jsmn_kinkmeme | ☆ Round Two!

Welcome to the second round of the Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell Kink Meme at

jsmn_kinkmeme!

Below are some basic guidelines, but please make sure you also check out our complete Rules & Guidelines.

Guidelines:
■ Anonymously comment with your request – a character/pairing/nthsome, and a kink or prompt.
■ Only one prompt per post.
■ Fillers please link your fills in the Fills Post!
■ Have fun! :)

Keep in mind:
■ Any kinks welcomed!
■ The fill/request does not need to be sexual or porny.
■ Multiple fills are allowed.
■ Fills can be any sort of creative work: fic, art, song, photomanip, etc.
■ Beware of spoilers! Prompters and requesters are encouraged to warn for spoilers, but this rule is not enforced.
■ Warning for non-con, dub-con, abuse, slurs/language, and other potentially disturbing subjects is encouraged but be aware we do not enforce this.
■ Would fillers please make sure when posting a fill in multiple parts that they thread their comments by replying to previous parts.

Links:
☆ Mod Post
☆ Fills Post
☆ Discussion Post
☆ Misfire deletion requests
☆ Previous Rounds: Round One

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Despite being a minor scholar, De Chepe’s Labyrinth always succeeded. It kept Hurtfew’s library free from servants, theoretical magicians, and even those pesky creatures —rats mostly— that rather than wishing to devour the knowledge within its shelves of magical books, simply wanted to eat them. An impenetrable labyrinth was as far as Norrell’s imagination stretched to keep Mr Strange away. If Strange managed to find his way inside the library somehow — well, he’d decide once it came to it.

Searching the library, glancing shelf references not seen in months, Norrell sought Belasis’ Instructions. Ensuring the spell’s correct casting required the text. None of the Abbey’s stones could be left unturned, no wood panel unmoved, and no candle branch without a duplicate.

“My dear Mr Norrell,” Lascelles said, somewhere behind Norrell (who forgot he was supposed to be listening), “What else could it possibly come to? England needs a magical leader—” Norrell stopped pretending to listen.

Flipping the pages, he found de Chepe’s spell. Cautiously, he raised a hand to the library door and began whispering the words aloud as he read. With the labyrinth in place, every person important to Norrell —all two of them— would be safe and protected within these walls.

There was much to read and consider. Beyond Norrell’s palm, on the other side of the door, corridors twisted; the ends and beginnings of hallways shifted and conjoined; dust took the shape of stairwells; sconces threw their light around corners and shadows hung from ceilings like curtains. This kind of magic could entrap anyone, even a magician as powerful as Mr Strange, for eternity.

Due to Hurtfew’s architecture, certain parts of the spell needed repeating. Others, such as those focusing on trees and waterways, were omitted. With eyes tight shut, Norrell whispered the repetitions. He requested the Abbey’s floors and ceilings befriend each other, allowed them to switch places whenever they pleased. Such magic required intense concentration.

Somewhere distant, Norrell thought he heard shouting, and then its echo. He assumed it was the magic taking effect, or stones sliding from where they’d stood for centuries, excited at the chance of being useful in a different way. His suspicion strengthened when the hinges of the door clunked, the walls settled down, and he reached the last line of the spell.

“It is done,” he announced to the others. “We are safe as long as we remain in this room.”

Norrell turned to face Lascelles and Childermass, hoping to see their delight that a great magician had protected them both from all of English magic. Instead, when looking to Lascelles, he found him pacing, a small blade clenched in his fist and a vicious snarl on his lips. Looking to Childermass, he found him hunched against a pillar, clutching a bloodied rag to his cheek.

“Mr Lascelles?” Norrell asked, as if demanding an explanation.

“He called me a thief!” Lascelles spat, pointing at Childermass with the weapon.

“Is that adequate reason to attack my manservant?” Before Lascelles could retort, Norrell cast a hand toward the knife, rendering it useless. The blade softened, dripping small silver puddles upon the stone floor.

Approaching Childermass, Norrell noticed the hand holding the rag to his face —and the sleeve beneath— was drenched in blood. “May I see?” he asked, softly.

Childermass’ lower lip trembled as he removed the rag but he made no sounds of discomfort; he’d always been skilled at disguising pain. The gash, running from his eye to his mouth, looked deep.

“What happened?”

Norrell raised a hand to the wound, avoided touching it. When Childermass reached inside his coat Lascelles approached them, begging to be heard. Norrell ignored him, giving Childermass his full attention. With a gentle movement of his fingers, he began healing the wound with magic.

Childermass gritted his teeth as the spell took effect. Norrell assumed the threads of muscle knitting back together in Childermass’ cheek must feel uncomfortable. This spell had not worked previously, when Norrell tried to heal the bullet wound in Childermass’ shoulder. Now magic was returned to England, the opportunities were endless.

“It will be over soon,” Norrell assured. Then, it was, only a faint scar and the blood in Childermass’ beard proof anything at all had happened.

“Thank you, sir,” Childermass said. Retrieving a box from his pocket —its colour one Norrell could not quite place but recognised— he opened it. “Mr Lascelles stole this.”

Norrell peered inside to discover Lady Pole’s finger atop the silk interior. It looked alive, still flesh coloured and perfect, despite its removal being many years ago. He swallowed.

“Mr Strange wishes me to take it Lady Pole,” Childermass said. “With your permission sir, that is what I will do.”

“Mr Norrell!” Lascelles interrupted. “Do you really wish to insult me in such a manner?” He took Norrell’s arm, forcing him to face him. “You take the word of a mere servant before that of your friend and a gentleman’s?”

“You were not wounded, Mr Lascelles. Surely I should have tended to Childermass’ injury before listening to accounts of your quarrel?”

“There is no quarrel, sir. A quarrel presumes that this—” he waved his towards where Childermass was standing “—person, has equal say to my own. His punishment was well deserved.”

“Regardless of your difference in station,” Norrell replied, “you have no right to punish my servants Mr Lascelles. It should be up to a servant’s master to punish, should it not?” As he looked to Childermass for support, Norrell realised he was no longer standing beside him. “Childermass?”

Childermass was at the library door, the handle in his hand. Looking over his shoulder he said: “I must deliver this box to Mr Strange, as his letter instructed. I will return.”

“You will not find your way through the labyrinth Childermass,” Norrell replied, stepping towards him. “It is much more intricate than the others.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Childermass bowed his head ever so slightly before opening the door. “Goodbye, sir.”

Astounded, Norrell watched him walk out into the dark corridor. The stones formed a pathway beneath Childermass’ feet and candlesticks burst into flame to light his way. Norrell wanted to keep him safe beside him, keep Strange from harming him — would he ever see him again now?

Running past him, Lascelles made for the door. “Get back here!” He sped into the corridor and was sucked into the darkness in an instant.

In a few seconds, the two men Norrell cared about were gone, lost to the labyrinth. He stood in silence as the door closed itself, the sound echoing from the library walls.

He was alone.

Gathering his thoughts, he wondered how long he would need to wait in his library, hidden behind obscurity. There were two options: wait here until his death, or remove the protection spell and fight Mr Strange, alone. Both were terrifying and undesirable.

“Seven people from Norwich in 1124.”

Norrell turned toward the voice.

“Four from Aysgarth in Yorkshire, Christmas 1151.”

It was Mr Strange.

i loved this! :) Good job!

I'm here for all the Norrell&Childermass fix it fics, and this one perfectly hit the spot!

Aside from doing right by Childermass, I really enjoyed your writing style, which is evocative, without being overly floral. This in particular:

Beyond Norrell’s palm, on the other side of the door, corridors twisted; the ends and beginnings of hallways shifted and conjoined; dust took the shape of stairwells; sconces threw their light around corners and shadows hung from ceilings like curtains.

I thought that whole paragraph was wonderful! Very Clarke-like. :)

Thank you for this! Very sweet of you anon. My day is made.

Fix-it success! <3

OP here -- this was delightful! Your Norrell remains very recognizable as the character presented in the book/show, but with better judgment, compassion, or both, and as others have already noted, your writing is lovely.

What a wonderful fill! Thank you!

Hello OP! Thank you for your lovely, kind comment. I'm so glad you liked your fill :) I had lots of fun writing it.

☆ Round Two!

Fill: A complication

Re: Fill: A complication

Re: Fill: A complication

Re: Fill: A complication

Re: Fill: A complication

Re: Fill: A complication

Re: Fill: A complication