Lucy came in to tend the fire and to bring a late dinner for Childermass. He quietly thanked her, and then requested fresh water.
Once all had been attended to, as night was coming on, after he had eaten only enough to ease his hunger, Childermass took up the duty of wiping Norrell's brow with the clout, wetted and wrung again and again to keep it cool.
The later it grew, the more fitful Norrell became until he clawed at the sheets and his eyes fluttered open and he made sounds that made Childermass's mouth sour with fear.
Childermass kept a firm hold of one cold hand, not knowing if he was doing any good or not, and repeatedly thinking of the way his stomach had dropped out from under him when he had turned Brewer into the Abbey yard and seen what was unmistakably the doctor's carriage at the front door. What strange fear had seized him as he'd run into the house that seemed so empty, empty because it did not exude the familiar aura of Norrell's magic-- an aura that was more home to Childermass than Hurtfew itself.
He'd nearly succumbed to mourning before he could make it up to the bedroom and see that Norrell was not dead, not dead but still suffering in a fever the likes of which had never taken him before, his own magic drawn in so close to himself as to be undetectable.
Childermass barely knew what he'd done in those first moments, trying to hide his relief, trying to fight through the fear.
But now here he was at Norrell's side and here he would stay until the man awoke; Childermass was resolute.
But it was very difficult to watch throughout the night as Norrell only worsened; it was a trial for Childermass to sit there and do nothing, nothing useful at any rate. He could only feel extremely foolish as he spoke quietly, as he would to a disturbed horse. Norrell remained insensible, but continued to turn toward Childermass, toward his rough hands and rough voice, the same way a flower turns toward the sun.
Childermass's hands shook when he gently laid them along Norrell's over-hot face before quickly withdrawing to tend once more to the wet cloth on his brow.
Norrell had been mumbling insensibly for a while, but now there were words amongst the mumblings, and Childermass could not stop himself from bending closer to hear.
"No…" Norrell was saying, and then, "Stop!"
Childermass ground his teeth in frustration. What could he do?
"Not the teapot…" Norrell muttered.
Childermass let out something like a broken laugh, and then he softly agreed, "No, sir. Not near the books."
"Good," Norrell softly answered and quieted then for about half an hour.
Sitting up in the chair, his eyes closed, one booted foot upon a low stool, one hand curled loosely on the bed, Childermass was nearly asleep. What remained of the fire flickered against his closed eyelids. Norrell's breathing was a steady pulse at his side. Sleep beckoned.
But then the bed shook minutely as its occupant flinched and shifted.
Childermass woke from his doze to the sound of his name being called, quietly as though from far away by one who could not draw breath.
"Childermass," Norrell was murmuring with every exhale. A sharp breath in as though fighting for air, and then the wheezing breath out, Childermass's name on his lips.
The man he called to leaned closer and found his unbandaged hand to hold in a firm clasp. "I'm here, sir," he vowed. "I'll not leave you again. Can you hear me?"
"Childermass… I need him."
"But I'm here, sir."
"Please," Norrell begged, the fever raging on his brow as he winced against the pain that wracked his body, "Please…"
"Anything you need, sir."
"Childermass."
"Yes, sir."
Childermass bowed over him, his hands clutching Norrell's, his forehead to Norrell's chest as he whispered a stream of barely audible promises, "Yes. I'm here, sir. I won't go. I'll stay as long as you need me. So long as you stay, too. Fight this, Norrell. Whatever it is. And I'll be by your side for the whole of it, I promise, I promise…"
Norrell's pulse was too fast and weak at his wrist where Childermass held him. His breath was too wheezy.
Childermass prayed as he had not since childhood.
=
Before dawn, Norrell started again with his tremblings and murmurings and soon enough it turned to raving, Childermass's name intermingled with pleas and cries of pain.
Childermass willfully toughened himself to the sound of it, sternly keeping to the regimen of cool cloth and gentling touches as best he could, though he knew he was not himself a gentle man.
"Childermass, you must fetch Childermass…"
"But I'm here, sir," Childermass responded without much hope, for Norrell did not seem to know him, no matter how often he calmly answered the increasingly desperate pleas.
"But I have to tell him," Norrell said, his eyes blinking open. He was neither awake nor asleep in his delirium as he reached blindly out before him.
Childermass clasped both his hands and tried to settle him as he leaned into the magician's field of vision, trying yet again between clenched teeth, "I'm here, sir."
"You are…?"
"Yes. You are ill, sir, and I beg you will fight to be well again."
"But I must tell you…"
"Yes. You must tell me what?"
"I… I have such great depth of feeling for you, I cannot… I cannot..."
Childermass leaned closer yet and gripped the man's hands harder as though he could ground him in the here and now.
"You can," Childermass cajoled.
"It… why does it hurt? Everything hurts…" Norrell whined and twisted in the bedding as though to escape it.
Childermass peeled back a layer of the blankets and removed the wet cloth from the pillow where it had fallen. "It is the fever," Childermass told him. "Aches come with it, and difficult breath. You must be strong, sir."
"No," Norrell said, blinking up into nothingness as he pressed a fist against his own chest over his heart as though to still the sudden, clenched pounding of it. "Why do I love you," he asked, sad and lonely and lost, "when you cannot love me back?"
Childermass froze in the act of reaching for the man's face. His nostrils flared as he sucked in a shocked breath.
"It… It is no matter," Childermass tried, and then settled the back of his hand on the sweating brow, even hotter than before. "Nothing matters but your health, sir. You need to drink when we give you water and you need to rest so that you might fight off this fever." He then reached out to steal his fingers into the fist clutched over the heaving breast. "Easy now, sir. I've got you. I've got your hand. Do you feel it?"
"…yes…"
"All's well," Childermass promised, wondering if Norrell would live another day as his sheets and nightclothes were soaked with sweat and his face red with the contagion, his breath shakier at every inhalation, and his words less coherent as the night pushed into morning.
=
When Lucas stuck his head in the room at first light, he found Childermass asleep in the chair, bent at an awkward angle so that his head rested on the bed and his hand clasped Norrell's. Childermass snored lightly and Norrell slept relatively peacefully. Seeing as there were no immediate needs, Lucas slowly backed out and sent the servants to their duties, ordering fresh water and breakfast as soon as may be and a change of bedclothes to be ready. He snuck in to build up the fire himself and only then did he gently touch Childermass's shoulder.
Childermass jerked to wakefulness in a moment and looked first to Norrell before turning his attention to Lucas.
"Food's on its way," Lucas offered. "And fresh sheets. We'll manage between the two of us to change him out of his things?"
"Yes," Childermass agreed, reaching out to Norrell once more. "He's soaked through, poor dear."
=
With the windows firmly closed and the fire roaring, Norrell was removed to the sopha while Lucy and Dido changed out the bedding with swift efficiency. After the girls left, Lucas and Childermass stripped Norrell of his nightshirt and gave him a very quick wash. Childermass wrapped him in an oversized robe to dry him, just holding him close while Lucas grabbed up another nightshirt. They worked together to dress him and return him to the bed, and he was rather more pliable than when he was awake, though heavier.
Norrell looked more himself when he was finally returned to the bed - now warm and dry - with soft, short hair curling over his brow, and Childermass left him only briefly to attend to his own needs before returning to the chair, now in his shirtsleeves as the room was so warm, and determined to stay there for the foreseeable future.
Childermass changed the bandage over Norrell's hand, examining the scraped palm carefully, but it had been well-cleaned and there was nothing to do but cover it up again with a fresh dressing.
Then, from a hidden pocket, he withdrew the birch bark with its bloody writing to examine it. After tracing over the words innumerable times until the entirety of it was burned into his mind's eye, Childermass read it out: "Banish the weakness of desire. Focus on magic, not on fire."
He watched Norrell's slack face as he read it, but there was no response. Whether sleeping or unconscious, Norrell did not hear him.
Re: FILL: Feverish Confessions (3/?)
Once all had been attended to, as night was coming on, after he had eaten only enough to ease his hunger, Childermass took up the duty of wiping Norrell's brow with the clout, wetted and wrung again and again to keep it cool.
The later it grew, the more fitful Norrell became until he clawed at the sheets and his eyes fluttered open and he made sounds that made Childermass's mouth sour with fear.
Childermass kept a firm hold of one cold hand, not knowing if he was doing any good or not, and repeatedly thinking of the way his stomach had dropped out from under him when he had turned Brewer into the Abbey yard and seen what was unmistakably the doctor's carriage at the front door. What strange fear had seized him as he'd run into the house that seemed so empty, empty because it did not exude the familiar aura of Norrell's magic-- an aura that was more home to Childermass than Hurtfew itself.
He'd nearly succumbed to mourning before he could make it up to the bedroom and see that Norrell was not dead, not dead but still suffering in a fever the likes of which had never taken him before, his own magic drawn in so close to himself as to be undetectable.
Childermass barely knew what he'd done in those first moments, trying to hide his relief, trying to fight through the fear.
But now here he was at Norrell's side and here he would stay until the man awoke; Childermass was resolute.
But it was very difficult to watch throughout the night as Norrell only worsened; it was a trial for Childermass to sit there and do nothing, nothing useful at any rate. He could only feel extremely foolish as he spoke quietly, as he would to a disturbed horse. Norrell remained insensible, but continued to turn toward Childermass, toward his rough hands and rough voice, the same way a flower turns toward the sun.
Childermass's hands shook when he gently laid them along Norrell's over-hot face before quickly withdrawing to tend once more to the wet cloth on his brow.
Norrell had been mumbling insensibly for a while, but now there were words amongst the mumblings, and Childermass could not stop himself from bending closer to hear.
"No…" Norrell was saying, and then, "Stop!"
Childermass ground his teeth in frustration. What could he do?
"Not the teapot…" Norrell muttered.
Childermass let out something like a broken laugh, and then he softly agreed, "No, sir. Not near the books."
"Good," Norrell softly answered and quieted then for about half an hour.
Sitting up in the chair, his eyes closed, one booted foot upon a low stool, one hand curled loosely on the bed, Childermass was nearly asleep. What remained of the fire flickered against his closed eyelids. Norrell's breathing was a steady pulse at his side. Sleep beckoned.
But then the bed shook minutely as its occupant flinched and shifted.
Childermass woke from his doze to the sound of his name being called, quietly as though from far away by one who could not draw breath.
"Childermass," Norrell was murmuring with every exhale. A sharp breath in as though fighting for air, and then the wheezing breath out, Childermass's name on his lips.
The man he called to leaned closer and found his unbandaged hand to hold in a firm clasp. "I'm here, sir," he vowed. "I'll not leave you again. Can you hear me?"
"Childermass… I need him."
"But I'm here, sir."
"Please," Norrell begged, the fever raging on his brow as he winced against the pain that wracked his body, "Please…"
"Anything you need, sir."
"Childermass."
"Yes, sir."
Childermass bowed over him, his hands clutching Norrell's, his forehead to Norrell's chest as he whispered a stream of barely audible promises, "Yes. I'm here, sir. I won't go. I'll stay as long as you need me. So long as you stay, too. Fight this, Norrell. Whatever it is. And I'll be by your side for the whole of it, I promise, I promise…"
Norrell's pulse was too fast and weak at his wrist where Childermass held him. His breath was too wheezy.
Childermass prayed as he had not since childhood.
=
Before dawn, Norrell started again with his tremblings and murmurings and soon enough it turned to raving, Childermass's name intermingled with pleas and cries of pain.
Childermass willfully toughened himself to the sound of it, sternly keeping to the regimen of cool cloth and gentling touches as best he could, though he knew he was not himself a gentle man.
"Childermass, you must fetch Childermass…"
"But I'm here, sir," Childermass responded without much hope, for Norrell did not seem to know him, no matter how often he calmly answered the increasingly desperate pleas.
"But I have to tell him," Norrell said, his eyes blinking open. He was neither awake nor asleep in his delirium as he reached blindly out before him.
Childermass clasped both his hands and tried to settle him as he leaned into the magician's field of vision, trying yet again between clenched teeth, "I'm here, sir."
"You are…?"
"Yes. You are ill, sir, and I beg you will fight to be well again."
"But I must tell you…"
"Yes. You must tell me what?"
"I… I have such great depth of feeling for you, I cannot… I cannot..."
Childermass leaned closer yet and gripped the man's hands harder as though he could ground him in the here and now.
"You can," Childermass cajoled.
"It… why does it hurt? Everything hurts…" Norrell whined and twisted in the bedding as though to escape it.
Childermass peeled back a layer of the blankets and removed the wet cloth from the pillow where it had fallen. "It is the fever," Childermass told him. "Aches come with it, and difficult breath. You must be strong, sir."
"No," Norrell said, blinking up into nothingness as he pressed a fist against his own chest over his heart as though to still the sudden, clenched pounding of it. "Why do I love you," he asked, sad and lonely and lost, "when you cannot love me back?"
Childermass froze in the act of reaching for the man's face. His nostrils flared as he sucked in a shocked breath.
"It… It is no matter," Childermass tried, and then settled the back of his hand on the sweating brow, even hotter than before. "Nothing matters but your health, sir. You need to drink when we give you water and you need to rest so that you might fight off this fever." He then reached out to steal his fingers into the fist clutched over the heaving breast. "Easy now, sir. I've got you. I've got your hand. Do you feel it?"
"…yes…"
"All's well," Childermass promised, wondering if Norrell would live another day as his sheets and nightclothes were soaked with sweat and his face red with the contagion, his breath shakier at every inhalation, and his words less coherent as the night pushed into morning.
=
When Lucas stuck his head in the room at first light, he found Childermass asleep in the chair, bent at an awkward angle so that his head rested on the bed and his hand clasped Norrell's. Childermass snored lightly and Norrell slept relatively peacefully. Seeing as there were no immediate needs, Lucas slowly backed out and sent the servants to their duties, ordering fresh water and breakfast as soon as may be and a change of bedclothes to be ready. He snuck in to build up the fire himself and only then did he gently touch Childermass's shoulder.
Childermass jerked to wakefulness in a moment and looked first to Norrell before turning his attention to Lucas.
"Food's on its way," Lucas offered. "And fresh sheets. We'll manage between the two of us to change him out of his things?"
"Yes," Childermass agreed, reaching out to Norrell once more. "He's soaked through, poor dear."
=
With the windows firmly closed and the fire roaring, Norrell was removed to the sopha while Lucy and Dido changed out the bedding with swift efficiency. After the girls left, Lucas and Childermass stripped Norrell of his nightshirt and gave him a very quick wash. Childermass wrapped him in an oversized robe to dry him, just holding him close while Lucas grabbed up another nightshirt. They worked together to dress him and return him to the bed, and he was rather more pliable than when he was awake, though heavier.
Norrell looked more himself when he was finally returned to the bed - now warm and dry - with soft, short hair curling over his brow, and Childermass left him only briefly to attend to his own needs before returning to the chair, now in his shirtsleeves as the room was so warm, and determined to stay there for the foreseeable future.
Childermass changed the bandage over Norrell's hand, examining the scraped palm carefully, but it had been well-cleaned and there was nothing to do but cover it up again with a fresh dressing.
Then, from a hidden pocket, he withdrew the birch bark with its bloody writing to examine it. After tracing over the words innumerable times until the entirety of it was burned into his mind's eye, Childermass read it out: "Banish the weakness of desire. Focus on magic, not on fire."
He watched Norrell's slack face as he read it, but there was no response. Whether sleeping or unconscious, Norrell did not hear him.
(end part 3)