31. Pallas

[heisrisen]

[Public]

I don't actually know anything concrete about my counterpart. If I ought to know you and I don't, or if he's hurt you, then I'm truly sorry.

I go by Risen. I'll be helping in the infirmary for as long as this lasts.


[Private to Zane]

You have bunnies.

[And he has cats. What a place.]


[Private to Bianca]

How are you faring so far?

[They have never, ever been friends. Bianca jealous of Zane's attachments, Risen too stubborn to be charmed or influenced. But a step back, without the fear, with the power balance tilted less egregiously in the other direction - there are things he can appreciate about her, even respect. And when he chooses to take responsibility for someone, he is unfailingly solicitous. He is not her friend now. But neither is he insincere.]


[Open spam]

[He's in the library, awed, giddy, tearing through manuscripts long lost by his time. He lies on his back in the greenhouse, breathes slowly, remembers what a garden smells like. He is on deck, with a laser pointer, cooing the sappiest, most idiotic things at the Emperor's two cats. He has missed cats so badly.]

Comments

[shakenandlimp]

[Bush steps away to hide his discomfort, not very well, and takes a drink from his own glass despite his earlier resolution to slow down.

He makes a slow production of seating himself. He is disturbed; could not quite say why he finds it such an unappealing notion. He likes Risen, after all.

But the idea of his loved ones being remade troubles him. He dislikes it down to his center.]

[heisrisen]

[The look on Bush's face, the silence, tastes like a drunk's first sip after a few years sober, thrilling and satisfying to some shriveled, ravenous part of him; sickening only if he thinks about it too much. He swallows more of his lemonade, and doesn't apologize. This is why politicians are liars: the truth is generally terrible. But he's retired.]

I don't want to be him and he doesn't want to be me. Anymore than our Zanes want to be the lost boys they used to be. Vulnerable and cold, both of them. We've made choices. And everything about these goddamn ships wants to say it doesn't matter.

Or, rather, that it matters so much we mustn't be in charge of them anymore.

[Somewhere under all the trappings, his anger and Aslan's are nearly identical. It's not so pointed, now, not leveled at Bush like a weapon. He ruminates instead, diffuse and ominous and contained, a low unbroken stormcloud.]

What will you do, if I can bring him back to you? Should I, if I can, if I have any sway? If I want to reunite those who love one another I will have to lend my hands to imprisoning him again. It's a very galling snare.

[shakenandlimp]

Not that it does not matter. That it was steering you to destruction. Or to peaceful waters, that that slave ship of yours caught you.

If the only choice is there or here. You must know what I'd say-- bring him here and he will find his way to better, I know he will. And perhaps you are not the only destination for him. He can find his way.

[He can do nearly anything. Bush is certain.]

[heisrisen]

[But he is the way he found - could have found - the two of them diverging so recently in their joint memory.]

I am the way, the truth, and the life.

[Murmured to the cosmos. He thinks of his mother, the warmth of her, the shape of her knees, the funny accent on her bible's filereader. He thinks of Anastasia, preferring to die in natural increments rather than prolonged ones. He wonders how in the world his counterpart managed to deal with that, if not to step down and go with her.]

I am the way and the truth, anyhow. Two out of three's not bad. Wouldn't you say?

[shakenandlimp]

I like you.

I don't believe you know everything-- not like I believed when I was captain of a starship, the Emperor's starship and the Emperor's captain.

Nor... [He doesn't quite sigh] does he. Bless him. I think you could be wrong about each other. I'd risk that before I'd leave him there, take him from Zane forever.

[heisrisen]

[He makes an involuntary sound in his throat, low and yearning. The Emperor's captain. He misses it, some days, misses it so much it feels like his lungs are missing, even misses the hideous parts, the terrible choices, the maneuvering and the lies and the weight of it. Being the center of the universe involves the crushing sort of gravity, contracted him into something tight and opaque and dark, but there was a purity to it, a different kind then he has now.

He is not a man for regrets. The Emperor, he thinks, will have to learn. But maybe he can. One more impossible thing, one more boundary to break, one more way to exceed himself.

The Emperor has not learned yet to trust enough in the success of others, unseen and unfathomed. But Risen has forced himself, with breathless terror and hope and relief, to do it, to commend the shape of the future to others. So the words chime, ripple, resonate, bleeding the cruelty away from him, a wound washing clean.]

I suppose I'm the last person who can say he's incapable.

[Bush is right; better to risk it.]

latest fade?

[shakenandlimp]

Thanky.

Now. More of this lemonade or you will regret it tomorrow.