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31_days2005-08-16 11:45 pm
cibeles.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-08-16 11:45 pm
[August 16] [Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell] Lost-hope
Title: Lost-hope
Day/Theme: August 16 / Kingdom of the mad
Series: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Characters: Arabella Strange
Rating: G
Lost-hope
She closed her eyes and when she opened them again everything was lost. This was not her own chamber; this was not home. The echoing, distant voices were unfamiliar and half-heard – were they imagined or real? Stone pillars stretched to a ceiling invisible in shadow. The room was strangely lit, the only light coming from a small, crumbling sconce in the shape of a gargoyle. It certainly was not enough to illuminate the entire room, which stretched both left and right as far as she could see.
Arabella decided to consider this a dream. After all, she had dreamed wild things before, and this was really not so wild as it was peculiar in that each sense was occupied. The air smelled of old perfumes and oils, and tasted musty and aged. The walls certainly felt real, and the soft step of her bare feet and the whisper of her white shift on the floor was accurate and heightened.
The gargoyle might have once been terrifying, but its face was faded and it was recognisable only for its wings and the claws that held the single, thin candle. It did not flicker or waver as an ordinary flame; it was completely stationary and cast an even, blue-green sheen over the room. Arabella, now knowing it could only be a dream, for such things were impossible – and Jonathan would never try such unusual magic as this – reached to pick up the candle. She stood on her toes and just as she grabbed it, there was the distinct noise of a door opening. The flame surged and burned the tips of her fingers,.
She bit back a shriek and turned to face the person, expecting some blurred dream-person. The man was perfectly clear. He was dressed in rather dusty livery, but his wig was in place and he had a professional expression.
“Madam?” he said dryly, bowing only slightly. “If you please, the master of Lost-hope does not like his guests to be very late. This way.”
“How do you mean, the master of Lost-hope? I am so sorry, my hand, it was burned when I—” she asked as she instinctively held her hand against her body.
“What burn?”
With a wave of his hand, the pain faded.
“This way.”
She shivered and followed him as they entered a hallway that she was certain had not been there before. The pain had been real, but was that magic the man had performed? A vivid dream, perhaps, but it couldn’t be true. Just moments ago she had lain in bed, holding Jonathan’s hand. She had fallen asleep, hadn’t she? – so this must be a dream.
Had to be one.
The door sealed itself behind them and a shiver skimmed up her spine. The air was damp and stale, and her shift felt so thin. Her skin turned to gooseflesh and she prayed she might soon awake, unable to force herself out of this. The hallways were vast but still frightfully dark, shadows seeming to claw at the frayed hem of her skirt.
“Sir? Where are we going?”
“To the ballroom, of course.”
“I—”
“Where else do you think he might wish for the company of a lady such as yourself?”
He said this so rudely and she did not think it wise to reply. Dream-man or not, he was still becoming an unpleasant companion. The ribbon tying his wig, faded dark velvet, was a snake to her, its forked end a poison tongue.
Another shiver. The voices had grown increasingly louder during their tense walk, and when he threw open the next set of doors, she saw precisely why.
The ballroom he had spoken of lay before her eyes, vast and dim and horrible. The chandelier looked like brass at first glance, but it was an elaborate arrangement of painted bones. The candles glowed much like the one she had foolishly touched and the people looked like ghosts. While they were all dressed magnificently in the finest silks and while they dripped with flawless gems the colour of northern autumn, not a single one was truly smiling. Their eyes were cold, and their dance mechanical.
Out of place in her nightgown, she said, “Sir, I do not believe your master might find it appropriate for a woman—”
“He will not mind any longer.”
And with another wave of his small hand her shift metamorphosed, the colour first changing to a rich wine-red, then the material becoming something like silk. It seemed to glow like Hellfire despite its dark hue, and she could not help but admire herself in the mirror near the string quartet: she looked beautiful, if sadly so. A thick black ribbon wound its way round her neck in place of her golden locket with a miniature of Jonathan, and her dark hair was fastened up on its own, little golden pins securing her curls. A bracelet of pearls appeared on her wrist, just the right size to stay, and a black sash tied itself round her waist. It was of the same material as the gown, soft and expensive but cold to touch and brilliant in its darkness, the gleam of the haloes around pinprick winter stars.
“This is so very strange,” she whispered to herself – and then she saw her.
Lady Pole.
“Emma! Is that you?”
She was not smiling either, and walked as though a great weight pressed down upon her shoulders. Her gown was black, but it was not mourning-black. It was the black of a doll forced to wear its owner’s choice of wardrobe. It was an unwilling, cruel black, not the flattering black a stylish London woman might wear if she wished. This dye was darker than the sea at midnight and Hell and more permanent than Lucifer’s bargains. The white sash round her narrow waist was nearly the same colour as her skin, a sign much like her hollow eyes that she had not truly seen the sun for years. A black rose, not the dead colour but a rose dyed to match her gown, was braided into her hair, elegantly pinned at the nape of her neck.
“Bella, how—why—please, tell me, tell me everything!” Her voice was frantic and low, as though she feared their conversation being overheard.
“This is a dream, love. Soon I shall wake up and all will be well!”
“This is Lost-hope, Bella,” she sighed, toying with her sash. “We are prisoners, do you understand?”
“No, I do not,” replied Arabella. “This is a dream…” But she was not so sure anymore. The music that had been playing when she entered, that cold, emotionless music – it was gone now. “You speak of prison yet I feel no restriction, Emma. I shall soon wake.”
“You will not. I thought that once, but it is Mr Norrell’s doing, this suffering. And now you have fallen prey to him, too!”
“Mr Norrell?”
“The fairy,” said Lady Pole, as if that one word encompassed her entire world. “He is evil! We are his captives, his little playthings.”
“I feel no chain! Speak no more of it,” she asked, now speaking with a quavering voice.
“I must. You must know.”
“This is no prison, merely a castle. And a castle in my dreams!”
“It’s a prison for your heart. You will not dream here,” said Lady Pole, now with tears in her eyes. “You must listen. Your ribbon around your neck is no simple decoration. It is a collar, a restraint. Your pretty things, like mine, are merely symbols! He owns you now.”
“Who? I still do not understand, Emma, please, tell me—”
And then he entered, tall and proud and silver-haired. Arabella could not help but think he was handsome in the dangerous sort of way, with a strong jawline and well-defined cheekbones. His suit was tailored to fit his body exactly, and the same colour as the forest Arabella had played in as a girl – well, nearly.
It was darker.
His eyes fell upon her, and in that instant she knew, even before Lady Pole spoke again: “Though you cannot dream, you might still be able to pray as I do, Bella. You will still have hope.”
She could not avert her eyes, and the spell was cast.
She felt the chains on her heart and the smile fade from her lips.
“We are his.”
Day/Theme: August 16 / Kingdom of the mad
Series: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Characters: Arabella Strange
Rating: G
She closed her eyes and when she opened them again everything was lost. This was not her own chamber; this was not home. The echoing, distant voices were unfamiliar and half-heard – were they imagined or real? Stone pillars stretched to a ceiling invisible in shadow. The room was strangely lit, the only light coming from a small, crumbling sconce in the shape of a gargoyle. It certainly was not enough to illuminate the entire room, which stretched both left and right as far as she could see.
Arabella decided to consider this a dream. After all, she had dreamed wild things before, and this was really not so wild as it was peculiar in that each sense was occupied. The air smelled of old perfumes and oils, and tasted musty and aged. The walls certainly felt real, and the soft step of her bare feet and the whisper of her white shift on the floor was accurate and heightened.
The gargoyle might have once been terrifying, but its face was faded and it was recognisable only for its wings and the claws that held the single, thin candle. It did not flicker or waver as an ordinary flame; it was completely stationary and cast an even, blue-green sheen over the room. Arabella, now knowing it could only be a dream, for such things were impossible – and Jonathan would never try such unusual magic as this – reached to pick up the candle. She stood on her toes and just as she grabbed it, there was the distinct noise of a door opening. The flame surged and burned the tips of her fingers,.
She bit back a shriek and turned to face the person, expecting some blurred dream-person. The man was perfectly clear. He was dressed in rather dusty livery, but his wig was in place and he had a professional expression.
“Madam?” he said dryly, bowing only slightly. “If you please, the master of Lost-hope does not like his guests to be very late. This way.”
“How do you mean, the master of Lost-hope? I am so sorry, my hand, it was burned when I—” she asked as she instinctively held her hand against her body.
“What burn?”
With a wave of his hand, the pain faded.
“This way.”
She shivered and followed him as they entered a hallway that she was certain had not been there before. The pain had been real, but was that magic the man had performed? A vivid dream, perhaps, but it couldn’t be true. Just moments ago she had lain in bed, holding Jonathan’s hand. She had fallen asleep, hadn’t she? – so this must be a dream.
Had to be one.
The door sealed itself behind them and a shiver skimmed up her spine. The air was damp and stale, and her shift felt so thin. Her skin turned to gooseflesh and she prayed she might soon awake, unable to force herself out of this. The hallways were vast but still frightfully dark, shadows seeming to claw at the frayed hem of her skirt.
“Sir? Where are we going?”
“To the ballroom, of course.”
“I—”
“Where else do you think he might wish for the company of a lady such as yourself?”
He said this so rudely and she did not think it wise to reply. Dream-man or not, he was still becoming an unpleasant companion. The ribbon tying his wig, faded dark velvet, was a snake to her, its forked end a poison tongue.
Another shiver. The voices had grown increasingly louder during their tense walk, and when he threw open the next set of doors, she saw precisely why.
The ballroom he had spoken of lay before her eyes, vast and dim and horrible. The chandelier looked like brass at first glance, but it was an elaborate arrangement of painted bones. The candles glowed much like the one she had foolishly touched and the people looked like ghosts. While they were all dressed magnificently in the finest silks and while they dripped with flawless gems the colour of northern autumn, not a single one was truly smiling. Their eyes were cold, and their dance mechanical.
Out of place in her nightgown, she said, “Sir, I do not believe your master might find it appropriate for a woman—”
“He will not mind any longer.”
And with another wave of his small hand her shift metamorphosed, the colour first changing to a rich wine-red, then the material becoming something like silk. It seemed to glow like Hellfire despite its dark hue, and she could not help but admire herself in the mirror near the string quartet: she looked beautiful, if sadly so. A thick black ribbon wound its way round her neck in place of her golden locket with a miniature of Jonathan, and her dark hair was fastened up on its own, little golden pins securing her curls. A bracelet of pearls appeared on her wrist, just the right size to stay, and a black sash tied itself round her waist. It was of the same material as the gown, soft and expensive but cold to touch and brilliant in its darkness, the gleam of the haloes around pinprick winter stars.
“This is so very strange,” she whispered to herself – and then she saw her.
Lady Pole.
“Emma! Is that you?”
She was not smiling either, and walked as though a great weight pressed down upon her shoulders. Her gown was black, but it was not mourning-black. It was the black of a doll forced to wear its owner’s choice of wardrobe. It was an unwilling, cruel black, not the flattering black a stylish London woman might wear if she wished. This dye was darker than the sea at midnight and Hell and more permanent than Lucifer’s bargains. The white sash round her narrow waist was nearly the same colour as her skin, a sign much like her hollow eyes that she had not truly seen the sun for years. A black rose, not the dead colour but a rose dyed to match her gown, was braided into her hair, elegantly pinned at the nape of her neck.
“Bella, how—why—please, tell me, tell me everything!” Her voice was frantic and low, as though she feared their conversation being overheard.
“This is a dream, love. Soon I shall wake up and all will be well!”
“This is Lost-hope, Bella,” she sighed, toying with her sash. “We are prisoners, do you understand?”
“No, I do not,” replied Arabella. “This is a dream…” But she was not so sure anymore. The music that had been playing when she entered, that cold, emotionless music – it was gone now. “You speak of prison yet I feel no restriction, Emma. I shall soon wake.”
“You will not. I thought that once, but it is Mr Norrell’s doing, this suffering. And now you have fallen prey to him, too!”
“Mr Norrell?”
“The fairy,” said Lady Pole, as if that one word encompassed her entire world. “He is evil! We are his captives, his little playthings.”
“I feel no chain! Speak no more of it,” she asked, now speaking with a quavering voice.
“I must. You must know.”
“This is no prison, merely a castle. And a castle in my dreams!”
“It’s a prison for your heart. You will not dream here,” said Lady Pole, now with tears in her eyes. “You must listen. Your ribbon around your neck is no simple decoration. It is a collar, a restraint. Your pretty things, like mine, are merely symbols! He owns you now.”
“Who? I still do not understand, Emma, please, tell me—”
And then he entered, tall and proud and silver-haired. Arabella could not help but think he was handsome in the dangerous sort of way, with a strong jawline and well-defined cheekbones. His suit was tailored to fit his body exactly, and the same colour as the forest Arabella had played in as a girl – well, nearly.
It was darker.
His eyes fell upon her, and in that instant she knew, even before Lady Pole spoke again: “Though you cannot dream, you might still be able to pray as I do, Bella. You will still have hope.”
She could not avert her eyes, and the spell was cast.
She felt the chains on her heart and the smile fade from her lips.
“We are his.”