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rainbowfic2023-10-12 03:20 pm
ilthit) wrote in rainbowfic2023-10-12 03:20 pm
Blue Caravan #2, Cloudy Gray #6: Kingfisher (Holly and Hawthorn)
Name: Kingfisher
Story: Holly and Hawthorn
Colors: Blue Caravan #2 (He knows every loophole, the art of fine print), Cloudy Gray #2 (rectify).
Supplies and Styles: charcoal; chiaroscuro, panorama, reimagining
Word Count: 2,372
Rating: mature
Warnings: Murder, implied rape, slavery, demons, brainwashing, black magic, suicidal thoughts, poverty, unequal relationships, bad breakups.
Summary: Philip Sharpe is a valet. He used to be something else.
Note: This is a rewrite combining some earlier ficlets I wrote before into a whole, while also fixing issues and closing plotholes. I will let those old ones stay up, why not, but this will be the new "official" beginning of the Holly and Hawthorn series, and I intend to also rewrite Charlotte's ficlets into something more substantial. We'll see. Please note that this is a gothic horror series and I am giving myself permission to be as ridiculously over the top as I wish.
1903
"You deal with Weiss, Philip." Kingfisher turned to his side, pulling the champagne-coloured silk sheet higher over his head. "It is far too early."
Heavy velvet drapes blocked out the mid-morning sun, though the sounds of New York traffic still filtered through. The air inside was sharp with the chill of early October, sneaking in through the joints of the window.
Philip Sharpe hovered just inside the bedroom door, his long, thin fingers resting on the doorknob. The valet's neat figure contrasted with the decadent, opulent mess of the room, where silk and jewellery and minutely wrought furniture in the latest styles from Meeks and Berkey stuffed every corner, Wedgwood pottery teetering dangerously on the edge of the vanity.
"Very well, sir. And what should I say if he asks for money?"
His master had been cultivating his friendship with Colonel Weiss for months, drawing in not only his sons but his business partner into his circle. Were it not for that, Philip would not press the question. That, and the gun that had been in the Colonel's hand; the heat of red-hot anger on his cheeks.
That second part had seemed less consequential, but it might upset the neighbours.
A languid white hand waved at Sharpe from the sea of shimmering champagne. "Give him anything he wants. Except money. And make sure he leaves happy. Her ladyship will let us know when it's time." Kingfisher turned again under the covers, one sharp elbow sticking out, the sheet pulling away enough to show a stretch of thin pale back.
"Yes, sir." Philip bowed and closed the door as quietly as he could.
Philip had been in Kingfisher's service for a very, very long time, and he knew how his master loved the bait, the tease, the slow corruption of the soul, the awakening of the base animal in man. He did not care so much for what happened afterwards. That was up to the Lilitu. But the Lady Six had not yet demanded the soul of Colonel Weiss.
Philip headed back to the reception room, flexing his fingers. He, for his part, had no issue with violence, but he had his orders.
"Colonel," he said with a respectful inclination of his head as he closed yet another door behind him, putting it and himself between Kingfisher and his guest. Colonel Weiss spun around, his gun still clutched in his hand, to glare at him balefully. The man was, if possible, even more purple now, his shoulders stiff with rage.
"Well?" he demanded.
"My master has been made aware of your predicament. He remains unavailable at the moment, but I am at liberty to deliver a proposition..."
Philip spoke, and the Colonel listened.
In his dry, cool voice, Philip promised him excitement, excess, pleasure. The secrets of dark magic that they had been showing him would soon be revealed, even that of everlasting life; his every base whim could be satisfied, all his enemies vanquished and his bank account stuffed to a stupendous degree. While his good friend Kingfisher arranged everything, the Colonel could lose himself for weeks lost in dungeons and depravity just on the other side of reality. And once he emerged, nothing would be the same again.
One could not deal with Lord Kingfisher of the Wyrm Bone Chalice, Duke of the Flayed Plains and protegé of Lady Six of Lilitu, and expect any less.
1783
Philip Sharpe closed the door to the library behind him and let out a deep sigh. It was late at night, and the fire in the fireplace was dying. Only his candle's light was guiding him, falling on polished wood and a tidy carpet as he turned towards the room. The curtains had not been drawn, however, and moonlight painted their shapes across the curved-backed chairs and the desk with its writing implements waiting.
What was the esteemed solicitor looking for, Dickory wondered, this late at night? The tally of a ship's cargo, perhaps, or letters from some disputed inheritance?
"Hello," said Dickory.
He watched Philip Sharpe recoil from the sight of him seated at his fireside, drinking his best brandy. The lock on the ornate tantalus from the lawyer's drinks cabinet lay shattered on the carpet. Dickory kicked it idly with his foot. "I'm afraid you'll have to invest in a new lock, or expect your tipple to be watered down by the butler from now on."
"...Hunter?" Sharpe breathed out, frowning at him, his narrow handsome face staring like a gothic painting. Most amusing.
"Ah, you remember me!"
"Never mind the lock, sir," said Sharpe, collecting himself and placing the candle on a table by the door. "One can appreciate the necessity, considering your situation."
"So you heard?"
"All of London has heard. You were in the afternoon papers, Mr Hunter." Sharpe did not ring for a servant, but picked up a glass and poured himself a brandy as well. He joined Dickory opposite him in a second armchair, still staring, now with the occasional fortifying sip.
There was an intimacy to the scene that made Dickory wonder just who the second seat was usually for. It had certainly never been for him. Sharpe was unmarried, and was no longer expected to marry at the age of forty-five—forty-five! How time flew. It had robbed Sharpe of some of his vigour, he suspected, and he cast a glance down at the long clever fingers clutching the brandy glass. A part of him missed having those hands on his body, but the memory only served to stir up his bitterness.
"I am pleased you remember me well enough to recognize me even in the dark." Dickory wiggled deeper into his seat and lounged against the armrest, smiling his best soft smile.
"Of course I do. We met at Lady Francis's soiree last month, I believe. You entertained the crowds with your smoke and mirrors. Fashionably scandalous--a magician and a libertine, to be sure, but so very well dressed." A dry smile graced the solicitor's lips. "Isn't it terrible to fall out of fashion?"
"Two thirds of a magician's craft," said Dickory tightly, "is illusion." With those words, he swept his hands back through his hair, the ashy blonde turning into jet black. His eyes lost their unsettling blue and darkened into soft, doe-like brown. Years fell away.
This time he had the satisfaction of striking Sharpe speechless. "And do you recognize me now?"
"...Dickory Kingfisher is dead," Sharpe said at last, and swallowed the rest of his drink. It was to his credit, Dickory supposed, that he did not jump out of his chair and reach for the gun Dickory knew would be strapped inside his coat.
The thought of that gun filled Dickory's head. He had nothing left now, after all.
Society! They cared nothing at all about the orgies, the black magic, the rumours of murder--many reputations had survived more. All Dickory had ever wanted was their friendship. He had worked hard for it, and they took it all away--for nothing! Again!
The first time, when he had been Kingfisher, it had been for money, for the thousand little strategems and unpaid bills that had allowed him to rise in the first place. And now that he had all the power and money a man could want, what did they reject him for? Some grand planned marriage ruined, some fortune seen in the hands of the wrong suitor, and all of a sudden they were saying Benjamin Hunter had done it, Benjamin Hunter had ruined the maiden. As if she hadn't ruined herself long ago. And so they had gone into his house and taken his books--all his lovely books!--smashed his wine and ruined his circles of the three realms, and set the king's men on him for a devil-worshipper.
Philip hadn't helped him the first time. He wouldn't help him now, either. Dickory didn't need to ask. He remembered the curtailed little shake of Philip's head, all those years ago, when Dickory had begged him to bail him out of debtors' prison, back when he still could have been saved.
So what was he here for?
"I should be dead," Dickory agreed. He was drunk and angry and all out of second chances. He swayed forward and placed his hand on the bulge under Philip's coat. He could feel the pistol's length, the rounded edge of the trigger guard. "So finish the fucking job, Philip. Don't be a coward."
Now Sharpe did recoil. He stood and spun out of Dickory's reach, his mouth twisted in anger. "And what am I supposed to do with the fresh corpse of a man they hanged years ago bleeding on my carpet? No. Get out, whoever you are. Get out, damn you, or I will have you dragged out."
Dickory rose unsteadily. He was a head shorter than Sharpe, and far too drunk to take him in a fight, whether he rang that bell or not. His magic was gone; his demonic patron had abandoned him, and why shouldn't she have? Soon he would be hers for all eternity. No more last minute escapes through the sewers, no clever little tricks. "I will leave," he said. "But I will be back. You will see me in shop windows, in mirrors, in crowds. I will never let you rest. I will never let you forget. You did this to me."
He pushed his hands inside Sharpe's coat. His fingers closed on the gun. If Sharpe wouldn't do it, he would do it himself. It couldn't be worse than the first time he had died. And this time, it would stick.
Sharpe grabbed his elbow, cursed, and they tumbled. Dickory lost his balance, and they stumbled into the floor in a tangle. Dickory's finger tightened on the trigger. There was an explosion, and a splatter of something warm on his cheek.
"No, no," Dickory heard himself crying in the sudden silence. He scrabbled at Sharpe's coat, at his shirt, where the dark stain was rapidly spreading.
He held his bloodied, shaking hands to his face, and drew the sigil of the Lilitu on his forehead, touched the blood to his heart and his tongue. "Lady Six of the Lilitu, Queen of the Flayed Plains, Keymaster of the Ruby Labyrinth. I call you, owner of my wretched soul. I have lost the Wyrm Bone Chalice. They have taken my tomes and broken my circles, but I call to you with this blood and this eye and this heart.
"Mistress of the Seven Chained Sisters, I give you this mortal's soul."
The Ruby Labyrinth
Dickory probably hadn't meant for it to go this way. Had he?
Benjamin Hunter he could believe had. But Dickory?
That messy young man had loved him once. Dickory's fault had never been excess cruelty, merely the lack of forethought. Clever as he was, he had been easy prey, and Philip, too, had been younger then, hungrier, and so very in love with his own cleverness.
On the other hand...
...how could he not have known?
Love was a complicated thing.
The voice of Lady Six was like the purr of a thousand flies rubbing their legs together. "Philip Ssssharpe. How interesting to finally meet you. My darling Kingfisher has told me so much about you."
She took a step closer to where he lay bound and spread-eagled on a golden table, his naked chest split open like a roast pig, and leaned over. She touched his sweating brow, and he could feel the crawling motion just under the surface, and smell the sickening smell of decay.
Her hand moved down from his brow to his neck, tracing his Adam's apple. Then she reached and tugged out the thing that had been holding his tongue down.
"Please." His voice was wet and rough. "Don't. I..." He had had influence once. He would have it still, if he were returned to his house and to his name. "I can work for you. I can... corrupt and lie and seduce..." At that last word, she grabbed his throat and squeezed.
"Seduce? You? You cannot even pleassse yet! Too proud, too stiff, too set in your ways. We will try to mold you, see if we cannot make you a suitable helpmeet for my favourite."
Philip shook his head. He had never been an angel, but he was a gentleman. This did not happen to gentlemen.
"Of course, you may simply break, like the low-grade clay you are." Black lips in her approximation of a face curved up like an Ottoman blade. "I suppose my Kingfisher will get his revenge, either way."
-
It had been a year. So he had been told.
Dickory's eyes were just as beautiful, just as hurt, only now they swam with the vagueness of drink. He sat up from where he had been lounging on a garden bench, sunlight through the leaves flecking his skin with pale gold. He was in his shirtsleeves, with an open bottle of port-wine in his hand. "Oh," he said. "You're back."
Philip looked around the cheerful midday light. This was his own garden, back in the country. The manor would loom just on the other side of that lined gallery, he knew; and beyond, there would be the lake, and the boathouse where he used to hide as a boy.
It was beautiful here.
"Yes, sir," he said, the weight of hands still on his skin, the smell of decay in his nose, even as his skin was scrubbed so clean it had nearly been taken off. (Had it?) He wondered what he looked like, in his neat brown house-servants' coat. "Her Ladyship sends her regards."
Dickory took a deep drink from the bottle, his mouth twisting in bitterness. "Well? Did my patron manage to teach you any manners? I saved your life. Say thank you."
Philip's knees buckled, and hit the garden path by the bench. He pressed his head into Dickory's lap. A sound like a bird's cry tore his throat. It didn't seem like it came from him.
There were hands in his hair, petting, soothing. Dickory's voice, soft and human, calling his name.
"Thank you," Philip choked out.
He was home.
Story: Holly and Hawthorn
Colors: Blue Caravan #2 (He knows every loophole, the art of fine print), Cloudy Gray #2 (rectify).
Supplies and Styles: charcoal; chiaroscuro, panorama, reimagining
Word Count: 2,372
Rating: mature
Warnings: Murder, implied rape, slavery, demons, brainwashing, black magic, suicidal thoughts, poverty, unequal relationships, bad breakups.
Summary: Philip Sharpe is a valet. He used to be something else.
Note: This is a rewrite combining some earlier ficlets I wrote before into a whole, while also fixing issues and closing plotholes. I will let those old ones stay up, why not, but this will be the new "official" beginning of the Holly and Hawthorn series, and I intend to also rewrite Charlotte's ficlets into something more substantial. We'll see. Please note that this is a gothic horror series and I am giving myself permission to be as ridiculously over the top as I wish.
1903
"You deal with Weiss, Philip." Kingfisher turned to his side, pulling the champagne-coloured silk sheet higher over his head. "It is far too early."
Heavy velvet drapes blocked out the mid-morning sun, though the sounds of New York traffic still filtered through. The air inside was sharp with the chill of early October, sneaking in through the joints of the window.
Philip Sharpe hovered just inside the bedroom door, his long, thin fingers resting on the doorknob. The valet's neat figure contrasted with the decadent, opulent mess of the room, where silk and jewellery and minutely wrought furniture in the latest styles from Meeks and Berkey stuffed every corner, Wedgwood pottery teetering dangerously on the edge of the vanity.
"Very well, sir. And what should I say if he asks for money?"
His master had been cultivating his friendship with Colonel Weiss for months, drawing in not only his sons but his business partner into his circle. Were it not for that, Philip would not press the question. That, and the gun that had been in the Colonel's hand; the heat of red-hot anger on his cheeks.
That second part had seemed less consequential, but it might upset the neighbours.
A languid white hand waved at Sharpe from the sea of shimmering champagne. "Give him anything he wants. Except money. And make sure he leaves happy. Her ladyship will let us know when it's time." Kingfisher turned again under the covers, one sharp elbow sticking out, the sheet pulling away enough to show a stretch of thin pale back.
"Yes, sir." Philip bowed and closed the door as quietly as he could.
Philip had been in Kingfisher's service for a very, very long time, and he knew how his master loved the bait, the tease, the slow corruption of the soul, the awakening of the base animal in man. He did not care so much for what happened afterwards. That was up to the Lilitu. But the Lady Six had not yet demanded the soul of Colonel Weiss.
Philip headed back to the reception room, flexing his fingers. He, for his part, had no issue with violence, but he had his orders.
"Colonel," he said with a respectful inclination of his head as he closed yet another door behind him, putting it and himself between Kingfisher and his guest. Colonel Weiss spun around, his gun still clutched in his hand, to glare at him balefully. The man was, if possible, even more purple now, his shoulders stiff with rage.
"Well?" he demanded.
"My master has been made aware of your predicament. He remains unavailable at the moment, but I am at liberty to deliver a proposition..."
Philip spoke, and the Colonel listened.
In his dry, cool voice, Philip promised him excitement, excess, pleasure. The secrets of dark magic that they had been showing him would soon be revealed, even that of everlasting life; his every base whim could be satisfied, all his enemies vanquished and his bank account stuffed to a stupendous degree. While his good friend Kingfisher arranged everything, the Colonel could lose himself for weeks lost in dungeons and depravity just on the other side of reality. And once he emerged, nothing would be the same again.
One could not deal with Lord Kingfisher of the Wyrm Bone Chalice, Duke of the Flayed Plains and protegé of Lady Six of Lilitu, and expect any less.
1783
Philip Sharpe closed the door to the library behind him and let out a deep sigh. It was late at night, and the fire in the fireplace was dying. Only his candle's light was guiding him, falling on polished wood and a tidy carpet as he turned towards the room. The curtains had not been drawn, however, and moonlight painted their shapes across the curved-backed chairs and the desk with its writing implements waiting.
What was the esteemed solicitor looking for, Dickory wondered, this late at night? The tally of a ship's cargo, perhaps, or letters from some disputed inheritance?
"Hello," said Dickory.
He watched Philip Sharpe recoil from the sight of him seated at his fireside, drinking his best brandy. The lock on the ornate tantalus from the lawyer's drinks cabinet lay shattered on the carpet. Dickory kicked it idly with his foot. "I'm afraid you'll have to invest in a new lock, or expect your tipple to be watered down by the butler from now on."
"...Hunter?" Sharpe breathed out, frowning at him, his narrow handsome face staring like a gothic painting. Most amusing.
"Ah, you remember me!"
"Never mind the lock, sir," said Sharpe, collecting himself and placing the candle on a table by the door. "One can appreciate the necessity, considering your situation."
"So you heard?"
"All of London has heard. You were in the afternoon papers, Mr Hunter." Sharpe did not ring for a servant, but picked up a glass and poured himself a brandy as well. He joined Dickory opposite him in a second armchair, still staring, now with the occasional fortifying sip.
There was an intimacy to the scene that made Dickory wonder just who the second seat was usually for. It had certainly never been for him. Sharpe was unmarried, and was no longer expected to marry at the age of forty-five—forty-five! How time flew. It had robbed Sharpe of some of his vigour, he suspected, and he cast a glance down at the long clever fingers clutching the brandy glass. A part of him missed having those hands on his body, but the memory only served to stir up his bitterness.
"I am pleased you remember me well enough to recognize me even in the dark." Dickory wiggled deeper into his seat and lounged against the armrest, smiling his best soft smile.
"Of course I do. We met at Lady Francis's soiree last month, I believe. You entertained the crowds with your smoke and mirrors. Fashionably scandalous--a magician and a libertine, to be sure, but so very well dressed." A dry smile graced the solicitor's lips. "Isn't it terrible to fall out of fashion?"
"Two thirds of a magician's craft," said Dickory tightly, "is illusion." With those words, he swept his hands back through his hair, the ashy blonde turning into jet black. His eyes lost their unsettling blue and darkened into soft, doe-like brown. Years fell away.
This time he had the satisfaction of striking Sharpe speechless. "And do you recognize me now?"
"...Dickory Kingfisher is dead," Sharpe said at last, and swallowed the rest of his drink. It was to his credit, Dickory supposed, that he did not jump out of his chair and reach for the gun Dickory knew would be strapped inside his coat.
The thought of that gun filled Dickory's head. He had nothing left now, after all.
Society! They cared nothing at all about the orgies, the black magic, the rumours of murder--many reputations had survived more. All Dickory had ever wanted was their friendship. He had worked hard for it, and they took it all away--for nothing! Again!
The first time, when he had been Kingfisher, it had been for money, for the thousand little strategems and unpaid bills that had allowed him to rise in the first place. And now that he had all the power and money a man could want, what did they reject him for? Some grand planned marriage ruined, some fortune seen in the hands of the wrong suitor, and all of a sudden they were saying Benjamin Hunter had done it, Benjamin Hunter had ruined the maiden. As if she hadn't ruined herself long ago. And so they had gone into his house and taken his books--all his lovely books!--smashed his wine and ruined his circles of the three realms, and set the king's men on him for a devil-worshipper.
Philip hadn't helped him the first time. He wouldn't help him now, either. Dickory didn't need to ask. He remembered the curtailed little shake of Philip's head, all those years ago, when Dickory had begged him to bail him out of debtors' prison, back when he still could have been saved.
So what was he here for?
"I should be dead," Dickory agreed. He was drunk and angry and all out of second chances. He swayed forward and placed his hand on the bulge under Philip's coat. He could feel the pistol's length, the rounded edge of the trigger guard. "So finish the fucking job, Philip. Don't be a coward."
Now Sharpe did recoil. He stood and spun out of Dickory's reach, his mouth twisted in anger. "And what am I supposed to do with the fresh corpse of a man they hanged years ago bleeding on my carpet? No. Get out, whoever you are. Get out, damn you, or I will have you dragged out."
Dickory rose unsteadily. He was a head shorter than Sharpe, and far too drunk to take him in a fight, whether he rang that bell or not. His magic was gone; his demonic patron had abandoned him, and why shouldn't she have? Soon he would be hers for all eternity. No more last minute escapes through the sewers, no clever little tricks. "I will leave," he said. "But I will be back. You will see me in shop windows, in mirrors, in crowds. I will never let you rest. I will never let you forget. You did this to me."
He pushed his hands inside Sharpe's coat. His fingers closed on the gun. If Sharpe wouldn't do it, he would do it himself. It couldn't be worse than the first time he had died. And this time, it would stick.
Sharpe grabbed his elbow, cursed, and they tumbled. Dickory lost his balance, and they stumbled into the floor in a tangle. Dickory's finger tightened on the trigger. There was an explosion, and a splatter of something warm on his cheek.
"No, no," Dickory heard himself crying in the sudden silence. He scrabbled at Sharpe's coat, at his shirt, where the dark stain was rapidly spreading.
He held his bloodied, shaking hands to his face, and drew the sigil of the Lilitu on his forehead, touched the blood to his heart and his tongue. "Lady Six of the Lilitu, Queen of the Flayed Plains, Keymaster of the Ruby Labyrinth. I call you, owner of my wretched soul. I have lost the Wyrm Bone Chalice. They have taken my tomes and broken my circles, but I call to you with this blood and this eye and this heart.
"Mistress of the Seven Chained Sisters, I give you this mortal's soul."
The Ruby Labyrinth
Dickory probably hadn't meant for it to go this way. Had he?
Benjamin Hunter he could believe had. But Dickory?
That messy young man had loved him once. Dickory's fault had never been excess cruelty, merely the lack of forethought. Clever as he was, he had been easy prey, and Philip, too, had been younger then, hungrier, and so very in love with his own cleverness.
On the other hand...
...how could he not have known?
Love was a complicated thing.
The voice of Lady Six was like the purr of a thousand flies rubbing their legs together. "Philip Ssssharpe. How interesting to finally meet you. My darling Kingfisher has told me so much about you."
She took a step closer to where he lay bound and spread-eagled on a golden table, his naked chest split open like a roast pig, and leaned over. She touched his sweating brow, and he could feel the crawling motion just under the surface, and smell the sickening smell of decay.
Her hand moved down from his brow to his neck, tracing his Adam's apple. Then she reached and tugged out the thing that had been holding his tongue down.
"Please." His voice was wet and rough. "Don't. I..." He had had influence once. He would have it still, if he were returned to his house and to his name. "I can work for you. I can... corrupt and lie and seduce..." At that last word, she grabbed his throat and squeezed.
"Seduce? You? You cannot even pleassse yet! Too proud, too stiff, too set in your ways. We will try to mold you, see if we cannot make you a suitable helpmeet for my favourite."
Philip shook his head. He had never been an angel, but he was a gentleman. This did not happen to gentlemen.
"Of course, you may simply break, like the low-grade clay you are." Black lips in her approximation of a face curved up like an Ottoman blade. "I suppose my Kingfisher will get his revenge, either way."
-
It had been a year. So he had been told.
Dickory's eyes were just as beautiful, just as hurt, only now they swam with the vagueness of drink. He sat up from where he had been lounging on a garden bench, sunlight through the leaves flecking his skin with pale gold. He was in his shirtsleeves, with an open bottle of port-wine in his hand. "Oh," he said. "You're back."
Philip looked around the cheerful midday light. This was his own garden, back in the country. The manor would loom just on the other side of that lined gallery, he knew; and beyond, there would be the lake, and the boathouse where he used to hide as a boy.
It was beautiful here.
"Yes, sir," he said, the weight of hands still on his skin, the smell of decay in his nose, even as his skin was scrubbed so clean it had nearly been taken off. (Had it?) He wondered what he looked like, in his neat brown house-servants' coat. "Her Ladyship sends her regards."
Dickory took a deep drink from the bottle, his mouth twisting in bitterness. "Well? Did my patron manage to teach you any manners? I saved your life. Say thank you."
Philip's knees buckled, and hit the garden path by the bench. He pressed his head into Dickory's lap. A sound like a bird's cry tore his throat. It didn't seem like it came from him.
There were hands in his hair, petting, soothing. Dickory's voice, soft and human, calling his name.
"Thank you," Philip choked out.
He was home.