Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Palamedes Sextus awoke in the close of the myriad year of the Emperor Undying, upon the Mithraeum in the presence of his fists and gestures. The other new, barely functional appendage beside him was Ianthe Tridentarius, who only acknowledged his consciousness with a roll of her eyes. The Master Warden surveyed his surroundings, still blinking away the nightmare that had been transportation through the River, and adjusted himself a bit on the pew he shared with Ianthe the First. Before them was God, kneeling beside the Saint of Joy whom Palamedes had become briefly acquainted with as she insulted him through his exhausted haze on the Erebos, and a new man in the same pearlescent robes of Lyctorhood to God’s other side. And above them all on a small dais, a casket.

Palamedes stood and approached the dais on shaking legs, as if in a trance. What, or who, compelled him to the casket, he was not certain, but every bone in his body mourned. Had been mourning since he arrived here. The idea of them, of Canaan House, made him nauseous. He stopped beside the grey haired man on God’s left, staring at his own shoes. His breath quickened, and Palamedes’ eyes climbed slowly upward to the face of the deceased.

With an uncharacteristic shriek, Sextus pounced upon the body of Cytherea Loveday, making as if to throttle the corpse. The body of Dulcinea…no, it was the imposter, her murderer, that selfish, monstrous snake who’d destroyed so many lives. Palamedes burned with rage, scratching at her face and tearing her hair, shaping the corpse into grief itself.

“Oh for FUCKS sake–” Mercymorn shouted as Palamedes was wrenched away from the body. The grey haired man towed the frothing young lyctor backwards by his armpits. He grunted disagreeably when one of Palamedes’ flailing limbs smacked him in the nose, but held fast. God had startled and moved behind Mercymorn, who rolled her eyes.

“Well, that one’s yours, Augustine. At least the other baby won’t maul me for my troubles.”

The man restraining Palamedes, apparently Augustine, actually whined. “Oh come on Mercy, why do I have to deal with this?”

The Saint of Joy had already moved to exit the chapel, the sort-of funeral apparently concluded. The Emperor was left between his bickering saints and a raving lunatic. He pursed his lips in that kind of frown that was more like a shrug. Mercy called over her shoulder: “Because fuck you, I’m already gone.”

God sighed and followed behind her. By now, Palamedes’ rage and frustration at his predicament had turned to humiliating, unstoppable sobs. His fingers clawed weakly at his captor, but his reason was slowly returning, buckling his resolve. Cytherea was dead. Dulcie, Cam…nothing would bring them back.

Augustine finally noticed Palamedes sniffling. Deeming this as a sign he was no longer an imminent threat to the peace, the Saint of Patience dropped him unceremoniously in a heap.

“I suppose you’ll be my problem from now on.” Augustine drawled, tucking his hands behind his back. “I trust there will be no more of these…outbursts. We simply haven’t the time.”

Palamedes gulped down breath between tears, trying to get himself under control. He looked up at the older Lyctor with blank, unfocused eyes.

Augustine looked back, and said nothing. The edge of his lip twitched.

The saint turned on his heel and left the room, leaving Palamedes crumpled on the floor, tearstained and with blood caking his fingernails. Belatedly, Sextus realized Ianthe Tridentarius was still in her pew, staring at him. As he caught her eye, she showed her teeth in a grimace.

“Yikes.”

—

Palamedes sat on the edge of his bed, stylus trembling in his hand. He blinked, then blinked a few more times, at the unfinished sentence before him.

I don’t know how to talk anymore, how to move. Like I’m without my heart voice own leg. But she wasn’t my leg. She wasn’t a tool, some inanimate thing. She was She is more than I. Than anyone.

Why am I here.

How could I

He sighed and closed the notebook, lacking even the energy to scribble it out. He wanted to write it all down, be able to understand and analyze his own memory. But he already knew the reasons. The evidence. The outcome. Whenever he wrote, he could only manage short bursts before he wanted to tear up every page and burn it.

Just then, there was a knock at his door. Before Palamedes could speak, however, Augustine was already flouncing into the room.

“Hello, little brother.”

Palamedes clenched his jaw, putting his notebook back in its bedside drawer. “Must you torment me further after an already torturous meeting? And seriously, learn to knock.”

“I did.”

“Knock correctly. Don’t just come in without—whatever. What can I do for you, Quinque?”

Augustine frowned. “You’re one of his fingers and gestures now, you needn’t be so formal. Anyway, after what you just heard I hope you understand how urgent it is that you become a competent lyctor in time for Number Seven’s arrival.”

When Palamedes didn’t reply, Augustine stepped closer and leaned down into his space. “Which you will never achieve sulking in your chambers all day.”

Palamedes turned away, but Augustine just sat beside him on the bed. “Your sister Ianthe has been working hard with Mercymorn, though with that arm she’s hardly in any position to fight. I’m sure you could surpass her skills in no time if you’ll only work with me. Undisciplined, you’re of no use to anyone.”

“Do not call her my sister,” Palamedes hissed, his back to the older man, “no matter what necromantic bonds we share now. She will never be my family.”

Augustine huffed and closed his eyes, leaning his temple against two fingers in exasperation.

“How…how could you accept this, when it happened to you?” Augustine blinked his eyes back open, listening. “Was your cavalier like that of Tridentarius? A means to an end?”

The Saint of Patience leaned back on his palms, looking up. “Oh, goodness no. Alfred was…he was a wonderful fool. He wanted to follow something, someone, to the end. Maybe he thought it was noble, or brave, but it was wildly stupid.” Augustine’s face fell a smidge, just between him and the ceiling. “I’m still pissed sometimes. I loved him very much.”

Palamedes remained facing away from the older saint, but curled in on himself, hugging his knees. He felt childish, but then, he hadn’t felt like an adult in months. Despite himself, Palamedes replied.

“I loved her, too. I will love her forever.”

The Saint of Patience tilted his head. Palamedes grumbled and waved a hand, as though he had clarified this many times before in his life. “She was my cousin, I don’t want to hear it. That word feels too small for what she was to me. She was the other half of my brain, my colleague, my family…my best family…” The young man scoffed. “Nevermind, I sound silly.”

Palamedes flinched as a hand fell on his shoulder. “He was my brother,” said Augustine.

Palamedes the First softened, then broke beneath the touch. He put his head in his hands, allowing Augustine to rub his back soothingly. The pads of the Saint’s immortal fingers traveled over his shoulder blades, up and down his spine, kneading circles over his ribs.

“What was her name?” said the Saint.

“Camilla. Camilla Hect.” choked Palamedes.

The two stayed like that for a while.

“She…” Palamedes began, but his voice faltered. He swallowed, steadying his breathing as best he could. “She was hurt. Badly. When I found her. Of course she’d tried to take on Cytherea, especially after I was briefly incapacitated.”

He struggled to put the moment together in his mind. No matter how many times he replayed it, searching for some fragment, a clue he had missed that could turn everything back, there was nothing. Just Camilla meeting his eyes, sternly, half her face drenched in blood. Her jaw was hanging on by a thread of sinew, her torso blown open. He remembered how she nodded in that way of hers, not like an assent, but an order. Then her hand curled his fingers around one of her knives, and thrust it into her heart.

After that, the memory turned like spoiled milk, and he was overcome with nausea.

“I shouldn’t have done it. I should have stopped her, or kept her from that awful house in the first place. As if she would ever let me go alone…” Palamedes let out a helpless, furious sound, like a toddler unable to fit the round peg in a square hole. He whirled on Augustine, taking the older man’s lapels in his fists. Palamedes shook as he spoke.

“I– I can’t feel her there. I thought she would still be here, somewhere, but I can’t find her anymore. What went wrong, Quinque? You know how this is supposed to happen. What can I do? Why can’t I find her?!”

All at once, Palamedes found himself pulled into an embrace, his nose buried in Augustine’s collar. Augustine pressed one palm to the younger man’s back, his other hand cradling Palamedes’ head against him. His fingers scratched gently into Sextus’ overgrown curls, his stubble moving against Palamedes’ cheek when he breathed.

They barely knew each other. The Saint had so far been a nuisance at best, and a grim reminder of his own fate at worst. But the feeling of being wrapped up completely, engulfed by someone older who had experienced the same pain and somehow survived it…it made something inside Palamedes fall open.

“Your cavalier is still within you, little brother.” Augustine said, placing his chin atop Palamedes’ head. Palamedes’ view of the individual stitches in Augustine’s pristine white suit blurred, his own breath fogging his glasses. “Because you are still here, you are no longer powerless. She has given you her strength.”

Palamedes scoffed. “She should never have had to.”

The hand on Palamedes’ back left momentarily, and he heard the telltale fizz and click of a lighter, a sound anyone around Augustine for more than a day would become familiar with. He supposed the Lyctor must be holding a cigarette between his lips. Palamedes closed his eyes, guiltily inhaling some smoke as Augustine released a large cloud of the stuff. He knew it was horrible for his lungs but, well, did it even matter anymore? Besides, the smell was oddly comforting. Warm and biting, a bit like liquor settling in the throat.

What seemed at first like Augustine’s hand resettling on his upper back quickly turned into a cruel, searing point of heat. Palamedes shouted and tried to pull away, but Augustine held him in place by the back of his neck. The burning end of the cigarette made quick work of Palamedes’ shirt, burrowing through layers of tissue like a bullet at one hundredth of the speed. Palamedes struggled and jerked, screaming and shoving at Augustine’s chest. When Palamedes feared he might pass out from the pain, the lit cigarette was finally pulled away from his skin. Augustine allowed his charge to yank himself backward, but kept a hand secure on Palamedes’ shoulder.

“What the hell is wrong with you, get off of me!”

“Wait, just calm down for a moment.” Augustine got up from the bed, steering a reluctant Palamedes to the mirror on the far side of the room. “Look.”

Against his better judgment, Palamedes did. He allowed Augustine to turn him around, looking over his shoulder at the small hole left in his clothes on his upper back. But under the ruined cloth, there was…nothing.

“Look, not even a scar. Is it sore?” Augustine reached out and jabbed his finger into the same spot the cigarette had been only moments ago. No pain, only slight discomfort. Palamedes shook his head.

“Exactly. Look at what you are now, what you can do. What she has allowed you to do.”

Augustine swiveled the younger man by the shoulders, forcing Palamedes to meet his eyes. “The circumstances of my ascension, too, were…less than ideal. I know the theorems, the stories John has told us. I’ve lived with the consequences of Lyctorhood for millenia.”

Augustine moved in close, his breath ghosting over Palamedes’ ear. “Perhaps there is still more we don’t know. Will you help me find out, little brother?”

—

The next day, Palamedes agreed to begin training in earnest with the Saint of Patience. Augustine first suggested practicing his swordplay, but the thought of using Camilla’s techniques himself was still difficult to stomach. Instead, Augustine took Palamedes on a shuttle down to the nearest planet, and the two men disembarked onto a green, but otherwise rather barren, surface.

Augustine tucked his hands behind his back, as he was wont to do, and addressed his pupil. “Now, you will need your cavalier’s consciousness when you enter the River. You trust in Hect’s abilities, correct?”

“Of course.” Palamedes replied uneasily. Despite the promise that there would be no sword practice, Camilla’s rapier was still strapped to his hip.

“Then allow her knowledge and skill to take over. Trust in her presence as you follow my instructions. If you falter, you are not only letting me down, but her as well.”

Palamedes swallowed, brows furrowing. “What exactly will your lesson entail, then, Quinque?”

“Elder brother, if you please. Today, little one, you shall be collecting the thanergy of a planet.”

“I’m sorry, you mean for me to kill an entire planet? To what end?”

“This is how you can quickly gain fuel and experience channeling large amounts of thanergy, as well as get your bearings in the River. All of which will be crucial when battling Number Seven.”

“But this is absurd, is there no other way to gather such power? I know as necromancers death is our stock and trade, but how could such destruction benefit the Empire in the long run? Would I not be simply creating more beasts for us to defeat?”

Augustine clicked his tongue and stalked closer to Palamedes, forcing him to tilt his chin up slightly to look at the taller man. “That is not your concern, my dear. If I wanted your opinion, I would ask. Now, please strike the ground and prepare for a thanergy surge; I shall guide you through the rest from the bank.”

“I will do no such thing without good reason, elder brother.”

Augustine’s lip quirked, just slightly. “Very well,” he said, plunging his fist through Palamedes’ stomach.

Palamedes let out a strangled gasp, blood gushing out of the wound. He felt the Lyctor’s fist inside him, grasping at the squishy mass of his liver just behind his stomach. He felt his bile duct buckling, all the flesh inside him slowly ripping and failing to adjust to the intrusion. His newly resilient cells struggled to close around Augustine’s wrist, being torn apart as his body tried to heal itself—it was indescribably painful. Palamedes wondered if he could die in this state, but all reason was quickly draining out his ears to be replaced by the sensation of fire dripping out of him, his own blood warming his skin as it ran down his navel and the inside of his legs.

As Augustine’s grip tightened around his intestines, tugging them out of his body, Palamedes felt hot flashes of something foreign in his mind. He saw faces he didn’t recognize, felt smoke fill his lungs that he had never inhaled. Palamedes met the cinereous irises of the Saint of Patience, finding their color and shape flickered before him through an involuntary psychometric connection. In those eyes he saw a blur of people, memories just barely out of focus, but the bubble of grief that welled up inside him was unmistakable. Palamedes and Augustine crushed against each other like tectonic plates, a moment of shared understanding where something chipped and fell from each. Boiling, soothing agony rose and fell in Palamedes. He hung from Augustine’s fingers, his face soaked with tears.

His arm trembling, Palamedes fought to reach his rapier, finding the pommel and clinging to it with all his might. He jerked the weapon from its sheath, swinging clumsily at the earth beneath his feet. As the sword met soil, he wrenched himself out of his body, all the pain turning numb as he entered the River.

“Good,” he heard Augustine’s muffled voice in his ear, “find its soul. Hunt it down and kill it.”

Palamedes waded forward, or some direction anyway, and saw something in his periphery. Like a spot of ink on paper, shifting form and size as though trying to find the bounds of its own body.

“That’s it, my boy. Trust me. Trust Camilla.”

His consciousness was moving, drifting away toward the black spot. Palamedes felt nothing, knew nothing. The creature—beast, or perhaps just a blot in his vision, a cataract in his soul—did not try to escape him. Hadn’t someone said that it was important, to know nothing? Without his body, without Cam, that was all Palamedes knew for certain. That he knew nothing at all.

In one swift motion, he slew the beast, and resurfaced in his body.

The blistering feeling flooded back, but this time Palamedes gathered an explosion of thanergy, converting it to thalergy as it rushed through his veins. He launched himself away from Augustine, snapping the Saint’s wrist with the force of his escape. Augustine yelped sharply as they both stumbled backward. As soon as he was free, the frayed, sanguine pit of Palamedes’ stomach closed in on itself, almost completely gone within only a few seconds. Likewise, the wrist of the Saint of Patience righted itself with little fanfare.

“Oh, yes, my dove, my wonder!” As Palamedes turned toward the sound, Augustine wound his arms around the young man’s neck, pulling him into a kiss. The older man’s nose bumped against Palamedes’ glasses, knocking them askew. Palamedes senses were filled with the pleasant scratch of his unruly scruff against Augustine’s freshly shaven face, the heady smell of smoke and leather.

Then, Augustine’s mouth left his with a soft, wet sound, and it was over.

“Splendid, dear, I knew you could do it. See what happens when you trust me?” Augustine threw an arm across Palamedes’ shoulders, leading him back towards the shuttle. Out of energy to argue anymore, the young Lyctor simply nodded, relaxing into the warm presence beside him.

“Now we can really get started.” Augustine grinned, and there was a flutter under Palamedes ribs.

The two returned to the Mithraeum together, leaving a grey, rotting mass of dust behind them.