"We don't have moths, we have river dragons. And when humans were having their own big war, the dragons waded in for us. They fought gods for us, powerful beings that could wink them out of existence at will."
Says Quentin, closing his eyes.
"And when it was over their numbers were decimated- but they'd all been alive and immortal so long that they'd opted to stop, then forgotten how to reproduce."
"Oh," he says softly, with a bewildered sort of awe. Dragons. Are real.
It should hardly be shocking, all things considered, and yet - to some corner of his mind, otherwise steeped in exotics and jaded to the strange folds of gatespace, dragons still feels like what real magic does to a child from Earth. "What are they like?"
He doesn't have Jedao's fluid, balletic, incisive grace, but he has the raw flexibility and balance; he slides to his feet easily enough, and offers his hands to pull Quentin.
He shakes his head; he doesn't know how to change, and he's not at all sure Kujen would have wanted him to have that ability. Not that he necessarily understood all of what Jedao would be. "Spells are fine."
"I didn't follow his suspicions entirely," Jedao allows, evasive in the interests of Teddy's privacy. There were things he told Jedao that he did not offer publicly.
"But he put me in mind of it. Our variable layout is a product of using moths, of course."
He takes a bracing breath. Better here than at the Citadel of Eyes; he views it less a question of a lot of feelings to endure in a short time, and more in terms of the practical reality that he will feel these things now, here, where he can afford to be so exposed and uncontrolled - or never.
"I mostly feel like you're still on the first one," he says, made awkward by the intensity of Quentin's contrition, just as he was when Quentin first strode away from him in the garden.
"I've had outbursts on everyone since I got here. I just -"
Everyone in the Citadel of Eyes knows how to be delicate. Even Hemiola understands enough without pushing, and is constitutionally inclined not to, as an attendant servitor who considers him its charge. His therapeutic interrogators, especially, are masters of subtlety. With them, Jedao simply, categorically avoids anything he doesn't want cracked open; with Quentin, so many of their foundational assumptions are different that Jedao had to explain things, old painful things he'd never cared enough to excavate before. But Quentin made him care. And Fives, and Iris, and others. Nothing he's known could have prepared him for the barge.
"You made me - want to be understood. You made me want to be honest with you and I don't know how to do it without falling apart, but that's not something you did wrong."
"I like that you can't understand why I'd think I'm repulsive," he says, dryly and honestly. "It's - nice." Not a perspective he'd ever really credited before. But there's no doubting Quentin's sincerity. It's frustrating, but - it feels like possibility, too.
"I'd think it'd be because either people lied to you a lot, or because you don't like humans and you've been shoehorned into being one of us, which is gross to you."
He says, a little pang crossing his expression at the thought.
"But you're gorgeous to me. Anyways, let's do this."
Cracking his knuckles, limbering his fingers, then starting the first of the spells he'd mailed him earlier. Time to get serious.
He shakes his head for both guesses, expression a little crooked - Mahar and Dhanneth had both been utterly sincere in their disgust, at a very impressionable time. And he does resent, sometimes, the shoe-not-fitting feeling his dual nature sometimes leaves him with, but not humanity itself.
But he doesn't speak, presuming that would interrupt the work, watches Quentin's fingers with a curiosity more studious than smitten.
He ties off the last casting with a neat little smile, and steps back, letting out a breath.
He strips, once more, one last time, and now without any shame. It's a bare second, before the glorious dragon towers over him, all white ice and glittering scales, and five lovely long toes.
This Jedao doesn't remember any of the Shparoi folktales that steeped a happy childhood; all he knows is that something about this feels wild and wonderful. He just stares at first, feels light and bright and empty in a good way, uncluttered by his usual coil of thoughts.
Then he reaches out, for lack of better examples, not entirely unlike the way he would offer his hand to one of Zehun's cats.
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Says Quentin, closing his eyes.
"And when it was over their numbers were decimated- but they'd all been alive and immortal so long that they'd opted to stop, then forgotten how to reproduce."
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It should hardly be shocking, all things considered, and yet - to some corner of his mind, otherwise steeped in exotics and jaded to the strange folds of gatespace, dragons still feels like what real magic does to a child from Earth. "What are they like?"
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He asks, reaching up to draw a thumb across his face, to brush the tears away.
"I can show you."
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"Really?"
Please.
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His back does not like bathroom floor cuddling, not one bit.
"Can you be a moth? The flying kind. Or is it okay if I cast a bit of a spell on you for space in this body?"
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He shakes his head; he doesn't know how to change, and he's not at all sure Kujen would have wanted him to have that ability. Not that he necessarily understood all of what Jedao would be. "Spells are fine."
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"Okay."
Good to go.
"We need the Enclosure for this one."
He moves to lead the way.
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He asks, and reaches to take Jedao's elbow.
"I try not to read the network."
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Pointing out, raising an eyebrow.
"I mean, I've heard of weirder things being sentient, but there's absolutely zero indication that that's the case."
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"But he put me in mind of it. Our variable layout is a product of using moths, of course."
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Wonders Quentin, who above all doesn't want to do any harm.
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Says Quentin, ready to trust him. In that case, he begins to lead the way.
"So- I think this will be good, but also maybe I should warn you bittersweet? Are you- up for one more emotional thing today?"
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"Yes, alright."
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"I care about you like crazy, already. Thanks for giving me a second chance."
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"I've had outbursts on everyone since I got here. I just -"
Everyone in the Citadel of Eyes knows how to be delicate. Even Hemiola understands enough without pushing, and is constitutionally inclined not to, as an attendant servitor who considers him its charge. His therapeutic interrogators, especially, are masters of subtlety. With them, Jedao simply, categorically avoids anything he doesn't want cracked open; with Quentin, so many of their foundational assumptions are different that Jedao had to explain things, old painful things he'd never cared enough to excavate before. But Quentin made him care. And Fives, and Iris, and others. Nothing he's known could have prepared him for the barge.
"You made me - want to be understood. You made me want to be honest with you and I don't know how to do it without falling apart, but that's not something you did wrong."
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So, along they walk, to the enclosure, which he uses his pocket watch to open, instructing it to give him a field, please.
The point isn't the planet they're going to be on, after all. He turns to face Jedao.
"I'm going to cast a pile of magic on you. And if you want to stop, just, tap me three times, okay?"
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"Okay."
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He says, a little pang crossing his expression at the thought.
"But you're gorgeous to me. Anyways, let's do this."
Cracking his knuckles, limbering his fingers, then starting the first of the spells he'd mailed him earlier. Time to get serious.
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But he doesn't speak, presuming that would interrupt the work, watches Quentin's fingers with a curiosity more studious than smitten.
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He strips, once more, one last time, and now without any shame. It's a bare second, before the glorious dragon towers over him, all white ice and glittering scales, and five lovely long toes.
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Then he reaches out, for lack of better examples, not entirely unlike the way he would offer his hand to one of Zehun's cats.
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He lies all the way down, so he can climb aboard.
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