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flora-legium · 6 years

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John Uskglass, then? :D

Yeeee!^^ Yes! Excellent! Always looking for more of an excuse to ramble on about this nerd :p

favorite thing about them

Oh God, where do I even begin? Honestly though, I think I’d have to say it’s his humanity? Or maybe that’s not quite the way to put it? Rather, I love that line he walks, balancing just between that humanity and that very fae nature he also possesses: never quite fitting into either world perfectly; always having that potential, when you think you’ve finally gotten him figured out, to act with human kindness or fairy cruelty, completely upending that understanding you thought you had while at the same time reminding you once more that he is of both worlds.

It’s like, He is the sort of person who, in the mist of everything falling into place, of a spell that he’s been working for 300 years finally coming to fruition and Magic finally returning to England, totally would – as a last second thought – take out the time to just stop for a moment a do something like healing Childermass’s cut. But also, He’s also very much the sort of person who’d go and, with no explanation whatsoever, just change all of the writing on Vinculus and just expect y’all to figure it out? Oh, what’s that? The last reader of the King’s Letters died years ago? Have fun figuring that out then!

least favorite thing about them

That there’s so little of him actually there? Ughh, he’s one of my favorite characters, and he won that position in just a few pages, but damn it, I need more! Yet at the same time I also kind of don’t want to ruin that air of mystery about him? His ambiguity is such a key part of his character after all, and that whole question of, ‘is it true? is it just another story?’ that’s implied with every bit of information about him is part of his charm. He’s such a frustrating character to love, really xD

favorite line

It’s difficult because he doesn’t actually have many lines. I’d definately say that the story of the Newcastle Glovemaker’s Daughter is probably one of my favorite Raven King stories, however. Again, it’s such a beautiful blend of both his humanity and his more Otherlandish aspects. On the one hand, there’s this kind of adorable image of him, when the girl finds him, Telling her not to be afraid, and then just sitting with her and…talking with her for that whole day. Like, you have this Powerful Magician King here, and the fact that he’s even entertaining the idea of just listening and speaking to this random small child who’s wandered her way off of the World We Know and into Elsewhere? And then he walks her home too? But on the other hand, there are all of these questions surrounding the whole affair, like, how did she even come to wander there in the first place? Was she, as a Child, just able to pick up on some crack in the walls between Faerie and England and see John Uskglass house and decide to wander there herself? Was she drawn there by the Raven King? If so, then why? And what did they even talk about in those few hours together? And then there’s the whole disappearing act The Raven king pulls, just as he and the Girl reach her family again, as though he’s some ghost haunting Newcastle and the North. It’s just so perfect and gothic and spooky, i love it!^^

brOTP

Oh, definately William of Lanchester and Thomas of Dundale. John Uskglass isn’t the sort who you see as typically having ‘friends’ in any usual sense, but that William and Thomas were both mentioned as being so trusted by the Raven King definitely says something. Between Thomas acting as his interpreter so early on – Not only of human language, but really, of the whole culture he suddenly found himself in and an entirely new mindset – and William being his most trusted adviser…yeah I can’t help but seeing these two as so important to John.

OTP

John Uskglass/England, ftw!^^

Okay, but for an actual romantic, relationship type situation? Probably, Black Joan. There’s just something that seems so right about the idea, that fits in with all of the rest of the Raven King’s contradictions and the balance he walks, between two worlds, that…yeah, he would fall in love with a common thief. I also can’t help but imagine the woman who raised John Childermass as totally being the sort of person who could hold her own against the Raven King and all of his his nonsense xD

nOTP

ermmm… No one really? Well…John Uskglass/Thomas of Lanchester and John Uskglass/Catherine of Winchester because I tend to imagine their relationships as crossing over into the familial for John…but I guess that’s about it? I haven’t really thought about it much.

random headcanon

Okay, so I’ve touched upon this a bit before, but especially early on in his reign I tend to imagine the interactions between John Uskglass and his human court as being rather…fraught? Because of his particular upbringing much of the time people weren’t quite sure what exactly to make of him, and it wasn’t much better from The Raven King’s side of things either. There were a lot of stumbling blocks along the way as he grew to better understand these strange people he was now surrounding himself with.

Things got better over the years, for the most part, as he did begin to gain a new understanding of humanity, but there was always that underlying tension there. He may have understood his courtiers better, but understanding just what goes on in John Uskglass’s mind is another story entirely, and unless you’re particularly close to him or have come to know him extremely well, you can never really tell for sure. I’d be remiss if I didn’t say the Raven King had a biiit of fun with this.

Basically, John Uskglass has a sense of humor drier than the Sahara Desert. Every so often he’ll just make some absolutely mad sounding comment, just off-handily, completely dead-pan and straight faced about it. Sometimes he’s serious, sometimes he’s not, but the fact is, it’s difficult to tell? There’s this sort of delayed reaction that ripples through the room, as those in conversation with him kind of look between one another. Is he being serious? Was that….was that an actual joke? Is he allowed to even do that?

And you never actually know for sure if he’s being serious or not, because save for the subtlest of signs, the Raven King certainly isn’t giving anything away. But the disconcerned looks on everyone’s faces as the realization slowly dawns on them that the Great and Mysterious Magician King who’s ruled over England for the past three centuries; The eerie, eternally young gentleman who has a penchant for shadows and ravens; the man who even a smile is a rare reward from; This Force of Nature…you know, that guy, not only actually has a sense of humor but actually is in possession of a razor wit and wicked sarcasm, even if he is a bit morbid, is probably the most amusing part. Thomas has to stifle his own laughter whenever he witnesses these moments. William merely shakes his head and lets out a long sigh.

unpopular opinion

Errrrmmm….huh. Do I have any unpopular opinions about John Uskglass? What are the popular opinions about him? (you know, besides the fact that he’s awesome ;D)

song i associate with them

You mean besides the Raven King Ballad itself? xD Probably Spirit of albion by Damh the Bard:

youtube

favorite picture of them

definately this one. https://www.deviantart.com/lecreyjinx/art/The-Raven-King-full-549251747

#regshoe #John Uskglass #Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell #eeeee!#more rambling about the goth nerdboy

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samayla · 6 years

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Impossible to Please

Written for @mythopoeticreality: Oh and for the Dialogue prompt thing: 3. “When this is all over, I want my sanity back.” For either William of Lanchester/Thomas Dundale, or, if you'd be willing to do a more platonic relationship, Vinculus and Childermass

Thanks for the prompt! I have not yet read the Ladies of Grace Adieu in its entirety, so unfortunately I couldn’t write Lanchester/Dundale for you. Hope you enjoy a little Vinculus/Childermass silliness instead :)

Rating: G

AO3

“You cannot be serious.”

Vinculus stared blithely at Childermass’ reflection behind his shoulder in the mirror. “Why not?” he asked. He twirled, sending the tails of his new frock coat fanning out around his body. He was excessively proud of the coat, and more than a little put out that Childermass did not seem to share his appreciation of it, though looking at his companion’s plain black coat, Vinculus reflected that it might be rather rich for the man’s taste. It was rust-red velvet, and generously trimmed in silver and gold brocade at the cuffs, around the collar, and all along the tails, so that when he turned or moved, the trim flashed pleasingly in the candlelight. He felt rather like an elemental spirit, all quickness and fire, while Childermass lurked behind him, a disapproving shadow.

In the mirror, Childermass rolled his eyes. “Finish getting ready,” was all he said. No comment on the coat, or how well he thought Vinculus looked in it, or how the venerable gentlemen at the York Society of Magicians would be sure to be impressed.

“I am ready,” Vinculus answered with a flourishing bow. The candlelight flashed off his cuffs most dramatically, so he did it again.

Instead of commenting on the dashing trim of Vinculus’ new coat, Childermass asked about his new trousers.

“They’re my old trousers,” he answered. He lifted the tails of his coat out of the way so he could check the progress of the hole in the seat of them. It didn’t seem much bigger than it had the day before, and his coattails covered it admirably, and so he felt perfectly satisfied with the state of his trousers. He caught the look on Childermass’ face in the mirror, however, and felt obliged to explain himself. “These’re my lucky trousers.” At Childermass’ blank look, he continued. “Seen me to the next life and back again, didn’t they? Didn’t even mess ‘em when I was hanged. Luck like that must be respected.”

Childermass conceded that point without comment, but naturally, he proceeded at once to a new argument entirely and informed Vinculus that he must put on a shirt.

“What for?” Vinculus demanded, utterly perplexed. “I’ve just got to take it off again ten minutes into the meeting.”

Childermass answered that the other gentlemen would expect him to come fully dressed, to which Vinculus scoffed and straightened his jacket primly. If the other gentlemen were not impressed by his coat, they would not be impressed by any thing, and they could all hang, as far as Vinculus was concerned. “And there are ladies present at these meetings now,” Childermass continued. “More each month. Have you no consideration for their sensibilities?”

Vinculus waved that concern away like a pesky insect, admiring the sparking of the candlelight against his cuff again. “Lady magicians are a different breed, Childermass, as you ought to know.”

Vinculus peered around for his old hat to top off his outfit, thinking to himself how well the faded old rosette upon the brim would look with his new coat, and so he missed the peculiar little twitch of Childermass’ hands in the mirror.

“The lady magicians might well be different,” Childermass conceded, beginning to see sense at last, “but their fathers, brothers, and husbands are not. What of them?”

Vinculus granted him the point. He had plenty of experience with disgruntled male relatives, and was not particularly anxious to repeat any such encounter. “You got a shirt I can borrow?” he called after Childermass, who had turned to go, no doubt satisfied that his every little demand would now be seen to.

“What? Where is your new shirt?”

“Ain’t got one, do I?” Vinculus answered absently. “Spent the whole of my allowance on my dashing new coat.” He twirled again and watched the tails flare in the mirror. Having spotted his hat at last, he reached out to snatch it with a flourish that set his cuffs flashing once more.

But there was nothing there.

Rather, there was something there, but it was not quite his hat. It was the same size and shape as his hat, but the rosette was on the wrong side, as was the frayed patch where a donkey had bitten the brim. A horrible suspicion forming in Vinculus’ mind, he reached out to touch the hat-that-was-not-his-hat, but his fingers met only empty air.

“What have you done to my hat?” Vinculus cried, trying again to pick it up off the table. He whirled to the mirror. “It’s in there, isn’t it? You’ve swapped it with its reflection, you beast! That’s my favorite hat!”

But Childermass had gone already, presumably to fetch Vinculus a shirt.

—

“Get ready to go, Vinculus. Put on a shirt, Vinculus. Leave off the hat, Vinculus. Never ends with him, does it?” Vinculus stuffed an arm back into his coat, even its glorious trim not enough to elevate his mood any longer.

“Got to look our best, Vinculus. There’ll be ladies present, Vinculus.” He shoved his other arm into the coat and tugged it straight, cringing at the combined effect the new coat and borrowed shirt created in the mirror.

“I bend over backward to make him happy, bow to his every absurd little demand, and what does he give me? Heartache! It’s white, Vinculus. White, my tattooed arse! Heartache! With this red? Honestly!” He tugged his new, rosette-free hat onto his head without bothering to check that it was on straight. He started for the door, still fuming to himself over the oppressive, ill-humored, capricious bear of a man that was John Childermass.

“When this is all over, I want my sanity back. And my hat!”

#jsamn #jonathan strange and mr norrell #childermass #vinculus #fic #my writing

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writingonjorvik · 6 years

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The B Team Druids - Chapter 4 - The Storm

There was a series of hills behind Moorland’s riding ring. A few jumps had been set up years ago, though only the championship really utilized the sharp bends. Moorland was more of a training stable than a competitive one from what Carrie had gathered, so a very difficult competition wouldn’t have been helpful for most of the boarders. Or used. As such, this portion of the Moorland ground was in some weedy disrepair and and not often watched.

Ash snorted nervously as Carrie held onto the mare’s bridle as well as Justin’s horse in her other hand. The gelding paced the ground, watching Justin walking down the beach just as intently as Carrie was.

Waiting at the dock was a massive barge, Sabine waiting on the boat with her own horse and a group of shady looking men loading the boat up. She and Justin spoke for a moment before he climbed onto the flatbed of the ship. Carrie wondered why they needed to travel by such a big ship and not just take a little sailboat, but she guessed Sabine probably couldn’t get her horse on a sailboat.

The waves crashed on the hard metal sides. Shouts came from on deck and the docks. A nervous feeling shot through Carrie’s spine, something telling her to stop this. She shook her head, pushing out that voice. Passing both bridles to one hand, Carrie pulled out her phone. “All good?” she texted to Justin.

From where she was standing she could see Justin reaching for his phone. A moment later a buzz came from her palm. “So far.”

As the boat pulled out of the dock, Justin’s horse started pacing hard, drawing up his front legs. Carrie had to let go of Ash to calm the gelding, wrapping her arm around him to comfort him. “Hey, woah, hey. It’s ok, Seasalt. He’s ok.”

Beside her, Ash snorted in contempt. Carrie glared. “Thanks for the support.”

Despite Ash’s protests, Seasalt did relax as the barge started to pull off from the docks. When the horse finally seemed calm, Carrie climbed up into Ash’s saddle. From her perch atop the pony, she could see Justin waving back at her. Carrie raised her hand to wave back, sending him as good a send off as she could manage from her hiding place.

It was supposed to be a secret. As nervous as it made Justin to go alone in the first place, he knew if anyone else found out he was leaving, his father would step in, and the opportunity would be shut off from him entirely. Carrie was going to take Seasalt to Steve’s tonight and let the horse there until Justin got back. If anyone asked around, she’d pretend she didn’t know.

Or that was their plan. She wasn’t sure if she’d be able to keep up ignorance about Justin’s location for long. She wasn’t much of a liar.

Just as Carrie was about to start pulling Seasalt away, the air went tense. An electric pulse spread out like a heavy blanket, pressing down like a fog. Carrie twisted around in her saddle, expecting to see Saoirse coming out of nowhere. Instead she saw a blonde sorrel, stocky horse racing down the trail from Nilmer’s Highlands, not Saoirse’s chestnut Icelandic. Sparks were trailing off behind the horse as the rider wheeled the two towards the beaches.

Not far behind came a second rider, though before Carrie could pick out their features, Seasalt yanked himself free of Carrie’s grasp. The reins cut across Carrie’s palm as the gelding yanked himself free, breaking into a panicky race for the beach. Her palm went a hard red, lucky to not have been cut.

With Seasalt sprinting for the beach, and two mystery riders closing in from the other side, Carrie didn’t know what to do. She urged Ash into a gallop to rush after Seasalt, and the mare gladly responded, climbing up through the gaits. Ash nearly vaulted herself off the side of the cliff as Carrie leaned into the turn towards the beach and rounded them off the hill.

No matter how fast Ash could have gone though, she couldn’t have caught up with Seasalt, who cleared the gap between the dock and the barge with ease. The gelding trotted towards-- Sabine? Carrie slowly, watching Justin waving, practically ignoring Seasalt’s presence. The gelding went very stiff by Sabine’s horse, almost frozen.

Ash also couldn’t have caught up on the blonde sorrel and their rider. The rider pulled her horse to a stop at the edge of the grass, her grey beanie and dirty blonde hair jostled by the sea breeze.

The tension died in the air, fizzling out as the rider stopped. Almost defeated. It just faded as the rider watched the barge sailing away, as if the attempt would be pointless. Carrie could hear the other rider approaching, not nearly as fast as this one had approached, but still quickly. She should probably have run, but the rider-- She knew them. How did she know them?

That beanie, like something out of a dream, something she knew out of a dream. You can’t dream a face you’ve never seen though, Carrie thought to herself, watching the back of the rider’s head.

As Carrie waited there, she watched the rider start to turn her head. They nearly made eye contact before the rider looked away. The other rider had caught up. Carrie turned away, wanting to watch Justin sail off, but unable to draw herself to look at the riders on the edge of the beach now blocking the view. So instead, Carrie fell into the trail of the championship, just another idle rider out practicing for a race. The eyes found somewhere else to look.

Rounding the bend of the stable walls, Carrie pulled Ash to a halt. The world went shaky around her, her sight going blurry. What had happened? Seasalt was a casual riding horse, one of the gentlest at the stables. For him to just bolt like that... And how he had gone stockstill once he was on the barge, that wasn’t normal.

Carrie pulled out her phone. “Sorry, he got lose.”

Nothing. Carrie’s hand hovered over the keypad for a minute, waiting for a response. “Seasalt ok?”

Still nothing.

“Are you ok?”

After minutes of silence, Carrie forced herself to believe that there was no reception out in the bay. She shoved her phone back in her bag and kicked Ash on, riding past the stables gates and on up the hill towards Steve’s farm. Even without Seasalt, her mind just broke into auto-pilot about how this afternoon should have gone.

What had happened back there? Who was Sabine, and what did she do to Seasalt? Possibly to Justin? Who were those riders? What did they have to do with any of this? What was that tension in the air? It had felt like the day with Raven and Saoirse, but stronger. So much stronger than whatever Saoirse has done, yet there were no clouds.

“I’m actually losing it,” Carrie murmured, bringing herself to. She looked around, noticing the local smithy down the hill. Justin had said Conrad believed in this Keepers of Aideen faith. Maybe she couldn’t get answers about what had happened on the beach, but maybe she could get some answers on why that name kept ringing in her mind. Even old timey religions were sounding more normal than processing whatever had just happened. And talking to someone was easier than working through what had just happened in front of her.

Leaving Ash at the edge of the small working area, Carrie walked towards the open air tables where she saw Conrad working on refining the details on metal ornament. When Carrie got close enough, the older man looked up. “Afternoon. You’re one of the hands over at Thomas’s, correct?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Carrie replied. “I’ve been over a few times to get some of Jenna’s orders. I’m Carrie.”

“Carrie,” Conrad repeated, nodding. “Sorry, not one for names.”

“Don’t...don’t worry about it,” Carrie said, trying to smile. It was so fake though, she wondered how Conrad didn’t notice.

Conrad returned to his ornament. “I don’t have anything for Thomas right now.”

“Actually I wanted to see if I could ask you about something,” Carrie replied, taking a step closer. “Um, I heard you, um, believed in this local religion. I’ve never heard of, and if you didn’t mind, I wanted to see if you would mind telling me a little about it.”

The blacksmith gave Carrie a sideways glance as he continued with his work. “The Keepers? Sure. What do you want to know?”

“Who is Aideen, I guess is the best start? And what are these Signs?” Carrie inquired, stepping even closer. Conrad looked up at her again, and Carrie stepped back. “Sorry, I don’t want to pry.”

“You’re fine, most of the time when people are eager to learn about the Keepers though they visit Valedale, or Dundall,” Conrad answered. “Aideen is the goddess of Jorvik. She created this island, blessed it with life and horses. Most people who believe in Aideen don’t believe in the Keepers though. The Keepers protect Aideen’s holy relics, or those that aren’t on display in the capitol. Suppose they’re like monks.”

“And the Signs?” Carrie repeated.

“I don’t know about Signs, not for the Keepers at least, but I know they have Circles based on the blessings Aideen gives to her chosen. Say everyone is blessed to be part of one of those Circles, so I suppose that’s their Signs,” Conrad said, raising up his work to study it. “I’ve dabbled in their Moon Circle, the Circle of scholars and craft. But I’m not nearly as active as I used to be. Not old enough for it anymore.” He laughed, setting down the curled piece of metal. “Besides, Aideen tends to bless young ladies. Really learning their magic would have meant I spent my whole life studying it, and I’ve always known this was my craft. A few tomes in the library was enough to satisfy me, but I’m no druid.”

“What about the other Circles, what are they about?”

“Star is the Circle of healers and muses,” Conrad stated, picking up another hammer from his bench. As he started tapping out a few more details, he continued, “I believe Sun is the Circle of spies and travel. Lightning is the Circle of warriors and runes. Might have a few of those mixed up.”

“And Aideen? She doesn’t have a Circle?” Carrie inquired.

Conrad paused for a moment and then laughed. “No, suppose she doesn’t. Of course, no one has ever been blessed by Aideen’s Sign, the Light. I guess if they were, then they’d be able to tap into any of the other Circles of magic. Or dreams. I think Aideen had a thing for dreams, but I’m not a true druid for a reason. You’d have to visit the heads of the order over in Valedale to answer those questions.”

Carrie ran back through everything Conrad had told her. She had expected something to snap into place, like all of the other sudden things that had happened to her. But nothing. That same uneasy feeling sat there about the Keepers, this same curiosity about who they were and what they did. Sure, the symbols she had been seeing had meaning, and she knew a goddess’s name, but no magical ephianany.

“Thank you, Conrad,” Carrie finally said. “I appreciate it. That’s really interesting. It’s not like any other religions I’ve heard of.”

“Sure,” Conrad answered, his attention still on his work. The blacksmith stood up, picking up an unworked bar of metal and a hammer. “Though I don’t know if Aideen can help with colds. I think you might need a better diet for that.”

“Wh-what?”

Conrad laid the ingot of iron over his fire. “You’re looking awful pale. I hope you’re eating right. Hate for a cold to go around the stables.”

Carrie reached up and pressed a hand to her check, as if it would tell her the color of her skin. “I, uh-- That’s not why-- I was just curious in general. Thank you, sir. Have a good day.” She attempted something cheery in her voice, but the cadence failed her as she walked over to where Ash was waiting.

The sound of hammer on metal returned as Carrie climbed onto Ash’s back. She pulled the two of them away from Conrad’s before breaking into thought, her hand occasionally reaching for her cheek to check and see if warmth had returned to them. She looked pale, apparently. Enough to comment on.

Was it any surprise though she looked pale as a sheet? Her afternoon, spent between...whatever it was she and Justin had spent the afternoon doing, only to be following by him maybe being captured. Then some strangers showing up, one emitting something like Saoirse had. And all Carrie could think to do was wander over to the local blacksmith to ask question about some dumb religion that didn’t solve anything important. Why hadn’t she just spoken to those people? What was she stuck in the middle of here? Why couldn’t this move have just been a move?

Dropping the reins, Carrie ran her hands over her face. She was done with this. Sure, yeah, alright, life was weird. And Jorvik wanted to be a step above weird. Cool. But there was a line that reality was crossing, and Carrie did not plan on getting dragged over it.

“Ash, has it always been this nuts here?” Carrie asked, leaning forward in the saddle as she collected herself. The mare tossed her head, and Carrie sighed. “I’m asking my horse for answers now.”

As the two climbed to the top of the hill, Carrie could see Steve’s farm on the horizon in front of her. Craning her head back, she could see Silverglade Castle beside her, towering up into the clouds on its perch within the hills. Its grey stone walls were supposed to be Carrie’s landmark for directions. Without Seasalt though, the farm ahead of her seemed pointless to visit.

Her gaze drifting off to the mountains further on, Carrie considered running away. There had to be somewhere else she could start over on this island. It’s not like she would be leaving much behind here. And no one really knew her well enough. Running away from Moorland seemed to be a theme for her position.

No, that was nuts. She didn’t own Ash, for starters. Not to mention she wouldn’t be able to use this past month or so at Moorland on a resume. What would she eat, with no money? Or where would she live? Just break into someone’s house and start living there? She wasn’t a criminal.

Right? The thing with Justin didn’t make her a criminal, right? She hadn’t kidnapped him. But she might be considered an accomplice. God, those people riding up hadn’t been the police, had they? She should have just called the police when Sabine showed up. Something had been screwy from the start of the whole thing, and she should have been the smart friend and talked Justin out of going. Should have been.

Carrie let out a long drawn breath as Ash continued trotting on towards Steve’s. Should have beens weren’t going to get her anywhere. It had been done, and now Justin was off to the Dark Core oil rig. All she could do now was try to make things right. That meant going to talk to Thomas first. He ought to know where his son was and why he had gone. Surely Thomas would be able to do something about this? It was his son after all. Laws...existed, right?

“Come on, Ash, let’s go back,” Carrie murmured, pulling on the reins to turn Ash around.

Ash stopped.

Just stopped in place, in the middle of the road. When Carrie tugged around, the mare turned her head to look at Carrie before looking back at the road. Carrie pressed a little harder on Ash’s sides, urging the horse to move forward, but Ash ignored all instructions. Instead, the pony turned and started trotting east. Carrie tugged on the reins one more time before she realized Ash just wasn’t going to listen, and let her arms go slack by her sides.

As Ash carted Carrie off between rigged hills and wheat fields, Carrie tried to pretend for anyone who might possible look their way she wasn’t out of control of this little ride. One look at Ash though would have said otherwise, and Carrie wasn’t exactly keeping herself composed in this situation with her nervous looks around. Fortunately for Carrie though the only eyes in the area belonged to birds and rodents. That didn’t stop her from trying, after least for the first ten or so minutes. Then Carrie’s attention drifted to the landscape, which, despite the situation, really was beautiful.

Sunset was fast approaching when Ash stopped an hour later. Carrie had been studying the tree line of the Hollow Woods for so long she forgot to watch where Ash was going. But as the mare pulled them down a path between hills, Carrie was forced to look forward.

In front of them now was a mound. The same mound Carrie had stared into a week before, had almost died looking at. Now it was only feet in front of her.

Carrie pulled back on the reins. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Not a chance.”

Ash snorted, shaking herself before kneeling down on her front legs. As the pony dropped her back legs, Carrie rolled out of the saddle. “Oh, come on.” Carrie tried to push on the mare, but Ash spread out across the path, fully splayed out as she laid down on her side. Ash closed her eyes, her breathing slowing slightly as the horse attempted to sleep.

“Not here, Ash,” Carrie pleaded, dropping down to her knees. When the horse didn’t budge, Carrie sighed. “Really?”

Looking down the path, Carrie tried to look in the maw that had almost consumed her before. She could see maybe two feet instead the dark cavern. Did Ash want her to go in there? Forget that.

“Fine, I’m walking,” Carrie said, standing up. Ash didn’t move. “All the way back to Moorland. Whenever you want to stop napping, you can come too.” She started walking up the hill, expecting to hear Ash following behind. Nothing. No sound of the mare’s tack move as she pushed to stand up, no spiteful snort. When Carrie looked over her shoulder she found Ash in the exact same place, still sleeping.

“Ash, come on.” Carrie headed back to the mare’s side, jostling her lightly on the neck. “Come on, wake up.” When the horse didn’t move, Carrie stood up. This was dumb. This wasn’t how the afternoon was supposed to go. Now her horse wasn’t even listening to her.

Carrie balled her fists. Couldn’t something just go right for once? Couldn’t she just live here in peace? Why was everything working against her and a normal life here? “Ash, wake up.”

The mare didn’t budge. Carrie rocked her head back, shaking her head. She couldn’t believe this. Didn’t want to believe this. Any of this. That Justin might have been kidnapped, that her horse wasn’t listening to her, that there was some kind of magic cult running around the country. Why was she the one getting thrown into this nonsense? Why not that crazy stable hand who had run off with the Keepers anyway? Throw them this nuts life, not her.

“Wake up!” Carrie roared, throwing her fists back as she shouted.

The earth trembled. Ash perked her head up at that, Carrie frozen where she stood beside the mare. A wave of light rushed forward from the maw of the mound. Carrie threw up her arms in front of her, but the wave crashed over her, throwing her back. She felt herself falling backwards, and not falling at all.

Carrie opened her eyes. A misty, twinkling haze hung in the air, the sky turned from peach to gold. Birds flew by, a haze around them, like something else glowing instead was fighting to get out.

After following one of those birds for a moment through skeptical eyes, Carrie rubbed her face and slapped her checks. Some kind of dream. Maybe this was all a dream. Today hadn’t happened at all. It was just some crazy nightmare she’d cooked up from exhaustion. Weird kidnappings, crazy religions, magic, lack of control over basic parts of life. All added up.

Something pressed against her shoulder. Carrie turned to see Ash, or see through Ash. The mare snorted, flicking her tail as if nothing was wrong, but Carrie felt her stomach turn inside out as she looked at the road through Ash’s torso.

Her hands reached for her face, panicking as she expected them to phase through. They didn’t. Carrie let out a sigh of relief. Her chest went tight again when she saw the bodies on the ground. Her own form was crumbled on the ground over Ash’s. Carrie had seen this before though, yet looking at herself this time didn’t do anything, didn’t wake her up. Bending over, Carrie pressed a hand over her own chest, or her body’s chest. Slow steady beats pumped through her. Not dead. Sleeping. Hopefully sleeping.

Ash pressed into Carrie’s side as she stood back up, her breathing uneasy from the novelty of this experience. As the horse’s body pressed into hers, Carrie smiled and threw her arm over the small between Ash’s shoulders and neck. The mare nuzzled her nose into Carrie’s other hand. Carrie managed a breath of a laugh, leaning forward to rest her forehead on Ash’s. Stubborn but sweet company.

After a moment, Ash pulled her head back. She began bouncing it in the direction of the mound. Carrie turned towards the maw. It was a little brighter, bright enough that Carrie could see how deep it was. Or how deep this chamber was. There was a wall on the other side.

“I guess we’re going in there?” Carrie asked, turned towards Ash. Ash faced Carrie for a moment, before she pulled away, trotting up toward the mound. Carrie pulled her arm free of the pony before chasing after her.

Even though Ash seemed set on following her own directions, Carrie held onto the mare’s reins as they walked into the maw. The floor was oddly metallic. There was some kind of silvery ore streaked through the rocks, a faint glisten peeking through the haze on the world. It rang differently when Ash walked over it, a kind of eerie echo bouncing off with the clop. Whether that was because of the out of body experience or the metal itself, Carrie didn’t know.

At the far end of the room was a stone wall. If it hadn’t been for the haze and they had wandered into the normal darkness of this mound, Carrie wouldn’t have been able to tell anything else about this wall. As it was though, Carrie could see the faintest outline cut into the stone wall. A boulder put into place here. A door further into a tomb. The jagged lightning bolt Carrie had seen in the rafters was etched into the stone, much larger and deeper than the little carving in the wood.

Letting go of Ash, Carrie stepped up to the etched out door. As she drew nearer, Carrie became more aware of something humming through this place. It pushed through her, through the world, full of life and wonder and power.

Taking a deep breath, Carrie looked up at the lightning bolt etching. “Fine.” This place wasn’t going to give up. It was going to drag her along whether she came willingly or not. It had called her here, it had opened the way to bring her here, and it was doing everything it could to push her on now to some kind of fate.

Carrie was done being dragged along in other people’s plans. She was done avoiding the answers that terrified her. She had answered that call to come here. She had brought herself here, knowing deep down it would never be normal. If Jorvik and fate were going to pull her along into some path, she was going to face it head first. Bring on the crazy, on the ancient cults and their goddess, on the horses and the girls with powers and the magic. All of her own magic.

And she had questions she wanted answers to now.

Putting both hands on the stone, Carrie felt magic coursing up to her fingertips. She could hear it, feel it, whispering to her, “Bring us the Warrior. Bring us the Champion. You are not the Storm. We will not part for any other mortal.”

Their voices hissed, crackled against Carrie’s skin. She wasn’t waiting for anyone else to open this door. Whatever it was lurking in here had nearly gotten her killed drawing her in before. It had knocked her out of her body twice, when she got close enough to it. She wasn’t backing down now. It needed to explain itself and what it wanted with her.

“Open,” Carrie hissed back, pushing against the stone and its magic.

And fell through.

#sso #star stable #star stable online #woj writing #the b team druids

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lavosse · 6 years

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i know i told y’all I’d write you uskglass/childermass but…………does anybody want uskglass/thomas dundale? Are you sure??

#im procrastinating #js&mn

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honourablejester · 9 years

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Gravefrost and Wormwood

A tiny JS&MN thing focused on that footnote in ‘Seventeen Dead Neapolitans’. The one with John Uskglass, Henry Barbatus, William of Lanchester and Thomas of Dundale. There is an amazing amount of implied horror and anger and grief in it, and I wanted to work with that a little. There’s a touch of Thomas/William here.

“William of Lanchester and Thomas of Dundale, after their King has cast them from the room in order to continue interrogating Henry Barbatus, while horror, grief and anger carry them away.”

“When the Fox's eldest son, Henry Barbatus, died of a fever, the Raven King had his body taken out of its grave and he brought him back to life to tell what he knew. Thomas of Dundale and William Lanchester both had a deep disgust for this particular sort of magic and pleaded with the King to employ some other means. But the King was bitterly angry and they could not dissuade him. There were a hundred other forms of magic he could have used, but none were so quick or so direct and, like most great magicians, the Raven King was nothing if not practical.

It was said that in his fury the Raven King beat Henry Barbatus. In life Henry had been a splendid young man, much admired for his handsome face and graceful manners, much feared for his knightly prowess. That such a noble knight should have been reduced to a cowering, whimpering doll by the King's magic made William Lanchester very angry and was the cause of a bitter quarrel between the two of them which lasted several years.”

--- Chapter 31, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell

Gravefrost and Wormwood

The harsh slam of the workroom's oaken door sounded like thunder behind them, though Thomas had some small difficulty hearing it over the thud of his own body as the King's magic flung him unceremoniously across the anteroom. He fetched up against the outer door, dazed and shaken, and for a moment only lay there, waiting for the ringing in his ears to subside. The echoes, as well, the screams and whimpers and thuds of fists against flesh that had been cut off behind that viciously closed door. They were gone, he knew they were, yet somehow he heard them still. He had an idea that it would be a long time before he stopped.

William found his feet first. Either he was made of sterner stuff than Thomas, or his landing had simply been that little softer. Or, perhaps, his fury was just more powerful. Thomas watched him distantly as he flung himself back at the workroom door, scrabbling at the wrought iron ring to open it again. The door refused him for a long minute. An endless one. Thomas seemed to feel time stretch around them, some magic swarming out from beyond the door and holding William frozen like an insect in amber beneath it, and then it was gone again. Then the air came back, and the ringing stopped, and the door fell open beneath William's hand. It was not the workroom that it lead to any longer, however. William threw it wide to reveal only a bare, empty stretch of floor, an ancient room that had been gathering dust for centuries.

Of course. Of course the King had taken the room away with him, the better to finish his grisly work without them to disturb him by their horror and their anger. God alone knew where he might be now, the whimpering remains of that poor, wretched boy trapped alongside him. He would return to them when he was done. Not before.

William realised it too. He stood for a moment in the empty doorway, his hands knotted into shaking fists and his shoulders taut enough to repel steel, and then he pivoted sideways on one foot and slammed both fists into the oaken door with all his might. He let a roar out of him, a deep bellow of grief and rage, and Thomas closed his eyes against the sight of him. He laid his head back down against the floorboards, uncaring of all dignity, and listened as William's fists pounded over and over again against the wood as their King's fists had pounded over and over against dead, unresisting flesh. He brought his hands to his eyes, drove the heels of them down against his cheekbones, and pressed the back of his skull into the floor. He wished to be part of it, suddenly. He wished to be dead, uncaring wood, some inanimate object that had no knowledge of what they had just witnessed, that had no care for the horror and the fury of his friend. He wished to be part of the floor. He wished to be unconscious. He wished to be away from here. It was not granted. None of his wishes were.

"Damn him," William snarled, turning from his abuse of the door to stalk back into the anteroom. Thomas heard him come, and pried his hands from his face to look at him. William's face was whiter than gravefrost, his eyes dark and furious as a midnight thunderstorm. There were blood and splinters all over his hands. He paid them no mind whatsoever. "Damn him, damn him, damn him!"

It would have shocked many to hear him, Thomas thought. They would have found the sight of him now as horrifying and strange as the one they had left behind in the workroom. William was not much given to anger. He was known the length and breadth of England, and several of the Faerie realms as well, as a man of calm and compassion, and patience bordering on infinite. He was reason and restraint, the exact antithesis of his mercurial, tempestuous King. It would have stunned so many to see him now, with his rage and his grief so wildly and plainly to be seen.

Even a patient man has his limits, however. Even the calmest and most placid of men may be pushed too far. Thomas had watched it done to William inside that room. He had seen his friend horrified and pleading, and then anguished, furious and helpless. What had been done to Henry Barbatus, the gaunt, decayed figure of that noble young man flung about like a rag doll and punished beneath the King's hands, had horrified them both, but it had incensed William. It had driven him to try and stop it, to fling himself against his King and try to interfere, and then their King had driven them out instead. He had cast them away, blind and uncaring in his fury, and now here they were. Useless and helpless in their fury, pacing an empty room while somewhere, God knew where, their King made the last work of that wretched youth.

"Damn him," William said again, but it was softer now. It had passed through rage and into grief. He stopped in his pacing, his shoulders falling and his battered hands coming loose from their fists. He looked over at Thomas, a bleak anguish in his gaze. "Damn it all. God, Thomas."

Thomas stirred himself at that. Even as William dropped slowly to his knees, he sat up and pulled himself awkwardly up the wall, gathering his feet under him to move to his friend's side. William looked away from him. He looked down at his own hands, noticing the blood of them at last, and ignoring it all over again to clench them once more. He bowed his head, and it was only when his shoulders began to shake that Thomas knew he wept.

"William," he breathed, and knelt before his friend to pull him close and cradle him against his shoulder. Tears stained his tunic there, and blood possibly the cloth at his back, where William clenched his hands. Thomas felt very old, all of a sudden. He felt the weight of every year since he had been stolen into the brugh, more than a century previously, and met his King among the fairies there. It had been a long road, but until this moment he had never felt it so. It was only now, seeing William undone by an echo of fairy cruelty, that Thomas felt his age once more.

"Why?" William asked, in helpless anger against Thomas' neck. "In God's name, Thomas, why? How can it be necessary? How can he ..."

Thomas looked away, towards the window of the outer wall and the sunlight that filtered through it, in defiance of all horror. He curled his fingers tight in his friend's hair, and wordlessly shook his head.

"It is just, to his mind," he said finally, in voice made small and weary by grief. "He is as much fairy as man, William. You know that. Barbatus has betrayed him. To his mind, there is nothing wrong in what he has done to answer that betrayal."

William pulled away from him. Not harshly, though Thomas feared it for a moment. He feared that William, so unused to anger, might turn it against him in his grief. William did not. He only leaned away enough to see Thomas' face, to hold Thomas' arms in his hands and stare at him in horrified disbelief. That was nearly worse, Thomas thought. All the rage in the world, any blow cast against him, might have been better than the raw desolation and lurking fury in William of Lanchester's eyes.

"... Nothing wrong," William repeated, a hollow fury building slowly in his tone. "Nothing wrong? It was monstrous, Thomas! It was ... It was a mockery of all God's work! To debase a man so, to reduce a man to ... to that, and then to ..."

He cut off, clamped his jaw shut until his lips went colourless from the strain of it. Thomas reached out to him, tried to touch his hair or his cheek in comfort, but William withdrew from him. He stood up, that tautness back in his shoulders once more, and strode away. A few steps, no more. There was nowhere to go. William tried anyway. He paced about the room like a dragon in a cage, his fury visibly mounting with every step. Thomas, still kneeling in the middle of the floor, only watched him once again. He could not gainsay him. His heart was too full of grief to manage it. William was not wrong. What their King had done would not have horrified a fairy, but they were not fairies. They were men. Thomas had spent fourteen years a captive in a fairy brugh, and a hundred and thirty in service of a fairy-raised King, but he was still a man. He could find nothing but horror and disgust for what their King had done.

After a moment, William stopped pacing. He drew to a halt near the centre of the room, only a foot or two away from Thomas. His expression, when he raised his head to meet Thomas' eyes once more, was now stern and set and as immovable as stone. Thomas stood, slowly, at the sight of it. He felt a grip of fear seize his chest. This was not a helpless fury on his friend's face. It was a resolute one, the calm, determined anger of a man who meant to do something about it. Something, Thomas greatly feared, that would take a very great deal to undo afterwards.

William was not much given to anger. He never had been. William was always calm, and patient, and reasonable. And he was all those things still. They had passed through the roaring tempest of his fury, spent it uselessly against their King's power, and now they were in the eye of the storm. Here, his anger was cold. It was calm. It was patient. And it was, most of all, immovable. Thomas looked into the face of his friend, and saw a breaking there that he did not know if his King could overcome. He knew William loved the King still. He would not grieve or rage so strongly if he did not. But it was apparent now that beneath the surface of a patient man was a fury to match all the rage of the Raven King, and that the horror committed this day might be a horror beyond William's power to forgive. If their King said as much as one wrong word upon his return ...

And Thomas could not fault it. He couldn't. Men were not playthings, to be broken to less than an animal for a King's whim, to have even their God-given rest defiled for the sake of his anger. Thomas could not forget what had taken place in that room. He could not forget the sound of the King's fists striking dead flesh, nor the sight of a proud and noble youth cowering in terror on the floor, nor the horror of a voice begging in the tongues of Hell to know what wrong its owner had committed. How could any man forget that? How could he turn aside his honour and pretend he had not witnessed? He could not. No man of honour could.

"... I know," he said, before William could do more than open his mouth. He shook his head, looked right into William's eyes and met the anguish there with his own. He felt his face twist with his grief, but it was not grief alone that grew steadily in his breast. His anger was colder and quieter than William's, older and more hollow, but he felt it nonetheless. He could not ignore what he had seen. He could no more stand aside and pretend forgiveness than William could. "I know, William," he said. "I cannot bear it either. I'll stand by you. You have my word."

Tears sprang in William's eyes. He did not let them fall, not yet, but he came the last few steps and took Thomas' shoulders in his still-wounded hands. Thomas welcomed them. He reached up and gripped William's arms in his turn.

"... He may kill us," William said quietly. His mouth twisted, the grief for a moment over-ruling the anger, the tears slipping free to trail silently across his cheek. "He cast us out a moment ago. His mind is full of rage and betrayal. He may not tolerate further disagreement."

Thomas felt his lips curve, a smile as dark and bitter as wormwood. "Then let him kill us," he said, and his voice shook with his own anger, finally given rein. "Let him kill us and have his answers from our corpses as well. There are things I should like to say to him in the language of Hell. I think I should speak it better than that poor wretch of a boy."

William stared at him for the longest of moments, still calm in his anger and silently weeping, and then he leaned forward suddenly. He brought his hands from Thomas' shoulders to cup his face instead, and pressed a ragged, salt-stained kiss upon his lips. It tasted bitter. There was wormwood in William's mouth as well. Thomas gave a little cry of despair, nearly a laugh, and kissed him back in turn. He gripped at William's shoulders, taut and furious enough to repel steel, and broke the kiss to lay his head on one of them and weep at last in his turn.

"Damn him," he whispered, holding tight to William. "Damn him, why could he not listen to us? We have never led him wrongly. Why couldn't he just listen?"

William did not answer that. His fingers curled in Thomas' hair, his eyes locked on a now-battered oaken door as he perhaps heard once again the finality of it slamming shut behind them, and William did not answer. He did not have to. Anger born of betrayal was a terrible thing.

And this moment, it was not only their King who understood it.

#js&mn #john uskglass #william of lanchester #thomas of dundale #fanfic #missing scene

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fyeahjsmnquotesandfootnotes · 9 years

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I and my friends were celebrating our departure for the Crusades. William of Lanchester* was here and Tom Dundell** and many other lords and knights, both Christian and fairy.

*William of Lanchester was John Uskglass’s seneschal and favourite servant, and consequently one of the most important men in England.

**Thomas of Dundale, John Uskglass’s first human servant.

#jonathan strange & mr norrell #the gentleman with the thistle-down hair #thomas of dundale #william of lanchester

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merrymorningofmay · 10 months

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Uncommon OC Questions: 1, 8, 38, 40, D and E for the jsamn trio please (if that's not too many xD)

omg omg omg thank you so much!!!! no such thing as too many i love talking hgghghdfhdk

1: What’s the maximum amount of time your character can sit still with nothing to do?

john uskglass: can go uncannily still for hours on end when he's doing magic, like "you have to check if he's breathing" still, but absolutely starts fidgeting and losing temper after a minute in a "nothing to do" situation (or just leaves altogether, he's the king, duh)

william of lanchester: is actually pretty patient, can go couple hours of sitting in place like a normal person if he has to; the downside is if you leave him like this for too long he'll start overthinking and give himself brain damage

thomas of dundale: goes very still and quiet whenever he senses danger and can remain like this for a while, but otherwise will start pacing around/nudging people/being silly after like 10 minutes max

8: What were they told to stop/start doing most often as a child

john: "STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP" / (by thomas) "hide!"

william: "stop slouching" / "speak louder"

thomas: "stop crying" / "be like your brother"

38: What memory do they revisit the most often?

john: not the one to reminisce i imagine, but i think upon his return to england he would initially be baffled by small displays of like. kindness? basic decency? on the part of humans and replay those moments in his head later. idk if the gentleman with the thistle-down hair is a representative case but i got the vibe that jsamn fairies generally are quite self-centered and don't care for others beyond their own benefit/entertainment (which would make faerie a pretty cutthroat place for a literal child, and also explain why trust and betrayal were such sensitive subjects for john in his adulthood), so i think it would take young john some time to grasp that sometimes people (ahem thomas and william ahem) are just nice to him/one another because they're capable of sympathy

william: nostalgic af!!! thomas was born in france in my hc, so that makes william the one person in their trio to actually feel emotionally attached to england as his home. i don't think there would be one definitive memory for him, but he totally would hold his childhood memories dear (esp the bittersweet ones, what with higher mortality rates in medieval times + the north still being quite a scarred place, i imagine, emotionally if not economically. i mean, the gap between 1111 and the harrying is just a few years longer than the gap between me and chornobyl)

thomas: probably avoids thinking about his pre-faerie childhood too often, though i like to think that he used to have a dog and loved it a lot. and then he avoids thinking about his time in faerie too bc there's just a lot of unpleasant stuff there. there must've been some exchange between teen thomas and baby john in faerie that solidified their friendship, maybe john using magic to protect him or telling thomas something his family never would have, like "why do you care so much what others think", something along those lines

40: How sensitive are they to their own flaws?

john: what "flaws" (ok actually i like to think that deep down he's aware that his family backstory is pretty shaky and is himself not 100% certain that it's true, but decides to stick with it nonetheless bc he's stubborn. i hc that part of the reason he took john uskglass sr.'s full name rather than keeping just the "uskglass" part and choosing his own first name is to kind of assert to himself as much as to everyone else that yes, he belongs in the human world, he's claiming the place of this other human dude who totally belonged here, see! but i also believe this anxiety is like, half-realized and he never actually properly thinks about it. he's perfect and the strongest and the smartest and goated with the sauce etc.)

william: VERY but it's mostly the flaws he's convinced himself that he has, not necessarily anything that bothers other people. his solution is to sulk about it in secret forever

thomas: eh. he's aware of them and doesn't think much of himself in general but he's mostly "it is what it is" about it. (i think a sensitive topic for him would be having nothing to call his own; i hc that he's not too keen about magic after all those years in faerie and that he cut ties with his family after they failed to accept him back, so somewhere across those 300 years he'd try to find his own Thing kind of sokka-style, but that's more of a predicament than a flaw)

D: Have they always had the same physical appearance, or have you had to edit how they look?

yea i'm pretty much sticking with the first things that came to mind. like, things we know about william essentially boil down to 1 magician (= scholar); 2 can fill in for a king if need be; 3 has a moral compass but ultimately chooses fealty over it, so i just imagined a basic classic "introverted knight" type of dude, tall, dark, serious, nice beard, all that. thomas is kind of a contrast to him: younger, leaner, energetic, and a redhead for added fun; and john is. well. i'm a simple woman okay if i see a character i can bishounenify, i will xD

E: Are they someone you would get along with? Would they get along with you?

WELL john is a hard no, william is the one i'm projecting onto the most so i guess?? but we wouldn't necessarily hang out much; i think i'd have fun being around thomas but i doubt he'd find my company very interesting. that's all assuming i have something to talk about with medieval noblemen x)

anyways THANK YOU SO MUCH IT WAS SO FUN!!! <333

#john uskglass #william of lanchester #thomas of dundale #jsamn #jonathan strange and mr norrell #mari asks

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