Happy Holidays, silverfox!
Dec. 31st, 2021 06:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeTitle: As Deer Before the Dogs
Fandoms: Good Omens, Ivanhoe (Sir Walter Scott)
Recipient:silverfox
Rating: T
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Summary: A.Z. Fell cannot abide anachronisms. He was there, after all. As was his opposite number. We visit both the 19th and 12th centuries.
A Prickly Epistle, 1820
To, the Reverend Dr. Jonas Dryasdust, F.A.S.
On the matter of the Waverley Novelist, whom I believe to be closely connected with a person known as Laurence Templeton, and as such known to yourself very well, considering that he found you fit to be his dedicant, I really must ask you respectfully to consider his character and reliability as a source. For all that he speaks of the value of the antiquarian with such great respect, and, dare I say, boasts of how much time he has spent among dusty dregs of ages long gone by, searching for what remains of ancient never-sent love letters and never-followed go-to-market lists, there remain numerous sources that he has not even attempted to investigate, and many texts that he has, I must say, interrogated from quite the wrong perspective.
For all the vaunted care that he took when writing his Caledonian intrigues which remain close to the edge of living mortal memory, I have seen numerous complaints about liberties taken, and perhaps, in his venture to moving his literary attentions southward and his viewpoint further into the past, he quite reasonably supposed that he might be allowed more poetic license, as the daily doings of the more distant centuries have no voices remaining even second- or third-hand, to contradict his assertions. Therefore, such times could more excusably become the playground of the fantasist and the romancer and, in imagination at least, put the Templar of King John's day into the plate mail of the ill-fated third Richard, and to menace a valiant heroine with accusations of a crime that did not have its fiery ultimate punishment in any great numbers in Britannia until the time of the Tudors. When, in fact, her beliefs and her ancestry would have been enough to damn her on their own in the eyes of the worst of humanity.
I would never deny that he spins a compelling tale, and I find the characters of his Norman Templars to indeed be convincing in their preening boorishness and pompous moral cowardice, but that is not particular to the time and place, only an observation that any observer of humanity in nearly any era cannot help but make. More compelling are the characters of the resentful Saxons, and of course more so still the forest outlaws, who are indeed drawn so charmingly that I am concerned there is the possibility of inspiring impressionable readers to find the prospect of a life of merry anarchy far more appealing than they should.
Sincerely, A.Z. Fell, London
***
"I'd heard rumbles about a mysterious Black Knight...wasn't so long ago that you played that role, was it?" Aziraphale was swaying, only a slight bit.
"A few hundred years, give or take," said Crowley. "Arthur was a whole bunch of kings ago, I'm pretty sure."
"Well, he certainly wasn't Norman," Aziraphale said with a slight huff.
"Nor Saxon either," said Crowley. "Fairly sure he was Welsh."
"That's not what the bards are saying these days, but one can hardly stand up in the hall and correct them, can one?"
"One can. But one probably shouldn't."
"Anyway, as I was saying, when I first heard about the Black Knight, I did wonder at first if possibly...And then I heard that he had won a joust, so then I realised it almost certainly wasn't you."
"Thanks for that. It's not my fault horses don't like me. And a splendid palfrey of Spain will toss me on my arse just as quick as one of our thick-legged English nags so pardon me if I'm not a connoisseur of horseflesh."
"Do you have to use the Norman word when the English would do?"
Crowley gave it a few moments' more thought than it deserved. "Where did you say this wine was from again? I don't think you said it was from York."
Aziraphale gave a long-suffering sigh. "Well, it doesn't do to completely refuse to assimilate to one's circumstances."
They were in a room in an anchorite's chamber set back a bit from the grounds of the monastery, not far from the holdings of Cedric the Saxon and also, it must be said, uncomfortably close to the great halls of his neighbours.
Crowley had slithered back from the Holy Land with an urgent need to moult, a secret hoard of hashish, and a lasting distrust of the Knights Templar. He and Aziraphale had had a few fleeting rendezvous in Jerusalem, which neither had visited for centuries, and found the whole ordeal frankly rather embarrassing for both their sides.
Crowley had expected to feel some nostalgia for the good old days, or at least to enjoy that desert sun on his scales again, but there was that unpleasant matter of a war getting in the way. He had felt that his orders to make trouble were not, as they say, in touch with the realities on the ground, coming as they did from so far beneath it. He'd never felt quite so much relief as he did when he got the message - by way of a very confused muadhin who got his call to prayer hijacked - that he was needed once again in merry old England.
When he landed again on those rolling green hills, he very nearly understood the urge to kiss the ground. It was grey and damp, but it now felt more like home than anywhere else in the world- at least in this world. He did as quick a canvass of the occult and ethereal territory of London as possible, and then was gripped by the sort of hunch that's really more like a wet fish-slap of knowledge, that his opposite number was busy making heavenly inroads up north.
Well. Can't have that. And after all, the angel did owe him one from Jerusalem. More than one, frankly.
***
Aziraphale, for his part, had been summoned to a nearby monastery for the express purpose of keeping an eye on Prince John and his retinue, for there was a lot that could go wrong, and much of it had. He wasn't entirely convinced that the absent Richard would have done all that much better, but someone nicknamed Lionheart at least had obviously better public relations, and that went a long way with humans.
He contented himself with his manuscripts, and doodled minor grudges in the margins as all the scribes were wont to do, amidst the drawings of elephants by no one who had ever been on the same continent as one, and did his best to avoid the nobility. Which was not terribly easy with the Prior of Aymer constantly making a spectacle of himself. Aziraphale thought it was all rather in bad taste, and probably exactly the sort of thing he ought to be doing something about.
But for all his libertinage - now there was a fine fancy Norman word for a rather universal and basic concept - Aymer was actually generous, and the smallfolk sincerely fond of him, so it wouldn't do to rock the boat (as Noah had said).
And it wouldn't do to be seen consorting, or anything else for that matter, with the likes of Crowley, just in case someone here happened to have a sincere spot of holiness.
So they met in taverns, and in the forest, and in the stands when the grand joust was held, careful to keep far away from anyone more interested in assessing the company than watching the bloody and frankly ridiculous sport. Aziraphale and Crowley agreed that the archery was far more to their liking, and neither had any strong opinions about the Queen of Love and Beauty.
Crowley had a fat skin of ale he had stolen from the merry band in the forest, which itself was such an impressive feat that Aziraphale suspected they must have let him have it just to humour him.
"So we have two mysterious knights who won't tell us who they are? In one weekend? It's really possible to overuse a good bit, don't you think?"
"I'm sure they have their reasons, Crowley."
"Imagine if they came prancing on with all that drama and then were really bad at it, and they were just hiding their identity because they were embarrassed."
"I'm sure it happens all the time but never makes it into the legend,” Aziraphale said. “They don’t record it. It's not chivalric."
"Neither was ol' wossname last night, I'm told. None clothes with Front Beef."
"Crowley, are you holding back on me? What's your source of goss - I mean, intelligence? I thought we had discussed an Arrangement."
"You can nose around as well as I can and it's not difficult to find. Not my fault the smartest man in the whole kingdom is called Wampa son of Witless."
***
On the matter of the Friar, the hermit of Copmanhurst, much has been said and that not the tenth of the truth.
Even Crowley had to admit, as drunken avatars of the Church went, this man was really a little bit over the top. He really only went there for gossip and comedy - and some small slivers of venison, that really were delicious. Very rich though, and a little went a long way.
"So tell me, Brother," Crowley said with a little smile. "I suppose you might want me to help ease your profile among the gentry?"
"Oh heavens no - sorry I meant no offense," said the alcoholic anchorite. "If anything, my profile is too high among the gentry. I would prefer to be little noticed by them at all."
"mm," Crowley said sadly, looking down at his cup. "I'm really supposed to get your soul, though. For some reason my superiors think you're important and they really want me to get you. Is there anything you're willing to sell your soul for?"
The good friar looked at Crowley, and smiled, and said, "My dear boy, there's no currency that will endure for long that I can trust in.”
Crowley nodded and smiled. And decided to make sure Aziraphale’s name was buried deep in his mind, unreadable by actual holy men. He decided to sober up.
***
"I don't understand why you're asking me questions NOW," the old woman said, furious, enraged. "You've been in the service of their Lord forever, haven't you? You know what I've endured, or at least you should if you were paying attention!"
Aziraphale closed his eyes. He hadn't been there all that long, truth be told. He'd insinuated himself when he was told by Heaven that there might be danger. He simply nodded, and bowed, and quietly left, as the servant he was pretending to be ought to do.
He realised with that by “their Lord,” she did not mean any man in a castle. In her extremity, her grief and her rage, the touch of the most implacable of Horsepersons on her shoulder, she saw Aziraphale for what he truly was. And his Lord was one that she would not serve.
Revenge was a sinful motive, he believed - but there were so many strong cases for it in the human world, and Ulrica's was one of the strongest he'd ever heard.
He nodded, and took her warning and held his silence, and went to make sure that Crowley was safe from what was about to come.
***
"This has all been very exhausting my dear, hasn't it?" Aziraphale asked, when they’d finally both made their way to the little tavern that was blessedly free of nobility.
"Can't argue with that. Did you have any romantic illusions about chivalry shattered?"
Aziraphale sipped his ale with a little turn-up of his nose. "Don't be ridiculous. I was in Jerusalem too. I imagine we'll have to suffer this retelling for years to come, won't we?"
Crowley nodded. "It was a sordid little episode. I think I have kind of a good idea though. How do you feel about Granada?"
"No strong feelings to speak of."
"I spent some there on a bender. Would love to see it sober, it would be nice. I remember some olive tapenade that was delicious, you'd love it. How about we take some time off, right now?"
"Why, exactly?"
"I'm a demon, and I'm about to propose a good deed and that's kind of hush-hush, right? But it also benefits both of us because the wine and food are so much better there. If you could just figure it out, that would be a favour to me."
Aziraphale looked closely at Crowley's face, searching. Oh. Of course.
And so it was that Aziraphale and Crowley set out together, discreetly trailing Isaac and Rebecca from a discreet distance, to make sure no further harm came to them, because they had certainly suffered enough. There was a long journey by sea, and if both of them were tempted to take wing to avoid the nausea, well, they couldn't be blamed because it had happened before.
If the trader and his daughter had any sense that they were being watched over, they only occasionally showed it.
Rebecca at least managed to aim a sly wink in the right direction. If Aziraphale might have been tempted to acknowledge it, Crowley quietly pressed his arm and distracted him.
They had a room upstairs in a little tavern, together. What passed between them there is not recorded in any historical account - nor does it need to be, because they are immortal and still at it, even in our less romantic age. They don’t need to be enshrined in literature, even when they are.
***
An Indignant Response, 1820
Please pardon this possibly importunate response, my dear Mr. Fell, for our mutual friend the Reverend Doctor Jonas Dryasdust felt that I ought to have the opportunity to respond to your fair and well-reasoned but perhaps incomplete criticism.
I believe you may underestimate my commitment to research, for nothing stimulates my mind as much as the happy hours I often spend in the relics and reminders of the past. To touch a stone shaped by a carver of a thousand years ago and to ever so briefly feel the awe of having laid my hand where his very tools fell; to see the indelicate margin notes of an exasperated monk from five centuries ago is an exquisite pleasure, and to see the perfect manuscript marred by the inky paw-print of a cat from another age even more so. To meander for unaccounted time down the birth and death ledgers of a tiny village in another region entirely during the last gasps of the Plantagenets...that is a truer pleasure than the writing itself. But of course it is the writing that puts the carefully-researched historical feast upon my table in our present time. While I hold the Wardour Manuscript in great esteem, there must be gaps in its knowledge, and those I was eager to earn the chance to fill.
Please know that your name circulates with reverence among the most highly-respected antiquarians - although of late, I have now come to question whether any of them have visited your shop at all, or simply take your reputation as circulated knowledge without having been able to make their own verifications. There were several occasions when, after I made the long journey to London, I made it a special point of interest to call upon you and ask for the generous loan of your resources, and I was prepared to go above and beyond the expected conversation. Yet your doors were closed erratically, at times of the day when surely all serious men of business would welcome the ransom.
For all my efforts, somehow your hours never met up with mine, and my calling cards went unanswered. I went to the effort of hiring street urchins to keep an eye out, and run to my lodgings immediately should they see signs of life in your shop, no matter the hour of day or night. Perhaps the lads simply pocketed my coins and did nothing, but surely at least one or two of them should have relished the adventure and the satisfaction of a quest fulfilled.
Had I been able to peruse your riches, I may have been able to forestall a few of your complaints.
Most Reverently Yours,
Laurence Templeton
[Scrawled in the margins of this letter, which had been left open on Fell's great cluttered desk: I PAID THE WAIFS DOUBLE TO LEAVE YOU ALONE. YOU'RE WELCOME. I WILL ONLY ACCEPT REPAYMENT IN WINE - C.]
Fandoms: Good Omens, Ivanhoe (Sir Walter Scott)
Recipient:
silverfoxRating: T
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Summary: A.Z. Fell cannot abide anachronisms. He was there, after all. As was his opposite number. We visit both the 19th and 12th centuries.
A Prickly Epistle, 1820
To, the Reverend Dr. Jonas Dryasdust, F.A.S.
On the matter of the Waverley Novelist, whom I believe to be closely connected with a person known as Laurence Templeton, and as such known to yourself very well, considering that he found you fit to be his dedicant, I really must ask you respectfully to consider his character and reliability as a source. For all that he speaks of the value of the antiquarian with such great respect, and, dare I say, boasts of how much time he has spent among dusty dregs of ages long gone by, searching for what remains of ancient never-sent love letters and never-followed go-to-market lists, there remain numerous sources that he has not even attempted to investigate, and many texts that he has, I must say, interrogated from quite the wrong perspective.
For all the vaunted care that he took when writing his Caledonian intrigues which remain close to the edge of living mortal memory, I have seen numerous complaints about liberties taken, and perhaps, in his venture to moving his literary attentions southward and his viewpoint further into the past, he quite reasonably supposed that he might be allowed more poetic license, as the daily doings of the more distant centuries have no voices remaining even second- or third-hand, to contradict his assertions. Therefore, such times could more excusably become the playground of the fantasist and the romancer and, in imagination at least, put the Templar of King John's day into the plate mail of the ill-fated third Richard, and to menace a valiant heroine with accusations of a crime that did not have its fiery ultimate punishment in any great numbers in Britannia until the time of the Tudors. When, in fact, her beliefs and her ancestry would have been enough to damn her on their own in the eyes of the worst of humanity.
I would never deny that he spins a compelling tale, and I find the characters of his Norman Templars to indeed be convincing in their preening boorishness and pompous moral cowardice, but that is not particular to the time and place, only an observation that any observer of humanity in nearly any era cannot help but make. More compelling are the characters of the resentful Saxons, and of course more so still the forest outlaws, who are indeed drawn so charmingly that I am concerned there is the possibility of inspiring impressionable readers to find the prospect of a life of merry anarchy far more appealing than they should.
Sincerely, A.Z. Fell, London
***
"I'd heard rumbles about a mysterious Black Knight...wasn't so long ago that you played that role, was it?" Aziraphale was swaying, only a slight bit.
"A few hundred years, give or take," said Crowley. "Arthur was a whole bunch of kings ago, I'm pretty sure."
"Well, he certainly wasn't Norman," Aziraphale said with a slight huff.
"Nor Saxon either," said Crowley. "Fairly sure he was Welsh."
"That's not what the bards are saying these days, but one can hardly stand up in the hall and correct them, can one?"
"One can. But one probably shouldn't."
"Anyway, as I was saying, when I first heard about the Black Knight, I did wonder at first if possibly...And then I heard that he had won a joust, so then I realised it almost certainly wasn't you."
"Thanks for that. It's not my fault horses don't like me. And a splendid palfrey of Spain will toss me on my arse just as quick as one of our thick-legged English nags so pardon me if I'm not a connoisseur of horseflesh."
"Do you have to use the Norman word when the English would do?"
Crowley gave it a few moments' more thought than it deserved. "Where did you say this wine was from again? I don't think you said it was from York."
Aziraphale gave a long-suffering sigh. "Well, it doesn't do to completely refuse to assimilate to one's circumstances."
They were in a room in an anchorite's chamber set back a bit from the grounds of the monastery, not far from the holdings of Cedric the Saxon and also, it must be said, uncomfortably close to the great halls of his neighbours.
Crowley had slithered back from the Holy Land with an urgent need to moult, a secret hoard of hashish, and a lasting distrust of the Knights Templar. He and Aziraphale had had a few fleeting rendezvous in Jerusalem, which neither had visited for centuries, and found the whole ordeal frankly rather embarrassing for both their sides.
Crowley had expected to feel some nostalgia for the good old days, or at least to enjoy that desert sun on his scales again, but there was that unpleasant matter of a war getting in the way. He had felt that his orders to make trouble were not, as they say, in touch with the realities on the ground, coming as they did from so far beneath it. He'd never felt quite so much relief as he did when he got the message - by way of a very confused muadhin who got his call to prayer hijacked - that he was needed once again in merry old England.
When he landed again on those rolling green hills, he very nearly understood the urge to kiss the ground. It was grey and damp, but it now felt more like home than anywhere else in the world- at least in this world. He did as quick a canvass of the occult and ethereal territory of London as possible, and then was gripped by the sort of hunch that's really more like a wet fish-slap of knowledge, that his opposite number was busy making heavenly inroads up north.
Well. Can't have that. And after all, the angel did owe him one from Jerusalem. More than one, frankly.
***
Aziraphale, for his part, had been summoned to a nearby monastery for the express purpose of keeping an eye on Prince John and his retinue, for there was a lot that could go wrong, and much of it had. He wasn't entirely convinced that the absent Richard would have done all that much better, but someone nicknamed Lionheart at least had obviously better public relations, and that went a long way with humans.
He contented himself with his manuscripts, and doodled minor grudges in the margins as all the scribes were wont to do, amidst the drawings of elephants by no one who had ever been on the same continent as one, and did his best to avoid the nobility. Which was not terribly easy with the Prior of Aymer constantly making a spectacle of himself. Aziraphale thought it was all rather in bad taste, and probably exactly the sort of thing he ought to be doing something about.
But for all his libertinage - now there was a fine fancy Norman word for a rather universal and basic concept - Aymer was actually generous, and the smallfolk sincerely fond of him, so it wouldn't do to rock the boat (as Noah had said).
And it wouldn't do to be seen consorting, or anything else for that matter, with the likes of Crowley, just in case someone here happened to have a sincere spot of holiness.
So they met in taverns, and in the forest, and in the stands when the grand joust was held, careful to keep far away from anyone more interested in assessing the company than watching the bloody and frankly ridiculous sport. Aziraphale and Crowley agreed that the archery was far more to their liking, and neither had any strong opinions about the Queen of Love and Beauty.
Crowley had a fat skin of ale he had stolen from the merry band in the forest, which itself was such an impressive feat that Aziraphale suspected they must have let him have it just to humour him.
"So we have two mysterious knights who won't tell us who they are? In one weekend? It's really possible to overuse a good bit, don't you think?"
"I'm sure they have their reasons, Crowley."
"Imagine if they came prancing on with all that drama and then were really bad at it, and they were just hiding their identity because they were embarrassed."
"I'm sure it happens all the time but never makes it into the legend,” Aziraphale said. “They don’t record it. It's not chivalric."
"Neither was ol' wossname last night, I'm told. None clothes with Front Beef."
"Crowley, are you holding back on me? What's your source of goss - I mean, intelligence? I thought we had discussed an Arrangement."
"You can nose around as well as I can and it's not difficult to find. Not my fault the smartest man in the whole kingdom is called Wampa son of Witless."
***
On the matter of the Friar, the hermit of Copmanhurst, much has been said and that not the tenth of the truth.
Even Crowley had to admit, as drunken avatars of the Church went, this man was really a little bit over the top. He really only went there for gossip and comedy - and some small slivers of venison, that really were delicious. Very rich though, and a little went a long way.
"So tell me, Brother," Crowley said with a little smile. "I suppose you might want me to help ease your profile among the gentry?"
"Oh heavens no - sorry I meant no offense," said the alcoholic anchorite. "If anything, my profile is too high among the gentry. I would prefer to be little noticed by them at all."
"mm," Crowley said sadly, looking down at his cup. "I'm really supposed to get your soul, though. For some reason my superiors think you're important and they really want me to get you. Is there anything you're willing to sell your soul for?"
The good friar looked at Crowley, and smiled, and said, "My dear boy, there's no currency that will endure for long that I can trust in.”
Crowley nodded and smiled. And decided to make sure Aziraphale’s name was buried deep in his mind, unreadable by actual holy men. He decided to sober up.
***
"I don't understand why you're asking me questions NOW," the old woman said, furious, enraged. "You've been in the service of their Lord forever, haven't you? You know what I've endured, or at least you should if you were paying attention!"
Aziraphale closed his eyes. He hadn't been there all that long, truth be told. He'd insinuated himself when he was told by Heaven that there might be danger. He simply nodded, and bowed, and quietly left, as the servant he was pretending to be ought to do.
He realised with that by “their Lord,” she did not mean any man in a castle. In her extremity, her grief and her rage, the touch of the most implacable of Horsepersons on her shoulder, she saw Aziraphale for what he truly was. And his Lord was one that she would not serve.
Revenge was a sinful motive, he believed - but there were so many strong cases for it in the human world, and Ulrica's was one of the strongest he'd ever heard.
He nodded, and took her warning and held his silence, and went to make sure that Crowley was safe from what was about to come.
***
"This has all been very exhausting my dear, hasn't it?" Aziraphale asked, when they’d finally both made their way to the little tavern that was blessedly free of nobility.
"Can't argue with that. Did you have any romantic illusions about chivalry shattered?"
Aziraphale sipped his ale with a little turn-up of his nose. "Don't be ridiculous. I was in Jerusalem too. I imagine we'll have to suffer this retelling for years to come, won't we?"
Crowley nodded. "It was a sordid little episode. I think I have kind of a good idea though. How do you feel about Granada?"
"No strong feelings to speak of."
"I spent some there on a bender. Would love to see it sober, it would be nice. I remember some olive tapenade that was delicious, you'd love it. How about we take some time off, right now?"
"Why, exactly?"
"I'm a demon, and I'm about to propose a good deed and that's kind of hush-hush, right? But it also benefits both of us because the wine and food are so much better there. If you could just figure it out, that would be a favour to me."
Aziraphale looked closely at Crowley's face, searching. Oh. Of course.
And so it was that Aziraphale and Crowley set out together, discreetly trailing Isaac and Rebecca from a discreet distance, to make sure no further harm came to them, because they had certainly suffered enough. There was a long journey by sea, and if both of them were tempted to take wing to avoid the nausea, well, they couldn't be blamed because it had happened before.
If the trader and his daughter had any sense that they were being watched over, they only occasionally showed it.
Rebecca at least managed to aim a sly wink in the right direction. If Aziraphale might have been tempted to acknowledge it, Crowley quietly pressed his arm and distracted him.
They had a room upstairs in a little tavern, together. What passed between them there is not recorded in any historical account - nor does it need to be, because they are immortal and still at it, even in our less romantic age. They don’t need to be enshrined in literature, even when they are.
***
An Indignant Response, 1820
Please pardon this possibly importunate response, my dear Mr. Fell, for our mutual friend the Reverend Doctor Jonas Dryasdust felt that I ought to have the opportunity to respond to your fair and well-reasoned but perhaps incomplete criticism.
I believe you may underestimate my commitment to research, for nothing stimulates my mind as much as the happy hours I often spend in the relics and reminders of the past. To touch a stone shaped by a carver of a thousand years ago and to ever so briefly feel the awe of having laid my hand where his very tools fell; to see the indelicate margin notes of an exasperated monk from five centuries ago is an exquisite pleasure, and to see the perfect manuscript marred by the inky paw-print of a cat from another age even more so. To meander for unaccounted time down the birth and death ledgers of a tiny village in another region entirely during the last gasps of the Plantagenets...that is a truer pleasure than the writing itself. But of course it is the writing that puts the carefully-researched historical feast upon my table in our present time. While I hold the Wardour Manuscript in great esteem, there must be gaps in its knowledge, and those I was eager to earn the chance to fill.
Please know that your name circulates with reverence among the most highly-respected antiquarians - although of late, I have now come to question whether any of them have visited your shop at all, or simply take your reputation as circulated knowledge without having been able to make their own verifications. There were several occasions when, after I made the long journey to London, I made it a special point of interest to call upon you and ask for the generous loan of your resources, and I was prepared to go above and beyond the expected conversation. Yet your doors were closed erratically, at times of the day when surely all serious men of business would welcome the ransom.
For all my efforts, somehow your hours never met up with mine, and my calling cards went unanswered. I went to the effort of hiring street urchins to keep an eye out, and run to my lodgings immediately should they see signs of life in your shop, no matter the hour of day or night. Perhaps the lads simply pocketed my coins and did nothing, but surely at least one or two of them should have relished the adventure and the satisfaction of a quest fulfilled.
Had I been able to peruse your riches, I may have been able to forestall a few of your complaints.
Most Reverently Yours,
Laurence Templeton
[Scrawled in the margins of this letter, which had been left open on Fell's great cluttered desk: I PAID THE WAIFS DOUBLE TO LEAVE YOU ALONE. YOU'RE WELCOME. I WILL ONLY ACCEPT REPAYMENT IN WINE - C.]
(no subject)
Date: 2022-01-01 11:01 am (UTC)Ah, I wonder how that would have turned out ... Certainly quite a different story.
Oh dear, the poor man!
And poor Aziraphale. That's more than one angel could possibly handle. I'm actually convinced Richard wouldn't. Seems he was at the very least a walking diplomatic disaster. But at least he was so far from England most of the time.
So glad you included him!
Yep, sure time to sober up, if you assume that, Crowley!
Ah, poor Ulrica. Her story certainly is the most painful in the book and I see not even an angel can give her a little comfort ...
Glad to hear they had a safe journey and arrived safely. They certainly deserved it after all they'd been through.
So Crowley is at fault for the inaccuracies of Ivanhoe? Truly demonic, my favourite demon!
Nevertheless Ivanhoe is a good tale and so is yours, dear secret author. You found just the right tone and lovely touch of history of both of the book's times.
(no subject)
Date: 2022-01-04 02:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2022-01-12 03:28 am (UTC)“inspiring impressionable readers to find the prospect of a life of merry anarchy far more appealing than they should.” Huh Aziraphale and less-moral lives never seem more appealing to YOU than they should?
“by way of a very confused muadhin who got his call to prayer hijacked” YIKES poor dude!
“None clothes with Front Beef."”” DJFKLSFKDSL
Aziraphale is the very reason no one can do historical research XD Sometimes GOOD is also the seed of its own downfall….And such a good last line! This was so fun :)