Archive of Our Own ^beta

Gilbert Norrell tumbled through the library mirror into Hurtfew Abbey on a rainy Tuesday morning in February.

Childermass hadn’t been in the room at the time, instead holed up in the study doing the accounts. It had been two years and three months since Norrell and Strange’s disappearance and yet there seemed to be equally as much to do. Perhaps more, if he endeavored to tally it all up.

The crash in itself was not so loud as it might’ve been, with Norrell rolling straight out onto the stone floor unimpeded by furniture or other obstacles. What there had been instead was a sudden burst of magic — a very particular sort of magic that had Childermass up out of his seat and into the hall before he quite knew where he was going. Each magician’s magic was unique to himself and this magic was markedly different than Strange’s or Childermass’ own. It had a certain flavor to it — warm porridge with cinnamon and weak tea with too much milk. It was a flavor he had come to know so well, he had only come to appreciate it once it had gone.

Childermass barreled through the library door to find his master, looking much the same as he had when he left with the only addition being a long, ugly gash across his brow where he must’ve hit the floor. It was unnerving, the unassuming pastels of Gilbert Norrell overlaid with that bright smudge of red as if a child had gotten hold of him and painted him in.

“Childermass,” the small man croaked, as if he hadn’t spoken in quite some time. “I do not feel particularly well.”

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Although Norrell did not appear different as far as his physical countenance was concerned, he was undoubtedly changed by his time behind the mirrors. He was not so gruff with Childermass nor any of the staff and was instead notably more patient and more liberal with his apologies and words of thanks. But he was also slower to answer questions or to reply in casual conversation. His nervousness around others had seemingly multiplied which Childermass wouldn’t have considered possible, but upon reflection he realized Norrell and Strange had likely been isolated for most if not all of their time in Fairy. He had a permanent tremor that flared whenever guests were visiting and any ability to make eye contact he had once possessed had withered away. Whereas Childermass had taken care of most of Norrell’s correspondence before as a mere convenience, he now penned it all, due to Norrell’s perpetual shaking. Childermass had been the one to suggest it, unable to watch Norrell quake through a simple note to the point it was near illegible.

He often experienced severe bouts of panic, usually if more than one visitor were in the room at a time or if he was asked too many questions he wasn’t sure of the answers to. He’d press his hands over his ears, silent and shaking at his desk until Childermass made some excuse to clear the house. Childermass would then take his place behind Norrell, his hands firm and grounding on Norrell’s shoulders as he murmured “you are in the study of Hurtfew Abbey in Yorkshire, England. You are home, with me and your books, and you are safe.”

Childermass certainly didn’t miss being ordered about, but there was a certain spark of life that had seemed to burn away with Norrell’s previous snappishness. Norrell had never been an eager man, only moved to excitement if magic was involved and even then his responses tended toward reticence. Now the man would sit for hours at a time, his book lying in his lap undisturbed as he stared blankly into the fire. He had lost weight as well, which on his small frame made him look frail, shadowed and older than his years. 

Childermass wasn’t sure how he and Strange had lived while in Fairy as Norrell refrained from speaking on the subject of his disappearance unless pressed. Those first few weeks had been particularly turbulent, what with guests flooding the Abbey, desperate to get a look at the infamous magician who had both threatened and saved the continent in equal measure. Norrell was more patient with it all than Childermass had expected, but it soon became apparent that it was less patience and more dissociation. The light would go out of his eyes, gaze fixed on his desk or somewhere equally inoffensive, a polite smile on his face. His replies were evasive and occasionally bordered on nonsensical, similar to the way Lady Pole and Steven had spoken when under the grip of the Gentleman with the Thistledown Hair. Childermass had taken to stepping in with a casual but distant response, taking the emotional load off of Norrell. 

He had given Childermass only mere morsels of knowledge: they had indeed been transported to Fairy, but the way out had been shut by Lady Pole’s premature departure. It was much the same as Yorkshire, but turned on its side and “perpetually unstable” Norrell had said. Childermass greedily squirreled away each piece of information, but he did not press. He knew he himself wouldn’t want to be harassed as such and he had no wish to force it out of Norrell. 

Interestingly, when he wasn’t staring into the fire or at the cover of a book, he was looking at Childermass. He hadn’t put much stock in it at first, written off as a manifestation of his disconnect from the human world. But quickly it became clear that there was an emotion in his gaze when it landed on Childermass — distant but not disparate, with a kind of melancholy longing that he’d never seen on the man before. Childermass felt like a painting of a loved one long since lost, even as he sat just on the other side of the room. On one occasion, Childermass had caught his eye and inquired “something the matter?” Norrell’s eyes darted away like a sleepwalker startled awake, giving a minute shake of his head. “It’s only — sometimes I forget — just where I am.” He had let his eyes raise back upwards to meet Childermass’, eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a captured butterfly. “It’s easier — when you’re in the room. It’s…good. But I shall try not to — if it bothers you.”

Childermass shook his head, unsure what to make of this, but warmed regardless by Norrell’s continued comfort in his presence.

“No need, sir. Do not concern yourself on my account.”

Somewhere in the weeks since his return, a language of touch had taken up root and begun evolving between them. It had originated as a response to Norrell’s increased sensitivity to noise and being easily startled. He was often pulled violently out of a daydream by someone calling his name or even simply entering a room. And so, Childermass had taken to small, unassuming touches to replace words whenever possible, his long, ink-stained fingers creeping into Norrell’s view to rest over his smaller ones. It had progressed into Childermass leaning against the desk when guests visited, allowing him to press his arm into Norrell’s chair and, as a result, his shoulder. He found Norrell would shake significantly less and would appear slightly more engaged in the proceedings. Their fingers brushed as they walked together through the labyrinth — a place Norrell had avoided going on his own since his return. Childermass found himself handing things to Norrell more often, little tokens to keep him tethered to this realm. It was a much more difficult thing for Childermass to admit that perhaps the touch wasn’t only for Norrell’s benefit. Childermass liked to be of service and being of service to Norrell had meant being of service to English magic, but eventually the lines of allegiance had begun to blur and the disappearance of the man he had once considered merely an employer became the most upsetting severance of his life.

 

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Just as Childermass was considering broaching the topic of Jonathan Strange, a letter arrived. It was from the man himself, inquiring about a “reunion dinner”. It was surely to be an informative meeting indeed as Norrell had hardly spoken two words concerning Strange. A few days after Norrell’s return, he had received a letter confirming that Strange was safely reinstated in his home with Mrs. Strange, but that was where Childermass’ knowledge ended. Childermass was unsure how Norrell would react when he relayed not only the idea of their meeting but that Strange, in his usual way, had essentially invited his wife and himself to dine at the Abbey. Childermass was therefore understandably dumbfounded when, after reading the note aloud, Norrell had looked blearily up at him and said “yes, of course, whenever he’d like.”

Dinner had been a rather quiet but assuredly non-traditional affair as Norrell had insisted Childermass dine with them and that he was absolved of his duties for the evening. He had sat across from Norrell, watching every minute shift of his brow and tremor in his hands. It seemed that, for the most part, Strange had settled quickly back into his life in England. He had not yet decided where to devote his time and magic, but it seemed as if, regardless of his choice, Norrell and he were no longer at odds where magic was concerned. Norrell hardly uttered more than a sentence or two which was easily done as Strange had a penchant for chatter. But even he was quieter than he had been those two long years ago. Norrell simply smiled and nodded occasionally in that fond but detached way he had adopted that made Childermass’ stomach ache. 

Sometime between the dinner table and drinks in the sitting room, Mrs. Strange intercepted Childermass and ushered him into an unassuming corner. Her hand was firm but not demanding, as though he were a trusted friend instead of a simple servant.

“Childermass,” she began unsteadily, hardly above a whisper. “I’m sorry to address you so… informally —“ she was biting at her lip, her face unreadable. “Jonathan said something to me, just after he returned….” She looked back over Childermass’ shoulder anxiously. “I had initially agreed with Jonathan to keep this matter to ourselves, but I believe it may be affecting mister Norrell’s health.” 

Childermass nodded warily. “Alright.”

“I can tell by his reticence with us that Norrell hasn’t told you much about he and Jonathan’s time in Fairy.” She waited for Childermass to give a shake of his head. 

“Well, you see, the spell that brought them back through the mirrors — they agonized over it for the entirety of their time together. I’m sure you know much better than I, but supposedly it is all to do with energy and intention. He said that nothing was working — none of the techniques he or Norrell had practiced before were proving of any use. That is, until Jonathan broke down.” Her chin wobbled as she retold the tale, her cadence stilted by emotion. “He became so frustrated that he could not make it back to me, the one he loved more than anything.”

Childermass couldn’t quite get a grip on what she was implying, but his stomach began to twist again regardless. 

“It was only then that the connection began to open. But Jonathan’s love alone was not enough. His love for me is quite plain and the harnessing of it was neither difficult nor shameful for him. But Mr. Norrell —“

She looked over his shoulder again, squeezing his arm tighter.

“It is not my place, I know, and I shall not speak on his behalf — but Jonathan explained to me that Mr. Norrell believed his loved one, the one he held most dear and would power his half of the connection, likely would not relish his return — if they even entertained it at all.”

Childermass felt suddenly dizzy, her hand on his arm the only thing keeping him upright. He was struck dumb, his thoughts beating up against his skull like so many ravens’ wings. 

Mrs. Strange regarded him with bottomless empathy, appearing thought she knew the scheme of things entirely even when he himself did not. 

“I apologize for whatever stress this may cause you — Jonathan and I consider you as much a friend as Mr. Norrell and we want you to know that we would never judge you for this, nor anything else.”

Childermass twitched, his mind going blank.

“What do I have to do with any of this?”

Mrs. Strange searched his eyes, her gaze devoid of malice or arrogance. “I see what you do for him, how you care for him.”

“I am his servant.”

“Once upon a time, perhaps. But it is altogether different now. I could be mistaken, but I do not think so.”

She released his arm and moved to take his hand instead. “You are a remarkable man, Childermass, and you are more cherished than you know.”

She had left for the sitting room then, leaving Childermass to collapse against the wall. He dropped his head into his hands, a sudden ache taking up residence behind his eyes as well as the scar above his chest. He pressed down on his lids until stars flared, forcing himself to breathe and join the guests in the sitting room like a proper man of business.

That evening, once the Stranges had gone home and the candles were lit, Childermass sat consumed by turbulent energy. He was revisiting the events of dinner, where Strange had taken up the topic of Fairy once more. 

“ I had to get back to Arabella — I would return to her at all costs. I fought harder for her than magic itself. That’s what ultimately brought me home. And now I am tutoring her! As I suspected, she has quite the aptitude for it.”

He had turned to his wife then, gazing fondly for a few long moments. It flooded Childermass with the itchy warmth of voyeurism and he turned his eyes back to Norrell. He hadn’t reacted in any obvious way, his placid smile still painted on, but Childermass could read him better than any book and he could see the man withdrawing into his newly fortified shell. Childermass had the instinct to reach out, to crawl up over the table to reach his hands deep down into him and drag him back out. Thankfully Strange pivoted, inquiring after the Abbey as a whole. When Norrell did not answer, Childermass reflexively launched into the tragedy that was Mr. Lascelles and Mr. Drawlight.

When the clock finally chimed midnight and Norrell had not shown any indication of retiring, Childermass had asked again if he needed anything. Norrell assured him he did not and that Childermass was indeed still free to retire as he wished. He couldn’t have explained it, but there was an air of something that warned Childermass to stay behind, to stay with Norrell, but he did not. Norrell had not looked at him once all evening and, as soon as dinner had resolved, had promptly barricaded himself in the library. Childermass had stood at the entrance of the labyrinth, going back and forth over whether or not to follow him. He had become more discerning about who he entertained and what he devoted his energy to when Norrell was away, but as soon as he returned the new found self-preservation had immediately weakened and fallen into disrepair. 

Childermass couldn’t bring himself to go back to his own room, instead pacing through the servants quarters and down into the bowels of the Abbey. He passed Lucas and Davey, propped sleepily up at a table lazily pushing the pieces of a chess board around. They nodded as he went by, their eyes following him with cautious curiosity. He turned the corner to the kitchen to find Dido and the cook at the table, conversing quietly and hovering over the remnants of a loaf of bread. They paused in their conversation, turning to look at him. 

He sighed, gesturing weakly. “Does nobody sleep in this house?” 

Dido held out a chunk of the bread to him, insistent. “You didn’t touch your dinner, take it before you fall over.” 

Childermass eyed the cook who smirked. “I’d take ye to task for ignorin’ my meal but it’d be like kickin’ a hurt puppy.” Childermass rolled his eyes, placing the bread in his mouth and tearing off a massive bite to appease them before continuing on. 

The bread was good and Childermass’ stomach was grateful for it, but still the creeping dread persisted. In fact, it only seemed to grow as he moved about the house and it reached its peak as he was standing, he realized,  just beneath the library. Childermass began to move again, quicker now, as he realized what it was that was so dreadful. It was magic — the same magic he had felt those few weeks ago when Norrell had quite literally stumbled back into his life. But this time it was stale, the taste of ashes on his tongue and spoiled milk in his throat. He pushed down the wave of nausea, jogging briskly up the stairs and toward the library. He weaved in and out of the labyrinth with ease and then threw the door open wide.

Norrell’s back was to him, his hands hovering above a sizable basin of water. He was whispering to himself, a sibilant, grating noise like rats clawing at Childermass’ eardrums. The room was suffocating, so thoroughly permeated with the scent of magic unwilling to be cast. Childermass nearly doubled over, supporting himself with a shoulder to the doorframe. 

“What— are you doing?”

Norrell startled, but he did not turn. His shoulders hunched inward protectively, his fingers clenching and unclenching. 

“I’m going back.”

“Come again?”

“To Fairy.”

Childermass gave a wry chuckle. “I must have misunderstood you—“

“I’m going back,” Norrell nearly shouted, expending  more emotion in one sentence than he had since returning. “I told Strange I would return with him, that I would try. I’ve tried and I’m going back.”

The words hit Childermass as if Norrell himself had struck him. 

“And after years of work attempting to return. Is Fairy really so enchanting? Or does this world simply mean so little to you? 

“Oh,” Norrell laughed, a dark and sad thing. “You misunderstand me indeed.” Norrell still had not turned, his head bowed and shoulders raised until he was the very picture of ” L’Hermite ”.¹“The world means everything to an ant — it’s all it has. But the ant… is just an ant. The world continues to turn whether it is there or not.”

Childermass’ brows narrowed even as Norrell could not see them. “Ah…well, I’ve not had letters every day for two years demanding information on the whereabouts of ants . You may not have been here to speak for yourself, but your influence was certainly still present.” Childermass farcically mimed the writing of letters. “‘How did he disappear?’ ‘Where could he have gone?’ ‘And you, ‘Mister Childermass, just what efforts are you making to retrieve him, hmm?’”

“It is nothing to do with me, Childermass. It is the magic they want, the power. One could argue they only asked after me because I was certain to be with Strange. Strange is the face of English magic now — has been for years. I am only a…a footnote in his ascension. The tutor easily outgrown.”

Childermass swallowed. “Was there no reason to return, then?”

“Strange had a life to return to, a wife, a society that hoped to learn from him —“

“And do I get any say in the matter?”

The room was silent for a moment. To Childermass’ surprise, Norrell finally turned to face him. He was a man truly unmoored — a ghost in search of a grave. He looked somehow worse than that first night he returned, the shock of his otherworldly travel resigned into weary acceptance. The gash above his brow had healed into a silvery scar that spoke less of natural healing and more of the unwilling knitting of flesh. His hands with their translucent skin and bright blue veins beneath fidgeted and trembled in front of himself, his eyes shiny with unshed tears. He was a man who had not seen the sun, nor felt its healing warmth in so long he’d forgotten what it meant to live above ground.

“Well,” Norrell started, his eyes resting just below Childermass’ gaze. “What is it you wish to say?”

Norrell had told him once that he refused to meddle with time. It wasn’t that he couldn’t, per se, moreso that he simply did not enjoy toying about with the laws of the natural universe. He had been so resolute on this point then and so Childermass had taken him at his word, but he was no longer sure. It seemed to Childermass that time itself had stopped and that he was adrift in a soup of hours and minutes, of years and decades and ages. But Childermass was not so lucky as to explore as he chose. Instead, he was treated to a childlike nightmare in which he was forced to confront every thought he’d snatched up and thrust down under the metaphorical bed. He did not have many regrets in life — he wasn’t a bad man, though he wasn’t sure he could claim to be a good one either. Regardless, the nature of his neglected thoughts were not of violence or of moral failing — instead, they were all tied to an undeniable, untamable longing. There were phrases and sentences, spells uttered long after the house had gone to bed. There were images: fingers brushing as two people walked down a hallway, glances never quite returned before the other could look away. And the most frequent one — the one of Norrell, sitting vigil at his bedside, pouring him a cup of water with those small, shaking hands. There were a lot of hands — pale white and soft and underworked hands, gripping onto books, onto cups of tea, onto Childermass’ arm as if for dear life. It had always seemed to him that Norrell left his indent there, shaping Childermass in small, indirect ways. For Norrell himself was small and indirect and fragile and these thoughts Childermass was plagued with would upset him at best and at worst….

But now, faced with the choice of breakage or bereavement, Childermass made a decision. He spent a good portion of his life holding Norrell together — what was one final challenge?

“No.”

“No?”

“No, you aren’t leaving.”

The basin wobbled and fell to the floor with a deafening crash, but remarkably devoid of water. Norrell jumped terribly, but Childermass’ concern had been burned away by the fire of conviction. 

“You and Jonathan Strange disappear, without a word, for two years. You turn up again like a man just home from war and now you want to go back? I don’t know how it is in Fairy as you’ve told me precious little, but from the state you’ve returned in, you cannot tell me it is preferable to your plush armchairs and walls of books and all manner of servants and socialites at your beck and call.”

“I tried to contact you, I did —“

“Did ye now? I know Mrs. Strange received a message from her husband — was the spell not easily replicated? Or were there simply no sufficient wells at hand?”

Norrell did not respond, only hung his head. It only fueled Childermass’ ire.

“While you were off gallivanting about Fairy, what do you suppose old Childermass was up to? Well, someone had to keep the Abbey from crumbling into disrepair and as it happens I’m the only one who can. I had no one to do it for, but I did it anyway, paying myself and the staff out of an account of a man who, for all intents and purposes, was dead. But in the meager free hours I could scrounge up for myself, I was reading. Not your books, mind you — those disappeared right alongside you. Instead, I had to go hunting. These books were far rarer and much more difficult to obtain, and there I was, doing all manner of non respectable things to get my hands on them. To find something — anything — to bring you back.” 

To his irritation, Childermass could feel the tears building behind his eyes and Norrell’s face began to swim. 

“Most of my days were devoted to my many duties. Whatever few hours were left were spent fetching books or borrowing sleep — but throughout all of those hours, every single one, I mourned. I mourned you like a lover — like a wife .” Childermass laughed at himself, the enjoyment long gone sour. “At least Mrs. Strange bore the title.”

Norrell’s face had gone blank and yet his eyes had grown wide and filled with tears. They seeped out as he blinked, rolling down over his cheeks unnoticed. 

Childermass watched him for several moments, his breath billowing out around him like steam from an engine with its coal running sparse. 

“When were you going to tell me, then?”

“Tell you what?”

“That you love me.”

Norrell’s eyes went wide, his mouth falling open. “I—

“Do you deny it?”

“Child—“

“ Do you deny it?”

Childermass strode forward, pausing just before the desk. He heard himself panting, noisy and harsh like a tormented beast. 

To his credit, Norrell did not shrink away. He met Childermass’ eye, his gaze red rimmed and watery but steady. 

“No,” he whispered,  “I do not deny it.”

“Were you ever —.”

“No,” Norrell replied simply, bravely holding Childermass’ gaze. “Why would I tell you something you have no desire to know?”

Childermass’ mouth fell open slightly. His cheeks ached where he’d been clenching his jaw and speaking through his teeth. He felt vulnerable, soft and easily broken open between Norrell’s small hands.

He chuckled once, twice, only just pulling himself back from the edge of hysteria. 

Norrell shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut as if bracing for an assault. 

“Now you see why I must leave —“

Childermass leaned his weight onto his hands, bellowing. “I want you here!” 

Norrell stood on his toes, giving as good as he got. “Well I don’t want me here!”

“Well then,” Childermass was encroaching further into Norrell’s space, moving swiftly around the desk and backing him into the wall. “I shall do the wanting for the both of us.”

“Childermass, please —“

“I don’t know what happened in those two years, but I’d like to. I want to be here, to do what I can with what I have. I don’t have much — but I am here and I am willing and if I haven’t gone anywhere in ten years I’m not goin’ anywhere now.”

Norrell was weakening, he could see it. The threads of resistance being cut one by one by Childermass’ sharp affection.

“But you are so very angry with me.”

“Aye, I bloody well am. I’m angry you brought back Lady Pole with Fairy magic and didn’t tell me. I’m angry you chose Lascelles over me. I’m angry you chose Strange over me. I’m angry you left. I’m angry you didn’t take me with you. I was angry when you came back and I’m angry that you want to leave again.”

“Is there anything you aren’t angry at me for?”

Childermass exhaled, raising his fingers to ever so gently rest the tips against Norrell’s cheek, thumbing at the wetness there. “I am glad I have been able to touch you. That it is welcome and calming to you.”

Norrell tilted his cheek into his touch, shaking as if courting a lion.

“I am capable of more than one feeling at once.” 

Norrell’s eyelashes fluttered and he turned his head, speaking into Childermass’ palm.

“And what about being shot? I can’t imagine that endeared me to you.” 

Childermass furrows his brow, his lip quirking. He takes Norrell’s hand and presses his palm flat against his chest over the circular scar that lies beneath the many layers of cloth. 

“I would do it again - a thousand times over. I am a servant to English magic and a follower of the Raven King, but I am also bound to you in a way I do not have the words for. Believe me, I did not intend it —“ he laughs, devoid of malice. “But I suppose these things are their own sort of strange magic.”

Childermass cups Norrell’s jaw gently, tentative as if he might disappear back into Fairy at any moment. “Stay here,” he entreats, rubbing their noses together. “With me.”

Norrell keens, his fingers coming up to dig into Childermass’ shoulders. 

Childermass closes his eyes, lets their breath mingle and flow into each other. “Stay with me — and let me love you proper.” Childermass leans in most of the way but he lets Norrell cross the final few centimeters to connect their lips. It is an offering from Childermass, little sips of his devotion fed to Norrell in portions he can digest. The little man shakes in his arms, jostled about by the flood of emotion. He’s struggling on tip toe to stay connected and Childermass lets out a fond chuckle. He brushes his lips against the corner of his mouth before lifting Norrell by the hips to set him on the desk. He crowds Norrell’s space again, now at the perfect height to wrap him up in his arms and his coat. Norrell promptly buries his face in Childermass’ neck, latching onto the back of his coat with his blunt pup-like claws.

Childermass,” Norrell cries, tears soaking into his waistcoat. He shakes against Childermass’ chest, Norrell’s heart hammering like a hummingbird’s alongside his own. “I’m sorry — I’m so, so sorry —“

“Shh, I know,” Childermass cooes, pressing Norrell’s face into his throat. “It’s alright. I have you.”

“Forgive me — forgive me for all that I’ve put you through.”

“It is already done, love, no need to beg.”

“But I must,” Norrell insists, his eyes huge and red where they goggle up at Childermass. “There are so many things I need atone for — the worst of course being Lady Pole…”

Norrell brought his hand up again to press over Childermass’ chest. He bit fiercely at his lip, squeezing his eyes shut against the fresh torrent of tears.

“I was wrong, I know that now, so terribly…I fear I can never…that I —“

“Here now, love, shh.” Childermass retrieved his hand, kissing the palm before placing it on his cheek. “You can — we can. I will help you and all will be well, I promise.”

A light grew in Norrell’s eyes, the likes of which Childermass had possibly never seen on the man before. Color seemed to flood into his face, riding the swell of relief he was projecting. A kind of fizzing warmth filled Childermass’ chest, making him gasp. “There ye are,” Childermass murmured, swiping his thumbs over Norrell’s warming cheeks. He bent down so Norrell could wrap his arms around him and pressed his lips to the small man’s ear. “Welcome home.”

It was some time later — when the night and the morning have not quite resolved their stalemate — when Norrell woke. He and Childermass had curled up together on the settee and fallen asleep and were now so thoroughly entwined it was difficult to decipher which limbs were his own. It was undoubtedly the most secure he’d felt since before falling through the mirrors and perhaps long before that. He recovered a hand from the tangle, bringing it up to trace the lines of Childermass’ brow, the bridge of his nose, the dip of his philtrum. He could look his fill now, drink in the lines and shadows of Childermass’ face from closer than Norrell had ever dared to tread. His hair had slipped from its bundle and was spilling over his face like silky black feathers. He was truly a child of the Raven King, beautiful as he was foreboding, loyal and stubborn and gruff and fond of retrieving gifts for those who would show him loyalty and care in return. Norrell’s feelings toward the Raven King had shifted in the years he’d been away. He could understand now what it took to survive in Fairy and how one must be negotiating from all sides at all times. His sense of right and wrong was broader now and allowed for shades of gray to creep in around the edges. Fairy was its own land with its own people that one could not evaluate through the lens of mankind. And he felt perhaps as a result he understood Childermass himself a great deal better.

He ran his fingers boldly but gently through Childermass’ inky strands, tucking them behind the pointed jut of his ear.

“John?”

Childermass’ eyes fluttered open. “Hmm?”

“I….” Norrell’s mind cleared as his eyes settled on Childermass’ lips. Surprising himself, he brought a fingertip up to trace them. Childermass reached out a hand, wrapping it around Norrell’s neck to pull him forward into a searing kiss. Norrell let himself be led, mewling into Childermass’ mouth as he tilted his head this way and that to explore him. Childermass’ warm breath scorched him like fire, sending him crawling further into the man’s arms. He wrapped around him with easy familiarity, as if it were such a simple thing to do. He dipped his tongue to Norrell’s bottom lip in parting, resting their foreheads together.

“Damn you,” Norrell gasped. “I quite forgot what I was going to say.”

Childermass laughed, a breathy, peppery thing.

“Couldn’t’ve been that important.”

“No,” Norrell protested, beating his fist lightly at Childermass’ shoulder. “It was! It was of the utmost —“

Childermass leaned back into his space, his lips coaxing Norrell’s apart. Childermass’ tongue was teasing at his lip again and then in to meet with Norrell’s own. He tasted like black tea and the cook’s best bread and —

“John,” Norrell whispered, a hand urgently pushing at his chest.

“Hmm?”

“Do magic with me.”

Childermass’ private smile spread out against the pillow. His eyes were molten, drowsy but present.

“I thought you’d never ask.”