[ There's a brief, confused lift of eyebrows, before (unfortunately for Wynonna), a persistently sincere— ]
I do mean it.
[ He doesn't want to leave her with any doubt as to that regard, and knows he struggles with conveying things adequately, so his words are accompanied by a very serious nod, eyes locked right onto her instead of shyly fluttering away. ]
Our situation was.... unspeakably horrific. Not only were you capable of helping me through it, but you... went back. Surely it even goes against human instinct, to face such, and especially with little hope for survival.
[ It's not just the conjured images of flames eating away at himself and the smell of his own seared flesh that have filled his nightmares. It's her, burning, never coming back out, and maybe that was the worst part of all of it. When he was inside the house, he was in some sort of shock, mind numbed. When he was outside of it and could breathe again and watched Wynonna vanish back through that crumbling door, it was... a different sort of fear.
He falls quiet again as he listens, his attention fixed on. Not real. Maybe once, not so long ago, he wouldn't have been able to understand such a concept. Now he does. This place has... shown him things. He can imagine such an experience happening, though he's no less startled and distressed by what she's telling him now. It makes his heart hurt: a little boy, frightened, clinging to Wynonna, seeing his mother in her. (A spectre? Another ghost? He isn't the only one who has been haunted, and his eyes soften as he watches her.) It must have been... traumatising, yet even her exit from the house betrayed little of that. How is it that she's capable of being so strong? So iron-willed? Little stares at the woman, some mix of awed and wounded by everything she's telling him, head bowing for a moment. ]
I have felt many ghosts here, yet little hauntings as cruel as one involving a child. ....But that he had you to hold him was a mercy I am grateful for.
[ Whether a true phantom, a fluttering little echo, or a trick conceived by this place, it does not matter. Because of Wynonna, a crying child was not alone.
The question that comes isn't a surprise; perhaps he expected it. Perhaps she's made it easier for him to answer, to share in response, with the door she's opened in sharing her own horrors. Little pauses, gazing down at the amber liquid in his glass, unsure how to begin. He finds himself going back, backwards, to the start. It's a lot to share, but none of it feels forced. Not to her, not in this moment. He speaks slowly, recollecting each thing that he can still hold onto. The poison has eroded some of the edges to his memory, but for this... he recalls most of it, and the pieces are more palpable, soft and raised enough that his fingertips can brush against them, like scar tissue. ]
When we were trapped out on the ice, one of our commanders proposed an event to lift the spirits of the men — a sort of festival. In truth, I was not keen on the idea, it used up so many of our resources, but.... I can understand its value. And for a time, our men were happy. Happier than we'd seen them in so much time. They created an entire world, drawing together tarps and tents to create rooms... and different things within each. Displays, recreations of comforts from home...
[ His mouth slowly draws to a deeper frown as he continues, brows knit as though in confusion, although he remembers this part especially well. It begins to feel like a dream, a nightmare. ]
But then we... something went wrong. One of the ship's surgeons was behaving strangely. We didn't understand at first. He was only standing there, and then he— he set himself alight. It happened so suddenly that we were unable to reach him in time. He perished. And then everything else began to burn. The food, decor, the tents — he had sabotaged them all. Drenched them in oil.
[ His voice remains steady enough, not panicked, but his eyes grow wider as he speaks, haunted by memory. By sensation. Sounds, sights, smells. The fire was surreal, blazing like something alive, eating away at everything it touched. The screams were— unimaginable. He has never heard grown men scream that way.
But it was the smell that was the worst of it. ]
The men began to panic. The tents were fastened so tightly and they were— they were like a maze, we could not get out. Some of us fell in the rush, some burned—
[ His words cut off then as he loses his breath, loses the resilience against the tight lump in his throat, and realises his fingers are grasping his glass so tightly that his pale knuckles stretch whiter. Without his usual gloves on, he feels... strangely exposed. He lifts that glass to his mouth, taking a heavier swallow this time — the movements of his throat audible as the liquid rushes down into him, cold at first, but then warm, hot, as the alcohol spreads through his belly, and he finds himself welcoming the sensation. Welcoming any warmth at all. He stares at the dark wooden floorboards of his cabin, and none of this explains why he'd frozen, not really (he can't understand it, only knows that he has been stricken into a frozen fear more than once since then). ]
cw: mention of fire / death by fire / fire-related trauma
I do mean it.
[ He doesn't want to leave her with any doubt as to that regard, and knows he struggles with conveying things adequately, so his words are accompanied by a very serious nod, eyes locked right onto her instead of shyly fluttering away. ]
Our situation was.... unspeakably horrific. Not only were you capable of helping me through it, but you... went back. Surely it even goes against human instinct, to face such, and especially with little hope for survival.
[ It's not just the conjured images of flames eating away at himself and the smell of his own seared flesh that have filled his nightmares. It's her, burning, never coming back out, and maybe that was the worst part of all of it. When he was inside the house, he was in some sort of shock, mind numbed. When he was outside of it and could breathe again and watched Wynonna vanish back through that crumbling door, it was... a different sort of fear.
He falls quiet again as he listens, his attention fixed on. Not real. Maybe once, not so long ago, he wouldn't have been able to understand such a concept. Now he does. This place has... shown him things. He can imagine such an experience happening, though he's no less startled and distressed by what she's telling him now. It makes his heart hurt: a little boy, frightened, clinging to Wynonna, seeing his mother in her. (A spectre? Another ghost? He isn't the only one who has been haunted, and his eyes soften as he watches her.) It must have been... traumatising, yet even her exit from the house betrayed little of that. How is it that she's capable of being so strong? So iron-willed? Little stares at the woman, some mix of awed and wounded by everything she's telling him, head bowing for a moment. ]
I have felt many ghosts here, yet little hauntings as cruel as one involving a child. ....But that he had you to hold him was a mercy I am grateful for.
[ Whether a true phantom, a fluttering little echo, or a trick conceived by this place, it does not matter. Because of Wynonna, a crying child was not alone.
The question that comes isn't a surprise; perhaps he expected it. Perhaps she's made it easier for him to answer, to share in response, with the door she's opened in sharing her own horrors. Little pauses, gazing down at the amber liquid in his glass, unsure how to begin. He finds himself going back, backwards, to the start. It's a lot to share, but none of it feels forced. Not to her, not in this moment. He speaks slowly, recollecting each thing that he can still hold onto. The poison has eroded some of the edges to his memory, but for this... he recalls most of it, and the pieces are more palpable, soft and raised enough that his fingertips can brush against them, like scar tissue. ]
When we were trapped out on the ice, one of our commanders proposed an event to lift the spirits of the men — a sort of festival. In truth, I was not keen on the idea, it used up so many of our resources, but.... I can understand its value. And for a time, our men were happy. Happier than we'd seen them in so much time. They created an entire world, drawing together tarps and tents to create rooms... and different things within each. Displays, recreations of comforts from home...
[ His mouth slowly draws to a deeper frown as he continues, brows knit as though in confusion, although he remembers this part especially well. It begins to feel like a dream, a nightmare. ]
But then we... something went wrong. One of the ship's surgeons was behaving strangely. We didn't understand at first. He was only standing there, and then he— he set himself alight. It happened so suddenly that we were unable to reach him in time. He perished. And then everything else began to burn. The food, decor, the tents — he had sabotaged them all. Drenched them in oil.
[ His voice remains steady enough, not panicked, but his eyes grow wider as he speaks, haunted by memory. By sensation. Sounds, sights, smells. The fire was surreal, blazing like something alive, eating away at everything it touched. The screams were— unimaginable. He has never heard grown men scream that way.
But it was the smell that was the worst of it. ]
The men began to panic. The tents were fastened so tightly and they were— they were like a maze, we could not get out. Some of us fell in the rush, some burned—
[ His words cut off then as he loses his breath, loses the resilience against the tight lump in his throat, and realises his fingers are grasping his glass so tightly that his pale knuckles stretch whiter. Without his usual gloves on, he feels... strangely exposed. He lifts that glass to his mouth, taking a heavier swallow this time — the movements of his throat audible as the liquid rushes down into him, cold at first, but then warm, hot, as the alcohol spreads through his belly, and he finds himself welcoming the sensation. Welcoming any warmth at all. He stares at the dark wooden floorboards of his cabin, and none of this explains why he'd frozen, not really (he can't understand it, only knows that he has been stricken into a frozen fear more than once since then). ]
We lost many men that night.