![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roesslyngTitle: To Sannikov Land
Fandom: The Magnus Archives
Characters/Pairing: Michael Shelley & Gertrude Robinson
Rating: 0+
Length: 1.7k
Summary: Michael doesn't know where this investigation will lead, and Gertrude won't tell him.
Other: Written immediately after listening to MAG 101 for the first time; some details might not be in line with info revealed later.
Finally finished/posted it for the 2022 round of![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
crackthewip!
To Sannikov Land
Though it was summer, the air was sharp.
Michael breathed deeply, watching it frost as he exhaled. It was impossible to escape the crisp, clear cold, which seeped into everything no matter how many layers he wore.
The ship made its way north steadily, silently, and Michael couldn't help but wonder just what would happen when it finally reached its destination.
He was beginning to get concerned.
An investigation. In Russia. He had initially been excited by the prospect; he had never imagined he'd have the chance to visit Russia, and the possibility of going on an investigative mission there with Miss Robinson sounded like an amazing opportunity to prove his worth to the Archives. But she had told him hardly anything about the trip: not what they would need to do to prepare, or what research he should do beforehand, or even what exactly they would be investigating.
"Leave the details to me, Michael," she'd said gently when he asked her about it for the fifth time. "I'll take care of everything." There was something in her voice that Michael couldn't quite place.
"Are you, um. I mean, are you sure? I really don't mind. There must be some research you need done beforehand, right? I know there's a lot to -"
"It's fine. Thank you."
There it was again, and that time, Michael heard the hint beneath her patient words. It said that all patience had limits, even hers, and he ought not to press too far.
He had excused himself, and didn't ask again.
Gertrude Robinson handled the documentation, prepared her research materials, and arranged for all of their transportation. Michael hadn't had to do a thing. Still, he had wondered what exactly this was all about. He had never heard of Sannilkovland, but since he was hardly well-versed in Russian geography, this didn't mean much.
He hadn't expected that their journey would lead somewhere so remote.
In their small cabin on the Tundra, Michael thumbed through his journal. Ever since they'd left London, he'd kept notes of their travels, which were considerable, and the details that Gertrude had given him about the investigation, which were almost nonexistent.
Even bundled up in two layers of clothing, he felt the cold. His fingertips felt like ice, and he fumbled with the pages as he flipped to the previous entry, the day they'd left Dikson. Biting his lip, Michael pulled his hands into his sleeves and thought about the moment they'd pulled away from the shore, away from a port that was little more than a scrap on the arctic coastline.
At the time, he'd felt something he couldn't describe. A finality, as if from here, he'd never be able to go back. It was a feeling that made no sense at all.
The only explanation he could think of was that the cold was messing with his head. It slipped right through him as if he were wearing nothing, making it hard to think properly.
And if it's affecting you, Michael told himself, Miss Robinson must have it even worse.
He put his journal back, tucking it neatly into his rucksack. Then he took up his mittens, and after thinking of it, unpacked the extra scarf he'd brought to bring with him. Then he went to find Gertrude.
She was where he had thought she would be: toward the bow, watching as they sailed further north, standing straight-backed and looking more like an admiral than an archivist.
For a moment, Michael held back, watching her. He had decided days ago, as they were travelling from Moscow toward Siberia, that the reason she hadn't told him what her plans were was because this wasn't meant to be his investigation at all. It was her investigation, her project, and she had only brought him along for... for what?
To carry her bags?
Maybe.
It was the only explanation that made any sense.
A cold wind blew, tearing at his hair. Michael shuddered and tucked the long curls under the collar of his coat.
Well. If all she needed was an extra pair of hands, he was happy to help. He trusted her judgment, and if she wanted to keep the details of her mission to herself, that was fine.
The wind blew again, but he ignored it, and went to stand beside her.
Black water spread out before them, interspersed with chunks of ice. It reached in all directions, surrounding them. Nothing else. No birds. No land. No sign that any other humans had ever sailed through these waters at all.
Michael shivered, and that time it wasn't from the cold. "Miss Robinson," he said, biting at his lower lip, "where are we going?"
Gertrude's voice was cold and firm. "I told you before. Sannilkovland." There was no frailty in her words. The tremor her voice usually had when she spoke to him was absent.
"I... Right. Yes, of course." He had meant it as a rhetorical question, only intending to say that it seemed as if they were going to the very end of the Earth. It didn't really matter where they were going. When they got there, he was sure she would tell him everything he needed to know.
Still. There was something else. "I, um. It's cold out here. And I saw that you... I don't think you packed a scarf with you, so - that is -" Michael took a deep breath of sharp, cold air. Tried to steady his voice and his words, which always seemed to get out of joint when he was around Gertrude, worse than with anyone else. "I brought an extra one. You can borrow it? If you want to. I don't mind."
Gertrude looked at him then. Set her eyes on him, colder than he'd ever seen them, colder than the arctic air. Then she looked away, and held out a hand. "Thank you, Michael."
Wordless, he handed it over. She tied it slowly, looping the long handknit scarf around twice. "You should go back inside now," she said.
It did not sound like a suggestion.
But what about you? Michael thought about asking that, but clamped down on the words before they tumbled out of his mouth. Ordinarily, he would have had no issue with expressing his concern, but here, so far from the warm and dusty archives of the Magnus Institute, Gertrude looked as if she wouldn't tolerate a word of it.
Best to keep it to himself.
Michael thought about doing as he was told. Going back inside. At least he wouldn't have to deal with the sharpness of the air.
Instead, he stayed. Gripped the railing with his mittened hands, despite the cold seeping in through the metal. Michael looked out into the endless, empty expanse, and felt a heavy ball of dread settle in his stomach.
He had to ask.
"I -" A deep breath. "I'd like to know what we're going to do when we get there. To Sannilkovland. The investigation, I mean. You haven't told me anything about it."
Michael bit down on his lower lip to stop himself from saying anything else. Though he didn't look at her, he could feel Gertrude's eyes on him. The silence between them stretched out as wide as the sea in front of them.
Finally, she said, "You never know what might be listening. Or watching."
He didn't understand, but opened his mouth to apologize anyway. She continued before he could speak.
"There is a force of great evil there," Gertrude said. "And you're going to help me defeat it." She wasn't looking at him any more, her eyes once again on the emptiness of the black water, the grey sky.
The words slipped down Michael's spine like ice. Any other time, he would have been elated to hear that Gertrude wanted his help, that she would choose him over anyone else for a task like this. But the sharp, matter-of-fact way she said it wasn't reassuring at all.
Still. It sounded important; even dangerous. But whatever was going to happen, Gertrude had a plan. He didn't need to know the details. All he needed to do was trust that she knew what she was doing.
Gripping the railing with trembling hands, Michael clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. He wondered if it was only the cold that was unsettling him, or if it was whatever lay ahead, too. The fog from his breath had crystallized on his hair, turning it into thin strands of white frost framing his face. It beaded on his lashes, and as he reached up to wipe it away, he wondered how on earth Gertrude could stand it. Every breath came hard and cold, freezing him from the inside out.
In the end, all he could say was, "Okay." It was the only thing he could say. Nothing else would come out right.
Gertrude patted his hand. When he looked at her, he saw her just as confident as before, just as firm. "Go inside, Michael," she said.
Once again, it wasn't a suggestion.
"Yes, Miss Robinson." He let go of the railing, feeling sheepish, chastised. Like he shouldn't have lingered. Like he shouldn't have asked her anything at all.
A gust of wind slipped beneath his coat, icy fingers picking the seams of his clothing. Michael shuddered, then looked back toward Gertrude. "Are you coming?" he asked, pulling his hands into the sleeves of his coat.
She stared at him as if she had never heard anything of the sort. "No," she said. There was weight to it. A finality. Then she turned away from him, looking again toward the bleak, empty expanse.
It wasn't until Michael was once again in their cabin, shucking off his coat and trying to get some feeling back into his face, that it occurred to him that she might have meant something else. His hands froze halfway through unwinding his scarf, and he stared into space for a moment, icy apprehension creeping through his insides.
Then he swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and took that thought and pushed it down deep inside of him, locking it up tight.
The cold was getting to him. That was all.
Fandom: The Magnus Archives
Characters/Pairing: Michael Shelley & Gertrude Robinson
Rating: 0+
Length: 1.7k
Summary: Michael doesn't know where this investigation will lead, and Gertrude won't tell him.
Other: Written immediately after listening to MAG 101 for the first time; some details might not be in line with info revealed later.
Finally finished/posted it for the 2022 round of
crackthewip!To Sannikov Land
Though it was summer, the air was sharp.
Michael breathed deeply, watching it frost as he exhaled. It was impossible to escape the crisp, clear cold, which seeped into everything no matter how many layers he wore.
The ship made its way north steadily, silently, and Michael couldn't help but wonder just what would happen when it finally reached its destination.
He was beginning to get concerned.
An investigation. In Russia. He had initially been excited by the prospect; he had never imagined he'd have the chance to visit Russia, and the possibility of going on an investigative mission there with Miss Robinson sounded like an amazing opportunity to prove his worth to the Archives. But she had told him hardly anything about the trip: not what they would need to do to prepare, or what research he should do beforehand, or even what exactly they would be investigating.
"Leave the details to me, Michael," she'd said gently when he asked her about it for the fifth time. "I'll take care of everything." There was something in her voice that Michael couldn't quite place.
"Are you, um. I mean, are you sure? I really don't mind. There must be some research you need done beforehand, right? I know there's a lot to -"
"It's fine. Thank you."
There it was again, and that time, Michael heard the hint beneath her patient words. It said that all patience had limits, even hers, and he ought not to press too far.
He had excused himself, and didn't ask again.
Gertrude Robinson handled the documentation, prepared her research materials, and arranged for all of their transportation. Michael hadn't had to do a thing. Still, he had wondered what exactly this was all about. He had never heard of Sannilkovland, but since he was hardly well-versed in Russian geography, this didn't mean much.
He hadn't expected that their journey would lead somewhere so remote.
In their small cabin on the Tundra, Michael thumbed through his journal. Ever since they'd left London, he'd kept notes of their travels, which were considerable, and the details that Gertrude had given him about the investigation, which were almost nonexistent.
Even bundled up in two layers of clothing, he felt the cold. His fingertips felt like ice, and he fumbled with the pages as he flipped to the previous entry, the day they'd left Dikson. Biting his lip, Michael pulled his hands into his sleeves and thought about the moment they'd pulled away from the shore, away from a port that was little more than a scrap on the arctic coastline.
At the time, he'd felt something he couldn't describe. A finality, as if from here, he'd never be able to go back. It was a feeling that made no sense at all.
The only explanation he could think of was that the cold was messing with his head. It slipped right through him as if he were wearing nothing, making it hard to think properly.
And if it's affecting you, Michael told himself, Miss Robinson must have it even worse.
He put his journal back, tucking it neatly into his rucksack. Then he took up his mittens, and after thinking of it, unpacked the extra scarf he'd brought to bring with him. Then he went to find Gertrude.
She was where he had thought she would be: toward the bow, watching as they sailed further north, standing straight-backed and looking more like an admiral than an archivist.
For a moment, Michael held back, watching her. He had decided days ago, as they were travelling from Moscow toward Siberia, that the reason she hadn't told him what her plans were was because this wasn't meant to be his investigation at all. It was her investigation, her project, and she had only brought him along for... for what?
To carry her bags?
Maybe.
It was the only explanation that made any sense.
A cold wind blew, tearing at his hair. Michael shuddered and tucked the long curls under the collar of his coat.
Well. If all she needed was an extra pair of hands, he was happy to help. He trusted her judgment, and if she wanted to keep the details of her mission to herself, that was fine.
The wind blew again, but he ignored it, and went to stand beside her.
Black water spread out before them, interspersed with chunks of ice. It reached in all directions, surrounding them. Nothing else. No birds. No land. No sign that any other humans had ever sailed through these waters at all.
Michael shivered, and that time it wasn't from the cold. "Miss Robinson," he said, biting at his lower lip, "where are we going?"
Gertrude's voice was cold and firm. "I told you before. Sannilkovland." There was no frailty in her words. The tremor her voice usually had when she spoke to him was absent.
"I... Right. Yes, of course." He had meant it as a rhetorical question, only intending to say that it seemed as if they were going to the very end of the Earth. It didn't really matter where they were going. When they got there, he was sure she would tell him everything he needed to know.
Still. There was something else. "I, um. It's cold out here. And I saw that you... I don't think you packed a scarf with you, so - that is -" Michael took a deep breath of sharp, cold air. Tried to steady his voice and his words, which always seemed to get out of joint when he was around Gertrude, worse than with anyone else. "I brought an extra one. You can borrow it? If you want to. I don't mind."
Gertrude looked at him then. Set her eyes on him, colder than he'd ever seen them, colder than the arctic air. Then she looked away, and held out a hand. "Thank you, Michael."
Wordless, he handed it over. She tied it slowly, looping the long handknit scarf around twice. "You should go back inside now," she said.
It did not sound like a suggestion.
But what about you? Michael thought about asking that, but clamped down on the words before they tumbled out of his mouth. Ordinarily, he would have had no issue with expressing his concern, but here, so far from the warm and dusty archives of the Magnus Institute, Gertrude looked as if she wouldn't tolerate a word of it.
Best to keep it to himself.
Michael thought about doing as he was told. Going back inside. At least he wouldn't have to deal with the sharpness of the air.
Instead, he stayed. Gripped the railing with his mittened hands, despite the cold seeping in through the metal. Michael looked out into the endless, empty expanse, and felt a heavy ball of dread settle in his stomach.
He had to ask.
"I -" A deep breath. "I'd like to know what we're going to do when we get there. To Sannilkovland. The investigation, I mean. You haven't told me anything about it."
Michael bit down on his lower lip to stop himself from saying anything else. Though he didn't look at her, he could feel Gertrude's eyes on him. The silence between them stretched out as wide as the sea in front of them.
Finally, she said, "You never know what might be listening. Or watching."
He didn't understand, but opened his mouth to apologize anyway. She continued before he could speak.
"There is a force of great evil there," Gertrude said. "And you're going to help me defeat it." She wasn't looking at him any more, her eyes once again on the emptiness of the black water, the grey sky.
The words slipped down Michael's spine like ice. Any other time, he would have been elated to hear that Gertrude wanted his help, that she would choose him over anyone else for a task like this. But the sharp, matter-of-fact way she said it wasn't reassuring at all.
Still. It sounded important; even dangerous. But whatever was going to happen, Gertrude had a plan. He didn't need to know the details. All he needed to do was trust that she knew what she was doing.
Gripping the railing with trembling hands, Michael clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. He wondered if it was only the cold that was unsettling him, or if it was whatever lay ahead, too. The fog from his breath had crystallized on his hair, turning it into thin strands of white frost framing his face. It beaded on his lashes, and as he reached up to wipe it away, he wondered how on earth Gertrude could stand it. Every breath came hard and cold, freezing him from the inside out.
In the end, all he could say was, "Okay." It was the only thing he could say. Nothing else would come out right.
Gertrude patted his hand. When he looked at her, he saw her just as confident as before, just as firm. "Go inside, Michael," she said.
Once again, it wasn't a suggestion.
"Yes, Miss Robinson." He let go of the railing, feeling sheepish, chastised. Like he shouldn't have lingered. Like he shouldn't have asked her anything at all.
A gust of wind slipped beneath his coat, icy fingers picking the seams of his clothing. Michael shuddered, then looked back toward Gertrude. "Are you coming?" he asked, pulling his hands into the sleeves of his coat.
She stared at him as if she had never heard anything of the sort. "No," she said. There was weight to it. A finality. Then she turned away from him, looking again toward the bleak, empty expanse.
It wasn't until Michael was once again in their cabin, shucking off his coat and trying to get some feeling back into his face, that it occurred to him that she might have meant something else. His hands froze halfway through unwinding his scarf, and he stared into space for a moment, icy apprehension creeping through his insides.
Then he swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and took that thought and pushed it down deep inside of him, locking it up tight.
The cold was getting to him. That was all.
