we_bring_hell | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

The Bar has not relented in her attempts to get Harrow to eat something with slightly more calories than air. After many false starts, she seems to have struck gold with potatoes, a vegetable Harrow has never had before.

Mashed was a success; soup went well, too. But chips--ahhh, chips. Hot, salty, taste like almost nothing at all. Harrow may never eat anything else again. After several false starts in the dipping sauce area she has made peace with a light sprinkling of vinegar. The only problem is they make her gloves and her papers greasy.

Therefore, find Harrowhark Nonagesimus at a table with her journal and a skeletal hand, drawing spirals and... God help us... eating chips with a fork. It could be worse. The hand could be feeding them to her.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ingress doesn’t let go of Harrow quite yet, but she relaxes her grip.

“Do you need anything? A glass of water? We can sit down a moment, if you’d like; I’ll take you to our library.”

"You must not worry over me," she says, moving delicately out of the curve of Ingress's arm. "I will be fine."

"But I would be pleased to see your library, I'm sure."

"Then I would be pleased to show it to you. This way," she says, offering Harrow her arm.

The library is just as 1970s themed as we last saw it, wood paneling wrapping around the bookshelves and avocado green sofas. There are a few more stacks of books on the floor, and beside one, a small, dark-headed boy sits, his back leaning against a sofa, engrossed in a book with dragons flying in lazy loops on the cover. He looks up when Ingress and Harrow enter the room.

"Auntie Ingress!" He puts the book aside and scrambles over to her, hugging her tightly around the middle. He looks about seven years old and has opalescent eyes like his mother (and Auntie) and a serious set to those eyes in a pale face that comes straight from his father.

"Hey, Portico. How is my best nephew?"

"I'm your only nephew," he says, looking up at her, laughing at their running joke. His eyes glance over to Harrow. Taking notice of the stranger, he stands up straight, prepared to greet her as a future Lord of the House of Arch, as he's been taught.

"Harrow, this is my nephew, Portico. He's Tom and Door's son." Ingress says, smiling at her grave little nephew. Portico can sometimes be too serious for his own good. "Portico, this is my friend, Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus."

If he's daunted by the name, he doesn't show it. He gives Harrow a bow. "Welcome to the House of Arch."

She bows gravely. "Lord Portico."

"The Ninth House greets the House of Arch with all honors, in the name of the King Undying of the Nine Houses. May there be friendship between us."

His eyes light up, pleased, because clearly this is someone who knows the proper etiquette that Portico already realizes is Very Important (perhaps even more than his parents believe it to be).

But he’s also seven, and he gives them a shy smile that reveals a missing front tooth.

“Did you come to read books?” he asks, and the “to me?” that is left off comes through clearly without being said.

Ingress ruffles his hair. “I’m taking Harrow on an adventure but she wanted to stop by the library first to rest a moment. We’re doing whatever she needs to do.”

Ingress glances at Harrow, concern flickering across her face.

She gives Ingress a stern Look. "I am quite well. I am... Interested in libraries. Are you as well?" she asks the child.

She tries to stiffen her spine, which is another thing that was easier with a ready supply of thanergy.

Ingress shakes her head, one side of her mouth quirking upwards. She’s a protector, Harrow, let her do her job!

Portico, meanwhile, responds, “Yes, very much. One day I’ll have a study like my papa with all of my own favorite books.”

He cocks his head to one side, curious. “Is your face painted because your king requires it or because you like skeletons?”

"Both," she says solemnly. "I think skeletons are fascinating. We all have one, and it obeys our commands."

"When I was around your age, I began to control more than one."

“That’s cool,” he replies. “Mum and Papa took me to see giant skeletons at a museum. Papa could have made them move, but he said he shouldn’t use magic there.”

Portico would have really liked to see that T-Rex skeleton walk around.

“May I call you Harrow like Ingress does? Your name is very long.”

Ingress wrinkles her nose in amusement. Portico is such a sweet kid, but he hasn’t developed filters yet.

"... you may call me the Ninth," she says. "As my peers do. We are both heirs of our respective Houses."

Portico nods with a shy grin. "Very well." He turns to Ingress, "Where are you going for your adventure?"

"I was thinking of going to Marylebone," Ingress says.

"Oh," he says, "I bet you'll like that, Ninth. Although you can only see some of the skeletons, like in the crypts."

"A graveyard?" she says, looking at Ingress (up at Ingress) and raising an eyebrow.

"That should be more comfortable, indeed."

"I thought it might be. Marylebone is a little city of cemeteries and crypts. Sorry, Portico, I can't take you with us today, but I promise I'll come soon and we'll have an adventure of our own, all right?"

"That's fine," he says, hiding his disappointment fairly well. "Tell Clement I said hi."

"A necropolis," she says, slanting a look at Portico. "That is the word for such a thing."

"I am positively dying to see it."

"Whenever you're ready, we can go," Ingress says.

She inclines her head. "Let us proceed." She nods to Portico. "Be well, Arch."

Ingress sweeps Portico into a hug, kissing him on the cheek while he giggles. "I pinkie swear promise, adventures will be ours. Tell Tom and Door I said hi, and give Egress a snuggle for me."

It's doesn't take long to escort Harrow back to the front gallery, keeping a side eye on her the whole way, and then out into a dark alley in London Below. The bricks of the alley are scorched from the Great Fire, and you can still smell the smoke.

Ingress pauses a moment. "We have about four doors to open to get there. Everything fine?"

"Yes," she says firmly. "Lady Ingress, you must not be so solicitous. I was disoriented. Briefly. I am sensitive to the energies of life and death and this world's energy is--different."

"All is well now."

Edited 2020-10-10 01:15 (UTC)

"It's less me being solicitous and more ensuring that someone's momentary disorientation doesn't lead to them getting devoured by any number of things here that seek out weaknesses like momentary disorientation."

She seems chipper enough as she says this, even though it's absolutely true.

"But fine, I won't coddle in the least from here on out. I'm sure you can hold you own."

"I have done so thus far," she says curtly, although in truth she is nervous; she has never been so low on power, except in interplanetary space, and there was no danger there.

(And Griddle was there.)

"Lead on, please."

"Absolutely," she says, hands behind her back as she strides down the alley, a bright flash of white in the dimness. Rats scuttle along the ground on their own important tasks, and from above, one can hear the flapping of wings. The sound indicates creatures much larger than pigeons, but that could just be the echo.

They step out of the alley into a street littered with rubble. Ingress picks a path through it, and she presses her hand against the opposite wall.

"Come on, then, Reverend Daughter," she teases. "Keep up."

She scurries after her, stepping gingerly over the rubble. She's not a natural hiker, and she keeps her hand on her athame, which doesn't help her balance.

She catches up with Ingress, and with raised eyebrows, lays her hand on the taller, older woman's shoulder.

When they step through the wall, it's into a yellowish grey glow of daytime filtered through thick fog. It stinks of exhaust and wood smoke, and the air through which it wafts is clammy and cold.

"Damn it." She grabs Harrow by the hand and spins around to the wall from which they stepped, pulling Harrow through the first door she feels. They step into a Victorian mews that is strewn with drying laundry on clotheslines.

"Sorry about that," she says, letting go of her hand. "That was a killer fog. It floats about sometimes."

She raises her eyebrows again. "A troublesome thing, it sounds. How do those who cannot Open deal with it?"

"They either die or they don't. That's the way of the Underside."