☆ Round Two!

[jsmn_kink]

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

Comments

tw: implied rape, implied/referenced child abuse

[(Anonymous)]

It was his grandfather that Childermass met on the road back from Ripon, in a tavern that he should have known better than to stop at.

His veins are full of dirt, the dirt of the tomb. His heart is a grave. It is a good thing that Childermass stopped crying years ago. He thinks only of the clopping of the hooves beneath him, the feel of the bridle in his hands, the moments passing 'til he will be alone, with no responsibilities, and this day will – please, God – be over.

Despite every promise Childermass made to himself – it happened again. He is a man now, not a lad, with a core of stone (and some would say, a top layer of stone as well) – so much rougher and cleverer and harder to kill – and it happened again nevertheless. The shock was the worst part, the old man's sudden appearance blotting out speech, a flood of memories pressing against that hard-built dam in the back of his mind. And there is another memory, now. This is what he brings to Hurtfew Abbey: an old copy of Curiouse Observations on the Anatomie of Faeries by Hogarth and Pickle, for Mr. Norrell's library, and an unwelcome new record for the library he never asked for.

Childermass says nothing of the matter when he arrives at Hurtfew. These things do not happen to gentlemen and so a gentleman could never understand. A difficult servant is a servant let go, and he is broken, exhausted. He cannot do any more. In general Norrell notices very little, a fact which alternately relieves and frustrates him, but somehow tonight Norrell notices his state. In the candlelight his employer's face looks like a mask of itself, a theater mask's mouth curving with emotion.

“Oh! Hogarth and Pickle! You do have it – that is, you do have the 1750 printing, do you not, Childermass? Do you not? I was quite in agonies waiting for you to return. All day I have done nothing but study Ormskirk, and you know how tiresome he becomes after too long.”

Agonies. “Yes, Mr. Norrell. I have it here.”

“Dear me, Childermass, are you quite well? You look pale. You may have some claret if you wish.”

“It was a rough road, sir. Had some trouble coming back.”

Norrell makes a scornful face. “Of course! The roads grow worse and worse each year – I could never do such a thing, could not risk my possessions and person at the knives of bandits, and drunkards, and beggars, and people of – of low repute – but do not fret, Childermass. You have done well. Certainly, I have been looking for the Observations for years! And all things considered, you were quicker than I expected. I have no doubt should you continue in this way, in a few years you will make a perfectly respectable servant.”
Norrell smiles in what he likely thinks is a comforting manner, and Childermass feels like crying. A spike of pain lances through the top of his skull. He feels the muscles of his face lying heavy on the bone, and with the skill of long practice he forces them into what, from the outside, looks like calm.

“Thank you, sir. That means a great deal to me.”

“Of course. Go, now – practice Belasis's Scopus before you sleep. Good night, Childermass.”

He is still getting used to his new name. He never had a father, and it was intolerable to use the name that his grandfather gave. Magic drew him in for many reasons – was what he liked best for many reasons – but one of them was that, as they put it, “prudent magicians are generally reluctant to allow the world to know their true names”. Childermass was the commemoration of the murdered innocents. As a lad he had felt so, so sad for those dead babies – but he knows himself well enough to see that he was actually feeling sorry for himself. For a dirty urchin that nobody cried over, a three-legged cat of a boy who knew what it was long before he knew what it was called. For all these years he forced and tricked his way up the ranks of the world, determined that he should never be brought so low again.

Yet he was brought low, in the exact same way. And this is his consolation: that a man in a powdered wig should reassure him that he would be a perfectly respectable servant soon. As though servants were ever safe in the homes of their masters.

Childermass's headache has become much worse, and the glass of water he pours is welcome. With effort he resists choking while he drinks, and then coughs into his arm once, twice, again and again.

Later he lies in his attic bed and whispers the words of the Scopus, watching the little light spark and spin around the glass. The water looks grey when he holds it up, catching the peeling grey paint of the walls. Deep inside, beneath his breastbone, he feels the brightness, the shift of magic, like strange shores moving with strange tides.

There is no-one who can take this from him.
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