That makes the corner of her lips twitch upward even if it's half-hearted at best. Her mind has, since the age of 12 and honestly, earlier, always -- always -- been steel-focused on the Warden. On how others see him, on satisfying that little proud, warm glow in her chest when he's recognized for what she knows he is, but also making sure he doesn't do himself damage doing too much of everything. It makes her content to be needed, as much as it makes her proud to be recognized as his right hand -- and quietly amused at how little her skill at that is even known.
But if she didn't feel cared about, in return, it wouldn't be worth it. She's loyal, not self-destructive. And Palamedes is incredibly intelligent, but for all of that, his strength is in his passion. That extends far past his intellect and academic projects to the people he cares for. To her. Unfortunately, to Dulcinea.
"I know you wouldn't," she says softly. Does she, though? Does he? It's hard to trust someone won't change just a little, when they have to watch suffering in person. And more than that, she knows Palamedes and she knows he'd be shattered if he couldn't fix her, whatever he knows is logically possible and whatever Dulcie might even actually want or be able to conceive of. Cam's shattered by the idea that they're going to lose her. Dulcie's been a constant friend since they were eight, and as much as the dynamic has changed, a bit, she's a part of her life as much as Palamedes'. She's kept her letters filed as carefully as Archival record, taken out to reread gently even while Palamedes hasn't needed to.
"Food," Cam reminds him pragmatically, nudging the plate a little. "Of course she did. Between you both being necromancers -- not just necromancers, heirs -- and Sixth genomics, how could she not?" Not that she expects they'd be parents, but the Sixth would have dibs on any of Dulcinea's offspring, even post-mortem, and that by itself could constitute a legal nightmare for the Seventh if not an outright feud. And Palamedes committing to someone who didn't intend to have children, vatborn or otherwise, would have gotten eight separate board meetings of protest from the geneticists of the Sixth.
She winces, hating all of this and picks up a tuber wedge, holding it out to him like a truce on the matter of food. "Would you have really rather she said yes and have been told by at least two cabinets, if not some kind of horrible oversight committee, that it was a void agreement and you were never going to be allowed?"
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But if she didn't feel cared about, in return, it wouldn't be worth it. She's loyal, not self-destructive. And Palamedes is incredibly intelligent, but for all of that, his strength is in his passion. That extends far past his intellect and academic projects to the people he cares for. To her. Unfortunately, to Dulcinea.
"I know you wouldn't," she says softly. Does she, though? Does he? It's hard to trust someone won't change just a little, when they have to watch suffering in person. And more than that, she knows Palamedes and she knows he'd be shattered if he couldn't fix her, whatever he knows is logically possible and whatever Dulcie might even actually want or be able to conceive of. Cam's shattered by the idea that they're going to lose her. Dulcie's been a constant friend since they were eight, and as much as the dynamic has changed, a bit, she's a part of her life as much as Palamedes'. She's kept her letters filed as carefully as Archival record, taken out to reread gently even while Palamedes hasn't needed to.
"Food," Cam reminds him pragmatically, nudging the plate a little. "Of course she did. Between you both being necromancers -- not just necromancers, heirs -- and Sixth genomics, how could she not?" Not that she expects they'd be parents, but the Sixth would have dibs on any of Dulcinea's offspring, even post-mortem, and that by itself could constitute a legal nightmare for the Seventh if not an outright feud. And Palamedes committing to someone who didn't intend to have children, vatborn or otherwise, would have gotten eight separate board meetings of protest from the geneticists of the Sixth.
She winces, hating all of this and picks up a tuber wedge, holding it out to him like a truce on the matter of food. "Would you have really rather she said yes and have been told by at least two cabinets, if not some kind of horrible oversight committee, that it was a void agreement and you were never going to be allowed?"