Saint Patrick ☘ (shamrocked_) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2011-05-05 12:54:00 |
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Entry tags: | saint george, saint patrick |
Who: Patrick and George
What: Making good memories to counteract the old bad ones
When: May the 4th (be with you HAHHAHA...shh)
Where: The Tower of London and Embankment (and my BRIDGE)
Warnings: Perhaps talk of torture. Also silly hats and lions with wings.
Despite wishing to avoid the Tower of London, Patrick was now nervously standing in line outside of the front entrance, waiting to buy a ticket to get in. It seemed kind of morbid to him to sell tickets to the public to see a place where torture and death had taken place, but he supposed it was better than hiding it. And frankly if it hadn't been a place he had been tortured by his own brother for his own good, then maybe he wouldn't feel so strange about it at all.
As it was, he was glad George was with him. He had been clinging to George's shirt as the line moved slowly forward. He didn't want to be afraid of this place any more. He wanted to appreciate that, more than a prison, the Tower had been a castle and a home for kings and queens. When Patrick and George finally went to pay, they were handed tickets with 'Visit the Prisoners of the Tower' written across it and a picture of Henry VIII looking smug on the back. Patrick gave the tower employee a thin smile and it was probably good that George was there too when she asked, "would you like to purchase a souvenir program?"
"WHY?!" Patrick yelled, far too loudly.
"No thanks," George said, giving his best 'we are not crazy' smile and leading Patrick past the woman.
"So, I guess we aren't stopping by the gift shop?" George joked, glancing around the Tower surreptitiously. It was bizarre to be back here and realize that this place was a tourist attraction now. People were strange. That being said, he was actually pretty curious about what was in the gift shop.
Patrick took a deep breath and he calmed himself down as they walked through the impressive entrance and into the tower complex. "We can go to the gift shop! I'm sorry I yelled at that girl, it just caught me off guard and Henry was all looking at me," Patrick said holding up the ticket stub where Henry's face was still smugly smugging. "I could probably outrun him though," he said with a sage nod.
George patted Patrick's shoulder. "You definitely could. He was really gigantic, especially right at the end."
George put his hands in his pockets and glanced around. "So, yeah, this is the Tower. One of them anyway."
Patrick swallowed roughly and he nodded. "I see. Towery. I hear outside on the green in front of the White Tower there's these ravens who live there," he said, trying to keep the subject from straying to 'once you tortured me here. What tower was that in?!' "I think they're bitey though. Heh. If I had bought that program I would probably know where we were. We should find a map thing. Or..." Patrick looked over at George. "Or do you erm...remember your way around?"
"Ravens usually are bitey. So rude." George rubbed the back of his neck and looked down. "Um, yeah, I kinda do still know my way around. My trips here were...memorable." After a moment of silence, he blurted out, "You were in the Beauchamp Tower."
Patrick raised his eyebrows and his mouth formed a little circle. "Oh. Oh well...I think we can save that visit for a little while at least." Patrick reached out and he took George's hand, taking care to smile at his brother. "It's okay, you know? I love you. Maybe we should try the White Tower first, since it's in the middle? Do you want to lead the way? This place his huge."
George nodded. "Sure. Oh man, I have to show you the crown collection, when we get to it. There are so many, it's kind of ridiculous. I'll need to send pictures to Richard."
And with that, George led Patrick off, the two of them wandering around the complex while George kept up a running narration. Topics ranged from "and I told them not to put the barracks there, but no one ever listened to me" to how vicious the swans that used to live in the moat could be. George paused midway through and tilted his chin at a grassy spot in the middle of the place.
"That's where they cut Katherine's head off."
Patrick turned to the side and he frowned, gazing at the memorial there which was now covered in a strange glass monument. "Poor Katherine," he whispered. She had been so young. "I remember that was a few months after I was...well, released isn't the right word. I was up north trying to help with the families who had been killed by the attacks led by the Duke of Suffolk. See, I still remember some things," Patrick said, stepping over towards the memorial.
Then Patrick turned to George and he said, probably too loudly, "Georgie, is that where they cut my head off!?"
Some of the people around them gave them strange looks, and George flashed his 'not crazy' smile again.
"Nah, it wasn't here," George said. "It was at Tower Hill. I think there's a tube station there now, though, which is almost certainly haunted because that's what happens when you build subways on prisons."
"A tube station?" Patrick squeaked, though he was more careful not to be too loud about it this time. "Ew. Haunted? Have you seen ghosts here, George?" Patrick headed away from the green, giving it one last sad look. He was going to buy Katherine a present, but probably not from here. He headed towards the White Tower, prepared to be inside. He hoped he wouldn't feel claustrophobic.
"I haven't seen any ghosts, but I'm just assuming," George said. "I mean, if you were going to hang out somewhere scary for the rest of your life, this would be the place. Okay, here, let's go look at something awesome. Like the Crown Jewels. Those things are huge and cool."
He was torn between the urge to shelter Patrick from the disturbing past here (and there was plenty of disturbing to be found) and the knowledge that Patrick would have to remember it all eventually.
The walk through the White Tower was uneventful and Patrick oohed and aahed at the exhibits as appropriate, and when they left they headed towards Waterloo barracks and the Crown Jewels, which would be sure to make Patrick smile. He liked sparkly things.
The moment they were in the thick-walled (and climate controlled) room, Patrick was incredibly awed by the sparkly jewels. The collection looked like it went on forever. "Oh, George," Patrick whispered. "They're so pretty!"
"Right?" George said, feeling oddly delighted at getting to see these again. "I don't care how heavy they were, if I owned these, I'd wear them all. All the time."
He paused next to one and had Patrick take a picture of him with the cameraphone while his head was next to a crown. The picture was sent to Richard, with the accompanying text of 'I'm in ur kingdom, seizing ur throne'.
Patrick chuckled and George's remarks and his antics. As they moved along, Patrick exclaimed over the other finery in the room, which included a punchbowl large enough to bathe in with a ladle the shape of a conch shell. "I cannot imagine ever having enough guests at a party to need a punch bowl that size," he said in awe. "It's gigantic and gold!"
"I think you could have probably served the entire population of the U.K. from that punch bowl at one point," George said, laughing. "It reminds me of how it used to be the style to have nine-course meals. Craziness."
"Urgh, nine-course meals. What a waste." Patrick stared in at the rest of the finery and he shook his head slowly. "George?" he finally asked, making sure to say it quietly so no one else had to hear. "Are you going to be okay if we go into Beauchamp Tower? Is it going to- Will you be okay remembering?"
He wasn't the only one who had bad memories of this place and it wasn't fair to simply ignore George's possible feelings. Patrick had been kept as a prisoner here, but George had been forced to torture him in order to keep him out of anyone else's hands. That couldn't have been any nicer to remember.
George wrapped his arm around Patrick's shoulders and gave him a hug.
"I'll be okay," he said, keeping his voice low. "I don't like remembering it, but I also remember seeing you after we got you out of there, when you were okay and had your head attached. It helps."
Patrick smiled at his brother and he kept close to George as they left the building, headed vaguely in the direction of Beauchamp Tower. "I was okay. And I am now too. And you are a big reason for all of that."
George smiled at him. "We can deface the pictures of Henry on our little brochures, too. That'll be fun."
They came to a stop in front of Beauchamp Tower, and George squinted up at it. "I remember it being taller. Maybe I was just shorter?"
Patrick laughed at George's suggestion of defacing Henry on the brochures. It was tempting.
"You probably were shorter," Patrick said, looking up at the tower as well. "Or circumstances made it larger than it was. Hold my hand?"
George slid his hand into Patrick's, squeezing gently, and they made their way into Beauchamp Tower. It was cooler inside, and dark. But not as dark as it had been when it had been lit only with candles and torches.
"People left a lot of grafitti all over the cells here," George said, voice lowered. "The equivalent of 'Henry is a fat whore' and the like."
"Well that would be just about right," Patrick said as they walked, glad George's hand was in his. "I don't think I grafittied anything. I think I mostly prayed and starved."
"You were really polite to the guards, I remember," George said with a smile. "It kind of irritated them, because it made them think you were planning something."
George saw the hallway that led to the room he'd tortured Patrick in, and steered them in the other direction. They'd see the cell first, to make sure Patrick was all right with that.
Patrick snorted as George mentioned he was polite to the guards. "I wasn't planning anything, I'm just nice! But good to know nice seemed shifty. My goodness."
Patrick could tell they were getting close, and when they neared it in the hallway, he recognised the room, even though he had mostly been inside of it. Then he stepped inside the cell he had spent nine months of his life in.
He lifted his face to the window, which had once been open to the outside, and he stared out at the sky silently for a moment. Then he said, "it used to get damn cold. I both loved and hated that window. I could see sky through the tiniest hole there, but even that little slit let the weather in. I was really sick, wasn't I?" At least inside this room they were alone and they could talk.
Patrick, to his surprise, didn't panic that he was in a room he had once been locked in. He knew he was safe if George was there.
George leaned against the wall, fighting back a shudder. It was so small in here, even smaller than it had seemed centuries ago.
"You were skin and bones when they finally decided to execute you," George said. "It was pretty much the only time I've ever been glad to hear that someone I loved was getting put out of their misery."
Patrick went to lean against the wall, shoulder to shoulder with his brother...well, mostly as he was significantly smaller than George was. "I remember I was pretty glad to hear it too. It's weird being back here because it doesn't feel weird. It doesn't feel like something out of someone else's life, like when I read the books about me. That's...good, right? In a slightly strange and kind of depressing way, considering the circumstances."
"Yeah, it's a good thing," George said, still looking around at the cell. "The bad stuff is as much a part of you as the good. Even if the bad stuff is a lot worse to remember. You doing okay?"
"I am doing okay," Patrick said, still slightly leaning against George. "If that door shuts in the breeze there is likely to be a Patrick-shaped hole in it because I will run at it so fast, but just this...this is okay." Patrick smiled at his older brother. "I'm not in any danger."
"No," George said, smiling a small smile at Patrick, "you aren't."
He ruffled his brother's hair. "It wasn't that you weren't afraid, you know. You were scared shitless and so was I. But you'd do what you had to do to keep other people safe."
Patrick swallowed and then he turned to smile at his brother. George said the most reassuring and wonderful things, and Patrick appreciated it. "I want to be that person again," Patrick said softly, "but you say things like that and I realise I already sort of am. You're right, I was scared shitless, but I faced it anyway and in my head that has become some kind of...monumental lack of fear. Which it wasn't."
"I think you're still that person," George said, leaning forward to plant a kiss on Patrick's forehead. "You've just forgotten about a lot of it."
Patrick grinned up at his brother, beaming and proud. "You think I am? I don't feel brave like that, Georgie. But I guess...I came here today, didn't I? Sometimes...I wish I was as brave as you." Patrick practically hero-worshipped George, even if he didn't talk about it a lot. But this was almost like admitting it.
"I know you are," George said, leaning his forehead against Patrick's for a second before leaning back. "And I dunno, sometimes I don't really think of it as being brave, just me being practical. Kind of 'I know I can do this, and I can come back if I die, which makes me the better choice for doing this dangerous thing'."
"I think that's pretty damn brave," Patrick said quietly. "And you're like...my hero. George, should we go to the other room?"
George pulled Patrick into a hug, to help hide his suddenly-watery eyes. There was clearly too much dust in this room. Clearly.
"We don't have to, if you don't want to," George said, when he released Patrick from his hug. "It's just a cramped little room with, um, chains on the ceiling."
"I think we should," Patrick said, taking George's hand again. "We came all this way. We should face everything, right? I'll be alright. Just...stand between me and the chains, probably?" Patrick didn't like chains. And it didn't help that these would be chains he had once been held in.
It could go badly. He could panic the moment he stepped foot in there and need to be taken outside. But at least he understood that if that happened, he could go outside. So he would face this.
George squeezed Patrick's hand gently and led him out of the cell, towards the room that was burned into his memory. He still knew the way, even though he'd only been to that room one time.
He closed his eyes and tried not to let the memories wash over him. Patrick was beside him, safe and sound, and Henry was dead. And probably technically immortal, but him no longer being king officially meant George could punch his thick skull in if he felt like it.
The room was set up like the torture chamber it had once been. Except there was a rack taking up most of one wall now, and there hadn't been quite as many chains dangling from the ceiling.
"And suddenly I'm finding historical recreation to be in really bad taste," George said aloud.
The sight of the room turned Patrick's stomach, and he tried not to show it even if he couldn't help that his skin turned slightly green. He remembered the anguish he had been in after his last visit to this room, but he also remembered the trouble his brother had gone to to try to keep the pain from him while it was happening. Only being burned by hot irons had made it's way through the amount of opium George had given to Patrick. George had taken such care of him, even then.
"You're not the only one," Patrick finally whispered, his mouth feeling dry and uncooperative. No one else in this room had had the comfort of an opiate blocking their pain receptors. "But it's better than covering it up, I guess."
George reached up to poke at one of the chains experimentally, wincing at the rattling noise it made. He stood still for a moment, eyes closed, and then whirled suddenly to pull Patrick into a hug. It probably startled his brother, but George needed the reassurance that Patrick was all right.
"If any religious purges ever happen again, I'm going to just break you out of jail," George mumbled against Patrick's hair. "Being a double agent sucks. We'll be outlaws instead."
Patrick squeaked as George grabbed him, but once he was in his brother's strong arms, he wasn't about to complain. No one was as reassuring as George, save John. So he clung.
"We can be outlaws together," Patrick said softly, rubbing his brother's back. "And I won't argue with you breaking me out of jail. I didn't much like being in this one, and I think I would fare much worse nowadays."
George smiled. "We'll grow beards and wear disguises. It'll be fun." He glanced over his shoulder at the room. "They'd probably get really mad if I kicked over that rack, wouldn't they?"
"I think so, George," Patrick said, reaching out to give George's shoulder a squeeze. "Come on, I need some air. It's...suffocating in here. Once we're outside we can plan our disguises. I want to have a ginger moustache."
George laughed and wrapped his arm back around Patrick's shoulder, leading his brother back out of the room. Hopefully, this would be the memory that stuck with him now, when he thought about the Tower. Himself and Patrick, laughing and planning to buy giant hats to disguise themselves.