clerical error

Fallen London is © 2014 and ™ Failbetter Games Limited: www.fallenlondon.com. This is an unofficial fan work.

[priestcaptainrosales]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sunless Sea, Fallen London | Echo Bazaar Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Zee-Captain(s) (Sunless Sea), Seekers of Mr Eaten's Name Additional Tags: Backstory for a Priest Background Zee-Captain, Warnings for References to Ritual Suicide and Violence, Includes Neathy Religious Debate and Kisses in a Confessional, (Heavily Influenced by the Brothers Karamazov) Summary:

Oh Lazarus, how did your debts get paid?

[dem-deutschen-volke]

Send ☭ x for a vs. battle quote to your muse

Battle Intro: Victory: Half HP: Low HP: Defeat: Death: Assist: Taunt: Reacting to Taunt: Flee: Reacting to Flee: Tie: Perfect Victory: Low HP Victory: Finishing Move:

[drowsily]

I could have been a priest instead of a prophet. The priest has a book with the words set out. Old words, known words, words of power. Words that are always on the surface. Words for every occasion. The words work. They do what they’re supposed to do; comfort and discipline. The prophet has no book. The prophet is a voice that cries in the wilderness, full of sounds that do not always set into meaning. The prophets cry out because they are troubled by demons.

Jeanette Winterson, from “Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit” (via drowsily)

[priestcaptainrosales]

Christmastide

[thekeeneyeditinerant-blog]

{continued from here}

For once in their life, Ransom declined to comment on the subject of Stone. They weren’t sure if the dubiously-sentient mountain had the capacity or the reason to wish a zailors a happy Christmas, but now was hardly the time for religious debate. Just for now.

The gift itself, when Ransom tore the wrapping paper away, left them speechless. At first glance, of course, it appeared to be just a scarf — but as Rosy began explaining where it came from, they picked up the hushed whisper of conversation among the stitches. Ransom holds up the soft material to their ear, and sure enough, they can hear it clear as day. A strange, and precious, and utterly unique gift. Ransom doesn’t know what to say.

They settle for a bewildered laugh, turning the scarf over in their hands. “You know, I did mean the knitting comment as a joke,” They said, but there wasn’t any real mocking in their voice. Not wanting to be distracted by a thousand little voices, Ransom didn’t put it on right away, but they folded it up neatly on the table as they sat down across from Rosy. “You have me at a bit of a disadvantage, here – I don’t… often give Christmas presents, myself.”

[priestcaptainrosales]

“That’s all right!” exclaims Rosales, in a rush to reassure. “You don’t have to think of it as Christmas present. It’s a present at Christmas. It’s something I made you because I thought of you, and I wanted good things for you ... and I can think of you any time of the year, can’t I?”

[boykeats]

poetry idea: judas meeting an angel

there’s a field of poppies at the edge beyond everything,and in it michael sitting with his cough syrup redwings and his muddied army boots and his mouthfull of thorns where the teeth should be.

you stumble up to him, damp human feet, callousedhuman hands. you have seen stars and stars and starson your way here, but none of it compares to howyou feel the ache in your neck beginning to dissipate.

michael gestures, take a seat, so you do beside him.the flowers smell like they did on earth, clean, sun-warm,but the wind here sings. you say, i didn’t think i’d beallowed to make it this far. michael smiles, his mouth

jagged yet sweet: you can go farther if you like.i know there’s at least one man in the place beyondall places who would gladly clasp your shoulders, kissyour cheek, and tell you that you were worth the pain

which must always come before redemption.

[ansiblelesbian]

@thathopeyetlives

[lamialawless]

Autumn

[lamialawless]

priestcaptainrosales:

lamialawless:

priestcaptainrosales:

“Is there anything to ease the pain?” he asks, eyes wet and soul aching, exposed. It would only take the tap of a spirifer’s fork to unspool it from his body.

Lamia looks at Rosales for a long moment, and then looks away. “Time,” she says. “Being honest with yourself, and equally gentle. And let your friends and loved ones take on some of your troubles for you. The people who care about you want to help you, I guarantee it.”

He scrubs back the tears with his sleeve, and laughs with a shake like a sob. “You’re the first person I’ve told since spring,” he says. “It’s hard to think it’s autumn already, and I’ve been alone all that time … but I’ve never sat like this with anyone, and talked about it.”

“That’s a long time to carry one’s burden alone,” Lamia remarks mildly. Although Rosales already wiped away his tears, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. It’s covered in soot and grime. She reconsiders, and puts it back.

“It’s traditional to have tea after Turkish coffee, or so I was told,” she says. “If you plan to stay the afternoon, I can make us tea.”

[priestcaptainrosales]

“I’d like that,” he answers, a smile flickering from beneath his sleeve. “Ah – should we read your grounds, too? Or is it something where you can’t read your own? I can try it, if you tell me what to look for.”

[lamialawless]

Lamia smiles. “That’s all right,” she says. “I’ve been reading my own fortune too much lately. I think, this time, I’ll pass.” There’s an interlude where Lamia clears away the coffee cups, and leaves to make tea. The ticking of a nearby clock makes itself apparent in her absence. Hidden among the silver, black, and midnight blue of her parlor’s decor, there’s a furtive gleam of brass from between some books on a shelf. It’s a brass skull, grinning and horribly out of place among the stars and silk flowers. One of the cushions has a moon stitched onto it, smiling and serene. Christmas cards from last year sprawl across the top of a cabinet.

There’s a sharp, insistent tapping on the door. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Lamia doesn’t emerge to answer it. It pauses every so often, and then starts up again, patiently. It sounds as pinpoint as a knife striking brass, and echoes strangely.

Lamia returns with a tea tray. She rolls her eyes at the tapping, and pours the tea into little cups painted with merry pink roses. “When is your next voyage?” she asks. “Do you miss London when you’re away?”

[priestcaptainrosales]

Rosales cranes his head toward the door and the strange sound of tapping, trying to imagine the claws behind it. If he heard such a skittering on the decks of his ship, he’d be headed for the alarms, hands on his flintlock. But these are unconventional rooms, aren’t they? It must be nothing more than an unconventional guest.

“Well, that’s …” He turns back to Lamia, and that teaset like a spring garden. “Don’t you want to answer that?”

[lamialawless]

“No,” Lamia says. “I’m having coffee with Captain Rosales this afternoon. Whoever is at the door can leave their card.” Sure enough, there’s a hiss and a less describable sound as a card shoots through a chute in the door and lands in a tray, giving off steam. Foot steps recede down the hall.

“There we go,” she says, with satisfaction. “They’re beginning to learn. What were we talking about? London, and your next voyage…”

[priestcaptainrosales]

Rosales smiles a soft, humbled smile, and resolves to turn all his attention to Lamia, if she’s giving him all of hers. “I do miss London -- but that’s why I try to keep busy, and prepare my next voyage right after the last. The things I miss ... the place, and the people I miss ... they’ve passed into someone else’s care. It won’t do anyone any good to go back. But the city is wider than it looks, isn’t it? Like the Neath is wider than the eastern horizon. I’ve lived here and never visited the Brass Embassy before now.”

Curiously tilting his head, he asks, “What do you like best about London? Where do you like to go?”

[lamialawless]

Autumn

[lamialawless]

priestcaptainrosales:

lamialawless:

priestcaptainrosales:

“Is there anything to ease the pain?” he asks, eyes wet and soul aching, exposed. It would only take the tap of a spirifer’s fork to unspool it from his body.

Lamia looks at Rosales for a long moment, and then looks away. “Time,” she says. “Being honest with yourself, and equally gentle. And let your friends and loved ones take on some of your troubles for you. The people who care about you want to help you, I guarantee it.”

He scrubs back the tears with his sleeve, and laughs with a shake like a sob. “You’re the first person I’ve told since spring,” he says. “It’s hard to think it’s autumn already, and I’ve been alone all that time … but I’ve never sat like this with anyone, and talked about it.”

“That’s a long time to carry one’s burden alone,” Lamia remarks mildly. Although Rosales already wiped away his tears, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. It’s covered in soot and grime. She reconsiders, and puts it back.

“It’s traditional to have tea after Turkish coffee, or so I was told,” she says. “If you plan to stay the afternoon, I can make us tea.”

[priestcaptainrosales]

“I’d like that,” he answers, a smile flickering from beneath his sleeve. “Ah – should we read your grounds, too? Or is it something where you can’t read your own? I can try it, if you tell me what to look for.”

[lamialawless]

Lamia smiles. “That’s all right,” she says. “I’ve been reading my own fortune too much lately. I think, this time, I’ll pass.” There’s an interlude where Lamia clears away the coffee cups, and leaves to make tea. The ticking of a nearby clock makes itself apparent in her absence. Hidden among the silver, black, and midnight blue of her parlor’s decor, there’s a furtive gleam of brass from between some books on a shelf. It’s a brass skull, grinning and horribly out of place among the stars and silk flowers. One of the cushions has a moon stitched onto it, smiling and serene. Christmas cards from last year sprawl across the top of a cabinet.

There’s a sharp, insistent tapping on the door. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Lamia doesn’t emerge to answer it. It pauses every so often, and then starts up again, patiently. It sounds as pinpoint as a knife striking brass, and echoes strangely.

Lamia returns with a tea tray. She rolls her eyes at the tapping, and pours the tea into little cups painted with merry pink roses. “When is your next voyage?” she asks. “Do you miss London when you’re away?”

[priestcaptainrosales]

Rosales cranes his head toward the door and the strange sound of tapping, trying to imagine the claws behind it. If he heard such a skittering on the decks of his ship, he’d be headed for the alarms, hands on his flintlock. But these are unconventional rooms, aren’t they? It must be nothing more than an unconventional guest.

“Well, that’s ...” He turns back to Lamia, and that teaset like a spring garden. “Don’t you want to answer that?”

[priestcaptainrosales]

Christmastide

[thekeeneyeditinerant-blog]

{continued from here}

“To Priest-Captain Rosales,

That sounds lovely. Nine in the morning is a nice lull between the early morning/late night crowd and the lunchtime crowd. Such terms always seem so arbitrary down here, though – Surfacers always seem so attached to them. 

At any rate, I shall see you tomorrow!

–Ransom Burrows”

The next morning, Ransom arrives to Caligula’s. Right on time – they didn’t want to seem too overly eager – but not disinterested, either. They undo the thick scarf from around their neck and face and brush some of the neath-snow from their clothing, looking around for Rosales in the still fairly bustling coffee-house.

[priestcaptainrosales]

The lacre’s deep, and Captain Rosales’s cheeks flushed from the chill, his coat still on and bundled over his shoulders like a blanket, his scarf pulled down but only just. Clutching a lump of a package to his chest, he warms up at a corner table, and cranes his head to look across the crowded room whenever the door opens. As soon as he sees Ransom walk in, his whole face brightens, starting with his eyes.

“Oh! Hello!” he calls, and starts to wave – he has to set the package down first. “Over here!”

[thekeeneyeditinerant-blog]

Ransom smiles, though the package does give them a little bit of an odd feeling. Were they – supposed to bring a gift? Ransom hadn’t gotten any Christmas gifts since they were too small for equal exchange to be considered. Damn it. Maybe they should have anticipated that.

They tried not to worry too much about it, waving back – they have to go up on tip toes a little as a particularly tall person comes through the door behind them – and navigates their way across the coffee shop to the table Rosales had picked.

“Captain Rosales! Lovely to see you again, and under much more legal circumstances!” Ransom eases off their snug-fitting gloves, rubbing warmth back into their hands. “How’s life been treating you?”

[priestcaptainrosales]

“Very well, thank you! Somehow we finished our voyage with fuel and echoes to spare -- in the past, it used to be a narrower thing. I think Stone must have wanted us home for Christmas.” Rosales says this with no shame of superstition, or of evoking the zee-gods in the same breath as the Christian holy-days. Then he remembers the package, and pushes it across the table. “Oh! I have something for you ...” 

The paper of the package is a thin mushroom pulp, and easy to tear. Coiled inside is a scarf, knit with a wide-set cable-stitch, simple enough for a beginner and forgiving of a beginner’s clumsiness. The threads themselves are off-white and ivory-smooth to the touch, smooth -- in fact -- as satin.

“We were attacked by an unfinished trireme in the Sea of Voices -- well, we got out of it all right, but we found a crate of yarn in the hold. I thought I had better try knitting with it, like you said.” Now that he mentions in, there’s a sussurus in the smoothness of the scarf, whispers passed between threads like threads of a conversation. “I spoke over the yarn, and it spoke back -- I suppose that happens sometimes. It likes hearing secrets best. More than anything, I think it likes taking facts and tying them together ... uniting strands of information to solve a puzzle or settle on a new one. If you’re ever mulling over a puzzle like that, wearing this might help you.”

[priestcaptainrosales]

Christmastide

[thekeeneyeditinerant-blog]

{continued from here}

“To Priest-Captain Rosales,

That sounds lovely. Nine in the morning is a nice lull between the early morning/late night crowd and the lunchtime crowd. Such terms always seem so arbitrary down here, though – Surfacers always seem so attached to them. 

At any rate, I shall see you tomorrow!

–Ransom Burrows”

The next morning, Ransom arrives to Caligula’s. Right on time – they didn’t want to seem too overly eager – but not disinterested, either. They undo the thick scarf from around their neck and face and brush some of the neath-snow from their clothing, looking around for Rosales in the still fairly bustling coffee-house.

[priestcaptainrosales]

The lacre’s deep, and Captain Rosales’s cheeks flushed from the chill, his coat still on and bundled over his shoulders like a blanket, his scarf pulled down but only just. Clutching a lump of a package to his chest, he warms up at a corner table, and cranes his head to look across the crowded room whenever the door opens. As soon as he sees Ransom walk in, his whole face brightens, starting with his eyes.

“Oh! Hello!” he calls, and starts to wave -- he has to set the package down first. “Over here!”

[priestcaptainrosales]

Christmas night hasn't passed before Lamia sends a thank you note. It's two and a half pages long. In so many words she tries to explain that she has no words with which to express her thanks. She rhapsodizes about the beauty of the orchid, about Rosales's thoughtfulness, about the Elder Continent. Suffice it to say that she is happy with the gift!

[priestcaptainrosales]

Lo how a rose e’er blooming ...

Lamia's gift comes in a canning jar, but it isn't more chutney. The delivery-urchin is quite honest about her intentions for it. "I'd have kept it for myself, but then I'd get cursed by Stone for stealing, and I'd have no hearth or home under any roof or on top of it. No, thank you."

What could be so precious, but so dangerous? The urchin peels her mittened hands from the jar, revealing rocks, and dirt, and the trailing moss that grows in the Stone-touched trees of the Elder Continent. And nestled there, a glassy glint, a diamond-shard no larger than a finger-nail ... it illuminates the jar from within like a fugitive sun ...

A mountain-sherd! Pilgrims strike these from the side of the Mountain of Light -- they bring blessings of light and unlikely life. Amid the moss, there grows the tiniest of orchids, sepals red and orange with curling petals and yellow anther like a lick of candle’s flame.

"Oh, and here's the card. Happy Christmas."

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning. James 1:17

To grow, your terrarium needs light, water, and care. The light is from Stone, the water is from the springs of the wisp-ways, and the care of course is from you!

Watch the glass, and you will see how water clings to it in droplets and makes a mist. This is what the plants drink. They will need not need to be watered again until there are no more droplets and no more mist. But I like to watch them, anyway. When your terrarium is dry, put one or two spoonfuls of water in -- the small spoons, like you use to put sugar in coffee or tea. If there is too much water and the plants seem to struggle, do not worry! Unscrew the top and let them breathe. Let them dry, and you can try again. 

Keep your terrarium away from mirrors, if you can. They will not hurt it, but the things in them become jealous. Nothing can take your terrarium from you for long, though! It is a gift for you, and Stone knows it is for you, so it will find its way home to you wherever home is.

I hope you enjoy it! Enjoy your holy-day!

✝ Capt. Agapito de Rosales

[progressivejudaism]

Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief. Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.

Rabbi Tarfon  (via a-witches-brew)

[priestcaptainrosales]

Christmastide

[written in careful ink on the leaflets of a compound palmate leaf grown somewhere along the shore of the Elder Continent, and carried by a white zee-bat]

To the Scholar-Captain Ransom Burrows,

I hope this letter finds you well! We are low again on paper supplies, but I could not wait to write you. Time is sometimes strange in the far corners of the zee, and I hear it is already Christmastide.

What are your plans for the season, my friend? I will give the crew leave once we reach London, and spend three weeks ashore. I hope I can see you there. Let’s have tea again together! 

Your friend

✝ Agapito de Rosales

[thekeeneyeditinerant-blog]

To Priest-Captain Agapito de Rosales,

Do not worry about the substitution in the slightest. I appreciate the additional specimens.

I am actually just finding my way back to London as of receiving your letter.I have made it a point to at least spend some time ashore there – even if it bores me immensely, it is one of the few things I can do for morale. I’m not a terribly encouraging public speaker, after all.

Considering I will be increasingly idle over the holidays, tea would be just wonderful. Caligula’s sound good to you? We can work out the details when we are both in port.

Ransom Burrows

[priestcaptainrosales]

[written on fresh stationery -- so fresh Rosales must have bought it the moment he made port -- between borders of curling shapes of coral]

To the Scholar-Captain Ransom Burrows,

Thank you for your reply! I am so glad my missive reached you, and that you were able to make further use of it as a specimen. I hope you will learn something from it that I could not, and I wonder what you have learned already, from the collections you already have -- I think it is impressive and resourceful -- [a blob of self-interrupting ink]

But of course we can talk about that over tea! Caligula’s is the coffee house that is popular with students, is it not? Or perhaps it is popular with everyone. I would like very much to meet you there. Can you come tomorrow morning?

Yours until then

(and after)

Agapito de Rosales

[priestcaptainrosales]

Christmastide

[written in careful ink on the leaflets of a compound palmate leaf grown somewhere along the shore of the Elder Continent, and carried by a white zee-bat]

To the Scholar-Captain Ransom Burrows,

I hope this letter finds you well! We are low again on paper supplies, but I could not wait to write you. Time is sometimes strange in the far corners of the zee, and I hear it is already Christmastide.

What are your plans for the season, my friend? I will give the crew leave once we reach London, and spend three weeks ashore. I hope I can see you there. Let's have tea again together! 

Your friend

✝ Agapito de Rosales

[venuschild]

You, darkness, of whom I am born — I love you more than the flame that limits the world to the circle it illumines and excludes all the rest. But the darkness embraces everything: shapes and shadows, creatures and me, people, nations — just as they are. It lets me imagine a great presence stirring beside me. I believe in the night.

Rainer Maria Rilke (via venuschild)

[priestcaptainrosales]

WE HAVE ALREADY FALLEN

(In which a Varchaasi youth is inspired to revolution by a visiting priest-captain, and becomes a Varchaasi exile.)

Metric - Artificial Nocturne. Got false lights for the sun, it's an artificial nocturne ... it's an outsider's escape for a broken heart ...

Angel Haze - Black Synagogue. And the light, the light can make everything feel beautiful ... it can make it feel safe, so safe that in the night, we spend all our time running away from our truths ...

Stars - From The Night. From the night, from the the empty and glittering towers, from the faces you glimpse through the glass, from all of the dead hours ...

Death Cab For Cutie - My Mirror Speaks. And then my mirror speaks with irreverence, like a soldier I can't command ... it sees a child in the body of a full-grown man ...

Future of the Left - The Hope That House Built. Come join, come join our hopeless cause ...

Diablo Swing Orchestra - Guerilla Laments. Taken by force, but they kept it with pride, and now we can't breathe in the world they describe ... where silence is golden, resistance is numb ... we scream our hope straight into the sun ...

MiMi & the MAD NOiSE FACTORY - Don't You Mourn The Sun. We'll take this night for all we can keep ...

Jeremy Turnbull - Pompeii To Fall (Queen vs Bastille). What the hell are we fighting for? Just surrender, and it won't hurt at all ... you just got time to say your prayers while you're waiting for the hammer to fall ... (But if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing's changed at all?)

Muse - Resistance. Quell your prayers for love and peace, you'll wake the thought police ... we can hide the truth inside ... it could be wrong, could be wrong, but it should've been right ...

Radical Face - The Ship In Port. Then everything danced to a stranger tune, and we found our song and we found our truth ... and now that we know it's that we always knew ... farewell to the chains we were born into ...

[lamialawless]

Autumn

[lamialawless]

priestcaptainrosales:

lamialawless:

priestcaptainrosales:

“Is there anything to ease the pain?” he asks, eyes wet and soul aching, exposed. It would only take the tap of a spirifer’s fork to unspool it from his body.

Lamia looks at Rosales for a long moment, and then looks away. “Time,” she says. “Being honest with yourself, and equally gentle. And let your friends and loved ones take on some of your troubles for you. The people who care about you want to help you, I guarantee it.”

He scrubs back the tears with his sleeve, and laughs with a shake like a sob. “You’re the first person I’ve told since spring,” he says. “It’s hard to think it’s autumn already, and I’ve been alone all that time … but I’ve never sat like this with anyone, and talked about it.”

“That’s a long time to carry one’s burden alone,” Lamia remarks mildly. Although Rosales already wiped away his tears, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. It’s covered in soot and grime. She reconsiders, and puts it back.

“It’s traditional to have tea after Turkish coffee, or so I was told,” she says. “If you plan to stay the afternoon, I can make us tea.”

[priestcaptainrosales]

“I’d like that,” he answers, a smile flickering from beneath his sleeve. “Ah -- should we read your grounds, too? Or is it something where you can’t read your own? I can try it, if you tell me what to look for.”