lostcarnival | so about those faeries

Entry tags:

so about those faeries

Who: Lambert, Strange, and (some form of a) Childermass
When: Early into their arrival in the Summerlands, after Lambert is actually fucking awake.
Where: The Carnival, Supervisor's Grove
What: Stuffy magicians and a witcher become aware of plot, then may or may not get blisteringly drunk
Warnings: Drinking, swearing, not discussing traumatic experiences but certainly thinking about them very loudly!

The directions that Lambert provides to the trailer in the Supervisor's Grove are clear and concise, but even if Strange made a complete hash of them it's still not hard to pick out the trailer with the open door and windows to let the breeze in.

Once he gets inside, he'll find an open space that's been converted into a laboratory of sorts. On one side of the room, several bulky somethings have had canvas sheets thrown over them, presumably to keep the dust from accumulating -- and from a month away, quite a bit has -- but the other side has some kind of chemistry setup laid out, beakers and burners and various kinds of equipment for distillation and refining components Lambert needs. Another workbench has been set up as some kind of assembly station, though it's hard to tell at a glance what for. More recognizably, one corner is entirely devoted to large copper vessels that are unmistakably some sort of alcohol still.

There are multiple vials with eerily shifting liquids organized by color along one wall, but what Lambert is looking at and holding up to the light now is a larger bottle. When he hears Strange come in, the witcher turns, golden tail lazily swinging to the side.

As with all the other Carnival workers, his changes have come back full force, scales and horns and all. Unfortunately, Lambert also looks even shittier than the last time Strange saw him, although he might not have gotten a good look: dark, blood-red veins creep across his face, curling under the surface of his skin like snakes, and he's looking a little grey, dark circles under his eyes. However, since his body's worked through most of today's dose of Swallow, it's not as bad as it looks. Really! But it looks pretty bad, so that's not saying much.

"Hey."

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As furious as he may still be with Strange, that won't actually stop him from giving a shit. In the end, everyone did something so very unlike themselves back in Portland, not knowing any better, but even knowing that it's an effort to push past the resentment he feels whenever he looks at the man. He'll manage it, though, and he'll shuffle his own cigarette back into his fingers as he leaves his spot against the trailer wall and crosses over to where Strange is still huffing and puffing and fussing with his sleeves.

"Here, let me see," Childermass tries to speak gently, take the edge off how curt he wants to be when he talks to either of these idiots, and he holds out his free hand — lacking in a smoking cigarette and soot and all — to Strange. It's up to the other magician whether he turns the offending arm in question over to be looked at a second time, because he won't be making any grabs for it. "Are these from Steven or the faeries?"

He won't name Nightshade. He won't name any of those monsters if he can help it. He's found speaking as general as possible can help, though if it'll help here, he can't possibly know. This isn't anything he's good at. Just as it isn't something Lambert, with all his smoke and bluster and rage, is of no help with comfort, it's that Childermass is so used to bearing such weight and just carrying on as if he found no real problem with it.

Strange, though. Strange is different and, as much as he internally recoils from even being near him, he can't have a man already broken finding new and worse ways to shatter.

Three grownass men, all not entirely the best at carrying trauma, all with terrible coping skills. Because Strange just does not want to talk about this. Talking about this would make him have to acknowledge things like just how damn scared he is: scared of Nightshade, scared that something like this will happen again, and scared there won't be any way for him to stop it.

As Childermass approaches, Strange stops fiddling with his sleeve and stops trying to roll his shirt sleeve back down. A brief look of confusion flits over Strange's face and a second passes while Strange just tentatively looks over at Childermass, not entirely sure what to do. And then, impulsive as ever, he decides screw it. Might as well let Childermass see the marks as well, if only to stop him from thinking things are worse than they are. With a small sigh, he sort of awkwardly sticks his arm out for Childermass to look at.

"The faeries," he answers, "or more specifically a faerie. That Portland idiot bargained my memories back but didn't take into consideration what Nightshade might do if she saw some of those memories. I was kept in her realm for a few days. She released me when the Rose Queen charged us to disrupt the ritual and bring Steven back. I was fully under her control at that point."

That's right. Childermass and Lambert were mostly unconscious for that part of the ritual, something that Strange is just realizing now.

And just like that, Lambert's found something to get angry about all over again.

The bottle gets slammed back down on the table with a sharp bang, Lambert using the back of his hand to wipe off his mouth. Fucking fine, Portland Strange was an asshole who didn't think twice about enslaving other beings and betraying his own allies to get himself ahead. That's fine, though. That's just magic users, and the most like the sorcerers Lambert's used to. Any anger that Portland's Lambert felt about the man, beyond his arrogance, is tied up in how he spoke and treated the changeling who'd meant so much to him, and acknowledging that anger would mean acknowledging that too.

That turns out to matter less when he's finding out fresh exciting ways the man's idiocy extends.

"She returned your memories?" Did that mean they could have asked any faerie to return them at any time? Fuck! Why didn't Portland Lambert think of that and make himself useful sooner! But more importantly-- "And she saw them too?!"

No wonder Strange thinks the courts might come after them. He might as well have handed them an engraved invitation.

Again with the yelling. Childermass was planning on asking where else the mirror glass had shown up, if only for the sake of a topic change, but there Lambert goes again. He's taken a good look at the reflective cuts around Strange's wrists, so he'll let him have his arm back before turning towards the witcher.

"And so what if she did? Stop bellowing on about it," he says, trying to keep his own tone even rather than snapping back, although he does furrow his brow and frown at him for it. "It's not as though the courts weren't aware of the carnival regardless, thanks to Frost showing up and having his fun with the weather."

Even without Nightshade, it's not like they have a secret here to safeguard. Admittedly, that's, again, Strange's fault, just not the Portland Strange's fault.

Thank you Childermass, the fact that this might still technically be considered his fault just feels wonderful to Strange right now. He rolls down his sleeve and rebuttons it as Childermass and Lambert start snapping a bit.

"I do wonder if the courts were aware of the carnival even before Frost. After all, a traveling carnival run by a fae who isn't part of the courts sounds like it would be perfectly good gossip."

Granted, he's mostly saying this to make himself feel better and try and convince himself that he didn't probably doom the carnival, but it still counts! And again, it's not like they've been subtle as they blunder through the multiverse, getting demons killed and getting kicked out of ongoing parties. "But yes. She returned my memories and saw them as well--gave me a bit of grief considering so many of them revolved around Arabella."

Joking about a thing means that it doesn't bother you, right? Right!

"I'm not bellowing!" Lambert bellows, but instead of continuing on in that vein, he grabs the bottle and chokes down another drink, giving both Childermass and Strange a chance to get their words in. Like Childermass isn't pissed off too! He literally just came in here to hit Strange in the face, he doesn't get to act like the voice of reason now!

As far as cooling down his temper goes, it's not the soundest of strategies, but at least it's effective at shutting himself up, and while self-restraint isn't something Lambert's ever been interested in, he can at least recognize the uselessness of expending the energy here and now. When he puts the bottle down again, he's breathless and red-faced, the flush and the way his shoulders slump a testament to the intoxication and exhaustion that's creeping up on him.

"Stop guessing and just ask a damn faerie," is his contribution to this conversation. His voice is still hoarse from yelling, but it's calmer -- or at least, more tired -- and he waves a hand. "There are enough of them outside the carnival right now, aren't there?"

Well, he'd been going more for making Nightshade seem irrelevant, but that hasn't panned out. As such, he'll drop that tactic and just carry on giving Lambert the most unimpressed of looks that he can muster. Not bellowing. Sure. Still, the man makes a good point and Childermass won't ignore it.

"A fair enough idea," he concurs, if only grudgingly. "But I don't think either of you will be running out and asking questions tonight..." After that, there's a pause, where he purses his lips and glances between the two. It hadn't gotten this vicious until he'd made his own fitful little entrance, had it? Well. That just means one thing is quite clear to him, so he adds, "And as I imagine you'd both prefer to carry on drinking in peace, I'll see myself out. I've heard what I came here to hear."

That said, guess who's turning to make for the trailer's door? Yeah, unsurprisingly, it's Childermass.

"Wait!" Strange quickly states, as he takes a few steps towards Childermass. The man's here so dammit, Strange is going to take advantage of that and actually talk to Childermass before he turns into shadows or turns back into a bird and resumes his normal pattern of ignoring him. "I don't know how far back you were eavesdropping, but I have some books that you might want to borrow back at my trailer. I'd be happy to lend them to you, if you wish."

Some of them were books that Strange had already read and enjoyed, a few were books that he desperately wanted to read but Norrell kept squirreled away in Hurtfew. And what's the point of working under a powerful faerie with the power to cross dimensions if you can't ask her to grab some books you've always wanted to read? Strange pauses for a moment, hemming and hawing before he starts speaking again (and straight up ignoring whatever Lambert's doing in the background, sorry bud). Because...might as well get this done.

"And I truly am sorry for my actions in Portland. I know that hardly erases what was done--that me was utterly heartless and needlessly cruel. But an apology is the least I can do to try and right that man's wrongs." He doesn't expect Childermass to forgive him. Hell, Strange isn't sure he'd forgive himself were he in Childermass's shoes. But he's no idea if the man's actually read the letter so he at least needs to say this here and now.

Lambert really doesn't want to be here listening to Strange's heartfelt apology, considering everything, and he's not certain he'd accept such a thing in Childermass's place. He's starting to see the appeal of coming and going by shadows as the man does, since that's certainly what he'd like to do right now, regardless of what fleeing his own lab would look like. Though that does bring up the point of thought, if Childermass could have left through less mundane means than the door, why didn't he? He chews through more fruit and cheese, watching it all play out with raised brows.

"Just sit the fuck down and have a drink," he tacks on to the end of Strange's rambling, a slight smirk creeping onto his face. He picks up his cigarette again, and takes a drag, exhaling smoke again. Come on, Childermass. If Portland didn't kill you, a little conversation won't either.

Edited 2017-08-05 19:18 (UTC)

His hand is already on the door handle, though he does hesitate. Leaving the mundane way may seem odd when he has so many other options, but that's because the other two aren't exactly aware of how his spells work. They aren't witcher magic. They aren't even proper English magic, at that. Inside the trailer, it's too well lit to go by shadow. As for turning back into a bird, well, then all they would need to do is shut the window again to keep him in, now wouldn't they?

Regardless, he pauses there at the door, turning back towards Strange first when he goes on about books (he could care less about those) and then launches into his next attempt at apologizing. It's tiresome and he won't bother trying to disguise that look on his face.

"Most of what he did never even happened, not truly," he says as a way of trying to push off the apology. It's not exactly accepting one, but he isn't going to stand here and blame the man for every little thing, either. "So please stop bringing it up."

Just let him forget, Strange. It'll pass. It has to. Which is the same thought he has regarding Lambert, bringing his attention back around to the other man there, him and his rude invitation to stay. Though watching him smoke reminds him of the cigarette he's still towing around, so recently stolen. That has him step away from the door again, but only to cross back over to the petri dish already being used as an ashtray. That means leaning past Lambert... and putting it out. That's all.

While there, though, he'll frown at Lambert as he draws back again.

"Of all the terrible ideas you have, that's one of the worst and you know it."

For a lot of reasons, a whole lot.

Sometimes Childermass could be so damned stubborn. Of course he was going to keep bringing it up, he could still remember every action that man took, every hurt that he caused. He needed to make amends, partly for everybody but mostly for himself. But still...selfishly he's a little bit happy that Childermass doesn't want to talk about this. Dwelling on it makes his head hurt more than it does already. And if this meant that things would slowly return to what passed for normal between the two men, he'd take it.

Still, he stands where he is, watching as Childermass puts out the cigarette. Of course it's a terrible idea. That's the entire point.

"I think that Lambert suggested it precisely because it's a terrible idea," Strange can't help but point out, entirely oblivious to any sort of subtext or Portland secret boyfriend nonsense going on between the two. It's just a terrible idea because Lord only knows what sort of awful decisions Strange and Lambert would make while drunk and just how annoyed poor Childermass would be if he gets drawn into any of them. Still, that's going to be his only contribution to the 'get Childermass drunk' campaign, mostly because Strange knows it's an entirely futile effort.

In a way, Childermass is right. It would be better if he left, though based on previous experience, it would also likely end in Strange upending the contents of his stomach onto the grass. Tonight, in particular, Lambert's likely to join him there.

There's a knot of his tension in his stomach that tightens when Childermass approaches, even if it's something as innocuous as putting out a cigarette. He's not sure what to say in response at first, uncharacteristic hesitation in his expression, but then Strange speaks up and he grins, glancing back at the magician on the other side of the table.

"A terrible idea is just a good idea you haven't gotten to yet," he says, loftily, with a faux martyrdom that really doesn't sit well on his face. Sure, Childermass could be trying to imply something with that you know it, but it could mean a lot of things so Lambert isn't even going to try.

"At least it's something you can choose," he adds, holding his hands up and spreading his fingers. No witcher magic, this time. It's all on you.

"It is," Childermass agrees, only it also means he can pick not sticking around, too.

It may mark him as an utter spoilsport, but it'll be more comfortable for all three of them in the long run. Lambert and Strange can get drunk without their various Portland problems regarding the shadowy man looming over their poor coping methods and he, well, he just gets to go... do whatever, he supposes. Go drink alone in the cookhouse or something like that, but it's not as though he's unused to his nights ending like that from time to time.

So after one last look between the other two, he makes up his mind to just shake his head and say, "Which means I'm choosing to leave you to your fun without me. Try not to drink yourselves blind, gentlemen."

That means he's turning to cross back over to the door.

Edited 2017-08-06 01:15 (UTC)

What a shock, Childermass remains an utter spoilsport except no it isn't. Who's surprised? Literally nobody, including Jonathan Strange. With a sigh that's a tad too overdramatic, he walks back to the booze table and starts to pour himself a beaker of alcohol, not making any effort to stop Childermass leaving the room.

That's not to say that he's going to let Childermass leave without any more teasing. The man even remains dour under promise of alcohol (and also hit him in the face as a bird, he hasn't forgotten that part). In Strange's mind, Childermass frankly deserves this.

"It wouldn't kill you to enjoy yourself every once in a while," Strange teases, before he knocks back a healthy amount of the alcohol and then makes a face after doing so. Ergh. Though honestly, it might kill him to enjoy himself with this alcohol, considering how amazingly potent and slightly odd tasting it is. Of course, Strange isn't drinking tonight for the taste.

It's a disappointing answer, if an expected one. Though as he turns to leave, Lambert's tail thwips through the air, casually brushing against the back of one of the magician's legs. Whether it's deliberate or unconscious is hard to say, given Lambert's attention is already turning back to the food on the table.

"Suit yourself, Master Childermass," Lambert shrugs, lazily. With the lassitude of the alcohol kicking in, he leans heavily on the edge of the table, picking up more bread and cheese in a vain effort to soak up the stuff he drank too damn fast.

"Find us if you change your mind."

Edited 2017-08-06 01:57 (UTC)

He's heard an argument like that before, Strange, and that ended poorly with the Celebration, but he won't pause and remind them of that. Last thing he needs is to pick another fight with Lambert over who's at fault with that one, too. It doesn't, however, stop Childermass from giving a slight jump when he feels the tail smack against his leg and sending a withering look back over his shoulder at the witcher for it.

Find them if he changes his mind. Right.

"If I do, I'll just follow the sound of retching," he gets in his last few words there before making his escape through the trailer door. He's out, folks, because he's just that lame.

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so about those faeries

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