{ log } there are only two kinds of freedom in the world;
Having spent many years as a soldier, Doul is no stranger to wartime and the long waits and scarce information of the homefront. Even so, he is surprised at the sort of peace he has found in Deepmoor and wonders if that contentment has accelerated his, ah, progression. It won't be long before someone stops to comment on his slowly paling skin and almost cyanotic nailbeds.
It takes Nuala longer than it might have under some other circumstances to do so; the problem with the long waits is that nothing stops, and so much needs to be done to ensure that the returning victors have something to return to, that they don't fall simply because there's nothing left to stand on. Life, unfortunately, can't afford to let her hold her breath every time her brother goes into battle. All the same - in due time, she has enough time to herself to think about the things that she's noticed but not precisely registered, and when she does she sends for Doul.
As requested, he arrives and comes armed. Which is to say, he's brought her a book of poetry. "Yes, your Highness? How may I be of service?" His movements are as smooth and vaguely inhuman as they ever were, his voice much the same, but he is pale. Not a sickly grey-green colour, but something more unnatural.
"Sit, please," Nuala invites him, having in the intervening time left her desk to sit by the fire. She holds her hand out for the book, absent-minded, but her attention is more obviously on Doul himself as she examines him more closely than she has been. "I'd like to speak with you."
"Thank you," he says before taking the offered seat. No matter how chilled he looks, Doul is still warm to the touch and appreciates the nearby fire. (That may be a metaphor.)
The princess lets the natural pause as they resettle themselves in front of her study's fire stretch out before she breaks the silence. "You are changing before my very eyes, Uther Doul," she says, not unkindly.
"I don't believe it is anything to be troubled by." He's trying to find a way to better couch his words and explain one of the greatest taboos of his people without actually saying just what the matter is. "But, I have noticed it."
"We would be having a rather different conversation, I think, if it seemed immediately disturbing," she says, tactfully; it's probably lucky, in some ways, that Nuala is coming into this with the existing expectation of Doul changing somehow. "But I wonder if you know the cause?"
"There are two reasons that come to mind -- either this is to do with the way in which the Scar changed me or my heritage is asserting itself." He's uneasy at the thought of the Scar changing him further, but significantly more uncomfortable talking about his people. "It is never spoken of outside the city walls or in front of others, but from time to time, the Quick change and display talents. These few are usually put down once their skills manifest."
To say that Nuala is sensitive to the emotions of others is to vastly understate the case; she weighs her options as she listens and observes, folding her hands together in her lap and deciding whether or not to press the issue. If they were somewhere else - if this were any other day in any other circumstances - then she might not. Here, though, here in the heart of her land and with that land engaged in battle, Nuala can't quite afford to be so generous with her understanding. "I am afraid I must insist that you explain, Uther Doul. I'm sure that you understand why."
Nuala already knows more about himself and his people than anyone else in the Nexus and Doul trusts her to use this information judiciously. "Occasionally there are those among my people that have skills unlike what humans ought to have, not small hexes or elemental skills, but stranger abilities. In order to be raised from one of the Quick, a person must display one such skill; the first of these in my House survived having his heart pulled out as a sacrifice. In my case, I may have already been changed before I went to the Scar."
"What understanding do your people have of these unusual individuals?" she asks, pressing her knuckles briefly to her mouth as she considers what this could mean and, most pertinently, what this does mean immediately for his continued service in her land. She has no intention of throwing him out, of course, but if there's a need to accommodate something then she'd like to know what it is and the sooner, the better.
"You must understand, this is something that is never spoken of, but a great many years ago the people of High Cromlech were tired of offering their kin in sacrifice to the gods and, and ..." Give him a moment. He needs to rethink how to say this in an appropriate manner. "They became the first Dead, killed their gods, and pieces of them filtered down through the generations. Now, those among the Quick that show talents are praised and do well in society."
The silence that follows isn't awkward or shocked - despite some of the implications left in what Doul has just told her - but merely thoughtful, and Nuala rises to her feet before the fire as she considers it. "Uther Doul," she says, slowly, "I have come through knowing you to believe that it may be your people are not so human as others have thought. Perhaps they were, once; I myself could change the blood running through a man's veins to something that pleased me better, if I so chose." She thinks, very briefly, of the nursery. "I doubt that they are now, and what you are saying to me only firms my belief."
"I believe that you are right." He's spent a good deal of time thinking about this very topic and unlike others of his homeland, he's ventured into foreign cities and met other humans, none of whom seem to be quite like the Quick or Dead that he's known. "I do not think that whatever I am is innately harmful. If I did, I would leave."
"I believe you," Nuala says, "but under the circumstances I need to know that for myself. It's not that I doubt you; it's that I must think of the Moor first among all things." How naturally she accepts that burden of responsibility is an interesting glimpse of the princess's character and will, but she doesn't pause to let it sink in as she stands there, backlit by the fire, her eyes serious. "Will you consent to let me see you as I have before?"
"Of course," he says without hesitation. It takes Doul a moment to compose himself and prepare for what may be an uncomfortable experience.
Nuala takes a seat in front of him, instead of making him stand - it seems unwise - and lays her hands over his, palm to palm. "Don't fight me," she cautions, for the benefit of both of them, and this time she has no intention of merely examining the shape of his defenses. It's well within her capacity to force her way through, but she takes a subtler approach than simply breaking his mind. That would almost certainly serve neither of them.
This time there is no vast desert to travel, it still exists but only as an outer layer of defence, and Nuala is right, the 'desert' is not something that she needs to examine at this point. Doul's actual mind can be likened to a series of overlaying acetate sheets - each with a different stream of thought, but somehow transparent and able to co-ordinate and operate simultaneously. In some ways, these layers act as filters and enable him to better control his reactions to those around him.
Hints of Doul's mind have taken Nuala's breath away before, but a critical examination of it reveals something unlike any mind she's ever touched. The simultaneous variations strike her as very appropriate, and she familiarizes herself with the way that he thinks and the colour of it that impresses his mind's signature into her memory as she prepares to delve yet deeper.
His memories are neatly catalogued with tags that read 'Happened', 'Almost Happened', 'Didn't Happen', and all sorts of other equally bizarre but needed categories. Despite the multiple histories and thought-streams, there is nothing redundant here. There is a large part of Doul that longs to be spontaneous, but control and order are necessary just to function. Perhaps she will be able to see and examine that part of him that allows him to feel the various probabilities of a situation and then pull into being one (or more) of them?
Though it's important to acquaint herself with the rest of it - and Nuala's warm gold presence spreads out through his mind, learning it - it's that very part that she thinks to examine.
There's a soft exhalation of breath as the Liveman slowly relaxes and should anyone see him now, they would likely be surprised at how young he looks when not trying to school his expression into one of careful, artificial neutrality. Internally, Doul quite literally carries a piece of the Scar (or if you want to be more esoteric about it, a piece of the Scar's essential self) deep within his mind. It's been adjusted, adapted, and reformed to better match his personality and ability, but it is undeniably a piece of something alien. Constantly reforming, this facet of Doul's self is not innately dangerous, nor does it have malicious intent, it merely is.
Her reaction to this is a ripple where their minds touch, but it goes all the way out to where her hands are pressed against Doul's and her gold nails dig into his skin, briefly. It's not fear so much as surprise, and as she adjusts her examination she considers that perhaps she truly shouldn't be surprised.
It's not a parasite. Rather, they seem to have something akin to a symbiotic relationship, and it's entirely possible that the only reason Doul was suitable for this 'joining' was some innate inhuman aspect to his psyche or biology. She may recognize a flutter of concern for her - is whatever he has inside so bad?
The absent-minded reassurance that Nuala envelops that flutter in carries with it a certain sense of the princess being self-satisfied - everybody likes to be proven right about something, and she's no exception to that particular rule. She acquaints herself with the symbiosis in his mind and, almost regretfully, begins to withdraw.
Suitably relieved, Nuala may be able to tell that Doul has mixed, but generally positive, feelings toward her and Deepmoor. Firstly, while he often dismisses it as trivial, he is fond of her and genuinely enjoys time spent with the princess. While, on a more practical note, Doul knows that he is best able to function when he has aligned himself with a cause or individual and has seen that Nuala is reasonable and the sort of royalty that he can support without reservation.
This sort of support is really the sort that Nuala most wants lately, in a privately selfish sort of a way; she has faith in both herself and her brother, but she's more comfortable when she's sure that she's not the only one who has faith in what they're doing here.
She releases Doul's hands when there's only thin tendrils of her presence left, returning to herself, and smiles faintly. "Thank you," she says, precisely, "I believe that I'm quite satisfied."
There is only a moment while his smile is unguarded before his usual bland expression reasserts itself. "You're welcome, your highness. If I may, what did you find?" He's always been just a little too curious to be properly dour.
"First of all, I was correct in my assessment of your people - at the very least, of you. It is a natural difference between yourself and the common human that allows what else I found. You, my dear friend, have come into a symbiosis of some kind with, I believe, the Scar itself. Some part of it is carried within you, and it has become as much a part of you as your own nose." Nuala clasps her hands together, leaning forward in her earnestness. "You mustn't be concerned. It isn't harmful."
"It is in my nature to be severe and concerned." This is not entirely true and they both know it. "But I am glad to have confirmation of what I've thought; I'd suspected that the Scar was alive and knew it when I returned for the second time. I take it that you are still willing to have me here?"
"Yes," she says, firmly. "You are welcome here for as long as you wish to be." She pauses, considering him. "Perhaps we might consider a more formal and permanent arrangement."
"Good. Despite the war, I have found that I feel more at home here than anywhere I have been in a long time. I am content to stay for as long as I'm needed now and in regards to something more permanent, I am not entirely opposed, but I would very much like to know and understand the mechanics and terms of such a thing." It ought to say a good deal in Nuala's favour that Doul does not reject such a thing on principle.
"For now it's merely academic," Nuala says, thoughtfully, "as the matter of precisely with what authority we rule the Deepmoor will play heavily into how we take alliance, and fealty." Those are interesting words she's using, with her bright eyes somewhere else while she thinks. "Regardless, I can tell you it would be a matter of oaths, and while they would be binding, I don't speak of anything to compel you beyond your own word. It would be- useful, as you must understand that in due time we will be obliged to take care with those in our service." And it's safer to have something more than friendship when it comes to obligations.
"It is a wise idea and I will spend some time thinking on it. While considerably less official, you do know that I will do my utmost to protect you and your lands, princess?" Doul thinks that his opinion on that matter ought to be made explicit on the off chance that she didn't poke about in that part of his mind.
Nuala smiles at him, genuine and warm and a little like a sunrise. "I have no doubt of that, Uther Doul. As you consider my suggestion, please bear in mind that it's foremost a means of smoothing things over within our court and not a question of our lack of faith in you. My brother, too, has been greatly pleased by your choice to join us here." She exhales, not quite a sigh, and adds, "The reason that I broach this now, when it's of little meaning, is because I will need an answer from you in time and it would be best if you began thinking now."
"I appreciate the advance warning." He suspects that his answer is going to be worrying easy to give and that fuels a little, stubborn piece of self that encourages him to wait and think. "Will one week be too long? It would be unfair to make you or your brother wait any longer."
"A week will suffice," she says, nodding. "And I won't keep you any longer - we both have duties to attend to."
"So we do. Be well, princess." And, goodness, he does have a vast sea of things that he ought to be doing. (Er, whatever his duties are?)