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The fairy wood rises up around them so slowly, and so softly, that it takes them, both accomplished magicians in their own right, several minutes to notice. Childermass spots a phosphorescent flower, a sickly green glow hidden in amongst the otherwise dark underbrush, on this chilly, early November morning. Norrell, next to him, draws in a swift and surprised breath as he too comes to the same realization a split second later.
“Childermass-”
“I think it’s best if we continue onward,” Childermass says, keeping his voice calm, for Norrell is not known for his courage, nor his ability to stave off panic in uncertain, potentially dangerous circumstances. “Fairy roads do not generally react kindly when one turns around and tries to return from whence they came.”
“No, you're right. They do not.” Norrell concedes, casting a worried eye at the twisting branches overhead, when before the skyline had only been populated by tall, majestic cedars and pines. Now, gnarled branches almost blocked out the sky.
They ride on. Around them, the forest becomes louder and more alien as they continue further down the fairy path. Things in the gathering darkness beneath the silvery trunks, chatter ominously and maniacally at them from many strange throats. Even the quality of the setting sun, now a dim, orange-gold, takes on a jaundiced hue as it pierces the forests’ gloom
Childermass knows that it won't be long until their host or hostess will make themselves known to them. Fairies adore making spectacles of themselves, and if this can be accomplished whilst intimidating or unnerving a human traveler, then they are all the happier for it.
He is soon rewarded for his patience with the delicate clearing of a throat. “Good evening,” a velvety voice says out of nowhere.
Both men draw their horses up short and look around themselves, and there, where just seconds ago had only been the ghostly trunks of trees, stands a fairy. He is tall, with broad shoulders and long, white hair. His face is youthful, with high cheekbones, a long, thin nose, and a thin lipped mouth, but there is something about the corners of his eyes and mouth, the set of his head and shoulders, that speaks of someone far older than he appears.
“Hello, sir,” Childermass says politely. “Myself and my master are traveling home after a long trip. All we seek is the comfort of our own beds. May we pass through your lands unmolested?”
The fairy looks at them without responding for a moment. His eyes roam over their bodies and horses, taking them in with what appears to be cold calculation, mixed with haughty arrogance. At last, he speaks. “I will allow you to pass if you tell me one true thing each,” he replies.
“One true thing of our choosing?” Norrell asks. “Or one of your choosing. For the former could be accomplished quite easily.”
“One of my own choosing, of course,” the fairy says flatly, cynicism ringing clearly in his velvety voice. “Otherwise there’d be no fun in it.”
“Very well,” Childermass agrees.
“Childermass!” Norrell is glaring at him, but Childermass ignores his master. Norrell is tightfisted with information, almost as tightfisted as he is about his books. Childermass on the other hand, knows the value of a good truth. It could cost him not much at all to answer the fairy’s question, whatever it might be, truthfully, and then be on their way. It is not the first time he has sold knowledge for freedom, and it will likely not be his last.
“It is the only way forward, sir,” Childermass reminds his master, with a steady look. “How else do you propose we make our way home?”
“I could…” Norrell lets his words trail off, his eyes flicking to the fairy, then down to the satchel of books in his saddle bags.
“I would not advise it,” Childermass says swiftly. “This wood is teaming with fairy magic. Your own spells could act as a flame to dry kindling.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Norrell says, sighing. His shoulders slump, and he suddenly looks tired and lost. “Fine,” he says, miserably. “Ask us what you will and be done with it.”
The fairy looks back and forth between them, his eyes calculating. He presses his lips together thoughtfully. He’s looking for something. A weak spot. A way to cause mischief and pain and mayhem, and Childermass prays the rudimentary yet finely tuned protections he’d placed on them both (without Norrell’s knowledge of course, or they’d never been approved in the first place) will hold. That their thoughts will stay sheltered behind that thin protection of the magical shield he’d willed into place shortly after breakfast, before they’d mounted up to ride home to Hurtfew.
Unfortunately, after a few moments of careful scrutiny, the fairy’s eyes go wide. They are blue-green, Childermass notes, with black, catlike slits for pupils, and inside their strange depths, he sees a glint of forbidden knowledge, and he knows with sudden clarity that his protections have been sliced through like a hot knife cuts through butter.
The fairy grins, which shows off a row of disturbingly pointed teeth. “Oh, this is just delicious,” he purrs, and Childermass feels icy chills of apprehension spill across his scalp at seeing the fairy’s vindictive glee. “Here is what I wish for you to tell me,” he announces, his disturbing smile growing broader by the second. “I wish for you to tell the other how you feel about him inside your heart.”
At that, he folds his arms across his chest and looks very pleased with himself.
Childermass’ eyes flick to Norrell’s face, and he sees Norrell looking back at him, his own eyes full of surprise and the beginnings of panic. Childermass is certain his expression mirrors his master’s.
“Your lordship,” Childermass says, turning his gaze back to the fairy, whilst he struggles to calm his pounding heart. “I’m certain that will be a very dull conversation indeed. You see, I am simply this man’s servant, and he, my master. I come from very little, and he has a comfortable living. We have not much in common, and what lives inside our hearts for each other won’t be very entertaining.”
“You’re lying,” replies the fairy, a smirk of triumph on his lips. This is what their kind lives for. Riddles and challenges. Tests and tricks. All for their own amusement. This fairy had seen right into the knot of unspoken feelings that existed at the core of his connection with Norrell, and is now seeking to exploit it for his own entertainment.
He will not free them until they tell the absolute truth. Childermass looks back at Norrell, and their eyes meet. Norrell’s shrewd and blue. Childermass can almost see his employer formulating a plan to lie.
“Don’t do it,” he says.
“Don’t do what?” Norrell sniffs, for he knows he’s been found out.
“Don’t lie to him,” Childermass says, even as he knows Norrell could confess feelings of disgust, resentment, envy, anger, or worse about his servant. Childermass knows Norrell very well, but not well enough to pierce the veils that shrouds the other man’s heart. He suspects that if he peers deep enough into Norrell’s soul, all he will find is the pages of books. Ink and paper. Endless talk of magic and magicians, and perhaps a few stray thoughts of tea and chocolate. Nothing else lives inside Gilbert Norrell but the love of and obsession with books and magic.
“I haven’t got all day,” The fairy says, letting out a frustrated sigh. “The truth please. What lives inside your hearts for the other. Say it!” He lifts his chin arrogantly, and points a long finger at the two men, where they sit atop their horses.
Childermass knows Norrell will struggle all the more for being made to go first, so he spares him the indignity, and speaks up. “Very well. I shall tell you what you want to know,” he says. Then stops abruptly. What exactly is it that he’ll tell the fairy? His feelings for Norrell are not easily described.
“What I feel for him...” he begins.
“Say it to your companion,” the fairy says, his smirk deepening, and Childermass feels a fist of anxiety tighten in his chest.
“That wasn’t part of the bargain."
“I own the passage out of these woods, and so, I also own the right to add requirements if I choose,” the fairy counters, his eyes going flinty, the pupils narrowing to thin slits of obsidian.
“Very well.” Childermass turns in his saddle to face Norrell, who turns to look at him, eyes full of panic. The poor man. This won’t be easy for him. “Mr. Norrell,” he says. Stops again. Swallows. “Mr. Norrell, what I hold for you in my heart is…hard to describe.”
How can he say it? How can he put words to the feeling of knowing you won’t die in a gutter. Of being given honest employment, food to eat, and a roof over your head? How to describe the awe at seeing Norrell’s shelves upon shelves of books, and then being asked to share in their knowledge? He has been Norrell’s valet, his bodyguard, his butler, his student, and his companion. He has been everything to a man who claims to want nothing from other human beings. To Norrell, he has been all things.
But what has Norrell been to him? A safe port in an endlessly raging storm of hunger, poverty and disease. A teacher, who showed him how to read, how to keep books of finances, who'd arranged to have someone teach him how to care for horses, and set a table for tea, and how to have a home. How to light a candle by whispering a few words into the air…
Norell is everything to him. Everything he’d ever wanted or needed, he’d gotten from Norrell. Everything but one thing of course. One thing he knows he’ll never be allowed to have.
How does he say that, when he is not a verbose man, nor one who easily talks of his own emotions?
“You are so many things to me,” he begins again. He lets his eyes lose focus somewhere around Norrell’s right ear, and speaks the words as if he’s pulling a knife from his chest. Slowly, and with great pain. “You rescued me from a life of destitution by taking me in and giving me employment. You fed me. You clothed me. You gave me access to your library.”
He sees Norrell flinch from the corner of his eye at the mention of the library, here, in front of a fairy gentleman, and must force himself to move past the faux pas. One for which he’ll surely get a dressing down later. “You saved my life,” he says, angered at the way his voice has grown thick, and at the way the trees around them have begun to blur at the edges. “You own my life. You own all of me.”
He dares to look into Norrell’s eyes then, and sees nothing but shock. Norrell’s eyes are wide and blue, his face a pale circle under his wig, which has been knocked slightly askew.
The fairy steps closer to their horses, which shy away, and yet seem prevented from bolting by some force beyond themselves. It provides Childermass with an excuse to tear his eyes away from Norrell, and he scrubs a sleeve across them angrily. He’d had no idea what this confession would cost him.
“Very lovely,” the fairy is saying, “but not what I asked for. I did not ask you to tell each other what you’ve done for one another, or what you’ve changed in each other’s lives. None of that human meandering of words. Tell him how you feel inside your heart for him, or both of you will die in this wood.”
Childermass knows what he has to do, though he wishes he could do almost anything else at this moment. He gathers his courage, and then dismounts Brewer, who wuffles apprehensively. Childermass calms Brewer with a stroke to his large, velvet shoulder, and a reassuring slap.
“Dismount please, sir,” Childermass says to Norrell, who is stuck staring at him in horror from atop his own horse, Juliet. “This is something that needs doing with one's feet upon the ground.”
To his surprise, Norrell dismounts at once, coming to stand in front of Childermass, opposite the still leering fairy. He looks up into Childermass’ eyes quizzically. “Yes? What is it you need to say? Have out with it!”
His fear is making him snappish, but the lashing out still hurts. Leave it to Norrell to make the most difficult moment of Childermass’ life that much harder, simply by being a cantankerous stick in the mud.
“What I’ve been trying to say,” Childermass says, stepping a bit closer to Norrell, trying desperately to pretend the sadist of a fairy standing nearby and staring at them doesn’t exist. “What I’ve meant to say is that I care for you a great deal. What I have inside my heart for you is… hard to explain in a simple manner. But… love… is… central to what I feel. I’ve kept it as hidden as I can so far. Hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
Norrell looks perplexed.
“I am trying to tell you that I love you, sir.” Childermass sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his galloping heart. “This isn’t enjoyable for me, sir, so take care.” He finds his eyes have stuck once more on Norrell’s right ear. A preferred spot for saying things that are difficult to say.
“Oh,” Norrell’s voice is an interesting mix of surprise and something else, more difficult to identify. “I see.”
Childermass steals himself for the rejection that is sure to come. The confusion and revulsion. He’s known for almost as long as he’s known Norrell, that sexual relations with Childermass, or with anyone for that matter, was not a thing Norrell wanted.
He’d tried seducing Norrell at the very beginning. He, a twenty two year old former sailor, just returned from a fruitless mission, with no money, starving and thin. Norrell had fed him regular meals, and had even given him his own room at the top of the house, with a door that locked. A luxury unknown to him before. He hadn’t been certain what to do with all the gratitude he’d felt, and he thought he’d caught Norrell staring at him once or twice, when he thought Childermass couldn’t see him.
So, he had tried to show his gratitude the only way he knew how. By offering his body. He’d stepped up very close to Norrell, who at that time was a young man in his early thirties, and had pressed him against a bookshelf. He’d pressed his mouth to Norrell’s mouth, surprised at the bolt of longing that had stabbed through him as a result of feeling the other man’s body within the circle of his arms.
Norrell had instantly stiffened, like a rabbit, cornered by a wolf, and so Childermass had stepped away immediately, apologizing, and hurrying to his room. He never forgot Norrell’s stiffness, and never made another overture during the twenty-odd years he’d been in Norrell’s employ, and Norrell had never spoken of it again either, and that had been that.
Now, he looks down into Norrell’s intent, bright blue eyes, having just confessed his true heart to the man, and prays not to be eviscerated by the faint praise of Norrell finding him like a nephew. Or worse, Norrell simply expressing revulsion at the idea of his servant being in love with him in the first place.
“Your turn,” the fairy gentleman demands, pointing at Norrell. “Don’t think you can ride the coattails of your servant’s confession out of this wood.”
Norrell looks truly miserable. His eyes dart between Childermass’ face, and his own shoes, and he’s gone pink. “Childermass,” he says, pleading, “there must be something you can do.”
Childermass gives him a steady look. “Not this time, sir. I’m afraid you must do this on your own. I am sorry for whatever pain it might cause you, if that is of any comfort.” He doesn’t point out that his own pain at having to do this very thing, only a few moments ago, is still ringing inside his heart, because Norrell would likely not understand him even if he did.
“I … I cannot do as you ask,” Norrell says, sagging, his eyes dropping from Childermass’ face. “I simply cannot. It is not in me.”
Childermass frowns. “Sir, that is not an option.”
“I cannot!” Norrell insists. There’s intense fear in his voice. He’s trembling, Childermass notes, which means he has been pushed close to his limit. Talking of anything that is not found in a book is difficult for Norrell in any circumstances, but talking of what lives inside his heart, well, that is a near impossibility, and likely it was something this bastard fairy must have seen clearly about him.
“Very well, since you’ll be staying here indefinitely,” interjects their fairy host, “you won’t mind if I take this one off with me to a little get together?” He approaches Childermass, and places a hand on his sleeve. It’s the lightest touch, but Childermass wants to flinch away from it. He refrains, but barely.
“What do you mean?” Norrell looks up at the fairy, confusion plain on his face.
“I mean that no one wants to abduct and seduce you, for you’re far too old, and too stodgy.” The fairy’s face twists up in displeasure, as if he’s eaten something sour. “But your dark servant here is quite interesting looking, and he has a sharp, twisty sort of mind. He will make an excellent companion for me, and will help me to entertain my court.”
“You-you wouldn’t dare!” Norrell turns on the fairy in anger, his fists balled up at his sides.
Childermass feels his limbs grow stiff, and he opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. The fairy takes a step away from him, and to his dawning horror, his feet move after the tall, fay creature without permission from his mind. A coldness begins spreading from his sleeve, where the fairy had touched him for only a moment, to his hand, and up his arm, to send chills spilling over his shoulder and down his back.
He casts a desperate look at Norrell, mouthing Sir, please, soundlessly.
Norrell seems too shocked to speak for a moment, his mouth gaping open like a fish out of water. But, as Childermass is drawn farther away by the fairy’s magical pull, he finds his voice and rushes after them. “Wait! Wait! You can’t take him!” he reaches for and grasps Childermass’ hand. Warmth returns to Childermass’ fingers, and he clasps Norrells’ hand back, holding it tightly.
Norrell sets his stance and pulls, trying to tug Childermass from the fairy gentleman’s clutches, but it is done in vain. He is dragged along with them, his heels leaving twin runnels through the fallen leaves on the forest floor.
“Stop! I command you to stop! He is my servant! You cannot simply abduct my servant!”
“Oh, is that all?” the fairy asks. “If he is merely a servant, then I shall pay you for him.” He stops walking, reaches into his shimmering robes, and withdraws a velvet purse. He opens it, and takes out a gleaming coin. It is large, about the circumference of a fat radish, and looks to be pure gold. Imprinted upon its surface are words in a fairy tongue. It could likely be used to purchase a small village, let alone all the writing paper and ink Norrell could ever dream of using in the span of his remaining years.
Norrell bats it out of the fairy’s hand impatiently. “I don’t want your riches! Childermass is worth ten of those golden coins! I only want my servant back!”
“Then tell him what you hold for him inside your heart, and you shall both be allowed to leave in peace. Otherwise, I shall take him with me as my plaything, and you shall stay here and discover if you can stomach eating tree bark to stave off the starvation.”
“But I cannot!” Norrell wails, his face a mask of anguish. He hasn’t let go of Childermass’ hand, but he also can’t say how he truly feels. Of course he can’t. The very thought is laughable.
Childermass is beginning to think perhaps they will both find their end in this wood. He, as the eventually forgotten and broken plaything to this sadistic, fairy puppet master, and Norrell, to madness, abandoned in a dark, chattering, fairy forest. He looks beseechingly at Norrell, as the fairy says “Very well. You’ve made your choice,” and begins once more to pull Childermass away with him.
Norrell cries out hoarsely as Childermass’ hand is pulled from his grip. He lunges for Childermass’ sleeve, but he misses, and soon, the fairy has pulled Childermass through a swath of underbrush too thick for Norrell to make his way through. Childermass watches his master flounder, cutting his hands on sticker bushes, and cursing, looking after Childermass with horror.
“Wait!” he cries again. “Wait! I’ll do it! I’ll tell you what is inside my heart! I will! I promise! Only bring him back!”
But it is too late. The fairy ignores Norrell and keeps retreating, dragging Childermass with him.
“I love you!” Norrell yells, and then everything goes very quiet. Even the unseen creatures in the darkness beneath the trees stop their cries and calls.
The fairy pauses. In the silence, Childermass can hear nothing but his own, ragged breathing. He stares back at Norrell, who is looking beseechingly at him from several yards away.
“I love you!” Norrell shouts again. “I do! I..I.. cannot live without you! You are the matter that holds my life together!” He falls to his knees in the underbrush, and he is crying. He puts his face into his hands, and his shoulders are shaking with silent sobs. “Please,” he whimpers. “Please bring him back. I love him. I cannot live without him.”
Childermass feels himself freed from the fairy’s clutches as wings of soft joy lift his heart. He gives the fairy a shove, and the fairy stumbles back, a cry of surprise escaping him. Immediately, Childermass begins pushing his way back through the thick, thorn-covered underbrush, making his way back to Norrell’s side.
He reaches his master, who is still sobbing, face still covered by his bleeding hands, and gently touches Norrell’s shoulder.
Norrell looks up with shining, red rimmed eyes. “Childermass?” he asks, as if afraid he is dreaming. “Childermass? You have come back to me?”
“Yes, Mr. Norrell,” Childermass says, past a stiff lump that’s risen up in his throat. “I have. I’ve returned.”
He helps Norrell up with a hand to his elbow, and then finds himself immediately pulled into a fierce embrace. Norrell clings to him, and he’s crying again. “I can’t ever lose you,” he says, wetly, his voice muffled by Childermass’ neckcloth. “I can’t. It would end me.”
“It would end me too, Gilbert,” Childermass says, and if Norrell is surprised or insulted by the use of his Christian name, he does not show it. He only holds onto Childermass more tightly.
He does let go eventually, and they part, looking at each other in wonderment for a moment, until Childermass says “We should find our way back to England, don’t you think, sir?”
“Yes, yes,” Norrell steps away from Childermass, clears his throat and looks around for his wig, which had long ago fallen off into the underbrush.
“I shall arrange for a new wig to be made for you, sir,” Childermass says, smoothly stepping back into his role as servant.
“Thank you, Childermass,” Norrell says, as he picks his way back onto the path, and they walk, side by side to where their horses are tethered. “See that you don’t go to that wig maker in Soho. he charges far too much.”
“Of course, sir. We can look for a more reasonable price elsewhere.”
They mount up, and ride onward, and true to the fairy’s word, the road soon opens back up, and the strange noises and plants recede, until they can see the familiar, moonlit ribbon of York Road, twisting off into the very ordinary, English evening.
“I’ll require a pot of hot chocolate when we arrive home,” Norrell is saying, as he picks burrs and thorns off of his lapel, and frowns at the state of his scratched knuckles. “And a hot bath. See to it that Hannah has one of the maids draw it up for me.”
“I shall, sir.”
They ride on in silence for a while. The chirp and whir of reassuringly ordinary crickets and tree frogs fills the silence as it stretches between them.
“Please make up a cup of chocolate for yourself as well,” Norrell says softly, after a few moments. “And would you please sit with me for a while after supper? I do so enjoy the pleasure of your company on cold evenings such as these.”
Childermass is glad that it is mostly dark, but for a pale gleam of moonlight that frosts the darkness with silver, for Norrell won’t be able to see his eyebrows climbing to his hairline in shock. Norrell has often requested Childermass' company of an evening, only he's never before paired that request with a compliment. Not once. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” he replies, working quite hard to keep his voice level.
“Good,” Norrell says. “Very good.”
They ride on, and the stars shine overhead, and the road passes beneath the clip clop of their horses hooves, and all is as it was when they went into the fairy wood, only, perhaps a little gentler and a little softer than before.