“I’m not a child. I’m the Master Warden of the Library,” Palamedes says quietly—and rather petulantly, too—when Camilla nudges the plate towards him. But his heart isn’t committed to the protest, as Camilla surely knows, and so he picks up the fork and half-heartedly prods at the food. He takes a few reluctant bites, “The rules are idiotic,” he says tartly. “I know that, you know that, I would like to say that everyone with half a brain knows that, if it didn’t promptly cause me to wonder what passes for high intellect around here.”
He sits back in his chair, adopting a pose that is much less heartsick teenager and much more Master Warden. “We’ve believed for too long that we could waylay genetic disaster with spreadsheets and sexed-up soldiers.” He makes a disdainful sound. “What we need is a fundamental reimagining of the relationship among the Houses. The Fifth is nearly in as dire straights as we are, and I’d bet the entire Archive the Third is falling apart at the seams—they’re just better at covering it all in gilt. The Fourth is barely a generation away from becoming a planet of orphaned minors, and no one has heard anything of substance from the Ninth in nearly a decade. We need each other; we’re going to fall apart if we don’t find a way to work together. Why the hell doesn’t anyone else see it, Cam?"
Palamedes has said all this before, all sensibly and theoretically, refusing to entertain the idea that he might have decidedly personal reasons for his opinions on the matter. Besides, he’s still right.
He frustratedly scrubs a hand through his hair. “Fuck the cabinets and the oversight committees. We should have run away to some forgotten colony.” Palamedes doesn’t mean it; he hates that he doesn’t mean it, that he doesn’t even know how to properly follow through with his grand, romantic gesture. “Take Dulcinea away from those Seventh ghouls who think that keeping a girl suffering is the cutting edge of necromancy, and free ourselves of these bureaucrats who can’t see past their own noses.”
God, Palamedes detests the way his voice breaks at the end. He detests that he sounds like a slighted boy; the fear that he has always sounded precisely this childish to Dulcinea claws up his throat. If he’d been better— If he’d been more confident, less baldly eager— if he’d found a way to save her sooner—
“Fuck,” he whispers shakily, squeezing his eyes tightly shut in a desperate effort to stop up his threatening tears.
no subject
He sits back in his chair, adopting a pose that is much less heartsick teenager and much more Master Warden. “We’ve believed for too long that we could waylay genetic disaster with spreadsheets and sexed-up soldiers.” He makes a disdainful sound. “What we need is a fundamental reimagining of the relationship among the Houses. The Fifth is nearly in as dire straights as we are, and I’d bet the entire Archive the Third is falling apart at the seams—they’re just better at covering it all in gilt. The Fourth is barely a generation away from becoming a planet of orphaned minors, and no one has heard anything of substance from the Ninth in nearly a decade. We need each other; we’re going to fall apart if we don’t find a way to work together. Why the hell doesn’t anyone else see it, Cam?"
Palamedes has said all this before, all sensibly and theoretically, refusing to entertain the idea that he might have decidedly personal reasons for his opinions on the matter. Besides, he’s still right.
He frustratedly scrubs a hand through his hair. “Fuck the cabinets and the oversight committees. We should have run away to some forgotten colony.” Palamedes doesn’t mean it; he hates that he doesn’t mean it, that he doesn’t even know how to properly follow through with his grand, romantic gesture. “Take Dulcinea away from those Seventh ghouls who think that keeping a girl suffering is the cutting edge of necromancy, and free ourselves of these bureaucrats who can’t see past their own noses.”
God, Palamedes detests the way his voice breaks at the end. He detests that he sounds like a slighted boy; the fear that he has always sounded precisely this childish to Dulcinea claws up his throat. If he’d been better— If he’d been more confident, less baldly eager— if he’d found a way to save her sooner—
“Fuck,” he whispers shakily, squeezing his eyes tightly shut in a desperate effort to stop up his threatening tears.