[ Strange's hand lightly brushes against one of the hands coming out of the wall. And then, as he feels those fingers, he knows precisely what he wants to do.
He was oneness, once. Or something close to it. Strange described it to Norrell as being the conduit through which all English magic flowed, but even then the description seemed off. He was magic just as much as he was it's vessel. Something like that would change him. Had changed him. He wasn't himself, he wasn't a foolish magician, arrogance still barrelling into things he knew so little of. He was more. And this offers up the opportunity to be more again.
Paying absolutely no attention to Alucard, Strange throws off his coat, letting it slump to the floor. This would be so much easier if he had a knife! But all he has on hands are his car keys, and those would be too slow. Too slow, too dull, they would hardly work. He'd have to do it himself.
Strange rolls up his shirtsleeve, still staring at the wall, at the hands reaching out, entreating him. And then, without hesitation, he digs his fingernails into his arm, digging hard enough to draw blood. He winces, but continues on. There are a few open scrapes on his arm now. A perfect place to start. Strange continues to scratch at his arm, digging into the open sores, scratching and pulling and trying to make them bigger. Blood starts to seep from the wounds, getting under his fingernails as Strange continues to claw at his own arm, as if trying to rend it open or claw all the way down to the bone.
(All the while, there is a part of him, a small part that claws and fights and rebels against this, trying hard to convince the rest of Jonathan Strange that he is Jonathan Strange.) ]
cw: body horror & gore
He was oneness, once. Or something close to it. Strange described it to Norrell as being the conduit through which all English magic flowed, but even then the description seemed off. He was magic just as much as he was it's vessel. Something like that would change him. Had changed him. He wasn't himself, he wasn't a foolish magician, arrogance still barrelling into things he knew so little of. He was more. And this offers up the opportunity to be more again.
Paying absolutely no attention to Alucard, Strange throws off his coat, letting it slump to the floor. This would be so much easier if he had a knife! But all he has on hands are his car keys, and those would be too slow. Too slow, too dull, they would hardly work. He'd have to do it himself.
Strange rolls up his shirtsleeve, still staring at the wall, at the hands reaching out, entreating him. And then, without hesitation, he digs his fingernails into his arm, digging hard enough to draw blood. He winces, but continues on. There are a few open scrapes on his arm now. A perfect place to start. Strange continues to scratch at his arm, digging into the open sores, scratching and pulling and trying to make them bigger. Blood starts to seep from the wounds, getting under his fingernails as Strange continues to claw at his own arm, as if trying to rend it open or claw all the way down to the bone.
(All the while, there is a part of him, a small part that claws and fights and rebels against this, trying hard to convince the rest of Jonathan Strange that he is Jonathan Strange.) ]