of the ballroom. "We warded the house against them, along with a few other places around the city, so she'd have some quieter places to go."

“Revenants are called to her spontaneously?” Palamedes’ eyes go wide as the implications of such an ability run through his mind. “Emperor’s bones, but she must have some kind of way of harnessing thanergy without even realizing it…” He shakes his head, awed and horrified in turn. “That must have been terrifying when she was a child, and I can’t imagine it’s particularly pleasant now.”

Pal has about a thousand questions, too, but mostly he just feels for the poor girl.

Palamedes' shock echoes what Darlington's had been during that late summer conversation with Dean Sandow, but without the note of envy at the back of it. He'd learned, over time, how misplaced his jealousy had been, and thinking of it now is faintly embarrassing. He nods. "Greys, what you call revenants, are drawn as much to magic as they are to reminders of life," he says, starting to walk towards the front door again. "Blood, sweat, strong emotion. Even the mere fact of being acknowledged can be enough. Her ability to perceive them was like a beacon, and her subsequent fear when they came only made that signal clearer."

Darlington's expression grows sober, unable to keep from thinking of the worst stories he knows from Alex's past. They're not his to tell, but he thinks of them regardless.

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