undergrounds | MEMORIES [ ACTIVE / OPEN ]

i ) IGNORE THE SLANDER

It's been a complicated month for Lance. A complicated new year, really. Recovering from being in jail and having a doppelgänger is easier said than done. There had been apologies to write, and even then he had to work out who needed apologising to.

That, and his headaches had flourished into this odd ability to sense things. It would be far more useful, he thinks, if he knew what on earth it was that he could sense. Most of the time it just clued him in that something (or someone) was supernatural. Most of the time it just made his head hurt.

Still, he needed to learn to make use of it. The same as the magic the Night Council gave him, really, it was all things he was unpractised at. All new and peculiar. So it is that he decides to combine the two goals: he begins February by making his rounds. Redbright, the covens, people he knows. Generally apologising and then, on the off chance they know something, asking what they know about sensing magic. Can they sense it? What does it feel like to them? How do they tell it all apart?

When all else fails he sits and flicks through books in the library at Redbright, eyes glazing a little as he tries to take it all in.

ii ) DO YOU DRINK TEA

It's one of the more odd Night Council investigations that he's been a part of, but the more he thinks about it the more he wonders why he's surprised. It may sound like the plot of a children's tale, love potions, but children's stories about magic have to come from somewhere.

He's set up an investigation room in Westminster, trying to track where all the reports are coming from. See if there's some pattern to it all, something that might help them see an obvious target. At the moment, though, it appears relatively random. The act has a peculiarly prankish feel to it, however, so perhaps he is looking for something that doesn't exist. Perhaps there is no pattern, and it's simply a random act of childish 'fun'. Lancelot sighs, spends a few more hours leafing through reports before deciding to hit the streets to find help.

Someone must know something, have seen something, or have drunk some of the tea and kept some.

Although, of course, raising such a line of conversation is a little awkward.

iii ) I'VE GOT A BAD IDEA

Lancelot has been dwelling on this for a while, the problem of his missing memories. They've been unlocked in drips, usually by some less than comfortable encounter that chipped away at the block, but up until now he'd been content to leave it at that. After all, he could not be sure what these memories might reveal. What might be hidden from him. It may be nothing serious, may be nothing bad -- but equally it could be something he would rather had stayed forgotten.

Now, though, now things are different. With his magic slowly seeming to come to life he has the distant hope that... his memories might help him make sense of everything. That if he were to unlock them he might understand the world around them, and himself, a lot better.

So Lancelot goes looking -- for witches, vampires, fae. For situations that might trigger a memory, perhaps, or people who might know how to bring down the walls preventing him from remembering. He walks into trouble on the off chance something might happen. Nine times out of ten, nothing much does. Other than a fight breaking out and him ending up gaining a few bruises.

It's a bad idea. He knows it's a bad idea. Yet what's the worst that could happen?

He can think of plenty.

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"Of course," he says, gesturing to the bar with a smooth smile. He's not one to turn down a free drink, not if he knows where it's coming from. He's definitely curious about Lancelot and this 'friend' of his, but perhaps if they sit down and have a drink he can hear more about it or more about Lancelot's quest for memories of his days with the fae.

"So, is tea all that brings you here?" he asks after he beckons the bartender over.

He shrugs at the question, digging for his wallet.

"Perhaps not. Perhaps I'm still looking. Perhaps I'm still trying to find my answers."

Answers to questions he doesn't even know. He looks up as the bartender appears, jerks an eyebrow at Finnick.

"What're you drinking?"

Hopefully not something too top shelf, but he'll fund it if he has to.

"Just beer for now," Finnick says, "whatever's on tap. I'm only here to keep an eye on them." He gestures in the direction of the corner booth where the fae are now arguing over something new and inconsequential. He ignores them and turns to look at Lancelot with a curious frown.

"Why are you investigating fae tricks, anyway? That seems like something only the Night Council would worry about, unless you're seeking vengeance for your friend's embarrassment."

Lancelot's eyebrows flick up at the question, because in all honesty he'd rather assumed the fae might have done some digging on him -- enough to know who he is at least. Then again, he supposes that's an arrogant point of view. His own memories of the fae assure him that they care little enough for petty mortal issues like laws, and he comes neatly under that jurisdiction.

"I'm not interested in revenge," he admits, "I'm interested in making sure it doesn't go on forever and cause a feud if the wrong person is hit. Simple things like that can spiral out of control unchecked. It's my job."

His lips quirk in idle amusement, because put like that it's a funny sort of job description.

Finnick's far too busy to do much digging. It hardly ever occurs to him anyway; his first priority is always keeping himself safe, and he takes precautions with everyone he comes across. That consumes most of his thoughts upon meeting someone new, and Lancelot is no different.

So Finnick has no idea what his job is, though now he'd like to know. "Your job?" he asks lightly. "Your job entails hunting down fae who cast stupid little charms?"

Part of Lancelot's gut idly suspects he shouldn't tell Finnick this, but the other part of him points out that there is equally no reason to lie. Lancelot believes in honesty, in transparency, and lying only builds pointless walls like the ones they already have higher.

"I'm a Guardian," he admits, "my job is technically to enforce the Night Council's laws and protect members of the Night Council itself. Tea spiking is something of a grey area, but... since it may have been done by fae magic it raises alarms, because if a Night Council members starts relentlessly crushing and fixating on a fae no doubt things will end in tears and drama even if it's funny for a few moments. So, this charm is my jurisdiction long enough to make sure it stays in harmless territory."

He shrugs, flicks a small smile.

"There's a difference between following the letter of a law and the spirit of one. I'm aware some members of the Night Council would prefer them followed harshly to the letter, but I prefer to stay following the spirit of them with good leeway."

Finnick's reaction to this information is subtle. He sobers slightly, his posture becoming a little more rigid. He listens to everything Lancelot has to say, but knowing he's a Guardian puts part of him on the defensive and he doesn't let his guard down so easily. He's silent and thoughtful for a moment, looking down at his drink. He feels like he's been deceived, which he knows is slightly unreasonable, but it makes him angry all the same.

Even so, his tone is even, if not icy, when he finally speaks. "And so, what, I should be thankful that you don't hate fae as harshly as the people you work for?"

He wrinkles his nose slightly at that, because it sounds... wrong, you shouldn't be thankful someone isn't rude. It should be an expected behaviour.

"No?" he offers, "I'm not so egotistical that I think you should be grateful I'm not bigot. Just... not everyone on in the Night Council is like Gilbert Norrell, nor does everyone agree with him. I'm not asking you to trust me blindly just because I say so, I'm just asking you not to immediately burn this bridge because of the association. I'd like to change the way this all works. I've tried, believe me, but... Norrell shouted louder. But if this all keeps escalating we can hope it blows up in his face and perhaps begin undoing it."

Finnick listens to him with his eyes cast downward still. Every word makes him a little angrier, at himself mostly, for not figuring this out on his own. He's never been the type for reconnaissance or gathering information. He's a man of action - he can play at words but never at strategy.

"I'm sorry," he says when he looks up. "I don't think I have the capacity for that much hope. The only way I see Norrell's work blowing up in his face is if someone lights the fuse. I don't like to burn bridges but if you really think sitting and waiting is how to keep the fae from being pushed out of London, he have reached an impasse."

Lancelot looks a little pained at that, not just because of the implied rejection but because of the way Finnick words it. He feels a little helpless, but in his heart he knows he isn't. He could do more.

"I can talk to Sylvia again," he says finally, "see if she'll listen to me. The Night Council elections will be coming up soon. They'll all want to look their best. That might give you all some leverage. But..." and here he hesitates, looks uneasy a moment, "... As a Guardian there are... limits... lines I cannot pass... for health reasons."

"You made a promise, presumably sealed with magic," Finnick says, waving dismissively. "I, of all people, know what that means."

He shakes his head, still disappointed with himself in not seeing straight through this man. Lancelot seems genuine enough, but Finnick can't shake the bitter taste in his mouth upon learning exactly who he's employed for. "The courts will take care of themselves," he says after a moment. "You do what you want."

He doesn't confirm or deny it, but the defeated look in Lancelot's eyes is answer enough. It's probably bad that he even inferred it, yet he dislikes this feeling he has begin to get that everyone blames -- assumes he agrees with the Night Council's every law and act. That isn't the way it is, the same way a police officer does not make the law nor necessarily agree with every single one. Lancelot drops his eyes to his drink, draws it slightly closer.

"Forgive me if I disappoint you," he says at last, "human nature, perhaps."

His lips twitch in a somewhat anaemic attempt at a smile.

"I'm only disappointed in myself," Finnick says. He picks up his drink and takes a sip, giving Lancelot a bit of the could shoulder, frowning coldly. "I don't know you well enough to be disappointed in you."

MEMORIES [ ACTIVE / OPEN ]

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