Joscelin Fitzthomas (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dredefulchilde) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
undergrounds2016-01-04 08:58 pm
dredefulchilde) wrote in undergrounds2016-01-04 08:58 pm
Entry tags:
No Way to Handle Things/Who Made Me So Bad - January Catch-All
Mamma, the weeping
Ealing, 4 January
Jamie Brown died on 28 July 1990. He was nine years old; the victim of an accidental drowning at a crowded water park. Joscelin knows this because he did his research. That is one of the main perks of the modern technological era; all it took was a name on a headstone and a few keystrokes on a smartphone and he had access to twenty-five year old obituaries and opinion pieces about whether the water park was liable for the tragedy.
It also helped him track down the boy's mother, Candice, at her flat in Ealing. She was still grieving, the poor old dear, all these years later.
Getting her to invite him into her flat had been a bit trickier than usual, but once he was in he wasted no time in integrating himself into her little family. Joss excelled at mind control; he had her fully convinced he was her long-lost little boy in a matter of minutes. The arrangement worked well for both of them. He was back in London for the first time since the Seventies, and she had a son to take care of once more.
But it's been six months, and Mrs. Brown, no longer as young as she had once been, is fading fast. He has to find a new blood bag. Soon.
Before that, however, there's an appointment to keep.
An all-night cafe is a strange place for a small boy to be at two o'clock in the morning, but the very large bribe the boy gave the proprietor to keep quiet means he remains undisturbed. Looking quite bored, he idly checks the time on his phone. That is when he hears the footsteps behind him.
"You're late, Lord Coward."
Mamma, the angels
Westminster, 6 January
The Sixth of January marks the Feast of the Epiphany, an important point on the liturgical calendar celebrating the arrival of the Three Kings to the Holy Family. Epiphany marks the end of the Christmas season, and the beginning of a series of holy days culminating in Candlemas in February.
It's also Joscelin's birthday. He is six hundred and seventy-nine.
Birthdays are hardly important in the life of a vampire. Now that he's in his seventh century, they don't exactly hold the same significance as they once did when he was alive. The only reason he even remembers that his birthday even is 6 January is because of the interminable church services he endured as a child before getting to go home and feast.
Still, it isn't every day a boy turns 679. He decides to treat himself - a day at the cinema, perhaps. Or a cupcake at the cafe down the street.
Or a visit to a blood bag for hire. Just to celebrate.
No sleep in heaven
Tower Hamlets, 15 January
It's taken months to work up to this. Tower Hamlets is Islington territory, pure and simple. He's been all around London, everywhere but here, since his return to the city more than six month ago...just not to the heart of the vampire's world.
It's changed a lot since he was in power here during the nineteenth century. So has he. He's calmer now, more patient. Revenge doesn't need to be hasty to be effective. Time is one thing he has a lot of.
He smirks at a figure in the distance.
"Pleasant evening, isn't it?"
Or Bethlehem.
Ealing, 24 January
It isn't raining for once; a small mercy. The full moon shines down on the wintry city, and Joscelin knows instinctively he must be careful--werewolves could be about. But that doesn't matter, not now. Not when Candice Brown is dying in his arms in the middle of an abandoned park.
Joss hadn't thought about her heart when he started feeding off her. It hasn't kept up well with the strain of the constant bloodloss, and it's giving out.
"Help me!" he calls, out trying to get someone's attention. "Someone! She's sick!" It isn't supposed to happen this way. He's stopped killing humans. That was one of the terms of his banishment and he's kept it, damn it.
"You're not going to die, old woman. Not yet."
He bites his wrist and holds it to her mouth.
Ealing, 4 January
Jamie Brown died on 28 July 1990. He was nine years old; the victim of an accidental drowning at a crowded water park. Joscelin knows this because he did his research. That is one of the main perks of the modern technological era; all it took was a name on a headstone and a few keystrokes on a smartphone and he had access to twenty-five year old obituaries and opinion pieces about whether the water park was liable for the tragedy.
It also helped him track down the boy's mother, Candice, at her flat in Ealing. She was still grieving, the poor old dear, all these years later.
Getting her to invite him into her flat had been a bit trickier than usual, but once he was in he wasted no time in integrating himself into her little family. Joss excelled at mind control; he had her fully convinced he was her long-lost little boy in a matter of minutes. The arrangement worked well for both of them. He was back in London for the first time since the Seventies, and she had a son to take care of once more.
But it's been six months, and Mrs. Brown, no longer as young as she had once been, is fading fast. He has to find a new blood bag. Soon.
Before that, however, there's an appointment to keep.
An all-night cafe is a strange place for a small boy to be at two o'clock in the morning, but the very large bribe the boy gave the proprietor to keep quiet means he remains undisturbed. Looking quite bored, he idly checks the time on his phone. That is when he hears the footsteps behind him.
"You're late, Lord Coward."
Mamma, the angels
Westminster, 6 January
The Sixth of January marks the Feast of the Epiphany, an important point on the liturgical calendar celebrating the arrival of the Three Kings to the Holy Family. Epiphany marks the end of the Christmas season, and the beginning of a series of holy days culminating in Candlemas in February.
It's also Joscelin's birthday. He is six hundred and seventy-nine.
Birthdays are hardly important in the life of a vampire. Now that he's in his seventh century, they don't exactly hold the same significance as they once did when he was alive. The only reason he even remembers that his birthday even is 6 January is because of the interminable church services he endured as a child before getting to go home and feast.
Still, it isn't every day a boy turns 679. He decides to treat himself - a day at the cinema, perhaps. Or a cupcake at the cafe down the street.
Or a visit to a blood bag for hire. Just to celebrate.
No sleep in heaven
Tower Hamlets, 15 January
It's taken months to work up to this. Tower Hamlets is Islington territory, pure and simple. He's been all around London, everywhere but here, since his return to the city more than six month ago...just not to the heart of the vampire's world.
It's changed a lot since he was in power here during the nineteenth century. So has he. He's calmer now, more patient. Revenge doesn't need to be hasty to be effective. Time is one thing he has a lot of.
He smirks at a figure in the distance.
"Pleasant evening, isn't it?"
Or Bethlehem.
Ealing, 24 January
It isn't raining for once; a small mercy. The full moon shines down on the wintry city, and Joscelin knows instinctively he must be careful--werewolves could be about. But that doesn't matter, not now. Not when Candice Brown is dying in his arms in the middle of an abandoned park.
Joss hadn't thought about her heart when he started feeding off her. It hasn't kept up well with the strain of the constant bloodloss, and it's giving out.
"Help me!" he calls, out trying to get someone's attention. "Someone! She's sick!" It isn't supposed to happen this way. He's stopped killing humans. That was one of the terms of his banishment and he's kept it, damn it.
"You're not going to die, old woman. Not yet."
He bites his wrist and holds it to her mouth.
no subject
He is genuinely curious. What does something so ancient have to say on the Web?
At least they have phone games in common. "I did enjoy Flappy Bird, when that was still...what's the terminology these days? A thing."
Boys 'his age' are supposed to be attached to their devices, aren't they? It's his way of fitting in.
Or so he tells himself.
no subject
First in oral tellings, then in newspapers, now in digital format. It was all part of one story, the changing of the tale. One more way to carry the legends that mortals shouldn't be allowed to forget. And to watch others rise to take their place among the records.
no subject
"Perhaps I ought to start my own blog." There's an idea. Vita Mea, he could call it. Seven Centuries Without Undergoing Puberty.
no subject
Lacy Brook
head writer
tomorrowshistoryblog.wordpress.com
020 7946 0550
"When you access it, it will ask for your referral source. 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'"
no subject
"Hamlet," Joscelin says approvingly, taking the card. "I saw Burbage perform the title role, with a boy of sixteen as Ophelia. His voice was starting to crack; it really wasn't a very good staging."
That was when he'd had his necklace. God, he misses the sun.
no subject
Once, he had been a writer whose work was simply one of many. Now, he was one of the greats. And a thousand other -- better authors -- were forgotten. Such was the way of history.
Not that he didn't deserve his place. He mixed artistry with wide appeal.
no subject
Joss straightens, pushing off the wall. "I like you, fae. Miss Brook." If that is your real name. "You intrigue me."
He holds out a hand.
"Joscelin Fitzthomas."
no subject
After all, a sensible vampire was always a delight. Something that had once been mortal but then gained the eyes of immortality. How differently they must see the world than anything else, for they were quite their own class.
"I know of a small theatre planning to perform Measure for Measure. Perhaps I'll see if they've an extra ticket for one of their showings. If you'd like."
no subject
Rather black humor, yes, but humor still.
"Now, Miss Brook, would you care to join me in a kebab? If I remember correctly, there was a small stand open all hours somewhere near here. Though that was in the 'seventies. Wonder if it's still there."
no subject
"What was your time? As a mortal."
no subject
At the question, he looks up with a small smile. "Officially, I died in 1349. I came down with bubonic plague--the Great Mortality, we called it then. My father sent for a a local holy woman to cure me; she didn't so much cure me as turn me. I woke up in a plague pit with three bodies on top of me. That month was not kind to Ely Cathedral."
no subject
She considered the year. After all, it had been a long time. She'd been in so many places and seen so many things that it took her a bit of time to remember. After all, a death and revival? Were memorable. For her, things were less so.
"Ah. Yes. I was in what today is Iraq then. It was the end of a dynasty."
no subject
"I hear the plague hit the Holy Land just as hard as it did Europe."
no subject
She wanted to laugh about it. In the grand scheme of all of it, it was amusing, certainly. But so many died, and she'd lost so many friends, children, and lovers to violence.
"This mighty City shows the wonders of my hand."
no subject
That was strange. He didn't think about his father very often. Maybe he was becoming sentimental in his dotage.
He laughs, holding the door to McDonald's open for her.
"But it wasn't much of a city, was it? Ozymandias guarded a ruin."