Gilbert Norrell was adept at several things, but perhaps the greatest of these was denying any and all emotions that might lead him to unpleasantness. It was with this desire to avoid pain in mind that he had willfully and stoically ignored any and all feelings for Jonathan Strange that might extend beyond the most fraternal. To be Strange’s friend and companion was all he could stretch his imagination to accept, so the fact that this particular fate was more agreeable than he ever could have hoped seemed to him simply the product of two minds meeting in the joys of academia.
One night (for it was always night), they found themselves in a wood that even their Pillar of Darkness could not greatly effect. The light of the place was supplied not solely by a sun, if indeed that world had such a thing, but also by the flowers and the trees. These continued to glow quite cheerfully even when the sky above was blackened and filled with the alien stars that followed Strange and Norrell wherever they went.
The light produced by the plant life was bright enough that they had no need of candles or light spells, and instead found themselves tucked at the base of a great, smooth tree, with roots like geometric steps and leaves of shining pinkish light. They perched on the greatest of the roots, which seemed to them as the perfect small chairs, and set their books upon the shelves of the smaller roots. Even Norrell, who disliked going outdoors as a matter of principle, curled up quite happily at Strange’s side.
This world seemed young to Norrell, and potentially uninhabited. No animals were to be seen, nor even insects. The wood was pristine, with a low and springy undergrowth that did not tangle the feet. There were pools dotted about, small and luminously reflective, and they lapped at their banks gently in the slight breeze that stirred the wood. At one point, the wind picked up and some dozen leaves were blown off the nearby trees, to break apart into showers of glittering light. Strange had let out a noise of utmost joy at the sight, and had taken Mr Norrell’s hand in his to draw his attention to the spectacle.
They had remained in this position as they watched other trees stir, followed by other other bursts of light. When they at last released one another, Strange pressed his shoulder more firmly to Norrell’s. They were always pressed together in this way when they sat together, for they had observed after some years in the Darkness that any ominous or melancholy feeling engendered by the Pillar was lessened considerably when they were in contact. Norrell suspected it was some component of the spell, but could not entirely dismiss the notion that he simply found Strange’s physical presence a comfort.
Norrell would own that this world, with its trees of light and its little pools, was the most beautiful place he had ever seen. Stranger remarked upon the beauty of virtually every land in Faerie, no matter how foul, but in this world Strange remained silent, and Norrell delighted in this newly woken place.
After a time observing their surroundings, the two English magicians at last resolved themselves to read. It is likely they engaged in this occupation over the course of some hours, but it could have been days, for in the darkness, there was very little concept of time. They used candles to tell time, when they remembered, having judged that a single candle of particular size was the closest thing they had to the marker of a day.
They did not, however, remember to do this consistently, and so had lost track of a great amount of time. They found, with no great surprize, that the spell allowed many candles to burn down before either of them felt the need for food or water or sleep, which served to muddy their sense of time even further. Norrell had long ago decided that such trivialities as days and years did not matter when he had such amiable company and such a delightful occupation. Strange, however, did occasionally find himself vexed when he realized he was not certain how many years had passed in their travels. He had a better sense of it than Norrell, certainly, but that was not saying much.
But in that young world, in which they were the first and only beings to tread, even Strange cared not for the time they passed. They spoke in turns, relaying information or discussing particular points raised in their respective books. Strange pointed out something in his copy of Belasis, touching Mr Norrell’s hand as he did so, and then leaving his hand where it rested even after he had done speaking. That, too, had become familiar to them, and Norrell found it very pleasing indeed to feel Strange’s warmth from his hand all the way down his back.
It might be assumed by some astute readers that the intentions of the two men ought to be obvious, at least to themselves. For even friends in dire circumstances did not spend decades pressed to one another. Mr Norrell, however, knew nothing of the sort. He was a stubborn creature, and was still very willing to ignore the implications of his actions and his preferences. Even in that twilit world of pools and luminous trees, as he read out a particularly enlightening passage regarding the city of Seven, and Strange leaned over his shoulder to read it as well, he thought nothing of leaning back to tuck himself against Strange’s chest. He certainly did not think such an action to be odd. Strange was his friend, dearest and most cherished in all the worlds. Why should he not enjoy his presence?
Strange shifted a bit, setting his book upon one of the lower roots and moving one leg so that his knees bracketed Norrell. Norrell took this as a kindness, and settled back against Strange more comfortably. They resumed reading together, and remarking upon the text, for it was the History of Seven, and as such it was a most obscure and difficult volume.
“It would be easiest,” Strange said, and his words were a pleasant hum in Norrell’s ear, “if we were to simply go to Seven and behold it for ourselves.”
“It would,” Norrell agreed, “but for the fact that we do not know where Seven might be found, or if it is still to be found at all.”
“Is there any indication in the text itself that might help us locate it?”
“None that I have found, and I have read this book several times.”
“It is damnably difficult to steer the Pillar, even when we do know where we should like to go,” Strange grumbled. It was a perpetual disappointment to him that they had so little control over their destinations, for there were many lands mentioned in their books that they would both like to visit.
“We shall find Seven eventually, I am sure,” Norrell said. “We have time.”
They had not discussed this directly, not once in what Norrell suspected to be better than a decade of wandering together, but they both knew it to be true that they were not ageing as they ought. Their hair had grown only a few inches in the past decade, leaving Strange disheveled enough he was obliged to tie his hair back, while Norrell’s had grown into the fluff of brown he remembered with no great fondness from his youth (his wigs had long since been lost, eaten, or otherwise destroyed). They had gained no new wrinkles, had neither of them gone grey, and had every expectation that they would do neither of those things for the rest of the hundred years they might remain within the Pillar.
And yet, in spite of the long years stretched out before them, Norrell could not regret it. For he had Strange, and his books, and his home. He had their travels and their discoveries. And he had their magic. For just as the Pillar had great difficulty discerning one of them from the other, so too did their magic, so that bits of Strange’s wild magic had grown into him, and pieces of his orderly and sensible magic had grown into Strange. They had found, with no great surprize, that spells meant for two magicians were not only easy for them, but incredibly effective, and they had begun some years before to modify many of their most used spells to accommodate two casters.
It had not been the end Norrell had anticipated all those years ago when he had brought the stones of Yorkminster to life. He had dreamed of restoring English magic, and finally earning the respect of those around him for his hard work and ingenuity (and perhaps exacting just the smallest amount of revenge against his worst critics, the ones who would laugh at him and call him ‘charlatan’), and yet he had done none of those things. Perhaps he had restored English magic, although he was not certain how he had done it. But he had certainly no more respect or revenge now than when he started. What he did have, and what he had not realized was all he truly wanted, was the company of Jonathan Strange.
FILL: A Newly Woken World (1/4)
One night (for it was always night), they found themselves in a wood that even their Pillar of Darkness could not greatly effect. The light of the place was supplied not solely by a sun, if indeed that world had such a thing, but also by the flowers and the trees. These continued to glow quite cheerfully even when the sky above was blackened and filled with the alien stars that followed Strange and Norrell wherever they went.
The light produced by the plant life was bright enough that they had no need of candles or light spells, and instead found themselves tucked at the base of a great, smooth tree, with roots like geometric steps and leaves of shining pinkish light. They perched on the greatest of the roots, which seemed to them as the perfect small chairs, and set their books upon the shelves of the smaller roots. Even Norrell, who disliked going outdoors as a matter of principle, curled up quite happily at Strange’s side.
This world seemed young to Norrell, and potentially uninhabited. No animals were to be seen, nor even insects. The wood was pristine, with a low and springy undergrowth that did not tangle the feet. There were pools dotted about, small and luminously reflective, and they lapped at their banks gently in the slight breeze that stirred the wood. At one point, the wind picked up and some dozen leaves were blown off the nearby trees, to break apart into showers of glittering light. Strange had let out a noise of utmost joy at the sight, and had taken Mr Norrell’s hand in his to draw his attention to the spectacle.
They had remained in this position as they watched other trees stir, followed by other other bursts of light. When they at last released one another, Strange pressed his shoulder more firmly to Norrell’s. They were always pressed together in this way when they sat together, for they had observed after some years in the Darkness that any ominous or melancholy feeling engendered by the Pillar was lessened considerably when they were in contact. Norrell suspected it was some component of the spell, but could not entirely dismiss the notion that he simply found Strange’s physical presence a comfort.
Norrell would own that this world, with its trees of light and its little pools, was the most beautiful place he had ever seen. Stranger remarked upon the beauty of virtually every land in Faerie, no matter how foul, but in this world Strange remained silent, and Norrell delighted in this newly woken place.
After a time observing their surroundings, the two English magicians at last resolved themselves to read. It is likely they engaged in this occupation over the course of some hours, but it could have been days, for in the darkness, there was very little concept of time. They used candles to tell time, when they remembered, having judged that a single candle of particular size was the closest thing they had to the marker of a day.
They did not, however, remember to do this consistently, and so had lost track of a great amount of time. They found, with no great surprize, that the spell allowed many candles to burn down before either of them felt the need for food or water or sleep, which served to muddy their sense of time even further. Norrell had long ago decided that such trivialities as days and years did not matter when he had such amiable company and such a delightful occupation. Strange, however, did occasionally find himself vexed when he realized he was not certain how many years had passed in their travels. He had a better sense of it than Norrell, certainly, but that was not saying much.
But in that young world, in which they were the first and only beings to tread, even Strange cared not for the time they passed. They spoke in turns, relaying information or discussing particular points raised in their respective books. Strange pointed out something in his copy of Belasis, touching Mr Norrell’s hand as he did so, and then leaving his hand where it rested even after he had done speaking. That, too, had become familiar to them, and Norrell found it very pleasing indeed to feel Strange’s warmth from his hand all the way down his back.
It might be assumed by some astute readers that the intentions of the two men ought to be obvious, at least to themselves. For even friends in dire circumstances did not spend decades pressed to one another. Mr Norrell, however, knew nothing of the sort. He was a stubborn creature, and was still very willing to ignore the implications of his actions and his preferences. Even in that twilit world of pools and luminous trees, as he read out a particularly enlightening passage regarding the city of Seven, and Strange leaned over his shoulder to read it as well, he thought nothing of leaning back to tuck himself against Strange’s chest. He certainly did not think such an action to be odd. Strange was his friend, dearest and most cherished in all the worlds. Why should he not enjoy his presence?
Strange shifted a bit, setting his book upon one of the lower roots and moving one leg so that his knees bracketed Norrell. Norrell took this as a kindness, and settled back against Strange more comfortably. They resumed reading together, and remarking upon the text, for it was the History of Seven, and as such it was a most obscure and difficult volume.
“It would be easiest,” Strange said, and his words were a pleasant hum in Norrell’s ear, “if we were to simply go to Seven and behold it for ourselves.”
“It would,” Norrell agreed, “but for the fact that we do not know where Seven might be found, or if it is still to be found at all.”
“Is there any indication in the text itself that might help us locate it?”
“None that I have found, and I have read this book several times.”
“It is damnably difficult to steer the Pillar, even when we do know where we should like to go,” Strange grumbled. It was a perpetual disappointment to him that they had so little control over their destinations, for there were many lands mentioned in their books that they would both like to visit.
“We shall find Seven eventually, I am sure,” Norrell said. “We have time.”
They had not discussed this directly, not once in what Norrell suspected to be better than a decade of wandering together, but they both knew it to be true that they were not ageing as they ought. Their hair had grown only a few inches in the past decade, leaving Strange disheveled enough he was obliged to tie his hair back, while Norrell’s had grown into the fluff of brown he remembered with no great fondness from his youth (his wigs had long since been lost, eaten, or otherwise destroyed). They had gained no new wrinkles, had neither of them gone grey, and had every expectation that they would do neither of those things for the rest of the hundred years they might remain within the Pillar.
And yet, in spite of the long years stretched out before them, Norrell could not regret it. For he had Strange, and his books, and his home. He had their travels and their discoveries. And he had their magic. For just as the Pillar had great difficulty discerning one of them from the other, so too did their magic, so that bits of Strange’s wild magic had grown into him, and pieces of his orderly and sensible magic had grown into Strange. They had found, with no great surprize, that spells meant for two magicians were not only easy for them, but incredibly effective, and they had begun some years before to modify many of their most used spells to accommodate two casters.
It had not been the end Norrell had anticipated all those years ago when he had brought the stones of Yorkminster to life. He had dreamed of restoring English magic, and finally earning the respect of those around him for his hard work and ingenuity (and perhaps exacting just the smallest amount of revenge against his worst critics, the ones who would laugh at him and call him ‘charlatan’), and yet he had done none of those things. Perhaps he had restored English magic, although he was not certain how he had done it. But he had certainly no more respect or revenge now than when he started. What he did have, and what he had not realized was all he truly wanted, was the company of Jonathan Strange.