summerdude | You Say Overkill, I Say Due Diligence [open post]

Qi Yan sees the pamphlet in the library. Despite her despondent mood, the enthusiasm shining through it makes her smile. She liked Magnus when she met him; he had a directness and charm not unlike Nangong Jingnu when she was around Magnus' age. It saddens her to think of how circumspect and careful Nangong Jingnu has become, now that her life depends on Wei kingdom politics. She would like to see Magnus' youthful simplicity preserved.

She finds him near the greenhouse, and gives him a bow that speaks more to her respect for him than any actual need for etiquette. "Young master Magnus. What is falafel?"

"Qi Yan!" Magnus says, happily. He bows back, because it feels like the thing to do^*. "How's it going, buddy? Falafel is like. The best food in the world. Do you know what a chickpea is? Some people call them garbanzo beans. And chana, I think."

*He is not adhering to any sort of known etiquette beyond those of The Vibes

His delight at seeing her genuinely makes her smile. She's never thought of herself as someone who enjoys spending time with younger people, but perhaps it's because nearly all the young people she meets in the Wei palace are uncomfortably complicit in the crimes of the empire. She has a great deal of fondness for Yuxiao and Jinwushu, as she does for Xiao-Die—who is now well past twenty, but still a child in need of protection in Qi Yan's heart. She feels her guard somewhat soften around Magnus.

"I don't think so. I don't have any skill with cooking at all. I am also curious to know—what is 'gender identity'?" Qi Yan has a gender, and an identity, and both are private. She can't imagine what Magnus could have to teach her about either of them. "Allow me to give you an accounting of my skills, as you did so comprehensively. I can teach poetry. I also have some meager¹ skill in calligraphy, weiqi, tactical planning, and the xiao."

¹Exceptional.

"I don't know how to cook at all, but I do know how to eat," Magnus says with a self-deprecating sort of grin. "Falafel is basically spiced fried mashed chickpeas but it's sooooo good. The fridges here sometimes have it, so we should definitely go to the kitchens and embark on an outstanding culinary journey together sometime."

He takes a step or two closer, leaving behind the blades of grass he'd been playing around with, seeing how long he could grow them. Latching his hands together behind his back, he rests easily, most of his weight on one foot, head tilted as he considers everything Qi Yan has told him. "I don't know what weiqi or the xiao are, but I want to learn everything anyway. Especially the poetry and tactical planning. Do you know much about siege warfare? I'm so bad at siege warfare. I always die so fast on those days." Without pausing for Qi Yan to calibrate what he's said -- why would they need to! It's not like he's revealed anything particularly surprising! -- he adds, "Gender identity is like, what you know your gender to be. It might be the same thing as the body you were born into but it might not be? I mostly put that on the list because my girlfriend is transgender and genderqueer, which means sometimes she's a girl and sometimes he's a guy. When I told Sagramore about it -- do you know Sagramore? Have you met him? He's great -- he said he didn't know what transgender meant but when I explained it he realized he did. So I thought it might be useful for more people to also learn about. I'm not, like, an expert or anything, but I do know a bunch."

Mostly, he believes that it is useful for everyone to be brought up to speed, like in general, but now that he's getting a sense for just how many people have others from their worlds arriving at the Mansion regularly, he kinda hopes Alex will show up one day, too, and he doesn't want anyone with a different frame of reference to be a dick.

"Um, to be clear, neither of these things were the lesson. They're just, like... the course description," he jokes.

Edited 2023-11-04 05:16 (UTC)

"Of course. A shrewd negotiator," she says with a little smile.

Something about this speech unsettles Qi Yan. After a moment, she places the feeling. It's like sitting with Nangong Jingnu and her sisters while they discussed the fate of the land north of the Luo; involved deeply and personally, but needing to stay outwardly implacable. She was told to conceal her gender from the time she was old enough to speak. It would take a lot more than half a month in a strange place to be able to speak of it aloud.

"The Art of War counsels that the best way to conduct siege warfare is not to engage in siege warfare. It is a 'method of no alternative.' So if you find it difficult, take heart in knowing that Sun Tzu does as well." She cannot assume any shared frames of reference. "He is a great general and military tactician from my lands. Weiqi is a game of strategy, played with black and white stones on a board. Some believe it also trains the mind for warfare, if that's to your interest. And the xiao is an instrument." She briefly mimes playing it.

"Oh, I've heard of Sun Tzu!" Magnus says. "Some of my friends really dig his stuff. Odin once did a whole motivational powerpoint with Art of War talking points. It... um, well." He doesn't want to say that it was, in effect, demotivational -- criticizing Odin isn't the best idea even if Magnus is outside of the Nine Worlds right now, because technically as one of the einherjar he's in service to the god. "It was very interesting." That much is true.

More formally, he adds, "I would like to learn all of these things."

"Then I'm sure we can arrange an exchange, or several. Why don't we start with what a chickpea is, and I can describe to you how the Emperor of the Wei kingdom dealt with the occupied castle cities of Huainan?"

"Perfect," Magnus says. "There's chickpeas in the kitchen, if you wanna go there now?"

She gestures to him to lead the way. Qi Yan still doesn't know where all the kitchens are, nor their various purposes.

Magnus leads Qi Yan up to the kitchen he's more familiar with, and rummages around in the cabinets until the Mansion produces chickpeas: some dried; some canned.

"So these are chickpeas," he says, opening both the bag and the can and passing them over to Qi Yan. "Uncooked, in this form. The most noble of legumes."

She sniffs the bag of dried chickpeas first; nearly odorless, but slightly musty. The chickpeas sitting in liquid are nearly twice their size, and the odor is much more pronounced. "Like soybeans," she guesses.

"Yeah, kind of, I think!" Magnus says. He picks one out of the can and squeezes it between his fingers, watching as it squishes. "I was reading a cookbook earlier to try and teach myself how to, you know, cook? And it was saying that for falafel you really should cook from dried chickpeas instead of from canned ones. I'm not really sure why, though."

"I am ignorant when it comes to cooking." Qi Yan can cook noodles, and put meat on the fire until it is roasted, but that is about the extent of her abilities. "My skills are entirely impractical. If you fry it, does it not become harder and less palatable?" She eyes the dried chickpeas doubtfully.

"Oh, you do things with them first." Magnus goes to the refrigerator and thinks at it very hard for a moment, then opens the door. Triumph!

"This is falafel," he says, bringing the plate over to Qi Yan. He picks one up and breaks it apart. "See? You do something to turn it into a meal, and then a batter, I guess? And then you fry it." He pops a piece in his mouth. "The Mansion makes it drier than Fadlan's Falafel, unfortunately, but it's so much better than nothing."

The most intriguing part of this is the demonstration of the fridge, which Qi Yan has not used yet. But she puts that aside for now and bites into one of the falafels. It's delicious; spiced with flavors Qi Yan has never experienced, and satisfyingly crisp. She takes her time eating it, devoting all her attention to the experience out of respect for Magnus.

"It's very good." It seems important to Magnus for her to think so, so she wants him to know. "I am honored to be introduced to it. I can think of something that may go well with it, if you'll allow me the liberty." She gestures to the fridge. "How does it produce what you request?"

"Mostly I just think very hard at it about what I want," Magnus says. He's very glad Qi Yan liked the falafel. "It works about... 90% of the time?"

Edited 2023-11-06 17:29 (UTC)

Qi Yan focuses on what she wants, and indeed, when she opens the fridge it reveals a small bowl of dark green paste. "Chive flower paste," she says, taking it out. "Where I come from, we do not grow crops, so our diet is mainly meat. But we have this seasonally, when the wild chives blossom in the spring. It is a very good accompaniment to food that is fried or fatty." She is speaking of where she actually comes from, despite having told many people that she's from the Jin province; if it doesn't mean anything here, then she doesn't have to worry about anyone noticing discrepancies in her background.

"Oh, cool," Magnus says, leaning over and giving it a sniff. "I love a good paste."

Qi Yan spoons a small dab of the paste onto one of the falafel balls and takes a bite. It adds a satisfying sharpness, and masks the slight dryness that Magnus lamented. She offers him the bowl, raising her eyebrows as a question.

Magnus scoops some onto a falafel of his own and shoves it into his mouth in one bite. "Thish ish very good," he says enthusiastically, his mouth full. (Valhalla isn't huge on dining manners.)

Luckily, Qi Yan finds young people with poor manners very likable. "This humble scholar is pleased to have been of service."

Magnus swallows. "Do you want to try some of the sauces that usually come with falafel?" he asks. "Don't get me wrong, I'm very happy with this and I'm glad you showed me! But there are some pretty good ones if you wanted to try them out."

"Of course. I must complete my education, right?"

So Magnus goes back to the fridge and gets an assortment: jajik and toum and tahini and the spicy sauce whose name he doesn't know. Other dips, for good measure, just in case: baba ghanoush and hummus -- the latter so he can show off the range of the humble, exalted chickpea.

He sets these out in front of Qi Yan and points to each one in turn. "That one's made out of yogurt and cucumber and mint," he says. "And that one is mostly garlic. That one is mostly sesame. The others are less commonly eaten with falafel, as far as I know, but they're also so good. Eggplant, and more chickpeas."

Since this is Magnus' end of their skill exchange, Qi Yan takes it as seriously as she hopes Magnus will take her upcoming instruction on warfare. She tries each of the sauces both alone and with the falafel, and tries to give each of them her full consideration.

The food in the imperial court is very good, but these flavors are new to her. She enjoys the sharpness of the garlic in many of the sauces, and it's well-balanced by bright hits of acid, grassy herbs and creamy yogurt. Eggplant she knows, but never prepared this way, and between the falafel and the hummus, the chickpeas prove impressively versatile. The spice, though, makes her eyes water—the grass plains don't use many spices, and while they eat spicy food in some parts of the Wei kingdom, Nangong Jingnu doesn't favor it. She wipes them with her sleeve with a self-deprecating smile. "This is a cultural education well worth the trade."

"I'm glad," Magnus says, satisfied. "When I was still homeless, Fadlan's Falafels... um, this restaurant where I'm from that serves falafel and other Iraqi food? They gave me so many free hot meals with product that was slightly too old to sell. Amir -- he's the son of the owner -- he's betrothed to my valkyrie, so I still get it a lot now, except now I can pay for it."

Qi Yan's heart goes out to him; she knows how it is not to have a home. "I am glad to hear that times are better for you now." The fact that Magnus now patronizes the business who helped him through times of struggle also gives her a very favorable impression of him. She dips a piece of falafel in the toum and pops it in her mouth. "Have you found some profession, then?"

"Sort of," Magnus says. "I like, died? Technically? It's really easy to come by red gold in Valhalla, both as a reward for quests and as, like -- a lot of einherjar choose to stay there all the time instead of spending a ton of time in the outside worlds, and so they no longer have use for their money."

Qi Yan doesn't know what to make of this. She often considers herself someone who has died, symbolically, but that doesn't seem to be what Magnus means. She decides not to question it for now. "Then I'm glad that fortune has been kinder to you. She has another taste of the baba ghanoush—it is delicious. "It is in Valhalla that you must study warfare, then? Would you like to discuss it now, while we eat?"

"Oh, yeah," Magnus says. He pauses long enough to shove a few more falafel into his mouth and mostly chew them. "We're preparing for the final battle at the end of the world, and even though I won't survive it I wanna do my best."

"It sounds a weighty charge," she says sincerely. "I don't know how much I can help—I'm good with ideas, but I have never commanded an army, much less fought a battle. But here is what I know. Besieging a city, particularly a walled city, is very difficult, and very expensive. If the army can keep supplies from entering the city, it's possible to starve them out, but what will the army eat? Thousands of men require food and drink, not to mention weapons and armor, and their horses must also be provided for. The cost of dispatching a single soldier may be up to half a liang of silver per day, so unless the dispatching kingdom has very deep pockets, it is difficult to outlast the store of provisions kept in a city. That is why Sun Tzu advises never to besiege a walled city if it can be avoided."

She pauses to eat more falafel. "And now let me tell you of the situation in Huainan, and you may tell me your thoughts. First of all, you must know that the Emperor of the Wei kingdom is unique." She remembers telling Magnus that she was married to a princess. She hopes he won't make the connection here, only because Qi Yan has no desire to discuss her personal matters. "The previous Emperor had nine sons, yet even among so many, there was no suitable heir to inherit the kingdom. He refused to name an heir while alive, but left an edict to be read upon his death stating his intention to leave the kingdom to his youngest daughter. She was prepared for this, and had already secured military and political support, but it was nevertheless a bloody and controversial succession. Many in the court and the kingdom still find it difficult to accept a female Emperor. Beyond that, the kingdom has suffered a series of natural disasters, especially torrential rain and flooding, that destroyed much of the grain harvest in farming provinces such as Huainan. Many farmers were forced to leave their lands and become refugees. Because of their dire straits, and out of anger towards the idea of a female Emperor, a rebel army formed. They were even able to secure a walled city as their base of operations.

"The Emperor gathered her closest ministers for guidance, and they determined that it was not feasible to settle this matter militarily—for several reasons, but primarily the expense. Their suggestion was for the Emperor to issue an 'edict of self-blame,' essentially an imperial decree acknowledging the hardships that had befallen the rebels, and taking responsibility. This edict would state that the rebellion was the fault of the Emperor, for mishandling matters, and not the fault of the people. It would also offer the rebels amnesty, promising that if they gave up the rebellion and returned to their homes, their crimes would be pardoned, and the matter not investigated further. This would keep them from continuing to rebel solely out of fear of being prosecuted for treason. What do you think of this plan? Can you see any flaws?"

This is a big question for a little guy. Magnus tries to think of things that would be of concern to the living, and to people who would struggle with potentially difficult terrain instead of calling a magical eight-legged horse to carry them up and down cliff faces.

"A couple," he says, after a few long moments. "Did the torrential rains and flooding also destroy infrastructure and buildings? By which I mean, did they have homes to return to and roads to travel there on? And did the Emperor secure a source of food to feed them all?" He thinks for another moment, scooping some hummus into his mouth while he thinks. "Would a male Emperor issue an edict of self-blame? So like, would doing this make the people more or less inclined to respect a female one?"

Qi Yan is utterly delighted. To think about this issue, not only strategically, but from the perspective of a woman, is something not many men would do. "That is exactly why I advised the Emperor against this plan. Male Emperors have issued edicts of self-blame in the past, but for a man, this conveys an admirable sense of humility. The people's hearts would soften towards him. But for the first ever female Emperor, it would be accepting that having a woman as an emperor is a shameful, humiliating thing, and that she is not competent to rule the kingdom. This edict of self-blame would likely embolden the rebels. So a different plan was arranged." It was Qi Yan's plan, but she's aware that some might find it dishonorable and underhanded, and she doesn't want Magnus to think poorly of her.

"We had three aims. First, to destroy the rebel army, using as few soldiers as possible. Second, to help the rebels return to society. And third, to re-assert the power of the Wei kingdom, and deter them from rebelling again.

"To address the first aim, men were sent to the mountains of Huainan on a dry night with good wind. At a time previously agreed on, they set several simultaneous fires, which spread quickly. At the same time, a small group of soldiers infiltrated the city and carried out an operation to behead the leaders of the army. And a third group of soldiers disguised themselves as members of the rebel army, seeking help after being burned by the fire. This group was tasked with spreading rumors that the fires sprung from nowhere as divine punishment—a sign of Heaven's wrath. What do you think was the result of all this?"

"Internal collapse?" Magnus guesses. Psychological warfare isn't a strong suit of Valhalla -- which is perhaps why Loki regularly has minor triumphs that Magnus has to circumvent. "Were there enough rebels that your guys weren't recognized as outsiders?"

She nods. "It worked. The rebel soldiers—really just farmers—were spooked by the 'evidence' that the heavens supported the female Emperor, and at the same time, they lost their leadership." A large part of this success was that no one would suspect someone of falsifying a sign from the heavens, because doing so would be inviting divine wrath onto oneself. That is why only Qi Yan, who has no attachment to the religion of the Wei people, could think of it. "They were adrift and uneasy, and looking for a way to back out without punishment. That is when we offered amnesty. Her Majesty wrote a letter granting a full pardon to the bearer, with her seal, and we distributed hundreds of copies throughout the city. That takes care of the second aim, to return the rebels smoothly to society. And as for the third aim—to reassert authority—the amnesty had a time limit. If the rebels took the letter and returned home, their crimes were pardoned, but if any still remained after one month, the Emperor would send a huge army to crush them and punish their families. Of course, we never had the resources to send the army." She smiles, and goes in for another bite of falafel with tahini.

"There was just one other part to this plan, which I implemented without consulting with the Emperor. I gave orders that anyone carrying the amnesty letter was entitled to a nourishing meal of pork, mantous and vegetable soup. Over the meal, I spoke with them to determine the true cause of the rebellion. The flooding was bad, but the kingdom went to great lengths to send money for disaster relief—that is exactly why we couldn't finance a war. It turned out that the officials distributing the disaster relief were corrupt. They made the rationed porridge too thin, more water than grain, and the rice that was distributed directly to the families was mixed thoroughly with sand. We punished these officials harshly, distributed more relief funds, and hired the reformed rebels to rebuild the homes lost in the floods.

"So, that is how we took back a walled city, without throwing away resources on a prolonged siege." She pauses, suddenly aware that she has been lecturing excessively. This is something Nangong Jingnu would make fun of, if she were here; Qi Yan's heart aches fiercely. "Does that help?"

"I really appreciate the lesson," Magnus says, thoughtfully. He gets up and goes to the fridge, pulling out a few bottles of root beer. "I like learning, as it turns out? And I bet even Loki would have trouble circumventing the clever way you accomplished your goals. But I'm afraid that Ragnarok won't benefit from that kind of, um, maneuvering." He thinks about this for a moment. "Perhaps it doesn't need to. I think maybe learning as much as I can about as many things as I can is help enough. It's fun, after all, and enriching maybe? And if all my afterlife is spent preparing for the end of it, then literally what's the point of anything? Do you want to try root beer? It's a soft drink of my people. It doesn't really go with falafel, but it reminds me of home, too."

Qi Yan can appreciate the significance of food from one's home. "I'd love to try it." She reaches for one of the bottles.

"These lessons can be applied outside of warfare. Most importantly, if you wish to change someone's behavior, it helps to find out what they want and give it to them, while at the same time making the path you don't want them to follow as undesirable as possible." She is self-conscious, again, about being too didactic. "It's good that you like learning. I enjoyed hearing your thoughts. You have very good insight." She wishes he didn't have to think about combat at all; she thinks of Jinwushu, raised to fight a war Qi Yan would like to end.

Magnus scrubs a hand through his hair, awkwardly. "Thanks," he says, suddenly bashful. Qi Yan is so cool? And thinks he has good insight? "If I'm lucky, I've got at least another couple thousand years in me. It's good I don't have to spend them unlearning bad insights."

Qi Yan contemplates this. "Have you considered writing a pamphlet on your situation for the welcome table? It seems complex." She learned a lot from the literature on cultivation and spores.

"I put up a warning note about Jack," Magnus says. "What else were you thinking about?"

"You say that you died, and that you train for a climactic battle thousands of years in the future. I must seek your forgiveness—I am not quick-witted enough to follow your meaning."

"Oh!" Magnus says. "Yeah, I see what you mean." He's still not used to explaining it to people. "Uh, basically, the long and short of it is if you die a heroic death in my world, you have a 50/50 shot of being sent to Valhalla, which is Odin's halls of the victorious dead. Where you train to be one of the warriors in Ragnarok. Um, most of Ragnarok is foretold. Who dies, how they die... but we still have to give it our all." He grins at her, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. "Mostly my objective is pushing it back. I like the world. I don't want it to end."

This sounds like mythology, although not that of Wei or Jing. Heroes who die in battle attaining rewards in the afterlife must be the most common myth for any kingdom to tell, for obvious reasons. But what kind of reward is this?

Talking so much has tired Qi Yan a little, and put some strain on her fragile lungs. She starts to speak, and then stops to cough discreetly into her sleeve before continuing. "If you die heroically in battle, shouldn't you be allowed to rest? Not told to fight and die again?"

"That's not the Viking way, I guess," Magnus says, but he's more attentive to her cough than anything. (He doesn't encounter a lot of sick people anymore, now that most of his friends are einherjar.) "Are you okay? Can I get you some water or something?"

Qi Yan sighs; she doesn't like the thought of children drafted into someone else's war. She knows what her father would have wanted from her, and she's tried her best with it, but it has to end with her. Her father wouldn't have wanted the next generation of the Chengli tribe to live like Qi Yan. She tried to explain as much to Jinwushu, but he's very young, and she had to leave him under the care of Bayin, who feels differently.

"I'm fine. It's an old illness that recurs occasionally. It's not serious."

"Do you have medicine for it? Is there anything that helps?" Magnus asks. He can't do much for illness -- only injury -- but maybe he can help Qi Yan keep an eye out. Maybe Shen Qingqiu has found some medicinal plants in his investigations.

She nods, touched at his concern. "There are herbs that help, but I don't know which—I'm not the most diligent patient. I simply take what is prescribed. But Lan Wangji gave me some medicine from his lands to help. Otherwise, cold and damp aggravate it, and dry heat is beneficial." She refrains from mentioning that she's already running low on Lan Wangji's herbs, and the fact that autumn is in the air bodes poorly. If she's meant to die here, there's no point in causing Magnus distress over it. She's already snatched her life from the king of hell a number of times; it's only right he should claim it eventually. She would just rather give it to Nangong Jingnu.

"Oh, well, I can help with that," Magnus says, and summons summer. The kitchen grows brighter and warmer, and a faint scent of grass drying in the sunshine fills the air.

Qi Yan is stunned, and then she is thrilled. The idea of supernatural powers still rests uneasily in her thoughts, but this display is so gentle and pleasant. It seems no more than an extension of Magnus' natural atmosphere. But the rise of temperature eases her breathing, and some tightness in her chest relaxes. She hadn't even noticed those symptoms.

"It does help." She gives him a genuine smile. Nangong Jingnu worries ceaselessly about Qi Yan's health, she would be happy to see—no. Qi Yan reminds herself forcefully that Nangong Jingnu asked not to see her again.

Edited 2023-11-10 04:40 (UTC)

"Oh good," Magnus enthuses. "I've never been able to help an illness before! I can heal any injury, but chronic things... that's not my wheelhouse."

"You can heal any injury?" It's almost impossible to imagine the value of such a skill on the battlefield. It's hard for Qi Yan not to think of everyone she's loved who has died through violence. If worlds exist where fatal injuries can be swiftly healed, it seems a bitter fate that hers is not one.

"It is an injury, in a way, although likely beyond your reach by now. I nearly died as a child, and the imperial doctors tell me my body has never fully recovered." She is thinking of Xiao-Die when she says, "What about injuries of the mind?"

"Um, kind of?" Magnus says. "My friend Samirah -- she's my valkyrie. Um, they're the flying women warriors who select einherjar for Valhalla, basically. And her dad did a really messed up thing and tried to sell her in marriage to a giant? Even though she's betrothed to her childhood sweetheart? And he sent an invitation to her grandparents' house, which was so effed up because they arranged her marriage to Amir, and then Amir and his dad found out, and it was a whole big mess. So Sam tried to convince Amir that this wasn't her choice and that she'd find a way out of it by showing him Asgard."

He shrugs. "Apparently mortal minds have a really hard time comprehending, like, the details? The Bifrost Bridge, the gods, everything. But Sam took Amir to the place where the Bifrost Bridge -- it's like, this giant burning rainbow bridge between worlds -- tends to anchor in Midgard, so that he could summon it, but he was freaking out and, like, Sam wasn't allowed to touch Amir yet, given their relationship and their religion, so I grabbed his shoulder to talk him through everything, and, well." He shrugs. "Alex told me later that she thought I kept his mind from breaking, with that. That otherwise he would have gone insane. I think he's probably right. But I don't know if I could do the same thing with a mind that wasn't actively struggling in the moment."

Magnus' world is so alien to her that she can hardly picture anything he's saying, even the parts she can understand. But in other ways, it's all too familiar. Women forced into marriages, children forced into combat... And there are many things in the mundane, mortal world that can break someone's mind just to see. Although what happened to Xiao-Die was years ago, there are still times when she is actively struggling. If Qi Yan could have one companion here from her home, it would be Nangong Jingnu, but if there was a chance Magnus could actually help, she would easily trade Jingnu for Xiao-Die.

But there's no point in saying any of this. Xiao-Die isn't here, and if she were, there's no guarantee Magnus could soothe her, so what would be gained by mentioning that Qi Yan knows someone far away who could use care? She puts aside her dark thoughts and smiles mildly at Magnus. "It is an incredible skill. I cannot imagine how much your friends and military brethren must value it, although your kind nature alone is already value enough."

"Aw, thanks," Magnus says, embarrassed. "I'm kinda the peace dude in the war hotel, though. My skills aren't really valued by anyone but my hallmates."

Qi Yan nods. "It was like that for my mother. She was not a warrior, and everyone would have preferred my father take a fiercer wife, but she was much beloved by those her knew her." It is a rare opportunity, to be able to talk about her parents without fear. She thought, when she first spoke of these things with Nangong Jingnu, that it would be unbearably difficult to drag out memories from her childhood that have been buried for decades. But it's strangely easy, as if these matters were closer to the surface than she thought. "How do you find it here?"

"It's really... it's really different here," Magnus says, with a little laugh. "I think I'm still getting my sea legs, so to speak. I really miss Alex, and my friends, but I also kinda feel like since everyone here is so different, fitting in is also different?" He shrugs. "What about you, Qi Yan?"

It startles her that he addresses her by name, rather than title—or a polite indirect address, since she didn't give her title. But she finds it endearing. "How could this humble scholar, whose needs are so few, find anything to complain about here? Do you want to know something I haven't told anyone?" She gives him a mischievous little smile. She can share this lightly, as long as she doesn't go into the details, and she likes the idea of him knowing there is more to her than her outward demeanor. "I was on the point of being executed, when I came. I'm a criminal outlaw. Since this mansion is a great deal more comfortable than imperial prison, it's hard to find any faults."

At this, Magnus gapes. "Whoa," he says, dumbfounded. "Yeah, I can -- I can see how this would be better than execution, for sure."

She laughs a little. It is better, surely. Surely Qi Yan is the only person who would rather be awaiting execution. She remembers the first time she was thrown in imperial prison, when Nangong Jingnu sent her blankets and food and visited her every day. It would not have been like that, this time. "So you see, things could be worse. I hope it starts to feel more comfortable to you."

"Oh, I'm not uncomfortable," Magnus hastens to say. "I actually kinda meant the opposite. I'm not used to being apart from the friends I know, and I'm making friends here." Here, he smiles at Qi Yan. "And I meant that it's actually easier to fit in, because people here aren't very... same-y."

It's interesting to hear this perspective. Qi Yan is not used to being around people like her. Just the opposite. But she is at least used to being around people comprehensible to her. The vast range of differences in this place is beyond disorienting. "I'm glad. Almost everyone here seems to have come alone. An attitude that helps you make new friends is of great value."

"I think so, too," Magnus says, satisfied. He eats his last bite of falafel and washes it down with the root beer. "Are you settling in okay, though?"

Qi Yan cannot think of an honest response to this. She is not happy here, but she cannot think of anywhere else that would make her happier. "As well as I can. It's very different."

Magnus squints at Qi Yan. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"You don't need to." But she considers the request, out of respect for Magnus. "I enjoyed exchanging lessons. I would like to do so again, if you still want to learn about poetry sometime. Although it would be another dry lecture. If you need to learn combat, I'm decent at archery." This is another small fact about herself that she would not have considered saying to anyone a half-month ago.

"I'd love both of those!" Magnus says, eagerly. "I'm happy to trade anything for those. Whatever is most interesting to you."

"Let me take some time to consider it." The list was varied.

"Oh, yeah, of course."

Qi Yan has been so engaged in the conversation, and thinking so deeply, that she never tried the beverage Magnus offered her. She opens the bottle of root beer and takes a sip. It fizzes on her tongue like something fermented, but the flavor is overwhelmingly sweet, with none of the complexity or acidity that would balance wine or kumis. It's not to Qi Yan's taste, but she's not picky either, and she can appreciate the significance of something from one's home.

"I'll think about our next exchange, then. Many thanks for sharing your food with me, young master Magnus." She stands to take her leave, taking the root beer with her, and gives him another small bow.

Grantaire happens to catch the sign by the lounge and is terribly amused upon reading it. However, it does spur an idle thought. He then happens to catch Magnus later, near one of the kitchens.

"So, what to do if the god you're talking to is super particular?"

Magnus swallows the huge bite he'd just taken off the enormous wrap he's constructed from odds and ends in the fridge and clears his throat. "Well, it depends on the god but the first step is to say something polite and, like, ego-stroking or otherwise useful so they don't decide to kill you right then and there."

He turns around as he says it, and he brightens at the sight of Grantaire. "Hey dude! Long time no see, how have you been settling in? Which god have you been dealing with? Not Rosmerta, right?" This last is said with a laugh at his own earlier mistake.

Edited 2023-11-04 05:13 (UTC)

Grantaire chuckles. "Well, good advice to have anyway, yes? Wouldn't want to be left wishing I had gotten the lesson if it turns out I need it." He takes a seat. "I've been settling in well enough, I think."

"Yeah?" Magnus says. He starts arranging his mental notes on dealing with gods so he can start the lesson in earnest, but pauses as something occurs to him. "Hey, did you ever find your friend?"

"My... oh, Enjolras?" He hesitates. "We've spoken."

"Oh good," Magnus enthuses. He takes another bite of his wrap and chews. Upon swallowing, he says, "I told him you were here! When I healed him you were at the forefront of his thoughts. I'm glad you two hooked up."

If Grantaire knew what hidden camera shows were, you could say he's looking like he thinks he might be on one at this moment. "I was at... what?"

"Yeah, like, so," Magnus pauses. "Um, I forget if I told you this but I can heal pretty much most wounds, and he was in bad shape when he got here, so I fixed it! But when I heal people I see the memories at the forefront of their minds. I, um. It's rude to share the details of someone else's memories," no matter how romo-coded they are, "so I won't, but. Yeah. It's nice that you can have a, um, you know. A... friend here. Very lucky, I think."

He's quiet for a moment. "This would have been right after we died, then?"

"I guess?" Magnus says. The others in Enjolras's memory were dying, but Grantaire had been alive and taking his hand. "It was right when he got here, at least."

Grantaire nods. "All right. That makes sense, then." He would have been one of the last things Enjolras saw, after all, of course it still would have been in his head. He heads to the fridge and pulls a bottle of beer out.

"So. Particular gods?"

"Yeah," Magnus says. He puts down his wrap and goes to the fridge to get a measure of mead, since it looks like Grantaire is settling in, then pulls up a seat. "What do you want to know?"

He sits down himself with his bottle and leans back. "Well, I guess I'll start with what you started with. What sort of things would stroke a god's ego?"

"Well, first you should acknowledge a point of their pride," Magnus says. "For example, Heimdall watches over the Bifrost Bridge and can see and hear almost anything anywhere in the Nine Worlds, and he's prophesied to be the god who finally kills Loki, but he'd really rather be complimented on his selfie game. He's very passionate about it. Also --" he lowers his voice to a whisper, just in case --"bad at it. But he loves when people let him show him all of the photos he's taken over the years and talk about how cool they are."

He takes a drink. "Well. I'm not sure I quite understood about half of that, but I think I get the general idea. So... find out the god's interests and let them talk about that?"

"No, you specifically have to gas them up about it," Magnus says. "Okay, another example. Say you run into a god of poetry and that guy's poetry sucks. Or they're the god of poetry but they prefer to be known for their rhythmic gymnastics. You comment on the thing they're obviously more interested in being recognized for, and you give a lot of glowing compliments. If your language is used car salesman-y -- uh, flowery and suck-uppy? -- enough, you don't even have to hide your tone."

He takes a bite of his wrap and washes it down with some mead, squinting at Grantaire. "Like, let's say that you were really into music more than you were into that -- revolution? Rebellion? That thing you were doing when you got here. So instead of being like, 'whoa, Grantaire, you're such a good fighter with such strong convictions,' I'd be like 'whoa, Grantaire, that was a sick lick on the guitar, my man. You should be recognize across the Nine Realms for your prowess with rhymes and power chords, for no one can hope to begin to emulate your greatness there.'

"Or maybe you were really into microbrews even though you were the god, of, like, the ocean. So instead of being like 'dude, that riptide was so deadly' I'd be like, 'this pumpkin spice mead you brewed is the tastiest mead I've ever had the honor of sipping on.' That one actually happened, by the way, when the sea god trapped me and my boat at the bottom of the ocean."

"That's impressive," Grantaire says with a highly amused grin. "So does this work for all gods?"

"Oh, no," Magnus says. "It works really well with the ones who are more self-important, but there are a few that see through it pretty easily. Of the gods I've met, I'd say it would work on, maybe, 80% to 90% of the Aesir and Vanir but only 60% of the Jotnar? My cousin told me that the Greek and Roman pantheons are about the same."

"So not all gods, but most." He nods. "What do you do with the ones who'd see through it?"

"Oh, well, those gods you just have to beat," Magnus says. "In competitions of trickery or might. Or you could be honest with them, but that's a lot riskier."

"So basically, hope you get a self-important god, find out what they like, and flatter them like your life depends on it?"

Magnus considers this for a moment. "Well, like I said, it depends," he decides. "Not just on the god, but on what you want out of the situation."

He nods slowly. "Yes, that makes sense." He takes a long, thoughtful drink from his bottle. "So what if you're not sure what it is you want out of the situation? Just try to avoid the god and situation in question at all costs?"

"Oh, that's not a good idea," Magnus says, setting his half-finished wrap down and taking another sip of mead. "You can't avoid gods. If you don't have a specific objective in mind, then I recommend picking a go-to objective to tide you over. Like 'figuring out what their secret passion is' or 'sucking up to them to curry favor for the future' or possibly 'offering your services on a quest' or something. But god are unavoidable. That's why my lesson is about learning their particularities rather than nopeing out of the exchange."

"You know, I think I'm glad I have not had the acquaintance of nearly as many gods as you have."

"Have you met one, though?" Magnus asks. "To be interested in this particular topic?"

"I... well, no, not really. It's mostly curiosity, I guess. In case I ever do get introduced to one, it could come in handy. And who knows, it's also possible that knowing how to deal with gods could apply in... non-god situations, too."

"So the thing about gods is that they're like people, right," Magnus agrees. "But with a lot more power and a lot more pettiness. Personally? I wouldn't try to manage people the same way I would a god. Seems insulting." He means insulting to the person, who have much more flexibility than gods.

"Gods. Like people, but worse. That makes entirely too much sense."

"Yeah, they're just like -- more." Magnus smiles. "My friend Sam, she's really devout and she's the one who pointed this out to me when she was explaining how she can believe there is only one true god while also having a totally different god from a totally different pantheon as a parent."

"Because a true god wouldn't be as petty?" Grantaire guesses.

Magnus shrugs. "Probably. You'd have to ask her. Her explanation is really good, but I'm still an atheist. Um, maybe for similar reasons."

"Well, if she gets here, then, I'll ask her. Might be interesting."

"Oh yeah, everything Sam says is interesting," Magnus enthuses. "She's the smartest person I know."

"Well, you're clearly pretty smart yourself if you have such a long list of things to teach people."

Magnus squints at Grantaire for a moment, trying to decide if he's teasing. On the one hand, Magnus's mother was always adamant that he was the brightest in the family, even more than Randolph -- though, of course, she didn't know Annabeth, whose mother is literally the Greek goddess of wisdom. You could get in to Harvard one day, she'd used to say, and it made him brave enough to face the overwhelmingly crowded halls of school.

On the other... "Yeah, maybe," he says. "I'm really only offering experiential stuff. I dropped out of high school when I became homeless. Sam is academically smart, too." He smiles, a little reflexively. "I'm offering up the trades because I miss learning and now I have time to do it."

"You're more diligent than I am. I avoided school as much as possible in favor of experiences. Games, frivolities, where to find the best of anything in Paris. I'm very well-schooled in what I sought out, but I'll cheerfully admit that for an art student, my paintings are positively miserable."

"Yeah, that sounds like a choice you made, though," Magnus says with a bit of a self-effacing grin. "I haven't been able to choose like that since I was fourteen, and that was, like..." He still doesn't know what year it is. "Four to twelve years ago, probably."

"Well, that's a range. And at least you're making your choices now."

"Welcome to death," Magnus jokes. "Time sure starts to blur pretty quickly!"

"Let the time blur all it wants. I wasn't really expecting anything on the other side."

"Neither was I," Magnus says. "Turns out death is pretty lit, though."

"I'm mostly enjoying it so far, so I'll defer to your expertise." He frowns thoughtfully. "Oh, but you wanted to trade knowledge, right?"

"Oh! Right," Magnus says. He leans forward eagerly. He'd gotten caught up in the conversation and nearly forgotten.

"I'm just not sure what I could teach you back. I can box, but I'm not sure it's quite enough to be considered 'hand-to-hand combat', and the rest of your list doesn't exactly cover my areas of expertise."

"Oh, it doesn't have to be something on the list," Magnus says, quickly. "That was just a starting list of ideas. What are your areas of expertise?"

"The best spots to go in Paris, although that's not useful here. Billiards, dominoes... I'm all right at tennis, dancing... Oh! And being an annoyance but not so much of an annoyance that your friends won't let you be near them ever again."

"I got that last one down," Magnus says, laughing. "But I'd love to learn any of the others. Though maybe dancing last. It would be weird to dance without Alex here."

"Well, I haven't found a tennis court yet, but if I do, I'll let you know. There's definitely a billiards table, and I've already taught some people the basics there. I wouldn't be shocked if I could turn up some dominoes, too."

"Sounds great, dude," Magnus says, grinning.

Grantaire grins back and nods. "Magnificent! I won't drag you off to teach you anything right this instant, but come find me when you're ready for either and I'll look for dominoes in the meantime."

"I'll do that," Magnus agrees. "I mean, I could go right now. I'm almost done with my wrap. But I won't monopolize your time."

"That's up to you. I really don't have any demands on them whatsoever. Although if you want dominoes first before billiards, you'll have to give me time to find some."

"Hey," Magnus says, grinning. "I've got no agenda. I just wanna learn stuff, you know?"

"I do appreciate that you're casting a wide net as far as what to learn. I think dominoes first, though. Only because I've been playing a truly spectacular amount of billiards lately, so I'd like to enjoy another bit of entertainment for a change."

Edited 2023-11-07 21:46 (UTC)

"All right then," Magnus says, easily enough. "I'll keep my eyes out for some dominoes." He stands then, chugging the last of his mead and taking his dishes over to the sink. "Good luck with your, um, not-a-god?"

"I'll keep my eye out too. And don't worry, I'm sure I'll annoy him quite well regardless."

"You do that, dude," Magnus says, and takes his leave.

Claudius recognizes the name on the sign, Magnus, as the name of a man he'd like to meet -- a man who helped Galahad at his lowest, which makes him a more precious ally than any Claudius would cultivate for his own ends¹. And though he's no longer seeking distractions from a broken heart, Claudius enjoys learning skills for learning's sake. He dwells on the first skill, which has little enough explanation. But Claudius recalls the single handsign he agreed on with Galahad. Galahad has other wants, Claudius knows, that he struggles to voice. Even if he learns to voice them with time, Claudius has seen how distress steals Galahad's ability to speak clearly or at all. A language of signs, even a rudimentary grasp for it, would be most useful.

The trouble is, though he'd like to meet the man, Claudius hasn't the first notion of what Magnus looks like. So he memorizes the areas on the sign, and adds them to his daily circuit of the mansion, keeping an eye out for anyone he doesn't recognize.

¹ Yes, that means Shen Qingqiu is also a precious ally. Claudius isn't going to stop gossiping about him or making fun of him or looking appreciative when Lan Wangji coldly disdains him, but their alliance isn't contingent on such things, surely.

Edited 2023-11-05 12:45 (UTC)

Magnus's hair is getting long again, since Alex is no longer around to drag him aside and forcibly cut it to the length he prefers. It's weird, actually? He's gotten used to it not falling in his face all the time. It feels weirder to have anyone who isn't Alex cut it, though, so today he's thrown it back into a messy little something with a glittery scrunchie he found in his room. The scrunchie is too bright and colorful for his taste, but at least he doesn't have to look at it.

He's walking out of the library with a stack of books on Newtonian physics, agriculture in the Sahel, three different magic systems that sound equally unfamiliar to him, and a collection of Western Apache oral myths -- the latest in his attempts to make productive use of his time here by learning things -- when he sees the unfamiliar man. "Hey, dude," he says, shifting all his books to one hand so he can wave. "Are you new, or have I just not run into you yet? I'm Magnus."

"I'm Claudius," he answers with a quick and ready smile, "I've been here the longest, whatever that dubious distinction is worth, and I believe you're just the man I wanted to find. Magnus Chase? Do you need a hand?" Claudius gestures up and down the tower of books.

"Oh, I'm good, thanks," Magnus says, cheerfully. "I'm a lot stronger than I look, and the stack isn't that wobbly. You were looking for me?"

"For two reasons. One, I saw your notice outside the greenhouse, and I've an interest in exchanging skills for skills." Claudius appreciated that, the way it was posed as a trade. He has an exhausting ledger of favors in his head, and an awareness it will likely never be balanced. "The other is that I wished to thank you. I know you don't know me, but I heard you aided someone ... much beloved to me. His name is Galahad."

"Galahad!" An instinctual smile blooms on Magnus's face. "I love that guy, he's the best."

Claudius laughs with genuine delight, and puts a hand to his heart. “As do I. And, with your permission, I’ll tell him you said so the next time he speaks of his difficulties making friends. It seems he’s found quite a steadfast one.”

"Yeah, that's cool," says Magnus. He's not shy about letting his friends know he cherishes them. "By the way, what aid are you talking about?" They've had a few run-ins, lately, and while Magnus is happy to talk about how great Galahad is with another of his friends, he doesn't want to spread particulars of his business around willy-nilly.

Or... wait. Claudius said beloved. Maybe more than friends, then? Though Galahad usually just talks about Percival, if anyone. Magnus decides not to mention this. He just sets the books down on a handy hall table and crosses his arms, looking expectantly at Claudius.

"The hand you healed. I'd been taking care of it, before his memories returned to him." Which, Claudius realizes, invites the question of why Galahad had been left uncared for. He could leave the question for Magnus to ask himself, or not, or smooth past it to the next subject. But something about Magnus's easy warmth and regard for Galahad makes Claudius want to be honest. "With his memories back I'd convinced myself, rather foolishly, that Galahad didn't wish to see me. And though I tried to send him help, that help was ... sent back. We've since reunited, but you can imagine how grateful I am that his injuries were seen to." And from Galahad's own report of self-neglect, Claudius can imagine how bad those injuries become. Magnus is younger than Claudius expected, perhaps too young to have to handle a crisis older men failed to, but he seems to have done it gladly. Perhaps because Galahad wasn't a crisis to him, but a friend in need.

"Oh, yeah, the hand," Magnus says. He looks at Claudius a little more closely. Galahad had mentioned something about his virginity... and then there had been those memories... but Magnus decided pretty quickly afterward that it was none of his business unless Galahad wanted it to be. So he won't wonder about Claudius right now. "That was nothing. I'm just glad he's doing better." This last is said a little pointedly, but his tone is mild enough that it's not entirely clear that he has any particular or strong feelings about the matter.

Claudius is quite adept at subtle shifts in tone, and he raises his eyebrows with some respect. "Well-put. I've every hope and intention of keeping him happy." Which is strange enough to imagine -- Galahad happy, but he's seen it, and never wants to lose sight of it again.

"Good," Magnus says. Still with the deceptively mild tone, he adds, "Galahad deserves it."

Galahad deserves, as far as Claudius is concerned, all things. He says so. "Galahad deserves the world." He smiles, not quite sure what Magnus's game is, but he enjoys playing it. Claudius does know how it looks, as an older man enamored with someone half his age, and he couldn't blame young Magnus in the least for being wary for his friend. "I admit, that's the other reason I hoped to find you. The exchange of skills for skills -- I wanted something to give Galahad. Another language we could speak in."

Magnus scrutinizes Claudius for a moment longer, then grins and extends a hand to shake. "Then I see we are on the same side here," he says.

(He is, for what it's worth, largely unconcerned with Claudius's apparent age. His good friends Halfborn Gunderson and Mallory Keen are dating, and Halfborn is roughly eleven hundred and fifty years older than Mallory, even though they both look to be in their late teens. Surely Claudius and Galahad haven't beaten that age gap.)

"Do you want to go... somewhere? Into a lounge, or something, or back in the library? Um, that is, if you have time now. We can also do it later."

Claudius clasps Magnus's hand with warm gratitude. "I've nothing but time," he says. "One of the benefits of living here, and not back in my own world with a full social calendar. I understand you had some interest in social studies? My own knowledge is, I admit, rather limited to my own narrow world ... but I served as a royal delegate and diplomat to many of the courts of Europe. I always tried to learn as much as I could about any given place and its practices."

"Oh, that's cool," Magnus says, politely. "Wait, can you teach me diplomacy, too? I often find myself in situations where I'm pretty sure being diplomatic would benefit me. I mean, your experiences in Europe would be sick as-is, but." He picks his books up again. "Also, there's a nice lounge by one of the kitchens?"

"Oh? You've the makings of a diplomat, if that's a path you'd like to follow -- I've observed one or two things already, if you'd care to hear them." To the last, he nods and gestures for Magnus to lead ahead. "I'll follow you to the lounge."

Magnus leads them into the lounge, dropping his books onto a side table before flopping onto the couch. "I'd like to hear them, yeah," he decides. "Samirah is the real diplomat of my group of, um, colleagues." He guesses he's a close second, or maybe a fourth after Blitz and Hearth, because that's kind of essential if you're the Token Peace Dude Of Valhalla. But it's a weird bar, and hard to measure by. "She's my valkyrie. Most Aesir and Jotnir at least listen to her a little bit." This last is said proudly. Magnus loves to brag about his friends.

Claudius laughs and holds up a hand. "Forgive me -- if you've just used a fanciful turn of phrase for a woman who's your battle companion, this question will seem rather naive. But I'm from a Christian kingdom obsessed with its pagan Viking past, and I've already met one angel and one demon here, so I'm rather curious. Is Samirah really a valkyrie?"

Magnus laughs, too. "I'm from a pagan Viking afterlife," he says, and waves. "Hi. Are you from the same place as Laertes? He knew what valkyrie were, too. And einherji?" This last is said with a little gesture toward himself.

"Laertes and I are both of Denmark, yes. You'll test my history sorely, before we've even begun our other lessons," Claudius says wryly. "It's connected to valkyries, yes? Valkyries are supposed deliver the noble dead to Valhalla -- those who died in battle. No matter how Christian the Danes become, I think they still believe it's the noblest thing to die on a battlefield, and pity anyone who dies in their sheets in a time of peace ..." Oh. Wait. He looks Magnus over again. "My apologies. That was a misstep, diplomatically." Did you die in a war? is not a question it's easy to ask delicately.

"It's not just the battlefield," Magnus says, easily. He brings his legs up onto the couch, curling up -- not defensively, just for coziness. "And technically, half go to Folkvanger^*. You just have to be engaged in some kind of... well. I guess battle." He laughs at himself. "Mallory, my friend? She was disarming a car bomb, though, and this one guy who came in the same day as me was trying to attack the water on a sinking ship with a fire extinguisher. Turns out the big thing is that it has to be an act of selfless heroism, so if you're trying to get in on purpose you probably won't. And you have to have something that is arguably a weapon in hand. Alex was extremely well-received in Valhalla. Protecting an old homeless guy who could see through the Glamour from evil wolves with just a clay-cutting wire." He smiles the way he always does when he's thinking about Alex. "But Alex also gave the guy something he could use to defend himself, too. So his could be a valiant death. The einherjar and thanes loved that."

He shakes his head, refocusing on Claudius. "Or -- wait. I bet you were wondering about me, huh? There was a fire giant situation. Surt, actually, if you've heard of him. We were trying to get the same sword that had been lost in the Charles River for centuries, and I was also trying to keep him from killing everyone else on the bridge." Technically, Magnus being there was his uncle's fault. Randolph did a lot of effed up things for reasons he thought were good. Magnus doesn't forgive him, but he does feel bad about the way he died.

*Twice in one week!

This is, to be fair, a lot for Claudius to take in. Words like car bomb and fire extinguisher he more or less takes in context, but the context itself is the trouble. None of Claudus's brushes with other cosmologies have outright contradicted his own -- and to be fair, this one doesn't, either. But it feels as though it ought. The tense contradiction between a pagan past and a Catholic present is why, he thinks, the pulpits bristle with so much brimstone fire: the priests believe they're fighting a war for Danish souls, and have come armed. (And that's not to mention the Lutherans.) And then here's Magnus, with his litany of heroic souls -- truly heroic, not simply celebrated war heroes -- who have somehow slipped between the battle of Heaven and Hell to go somewhere else entirely. Settling back in an armchair, Claudius twists the signet ring around his finger in thought. "I'm beginning to think I should have asked you for lessons on what it's like to truly die," he says after a moment. "You died rather young, didn't you?" It's probably not rude to ask when someone else has broached the subject. "I thought you looked young when I saw you."

"My sixteenth birthday," Magnus nods. "Officially of age, by Viking standards." He had been targeted, as the first son of Frey in Boston in an age; he was the only one who could summon Sumarbrander, and Loki's forces wanted the sword to kickstart Ragnarok. "But that was, like... years ago." He really has to work out exactly how many. He's narrowing it down, though. "Somewhere between six and ten at this point, I think?"

"It's a long time to be sixteen," Claudius notes. He remembers himself at sixteen, a lanky, half-formed thing of nerves and desire. "But I suppose it's time you wouldn't have otherwise. Are the years difficult to count, in the afterlife you come from, or have you simply ceased to count them?"

"They just tend to blur together after a certain point," Magnus says with a chuckle. "I have fewer milestones to pin them on. I know it hasn't been that long, because I have mortal friends and they haven't gotten that much older than me." He wrinkles his nose. This is one of his least favorite parts about being dead.

"You've many friends." Claudius shakes his head, trying to shake off gloomy thoughts of time and eternity. "It speaks well of you ... and of your skills as a future diplomat. You also did an excellent job sounding out my intentions with Galahad. I was impressed."

"What?" Magnus shakes his head. "Nah, dude, I was just being a friend."

"I suppose so," Claudius says, with a small, wavy hand gesture. "I suppose a great deal of diplomacy depends on what you want to use it for. For me, it's always involved sorting allies from enemies. Learning how to say the right words to the right people, who can fall into either category. Finding common ground and compromise, when possible, and making sure a disagreement doesn't erupt into further violence, when necessary. But in political affairs, friendships are hard to find. I rather respect someone like you who identifies and defends their friends easily. It's an asset." It's a very roundabout way of saying he's glad Galahad has a friend like Magnus.

Magnus squints at Claudius for a long moment. What Claudius is describing sounds a lot like life at Valhalla: like learning to manipulate evil dwarfs, and self-interested Jotunn, and distractable gods. Like when he managed to get Jack from Ran's net... at least, up until she put that price on his head.

But he is a smart guy, underneath it all, and he can sort of get what Claudius is hinting at. At least, he can tell that Claudius really likes Galahad; that they have Galahad's interests in common, if from slightly different angles. He holds up his right hand, ring and middle fingers snug against his palm; thumb, pointer, and pinky splayed. "This means I love you," he says. "It's one way to say it, and the one that most people who don't know ASL are familiar with. The other one is --" He points to himself, then forms his hands into loose fists, wrists crossed over his heart, and then points to Claudius.

As a choice of first sign, it shows such a perfect understanding of Claudius's angle and intentions that Claudius can't help but smile at it. He feels a kindling hope for this project -- he knows how to wield spoken words too well and to one purpose, like an archer who has to forget all his old distancing habits in order to fight with a broadsword. If he can put down words as weapons altogether, and learn another way of speaking, he may be able to say something new. He and Galahad might find new ways to speak to and understand each other. "We'll have to go through them one at a time, I think," he says. He has, at least, precise control over his fingers, stretching them out before attempting to recreate the first sign Magnus showed him.

Magnus nods seriously, sitting up a little straighter. "That one is based off of the alphabet," he says. "The pinky extended -- I. The thumb and index finger? L. The thumb and pinky is Y. Sometimes, when people are coy," like the time in the Chase Space when they were pulling together a tiny birthday celebration for one of the kids, and Magnus ducked into the kitchen for the cake Hearth and Blitzen were putting the finishing touches on, and found them flirting instead, "They'll introduce the little finger first." He shows this, like a slow unfurling of his hand.

Predictably, Claudius quite likes the coy version. He likes the way it feels in his fingers, a small, deliberate hint before it unfolds into the full gesture. He copies it both ways, keeping an eye on Magnus as he does so -- both to judge whether he's copying it correctly, and because it feels like part of the communication.

"Yeah, man, exactly," Magnus says. "That's the one that's used more often, as far as I know. The other one is just another way to say it but using the signs for the actual words." He crosses his fists over his heart again. "This means love."

The gesture feels intimate, like clutching something precious and private to one's chest -- enough like love that Claudius thinks he'll remember it. After copying it, he goes through the other signs again, to fix them in his mind and his hands. It feels good to make them. Claudius so often needs something to do with hands, so often twiddles his fingers pointlessly, hiding them behind his back so no one will guess at his agitation. When Galahad was Damien, and they held hands in the garden, it was perhaps the first time he'd willingly shared that side of himself. He thinks of sharing these signs of love with Galahad, and it shows, in how his eyes and smile soften. "You're an excellent teacher," he says, after a moment's practice. "I'd like to learn the signs for other emotions. And how to inquire how someone might be feeling."

"Thanks, dude," Magnus says. He likes teaching, as it turns out. Especially because he's pretty sure his best buddy Galahad is going to benefit from this particular lesson. "Okay, so this is how you ask how someone is feeling," he says, and goes slowly through the signs for it.

"And then, um," he says. "Wait, I'll wait for you to practice first before we get to specific emotions."

Claudius accepts most of the titles people give him for the sake of politeness, but he thinks there's a comfortable and familiar register to the way Magnus says 'dude.' He decides not to return it until he’s quite convinced of its meaning, but the possibility makes him fond.

“See?” he says, in regards to Magnus’s teaching style. “Thou art patient and adaptive.” And Claudius does take the opportunity of Magnus’s patience to work through those signs, one by one, until he can do them quickly and see how they flow and feel together.

Magnus squints at Claudius, midway through compiling a mental list of emotions to focus on. "Are you a flatterer in general?" he asks, curiously. "Or am I just special?"

Claudius laughs at the question, appreciating it. “Most of diplomacy is flattery. But I do try to be specific and sincere in what I flatter — insincere flattery is easily caught, and if you go too far with it, you may cause more offense.” For example, you might offend an emperor, and the emperor might then activate the blood parasites he fed to you. It happens from time to time. “Even sincere flattery can be difficult to accept for certain people. That’s why it helps to be specific. Someone might, for example, reject being called good if they have prior associations with the word, but if I say thou hast been patient in allowing me to practice signs, and adapted thy lessons to what I wish to learn, and who I wish to learn them for, with admirable grace … thou couldst demur, but thou couldst not deny thou hast done those two things.” He smirks. “So yes, I’m a constant flatterer, but thou art special. I remain grateful Galahad has a friend in thee.”

Anyone on Galahad's side is on Magnus's side, he figures, so he might as well explain his perspective to Claudius in full^*. "I'm okay with compliments," he says, which is occasionally true. "And I know I'm good at a bunch of stuff." Including friendship, the most important skill in the world; he is warming to Claudius's flattery on that note. "Loki started out with flattery, too, but he quickly turned to insults when it became clear I wasn't going to help him end the world. And then I had to flyte him about it in the end. So I'm glad yours isn't insincere, that's all."

*By some value of 'in full.'

"That makes you one of two people I know who've refused to bring about the end of the world," Claudius says, with a laugh of surprise and gratitude. It remains one of the most remarkable things Crowley ever told him. Perhaps it's only fitting -- here's two people able to confirm the existence of the afterlife and an overarching eschatolology, and Claudius is still grasping how they both can be true. But at least the end of all things is something malleable. "From the stories alone, Laertes would be quite amused if I were compared to Loki ... but I am sorry for your own experience with the god of lies. I admit I haven't always been the most honest of men. Laertes is one of the friends who keeps me honest -- I find my friendships here have made me more inclined to it than I ever was in Denmark." Because he has to ask, "How did the flyting work out?"

"Oh, I wasn't calling you a liar!" Magnus hastens to clarify. "Or anything like Loki, beyond the very initial flattery." He guesses that Claudius and Loki are also two good-looking guys, but that's hardly the grounds for comparison. A lot of people are good-looking guys. "And trust me, I get having friendships that incline you toward particular ways of being."

He pauses to fix his hair -- it's falling out of the scrunchie, so he pulls the scrunchie out, runs his fingers through it to comb it out, and tries for a teeny ponytail, or something. "The flyting went... fine," he says, modestly. "I won and we trapped Loki in a walnut shell and gave him back to the gods. I'm pretty sure they let Sigyn go back to wherever they put him this time, like I asked. She's good people." And an unexpected ally, despite her weird devotion to Loki.

Then he smiles. "I've decided what emotion words are best to start with," he says.

That sounds about right. Claudius returns the smile. "I'm ready to hear -- and see -- them."

Magnus puts one hand in front of his chest and moves it like he's brushing upward on his breastbone. "This means happy," he says. It's technically only one way of saying it, but he thinks that probably the more informal expression of the word would be most appropriate. Then, he moves his hands next to his face, palms down, and draws them up like he's tossing something behind his ears. "This is overwhelmed." It's only a slight adjustment to show Claudius how to differentiate between overwhelmed in a good way, and overwhelmed in a bad way, and so he shows those variations next, and waits to make sure Claudius is keeping up.

"You were right to start with those," Claudius says. There's a deep unhappiness in Galahad, but it will help to know when Galahad is happy, too. It's something Claudius might notice more, if he and Galahad exchange signs for it, when Galahad is too embarrassed to speak his happiness out loud. But Claudius also enjoys the way this sign feels -- there are also times, he supposes, where he might sign happy to Galahad. Many more than Claudius says, and Claudius considers himself effusive. And it will help to have signs for when Galahad is overwhelmed. It would've helped every time Galahad became too overwhelmed for words, and Claudius asked more and more questions to try and pry some message from him.

Magnus nods -- he knows he was, but since it's not like Claudius is testing him on his knowledge of Galahad or anything, there's no point in mentioning that. "Good," he says, watching Claudius replicate the signs. "Your fingers should be a little flatter there -- yeah."

Claudius nods with appreciation for the correction -- one benefit from learning face-to-face with someone, rather from observing at a distance, or reading from books. When traveling Europe, Claudius learned many languages by affecting a clumsy ignorance, even when he'd prepared his vocabulary ahead of time. He immersed himself in courts, letting courtiers speak past him, getting a sense for how speech flowed through the room, noting the words of those who held the most sway and charm. He also learned by flirting, of course. Most of his Spanish is flirtation.

But he's always had a mind for languages. Beyond exchanges or excuses, there's a pleasure in learning for a purpose -- to communicate, to connect. Grateful for Magnus's instruction, Claudius flexes his fingers in preparation for the next lesson.

Some time after the events of the truth spell, zombie attack, and subsequent fallout, Magnus finds Claudius working outside in the gardens. Magnus doesn't look like a guy who's been living in the forest for over a week -- his hair is mostly clean, and he's managed to keep it free from sap -- but he is still barefoot and in soft clothes.

"Hey, dude," he calls, and when he knows he has Claudius's attention, he signs, what's up?

Claudius looks up from reburying bulbs the squirrels had gotten into, as though they'd sensed he needed another chore to keep his hands occupied. He looks up to see Magnus with a bright smile, giving the small salute of hello before taking off his gloves to make his signs clearer. Too much, he signs, something he learned quickly from Galahad, though he also fits a droll eyeroll in between the sharp framing of his hands. Too much. Overwhelming. But ... He crosses his fingers and holds them out, holding that thought.

It's challenging. The things that are occupying his mind right now outstrip his vocabulary -- not just in signs. He's accepted that, with all the facts in evidence, it's simpler and more straightforward to accept his life was written and predetermined by an English playwright. It changes less than he thought, because he'd worked through so many ad hoc explanations beforehand. A play that revealed his worst sin, as relayed by a ghost, was shattering enough to accept. The realization that events continued to unfold in that play, and foretold a future he hadn't yet lived, was tricky, but Shen Qingqiu had the previous experience to walk him through it. Untangling how, exactly, William Shakespeare was able to capture the of his life already lived and his life to come from hearsay and legends, and how many diverging histories there were, and what that meant for any plan of God's ... that could've been a twenty-four hour mind project¹. At the end of the day, he's still quite glad not to be in the play. And if characters escaping a play can ruin it, there's an appeal to plotting to ruin it as much as possible, and thus ruin the jurisfiction agency's day.

Anyway, Magnus knows about the play. He also knows about The Lion King being based on Hamlet, a fact Claudius was able to learn and pass on in the space of a single day. Happy to see you, Claudius decides on, chaining the signs for happy and see and you together. How are you?

¹ Thank you to anyone out there who catches that reference.

Magnus drops gracelessly down on the ground in front of Claudius, keeping carefully away from the bulbs. Same, basically, he signs, and gives Claudius an imploring look. He doesn't want to add to whatever's overwhelming Claudius, but -- "Dude, I need your help."

"Ask, and 'tis thine." That feels a little formal, despite the informal register -- he really does hear it, when it's the first thing said out loud. Sitting back on his heels, he asks, "What's the trouble?"

"You know stuff about plants," Magnus says, nodding at the bulbs. Galahad had suggested he could probably ask Claudius to teach him about growing things without just using magic. "And you're friends with Hanguang-jun, right? I've seen you guys hanging out."

Claudius casts a ruefull look on a half-eaten bulb. "I know a few things," he says. "I know tulip bulbs are toxic to humans and cats but squirrels, it seems, can't help nibbling on them for their savor. And," he says more proudly, "I do have the fortune of calling Hanguang-jun a friend." He has to practice saying it the way Magnus does, not in the breathless tones he's heard Wei Wuxian use. Hanguang-jun. Still a little flirty, but in context, he hopes it sounds fond.

Leaning forward earnestly, Magnus says, "Has he told you about where he comes from? Cloud Recesses? I keep thinking -- I don't know what it's like there, just that they use jade tokens instead of keys--" Absently, his hand comes up to grip the token Lan Wangji gave him. "But I recognize most of the plants here, and maybe that means he doesn't?" Magnus's knowledge of the natural world is woefully small for the son of a natural world god. "And I want him to be comfortable, you know? In case he doesn't. I had Galahad bring me a book on the, like, native vegetation of China, because that's the closest I can come to figuring out if there's a version of his world in my world, but then I was like, maybe this is all wrong, maybe Claudius will know." He smiles at Claudius. "And then Galahad mentioned he's been helping you with the gardens, and I was like, perfect, maybe me and Claudius can figure out a way to grow Hanguang-jun something that feels like home." It has recently become very, very important to Magnus that Lan Wangji doesn't get homesick.

Then he casts a glance at the bulb. "And I can tell the squirrels to cut it out, if you want," he offers: a trade, in case Claudius prefers one to an out-and-out favor for Magnus. "I'm pretty sure it's just Hubert trying to prove that he's grown up and self-sufficient now."

Edited 2023-12-12 17:44 (UTC)

With the series of realizations he's had to make, Claudius doesn't let the offer slow him. It does raise another concern. "Can the squirrels understand you as well as me?" he asks. "If so, please pass on my apologies to Hubert. I do want to have tulips, but I shouldn't have made ungentlemanly remarks." They were, to be fair, the most delicate yet cutting remarks a man has ever made in the direction of a squirrel. There was a lot about decorum and proportion, which might sting for a young squirrel out on his own.

That said, he smiles. "Hanguang-jun speaks of you the way he speaks of his brightest disciple -- quite impressive, given the shorter span of time we've spent here. I see why. It's already a remarkably thoughtful idea, and here you are, studying and seeking counsel for it." Claudius believes Lan Wangji would be touched, which is the only thing that saves it from being the most overdone flattery and teasing¹. "I think we can help each other." He signs sorry instead of saying it, not wanting to get caught up. "That sounded rather scheming and calculating, but it just so happens Lan Wangji has told me about the Cloud Recesses, and the places he would be proudest to show a visitor. He mentioned magnolia, which flowers twice a season, and groves of bamboo. I'm growing gentian flowers for him, but I don't want to present them alone in a seed tray. I'd like to arrange something rather more thoughtful, and also work more on methods to preserve plants throughout the winter. I've books that tell me I should invest in a full spectrum LED lights. Do I look like a man who knows where to find a full spectrum LED light? We should combine our research."

¹ It's a bit much, that's all.

"I don't think most animals pay attention to humans who can't understand them, but I could ask? And I don't know anything about preserving plants," Magnus says, a little ruefully. "And I don't know if it'll be good for them to just, like, zap them with summer every day... I think they probably need to hibernate. Bamboo, gentians, and magnolia, huh? I wonder if they have, like, seeds here for those things."

There's a relief, Claudius thinks. He doesn't have to ask Magnus to apologize to the birds next, for always openly and shamelessly speculating about their personal lives. He likes to imagine he and the birds have built up a rapport at this point, but one can never be sure.

"Fortunately, autumn is the best time of year for collecting most seeds. I couldn't tell you when to find bamboo seeds -- that may be a subject for mutual research," he says, looking forward to the idea, and wanting to assure Magnus all the answers needn't come at once. "Magnolia flowers in spring and late summer, yielding some of the strangest-looking fruits. You won't be able to mistake them the next time you see them. But for a tree, it might be preferable to take a cutting ... I don't know the extent of your ability to, ah, zap plants with summer. But it's preferable to take cuttings in the growing season. Would you be able to make, say, a branch of a tree believe it's summer long enough for me to show you?" If he were in mixed company, he might rein in his excitement to perform untried experiments in plant propagation. But Magnus has listened to Claudius ramble -- or, in his words, infodump -- on all manner of subjects¹.

¹ Claudius has also infodumped extensively to Galahad about plant science and how cool it is to make plants from other parts of plants and did you know Crowley keeps plants from others climates in a glass house to recreate tropical conditions, which can also be used to extend the growing season -- right, of course you do, you've been there.

"Oh, that's easy," Magnus says. He shrugs, but eagerness is suffusing him. "Are you talking about grafting? One of the books I looked at mentioned grafting."

"Crucial to grafting," Claudius says, with all delight. It's a delight few see unless he's scored some point in a social game he's playing, embarrassed someone or carried off some subtle manipulation. Except, of course, it's about plants. (Plants don't have social lives, except he has read other books that suggest they communicate, and infodumped to Galahad about those, too.) "Grafting takes a cutting from one plant and joins it to another. If one plant has stronger roots, say, then grafting a cutting to it gives the cutting a better chance to survive. We can try that, too. In a way, it's fitting. We've all been grafted a bit here, and Lan Wangji ... he's a traditional man, but I believe he appreciates the benefits of adaptation." But don't get Claudius started on Darwin. That wasn't a purposeful discovery, but it was a fascinating one, and one Claudius spent some time puzzling over, when he was so certain the properties of different species of plants were influenced by celestial bodies, put there by God.

The celestial bodies probably are still relevant. Darwin just hadn't figured that part out.

Magnus, as it turns out, really likes when Claudius gets excited about things. He feels really kindred in those moments. He smiles at the guy. "You think we're getting stronger here?" he asks, hoping that it's true. And then: "How else are cuttings used? If it's not just for grafting."

"Cuttings can grow their own roots, if the conditions are right for them. Depending on the plant, it can be long and slow -- it won't receive all the benefits of being grafted to another, established tree. But once the roots come in, it can be planted in soil, and grow into a tree all its own. As for us," he says, eyes bright and smiling, "in many ways, many of us have already gotten stronger. Grafted plants can make use of each other's resistances, bear the stress of changing seasons, become something new. They're a bit unnatural -- some even say sinful. But to a tree that wouldn't flourish otherwise, what's a little sin against nature?" He laughs. "I may be overextending my metaphor. But needless to say: here I've seen many people learn from each other and grow together, in circumstances far from natural."

"I don't think I really believe in sin like that," Magnus says, consideringly. "But that's super cool about cuttings. I had no idea they could grow roots. I mean, I know about putting an avocado pit in water, but."

"Now you must educate me," Claudius says, quite happily. "What is an avocado? I suppose it must be a stone fruit, if it has a pit."

"Oh, yeah, I guess?" Magnus doesn't actually know the provenance of the avocado, besides the fact that it grows on trees. "They're green, the flesh is. They're super tropical? And their texture is kind of firm banana-y? They're the main ingredient in guacamole, which is one of the best non-falafel foods out there."

Claudius fingerspells falafel, f-a-l-a-f-e-l, then smiles with the joy of a connection made. "That's right, you had made the offer to teach why falafel is the finest of foods. You must've been the inspiration for that meal. Ordinarily, I only sit down to eat when there's company and conversation, and there's no custom of that here -- I can go a long while without eating, and Galahad takes exception to it." He says this with fondness for Galahad, and no concern whatsoever for himself. "Once, after gardening together, we went back to the kitchen where I only intended to make instant coffee. When I told him so, he took a plate of falafel from the cold box and said," Claudius fingerspells falafel again, then signs eat. "I did rather enjoy it. And the yogurt sauce -- does that have a name?"

"Galahad should take exception. Everyone's gotta eat, dude," Magnus says -- a little sternly; he has a vested interest in Galahad's happiness. "Was it, like, thick and spreadable, or did it have stuff in it?"

It would be the most spoiled thing a prince could say to someone once homeless, that he lost his interest in meals around the same time he gave up on feasts. When frantic with mania or dulled by depression, or in the even-humored stretches where he hasn't built the habit, the necessity of a food is a distance annoyance at best, nothing to look forward to the way he looks forward to breaking Galahad's fast or approving the results of his baking practice. Talking about the food, however, makes it interesting again, as he considers the question¹. "There were herbs. Dill, I think -- the leaves have a distinctive shape -- and mint. And a crisp, green vegetable, with a refreshing sort of flavor."

¹ He could stand to have a test taste with friends. No, shots with Crowley don't count.

Edited 2023-12-20 13:18 (UTC)

"Jajik," Magnus says, satisfied. "The vegetable is cucumber. It's really good, right?" He sighs a little, though, thinking back on everything else Claudius has said in the past few minutes. "I think communal meals are what I miss most about Valhalla. Battle Practice sucks, but after, every night, everyone sits down to a feast of Saehrimnir and mead, and Saehrimnir always tastes like exactly what you want it to taste like. There's a beef flank, and a pork flank, and a poultry flank, and a tofu and bean curd flank. I mean, sometime the feasts are a little, like, 'hey, can we get a little less cultural appropriation up in this afterlife, my guys!' and it sucks when you have to be the center of attention at one, but it's still nice to be in that kind of environment."

Claudius smiles, with sincere surprise to hear some of his own opinions reflected by Magnus. "All the traditions for feasts in Denmark must have roots in the same traditions as Valhalla's. Not, of course, that we still have mythical, self-rejuvenating beasts with multiple flanks ... but everything else sounds the same. We may even share the unfortunate amounts of cultural appropriation, depending on what that term means." It sounds like something Danish feasts would have in spades, at least from Claudius's perspective.

"It's when you copy elements of another culture but do it in a way that erases their context and meaning and is ultimately somewhere between 'a little fucked up' and 'majorly fucked up,'" Magnus explains. "Kind of fetishizing? Kind of imperialistic slash colonialistic? Valhalla loves it, unfortunately. Tons of Luau Nights and stuff like that."

"Ah, I see. At Danish feasts, there tend be a lot of men who've only encountered other cultures through military campaigns, so they see everything in terms of conquest and spoils of war. Anything valuable somehow loses its history, and because some Dane stole it back when we were still pillaging monasteries, Denmark still claims it now. It's as true of traditions as it is of relics." He sighs. "I know it sounds like I'm complaining about the feasts. But really, I'm complaining about my family. It's the company that makes a meal."

"Oh yeah, that sounds like cultural appropriation," Magnus nods. "I guess it makes sense that Danish feasts sound kinda like Viking feasts."

"I'd wager most of the traditions around drinking come from Viking feasts. All the pledge drinking -- I think it's the same as heitstrenging, without an animal sacrifice. To be a man of state, you need a second stomach for wine and liquor, because every oath is sworn by draining a flask of Rhenish, with kettle-drums and trumpets to sound out the pledge¹. But the queen, my sister-in-law --" Thus far, Claudius has been select in showing the layers of what Queen Gertrude means to him. There was a time, newly arrived, when he'd be reluctant to speak of her as anything but the queen he respected. If he spoke of her as his dear sister, he'd separate it from any feelings of longing, to the point that Laertes was surprised when Claudius spoke of his intention to marry her. If he spoke of the woman he loved, he'd never speak of her by name, except to Lan Wangji. That name was like a precious pearl, a union thrown in a cup to drink to better health, not to be tossed around carelessly. But Gertrude is in a play. And Claudius is sure his hopeless feelings for her are the in the play, too, because his story isn't much without it. "Gertrude had a way of making anyone feel welcome," he says. "That made the company at feasts more varied, the conversation more interesting and convivial, and the whole affair much more communal. At least for me. I used to be far less sociable."

"I feel that," Magnus says emphatically. He wonders if Gertrude is Claudius's Percival — if she's a friend that Claudius felt more deeply for back home, but who he couldn't be with for some reason. God, or country, or duty, or prophecy, or whatever. He's glad that his friends could find each other here, if they both have someone off limits and/or unrequited back home. It does make him miss Alex more acutely, though — his person ~~loves?~~ likes him back, and obviously Magnus couldn't possibly be interested in anyone else, but he's just as separated from Alex as Galahad and maybe-Claudius are from their people. He offers: "Sometimes my boyfriend Alex skips the nightly thing in the Feast Hall of the Slain to chaperone our valkyrie — Sam and Alex have the same parent — with her betrothed, and it's always a little less fun without him there. More gritty and doom-y, you know." He pauses, thoughtful. "Alex doesn't bother trying to make other people feel welcome though. It's more that when he's there, everything is better. Easier to manage."

"I understand that feeling, too," Claudius admits with a soft, fond smile. "There are people whose presence reassures simply because of who they are."

"Like Galahad," Magnus says, confidently, because same. "And Gertrude?"

"The both of them, yes. I would they could meet." Another admission, but it's very easy to admit things in front of Magnus's easy sympathy. Claudius wishes he could tell Gertrude a story about the beautiful boy he met and fell in love with -- but he can't ever return to his own world. His role in that story that ends in her death. Somehow it's safer to imagine Galahad and Gertrude meeting, unlikely as it is¹. "Galahad sets me at ease even when he himself is uneasy. We share something, a kindred feeling, so I could sit quietly with him in a raucous hall and feel reassured by him. When I was younger and clumsier in conversation, Gertrude would share such comfortable silences with me. She's perceptive, insightful, and she has that welcoming way about her. She'd see Galahad's virtues -- which you know are many -- and understand how to speak with him." And speaking with Galahad is a worthwhile, precious gift. Naturally Claudius would want it for someone he loves.

¹ This is a shameless use of the dramatic irony lever.

Edited 2024-01-05 16:21 (UTC)

"What, like it's hard?" Magnus asks; he's never had any difficulty talking to Galahad and can't really imagine why anyone would. He guesses Galahad can be a little quiet around other people, though? But Magnus also doesn't really go for crowds, so.

Wait. That was probably rude. He grins at Claudius, a little self-effacing, and gestures at all the plants around them. "By the way, can I help with any of this? Can you show me?"

And then he says, "It's nice when you know someone who gets it. Galahad definitely gets it, you know? There's this song I heard back home that goes, like..." He tries to remember the lyrics. It's not one that he loves, but it's one his mom used to play at least once a month. He hums for a moment, then sings, "'Have you ever been alone in a crowded room? Well I'm here with you.' That's, like, the ideal, right?"

"I really do need to listen to more of your world's music," Claudius muses out loud. "Whenever you quote from a ballad, it's something poignant and relevant¹." Waving aside that thought and giving Magnus a smile, he says, "I can show you a few things that need gardening, if you're willing. First, let's go look for a magnolia tree and get that cutting."

¹ For example, the poignant, relevant verses of 'No Scrubs.'

"Oh, I'm willing!" Magnus hops easily to his feet and extends a hand to help Claudius up.

Claudius takes that hand with warm gratitude, and once up, will lead them away to the garden's magnolia tree for their first experiments in propagation.

Galahad is primarily interested in finding Magnus for the sake of finding him, and the note about areas to look is helpful. He has his sketchbook with him and, because it's not Friday, a bottle of Mountain Dew Code Red.

Magnus is in his favorite lounge, engrossed in a book on how to create filigree. He looks up when Galahad comes in. "Hey!" he says, standing up and opening his arms for a hug, only belatedly realizing that Galahad might not think them on hugging-hello terms. Oh well, if it's rejected he can pretend he was just stretching. "What's up, my dude?"

He always likes a hello-hug, and since Magnus is asking for it it's not, he decides, wrong of him to accept it. He hugs back, taking a moment to observe all the things Magnus smells of -- clay and fried chickpeas and summer grass.

"Would you like to go outside?" Overformal, but he's not sure how else to ask.

"Gods, yeah," Magnus says, releasing Galahad a little reluctantly. Dude gives a good hug. He's not going to learn filigree anytime soon -- it seems really hard. "I could really use some fresh air."

Edited 2023-11-09 00:34 (UTC)

"What were you reading?"

"An instruction manual on making filigree," Magnus says. "I think it's about sixteen steps ahead of where I'm at with making things, which is still coil pots out of clay. But my friend Blitzen -- he's a dwarf -- he's really good at smithing, so I was also imagining what it would be like if he tried this."

"Tell me about him?" He has, at this point, figured out that Magnus likes talking about his friends, and he likes listening to Magnus talk.

Magnus touches Galahad's elbow, guiding him toward the hall. As they walk, he starts to tell him about Blitzen. "He's really cool," he says. "He and Hearthstone -- Hearth's an elf, he's Deaf and he's Blitzen's boyfriend -- it turns out they watched over me when I was homeless, cuz they knew I was a demigod and that Loki wanted to target me due to all those prophesies. But for years I thought they were some dudes who were just being kind to a kid who was down on his luck. People at the shelters used to call them my mom and dad." It's clear he's touched by this, even though he doesn't particularly like to call anyone but his mom 'mom.'

"Anyway, Blitz is technically my cousin? His mom is my dad's sister, even though we don't really track relationships on the godly side since, uh, that gets really complicated." In a stage whisper, he adds, "A lot of gods are kinda hos. And deadbeats. Not a useful family relationship to track."

They reach the door of the Mansion. Magnus holds it open for Galahad.

He ducks through. He's already glad he asked -- Magnus explaining things is like Percival explaining things, full of chaos and aside jokes, and even when Galahad can barely follow he likes it. His smile is so quick Magnus probably won't get a chance to notice, but it does pass through.

"Where to now?" Magnus asks. "Man, this was a good idea. It's so nice out today." There's a crisp autumnal chill on the air, and an invigorating breeze. As he waits for Galahad's response, he thinks about what to say about Blitzen next.

"The lake," decisively.

So Magnus turns toward the lake. "Blitzen is really into fashion," he says. "He doesn't think he's a master crafter? But he made Hearth a tanning bed so Hearth can stay with him in Nidavellir without getting, like, sick or whatever -- elves need sun; dwarves can't tolerate it. One time, Blitz had to duel Eitri Junior to get the rope needed to re-bind Fenris Wolf," here, he shivers; he hates Fenris. "So they had a craftsmanship competition. He made metal expand-o-ducks, which, turns out giants freaking hate those guys. Great in a battle against Jotunns. Fun little tip from me to you. His other things were chain mail neckties and vests. They looked really good? Super fashionable, and handy if, for example, your girlfriend is beheading-happy."

This last is said blissfully. Alex has only beheaded him when he really needed it, but sometimes they like to tease each other.

"He has a store now. Blitzen's Best. Sells clothes in Boston, all of his own design, all involving really sick metalwork. So I was looking at the book and thinking, it would be nice if I could ask him to show me how he does what he does. I don't know that I'll get the chance anytime soon, now."

Galahad nods. He doesn't actually think he knows how to say anything comforting, so he chooses silence and hopes Magnus will understand it's well-meant. He expects Magnus will keep talking without him saying anything.

It's one of those fall days when the leaves are starting to drop and the air is cool but the sun is still capable of creating heat when there aren't any clouds to block it. The goldenrods and asters along the path are losing their color as their white fluffy seeds supersede the flowers, and there are rustles in the bushes from small birds and mammals. Galahad catches Magnus' sleeve to stop him -- there's a jay in the bush honeysuckle plucking bright red berries and gulping them down like there's a contest to win. It's the single Stellar's Jay, and it's blue-black. It cocks its tail and flies over their heads.

Magnus stops, following Galahad's gaze until it lands on the bird.

"Hey," he calls after it. "Can you come back here for a bit so my friend and I can, uhhhh, admire you?"

Why not, the bird says, and flies back to them. You better have a treat for me, though.

"Um," Magnus say to Galahad. "You don't happen to have a treat for the bird, do you?"

He only has the Mountain Dew and his sketchbook, and he shakes his head quietly, but it's impossible not to be thinking of Percival and the unicorn, Percival catching the cicada, Percival finding birds' nests and badger dens and making friends with every stray dog in Camelot. Galahad has the foolish light-footed thought that maybe God isn't angry with him after all, if He's let him have another Percival -- maybe it's as Tress said in the very beginning, that His silence is only trust -- but he knows that that can't possibly be true. He's just been fortunate that people here are kind.

"What else does it say?"

Magnus thinks for a moment, then encourages some of the longer grass along the worn path to grow to seed. "How's this?" he asks the bird.

The bird cocks its head. Adequate, it tells him.

"Can you understand my friend when he talks to you?" Magnus asks, then.

Yes, the bird says. Tell him my name is Phil and I like peanuts.

"Phil likes peanuts," Magnus tells Galahad, dutifully.

He files this away. He's only seen one bird like the jay, so it shouldn't be that hard to remember its likes.

"Can you talk to all birds?"

"As far as I know," Magnus says. "Not all birds are chatty. Robins and crows definitely are; they'll come right up and talk to you. I guess others have to be approached?" He shrugs. "Other animals too, actually. We had to kill Hearthstone's dad after he turned into a ring dragon, and I accidentally consumed his heart's-blood, and ever since then... Bam! Weird new powers."

Are you done with me? Phil asks. I'm bored.

"Yeah, you can go," Magnus tells him. "But come back sometime, we'll try to dig up some peanuts somewhere."

Galahad watches the jay fly back to the bush honeysuckle and grips his sketchbook tighter. He wants to ask Magnus if they can try talking to every bird, and the cervids he's seen glimpses of in the forest, the frogs and snakes down by the lake that always leap or slither away before he even sees them. He wants to know what every animal wants. If Magnus asks, maybe they'll stay long enough to be touched -- or drawn.

He wants Magnus to know he's wonderful. He makes Galahad want to surprise him, the same impulse that made Galahad unafraid of Temeraire when he first met him, because Percival would have loved to meet a dragon. Galahad wants to share something with Magnus that's as wonderful as all the things Magnus has shared with him (his hand shakes on the bottle of Mountain Dew, which is another of those things).

Instead he says nothing.

The look on Galahad's face is... rapturous, maybe? It touches Magnus. He likes that look very much. He touches Galahad's elbow again, and continues on toward the lake. He keeps his eyes peeled for more animals, though -- Galahad looks good when he's looking at animals -- and starts chattering again in the meanwhile.

"Like I said, I got this skill in Alfheim. Where the elves live. Alfheim sucks, actually? It's like the worst McMansion suburbia you can imagine, and they've paved down most of the land so almost none of it is wild anymore, and pretty much every elf I've met besides Hearthstone is kinda a dick. There are a few wild spots, but they only keep them because they've forced all the hulder into servitude and since hulder are nature spirits, they need that to survive. The Alfheim police pulled us over, actually, and it was so dumb? They kept kissing my ass because of my dad, and they were such dicks to Hearthstone just because he can only talk in sign language, and turns out elves? Not great about disability."

It is, Magnus thinks, possibly an indictment against is father, actually. Since Alfheim is under Frey's jurisdiction, and Alfheim sucks ass.

As they walk the rest of the way to the lake, he listens -- he is, like Magnus, keeping an eye out for animals. "Disability?" as they reach the shore.

"Yeah, like," Magnus says. "Hearthstone is Deaf, and he can read lips I guess but primarily uses sign language, and none of the other elves would use it with him. They'd just say effed up things about his 'pointless gestures' and talk to him verbally and get mad that he wasn't just like everybody else and couldn't say things back to them. Um, but disability includes other things as well? People who are blind, people who can't walk, people whose brains work differently enough that stuff most people think of as regular is especially difficult." He shrugs. "Before I died, I had really bad asthma and sometimes panic attacks, too. That's, like, really low level, but it still made life harder in some ways."

Edited 2023-11-09 16:44 (UTC)

There are a lot of threads in this he wants to follow, but the most immediate thing is the one that affects Magnus. "What are those?"

"Well, like," Magnus shrugs. "I was really scrawny before I died. I'm still not, like, super buff, but -- I couldn't run. And attacks also hit me at total random? So I'd be going about my day and suddenly it felt like someone was tightening a belt around my chest so I couldn't breathe. It really impacted my sleep. Being outside helped," he remembers. "Which was good, because when I was homeless I could just sleep in a park or whatever instead of dealing with a shelter. Like, I'm glad the shelters are there, but temperature doesn't impact me and I don't like being in crowds. But yeah. It made playing harder, and sleeping harder, and at a certain point you start avoiding doing things because you're just anticipating how bad it can get, so you don't want to give it the chance. And then you miss out on a ton of activities."

The texture of his silence shifts and his voice is careful when he asks, "Does it still happen?"

Magnus glances at Galahad. "I don't have asthma anymore," he says. "Perks of being an einherji. But I can still remember it, like, viscerally, and it..."

He looks out across the lake as they come up to it. "I still don't like things that remind me of it. The panic, too, still... Yeah. Sometimes. I still don't like crowds. Or wolves. Or things that remind me of the feeling of an asthma attack, like... I don't like to be touched?" He remembers holding Galahad's hand, though, and how nice it felt. "Except with specific people. You're okay. You're safe, like Alex or my mom. But with other people... I mean, now I have all these weird powers, so sometimes I'll accidentally blast out a Peace of Frey if things get too intense. That was the thing I did when I disarmed you when we were sparring, but then it was because I was getting tired, not because I was overwhelmed."

Galahad sees no reason not to take Magnus at his word regarding touch -- if Magnus is like Percival in so many other things, then he's probably as likely to be honest. He nods, too, at the idea of Magnus accidentally losing control of his powers when he's overwhelmed, which feels of a kind with Galahad's holy fire, even if he's only been upset enough to use it once.

He processes you're safe a moment later and looks back at Magnus in surprise.

Magnus notes the surprise, but can't imagine what he might have said that would cause it. "What?"

A quick shake of his head. "What helps?"

"With the panic?" Magnus asks. He gives the question all due consideration. "It depends, I guess. For me, going outside really helps. Finding a place that feels... wild, and green, and fresh. If I can't get outside, then a quiet, dark room. Preferably empty. Focusing on my breathing, or counting, or talking myself through easy steps for something familiar. Or, like --" he blushes a little. "Putting my head in the lap of someone safe and having them stroke my hair, sometimes, if someone's around. I think? It's worked with Alex and it used to work with mom. Usually realizing that it's panic and not my asthma coming back helps it stop fastest."

"Because you know what it is then."

Galahad as a way of cutting to the heart of things, Magnus thinks. He likes it very much. "Yeah," he agrees.

"I like that too. To know what things are."

In the lake a fish jumps, sending ripples across the water.

Magnus nods in agreement. There's a dragonfly darting amongst some reeds, stubbornly clinging to the last vestiges of warmth in the wake of the summer. Magnus nudges Galahad and nods to it, and its iridescent wings.

He quickly puts the bottle down and opens his sketchbook. He already knows from experience that the dragonflies rarely stay still long enough for any kind of study, but he still keeps trying, as a number of half-finished drawings will attest.

Magnus lowers himself to the ground as Galahad draws, sprawling inelegantly for a moment before leaning over to pick some wildflowers. He starts weaving them together into an elaborate plait -- something to do with his hands as he scans for any other animals he can call over to Galahad.

Oh! There! A chipmunk! "Hey," Magnus calls, quietly. "Want some seeds?"

It seems the chipmunk does. It moseys closer, nose twitching.

He fiercely wants to look, but he keeps his eyes on the dragonfly until it suddenly takes to the air again. Freed, he drops down to the grass beside Magnus, putting yet another unfinished charcoal dragonfly aside so he can look for whatever animal Magnus called.

"Where?" softly.

"Hold out your hand," Magnus says, just as softly, reaching over so he can drop some grass seeds into Galahad's palm. Then he nods off to Galahad's left. "Chipmunk, there."

A chipmunk isn't a unicorn, but it feels the same right now, the same gift, almost holy. He extends his hand, holding his breath without realizing it.

The chipmunk goes up to Galahad, cautiously.

"He's safe," Magnus says, encouragingly.

None of you are safe, the chipmunk says. Even if you can talk normal. But he has seeds... It darts closer, nose twitching, and grabs the seeds from Galahad's hand before dashing away.

"What did it say?"

"No humans are safe, basically," Magnus says. "But that seeds make up for the risk."

That seems fair, honestly. Galahad retrieves his sketchbook, and hopes that Magnus won't mind if they just sit in silence for a while.

Magnus is totally content with silence. He rolls over to pick some more plants -- long, thin grasses, flowers with hollow and shredding stems, a wiry vine-like thing he doesn't immediately recognize -- and tries to practice what he'd learned about filigree with them It's hard. Plants are nothing like metal, and he has no way of forcing them to stay in place -- though he wonders, idly, if he could summon enough heat to melt metal into place, and then he takes a moment to marvel at the fact that he's been using his alf seidr so much more indiscriminately here than he does in the Nine Worlds. He likes it, though. Wild that peaceful innate Vanir magic is well-suited to times of peace.

The other thing about plants, Magnus is coming to realize, is that they're a lot bigger than tiny little wires. This pattern, which arguably could be used for a circlet, is much more appropriately sized to be a sash, or something like it. He holds it up between himself and Galahad, and squints. Yeah, definitely sash-sized.

While Magnus is absorbed in working with the plants, Galahad is sketching them. He's good at copying -- when he doesn't have something in front of him, it's almost impossible to conjure it in his imagination, let alone reproduce it on paper, but when he can see the rose mallow pods on their stalks it feels easy to imitate them. Periodically he takes a drink of his Mountain Dew.

Eventually he feels relaxed enough to say, "Shen Qingqiu and I thought we could have a game night. All three of us, I mean."

"Oh, that would be awesome," Magnus enthuses. He sits up and drapes his flower sash over Galahad's shoulder. Yeah, that suits the guy.

Fortunately, in the time it takes him to do that, he re-thinks joking about the game night serving as an inaugural meeting of the daddy-and-god-issues club. Instead, he says, "What kind of games were you thinking?"

"I don't know any." A brief smile at the flower sash. "I never played games, before."

"Well, there's board games and there's games of skill," Magnus muses. "And I think sometimes people do storytelling games?" He sits up even straighter. "Oh my gods. Galahad. I want you to absolutely own me at air hockey."

Magnus' enthusiasm makes him smile again, and this time it stays a little longer. "Air hockey?"

"Yeah!" Magnus says. "It's like... there's this table with tiny holes that shoot air up in a way that makes the puck -- like, a small flat disc? -- move around really easily. And you're holding onto a thing that basically looks like a small, hard top hat, which you use to slam into the puck and try to push it through your opponent's goal -- kind of like a slot the puck can fall through? -- while protecting your own goal from them doing the same thing. With your reflexes you'd wipe the floor with me, but in a really fun way."

He grins at Galahad. "Oooh, but I bet I could at least tie you in foosball once or twice. It's another table game where you're spinning these four staggered rods with little figures -- like cylinders -- that are attached to them, and you're using the cylinders to try to knock a little ball into each other's goals. I mean, once you got the hang of it you'd probably beat me there, too." This clearly doesn't phase Magnus, the least aggressive einherji in Valhalla, who beat Loki in a flyting because of how much he loved his friends being really good at stuff.

"I'm only skilled with weapons. Games I don't know. You might best me no matter what."

"Oh, sometimes air hockey can feel like a weapon," Magnus says. "They do it to the death in Valhalla, but even with regular people and pucks that aren't sharp as razor blades it can really hurt your fingers." This, obviously, is a plus. "But I guess we could find out."

He nods. "What else?"

"What other games? There's Candyland. That's a board game. Snakes and Ladders. Settlers of Catan. Um, board games all consist of a board, and pieces, and sometimes cards, and you use them to get points or achieve objectives."

"What else do you like?" he clarifies.

Magnus opens his mouth, then closes it. "You know," he says. "I don't really know? I like not dying in the middle of games, so I usually avoid game nights at Valhalla, and it's been years since I tried one outside of there."

"You can find out too." He looks pleased.

"Yeah! It'll be fun," Magnus says, grinning.

Galahad smiles back. "Thank you."

Magnus nods. "Hey," he says. "Speaking of the guy - Have you figured out how you want Shen Qingqiu to paint you?"

"With flowers."

Magnus glances at the sash he's placed on Galahad's shoulder, and then at Galahad's face. "A good look," he decides. "Do you have any favorites?"

He rolls the edge of the sketchpaper into a tight scroll. "Myrtle."

"Myrtle is good," Magnus says, picturing it. "It'll suit you."

Galahad unrolls the edge, smoothing it out with his fingers. Magnus listens. Magnus understands him. Magnus will understand this.

Finally, he says, carefully, "I want this. To be painted. But it feels-- it feels like a sin."

Magnus considers this seriously. "Sins aren't really a thing in my, um. In Valhalla the only sin is not fighting as hard as you can, basically. Samirah is Muslim, though, and follows really strict rules because she cares about her faith. No touching men outside her family, fasting during Ramadan, praying five times a day, that kind of stuff. And from what I gather, your thing also has... a lot of rules. But I don't know which rules are about sins and which aren't. Do you mind, uh, telling me what a sin is? To you?"

He's quiet again, sorting through thoughts and vocabulary. "Sin is word, deed, and desire in opposition to the eternal will of God," though this sounds more like a recitation than his own original idea. "There is ancestral sin, concupiscence, venial sin, mortal sin, cardinal sin, and sin unto death."

Magnus knows what most of those words mean individually, and makes a mental note to look them up. "Samirah fasted for Ramadan during our entire quest to take Loki down, but I did learn that she was allowed to stop because she was traveling and because it a life-and-death situation, both of which are, like... exceptions to the rule. Are there exceptions to sin? Extenuating circumstances?"

"Sin may be forgiven. By a priest in confession and by God in the ultimate. Except sin unto death, because that's apostasy."

Suddenly, it occurs to Magnus that he hasn't actually specifically told Galahad outright that his father is a god. He wonders how he'd take it -- if maybe Galahad would think differently about him, since christianity seems so important to Galahad's whole deal.

"And as far as I know, there's no priests here," Magnus says, nodding. And Galahad had said God hadn't been talking to him since he got here. "Does that... make things harder for you?"

He nods. "It should be once a week. I arrived on the feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Christ and it is now the feast of St. Martin of Tours, that is eight weeks. And--" A sigh, in spite of himself. "It doesn't matter. It feels small. To care about venial sins when I've broken my vows."

"I think it makes sense to care about things that are really important to you," Magnus says. He puts his hand out between them, in case Galahad wants to hold it -- it helped him when Galahad was helping him work through his own stuff the other day. "Even if other conditions change, or things you always thought to be one way aren't that way anymore."

Galahad takes it immediately -- it does help. "Shen Qingqiu told me to feel beautiful, but vanity is a sin." He's quiet for another moment, before he says, "Everything I want is a sin," softer, shame burning his face. To say it aloud feels both terrible and a relief.

Magnus strokes his thumb over Galahad's knuckles. "Happiness is a sin?" he asks -- his tone is one of genuine curiosity, not that of a man who knows the answer and is guiding someone else to it. That would, after all, explain -- some of the park preachers he used to encounter when he was trying to sleep on the benches.

"Austerity is a virtue," with a gasp of a laugh for a joke there's no reason for Magnus to understand. "I want--" To be loved. To be held. To touch things whenever I want. To be kissed whenever I want. To be painted, to paint, to look at myself in the mirror and not feel shame for looking, to eat until I feel sick, to be unafraid of sensuality, to be loved by God even if I did all those things. "Too much."

Magnus is of the opinion that wanting is one of the things that lets you know you're alive, and that you're enjoying life. "Wanting is a sin?" he asks, also just to check.

"I have more strictures. Because God chose me. It's different for other people."

This strikes Magnus as monumentally unfair. At least in his pagan afterlife, if a god likes you, they give you things, and most of those things -- well, they might not be good, necessarily, but they're not aversive. "And god told you this?" he says, trying to remember what Galahad had mentioned about talking to god back when Magnus was healing his hand.

Galahad nods. "He has been with me since I was a child. This is the first time He's not told me what to do."

"I haven't been able to reach my -- um, the gods I know, either." This is said thoughtfully, but only because all of Magnus's thoughts are focused on processing what Galahad is telling him. He doesn't want to say outright that he thinks Galahad's god is a bully with weird standards.

"It's-- hard." With the hand Magnus isn't holding, Galahad rolls up the edge of paper again, making it tight. "I'm used to--" To being told, he thinks. To following directions. To knowing exactly what to do because it's laid out plainly, and even if he can't understand what people expect he at least knows clearly what God does. To taking the knowledge of what he wants and burying it down within himself where it can't hurt anyone he loves, which has always meant only Percival but now is expanding definition at a stomach-turning pace. "Not choosing," he finally settles on.

This, Magnus can understand. "Oh shit, yeah," he says. "It's really... unmooring, right? To suddenly have options and not know which you can take or what they'll do if you take them?"

An emphatic nod. "It was easier. Now I feel-- there's too much. I get-- caught."

"I think it's kinda like a muscle," Magnus muses. "Making choices. You gotta exercise it, but you don't know what exercises are good for it at first, and if you start off really intense without building up, you can strain it really badly and it gets harder for a while."

A fleeting smile. "You're very wise."

A reflexive grin, in turn. Magnus can accept this at face value from Galahad, and it warms him. "I don't know how you'd go about exercising a muscle if you feel like some of the, um, possible training regimens are forbidden, though," he says. "But I can try to help you figure out a way?"

Galahad is quiet again, for a very long time. Then: "I need to try wanting things, without-- without being afraid. I should learn how to ask. Everyone else can."

"I think a lot of people struggle with it, actually," Magnus says, contemplatively. "I know I do." He gets that it's different for Galahad than it is for him, though, so he adds, "But like, in pretty different ways."

A considering pause. "What do you want?"

"There's the impossible stuff," Magnus says. "Like, when we were in Niflheim to defeat Loki, and someone opened the door to Helheim -- um, that's where most of the dead go -- and I thought I heard my mom's voice, and then later I learned that it's prophesied that I'll be able to talk to her again. I want to know when, and how, and if it can be soon." He picks a few blades of grass and sprinkles them over his lap, distractedly. "And then there's the hard stuff. Like, for example, with Alex, I want --" here he blushes, bright warm. "A lot of things. We've talked about some of them, which was really hard by the way, but there's some I haven't mentioned, because I'm scared. Like maybe they're too much, or things Alex won't want, or will think are weird. Not just, um, sex stuff. Life stuff too."

He feels a pang, both at the emotion in Magnus' words (it's a new feeling for him, but he wants to help, not just to know how to say the right thing but to be able to tangibly help) and at how much they align with the things he wants too, the things he can't say either.

"We've kind of committed to living in the moment," Magnus says, partly to Galahad and partly to himself. "Which is good, I was actually really bad at that. I'm a little better now, but it's a lot easier for Alex than it is for me. I like to know... that there's a plan, or a way to come up with a plan, or what things mean. Alex is a lot more flexible. Changeable, if you will." This is a joke about Alex being a shapeshifter. "A lot of the stuff I'm scared to ask about is stuff that's about -- definitions, or plans for the future. What things mean."

Galahad nods and squeezes his hand. All of those are things he would be afraid to ask too, if he and Claudius were even within the realm where they could be asked.

Magnus squeezes back. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Yes."

"Are you more, um. Afraid of the sin, or of the choice? Or are they the same thing?"

He looks startled, and Magnus gets another space of silence before. Then, "They're not the same, but-- I'm afraid of choosing. Sin is just-- everyone is sinful. The world is. But I-- haven't ever taken something for myself. I have now, here, but nothing like this." When he stops and starts, it's not from uncertainty, just from the difficulty of getting the words out. "It would be-- it would be a sin that I want."

"So you want to choose something that you find particularly sinful?" Magnus asks. He squeezes Galahad's hand again and then, in a move that he hopes is comforting rather than dreadful, rests his head against Galahad's shoulder.

But after a moment's hesitation, he leans back. "More than one thing."

"And one of them is being painted when you feel beautiful?"

Galahad picks a blade of grass to focus on. "I have always been an-- an object. A weapon for God to use. To feel beautiful, I would have to--" Quiet. "I want to stop being a thing. But then I know God won't take me up again. It will be-- really over."

Magnus considers this seriously. He knows that he personally hates being see as a tool by gods, but he supposes he can empathize with how someone might feel differently, especially if they'd held that role for most of their life, instead of just the last two years and then the first few of their death. "I get that that would be really hard," he says. "But would it be so bad?"

"It would be-- there has never been anything else."

Magnus nods. "And if you gave it up, then all you'd have is a lot of choices without any clear direction?"

"I would have to decide everything. I would have to find-- a purpose. I-- my reward was to be death, and I would have to live."

"Dying sucks," Magnus points out, automatically. "Trust me, bro, I've done it a lot of times in a lot of different ways and none of them are fun." Then he winces, and tilts his head, still cuddled against Galahad, so he can see his face better. "Sorry, dude. I get that living is also hard." He doesn't really share that opinion, but he gets how people can have it.

"But like, maybe a purpose doesn't have to be big. Like, I guess I have 'a purpose'" -- here, he does scarequotes in the air with his free hand -- "But you know what I was saying about trying to live in the moment better, instead of just worrying about the future? It's hard, but it's really helpful for not thinking about how my final death is foretold, too, and my entire job is to die fighting so the world can end. I can focus on littler purposes. Like... the Chase Space. That's this big old home I got, a reward for beating Loki, so I can help other homeless kids in Boston. Food, shelter, tutoring, you know. Or helping Jack find a girlfriend blade. Or making Alex laugh. Or teasing Sam and Amir about their betrothal. Or, I guess since I got here, learning more skills and hanging out and talking about the big scary stuff with my best friend so that it feels a little less big and scary."

A littler purpose. He thinks about the grain of wheat in his hand at the end of Lan Wangji's meditation lesson. Something small, with possibility in it. If he closes his eyes and sinks down inside himself to the uncut field of wheat, he can imagine that all those stalks are heavy with handfuls of small things that could be something, all those wants and desires he's buried grown up for harvest, all those things he likes -- sketching and baking and arranging flowers, reading frivolous books, learning games and tasting new things -- ready to be turned to sustenance.

He squeezes Magnus' hand again.

"Yeah, man," Magnus says. "You get it."

"Thank you."

"Anytime, friend."

For a while he says nothing else. He's grateful that with Magnus he can be quiet when he needs to be quiet, grateful for the unhurried space Magnus is so good at making. Percival was like that too. They both know when to fill the silence and when to let it gain depth on its own.

Eventually, though, he says, "You said Hearthstone speaks with signs."

"Yeah!" Magnus re-engages in the conversation; he's been drifting and daydreaming, comfortable -- frankly, cuddling against Galahad's side. "I learned them all from him so we could talk. I'm probably fluent at this point."

"Will you teach me something?"

"Heck yeah, my dude," Magnus says. He straightens up, regretfully letting go of Galahad's hand, and maneuvers until he's sitting cross-legged in front of Galahad. "This is the alphabet; it's the most basic foundation," he says, and slowly goes through each letter in turn, waiting for Galahad to repeat each one.

Then it occurs to him that he doesn't know if knights from Camelot know how to read. Oh, but hadn't Galahad mentioned something about monks, or nuns, or something? Surely there was some kind of literacy there.

Perhaps not for everyone, but Galahad was a titled lady's son, raised in a convent, and he can read and write in English, French, and Latin. He copies each letter back to Magnus, in the very serious way he has -- they aren't just abstract concepts, they have meaning, and he wants to commit that meaning to heart. After Magnus gives him the alphabet he spells out both their names, half to himself.

"Yeah," Magnus says, encouragingly. "Finger-spelling is great especially for when there's a word you don't have a sign for, like names or like when Hearthstone is trying to tell me about all the different runes. With people you know, you can make up a name-sign that's usually the first letter and then something about them - either another word, or something illustrative about them."

He rolls his eyes. "Since my mom got my name from a bunch of Scandinavian kings, my friends back home like to tease me by making my name sign the combination of M and crown." He demonstrates this, and then smiles. "For you... you could pick what you want. Maybe..." He holds up both hands, left hand open-palmed and facing him, right hand plucking the air above his fingers twice. He turns the second pluck into a G, and then moves the G from the right side of his nose to his left. Choice, flower. "But it can be anything that feels right or good."

Warmth suffuses him. His name has never been his -- it is his father's name, it is a faraway land, it is something he uses because no alternative have ever occurred to him, even knowing he did choose for himself once. But Magnus has made his name into something new, something that hasn't ever belonged to something else.

"What does that mean?" as he copies Magnus' gesture.

"It can mean Galahad," Magnus says. He finds that he's actually a little anxious about this -- Galahad doesn't have to use it, but he wants him to like it. "It's the signs for choice," and here he signs choice again, "G for Galahad, and a variation on flower." He shows Galahad both the official sign for flower, with appropriate finger positioning, and then the modified g-version again. "If I said that to Hearth without telling him your full name first, he'd interpret it as G Flower-Choice. Um, but if that's too much..."

His face is blank, as it often is when he's overwhelmed. He makes the sign again, and his heart cramps the way it does when Claudius calls him beloved.

"Thank you," quietly. "It's good."

"Good," Magnus says, greatly relieved. He signs the word as he says it -- hand to chin, dropping firmly. Then he hooks his index fingers together, twice, switching the orientation of his palms each time. "That's friend." He signs: Galahad. Magnus. Friend..

Galahad signs it back, once or twice to feel comfortable with it: Friend, friend, friend. It's the best thing he's ever learned. He could embrace Magnus, he could weep, he could try to speak and tell him how glad he is to be his friend. Instead he signs the word; it's so much easier than talking.

The air around them is warming. Magnus, largely impervious to temperature, doesn't totally realize that he's summoning summer in his happiness; he's more focused on Galahad saying friend. He wants to let both of them sit with this, for the moment, but if truth be told, he also has a bit of an agenda: He'd taught Claudius how to say 'I love you,' and he wants Galahad to be able to understand it for what it is if Claudius ever says it to him.

He signs friend back.

"Thank you," he says again. He always runs cold, as he told Shen Qingqiu, and he's grateful for the warmth, even if he hasn't quite processed that it's Magnus' doing.

"Oh, here's another one that uses the alphabet," Magnus says, as if it's just occurred to him. "If you combine I, L, and Y with the same hand at the same time, it means 'I love you.'" He demonstrates, first forming each letter individually and then presenting the final sign.

"Like this?" holding up his hand. He likes that these signs build on each other, he likes it better than spelling the words out. It reminds him of the Eucharist, the transubstantiation, of how one thing can become another thing in a way that's almost beautiful. Homoousios, consubstantiation, light from light.

"Yes, exactly like," Magnus says. "The other way is to use the signs for the actual words." He forms loose fists and crosses his wrists in front of his heart. "This is the other way to say love."

Galahad copies this sign too -- the crossed wrists also feel good, but he likes the sign with his fingers better.

"The full version is--" Magnus points at himself, then signs love, and then points at Galahad. "So you can make it a little more clear if you're directing it at a specific person, I guess."

Edited 2023-11-13 01:49 (UTC)

He can gather the significance of the pointing, the I and the you, and it strikes him then that this is a language. When Shen Qingqiu had talked about there being signs and showed him the one for eating, Galahad imagined something like a pidgin, something that would let him communicate in the most rudimentary way -- but this is like the difference between English and French, it's two wholly different systems of speaking, a language where names aren't just a literal string of letters but something imbued with their own meaning. He wants to learn it. He wants to learn all of it.

"Will you teach me more? Are-- are there books to study?"

"I'm sure there are," Magnus says, and then: "Wait. Hang on." He starts over again, signing as he talks. It's always a bit of a mental exercise to do it, especially after not doing it for a while, since words are usually in a different order and sentences have different compositions in sign language. "I'm sure there are -- we can look for some together, if you want. But even if there aren't, I'm happy to teach you. I don't know how good I'll be at explaining the grammar, but I know how to use it, so that's a start."

Galahad's expressions tend to go either blank and unreadable or incredibly transparent, and in this case, it's obvious that he's entranced. He watches Magnus' hands instead of his face, and although Magnus is too quick for him to copy along Galahad's hands move along with him, catching the occasional letter or word to echo. "That would be-- that would be good. Thank you."

Magnus does catch Galahad's expression, and his mimicry of some of the signs, and smiles. "Is there anything in particular you really want to be able to say right now?" he asks, still signing as he talks -- slower now, so it's easier to follow along. "I could teach you that first."

One of his word-gathering silences, which by now Magnus must be getting used to, and maybe even recognizes the meaning of. "When someone asks too many questions, it's hard for me to answer," he says at last. "If I could ask for one at a time, or-- ask him to wait. Or say when something is too much."

Magnus gives Galahad a rueful little smile. "Sorry I can be Questions Guy sometimes, by the way," he says, still signing. "Let me think. Um." He holds his right arm out, flat from palm to elbow. "I'm doing this this way because I'm left-handed, by the way," he says. "The non-dominant arm is flat." Then he strokes his left hand over his right hand, down to his wrist. "That's 'slow down.' Slow down, please is--" He repeats the motion, and then moves his hand straight on to rubbing his chest, small circles.

"Then we have wait, hold on, and too much," he says, demonstrating each sign twice before moving on to the next one.

"It's all right. I just can't answer." He strokes his right hand over his left. It feels easy, easier than saying the words. He likes the way please feels, the little circles against his chest, soothing (he could teach Claudius that, he thinks, and it would feel good).

"Oh, okay then. Cool," Magnus says, and he signs 'cool' as he says it: first the version with the wiggling fingers, and then the version that's essentially finger-spelling it.

Oh, the wiggling fingers are so good. He loves how tactile the signs are, expressive of their meaning. It's so easy to sign something and then keep signing it, over and over. "How often can we have lessons?"

"Literally anytime, man," Magnus says. He pauses in signing to gesture expansively at the world around them -- also staying silent, so it's hopefully clear that this is in fact just a gesture. Then he resumes: "I've actually really missed talking to Hearthstone like this, and it's not like there's a strict schedule around here. Plus..." Without verbalizing, he signs again: Galahad. Magnus. Friend. The briefest of hesitation, then he adds: Cool. Love time.

Time is a new sign, and Galahad might not get that Magnus tapping his wrist indicates a watch, but the gist, he thinks, is there.

It's not, actually -- what Magnus is doing to indicate time is so abstracted from what Galahad would think that he doesn't make the connection at all -- but he gets the gist that Magnus likes this.

"We can talk any time, too. I like talking with you, and I like-- listening to you," he says. He's so at ease. It's so easy to talk to Magnus: his words still get trapped inside him, but less often, and he feels less the dread of needing to make sure everything comes out right, and because he feels that dread less he can say more. He taps his fingers against his wrist. "What does this mean?"

"Time," Magnus says. He's a little overcome, by Galahad's words, actually? If he's gonna be here instead of Valhalla, he's so glad he can be here with a good friend like Galahad. The air around them is growing warmer and lighter still, like it's a midsummer afternoon instead of -- to be honest, Magnus still doesn't super understand how the calendar here works, even though he's puzzled over it since it appeared. Autumn though, he's pretty sure. "Because in my time, we wear clocks -- timepieces? -- around our wrists. Well, I don't, but a lot of people do."

Galahad sits up a little straighter, the way he does when he's particularly interested. "The canonical hours on your wrists? Instead of bells?"

"Canonical..." Magnus tilts his head. "Hey, quick question. How does time work? For you, where you're from. Like, do you have twenty-four hours in the day?"

"There are seven hours. They're marked with bells. I wake for matins, but not everyone does."

"Wow," Magnus says. "We have twenty-four, but most clocks only show twelve. So we have two sets of the twelve hours in each day. Are hours still sixty minutes for you?" He's trying to imagine a world in which a day is only seven hours long. Did the earth move differently back then? He's pretty sure it didn't, but then again, it's been a long time since he's had any science classes.

"I don't know what a minute is."

"It's sixty seconds," Magnus says. "Wait, I don't know if that's helpful. A second is like..." He taps out a few seconds on his knee: one-mississippi, two-mississippi, three.

"It is a way that time passes? Seconds to a minute, and minutes to an hour? So every hour is the same?"

Magnus nods. "Are hours different for you?"

"They're not all the same. Some are longer, and in the summer they're all longer and all shorter in winter, because the day is shorter."

Magnus considers this. "Are they based on daylight? What's the longest hour?" Oops. Multiple questions. He makes an apologetic face.

Galahad signs slow down, but he smiles at Magnus too. "They're the hours for prayer. Matins and Lauds are early in the morning, and some people go back to sleep after until Prime, but--" But he needs that time before Prime to convince himself to get out of bed every day. "Prime is the first hour of the day, and it lasts three hours, to Terce. Then Sext at noon, Nones in the afternoon, Vespers at sunset, and Compline before bed."

Edited 2023-11-14 03:25 (UTC)

Sorry, Magnus signs, and says it as he signs it. Then he blinks. "There's a sexting hour? And it's noon?"

He realizes, as he says it, that of course it's not a sexting hour. Probably the only person with a smartphone-style device back then was Heimdall, and Magnus shudders to think about -- that.

"Never mind," he says, wrinkling his nose. "I wasn't thinking. Um, sexting is a thing in my time where -- okay, so, texting is when you send instantaneous written messages to someone using devices like... kind of, vaguely, like SecUnit's? And sexting is... That, but specifically... well."

"It's Latin for six," flushing. "The sixth hour." He is very intentionally not thinking about sexual written messages.

"Latin does make a lot more sense," says Magnus, who is also blushing. "That's cool though. Flexible hours. Wild." He pauses. "Actually, that probably explains why some of the other einherjar struggle with the schedules in Valhalla these days."

"We use the sun. That's why it's shorter in the winter."

"That's so reasonable," Magnus says. "Our hours are a lot more... identical. Um, if you want and you're okay with me using your stuff, I can sketch a clock?"

He nods and hands the sketchbook and pencils over.

Magnus takes them, thinking for a moment before carefully drawing a circle and marking the twelve hours. "So the way these are usually made," Magnus says, "There's a big hand and a little hand. The big hand is the minute hand, and it goes around the circle once an hour. The little hand is the hour hand, and it goes around the circle twice a day."

He considers, then discards, the idea of also mentioning the second hand. That seems like a lot for a guy's first clock experience.

"So if you're looking at it, and the big hand is on the six and the little hand is on the three, that means it's 6:15, because each number represents an hour for the little hand, and five minutes for the big hand."

"And it's the same all the time? All year?"

Magnus so does not understand Daylight Savings well enough to try to explain it to someone else. "Yeah, pretty much."

He hasn't decided yet whether he likes this better, but the specificity of it is pleasing. "And this," touching Magnus' picture, "is a thing that can be worn."

"Yeah! They call it a watch," Magnus says. "I don't know why. Maybe because you use it to watch the time?"

Galahad wants a watch. It would make it so much easier to keep the hours -- he's already thinking about how he'd map them onto the twenty-four equal hours, and then he'd know exactly when to pray. It would make it easier to be home (he doesn't realize that he thinks of Claudius' rooms as home, but that's the place he's envisioning) when he wants to be. It would be easier to know when to eat, since his body rarely registers hunger in a clear way. It would be easier to match his understanding to someone else's, especially since Magnus has made the variation acutely clear. He longs for a watch, and compared to some of his other longings this feels safe and uncomplicated.

"Thank you." He means for explaining all this.

"You bet, man," Magnus says, and signs. "Thank you for telling me about how time works for you. I never really thought about it before."

"Will you show me how to say thank you?"

Magnus nods. He brings his hand, flat, to his face so that his fingers are touching his chin, and then moves the hand forward. "That's basic thanks," he says. "Two hands" -- and here he demonstrates that -- "Add emphasis. Thank you very much. There's also a version where you move your hand more, like this," stroking vertical circles in front of his chin, "that also emphasizes it."

He considers, and then says, "If you say no first" -- and here he demonstrates again, palm out, fingers splayed, waving briefly as he shakes his head, and then signing thanks again, "That means no thanks. If someone gives you information that you like or need, you can also say thank you like you're tipping a hat... I think that might also be after your time, but it's like this." He demonstrates.

"And then there's thankful, which is the same thing as grateful, which is --" He makes the same hand-shape as thank you very much, but taps them each to the sides of his chin a few times instead of the center.

Then he sits back, ready to walk Galahad through any of the signs again.

There's also something relieving in the fact that all these nuances can be expressed by gesture, rather than tone: he doesn't need to sound right, because it's included in the sign. He goes through each of the signs one by one, looking to Magnus for confirmation.

Magnus watches Galahad practice the signs and is abruptly overcome with another surge of happiness. Galahad, he signs, and then says, "Weird question: can I have a hug?"

Between Shen Qingqiu and Magnus, he's already figured out that hug means embrace, and he immediately rocks onto his knees and reaches for Magnus, wrapping his arms around him.

Magnus returns the hug, at half-strength -- he's not sure what full einherji strength would do to a mortal. "Thanks, man," he says, voice muffled against Galahad's shoulder. "It just. It feels really good to be using sign with a friend again." Turns out he misses Hearth a lot.

As he holds him, Galahad signs friend against Magnus' back.

As soon as he sees the sign, Wei Wuxian is interested in the person behind it as much as the lessons on offer. He sets off in search of this Magnus and when he thinks he has found him says, "Hello! Are you the one who wants to learn to cook?"

"I sure am!" Magnus says, setting down his comic book and standing up. This guy looks like he's probably one of the residents who prefers bowing to shaking hands, so Magnus bobs a little half-bow, half-curtsy. "I don't think we've met. I'm Magnus."

Magnus. Out loud, the name finally sparks something in Wei Wuxian's mind, making a connection. "Ah, wait, but you must be the young man Hanguang-jun is so fond of! I should have known."

"Oh!" Magnus grins, cheeks a little pink at the mention. Lan Wangji has spoken about him? "You're Hanguang-jun's husband, then?"

"Yes." There's no time when that won't make Wei Wuxian smile just a little brighter. "I think he's probably the better cook, but I know some tricks he doesn't."

"I don't know anything," Magnus says, cheerfully. He wants to tell this guy just how great his husband is, but maybe he can keep his cool. "Unless it's roasting a hot dog over a campfire, I guess. I figure it's high time I learn. Um, can you remind me of your name?"

Edited 2023-11-28 22:34 (UTC)

"I am Wei Wuxian." He doesn't flinch when he says it, doesn't worry about this child flinching in turn. He doesn't even flinch at the word dog, which is a much more difficult feat. "Let's see what we can find to make and while we do that, you can tell me what a hot dog is! There aren't dogs involved, are there? I don't like dogs."

"Oh, they're like really shitty sausages," Magnus says, laughing. "They're extremely delicious. No dogs involved."

Edited 2023-11-29 01:14 (UTC)

"Shitty, but also delicious?" Count Wei Wuxian intrigued, honestly. "Maybe we can find some."

"I bet there's a fridge with some tucked away somewhere," Magnus says, grinning. "Shall we investigate?"

Nina has seen Magnus's signs around - and she is particularly interested in What It REALLY Feels Like To Die, just from a Corpsewitch perspective, as well as perhaps (Trans)Gender Identity and Fluidity, which sounds interesting, but mostly she promised Magnus that she would swing by at some point.

"Hi Magnus," she says with a little wave, "what's up?¹"

¹Something Nina didn't previously say, but she picks up on languages and lingo very quickly.

"Nina!" Magnus puts down his latest experiment -- adventures in trying to teach himself to knit; it's going terribly but he's having a great time, and the lake is beautiful today -- on a nearby rock and stands, dusting himself off. "How's it going?"

Nina's been in a pretty good mood lately, after letting things lie with The Darkling-- or should she call him Aleksander? --and seeing him help against the undead in the uprising also cemented that it was the correct decision.

"Honestly, really great," she says, slightly surprised by herself. "How about you?"

"I've been better," Magnus says, with a self-deprecating grin. "The zombies made me realize that, turns out, I didn't miss fighting."

Nina nods, sympathetic. "I don't really miss fighting, but Grisha have to use their abilities, otherwise our abilities weaken. I haven't really used mine since I've come here so now I feel amazing - but I hope that was the only time you'll have to fight-- oh, before I forget why I came here, I think I owe you a lesson in flirting! Or... it could be something else."

"I'd love to learn about flirting," Magnus says. He glances around -- there's a nearby bench, and he tilts his head toward it: a question.

Nina heads toward it, tilting her face up towards the sky as she does, soaking in the sun; she’s not much of a ‘do something outdoors’ person but definitely a ‘do very little outdoors’ sort.

“Start with the basics?” She asks, suddenly a little nervous. Flirting isn’t exactly something that’s tangible, but she’ll try her best.

Edited 2023-11-26 17:37 (UTC)

"Oh yeah, I'm a total novice," Magnus says, completely unselfconscious.

"Right," Nina says, thinking very seriously about where to start, since this is very serious business. "I think the first step is to be able to read someone at a glance. What do they like? What's their personality like? If they're shy and you're too loud, it won't end well at all. It's not... changing your personality to flirt with them, it's knowing how to make the most flattering approach."

She suddenly turns slightly mischievous. "You should pick someone that we both know here. I'll tell you how I would flirt with them."

Magnus considers the question seriously. His first instinct is to say Laertes -- the guy gives off the vibe of someone who would probably respond easily to flirting, if someone tried -- but Laertes is married to Sagramore now, and that feels like crossing some boundary even though Magnus will never use this stuff on anyone here. This, therefore, also rules out Sagramore, Claudius, Lan Wangji, and Galahad. Gu Xiang would probably be too much of a challenge. Qi Yan, too, in a different way.

He decides to pick Shen Yuan, who is dating someone, but who he also thinks might be a tough but possible nut to crack. His mouth says, "Janet?"

Nina laughs a little, delighted by Magnus's choice. "One of my favorite people here," she says. "Janet is tough and prickly but I think she very secretly has a soft heart... You have to go bold with her. I think she really likes being complimented on both how she looks and what she's able to do, especially her magic. Compliments are usually the way to go."

"That's basically what Claudius said about diplomacy, too," Magnus says, thoughtfully. He wonders -- are diplomacy and flirting the same type of thing?

Nina tilts her head. "Honestly, it is pretty similar. I was undercover before I came here and... it's all about learning how to talk to people. Convince them and charm them."

"Samirah's form of diplomacy is being immensely smart and capable of anything, including being capable of killing you with her pinky finger," Magnus says, proud of his friend.

“That’s Zoya as well. She’s my commander. She’s not much for true diplomacy and would probably rather face down an entire Fjerdan army herself than flirt with someone,” Nina smiles, then refocuses herself. “Right. Flirting. Where were we?”

"Boldly complimenting Janet," Magnus supplies.

"Boldly complimenting Janet," Nina repeats to herself, then she laughs a little. "This wasn't the best idea. It's tougher than I thought to teach someone how to flirt. Eye contact is important. Touch, if they're open to that - just touching their arm or their shoulder meaningfully. Sometimes I give them a sly little glance as well. Other than that... it's all about reading people and connecting with them." The wheels are turning in her head a little. "How about this... if you ever want to flirt with anyone here - or if Alex shows up and you want to do something special - I can help coach you through it. It's better if I know the target."

"Oh, I don't want to flirt with anyone here," Magnus says. "I'll take you up on that Alex offer, though. But I am kind of curious to hear how you'd flirt with everyone else here."

She laughs a little, then gives him a fake imperious look. "Next victim, please."

This time, Magnus goes with his first instinct. "Shen Yuan."

"Be Luo Binghe," Nina says, as solemnly as she can manage, though she's actually trying very hard to not laugh. "You know I have many wives, Shen Yuan," she says, in what's actually quite a good impression of Luo Binghe, "but the only wife I want is you. May I please make you some delectable dinner and charm you?" She tosses her hair a little. It would, perhaps, seem rude from any other source but Nina is irrevocably, absolutely fond of her good friend and that shines through her impression.

Magnus cracks up at that. "Gods, Nina," he says, shaking his head between peals of laughter. "That's... that's really good."

Nina ducks her head for just a split second, pleased. "It helps that I know him pretty well. That was more an impression than assessing how to flirt with someone, though... anyone else?"

"How about you pick someone this time and tell me how you'd do it, and I guess who they are?"

"That sounds like fun," Nina says and now she's deep in thought for a moment. "For this person, I don't think I would ever actually do it - but if I did, it would have to be a very gentle flirtation. A lot of compliments, a lot of questions and interest in what they're doing and thinking, a lot of thoughtful gifts. I wouldn't jump right in. Slow, careful steps."

Slow and careful makes Magnus think of Galahad, but he's not certain the other stuff fits. "Tress?" he guesses, remembering how she liked to explain her spores.

Nina laughs, pleased. "Correct! I don't think I'm her type, though."

"I guess some people are straight," Magnus agrees; this is primarily a guess. His eyes are twinkling. "Can you do another? This is fun."

"Sure," Nina says, easily, looking up at the sky as she thinks of someone else. "This person... is one of those people that reflects back what you give to them. If you're flirtatious, they're flirtatious. If you're not, they're not. If I wanted to flirt with them, I'd just compliment them. Make them laugh. I'd tell them that they're a kind, wonderful human being - and I'd be frank with them." She smiles, clearly fond.

Magnus scratches his head. "This one is harder," he confesses, with a rueful smile. "I think it could be a lot of different people."

“Good morning,” she says, with an easy lilt to it and a softer, more casual slope to her shoulders. “I thank thee for the coffee - but more for thy companionship.”

This, too, takes Magnus a moment -- most of his associations with Sagramore have, after all, been sparring or fighting zombies together -- but Nina's posture is what makes it click for him. "Sagramore!" he says, confidently. "You're really good at impressions, Nina."

"I am, after all, a trained actress," she says, dropping into a small curtsy. "Not professionally trained -- but I had to be in order to survive the streets of Ketterdam. If you give people the you that they want, they bother you a lot less."

Pretending to be a ditzy tourist in order to avoid other gangs that might want to bother her for her involvement with the Dregs, demurely walking past creepy older men so they left her alone when all she wanted was to glare at them, her holy and solemn persona in the House of the White Rose where men came to see Nina the Ravkan Grisha; all of that was her training.

"That makes a lot of sense," Magnus says, appreciatively. "I'm not much of an actor, so when I was surviving on the streets of Boston I mostly got good at stealing from assholes and hiding from different assholes."

Nina nods, all too aware of the scramble and desperation involved in fending for yourself. "I think it's what I might do for the talent-- oh, did you know that Nightingale and I are hosting a talent show?"

"I didn't!" Magnus scratches his head. A talent show with the people here should be very interesting. "You are?"

"It was, surprisingly, Nightingale's idea but now it's taken on a life of its own. I think it'll be nice. Something silly and fun to do."

"It sounds like fun," Magnus agrees. "What do you have planned so far?"

"It's going to take place next week in the new cafe that Enjolras is planning... I think a couple of people have signed up already. Do you have any talents you'd want to share?"

Inside. Magnus stills. He's not quite ready to be inside for a long span of time yet.

But then, if a lot of people are going to be there... it's easier with friends. He can suck it up to watch them perform, at least. "What kind of talents?" he asks. "I don't think I really have that many, like, unique abilities." Beyond the alf seidr and einherji stuff, but that doesn't count; he didn't have to work for that.

“So far there’s some music, dancing, poetry… stage magic. I also talked Tress into doing a spores demonstration. You can obviously just attend and watch if you want - that’s what Galahad is doing - but the sign-up sheet is open for a few more days.”

"Mark me down for 'to be determined?'" Magnus asks. "I'll figure something out by then."

"Great! It'll be great to have you there."

"Good," Magnus says. "I look forward to seeing what everyone comes up with." He thinks for a moment, and then, because he's been having a lot of fun watching Nina shine, says, "I've got a stumper for you, I think: How would you flirt with Hanguang-jun?"

Nina furrows her brows slightly, confused. "Hanguang-jun? Is he here? I thought he was one of Shen Yuan's fictional heroes."

"Lan Wangji," Magnus clarifies. "Shen Yuan said Hanguang-jun was his title, and Hanguang-jun seems to like when I use it."

"Oh, that's good to know," she says. Unfortunately, thinking about how she would flirt with Lan Wangji causes her mind to jump straight to his words during the truth spell, where he told her I am cruel only to my husband and he likes it and she flushes just the slightest bit pink. "I also don't think I'd have a chance with him unless I was his husband," she says hurriedly. "If I attempted it, I'd be shamed straight into the ground and he'd give me the most devastating of looks without even trying."

Nina stands ramrod straight and towering, which is fairly easy given her height, giving Magnus her best expressionless yet also somehow simultaneously stern Lan Wangji look. She shakes her head no very subtly.

"I think it's your turn now," she says, with a laugh, breaking her act. "You should tell me how you would flirt with... ...Laertes."

Magnus gives Nina an alarmed look. "I don't know if I'm ready for a test," he says, but he's blushing lightly as he tries to think through what he knows about Laertes. "I'd... ask him about what he's working on? And compliment his efforts?"

"That's great!" Nina's trying her best to be encouraging. "Dost thou think I can be swayed by compliments?" She gives Magnus her best Laertes impression, a look that says Do Not Test Me... that quickly melts into the most open of smiles. "You would be correct."

"How would you do it?"

“Probably the same way,” she muses. “I think he responds well to compliments.”

Magnus smiles a little, proud that he maybe landed on a good answer. "Cool," he says.

“Who’s next?” Nina asks, thrilled by this slightly silly game (made sillier by the fact that she hasn’t had a single flirtation since she arrived).

Magnus thinks for a moment. "Gu Xiang?"

Nina tilts her head, thinking for a moment. "I don't think I've met them. I took a short break from ...everything for a week or two."

"I know what that's like," Magnus says, with a self-deprecating grin and a gesture around at the great outdoors around them. "But you totally should meet her, she's extremely cool."

"I'll have to try and find her to introduce myself!" She thinks through the rest of the mansion residents in her mind. "I'm not sure if there's anyone else here I would even think about flirting with." There are a couple of people she views more as mentors than anything else, a few individuals she's only met once, and that weird demon that sometimes lurks around...

"So what about someone you wouldn't?" Magnus asks.

There's a brief pause while Nina has an internal debate over whether or not she wants to continue keeping the mood light or tell Magnus the truth. She eventually settles for both. "Well, there's the dragon, of course," she says, with a cheeky grin before she grows more serious. "There's also a man here from ...I guess from my past. Mostly my country's past. It's a very complicated situation. He hasn't done anything wrong here but I'm definitely trying to avoid him."

Magnus grows more serious, listening intently. "He did something wrong at home?" he asks, carefully.

He did many wrong things. He started a civil war. He tore a nation apart. He killed many people. All of those thoughts tumble through Nina's mind but she tries to separate them finer than when she had originally told a select few about The Darkling, when it was mostly based on emotion and anger.

"I think I understand his intentions," Nina says, carefully. "We're alike in many ways... I think I mentioned that where I come from, people treat people like us - Grisha - extremely cruelly. In the Wandering Isle, they sometimes kill us and drain our blood for healing abilities. That healing ability... it isn't even true. It's an old wives tale. I can understand where his anger stems from. But... it's caused him to do some things that some consider unforgivable."

She's clearly being very cautious about what she's saying. "But I think he arrived before a crucial moment that really caused the switch to flip. I don't think he's done anything here. He fought the undead with us. He's made... friends. Do I really have a right to judge him on the things I heard that he did?" She's being logical -- and yet her thoughts flash to sweet, kind Genya Safin who served The Darkling loyally and now had a missing eye and a scarred face to show for it. What would she think of Nina now?

Oh. Oh. That's a tough one. "Where I come from," Magnus says, thoughtfully, "Everything is foretold. The big things, at least. How the world ends; how everybody dies. Who kills who. But the stuff in the middle... that's all up in the air. Loyalties shift. Allies change. My sword used to be my dad's sword, and eventually it'll stop being mine and it will be wielded by the guy who's going to kill him. I don't know how or when." He scratches his head. "It's a really stupid way to live, I think. It makes everything really... complicated."

He looks at Nina, earnestly. He's not certain he's said anything particularly useful, but -- maybe?

"So.. prophecies," Nina says, thoughtful. "Kind of? I don't think there's any sort of prediction about him that I know of. He's not a... a god. He's not a Saint. He's just a man with a lot of power and it's the future for him but the present for me -- though maybe that's a prophecy in its own way. You are right about change, though... Things are changing all the time. Especially here. It's changed me a lot. I just don't know how much it's changed him."

"I've changed a lot, too," Magnus says. He frowns, thinking. "But I get it. If, like, Loki or Surt or Utgard-Loki showed up here, or even Wildflower or Sunspot, even with all the changes, I'd be really wary. Especially if it was Loki before his first betrayal, I think."

Nina makes a face and for a second she seems much younger, as if this was all some school drama. "I'm wary... but it's also weird. To hear friends and people I know say nice things about him."

"I'll bet," Magnus says, emphatically. "He's, like, a boogeyman to you, right? And suddenly all the other people here who know a version of him that's not the one you grew up with are insisting he's fun and cool?"

"Exactly," Nina says, because that's exactly it. She huffs out a small sigh. "I'm glad you understand. I'm just doing my best to stay out of his way."

"Do you think he can find another path?"

"Well, let's put it this way... I told you about Matthias. Briefly. I didn't think he could find a different path. I hated him. He was stubborn and ignorant!" She smiles, fond and sad. "We were sworn enemies but we both found a different path. I'm not going to fall in love with this individual I'm talking about... but I'd be awfully hypocritical if I couldn't try and think the best of him."

"Okay, so you want to give him a chance, but you're worried about it, especially because you have so much to unpack about him," says Magnus. "Is that right?

She nods. "Basically. I think... the only thing I can do is wait and see."

"Well, if you want to talk to someone about your thoughts and your concerns as they evolve," Magnus says, gesturing at himself. "I don't know this guy from Adam, and I think I'm an okay listener. I can be your sounding-board, if you want?"

Nina nods, feeling more grateful for this than she thought she would be. "That would be really appreciated. Thanks, Magnus."

"Of course, Nina," Magnus says. He tilts his head. He's gotten really good about physical contact with specific people (Galahad, Shen Yuan, Hanguang-jun), but hasn't branched out from there, and he's not sure of the best way to communicate the urge or the offer. "...Do you wanna hug?"

"Of course I would love to hug," she says, with a grin. Tall and full-figured, Nina is perfectly built for hugging -- though regrettably, it wasn't something she did enough with her friends. Being in constant peril with the occasional traumatic situation didn't usually lend itself to the cozier parts of friendship. She wraps Magnus into a warm hug.

Magnus squeezes back, cognizant of his einherji strength and not wanting to hurt her with it. "Thanks for trusting me," he says.

"You're easy to trust," she says, with a fond smile.

Laertes finds Magnus in his mossy clearing. Here, it feels as though summer lingers on amidst the golden leaves of autumn; Laertes sheds his sweater as he steps out from beneath the trees. "Hallo," he calls. "Art thou still trading lesson for lesson?"

"Laertes!" Magnus says, bounding up from where he's been flipping idly through the book Galahad had lent him. "What's up, dude? I sure am!"

"Galahad saith thou canst speak with thy hands," he says, and signs Galahad, friend. "There's nothing I like better than learning a new language. I'll happily teach thee to cook, an thou wouldst teach me."

Magnus smoothly transitions into signing as he talks. "Awesome," he says. "I've heard great things about your food, dude, and I'm a big fan of more people knowing sign. Galahad taught you some stuff, I see... what else do you know already?"

Laertes signs Cut apples; he signs butter, sugar, flour, and Yes, and I'm sorry. "Little more than that, I fear. But I've been diligent in my practice of them."

Magnus laughs. "Oh, so you made that amazing apple thing with Galahad, huh?" he says, and signs. Then he holds up a hand. "One sec," he says, and goes to shove the book into his backpack, next to the brush he'd requisitioned after he promised Lan Wangji that he'd keep his hair in order. Then he pulls up a seat on a sunny patch of moss, and gestures for Laertes to take a seat, too.

"Ay, I had a hand in it, but so did Galahad. I'm glad it was pleasing to thy taste." Laertes sits, cross-legged, sweater draped over his lap.

Obviously Galahad had a hand in it too; Galahad is the best. It goes without saying. "It was great," Magnus says. "Did he teach you the alphabet?"

"Only my name." Laertes fingers-spells it quickly enough. "He taught me that names need not be spelled, though, and showed me his."

Magnus nods. Unable -- and completely disinterested -- in hiding his smile at the memory of Galahad giving him a new name-sign, he says, "Mine is this," and signs M-sunlight. "It's M, and sunlight. It used to be M, and crown," and here he demonstrates that, too, "as kind of a joke from my friends because Mom named me after all those Swedish kings, but Galahad picked a new one." He's not saying 'better,' but he's thinking it. "But we should go through the rest of the alphabet first. Um, it's based on the English alphabet?" He's starting to get that people here might be speaking different languages, and just hearing what they're used to.

Edited 2023-11-29 15:27 (UTC)

"Ay, Denmark also uses the Latin alphabet; I'll follow." Laertes is already thinking of how he might name himself--whether he would define himself as a brother, or as a student, or a fencer. His hands hover over his lap, eager to begin.

So Magnus walks Laertes slowly through the alphabet. "This is good for when you don't know the actual word," he explains, once he's given Laertes an initial introduction to all the letters. "Or names, as until you get a name-sign." He scratches his head. "I'm happy to give you one, by the way, if you don't want to pick. Or you could ask someone else -- you're friends with Claudius, right? I'm teaching him sign. He might have some ideas."

"I'm sure he will," says Laertes; he thinks privately that Claudius would like little better than to select a name for him, as though it were a doublet or a hat. He practices the letters to himself, spelling the names of everyone he knows: Tress and Sagramore, Lancelot and Ophelia. "What words hast thou found most useful to know?"

Magnus catches the Lancelot and decides to pretend like he didn't. He hates the dude and thinks he should wake up every day with a splinter under his fingernails, but he hates people who try to drag friends into a vendetta even more.

He puts his vague thoughts of a name for Laertes out of his mind and focuses on Laertes's question. Laughing, he holds his left hand flat in front of him, puts his right index finger -- palm facing outward -- up between the index and middle fingers on his left hand, and then pulls it free and to the side. "That means run away," he says.

"I have never in my life needed to say that, which makes me gladder of my life than I can say," Laertes laughs.

"Then I advise you to never run afoul of angry svartalfs," Magnus says. "Or jotuns." He thinks for a moment, and then signs sword. It's a really obvious gesture, so he raises his eyebrows at Laertes. "I bet you can guess what that one was."

Laertes immediately recognizes it, that flourishing swish (like a foil, he thinks, a light and whippy blade), and grins. "Couldst show me the sheath of it again? I missed that part."

"Yeah, for sure," Magnus says, and repeats the motion, much more slowly. "You can also just do it one-handed, with the swish. It means the same basic thing."

"Like saying only 'didst' instead of 'thou didst'--the conjugation implies the subject, as the act of unsheathing implies the sheath," says Laertes musingly. He copies the motion, but makes an L for the sheath. "This might make a fine name. It's pleasing to my hands."

"That's good," Magnus says. "That's important. You want a name to feel right." Lightly blushing, he adds, "I was also kinda thinking-- I mean, obviously, pick what works for you, or have someone you really care about pick for you, but..." He makes two fists, one on top of the other, and bumps them together, first with the backs of his hands facing outward, then his knuckles. Then he repeats the gesture, but instead makes an L with his top hand on the second bump.

Laertes copies the gesture--he mirrors, at first, left hand doing what Magnus's right hand does, then corrects himself. "What does it mean?"

"Make," Magnus says. "Or create." He gives Laertes a crooked smile. "It seemed appropriate. Plus --" and this is something he privately finds very funny and cute; he's been thinking about sign names for everyone here since Galahad gave him a new one, and about this possibility in particular since Nina started to teach him about flirting -- "your husband likes coffee, right? The sign for that is really similar." He demonstrates this, dominant hand maintaining contact and moving in a circle instead of bumping against his other fist. "You could just... exaggerate the S, I guess. If you wanted to match."

Something occurs to him, then. "And actually you had it right the first time; I'm left-handed so I have a different dominant hand. The dominant hand goes on top."

"Oh--make." For a long moment, Laertes just sits there, practicing the sign, first with and then without the L.

It's overwhelming to him, that the first thing people think about when they think of him is no longer the sword. It's no longer his gentlemanly graces, his polite manners. The first things that Magnus thinks of are the things he shapes with care and straining hope, like the boat or the tarte tatin.

Magnus threw off the sign of the crown and embraced the sunlight, and it shines in him. He is more than his father's summer; he is a light all his own, and he illuminates everyone he touches so that they might better see themselves.

"Yes," says Laertes quietly. "Yes, that is a fine name."

Edited 2023-11-30 17:57 (UTC)

"You like it?" Magnus asks, half-eager and half-embarrassed. "You don't have to keep it if you don't want to, though. Like I said."

"I love it," says Laertes. His voice is a little thick; he clears his throat and continues, "And I like Sagramore's, too, although I'll happily call him by any name he chooses." He signs S-coffee idly, making sure to mirror rather than reverse Magnus's signs.

Magnus hesitates for a moment, still a little flushed, then says, "The sign I've been using the most since I got here is this one," and hooks his index fingers together twice, switching the orientation of his hands in between. "It means friend."

"Ay, Galahad showed me that one--I think I'll use it often." And he signs Magnus, friend, easily and fluently, as though it is the most natural thing in the world to say.

Magnus grins. Laertes, friend, he signs back. And then, signing and talking at the same time, he says, "Oh, dude, on that note --" (it's not) "-- I figured it out."

"Oh?" Figured it out is a fun one to copy, both hands making vees.

It occurs to Magnus, abruptly, that he's calling back to a conversation they had nearly three weeks -- four weeks? In Mansion time? Twenty days -- ago. Oh well, nothing to for it; Laertes is the one who really got him thinking about this in the first place, so Magnus is going to tell him. "How--" old he is? Long he's been dead? "--long I've been around," he says. "Aziraphale told me what year it was, back home."

"How old art thou?" Laertes asks, leaning forward a little.

"Twenty-four," Magnus says, and wrinkles his nose. "Aziraphale said I could count my age as the years since I'd been born, not just when I died. Except Hanguang-jun said I didn't have to be sixteen or twenty-four or an ageless being. I can just pick."

For Hanguang-jun, without thinking, he makes the following sign: Hand, held up, fingers outstretched and palm out; thumb tapping against his temple and then dragged across his forehead like a head ribbon.

Laertes copies that sign, too, committing it to memory. "What hast thou chosen--hast thou chosen?"

Magnus touches the jade token hanging next to his Jack pendant for a moment, and then continues signing and talking: "I haven't, yet," he says, and smiles at Laertes. "I know I don't feel sixteen, but I know I look sixteen, and that's about as far as I've gotten. What do you think?"

Laertes considers the question, sitting back with his hands sinking into the mossy ground. "When I was sixteen," he says slowly, "I held myself apart from boys of mine own age. In part because I was awakening to new desire, which I was at great pains to conceal--but in greater part because I had been trained since mine earliest youth to do nothing foolish or immoderate that might stain my father's reputation. And so I fear I missed much of what other boys learned, in each other's company. Now, although I've passed thirty years, a part of me that was held frozen at sixteen is beginning to quicken and thaw ... and I think it may be the same for thee, as well. Twenty-four thou mayest be, but that part of thee that was sixteen still craves fulfillment."

Magnus reflects on this seriously for a few long moments. His signs are slower, more reflective when he starts talking again. "My mom died and I went on the run when I was fourteen," he says. "I don't know if that makes me feel younger or older. I don't really have an easy, like, way to compare my stuff to anyone else's, though. Two years on the streets, and then I died, and then eight in Valhalla. And now I'm here." He quirks a smile at Laertes. "Sounds like you don't either though, dude. Do you mean -- you don't have to say. But. Desire for guys?"

"Ay, and women, too--but that much, I might have shared with them, if I dared." He shrugs a little. "For all that, I led an easy life. I never wanted for food or shelter. My father yet lives, and loves me, and would do all in his power to see me untouched by suffering or scandal. I don't mean to set myself within thy sphere. Only ... only, I suppose, to say that thou art not alone."

Magnus gives Laertes an assessing sort of look. Slowly, guessing with each word, he says, "Just because a dad loves you and doesn't want you hurt, doesn't mean it's actually... easy. Especially when people have a particular, like, image of him."

Laertes privately notes that the sign for dad looks almost identical to the sign for Hanguang-jun, but it's only a passing thought. "Ay," he says, remembering all he'd said under the influence of the truth spell. "When I was traveling abroad, he set spies on me, and hired my friends to inform on all my doings--and only then did I realize that he must have done the same in Denmark. His way of loving was to exert control in all things, and even mine own mind became an instrument to that purpose. I knew no greater virtue than discipline, unless it was moderation. And still there was no thing I could be that would please him. He ... he loves me, but I doubt he likes me. And he would like me less, to know all that I've done here. He would see my happiness as a problem to be managed, and manage it he would."

That's so fucked up??? That's so fucked up. Magnus considers his words for a second.

"My father," he says, finger-spelling F-R-E-Y instead of signing 'dad,' "Is one of the good ones, I guess. He loved my mom, and sometimes he helps me out on my quests to save the world." He shrugs. "Loki tries to command everything Sam and Alex do. Including their heartbeats, if they're fighting him. Mr. Alderman -- my friend Hearthstone's dad -- wanted him to be a different son than the one he was. Not Deaf, for one, but also willing to fall in line with Mr. Alderman's picture of a perfect, like, I don't know. I hesitate to say 'family.'" A reflexive, fleeting grin. "I should probably say that I've defeated Loki in a couple of different ways, and Mr. Alderman twice. I, um. Got Mr. Alderman turned into a ring dragon, and then I killed him, and accidentally ate his hearts-blood. That's why I can talk to animals."

It's not an offer, per se, but Magnus does think that all his friends who clearly have really bad dads should know that his main talent, besides being a good friend, is defeating bad dads.

Laertes blinks. "An thou art offering to turn my father into a dragon, please stay thy hand."

"Oh, I'm not," Magnus says, quickly, and then half-jokes: "We got rid of that ring, anyway."

Laertes signs dragon, ring, mimicking to help fix the signs in his mind. "In any case--whatever age thou feel'st thyself to be, that age thou art."

Magnus isn't sure he knows what it feels like to be any age, at this point. "Okay," he says, nodding. "Can I ask what you meant by your sixteen year old self 'quickening and thawing?'"

"Only--I've started to make friends," he says, with a kind of trembling gladness. "True friends, not people who wanted my father's ear. I've fallen in love, and may yet fall in love again. I've done foolish things for the joy of foolery, and made mistakes that harrowed me to my heart. All those things that I felt I couldn't do, when I was sixteen, I've begun to do in earnest."

"So, in the immortal words of Mrs Frizzle, the best character in any children's book I've ever read," Magnus says, smiling at the joy he can see spreading across Laertes's face. "You're taking chances, making mistakes, and getting messy? To learn about the world and how things work outside of your own earlier experiences?"

"Yes," says Laertes, smiling in answer. "That's just what I'm doing."

"Good," Magnus says, fiercely, and then: "Me too, I think. Not quite in the same way."

"Say on," says Laertes, shifting his posture to one of attention--leaning forward a little, hands neutral at his sides, careful not to sign or fidget in a way that might distract.

"I mean, I was already in love with Alex when I got here, and that's not gonna change, but I've been picking friends for reasons other than, you know, questing together and stuff. Figuring out what I like to do when I can choose to do basically anything. And... but...." He pauses, then barrels on. "So. I've been living out here." A gesture at the clearing. "Since the zombies. They were... hard, for me, in a way I didn't expect? And I've just been out here, thinking about things. Like how I really didn't miss fighting for my life." He takes a deep breath. "Hanguang-jun said I could find another path than just Battle Practice all the time until I die in Ragnarok. I don't know if that's actually possible, but if it is... I'm trying to figure out what it could be."

"What pulls at thee? What catches thy heart and makes thee glad?" Laertes signs make, make, make.

"My friends," Magnus says, immediately. "That's... about as far as I've gotten."

"Then be with them--those that are here with thee. Give them joy and comfort. That's a path, and in my eyes, a noble one."

"I'm trying," Magnus says, with a quick grin. "Oh, here's something that makes me feel sixteen: I kinda wish I could go to school. I like learning things."

"The prince of Denmark was at university when I was drawn here, and he has thirty years," Laertes says, grinning. "Thou shouldst speak to Nina--we have a sort of club for learning new things together. I think she'd welcome thee."

"Oh, sick," Magnus says, pleased, and then: "Wait, dude, I've noticed someone else has been harvesting from the clay you told me about. Is that you? Or Nina? Or someone else?"

"I've been working with it, ay," says Laertes. "Tress tells me that she collected cups, in her world, and so I've determined to make some for her. If nothing else, my mistakes might make her laugh. The clay I've gathered has been cleaned of impurities, and sand added in proper measure, and I've been planning a kiln to fire it in. Thou mayest use all of it--I had no wish to rob thee of it."

"There's a kiln here?"

Laertes sprawls back on his hands, laughing. "There are plans to build a kiln, ay. The kiln itself exists only in my imaginings."

Magnus screws up his face into a thoughtful expression. "...Can I help?"

"I'd be glad of it," says Laertes. "Sagramore's asked to help, too; with three of us, it will be light work."

"Sweet," Magnus says, grinning. "Sounds like fun."

"What words ought I to know? Was this 'kiln'?" He copies the sign that Magnus had used--an opening framed with one hand, palm-down, and a forceful palm-up shove into the space beneath that frame; a tickling flutter of fingers to represent flame.

"Yeah, dude, that's it," Magnus enthuses. Talking, and signing, slowly, so that Laertes can follow along, he says, "I'm not experts on kilns or ceramics, but I've picked up a few things from Alex over the years."

Laertes copies Alex, because he's fairly sure that's a sign he's going to be seeing a lot. "What of 'clay,' or 'cup,' or 'fire'?"

Magnus signs each of these slowly, giving Laertes a chance to replicate it before moving on to the next one. "But a lot of people just finger-spell clay," he adds, thoughtfully. "I'm not sure why."

"The shapes flow well together," says Laertes. He especially likes how the A transitions into the Y. "In Danish, it's--" and he signs L, E, R. "Close to mine own name."

"Ler?" Magnus tries.

"Yes," says Laertes with delight. "I feared that to speak it would make the word impossible to hear, but thou hast heard it and spoken it aright. The vowel is--" and he presses in on his throat "--more choked; it hath not its origins in Latin. In Norway and Sweden, though we share many words in common, they think my language unmusical. Ler," he says, emphasizing that strangled E. "In Norwegian, it means 'laughing.' I think in Swedish it means both?¹"

¹ Laertes is close--in Swedish, it's pronounced with yet another vowel sound, and is part of words related to smiling and earthenware.

"I know some Old Norse," Magnus offers. "But only the swear words. Meinfretr, for example." He clears his throat and tries again: "Ler?"

"Good!" Laertes sits forward with a grin. "That word, I don't know, although this place lays an unbeautiful gloss upon it."

Magnus finger-spells it, in case Laertes is hearing it weirdly here. "It means, basically, stinkfart," he offers.

Laertes can't help cracking up at that, clutching his stomach. "It is not--" he gasps "--not the first word of Old Norse I expected to learn."

Magnus grins at Laertes and then laughs, too. "I have plenty more of that sort of thing," he says. "Perks of being friends with a 1200-year-old berserker from Norway." He laughs again. "He's sixteen, too."

"How old does he feel, to thee?"

"Somewhere in between that," Magnus admits. "It's partly the fact that he can grow a full beard, and partly that he has a doctorate in Germanic literature and speaks twelve languages fluently." He sighs, a little wistful. "Halfborn is a good role model for making good use of the time you have, I guess."

"I should like so much to meet him." Laertes smiles a little. "I had few men I could look up to, in Denmark--but in France I met a Norman named Lamond. He was a towering champion on the field of combat, an unmatched fencer and a gentleman of most perfect graces and manners. I was faint to catch his eye, but I couldn't bring myself to speak a word to him. I feared too much that he would see the green, untried boy of me, and find me wanting. Now ... now I wonder if we might have been friends, or better than friends, if I'd been braver."

Despite the ebb and flow of the conversation they've been having, Magnus is surprised to hear that Laertes gets nervous around other people. He seems so cool and together to Magnus. "It's always possible," Magnus says, gamely. He gives Laertes a look of great commiseration. "I know what it's like to get tongue-tied in front of someone hot and capable."

"Thine Alex," teases Laertes. "I think she would have had to kiss me, too, or I would have languished for an eternal life in dread of asking wrongly. Had Sagramore not made tenders of affection to me first, I would never have dared to try his willingness. And had it not been for his encouragement, I would never have been brave enough to kiss anyone else."

Magnus is doubly surprised now. "Oh," he says, trying to make sure he's understanding correctly. "You guys are... open?"

Laertes tilts his head. "Ay, in all things I aim to be honest with him."

"In an open marriage?" Magnus clarifies. He assumes full honesty is probably the best approach to that kind of thing, though. He can think of dozens of gods who would benefit from a little more communication.

Laertes frowns for a moment, but then he works out the connection between Magnus's phrase and the previous thread of conversation. "Oh, yes, that's so, if I take thy meaning aright."

Huh. "I can't remember the other word for it," Magnus explains, tone apologetic about his vocabulary shortcomings. "That's cool, though." Having had time to process this new fact, he returns to more important matters: "The first time Alex kissed me it was like, 'whoa! That's allowed? Whole new door of possibilities opening up out here in Niflheim.'" He makes a face. "And then I was soooooooooooo awkward about it anyway. For days."

"It must have been agony," laughs Laertes. "Didst thou retreat, and force him to score the second touch? Or didst thou rally?"

"Oh, Alex always sets the pace," Magnus says, totally sanguine. "He always knows what he wants and when he wants it and I'm happy to be told. I'm terrible at this stuff, and it takes out all the guesswork, you know?" He shifts a little, sitting up straighter. "But, um. We didn't really talk about it, after that kiss, because I was so stunned? And the next day, we were fighting Loki? On Naglfgr, the Ship of Nails. And all the jotuns. You know, final battle to stop Ragnarok from happening. So I challenged Loki to a flyting, and in the process of, um, attacking him, I accidentally let it slip that Alex had kissed me and that it was the best thing that ever happened to me. To Loki, who's her mom. And to all of our friends. And to all of the jotuns we were fighting. And so when we were on our boat after the battle, he was, like..." He laughs, making a face. "I still don't know what happened, to be honest. Hearthstone told me there were no words for it in sign language."

"Something like pride, and exultation?" Laertes guesses.

Magnus pauses. "Exultation?"

"If my lover said that my kiss was the best thing that ever happened to him, I would feel greater triumph than has ever been known on the battlefield."

"Oh." Magnus flushes. "I -- maybe she was pleased, especially deep down, but out loud Alex was more like, whoa dude! That's a lot!"

"Ah." A self-conscious laugh. "Mayhap that's a more likely reaction."

"I definitely felt... exultation... when Alex kissed me, though," Magnus says. "It definitely kept me from freezing to death in Niflheim, which is cold even for me. Anyway, I think maybe she might have been teasing me a little. In retrospect. He kissed me when we got back to Valhalla after, too, even though I was covered in chocolate." He laughs, a single burst of sound. "I somehow didn't actually clock that I liked guys before that."

"Thy time sounds ... kinder about such things than mine," says Laertes, a little more softly. "I'm glad for it. I've heard such loves as ours called the vice of the Greeks--and it heartens me to know that the arc of history has bent back again, and the strictures of my era have gentled."

"I think that's probably true," Magnus says, pursing his lips. He debates mentioning the ways in which it's not -- would that be too much? -- but he likes talking to Laertes, and has always felt like he can open up to him, since the first time Laertes knew stuff about Valhalla. "Gay marriage has been legal in the city where I lived since I was, like, five, and I'm pretty sure it was legalized across my entire country a few months after I died. And I think there are other legal protections? But it's not all great all the time, especially on a smaller scale, I think. A lot of the kids at the Chase Space -- that's the shelter me and Alex run for homeless kids -- were on the streets because their parents had issues with them being gay, or bi, or trans, or whatever."

"That's hard," says Laertes, thinking of how his father would answer it if he returned home with Sagramore on his arm and insisted that they were married. He's old enough now that he could go wherever he likes and make another life; the children Magnus helps, though, still require and deserve care, and it aches to hear that they would be cast out for their sins. (It feels like it's been a long time since he thought of what he does with Sagramore as sin, and he finds that thought hateful to bear.) "I want to understand--those words, what do they mean? Gay is the kind of marriage I have, is it not?"

"Yeah, you and Sagramore are gay married," Magnus says, with a fleeting smile. "Gay is... same-sex. Or same-gender. Men with men, women with women, et cetera. Women who only want other women are also called lesbians? Trans -- transgender -- that's like Alex. People whose gender doesn't always align with the sex they were thought to have at birth. She's genderfluid, too. Male and female. Some trans people are just one, or neither. But it's not a sexuality thing, it's a gender thing, so it's a little different from gay or straight or -- um, bi -- bisexual -- I guess that's like me? And --" he remembers what Laertes had said earlier, about liking men and women. "Maybe you too? People who like multiple genders. Some people who don't really care also call themselves pan. Short for pansexual. There are... a lot of different terms people use. Usually 'gay' is the quickest shorthand though, I think. And 'straight' is people who only like a different gender than their own."

It's a lot to absorb all at once, but Laertes follows as well as he can, creating the schema in his mind and mentally pinning each term to a person so that he has a mnemonic. (He doesn't think he knows any lesbians; even Sappho famously had both male and female lovers.) "A part of me had thought that all people must be bi, or there could be no sin in loving one's own sex," he admits. "Just as all of us may covet, or steal, or kill--that which is forbidden is that which any might do. I do not say it is a sin," he hastens to add. "Only that it seems strange to forbid a temptation to which some cannot be subject. But thou sayest some love only one sex?"

"Allegedly," Magnus says, with a crooked smile. "Blitzen is definitely 100% gay. Mallory is definitely straight." He'd say Halfborn is, too, but there's always been that awkward tension between Halfborn and TJ, and sometimes Magnus wonders. "But I wouldn't be surprised if there were more bi people than research says." He shrugs. "Me, I love Alex. He pointed out that I had, um, crushes? On some other guys? Mostly when he was teasing me for not realizing that I liked him even when I couldn't stop staring at him and wanted to learn everything about him. And my first kiss was with Jackie Molotov, when I was twelve. That's pretty much as far as I've thought about it, though. Alex is both, so I like both."

"As thou rightly shouldst. She's lucky to have thee. Even if thou wert 'a lot.'"

Magnus blushes. He's pretty confident in his relationship, for all that he hasn't seen Alex in a month and a half at this point, but still: "You think so?"

"Thou art a fine young man," says Laertes warmly. "Open with thy heart, generous to thy friends. Honest, and earnest, and kind. I admire thee very much."

"Aw," Magnus -- who is, as ever, the pinnacle of eloquence and verbal expressiveness -- says, with not even one whit of awkwardness^*. "Shucks."

*Not.

"For all thy generosity, though, I remember what I owe. When thou art ready to learn to cook, come find me, and we'll learn together."

"Oh, right!" Magnus had forgotten that this was about more than just hanging out with a buddy and talking in sign. "Like I said, I'm not really Inside Guy right now. But I for sure will eventually."

Laertes frowns. He doesn't much like the thought of Magnus being too anxious to come inside for hot meals. "Wouldst like me to bring thee food? It would be easy enough to add one more portion."

"Galahad's been bringing me lunch every day," Magnus says. "And Mothwing's been bringing me extra fish. And I have, like, energy bars. But if it's not too much trouble, that would be really nice, man, thank you."

"Then dinner will be mine office, until thou art ready to join me in the kitchen," says Laertes. "Hast thou any favorite meals?"

"Falafel," Magnus says, immediately. "Kibbeh, spicy lamb kebabs, shawarma, pita, dolmas, hummus, good barbecue... But mostly falafel."

"I think some of those are in my Turkish cookbook," says Laertes, pleased at the spark of recognition. "I'll look for the rest."

"Amir and his dad are Iraqi," Magnus remembers. "They own Fadlan's Falafel. My favorite place back home. In case that helps?"

"It does help; my thanks," says Laertes. "Thou wilt have to test each dish for me, to be sure that I've made it aright."

"Oh, gladly," Magnus says. He signs, thank you.

Thank you, friend, Laertes signs in answer.

You Say Overkill, I Say Due Diligence [open post]

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