#sybilla crawford

[theartistknownaslymond]

Whumptober 2022 day 9

Sleeping in Shifts | Tossing and Turning | Caught in a Storm

CW for suspected close family deaths. Drowning and passenger ferry sinking (based on the ro-ro (roll on roll off) ferry disaster off Zeebrugge in 1987), with Francis’ traumatic memories surrounding Richard Chancellor’s death in an oil rig explosion (based on the 1988 Piper Alpha disaster). So fire, drowning, explosions, etc. Plus references to being drunk and vomiting, and Francis’ background suicidal inclinations. Because Checkmate is laugh-a-minute.

Also please forgive typos/abrupt endings. It’s late and I spent all day playing board games with friends and ran out of time :’)

---

He'd wanted to drive because he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, and if he had the road to concentrate on, he wouldn't be able to think about what had happened. Archie, however, had wisely insisted that - no matter how much of the alcohol Francis had consumed that night had since been vomited into the public fountain - he was still too drunk to be behind a wheel.

So it was Archie who drove them north from Paris, along empty roads awash with standing water. His sturdy brown hands gripped the wheel and he nodded along as though they were listening to his playlist of drum heroes and not to the World Service. The headlines hadn't changed since they'd set off, though: Disaster in the Channel. Number of casualties unconfirmed.

Perhaps he had been too drunk to drive, Francis thought. But people talked about sobering news, didn't they? And what could be more sobering than the news that one's mother and brother had been lost at sea, victims of another avoidable tragedy on a ro-ro ferry?

Francis lay back against the passenger seat of the car and glowered into the stormy night. According to the LED clock on the dashboard it was 4.48am, and they were still a long way from the twilight of dawn. The sky was louring black and blue like the mountains of hell and the road was shining like a path of coals. The sulphurous orange of the motorway lights turned the rain streaming along the sides of the car into small golden comets, but the view ahead was an endless, thundering barrage of spray and water battling against the windscreen wipers, raindrops shattering into kaleidoscopic shards of light and dark on impact with the glass.

Francis' eyelids drooped and his mouth turned down in misery. He could still taste the booze he'd been drinking, he could still smell vomit on his person even though he'd changed his shirt. His throat felt raw and his mouth was mossy and filled with stale air. None of this seemed even remotely real, though, because what could be real about a world without Sybilla and Richard?

He remembered the cold, clasping arms of the sea, and he just couldn't picture them in that place.

Last year it had been summer, off the coast of Aberdeen, and the fog had stayed low on the rig until late morning. Even when it had cleared, the day had remained grey and still - the enveloping silence of the foggy sea had seemed a blessing at the time, as he and Richard Chancellor worked on their recordings. But, with the narrative clarity of hindsight, it was ominous. The calm before the storm, as dangerous as dead air on the radio.

They'd worked through the dour day alongside the divers and the engineers, collecting the noise of industrial labour, the noise of the planet's pumping veins, the noise of extraction and exploitation; the soundtrack to economic progress. It had been thrilling and exhausting, and when the emergency alarms had begun to wail at ten at night, they'd already been asleep in their bunks.

Stumbling blearily to consciousness and finding themselves trapped on a burning island in the middle of the North Sea, they'd recognised that no one who had survived the initial explosion on deck was remotely qualified to deal with the clusterfuck they'd woken to. Between the supernova of destruction at the heart of the rig and the cold abyss of the sea, there had been little to choose from.

Francis stared blankly into the orange motorway lights and the pounding rainwater and remembered the heat of the fire on the oil rig. He remembered the way it had lit everyone in the same phosphorescent glow - distraught faces burning like flames in the dark, smudged with soot and grease from the black smoke that belched from the rig's wound.

In the car's windscreen he saw his own pale reflection and remembered young Christopher Chancellor's despair: a child confronted with the full majesty of death for the first time in his life, poised to absorb all of its radioactive horrors. Francis had done the only thing he could to save the boy - he'd taken him and he'd flung him bodily from the rig.

He didn't end up in the sea himself until it was nearly too late, until he had searched everywhere he could for Diccon amid the tumult onboard. Then he'd felt the decking lose integrity, and he had raced, stumbling with despair and exhaustion, to an edge of the decking, no longer even sure why it was so important to save himself.

Outside the car, the night sky was as liquid and bottomless as the air beyond the rig had felt. 53 meters, he'd been told later, but it had felt eternal - his nightwear billowed thinly against his body, the water glittered like the burning metal behind him, like the lights of the emergency vehicles circling in the sky. In the seconds it took to fall, he'd wished the surface beneath him was hard - and it had felt hard when he'd plunged into it like a knife, feet first.

How high were the sides of a ro-ro ferry?

He'd been on them often enough on family holidays: Gavin snarling at him to stop trying to see over the edge of the parking deck, Richard whispering a promise to lift him up later so he could get a proper look, and Sybilla ushering him and Eloise out onto the passenger deck so they could catch sight of the white cliffs of Dover disappearing into the blur of the horizon on a sparkling morning crossing.

Would Sybilla and Richard have tried to jump as the ferry yawed? Francis' heart thundered at the idea of Richard helping Sybilla to step up and over the metal railings - he saw her in her good woollen coat, her soft suede winklepickers, her handbag on her arm and her blow-dried hair catching in a breeze. She'd hold onto Richard's steady arm and step daintily, one foot at a time, one leg over the railing at a time. Then an elegant hop into the sea, where she would wait, buoyant, until a life boat came.

He couldn't think of her in a panic, leaving behind her bag, flopping over the railings on her belly, tilting so she fell in an ungainly sprawl, her hair in disarray - sinking as the sea filled that woollen coat and sucked her lower in the water. It was inconceivable. The woman in that scenario wasn't Sybilla. Sybilla never panicked, she was never seen out of control, out of place. And Richard wouldn't show fear - he would get her overboard and work to save others...

Again, Francis remembered how light Christopher Chancellor had felt to his adrenaline-tempered arms when he had flung the teenager from the rig. He imagined Richard bailing other passengers from the sinking ro-ro in the same way.

The headlines on the radio came round once more, and the news was unchanged. Francis wrapped his arms around his body and shuddered, blinking back the tears as he watched the rain weep over the side window of the car.

Disaster in the Channel. Number of casualties unconfirmed.

[thecrenellations]

ten examples of characters calling Lymond “Francis” for the first time, or the first time on page! So many flavors of Francis feelings. Take your pick. (and let me know if I missed earlier instances)

Speakers and context:

Sybilla to the son she hasn’t seen in five years, as he breaks into her castle and sets it on fire. (first on page, The Game of Kings)

Margaret Douglas to the man who kidnapped her. They, too, haven’t seen each other in about five years. (first on page, The Game of Kings)

Christian to her anonymous friend at Threave. I normally wouldn’t count this, because she says his last name, but it’s THE REVEAL, and she calls him by his first name to Sybilla later in the chapter. (first on page, The Game of Kings) - “Francis Crawford: you’re another fool, playing Macarius with the lockjaw. I told you sound was my stock-in-trade. I’ve known your voice since I was twelve.”

Richard. The dell near Hexham. God, Francis had screamed. (first on page, The Game of Kings)

Oonagh when they wake up together and she declines to give him Artus Cholet’s name. And she’s quoting Sybilla? I desperately want to know more about that interaction. We get some information in Checkmate, but still… (genuine first Francis, presumably. Queens’ Play)

Will Scott after the Hough Isa scheme and after spilling soup on himself! (first on page, presumably not a genuine first, The Disorderly Knights)

Graham Reid Malett. What the fuck, dude. (first time directly to Francis, The Disorderly Knights) - “‘I desire,’ he said abruptly to Lymond, ‘to call you Francis. Is that permitted? It is out of affection and a … purely spiritual love.’”

Jerott after he finds Oonagh’s body. (first time on page directly to Francis. Given the context and the way the Francises begin to multiply soon after, I would believe it’s the first time he’s addressed Lymond that way in ten years. Pawn in Frankincense) - “She is more than dead, Francis. If I thought you would do it, I would beg you to go without seeing her.”

Marthe to her brother, at Volos, after he calls her his sister by reciting a poem. The turning point. (genuine first Francis, Pawn in Frankincense)

Philippa, after falling in love with her husband as they wreak sweet, lyrical havoc across the rooftops and through the traboules of Lyon. Before the rest of that night happens. (genuine first Francis, Checkmate)

[liraleinil]

So. I finished reading the Captive Prince trilogy in three days (just the novels, not the short stories) and I am feeling a lot of things, but mostly I'm feeling vaguely frustrated. It's hard to articulate how I feel. I enjoyed the books while I was reading them, even though some parts made me cringe. But that's not the problem.

The problem is the Lymond Chronicles by Dorothy Dunnett. I feel like at least some people who liked the Captive Prince books would love Dunnett but I've found that recommending the books rarely sticks. 

If you're expecting an epic gay romance, you won't find it in Lymond. But a lot of the other elements in the Captive Prince series are there, along with great writing, a complex cast of characters, and plots and ploys abound. I don't read much historical fiction, but Dunnett was so good, it sucked me completely in, despite knowing very little of the history and setting. (Not so different from reading fantasy, really.) 

Anyway! Spoiler warnings for all the Captive Prince novels and the Lymond Chronicles, though it's less explicit for the latter.

Let's get the obvious thing out of the way. My favourite book series is the Lymond Chronicles by Dorothy Dunnett, six historical fiction novels set in the 1500s, spanning from Scotland to Europe to Turkey to France, featuring a blond-haired, blue-eyed, minor Scottish nobleman known as Francis Crawford of Lymond. I'm sure other people have pointed out the similarity between the two series and the characters Laurent and Lymond and there has been analysis by people much more eloquent than me. 

I started reading Captive Prince one afternoon and finished it before midnight. I went on to read Prince's Gambit simply because Laurent was acting so Lymond-like that I had to find out what he was up to. I immediately suspected he knew who Damen was from the start because that's the sort of annoying leaps of logic Lymond makes, with his cornflower blue eyes glittering with malice — that's how similar they are.

I'm not one of those people who can't enjoy a book because something like it has already been done before. I'm always looking for books that could bring me back to that same kind of excitement I found when I first read the Lymond Chronicles. One of the reasons I picked up Captive Prince was because of the comparisons made to Lymond.

It's just that I feel a bit cheated that, despite all the similarities, I don't think it would be easy to get people to read the Lymond Chronicles after getting into Captive Prince. It's too dense, too full of historical references, too many quotes in too many languages. Too clever. 

Who knows whether the parallels in the two series were intentional or not. At the start of the first book, The Game of Kings, Lymond gets drunk before he goes off to rob his mother, Sybilla, and set her castle on fire. Here's part of his conversation with her. You can see why everyone around him wants to stab him. He's more loquacious than Laurent, at any rate.

Yes, he even has an older brother. Lymond goes and antagonises Richard almost immediately after this. I think that was the point where I started wondering, This is the man we're supposed to get behind? Quite the antihero, Francis Crawford of Lymond. 

There are other things. They don't play the same part or advance the narrative the same way in both stories, but the fact that they are there just … I'm not even sure what to say. Imitation is the best form of flattery? There are disguises with hilarious consequences, trials where every single piece of evidence is disputed, exhilarating chases over the rooftops of Paris, whips and whipping posts, royal hunts that don't end well, ridiculous acrobatics on horses, babies of indeterminate parentage, your favourite characters ending up dead, Will Scott's mix of hero worship and wanting to strangle Lymond at the same time, and Jerott (I don't even know where we should toss Jerott). 

Sometimes it's just a line, and I end up raising an eyebrow at it because it sounds so Dunnett. I'm not disparaging Pacat here; as I said earlier, I'm frustrated, because I feel more people should enjoy the Lymond Chronicles and Dunnett's writing, but they're not going to, because Dunnett was too clever and made the books too dense and witty and difficult.

If you do start The Game of Kings, though, I ask you to try to get at least to page 100 or so before giving up. That was where I decided that yes, this was definitely worth the effort. 

I don't suppose I'm making much sense, but apparently I feel so strongly about this that I need to make a Tumblr post in an otherwise empty account. Go me.

PS: I liked Megan Whalen Turner's Queen's Thief series as well, though the first book is, uh, somewhat disappointing? I don't know if I had too high expectations or what. I loved the later books, though. For some reason, I still haven't read the last book in the series. I suppose I should remedy that.

[notasapleasure]

Wip ask meme - @stripedroseandsketchpads also asked about the 'Au of an au' file, where in the Lymond band AU instead of not seeing Francis for years and years after the battle of the bands (i.e. Solway), Jerott goes to stay at the Edinburgh townhouse for a few days on his way back to Glasgow.

I was determined that I would write some J/F without Jerott overthinking things and preventing it being finished, so it rushes through quite breathlessly, but my excuse is trying to capture the reckless enthusiasm of youth?

Re-reading what I have I think it stalled because I was so furiously dumbstruck that Let's Dance by Bowie wasn't released until 1983 so couldn't be the sountrack to the scene I was writing. I never recovered my momentum *shrug*

Jerott/Francis fluffy smut (broken off before it gets very smutty though):

It was the first time in many, many years that Francis Crawford could say he'd brought a friend home. Gavin was away with work, Richard had a seat free in the car, and at the last minute, Jerott Blyth had agreed that maybe his dad could manage another day or two on his own with the hospital-assigned carer.

Jerott had, in fact, found that when earnest, cornflower blue eyes entreated him and a soft but firm grip squeezed his arm, accompanied by a smile that just needed his agreement in order to bloom, he was incapable of denying the boy who had just beaten him in the battle of the bands. He'd not been to many sleepovers himself, after all - precious few of the families of his school friends would have accepted him inside their homes with his dark skin and accented voice.

Sybilla, however, took it all in stride and exchanged merry pleasantries with him in French that was as accomplished, as refined as her son's. She showed them to the shed at the bottom of the garden and brought air mattresses and sleeping bags down from the loft. "Richard used to have sleepovers here all the time while Francis was away at school," she told them. "It's chilly at this time of year and you can always come in and use Francis' room, but this is where the music collection is..."

Francis smiled patiently, blithely, as his mother performed the hostess' duties: she would offer to bring drinks and snacks once - and when he said they could manage she would not push the offer a second time. She would make it clear that they were welcome to come inside for supper - Richard was to be dispatched to collect fish and chips - but they were under no obligation to sit at a table and could bring it back to the shed if they preferred. When Jerott offered money for his portion, she touched her hand to her chest, squeezed his shoulder, and beamed at Francis. "Mon cher. Absolutely not! You are our guest. Francis will not let you want for anything."

Then she paused before leaving them, pinning Francis with one token look of maternal assertiveness: "Ellie has school tomorrow, so if you do come inside, no punk after nine, ok?"

Francis shrugged. "Ok. She can come and hang out when she gets back though, right?"

"If she wants," Sybilla surveyed them both. "No beer for your little sister on a school night either, though!" she wagged a finger.

Francis' expression merely turned angelic. "I wouldn't dream of it, ma."

They were both itching for her to leave, and once she was gone, Francis turned to the record player and lifted the lid. Jerott practically did a knee slide across the carpet to get close to the library of vinyl, and the process of comparing notes and tastes began again in earnest, now with all the accompanying evidence either of them could want, and hadn't had to hand during the weeks staying in the hostel in Carlisle.

By the time Eloise joined them after school, the shed was adorned with stacks of albums left like stepping stones across the floor, half-empty mugs of cold tea that had accumulated on Sybilla's writing desk, and strata of crumpled biscuit packets and crumbs in the one tiny bin. Francis was pacing and gesturing wildly with a wooden guiro and his new friend sat on a beanbag, gazing up at him like he was listening to a pre-eminent philosopher, a guitar in his lap, his fingers loosely, idly following along with the melody on the record. When they spoke it was almost invariably in French, expressed at a million miles an hour, and Ellie, curious as she was about this boy who seemed as enraptured by Francis as she often felt herself, couldn't find any purchase on the conversation and soon retreated to the house.

Later, Francis dashed in to collect two portions of fish and chips when Richard called him from the other end of the dark garden, but it was his mother who arrested him in the parlour before he could help himself to a pair of ales to go with it and retreat back to the shed.

"All right, ma? Did you want us to come in, instead?"

"No, son," Sybilla reassured him, but her smile had a didactic, caring quality that made Francis pause instead of just brushing past her. "Go back out to your friend. I just wanted to..." her mouth opened and shut once or twice, and a little frown scored her brows.

Francis had so rarely seen her speechless that he put the bottles down. "Mum?"

She let out a laugh he might almost have said was nervous, and then rubbed his arm with a hand. "I just wanted you to know that I've asked Ellie to give you boys space. No one will disturb you in the shed. But, Francis sweetheart, you do know how to be responsible, don't you?"

He blinked, bemused by her serious tone. "Ellie can come and hang out, it's fine, really."

Sybilla smiled at this. "Oh. I don't think she felt very welcome, dear. A bit of a third wheel."

"What?!" Francis knew he was blushing. And, oh god, because it was his mother looking at him like that, speaking with such gentle tact and understanding, it made him blush even harder.

"It's fine, love," Sybilla insisted. "It's nothing new, at least to me, and I am merely happy if you are happy. But do be careful, won't you? Your...your brother probably has some, ah..." that wordly, hippy, Gallic youth she'd had fumbled the words and faltered as it came into contact with the reality of speaking about such things to her teenage son.

Francis was now certain he had turned the colour of King Crimson's first album cover. "No, Mum, it's not. I'm. Jerott's not. We're just listening to music."

"Yes, love," Sybilla nodded, like he'd said the exact opposite. She squeezed his arm again. "But do be careful, anyway."

She handed him the beers back, and Francis left the room with a robotic, astonished walk. His mind was still ploughing ceaseless furrows in the fertile ground of musical conversation, and he made himself shake off his mother's strange, unexpected interruption to the pleasant day he'd been spending. There was no point thinking about Sybilla's wild imagination - sometimes, he mused, she forgot she was in an Edinburgh townhouse and not on some flashy yacht with pin-ups and icons of the screen. And besides - so what if Jerott's company was pleasant not just for his conversation and his musical skill, but because his mouth hung open in an amazed pout when he listened to Francis speak, his eyes wide and thirsty to hear all Francis had to say; because of the way he smiled when he played and when he sang in an unrefined but strong voice, his French and Scottish accents mingling in a way he didn't know how to hide, so they added a cadence and a rhythm to his words that made Francis' ambitions, his hunger feel insatiable. So what? It was all academic - Francis could admire him all he wanted, but he had no expectation of Jerott returning his interest. He just wanted to make the most of every moment spent together while he could.

He grabbed two wrapped portions of fish and chips from the sparsely set dining table, muttered a hasty 'thanks' in Richard's direction, and then slipped back outside again, his escape as sleek and smooth as that of an alley-cat making off with the butcher's scraps.

The shed was a glowing haven at the foot of the garden and Francis' strides lengthened to a loping run as they so often had done when he needed to flee the house and find his own peace. Frost crunched beneath his shoes and his breath misted, and the cold night had swept his blushes away by the time he shouldered his way back through the door - his cheeks were fresh with new colour, he grinned from the simple pleasure of the short run, and then he laughed in delight at the album Jerott had chosen in his absence.

They sat down on the two beanbags, knee to knee, and fell upon the fish and chips with impatience.

Jerott teased that his didn't have enough vinegar on and stabbed at the chips in Francis' wrapping with a mischievous laugh. They sampled each other's beers, the necks of the two bottles warm and salty from the food.

Francis knew he could have spent all night the way they'd spent the afternoon, and Jerott seemed eager to pick up the guitar again. They opened the little cooler of beer kept out there and, arrogant with the suspicion that they were the only two teenagers in Edinburgh who really appreciated Django Reinhardt, showed each other the ways they had found of imitating his unique style.

Francis had no idea what time it was when he was bending to turn the LP and Jerott was indulging in some wild finger-picking, but as Jerott gazed mildly at the records and newspaper cuttings adorning the walls, he asked Francis a question that made him drop the needle with a scratch on the edge of the record.

"Did you have a girlfriend in Paris?"

He preferred to avoid the topic. He'd been glad it had never come up in Carlisle. Jerott was confident speaking often and with pride of his various girlfriends, but Francis felt his own affairs would be cheapened by the discussion. He accorded them the respect of not inviting others into their details.

"Nothing serious," he said after a careful pause. The music started up again and Jerott frowned for a moment and adjusted his fingering to meet it. He was still looking at the walls in an aimless, guileless sort of way.

"Huh," he grunted in acknowledgement. "Yeah. I know what you mean."

If it seemed a strange response to Francis, who had said so little. Perhaps Jerott wasn't looking for information so much as an excuse to say something else that was already on his mind.

"I never really felt like they were friends, friends, y'know? Didn't have that much to talk about."

"Mmm," Francis responded noncommittally, his own experiences having differed somewhat.

Jerott tossed his head to throw his black hair away from his face, a gesture that never failed to make Francis feel like there was a boot pressing on his solar plexus. Then, to add insult to injury, he flashed a wicked grin and ran a few bars of wild, joyous experimentation out on the guitar.

"It's a pity," Jerott said afterwards, one brow raised.

How could you define the invitation expressed in someone's eyes, in their stance? How could you be certain of what it was that shifted in the atmosphere of a room when one person made a come-on to another? Or was it all in Francis' mind, in his own delusional longing? He sat there and stared at Jerott's laughing challenge, at his raised chin with its slight dimple, his frank, uncomplicated gaze.

There was, he supposed, only one way to find out. Francis stood and approached Jerott and the guitar. "Show me what you did there again?"

"Hmm?" Jerott feigned uncertainty, but trilled off another virtuoso piece of improvisation.

Francis watched his fingers thirstily. He looked up. Jerott was looking back at him, maybe like he wanted to laugh, or to flee, but he stood his ground and attempted another series of notes that faltered partway through, cut off by his nervous chuckle.

Slowly, Francis stepped around the neck of the guitar, standing just behind Jerott's shoulder. He lifted his left hand to the frets, nudging Jerott's aside, and murmured instructions on how he would manage the shift in position if he were playing.

Jerott let him do all this, and Francis felt him hold his breath. Gently, catching up to Francis' timing, he let his fingers run over the strings to play the notes Francis held against the neck of the instrument.

Jerott glanced at him and then let out a breath all of a sudden.

"Just girlfriends?"

Standing behind him, Francis closed his eyes briefly, absorbing the excitement in Jerott's voice. He moved a little nearer, so his chest was close to touching Jerott's shoulder. "Not...exactly. Though...I can't claim much beyond...curiosity," he admitted quietly. He turned his face slightly away from Jerott's, like he was focussing on his left hand on the neck of the guitar, like he didn't want the other man to worry he was forcing anything.

But god, he felt Jerott's eyes on him, and the feeling warmed him to his core.

Jerott said nothing, but his left hand, redundant, replaced on the neck of the guitar by Francis' hand, lifted instead to Francis' face and turned it, hesitantly, with such gentleness that Francis closed his eyes again, back towards his own.

Warm fingers trailed along his cheek, his jaw, waiting for permission of a sort. Francis' eyes fluttered open. He took in Jerott's open mouth, his heavy eyelids, the way his gaze rested on Francis' own mouth. These were universal signals, weren't they?

It wasn't clear who moved first - they had both committed. Jerott's lips were warm, softer than Francis had expected, and the first touch of them sent a trill of excitement through his body.

His hand remained gentle as their mouths met, questing, steady and still uncertain, but each of Jerott's breaths that Francis felt against his skin, each movement of Jerott's lips against his, seemed like a fist reaching into his guts and clenching tightly. He gasped and couldn't be embarrassed by the longing in it - instead he deliberately let himself make another sound, deep in his throat, not quite explicit enough to be a moan, but something encouraging.

It worked - Jerott's hand cupped his cheek more securely, and he echoed Francis' sound. The feeling of said echo in his mouth made Francis want to collapse at the knees, so he let his lost, flailing right hand reach for Jerott's back and smooth its way over the warm body beneath the thin t-shirt.

Jerott drew his face closer and deepened the kiss, his tongue pushing into Francis' mouth, confident and experienced where the rest of him stood frozen, like he was still guessing what to do. He tasted of the lager they'd been drinking and the cigarettes he usually smoked, a new combination of flavours Francis has never encountered.

As he tried to twist into the kiss, despite the guitar, Jerott's enthusiasm showed more: Francis felt it in his tongue, in his lips, in the hold on his cheek. Jerott liked to kiss and he was good at it - and he liked to show he was good at it.

Rather than let out the whimper he wanted to, Francis tightened his hold on Jerott's body, leaning his own face into the kiss, pushing back with his tongue, meeting Jerott's enthusiasm and skill with his own, just like when they played together.

With an abrupt need, Jerott released him so that he could pull the guitar strap up over his head and lay the instrument aside. He was breathing hard, his mouth red and wet from the touch of Francis' lips. There was no self-doubt in his eyes when he stepped back towards Francis, only an ambition that corresponded to the one Francis had been nurturing for weeks in Carlisle.

He couldn't wait to be back in Francis' arms, and Francis welcomed his body, his hands finding their way around Jerott's flanks to the small of his back, to the groove of his spine.

Jerott clasped his jaw, his fingers reaching round to rub the short hairs at the nape of Francis' neck.

They were around the same height and both tried to be the one to lean down into the kiss, which turned it into something of a call and response: Jerott folded Francis against him for a handful of breaths and then Francis pushed back and responded with his own pressure, coming onto the balls of his feet, letting his chest lean into Jerott's chest. Francis's skin felt raw from Jerott's stubble - it grew thicker and rougher than his yet did - but he pursued the feeling again and again.

To the soundtrack of decades old jazz their hands, wondering, sought to explore as their mouths did. Francis' fingers crept up Jerott's back, comparing the feel of him with all the glances he had stolen at the curve just above Jerott's waistband, where his form was accentuated when he played guitar, leaning his hips into the instrument the way he was leaning them against Francis now.

For his part, Jerott cradled Francis' jaw in his palms, angled him how he wanted him for his kisses, then tilted Francis' head back and laid a trail of exquisite touches with his mouth and - Francis gasped again - gentle tugs at Francis' skin with his teeth, down the line of his neck and then back up again. He nuzzled his face into the hair behind Francis' ear and kissed him there, he dragged his teeth down the outer edge of the ear and caught the lobe with his tongue before sucking it.

The sound Francis let out was not one he immediately recognised as coming from his own body. He tightened his hold on Jerott lest his composure fail him, and pressed back against Jerott's hips with his own. Whatever usually kept him firm against gravity seemed to have deserted him - his knees trembled and his legs prickled like he'd walked into the middle of a nettle patch.

At a time like this, what else could he resort to but poetry?

"…un serment fair d'un peu plus pres, une promesse plus précise, un aveu qui veut se confirmer, un point rose…"*

"Vraiment?" Jerott's breathy laugh against Francis' neck sent another thrill through him. "Poésie?"

"Naturellement," Francis groaned.

It made Jerott pause and move away to look at him. One hand held Francis' cheek, kept him turned to Jerott's expression, which was steadier than Francis felt, thoughtful and almost a little sad. "Is it though? Natural?"

Francis was silent, struggling to get a grasp on his meaning, but then he raised one hand from Jerott's back to his face and swept smooth black strands of hair away from his brow. "Doesn't it feel that way?"

Jerott wore a small frown, but he didn't try to pull away. In fact, as Francis' hand settled at his neck, he let his own touch move lower, down Francis' chest, sweeping round his ribcage, pulling him near, though Francis didn't think they could get much closer. Touch felt muffled through the layers of their jeans, but even so he knew he wasn't the only one who was getting hard after all this contact.

"Not to me, not at first," Jerott said, and though Francis' heart thumped and struggled, panicked by this admission, Jerott didn't release him. "I was never...curious before. But it's like you've...you've put a spell on me," he laughed at himself. "That sounds dumb, right? But I want it. I want this. I want to be - bewitched."

He kissed Francis again, and Francis' mind seemed to swill and swirl at all these revelations. He'd been right and he'd been wrong, and not only about Jerott's interests.

Between kisses, Francis managed a dazed grin. "And you said you didn't understand poetry and lyrics...but I've 'bewitched' you? What am I, La Belle Dame Sans Merci?"

"I don't know what you are," Jerott ignored the reference and made a sound of pleasure as he kissed Francis. Simultaneous to the touch of his mouth, he squeezed their bodies together and flexed his hips up against Francis' hips. "But you do something to me..."

Francis moaned at the way Jerott's body had pulsed against him, and he felt the tightening of his jeans, their constraint on him, more acutely. Given half the chance, there was a lot that Francis wanted to do to him, not least after a statement like that. He pressed back against Jerott's body and kissed him deep and slow, holding the back of Jerott's head with one hand.

Theorising that what people offered was often a sign of what they'd like doing to themselves, he kissed his way across Jerott's cheek to his ear and sucked toothily on the lobe. From the sound Jerott made, he'd guessed correctly.

Jerott then laughed at himself - the room was silent, the B-side had finished - and leaned his cheek against Francis'. "Fucking hell..." he gasped. He sounded astonished, but cheerful.

Nevertheless, to Francis' momentary regret, his next move was to step away, looking bashfully down at the carpet. His cheeks were flushed - so was the skin at his throat, where it disappeared below the collar of his t-shirt. He licked his lips and chuckled again, then bent to pick up an album from the floor.

He flashed a grin at Francis and dove to replace Django Reinhardt with a Bowie album. He looked up from where he knelt, his smile wild and inviting, and he mimed the guitar part as Francis stalked towards him, echoing his gestures, putting on an exaggerated show of copying Bowie's singing style.

---

*[An oath that is closer, a promise more precise, a confession that wants to be confirmed, a pink dot… - Rostand, un baiser, from Cyrano]

And the soundtrack that should have been:

If you say run, I'll run with you And if you say hide, we'll hide Because my love for you would break my heart in two If you should fall, into my arms and tremble like a flower

[unhelpfulfemme]

On his return from the Committee Richard had been made to repeat again and again the pattern of question and answer. They had thrashed the case out, the three of them, until they were exhausted; and she had sent her son and Mariotta to bed. She moved, and the dark roses shivered. There was an Ewe had three lambs, and one of them was black. What of it? Sheep are commonly white: does that make white unassailable, any more than the pure light of the sun before the prism? How may a breed freshen except under mutation? How improve its whiteness except by admitting a rogue cobalt to its candid meadows? ... Not that the misery had been lived through quite in vain. In all her life she had never heard Richard speak as, distressed as vehement, he had spoken to them that evening.

I love this GoK passage because the naive person reading it for the first time thinks that obviously the black sheep is the unconventional, controversial Francis, unlike his two decent siblings, and Sybilla is thinking that maybe it's good for him to be different.

And then, if you look back on it once the parentage drama starts (imagine rereading the series in anticipation of the publishing of RC or CM!), it seems like an admission that Francis is a bastard. How improve its whiteness except by admitting a rogue cobalt to its candid meadows?

SPOILERS FOR THE MUTUALS CURRENTLY READING THIS

But after CM, it all fits into place and you realize that this passage isn't about Francis at all. It's about Richard. She is thinking about Richard, she was thinking about Richard and his reaction both before and after this passage and she never stopped. She is relieved about Richard - throughout the book, as he was chasing after Francis, she was afraid that he'd turn out as bitter and unforgiving as Gavin, and she's relieved to see that he's capable of understanding and forgiveness. Especially since they're all thinking that Francis will be hanged and Richard will be the only one to continue the Crawford line, not any of the children of her beloved FC1.

... Not that the misery had been lived through quite in vain.

It could be the misery of going through everything going on with GoK-era Francis. But because it's immediately preceded by all the talk of introducing a rogue cobalt to freshen the breed etc. it sounds like she's talking about the misery of staying married to Gavin and going through the entire charade for Richard's sake.

It was misery for her and for everyone else, and it culminated in the death of Eloise and probably Francis too from her current vantage point, and she was afraid that she'd end up with only Richard, who would be Gavin writ small, but at least now Richard has shown himself clever and empathetic and noble of spirit and she's calm in the realization that finally he's gotten over the flaw in his maturing.

Also Richard is the only one with darker hair - it's really obvious in retrospective that he's the "black sheep" and the one who is different from the other two.

[leojurand]

silly lymond ranking after the reread 🫶

6. queens' play:

this was my least favourite book in the series when i read it the first time, and unfortunately revisiting it didn't change that... it reinforced it. on reread i realized part of it is that i don't think this book is very exciting? there are some amazing, fun sequences (roof chase ofc), but overall i would say it lacks spark, if that makes sense. i think it's inevitable for me to not be head over heels in love with this novel because, especially compared to book 1, i don't think these new characters are that compelling. i don't really care about phelim; my favourite thing about oonagh is the way she's described (and man, do i not care about the fling she has with lymond...); and even though i think the robin stewart subplot is the best part of QP, i also don't have a lot of feelings about that guy specifically? great storyline, wonderful homoeroticism... still zero attachment to robin stewart.

the first time i read it i also thought there was way too much thady b stuff. i wanted francis crawford! but the second time around i appreciate it more, and i noticed that we actually get a fair amount of rare lymond pov in this book, which is very interesting.

so, this is either my least or second to last favourite dunnett novel. still really, really good!

5. the ringed castle

dorothy. i'm sure you did so much research about russia and russian ambassadors and the english court with mary and elizabeth but. did we have to read so much about all of that? i think dunnett is usually very good at showing the historical events and historical figures in an interesting way, but man. she failed here. especially with the english court and the russian ambassador, i could Not care less!! and another thing about this book that really misses the mark for me is philippa's characterization. i don't understand why she abandons kuzúm so suddenly and without a second thought. i dislike how she's so incredibly gorgeous and smart every man around her falls for her. i really don't like that she starts quoting literature in other languages so we see how very perfect she and lymond are for each other. it doesn't work for me at all.

i'm making it sound as if i hate this book lmao but that's not true!! i actually find lymond's character very compelling here. i'm not bothered by his cold behaviour towards everyone because i get it. i love the st mary's men in RC too. danny is perfect, and adam and alec are incredible here. the diccon chancellor storyline is heartbreaking and as horrible as it is i love its conclusion. and the crawford family drama... it hurts me in the best way possible.

so this novel has some things i very much appreciate, but some parts i'd want to skip in the future (spoiler alert: these mixed feelings will continue with the next entry)

4. checkmate

hoooo boy. okay so. this is (probably, maybe) the most popular book in the series. i know many would consider it dunnett's magnum opus. and i unfortunately disagree completely. not because i think this book is bad. i think in many ways it is exceptionally good. the prose here is unparalleled. in the first 70% of CM the drama is very engaging and keeps you reading and picking up the book again and again... even if, like me, you don't really care for this drama specifically. it's that well-written!! i fucking love all the francis/sybilla drama, as unnecessary as it may seem. i fucking love marthe and jerott's fucked up lavender marriage and their very different but equally complicated feelings for lymond. AND THE WRITING IS SO GOOD i have to say it again.

but this romance? not for me. i really tried on reread, but still couldn't get into it, sadly. i hate the misunderstandings... philippa thinking lymond was in love with güzel, and then with kate, and then that his feelings for her were only sexual. for someone so smart she wasn't thinking clearly at all.

i could forgive that easily, though. i can't forgive what happens to philippa at the end of part 4. just awful plot-point. even i, not a fan of philippa, think that was character assassination. i don't know why dunnett did it... i guess it was a popular thing to do in histfic, or in super dramatic stories in general. but i hate it. i don't like the part at sevigny, either. maybe most of all, i hate the ending, how rushed it was, philippa healing magically, lymond brushing off marthe's death and completely ignoring jerott because he's too busy having sex. wtf

and i would still give this book like, a 4.5/5. this is dunnett magic do not ask me about it i'm not a rational being!!!

okay, those three are the books in the series labeled with "complicated". these next three have all my love (or most of my love (looking at you TDK))

3. the game of kings

this book. THIS BOOK. you know those edits of cats crying surrounded by heart emojis. that's my every time i think or talk about GoK. i love it so, so much. it's not perfect but it's beautiful in all its flawed glory. on reread it was more noticeable that this was dunnett's first novel, simply because she gets so much better. but wow, what a debut novel! it's a little convoluted and heavy-handed, but it has so much charm and heart. at one point, more or less halfway through, it's almost impossible to put down. and, love him or hate him, francis crawford of lymond has has an insane gravitational pull. it's impossible not to want to know what's behind the mask.

in conclusion: game of kings my beloved

2. the disorderly knights

now this book. it's kind of crazy? definitely because this is the start of the gabriel duology, which is undoubtedly my favourite part in this series. TDK feels like a soap opera to me, maybe because of the insane levels of drama, maybe because the characters that get introduced in this book (jerott, gabriel, joleta) are so incredibly beautiful they almost make lymond seen like a normal guy.

and i eat it up! i love the insanity and drama! i think it's all so, so compelling. gabriel is scary in a way that very few villains i've read about are. he really feels almost invincible, despite being an ordinary human being. i love the moments where lymond loses his cool because gabriel is such a relentless antagonist. very painful, very fascinating.

most importantly, JEROTT. jerott blyth is my favourite character in this series and he's so. perfect in this book. like, he's terribly flawed (jerott don't throw that rock. jerott), but god, what a character. by far my favourite pov in the series and no one else comes close.

i have so much praise for this book i could talk about it endlessly but there's one caveat: joleta. dorothy why would you do that. why???? joleta's storyline is so uncomfortable to read. her character is so tragic, but it seems like we're supposed to hate her, and we're supposed to side with lymond when it's revealed that she... was abused by other adult men... ??? i'm so glad adam, alec, and i think jerott? do see her as a victim, and lymond as the one with all the power, but everyone else? idk. just very bad, and one of the moments where the series really feels like it was written in the 60s

but other than that. this book fucking rules

1. pawn in frankincense

i've talked about PiF so much i feel like i don't have any words left to describe it, but even if i hadn't talked about it at all i would still feel like no words can describe how much of a masterpiece this book is to me.

i've mentioned before that jerott is my favourite LC character, and he's arguably the main character in this book. he even mentions the title when talking about himself!! i'm both very surprised and not surprised at all about how unpopular jerott is among the veteran fans of the series. sure, he's very flawed and somewhat unlikable, but he is so compelling, so complex, so well-written, he's become one of my all-time favourite characters.

not only that, there are two other main/major characters in this book that also became all-time favourites: lymond and marthe. the lymond/jerott/marthe is one of the best this i've ever read and this is where it starts. literally dorothy was insane for that one.

from the very first chapter until the last one, PiF doesn't give you time to stop and breath and calm down. maybe my favourite beginning in any dunnett novel. and the fact that pawn's move isn't widely considered one of the best chapters in literary history? unbelievable

is this book perfect? no. is it still the best thing that has been written and will ever be written by a human being? yea :)

[semicolonsandsimiles]

yuletide letter

Thank you so much for writing! I always want more fic for these fandoms, so while I have a lot of prompts for some of them, if you already have a different idea, I'm excited to read it!

Treats are very welcome, including art, unconventional formats, and crossovers! A (non-exhaustive) list of potential crossover fandoms is at the bottom of the letter.

General likes: missing scenes, alternate POVs of canon scenes, outsider POV, canon divergence, epistolary & in-universe documents, angst, hurt/comfort, recovery (interpret broadly: trauma, injury, relationships...), bittersweet endings, humor, plausible crack (i.e. convince me it could actually happen), crossovers, worldbuilding, hypercompetent disaster characters, steady & stubborn characters

General DNWs (discussion of canon instances of these is fine): explicit sex (M rated is fine), rape/dubcon, incest, body horror, canon atypical trauma, reader insert, omegaverse, soulmate AUs, mpreg, gaslighting, cheating/infidelity

Prompts below for inspiration, but if you have a different idea I'm excited to see it!

The Lion Hunters: Goewin, Medraut, Turunesh, Telemakos - one or more of the chosen characters

I love this family and all their messy but loving relationships, but I'm also happy for non-requested characters to have a major role if that's where the story takes you. Some prompts:

An outsider POV of the family once Goewin & Medraut decide to stay in Aksum. What does the Aksumite court think? Maybe someone who knew Medraut fairly well when he was ambassador? He's not an outsider, but how does Kidane feel about his household being shaken up?

In the same vein as above but focusing on fewer characters - how does Goewin adjust to her new position? When/how does she start working more closely with Wazeb? When does Medraut start staying at the monastery and going out with the elephant hunters? How do Turunesh and Telemakos deal with Medraut coming back to them and then sorta leaving again? Medraut & Telemakos hunting trip? How/when did Medraut get his staff of Asclepius tattoo?

More generally, anything set in the time between A Coalition of Lions and The Sunbird.

Post-canon fic! Let everyone be together and happy, but also maybe let them process some trauma.

Pre-canon fic! Goewin & Medraut's relationship before he leaves for Aksum the first time? Turunesh & Kidane's travels? There's a mention in Winter Prince of Medraut visiting Iona - tell me about that?

The Lymond Chronicles: Francis Crawford of Lymond & Sevigny

I got decision paralysis trying to choose from the nominated characters, so I ended up going with just Lymond himself - that said, other characters are more than welcome to feature as main characters!

Canon-specific DNWs: romantic Christian/Lymond, modern interpretations of gender or sexuality (I am interested in explorations of this, but within the historical context), non-requested AUs that change the setting

Some prompts:

If you want to focus on Lymond himself, I'd love to get inside his head at any point during the series (wouldn't we all?) On the flip side, I always love an outsider POV - maybe from the French or Russian courts?

Lymond & the concept of friendship: he's terrified of his friends being hurt because of him and tries to push them away to prevent it, but at the same time there are a handful of people he relies on to stay his friends no matter what; he even says so (the Somervilles, Jerott). Do something with this?

I think it would be interesting to put Lymond and his hypercompetence into a sci-fi or fantasy AU.

If you're bringing other characters in, here are some relationships I'd be especially interested in:

Lymond & Molly: she doesn't appear after GoK, but I can't believe they never saw each other again. Maybe she was involved with some of the shenanigans we see at the beginning of The Disorderly Knights?

Francis & Sybilla: they're so important to each other but also they hurt each other so much. I'm especially interested in their relationship pre- or post-canon.

Lymond & Archie: Had they met before Queen's Play? Did they know of each other through Mat?

Francis, Philippa, Kate, Adam, Kuzum: they're all family post-canon (presumably); what does that look like? Lymond's relationship with Kuzum is obviously complicated by The Trauma and I don't want that to be ignored, but I'd like this one to have a happy/hopeful ending.

Lymond & Marthe: Lymond POV of Marthe - maybe their first meeting, or in Stamboul? Alternatively, AU where Sybilla does get to bring Marthe home with her and they grow up together.

Francis & Christian: I feel like their conversations sometimes reference their earlier friendship, but the reader is left in the dark about the specifics. I'd like to see their friendship as kids/young teens. I can imagine them bonding over music & poetry (Christian mentions Sang School). Or an AU where Christian lives and Lymond has both her and Margaret Erskine watching over him during Queen's Play.

Lymond & Danny: Danny POV is always a delight, but I'd also love to see Lymond's opinion of Danny. Would the Voevoda really not notice if Danny placed himself nude on the floor?

Lymond & Chancellor: I'm desperate for a Chancellor lives AU where Francis & Philippa sponsor his expeditions and he stays with them when he's home. Make this poly if you want, but friendship is also great!

The Singing Hills Cycle: worldbuilding, Almost Brilliant - one or more of the chosen characters

I'm fascinated by the lore we got about neixins in Mammoths at the Gates, and I'd love to know more about them - neixin culture/social structure, their relationships with the monks, what it's like having perfect memory of all the stories they hear and how that affects their view of the world.

I'm also up for fic about almost any aspect of worldbuilding - a non-exhaustive list: more about the monastery, the monks' travels, the process of becoming a monk, new stories collected by the monks & neixins, more about the mammoth riders...

Tir Tanagiri - worldbuilding

I love this twist on Arthurian stories (and the Tain), and I especially love Sulien - but I chose worldbuilding because it's what I most wanted to know more about. We find out that Tir Tanagiri is essentially a parallel universe from ours and...that's it. Tell me more! Some prompts:

More about the parallel universe thing - I'd like to see this from the perspective of a character who knows a lot about it, maybe in the form of instruction or storytelling/myth

Cultural attitudes around gender and sexuality: obviously it's relatively common for women to be soldiers and Sulien reads as aro/ace, though that terminology isn't used in-world. We mostly see this from Sulien's perspective, but what does society at large think?

More about the religions, new and old - maybe in the form of stories/myths? More about Coventina?

Chapters in The King's Peace and The King's Name are introduced with snippets of poetry - if you're poetically inclined, maybe a new poem or an expansion of one of the canon ones?

Potential crossover canons:

stuff I like from the yuletide tagset: Queen's Thief, Teixcalaan, Imperial Radch, The Mirror Visitor, The Raven Tower, Steerswoman, The Tarot Sequence, Tam Lin, The Waste Land, Earthsea, Hexwood, Last Binding, The Mabinogion

some other options: mix up anything Arthurian-inspired with Lion Hunters or Tir Tanagiri (I have a soft spot for The Once and Future King), Discworld (I think Lymond being a thorn in Vimes' side would be particularly fun), Doctor Who, Warehouse 13

[bellaroles]

The finished version. Yesterday, I was so sleepy I called it a day. Woke up and notice minor things that need reshading. Right, here’s little Francis with Sybilla. Pre-the game of kings era. When the only drama in his life was that his father disliked him, but his mother loved him so that’s alright, I guess.

[sugarbabywenkexing]

Diane of Tremontaine is basically a more Machiavellian Sybilla Crawford and I think that's real sexy of her.

[theartistknownaslymond]

Whumptober 2022 day 29

Still hanging on, still determined to finish the list!!

Sleep Deprivation | Defiance | “Better me than you.”

As per @stripedroseandsketchpads​ These all feel intensely Francis but idk how exactly 

They do and they are. I’m not sure this fic actually hits any of them directly, but I have confirmed with @erinaceina​ that these prompts are all bang on for the vibes of this particular scene. It’s Checkmate, Francis thinks Sybilla and Richard have drowned - then he thinks just Richard has. Sybilla just wants to know why he won’t come home.

It’s a bit of a direct scene re-write - the dialogue follows fairly closely to Dorothy. But I tried to give it as much of my own twist as possible. Not much in the way of CW, but Francis is tired and has been drinking, there’s reference to the ferry disaster, he thinks he’s lost his closest family and he’s got a pretty awkward relationship with them rn. Francis also has a bit of suicidal longing in the background, and some dissociation going on. Big emotional whump, rather than physical - that’s the intention, anyway.

 ---

The sky was still dark when Archie pulled up at the cordon. The world seemed upside down, lit from below by the flashing blue lights of emergency vehicles, by the torches held by gendarmes over rain-smudged passenger lists, by the brake lights of the cars of relatives parked higgledy-piggledy around as they tried to learn what had happened to their loved ones.

Archie tried to hand him an umbrella but Francis was already out of the door, not moving quickly, but with a steady, intractable purpose. He seemed to watch himself open the car door as though from the other side of a piece of foggy glass - like his life was continuing within a terrarium and he was standing, sleep-starved and numb, on the outside. Not even the heavy rain that began to soak his t-shirt seemed to really reach him as he strode towards the nearest gendarme.

He was recognised - the man's look of harassed concern flickered, and he smiled at the rock star Lymond, like this celebrity appearance had been just the relief he needed from his miserable work. No doubt he was familiar with Lymond's recent charitable exercises, and he suggested, "You're here to help with the handing out of the blankets, Monsieur?" He gestured towards a van with its back doors open, where a group of volunteers were marshalling blankets, umbrellas, warm drinks and food for anyone who didn't need to be bundled away to hospital immediately.

"Ah, non," Francis hesitated, hoping to recognise any of the huddled figures standing under huge golf umbrellas and sipping from steaming polystyrene cups. "J'ai...j'ai eu du famille à bord de lui. Je...je ne sais pas..."

He was surprised at how calm his voice sounded - like a recording, almost disinterested. But the gendarme blanched.

"Euh, mon dieu." The hand holding the pen above the clipboard flinched, as thought his reflex was to make the sign of the cross. He wiped futilely at the rain on his brow and straightened his shoulders in a belated aspect of professionalism. "Nom et prénom?"

Francis spoke the names of his mother and brother with robotic clarity, and watched the young officer grimace as he tried to peel apart the sheets of paper he held. They were turning to papier-mâché before their eyes, tearing in sad wadges of ink and wood pulp as the gendarme's wet fingers fumbled with them.

He tried to shake them apart and succeeded only in tearing the bottom clean off a number of sheets. He muttered a curse and poked at the part of the list he'd uncovered, and then looked up at Francis with round, excited eyes.

"Madame Semple? Elle vive!"

He could not find Richard's name, but Sybilla - Sybilla was alive. Francis swayed under the pressure of the rain and gasped. He felt like he'd taken a blow to the chest, or like a fault had opened down his sternum and the news of Sybilla's survival was pulling him apart in one direction as the absence of Richard wrenched him open in another. He managed, breathlessly, to thank the man and then turned to find Archie.

After stumbling through the the rain aimlessly for what seemed like an unforgivably long time, Francis finally discovered his friend - he was handing out blankets and hot chocolate, and he didn't hesitate to force a cup of the latter into Francis' freezing hands.

"She's at the hospital..." was all he could mumble in return, his lips numb, his stomach clenching rebelliously at the thought of sustenance of any kind.

Archie guided him back to the car. He leaned over and pulled Francis' seat belt across his chest, even as Francis sat there clutching the scalding hot cup of chocolate and rainwater, his blond curls dripping into it with each shiver of his body. Archie drove them safely but with efficiency to the hospital building and trusted Francis to make his own way from the drop-off point while he parked up.

No other friend would have shown such faith in him then, and Francis was relieved to be able to avoid the negotiations another might have insisted upon. He dropped the untouched cup of chocolate into a bin and walked to the desk.

The receptionist stared at him as though he'd crawled from the Channel himself, but she apologised and said that Mme. Semple had been discharged and had gone to her hotel.

There were only so many options, but Francis' first guess was correct. He knew her tastes and her budget, he knew something of her memories for the career she'd had, and Archie helped him make it to her room when dawn was still yet to break.

He'd supposed that she would be resting, but the concierge was adamant that she had just called for coffee to be brought up to her and that she would welcome a visit from her dear son.

Her only son, Francis thought, standing outside the door to her suite. Her only child. Eloise had dissipated into a winter's night and now Richard had been snatched by the storm. And no matter how he'd tried, how near he'd come and how many maelstroms he'd been drawn into, Francis was still here. Still standing outside his mother's door knowing that while she wouldn't be disappointed to see him she really ought to have been.

She opened the door shortly after his knock and he was surprised to see her dressed and put together. The clothes were as immaculate as ever: black cashmere skirt and black silk blouse; black court heels and black scarf tied in a pussy-bow at her throat; sapphires and mother-of-pearl and the scent of home and safety.

She did not say anything, and she did not smile. Her skin was nearly as pale as her pristine white hair and her blue eyes looked faded in contrast with her black eyeliner. The last time they had met, Francis had refused to say a word to her, and now she exercised her prerogative to do the same, keeping her lips tight and her expression unreadable.

"I'm sorry, you didn't need to see me," Francis said, and the control he'd had over his voice earlier was gone. He observed this with the same detachment as he'd done before, but the barrier between life and the observation of it had grown weak, and he felt on the precipice of falling in.

"Nonsense," Sybilla beckoned him inside with a muted gesture.

He didn't seek a hug so neither did she. He stared savagely at the floor as he passed her and ran a hand through his sodden hair. He looked at the little coffee tray on the low table by the window and wondered at the hotel's callousness in sending up a set for two. He felt himself shudder, felt his limbs weaken - it was as if he was being drawn back into his own self despite every attempt to resist it.

Finally, he had to look at her again, feeling his eyes wide and his breathing heavy. "I'm so sorry. Richard - he didn't...?"

Sybilla's back was to him as she eased the door closed. She turned, tossing the white waves of hair over her shoulder, and she sniffed back some emotion and rubbed at her pink nose with a tissue. "Where did you hear it?"

Francis told her about the gendarme. There was a slight gap in the drawn curtains and he stared through it at the corpse-grey light of day-break. "I'm here to help with anything you need. Were you travelling with any of his staff?"

"Sit down, Francis. Look, take some coffee. For heaven's sake - a towel," Sybilla stepped into the ensuite and emerged with a folded, fluffy bath sheet.

He looked at the chair she offered but did not take it - he was soaked through, so he accepted the towel instead and merely hugged it to his chest beneath folded arms.

Sybilla took her seat and poured the coffee out. "He had two advisors with him. Jonty and Mac. There's been no news of either. I've called their families."

She looked up at him, the sugar-tongs poised over his cup. "How many is it, these days?"

Francis shook his head. "None. Black will do. Do you want me to arrange transport for their bodies when they're found? I...I had the experience last year, with Diccon. I'll do the same for Richard."

Her hand quivered, and a cube of sugar dropped into the cup anyway. "Yes...yes, quite so..."

"Does Mariotta know?"

"I've spoken to her, yes," Sybilla disguised the tremor in her voice beneath the clink of tea-spoon on china.

Francis squeezed the folded towel tight to his body and stared down into the whirling black coffee. "I need to finish the album. I have obligations here. But afterwards - if it's necessary - if there's use for me - "

Sybilla watched him carefully without prompting him to continue. She placed the sugared coffee on the side of the table nearer the empty chair, and then began to prepare her own.

"Honestly - you would tell me, if I could be of use?"

She glanced up again and then tasted her drink. She pulled a face and added a drop more cream. "Honestly? It isn't my place. Mariotta must decide what she can manage and what she cannot."

He felt the towel in his arms growing damp as it absorbed some of the rainwater from his t-shirt, but still he just stood by her table, staring down at the coffee set like it was an elaborate chess-board, laid out mid-game. "Well, I owe her family a debt."

His mother's expression was hidden again as she bent over her coffee. She didn't raise her face this time, but studied the same pieces he did on the table in front of her. "If you put it to her like that, of course she will summon you - likely to care for me, as anything else. Then what will you do?"

Francis at last blinked. He placed the folded towel on top of the empty seat and perched himself on it, leaning forwards with his long fingers laced, his elbows on his knees, the leather cuffs he wore on each wrist growing stiff and uncomfortable from the damp. "Honestly? I don't know. It depends what condition I find the place in. It depends what care I find is needed. But I had hoped to return to the USSR."

Sybilla met his eyes and hers narrowed. She tilted her head a little and studied him curiously before asking, with less tact that was customary, "Is this about that new record agent? You're going back for Ms Çalışkan?"

Francis pursed his lips and his brows pinched together. He took a sip of thick, dark coffee and ground his teeth at the taste. On top of stale wine and hours-old stomach acid it was bitter and vile, even with the unasked-for sugar. "I'd go back whether or not my agent was based there," he answered.

Sybilla turned a knowing look on him. "Now, I may not deserve your trust, but I should still like to know: she remains your agent?"

Francis smiled mirthlessly. "Yes. I find it so much simpler to keep all the essentials in one place."

Sybilla's expression did not alter at his tone. "But you would go back to that...dour, repressive country, whether or not she was there?"

"I would."

She sat back, her elegant hands draped over each arm of the chair, her rings catching a weak ray of sunlight that had mistakenly found its way past both clouds and curtains. "What if I were no longer in Scotland? Would you come home then?"

Francis blinked and shook his head. "It would make no difference," he answered. Small, perplexed divots had appeared between his brows and by the corner of his lips.

"So you will return to Russia unless Mariotta asks otherwise? Even if I died or joined the retirees on the Costa del Sol?"

His eyes narrowed as hers had done, and he worked his jaw, well aware of how she had led him through all the hoops she'd set out. "You don't imagine I wish you dead, or exiled among the living dead and those in hiding from Interpol? Scotland is your home. I have lived there barely half of my life."

"You think I have nothing to hide from Interpol?" Sybilla twitched a brow and took a sip of coffee. "In any case, I might have died today, whether it was wished for or not. And even then, you really would have resisted going back? Does the Soviet cause really mean more to you?"

"No," he said easily and honestly.

She almost hid her smile behind her cup, but then she had to place it down as gratified tears spilled over her lower lashes. She dabbed at them with her tissue, satisfied at this achievement - like when, as a child, he had asked some simple question (why?) that threatened a complex answer, and Gavin had driven him away, telling him to find out for himself if he cared so much, and he had returned, hours later, dust from the family encyclopedias on his fingers and more detail in his research than even Sybilla had expected of him.

"Drink your coffee, Francis," she said decisively.

He picked up two more sugar cubes and dropped them into it, then filled the vessel with cream. It disguised the bitterness so that he was able to keep it down on his roiling stomach, and he twitched the curtain open with a pair of fingers so that he could see the anaemic winter sun splitting the storm clouds like kintsugi in the body of a broken pot.

The weather had not fully cleared - rain spat at the window-panes in sporadic bursts, the telephone wires outside wailed and moaned in the wind, and even the comfortable architecture of the hotel had its draughts. The door dividing Sybilla's suite from the next room juddered and the lock rattled in its cradle.

"All this work you're doing - you don't imagine it can be done as effectively there, as it could be with the freedoms you have at St Marys?" Sybilla watched him staring outside, taking in the lines of care at his eyes and brow, the scrawny, sinewey look of his neck and cheeks, and the bruises borne of sleeplessness below his eyes. "If you cannot be my neighbour then I will leave. I have the gîte. I can go directly there."

He turned to her, his expression so strange that she might almost think he was offended by the suggestion. "I'd have the Edinburgh ladies' art society turn up with torches and pitchforks," he said in a voice that seemed quite unlike his own. "I'd be condemned as the Duke of Sutherland."

Sybilla's tone was severe as she batted his objections aside with a hand. "The Edinburgh ladies can holiday in the Camargue and discover the art beyond their own doorsteps. No one can stop me from moving if I choose."

Francis cradled his cup between his two hands and made the smallest of gestures to contradict her. "I meant it," he said quietly. "There are other reasons I won't go. Whether you're two hours away or two days away, it makes little difference."

He saw the fierceness of her intellect latch on to that one small change in his phrasing: little difference. Not none. Her fingers tightened on her own mug and she sat forwards a little on her chair, her gaze dogged. "So tell me, Francis. What other reasons? What can possibly stand between you and coming home?"

A voice from behind, accompanied by the draught of a door opening, said in a granite-firm tone: "My right hook will stand between him and setting foot anywhere north of Watford! And your grandson and I will certainly stand between you and some demented exile to the gîte." Richard stood in the doorway to the adjoining suite in shirt sleeves and unknotted black tie, his cuff-links loose and his face red. "Apologies, brother - had I spent another minute in the shower you might have been made sole inheritor to the family estate."

Sybilla was on her feet, her cheeks ashen and her eyes bright. "Good lord, Richard!"

Francis felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, the skin of his arms prickle and his chest grow warm. He turned but didn't stand, and stared at the brother who had disowned him last summer, after one defection too many.

He wasn't green-cheeked and swathed in kelp; not bloated and gnawed on by fishes; he bore no injury and no sign of pain. He was as vital and robust as he'd always been: the steady hands offering a boost up to the big tree - or to the biscuit jar on the high shelf - the athlete whose weekend activities were cheered on through the muddiest seasons of the year, the school prefect and debating champion whose speeches Francis had listened to in awe as he paced his room in practice. The beloved performer of the songs the adults wanted to hear: steady, soothing piano and inconspicuous ballads on the guitar.

He was alive and he was standing a few paces from Francis, giving off a smell of sage and citrus from the hotel shower gel, his hands curled into fists and his jaw locked in fury.

Francis turned back, slowly, to his mother and played her exclamation over again in his mind.

Anger. Her voice had been raised in anger.

She was angry, as angry as Richard was - she wasn't surprised for a moment to see him there, on his feet, fresh and ready for anything.

There had been two cups.

He'd not seen Richard's name on the list because the list had fallen apart in the gendarme's hands.

Francis looked up at his mother and understood then the trick she had played.

---

Note: Duke of Sutherland, responsible for a big tranche of the Highland clearances. Not popular in vast parts of Scotland.

[bloody-wonder]

a list of things richard does in checkmate:

fake out dies

puts lymond and philippa into horny jail

is a bastard. literally.

[thecrenellations]

"How many souls on this earth call you Francis?"

In 60 years of the Lymond Chronicles, I'd bet that many others have compiled this exact thing, but here is a list of who calls Lymond by his first name! Marthe draws our attention to the question near the end of Pawn in Frankincense, but it's clear throughout the series how deliberately Dunnett chooses what to call the characters in narration and dialogue - the choice can reflect who Francis Crawford (for example) is to others as well as to himself, at any moment. I love it, and Meaningful Naming is a feature of most of my favorite stories.

Characters are listed with the book in which they first call him Francis in dialogue. Italics indicate they call him that when he isn't present. If they directly Francis him later, they’ve been added to the list for that book, too.

I've also noted to whom he's just Francis in the narration - it's always someone who thinks of him like that, and it always makes me feel a lot.

If you notice something I left out, or if you know where to find similar analysis, let me know! Let us all be scholars of Francis.

Lists below! Plus some thoughts and quantitative stuff. (many, many spoilers)

The Game of Kings

Sybilla Semple (see, I have to decide what to call all of these characters, too!)

Margaret Lennox

Christian Stewart (to Sybilla, and I'm sure she called him Francis in their childhood)

Richard Crawford 

Francis in narration from the POV of: Richard

Queens’ Play

Tom Erskine

Jenny Fleming

Margaret Erskine

Martine

Oonagh O’Dwyer

Phelim O’LiamRoe

George Douglas

Francis in narration from the POV of: Richard, Margaret Erskine

The Disorderly Knights

Will Scott

Kate Somerville 

Graham Reid Malett

Adam Blacklock

Janet Beaton

Jerott Blyth (I'm also sure Jerott called him Francis in the old days, but he doesn't return to it until the scene with Evangelista Donati at Midculter)

Francis in narration from the POV of: Richard, Tom, Kate, Sybilla

Pawn in Frankincense

Jerott Blyth

Dame de Doubtance 

Marthe

Francis in narration from the POV of: Jerott

The Ringed Castle

Alec Guthrie

the Abbess/Sybilla's sister

Francis in narration from the POV of: Richard

Checkmate

Philippa Somerville

Marguerite de St. Andre

Catherine d’Albon (to Philippa)

Nicholas Applegarth (also to Philippa)

Danny Hislop

Fergie Hoddim

Piero Strozzi

Francis in narration from the POV of: Jerott, Philippa, Richard, Sybilla, Adam

Observations

Aaaaah!

Richard's monopoly on the narration Francises in the first two books kills me, I love it. The first, of course, is "God, Francis had screamed."

As a reader, I started calling him Francis, sometimes, somewhere in the middle of Queen's Play and stopped overthinking it by the beginning of the next book.

I didn't count, but I'd bet that Jerott says and thinks it the most. He's there more than probable runners-up Gabriel (shut up, Gabriel) and Richard (ily Richard) are, and Philippa goes on her own ... journey before thinking of him that way and allowing herself to think of him that way.

Adam is unique for making the list in his first book, specifically not calling Lymond Francis in The Ringed Castle, and then putting himself back on the list through address and narration in Checkmate. But that's The Ringed Castle for you 😬. And their entire relationship - there's a chapter or so in which Adam's narration calls him de Sevigny.

Who even calls him Francis in RC? Just Alec, Richard, and Margaret, I think. ("Do you call her Slata or Baba?" Thank you, Philippa.)

I would teach myself tarocco and play for at least a few hours to learn when Will started calling him Francis. Also the Erskines! They're all so genuinely close in the years after Game of Kings.

Notable Absences

Güzel - well, that feels meaningful. They were together for years. If she did, we didn't see, and I would also believe that she didn't.

Archie - will he ever? Who can say. Either way, he's the best. Also, see here.

Mariotta - I bet she does, after the first book, we just haven't been there.

Fergie, probably?

Piero Strozzi - Francesco? My petit François? I don't remember any Francises, though!

Ivan (and others?) - I'm not counting Frangike, either

Robin Stewart - I mean, I'm sure he would have if he'd known his boyfriend's real name before ... all of that went down.

Diccon Chancellor - probably not? I'd also put this down to the Ringed Castle state of mind. As meaningful as their friendship was, it makes sense for the book to continue to distance the reader, at the very least, in that way.

Does Francis call himself Francis?

No.

He doesn't, really! He's never that from his own point of view, but we do see him sign a few letters with his first name. These are to:

Kate (Pawn in Frankincense)

Catherine d'Albon (Checkmate)

Philippa (Checkmate)

All of this is not to say that “Francis” represents who he truly is; it certainly shows intimacy and usually vulnerability, but I feel that Lymond and Francis Crawford can be just as definitive when deployed, and that Lymond has a certain neutrality. There's also something really interesting that happens when the characters are stripped of names and become just "he" or "she," from their own perspective or others.

And then we get things like "Mistress Philippa's decorative husband," which really deserve their own list.

"How many souls on this earth call you Francis? Three? Or perhaps four?"

18 of the 25 Francis-ers on my list are living at the end of the series, and when Marthe, who is not one of them, asks that question at the end of PiF, it's 12 (out of 18 total).

18 out of 25 is a 72% survival rate! Great!

2 of the 18 are pretty awful (Margaret Lennox and the Abbess)

4 of the 18 live in France, which he's currently exiled from

1 of the 18 lives in Ireland, but I think they should still hang out!

2 of the 18 may be departing for Malta, apparently

7 of the 18 are people he probably sees or keeps in touch with regularly, 9 if I count Janet Beaton and Margaret Erskine, because I like them and they're not very far away.

As much as I wish that many of the others hadn't died, I think he's doing pretty well.

[boatcats]

Lymond drabble

Immediately post GoK

Francis Crawford was quiet but self possessed on the journey to the Crawford's small house in Edinburgh. At first, Sybilla could not see the effects of the trial or his long illness. But as the sun rose higher in the sky, the cracks began to grow and spread, until finally, within sight of their goal, the whole edifice shattered.

"Excuse me," Francis said softly. Then he fell to his knees in the courtyard, his breath gasping in his throat.

Richard stooped to pick him up, with the clear intention, Sybilla thought, of carrying him inside. But she did not miss Francis's barely there flinch as his brother approached, nor the way his scarred hand fluttered in front of his injured side for a moment like a bird in a storm.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Richard said. He waited for Francis to nod his consent before picking him up and walking with him into the house.

When the doctor arrived, Sybilla took him aside. "Please be very gentle with my son," she told him. "He's been through more than enough."

Inspired by this.

[veliseraptor]

oooh for five headcanons: marthe lives at the end of the lymond chronicles?

oh man I feel like I just want to link to the fic I got for Scot Swap for this because it was great and I just. I love it very much and don’t know how much I have to add, and if you haven’t read it already clearly you should. but let’s see what I can do. 

okay so! one of the things I would most desperately want from this AU, tbh, is Marthe and Philippa getting a chance to bond. because like...the way that Philippa extended understanding to Marthe in Pawn in Frankincense and it took Marthe so off guard makes me Feel Things, and yeah, Marthe was not exactly...good to Philippa in Checkmate in particular, but. whatever! Philippa is forgiving. And I think would feel for a Marthe who is sort of...trying to figure out her place in things. 

because she is! trying to do that. like. she’s not a member of the Crawford family. obviously. and yet they’re kind of...treating her like she is? because I do feel like especially Richard would want to get to know her, which is a delicate and difficult proposition. but Richard is stubborn and also has a lifetime of experience with prickly sharp-tongued intellectual blonde family members (hello, Francis!), he can work with this.

also that fic explores Marthe and Mariotta, and Marthe having a certain amount of disdain for Mariotta as someone who has chosen to be very much a traditional model of femininity, but I’d like to see her (as in that fic) sort of...coming to recognize the ways in which Mariotta is clever in her own way, and has her own value.

things with Jerott are not going to work out and I think they have both realized that. Marthe needs to find a girlfriend. I am not sure who that girlfriend is, but she needs to find one.

Marthe is definitely not happy about Lymond’s choice to burn the documents. she feels like that was a mistake. she would have words with him about that. 

(but also...their relationship developing, maybe, and deepening, and them finding some kind of equilibrium or if not equilibrium a detente that becomes something more than that? give me that, thank you.)

just. generally give me Marthe figuring out how to have some kind of home, some kind of place, and it’s hard and it’s uncomfortable (for everyone), but...look, I want disaster triad of Lymond-Richard-Marthe real bad. imagine the Christmas dinners. please imagine the Christmas dinners.

though I feel like she and Sybilla would never get along. I think there’d always be some tension there.

[notasapleasure]

And Richard Crawford for the character ask meme. :D

Aw, thank you! Richard is great. Three things I particularly like (according to my memory for the series atm):

1) How much he loves his little brother! I mean yeah he’s often got the wrong end of the stick, but his thought process when he’s caring for him in GK as he goes through the memories of them growing up together is so so good.

2) He’s capable - if you have a competence kink then the Lymond Chronicles as a whole are kind of A Lot, but I like how Richard is shown to be so accomplished but also so level-headed about it. He’s a humble and steady sort of guy and I really like that in among all the Dramatic Bitches.

3) He’s smart! He’s not as flashy about it as Francis is, but I loved his little search for the glove-maker in GK and any moment where he’s allowed to get close enough to the plotting to contribute his smarts. See also: his relationship with Sybilla.