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31_days2005-08-01 04:51 pm
cibeles.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-08-01 04:51 pm
[August 1] [Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell] King and Country
Title: King and Country
Day/Theme: August 1 / Be indomitable, o my heart
Series: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Character/Pairing: Jonathan Strange / hinted Jonathan/Arabella
Rating: G/PG. I don't know.
King and Country
Life was a chance to show off, to distinguish himself from his fellow men, and to love. Battle was a chance to conquer and be a symbol, past emotions on a human level, so faraway from home. On the peninsula, he made men previously thought dead come to life and speak in foreign tongues. They plagued him from days, yet he stayed, his irreversible spell still haunting him. Showing off had consequences here, and it only briefly lifted the spirits of the soldiers. Some other method had to be found!
There were points in the war when he wanted nothing more than home. He kept a miniature of Arabella, smiling and wide-eyed, on a fine silver chain around his neck, and it reminded him of why he ‘fought’. And there were the books Mr Norrell had given him. Strange sometimes sat awake at night, simply running his long, spindly fingers over the spines with his eyes closed, waiting until he touched the ‘right’ one; and then he would begin to read of his home, and of Faerie.
In the mornings he would often wake, expecting to rise and see emerald fields from the window, to see Bell at the door, laughing. Instead he heard the soldiers’ groans, mutterings about fatal wounds, saw the muskets, bayonet tips bloodied and sharp as ever in the Iberian sun. When he stepped outside of his tent, or perhaps the house he was residing in, he did not see London and all its charm, or any familiar figures. He saw only countless scarlet soldiers, all England’s ‘best’. They longed for home as he did, and to him, they were the only living bit of England he still had with him. To them, he was Strange, the magician, a civilian who did more for the war than they could ever hope; he was, to them, something to be feared, and respected, but not a friend.
He had a little piece of a mirror he used for shaving, not even big enough to see if his cravat was tied properly! A disgrace. Bits of grey were appearing in his often-dishevelled hair, and he generally seemed exhausted, the lines deepening around his still bright eyes - and not from laughter, either. With his shoulders hunched and his pace a little less enthused, the men saw reason to be depressed themselves. If their saviour, Wellington’s pet, couldn’t look up and smile, then who could?
Would Bell even recognise him? She hadn’t changed one bit in his mind – hadn’t aged a single day. She’d grin, wouldn’t she? She’d want him to be happy, however impossible it might be.
They were now nearing a little place called Waterloo, and before he slept that night, he kissed the miniature and slept soundly, awaking to the usual death sounds. And he smiled – for king and country, and for his rose.
Day/Theme: August 1 / Be indomitable, o my heart
Series: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Character/Pairing: Jonathan Strange / hinted Jonathan/Arabella
Rating: G/PG. I don't know.
Life was a chance to show off, to distinguish himself from his fellow men, and to love. Battle was a chance to conquer and be a symbol, past emotions on a human level, so faraway from home. On the peninsula, he made men previously thought dead come to life and speak in foreign tongues. They plagued him from days, yet he stayed, his irreversible spell still haunting him. Showing off had consequences here, and it only briefly lifted the spirits of the soldiers. Some other method had to be found!
There were points in the war when he wanted nothing more than home. He kept a miniature of Arabella, smiling and wide-eyed, on a fine silver chain around his neck, and it reminded him of why he ‘fought’. And there were the books Mr Norrell had given him. Strange sometimes sat awake at night, simply running his long, spindly fingers over the spines with his eyes closed, waiting until he touched the ‘right’ one; and then he would begin to read of his home, and of Faerie.
In the mornings he would often wake, expecting to rise and see emerald fields from the window, to see Bell at the door, laughing. Instead he heard the soldiers’ groans, mutterings about fatal wounds, saw the muskets, bayonet tips bloodied and sharp as ever in the Iberian sun. When he stepped outside of his tent, or perhaps the house he was residing in, he did not see London and all its charm, or any familiar figures. He saw only countless scarlet soldiers, all England’s ‘best’. They longed for home as he did, and to him, they were the only living bit of England he still had with him. To them, he was Strange, the magician, a civilian who did more for the war than they could ever hope; he was, to them, something to be feared, and respected, but not a friend.
He had a little piece of a mirror he used for shaving, not even big enough to see if his cravat was tied properly! A disgrace. Bits of grey were appearing in his often-dishevelled hair, and he generally seemed exhausted, the lines deepening around his still bright eyes - and not from laughter, either. With his shoulders hunched and his pace a little less enthused, the men saw reason to be depressed themselves. If their saviour, Wellington’s pet, couldn’t look up and smile, then who could?
Would Bell even recognise him? She hadn’t changed one bit in his mind – hadn’t aged a single day. She’d grin, wouldn’t she? She’d want him to be happy, however impossible it might be.
They were now nearing a little place called Waterloo, and before he slept that night, he kissed the miniature and slept soundly, awaking to the usual death sounds. And he smiled – for king and country, and for his rose.