four - place the moon at my eyes

[kingsroads]

[ the post goes up late Thursday, into the evening hours. and MAN is Strange so thankful for this magical journal system. He really doesn't want to have to write this multiple times. ]

One of our new visitors is an enchanter of some sort. He has cursed me and trapped Sabriel.

Francis, McGonagall, I shall need your help. I cannot save Sabriel alone. Likewise, I will need to help of any new magicians who might have arrived with the visitors. As I cannot tell the new magicians this myself, I am relying on the rest of the ship's crew to pass on this message as I cannot myself. Please meet me at my room—the proper one, not my cursed apartment.

Persson, Sheehan, I have a question of you. How can one dream up an item they had back home? Does it work the same as the communal dream of Goodsir and Jopson's rooms or can I do this by myself? I know the item's properties perfectly as I created it myself, I simply need it here. Do not come to me in person, simply respond with your journal.

As for the rest of the ship, I need a mirror and something dead—flowers, perhaps? Please leave them outside my door if you have them. There is a spell I can still cast, a spell to see what my enemy is doing. I do not know who my enemy is but the enchanter hurt Sabriel. Undoubtedly he is my enemy and undoubtedly he is on this ship.

Stay safe.

Comments

[una_persson]

[ Una would answer, Strange, but she has a crazy person attempting to murder her ass right now. ]

[heyboss]

Hurt how, Strange? You can create it yourself. Focus on the object. What it looks like, feels like, smells like. Everything you can think of. Helps me to close my eyes and imagine it somewhere in the room but away, like on a shelf. Personal preference.

It's easier if you have help, though, especially if it's complex.

[kingsroads]

[ Time for a mutual "ah yes. That motherfucker" drinking session once all of this is done. ]

[kingsroads]

She is trapped in a portrait of herself. It is not a portrait of her, it is a portrait of her. My magics have told me that much. They have also told me that the magic is familiar in a way that I currently cannot place.

[ There is a pause in between this response and any more coming as Strange takes Sheehan's advice. A small vial, with a darkish brown liquid and a little dead mouse soaking inside of it. The smell of smoke from the candles he thought were in people's heads. The acrid taste of something unspeakable yet somehow pineapple flavored. The sound of a thousand trumpets in his ears and a thousand cats mewling at his feet. The knowledge that there was so much more in the world and it was all staring directly at him. All the things that the tincture of madness inspired in him were here, in this room, and he could use them to defeat the enchanter that trapped Sabriel.

When Strange opens his eyes, there is a small little vial sitting in the middle of his bed. He picks up the journal and writes, ]

Thank you, Sheehan. It seems to have worked.

[heyboss]

You're welcome. Whatever you're going to do, be careful

[He knows that's not possible, and it's not fair to ask. So he leaves it at that.]

[endofvanity]

I have a sprig of one of Mr Mason's mustard greens and I hope he shall forgive me for it. Will that do?

What else do you need, Strange?

[kingsroads]

I will need at least two sprigs of mustard greens (apologies, Mr. Mason). And I will need someone to be with me for a moment. Some of the magic that I will be performing might leave me disoriented and I shall need someone to reassure me.

[endofvanity]

A moment—I shall be there soon.

[kingsroads]

Thank you.

[ Poor Fitzjames is about to see one of the less fun sides to magic. When he approaches Strange's room, Strange has a hand to the frame of Sabriel's portrait and is leaning his forehead against it, as if he could beam his thoughts directly in there. I'm sorry. I'll save you.

He turns to look when he hears the sound of someone approach. Spotting Fitzjames, Strange rushes over towards him, mouth moving like he's trying to explain something, but no sound comes out. Strange realizes the problem soon after and tries to speak again—though Fitzjames doesn't have to be a lip-reader to know that the second round of attempted speech is just swearing.

Everything about Strange's being radiates exasperation, confusion, and plain and simple fear. ]

[endofvanity]

Fitzjames is about to ask how Strange got himself cursed but it's immediately obvious. As is the silent swearing.

"All right, all right—look, I've brought you these." He holds out the sprigs of mustard greens, as well as a dead flower that he found on the deck that seems to have blown in from somewhere. It looks tropical, which is strange, but he's been so eager to help his new friend that he hasn't given it much thought.

[kingsroads]

Strange laughs a short, silent laugh as he looks at the dead flower. That would make sense, wouldn't it. He still needs a mirror, but that should be easy enough to find. He thought he had one in his room, but if he cannot find it, he'll simply steal Francis's.

It will take far too long to explain this and will need time and his voice: two things Strange knows he doesn't have. Time spent writing this down is time the enchanter could spend cursing someone else on the ship. So sorry Fitzjames, you're going into this blind.

Strange puts the flowers in his coat pocket. With one hand, he reaches into a second coat pocket to pull out a small vial. Inside, there is a dead mouse floating in some brownish liquid. With the other hand, Strange reaches to take one of Fitzjames's hands and place it on his own shoulder. All the while, he's just staring at the captain as if he'll be able to telepathically tell him just how important this is and just how much he needs him to stay for a moment.

[endofvanity]

Fitzjames stares at the vial and has a very, very bad feeling about what's going to happen next; he offers a silent prayer that he is not going to be the one who has to handle the thing. When Strange puts his, Fitzjames's, hand on his shoulder, though, Fitzjames nods in agreement.

"I've got you," he says. He squeezes Strange's shoulder and takes a deep, fortifying breath.

[kingsroads]

Strange gives Fitzjames a look of thanks and relief. This will be unpleasant, but if the thing that cursed him and Sabriel is a fairy, a guess Strange is solely making based on prior experience and the feel of the magic, then this should help. If it turns out to be a mortal man...well, it will be easier to kill the enchanter that way.

Strange uncorks the vial, holds it up in a mock toast, and then drains about a third of the dead mouse juice in one gulp. He scrunches up his face in disgust before corking the vial and dropping it back into his pocket.

When Strange opens his eyes again, he feels and sees things change. He hears Una yell about a friend of his and doesn't know if that has happened, is happening, or will happen. There is a taste of rotted tomatoes on his tongue that he knows must be caused by the small, metallic thing lodged at the back of his throat—perhaps that is keeping him from speaking? He feels like he is sinking, deep below the ice, legs somehow heavy and light at the same time. The only thing keeping him from sinking entirely is the feel of Fitzjames's hand on his shoulder.

And look. The man is blooming. Strange sees orchids in his hair and a hibiscus at his chest. He laughs a silent laugh, as he stares at Fitzjames as if he's seeing the man for the first time, looking at him with awe and wonder. Strange reaches out to lightly poke Fitzjames in the chest, a spot that unknown to Strange is the spot where Fitzjames was wounded, almost like Nelson at Trafalger. His free hand goes up to Fitzjames's forehead as he attempts to run his fingers along the man's hairline, where the orchids must be growing from.

[endofvanity]

Fitzjames flinches in disgust as Strange downs the ... mouse juice; good Christ, and he thought the medicines that Stanley and Goodsir compounded were foul. But he doesn't let go of Strange and watches him as his expression changes.

Strange will see more—there is the wound on his arm where the sniper's bullet pierced him before passing through to his body; there are marks on the shoulder where Clio's pet cheetah mauled him. Fitzjames doesn't know what Strange is seeing, though; he just watches in increasing bafflement and concern at the touch to his chest and his hairline. His instinct is to pull away, but he doesn't. Strange needs him; he's not going to move.

small threadjack!

[adaptiveimmunities]

No worries. Do what you need to. It's what they're for. I'm not much help for magic shit, so good luck.

[mayiofferyouacoughdrop]

I am on my way. Is there anything else you might nee, Mr. Strange?

[kingsroads]

Thank you, Mason. You do not know the extent of how helpful this is.

[kingsroads]

How odd. The hibiscus also seems to be growing from Fitzjames's arm. And there is jasmine on his shoulder. He looks up at Fitzjames to ask about the jasmine when something else catches his attention.

Everyone has a candle in their head. That is something that Strange, in his madness, knows quite well. But where Fitzjames's candle should be, there is another version of his face. Something that is Fitzjames but isn't. And then there is another. And another. Strange wonders if the man is James Fitzjameses all the way down, all blooming as bright as that island they visited.

He can feel himself start to regain something close to his mind, pushing past the first wave of madness to regain his senses enough to help Sabriel (the flowers are there but they do not matter, she matters), but this is something he knows he needs to ask. Strange takes Fitzjames's hand in his and starts to walk over towards some papers on the floor. As he walks, he limps, despite the fact that both Strange's legs are healthy and he certainly wasn't limping before drinking the tincture of madness. But he seems hesitant to place any weight on his right leg.

Once he finds some paper and pencil, Strange scribbles a message on the back of one of the papers (a bill of sale, something he does not need any more) and fervently presses it into the other man's hands. The message reads, Why is James Fitzjames not James Fitzjames?

[kingsroads]

Aside from the mirror? More paper, pens, and pencils. And a clear head and a great deal of patience.

[endofvanity]

Fitzjames sees Strange limping and tries to support him—get an arm around him, one of Strange's arms over his own shoulders—and he watches in perplexity as he scribbles the message. When he reads it, his blood runs colder than Arctic ice.

How does he know?

He stares at Strange, trying to formulate an answer, searching his friend's face for clues. What does he need to hear?

"My father—" he begins, then stops. Is that it?

[kingsroads]

For the first time, Strange is grateful for the curse. There is no way he could explain it in a way that Fitzjames could understand. It might be his father. It might not be. It might be Fitzjames or Crozier or Franklin—how odd, why would he think of a man he's never met. It matters and yet it doesn't. He needs the answer but he feels like he he can go along without it.

He wants to tell Fitzjames all that but if he opens his mouth then he will vomit up rotten tomatoes and the little metallic thing will sink further down his throat. So instead, Strange reaches over and attempts to tenderly lay a hand on Fitzjames's cheek as he gives the captain a gentle smile, hoping the gesture will substitute for the things he cannot say.

That is it but it isn't it but it is it. A Fitzjames that's not Fitzjames but is Fitzjames. He has no way to explain it, his mind is too full of the sky, so he offers what he can: comfort. Besides, the flowers are wilting. He is supposed to protect all the crew, and that includes this man here.

[mayiofferyouacoughdrop]

I am not always the most patient, but I believe I can marshal my resources. I have a mirror and I can bring the rest as well.

Private; Later in the evening

[goingtobeunwell]

Forgive me, Jonathan, I was not ignoring your messages. There were other ma I wish to assist. What has become of Sabriel and yourself? What do you need from me?

[kingsroads]

Thank you. I believe you will not have to see the worst of it, but the effects are a necessary evil and will linger until she is freed. Your patience will be appreciated.

[ which is cryptic as fuck! But McGonagall's sensible. Strange isn't outright going to say "I plan on dosing myself with concentrated madness because I'm worried this is a fairy's fault and that's the only way I'll actually be able to see the fiend in order to challenge him." ]

[endofvanity]

Fitzjames understands, and he doesn't. Even though he's not had a draught of madness, something about whatever it is that has hold of Strange feels like it's tugging at his own mind; he can't explain why he decides to say what he does for any other reason.

"James Fitzjames is a bad pun," he says. "Fitzjames, son of James—James Gambier, diplomat and failure, and an unknown Portuguese woman from Brazil. James Fitzjames is not even fully English." He swallows. "James Fitzjames is an imposter. He lied about his age and obscured his history so that he could gain a position as midshipman and build an officer's career. He paid off a man who was blackmailing Sir John Barrow's son and saved the Barrow family name, and the Admiralty would have given him any command he wished."

He can feel dampness on his cheeks.

"Francis Crozier calls me brother and still I don't feel I deserve it. I am a dead man, but I walk and talk again and my heart beats and I love."

He passes his hand over his face.

"And that is why James Fitzjames is not James Fitzjames."