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

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

Magnus copies the sign onto seven different pieces of paper. It reads:

WANT TO LEARN NEW SKILLS? ME FREAKING TOO. I (Magnus Chase) Will Trade Lessons In Any Of The Following For Something You Know:
ASL (Alf/American Sign Language)

Camping (pitching tents, campfire safety, celestial navigation)

What To Do If You Find Yourself Lost In The World Tree Yggdrasil

Pickpocketing (But only if you promise to use it for good (stealing ONLY from dickhead rich people) and ONLY if you have to!)

Swordfighting for Beginners (I am intermediate but Jack is advanced and he can help!)

What It REALLY Feels Like To Die (NOT ADVICE!!!)

(Trans)Gender Identity and Fluidity (from the perspective of a cis guy) (Alex-approved content only)

What To Do If The God You're Talking To Is Super ~~Obnoxious~~ Particular

Why Falafel is the Best Food in the World

All skills welcome! But if you know any of the following I am especially interested: Cooking, Geometry, How To Declare Your Love To Your Partner, Hand-to-Hand Combat, Balancing a Budget, Writing Poetry, Social Studies, Codebreaking.

(Sorry but I will not learn pottery from anyone but ♥Alex Fierro♥. I hope you understand.)

PS if there's enough interest we can maybe do full classes where everybody gets to take turns teaching and learning?

He adds a note about the areas where he can most frequently be found and then posts one sign in each of the two kitchens he's encountered, one by the welcome table, one on the door to the greenhouses, one in the library, one on his bedroom door, and one by what he believes to be the most-populated lounge. Then, with a great deal of eager anticipation, he goes about his day.

[A note from Magnus's typist: Open indefinitely!]

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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.

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