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[The notes are like alcohol on a wound. They sting, a burning sensation at the core of him that makes him flinch and twist. Then it soothes slightly. The very beginnings of a scab starting to form.

Kaworu realizes his face is wet. Tears. The first time he cried, his sorrow wasn't his own. It was something alien and invasive. Now it all belongs to him. He has to carry it now. Paul has to carry it too. They can't discard it or hide the scars that form. It's the nature of being human.

He exhales shakily into Paul's chest, feeling the heat of his own breath and warmth of Paul's gentle weight. There's something satisfying about Paul's apology for humanity, like someone understands Kaworu's misery for the first time. But also something fundamentally wrong about it coming from the boy who once said he was fine with barriers between hearts because it allowed him to ruffle the hair of an unexpecting victim. He doesn't know what to make of it, a conflict between the part of him that wants to be understood and the parts of him that cares for the essence of what makes another themselves.

He pulls closer.]

Do humans have tears so that others share in their sorrow?

[Paul adjusts himself to curve close around Kaworu, gathering him up in an embrace (not thinking of a blood-slick sea and empty eyes) that settles the shorter boy's head against Paul's shoulder in a ever-more familiar pattern. He draws both of them up from the floor as he does so, sitting back on his heels and resting Kaworu's slight weight against himself.

He looks over Kaworu's head at the alien bird, forlorn and lost as the angel-turned-human whose back he begins to stroke in long, soothing passes. He gives her a slight nod, as solemn as the one he gave Merlinus when he first swore to care for Kaworu. The vow stands.]

Yes.

[Paul says, gently, his own eyes still only shining with light, not moisture. He can smell Kaworu's tears, this close, their faint mimicry of sun-warmed tide pools.]

So that we can see each other's hurts. And they're good for you, too. Like draining infection from a wound.

[Stress-secreted hormones leeched out through the lacrimal glands, the physiological release of heaving lungs and wrung out sorrow. Crying is a vulnerability, but it's also a gift, a blessing to be shared only with those you most trust.

(The rain still doesn't come.)]

But sometimes we don't want to tell others what we feel.

[He mumbles out the protest as if he could demand his body stop the tears right now. They're hot on his face and his skin feels blistered and sore where they've flowed. He tastes salt in his mouth and it stirs unpleasant memories. He moves easily as Paul adjusts, not fighting, but leaning into where Paul settles him.

It occurs to him that perhaps the Old Man asked Paul to look after him. And how that must seem like heavy task to bear in the absence of someone else. Kaworu leans back slightly to rub some of the tears from his eyes and then up to look at Paul with his radiant eyes. They're beautiful but there's something dark behind them and his expression is worn, even as he provides gentle explanations.

Kaworu reaches up gently and places his hand on Paul's face, rubbing a thumb gently outside of the corner of his eye, where tears would fall. "Look after him, he needs you" the Old Man requested and so he shall. His own task from the Old Man. He'll protect Paul, even from Teacher for whatever reason, so that when the time comes Paul can cry too.

Gently, he tugs Paul's head down so he can press their foreheads together. A promise, even though it's one that Paul doesn't know he's made.]

If only we could choose it. When to start healing wounds.

[Iskierka meets Paul's eyes as he looks at her (so small, against an impossibility) and returns the nod. This is an echo of something she witnessed; the continued fulfillment of a promise is easy to comprehend.

So is the change in Kaworu's demeanor. Had she despaired, had she capacity, she would have hope now (an emblem in effigy of the Pthumerian she halfway resembles, the one to whom her Sleeper owed patronage).

She picks up the pen again, turning the page. Waits, until Paul's attention shifts back to the younger boy he supports--then begins to write anew.

This message is shorter.]

This may be the first time I've started dictating this or the second-to-last. I have not numbered my starts. What will matter (matters) is how it's finished.

(So much to observe. So much to memorize if I can. The magnitude of what she's proposed--thirteen targets and the Throne in two days--and the enormity of it-- The dead are made for what's impossible for the living but there were always more of us.

We won't have the time for a proper briefing. Have the luxury. Best I memorize as much as I can. Condense. Concentrate.)

Queen and Throne. (And twelve beside Her.) Thirteen targets and who knows how many rescuers. Easier to leave me for lost. But if they won't--leaving them unprepared is as good as killing them.

(Argonaut, Polaris, do you still hear me? Don't inspire them to foolishness. But if you must, give me clarity to guide them. Give me some way to reach them.)

Then, to begin: The first thing you must understand about Nephele is the Throne----

[She runs out of words in a smear of ink.

Connection lost.]

Edited 2022-03-07 00:09 (UTC)

If only.

[Paul submits to Kaworu's cautious, gentle touch with a smile like a narrow, bloodless wound. The light pressure on the sides of his orbital ridges reminds him of how he soothed Kaworu's allergy-swollen sinuses, and the reflective effort to drain Paul's clogged tear ducts draws a deep, wordless sorrow out of the cold nothing in his chest.

The bird's resumed transcription pulls Paul's focus away from Kaworu, albeit with reluctance. He doesn't want to turn from this soft, futile effort yet, the faint wash of pale hope that maybe, if he lets Kaworu's fingers linger, they'll work the alchemy that Paul can't-

But the continued fact of her presence means that there may be a way to yet heal Kaworu's wounds at a time of his choosing. The words in the abruptly finished letter - that Sophia retrieves, emerging from his sleeve to bound up to the desk, so that Paul doesn't have to leave Kaworu behind - say as much.

Somehow, Paul isn't surprised. What else was Merlinus doing when he was lost, except trying to find his way back to Kaworu? (One way, or another.) He holds the letter up so Kaworu may read it too, shifting slightly to wrap his arm around Kaworu's shoulder.]

...there must be a way to find him. [For the benefit of Kaworu's tear-blurred eyes and thoughts.] That's what this means. A way to find him, and to bring him back. The Old Man wouldn't have sent you a message like that otherwise.

[He wouldn't have given Kaworu false hope, even to give a final farewell.]

[Paul's turn leaves Kaworu feeling rather undone. Like there's more things to say, more things to do, but he simply didn't know them. So all he can do is live with the tugging desire to give more, and do more.

So instead, he uses his thumb and forefinger to firmly wipe the tears from his cheeks and eyes so he can read the letter. This time, he follows the tug.]

Us. He sent us a message. It was addressed to us both.

[Paul is clever. Therefore, it's something he's chosen not to see. So Kaworu will help him see it anyway. It's what Paul would want.

He rubs at his face with his heel of his palm, forcefully, trying to steal himself to endure the very idea of hope.]

He's told me about these things before. These places. And these words. They're from his home... but that can't be...

[How could the Old Man be at home? People who left could not be contacted and their omens vanished. The Old Man's omen was right there...]

[Paul is clever. Kaworu is relentless. The two of them make a good pair, Iskierka's Sleeper thought--thinks--and so the Omen reflects. She clacks her beak for emphasis, for attention, when Kaworu says both. Paul's message mattered as much, she knows that; Paul matters as much.

But exerting as much effort as she has, tiny fragment that she is, is fast wearing her thin. She writes one last shaking word on the fresh sheet Sophia's revealed--help--then drops the pen with a clatter and sticks her head beneath a wing.

The words would come again, pushing and insistent, puddling in her head until she could find places to put them. Til then, let her rest.]

I wouldn't say 'can't' about anything here.

[Every rule this place has set has been arbitrary, prone to exception. The evidence of this rule's exception is inconvertible, at least so far as this: Merlinus' Omen is here, writing messages that supposedly come from him. They contain instructions and sentiments that Merlinus would write.

(It could be another lie, but that's a possibility that Paul doesn't need to burden Kaworu with. And if it is a lie - if this is another game - Paul will

take care of it on his own.)]

He said that there was another person with him, didn't he? One who came back. If we can find her, we can ask her what she saw, and how she managed to return. He seemed to think that she would want to rescue him, so she may be an ally.

[This is a puzzle that can be solved. That's the impression his steady tone and slight, firm nod are meant to give, anyway. Determining the identity of this stranger, then working out the meaning of the thirteen (not the Pthumerians--too convenient, and not a task Merlinus would set his little bird) targets, then retrieving Merlinus from wherever he is reaching out from - these are things within their reach.

It's a simpler riddle than the pressing from Kaworu and the Omen to acknowledge a thing Paul hasn't even denied. He saw the message to him. He understood it. Merlinus knows what Paul did, and he's holding him to his vow. He's giving him an opportunity to make an attempt at repair. It's more mercy than Paul deserves, and of course he's grateful, but it would be selfish to tell that to either boy or bird.

And if he lies long enough about who he's protecting with his silence, maybe he'll start to believe it.]

I'm going to find her. I'm going to bring him back.

["It's not your fault."

That's what Paul had said after another day Kaworu spent waiting for the return of the Old Man at the beach. He'd waited until the chill in the air made his hands hurt and the lockjoint on his arms return. Truthfully, he hadn't felt it.

Yet, he can't shake the feeling that it is his fault. Paul, he thinks, is being delicate, trying to spare him from hard feelings after already enduring suffering. It's thoughtful, but Kaworu feels like the thought is starting to decay him from inside out. Like a wound that was spared salt but never cleaned.

But now, this is something he can do. An opportunity to purge that feeling, to fix what went wrong, and to do something for someone that's done much for him. Even if it was easier to pretend not to notice than to show appreciation. This is his will and he will act on it.]

We will.

[It's Paul's turn to say it, setting aside the letter so he can take Kaworu's hand and squeeze it too-tight, slender bones pressed together through fragile skin.

He knows the cadence of that determination, fierce and grief-stricken. He tells Kaworu it's not his fault because it's true; he tells Kaworu it's not his fault and knows it doesn't matter, because Kaworu accepts Merlinus' disappearance the way Paul has accepted it, which is to say not at all.]

It's going to be all right.

Yes. It will.

[When Paul takes his hand and squeezes it, he leans forward to bump his forehead against the other boy's.

Maybe he can't quite believe Paul when he says that what happened to the Old Man isn't Kaworu's fault, but he can believe this. He can believe there is something he can do to save the only father figure he's ever had and he can believe that, with Paul's help, they'll bring Illarion back. They fit well together. If someone can do it, it's the two of them.

He squeezes Paul's hand back, feeling the firmness of his fingers and the strength of his grip.]

We will.

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