singillatim | bad luck, old sport

He doubts someone's occupying the lone cabin. Surely no one would be so foolish as to live far away from other people in such an inhospitable place such as this --

His spiral into self-deprecation is cut short as he discovers one of those not-so-stable patches in the snow. Crozier stumbles forward with a gasp, catching himself before he falls onto his face, but only just barely. He lands on his knees instead, hand flying up to his mouth to muffle the scream that's wrenched from him by the shattered rib.

It's not enough, and his cry of pain is answered by a distant, lone howl of a wolf.

Edited 2024-02-15 23:04 (UTC)

The noise that comes out of the other man's mouth is a particular kind of pain, the kind which all at once steals self control and dignity and thought, and Raju's still reaching out toward Francis when the howl comes. And then, of course, come more. Raju's head snaps toward the first, and his eyes dart around to try and figure where the others will be coming from the sound. The first is closer, but animals can move faster than the two of them can. Especially like this.

He crouches, movements hurried now, then goes to his knees regardless of what a bad idea it would have seemed before to get his trousers wet in the snow. More stable this way, if he's going to be trying to pull Francis back up.

"We're closer to the cabin than they are to us," he says, wrapping an arm around Francis' back, changing what wants to be urgency in his voice to something a little hurried, but very firm. "Can you stand? Lean on me, I'll get us there."

“Do I have a choice?” he asks through gritted teeth. It’s rhetorical —- he knows either stands and tries to push through the sharp pain in his side or the wolves descend upon them both. A painful outcome either way, but one only involves himself getting hurt and not Raju. Raju getting hurt because of him is not an option.

He finds purchase in Raju’s shirt and with the help of his sturdy form he hauls himself up, a second scream barely muffled by a bite to his lip hard enough to bleed.

“Go,” he gasps. Drag his sorry body if he must.

Francis makes another one of those sickening, familiar noises as he stands, as his ribs do terrible things inside him, and Raju goes. One hand keeps the grip on Francis’ forearm that Raju had used to help him up and the other stays on his back, shifting as Raju twists around to watch behind them. He’s no good at spotting uneven ground under the snow, those deep patches that tripped Francis in the first place, especially not at night. But he’ll be able to spot a wolf.

There. Movement behind them in the dark. And then ahead, off to one side—

It moves out from wherever it had been, but doesn’t attack. If it’s holding back at all that must be because of Raju, obviously uninjured. Going forward too far might take them close to where it stands, watching, unless they go farther around it and take longer to get to the cabin. Long enough, maybe, for the wolves behind to catch up. Unless Raju and Francis can move fast enough.

Raju keeps his eyes on the one ahead while the hand on Francis’ back slips across the blanket’s side, into a little pocket there. He hadn’t needed his knife when he’d first heard Francis’ roof come down, but he may be about to need it now.

Crozier quickly licks at the blood on his lips, as thought that would make the difference now that the wolf is staring them down.

It looks ill, a little mad — is it possible to tell? He’s probably starting to hallucinate, first with a monstrous, insane wolf and then —

Crozier hitches his breath and glances quickly to the man currently holding him upright. Still healthy, still hale. Not rotting from the inside out, not crying in pain from joints made of glass.

“If I fall, just let me go.”

Edited 2024-02-17 14:35 (UTC)

Around it, then. If it were only Raju he'd be more ready to move forward and make the fight certain, but Francis can barely move at this speed, can't stumble without screaming. Raju starts moving the two of them to one side instead of ahead, trying to move as quickly as Francis seems like he can manage, eyes locked on the wolf in front of them and shifting his grip on Francis to keep the hand with the knife free—

If I fall, just let me go, comes Francis' voice, and the sentiment is so opposite to the momentum of Raju's thoughts that Raju scoffs without thinking about it, even risks looking away from that wolf for an instant to give the other man an incredulous look.

"So they can make a meal of you?" he says dismissively, locking eyes with the wolf again. "No. But I might have to fight. If I do, you'll do better sitting yourself down before you can fall. And you'll make a smaller target that way."

He doesn't give Francis' plan, such as it is, any more thought than that. Dropping him and running away is less than an option, would only become necessary if Raju fails, and failure isn't an option, either. Now that Francis knows that Raju's version of the plan is better, makes it easier to keep him safe, he'll drop the ridiculous idea of failure, too.

Yes, so they can make a meal out of him! A tired, stringy, lead-infused meal. Maybe he'd kill the poor bastard through second-hand poisoning. But it's better than putting this man in additional danger, Christ knows he's already asked so much.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he mutters, "if I sit I won't come back up."

He eyes the wolf, which pulls its lips back and shows its teeth. A show of dominance, but why is it waiting? "It's waiting for the pack. We don't have long."

"I know." There's the one he'd spotted behind. At least one to the side. How many wolves in a pack? He's never dealt with them before, he doesn't know. Maybe when he was young, he remembers here and there there'd been predators coming for the goats, so sometimes for a night his mother had volunteered to keep a couple inside. He remembers what terrible houseguests they'd made. But he doesn't remember what kind of predator it was, or how it had been driven off, or anything of use at all.

It doesn't matter. Raju will deal with whatever comes. "Keep moving. There's another one behind—"

He's interrupted by a growl. A growl coming from behind him. He keeps his turn slow, keeping the wolf in front of the cabin in view too, tries to shift Francis very slowly behind him as he does it. He keeps the hand holding the knife stretched out. Wolves are supposed to be clever, aren't they? If he's lucky, clever enough to know a threat when they see one.

Raju's fingers haven't gained any more feeling in them since the last time he thought about it, but he doesn't doubt his grip on the knife. Raju is very aware of the position of each of his limbs, of the feeling of the snow underneath his shoes and the hint of a breeze in his hair, of the sound of the wolf's slow footsteps, of the particular shine of the moonlight. His heart is beating hard, and his breathing is even. He can't afford to doubt anything.

"Jesus Christ," Crozier whispers, taking a soft step back. He cranes his neck to look between the wolves, Raju, the cabin, this tense stand off bringing a little adrenaline back to his very tired, very cold body. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, in his ears, but he doesn't panic. He will not panic. He loathes when people give into hysterics.

There's a beat between another growl from the second wolf and then movement from the first, and Crozier reaches out to grasp Raju's arm.

"Run, we just have to run."

The moment they do, the wolves will be after them. Raju doesn't know much about wolves, but he knows predators, knows a chase. He'd be more surprised if it wasn't true, and thinks it dimly, and realises that he doesn't want to run. He realises that he wants to stand and fight, to prove that he's better, to prove that he can. His weight is shifted forward, leaning toward the threat. His expression is hard, frowning, unhappy with Francis' desperate plan.

But there's Francis. Francis' ribs. His pain. No matter how small a target he might be able to make himself, Raju can't be everywhere. And the cabin is close. Maybe they can make it. Either Raju insists on staying here and finds out for certain whether he can survive against these wolves while there's only two, and can't be everywhere at once, can't always be between Francis and those claws and teeth, or he runs, where success means that they both make it. There's a chance they can both make it. A chance is enough to make it matter more than proving anything. His grip goes tight on Francis' shoulder.

"Go," he says and starts as fast as he can at an angle to the cabin, meaning to dart around the first wolf and then turn to make the straight shot to the building, legs pumping, arm tight around Francis' back. If Francis, injured and hurting, can't run as fast as Raju can, if one of them slips or catches one of those deep patches of snow—

He has his knife. He can't turn to use it if he's going to run but his awareness of the weapon where he's holding it out and behind him is as sharp as the knife itself, as his awareness of his legs, his feet, the air burning in his throat and his weight over the snow, the weight of the other man under his arm. He sees a flicker of orange in the corner of his eye and knows the blade has burst into flame and only thinks, good, satisfied, caring only that if he does get a chance to prove himself, that will help him win. He doesn't look back at it to see, only knows, and runs.

Crozier knows that look, but he's perfectly content in being the one who makes unpopular decisions. Fortunately whatever personal struggle Raju was experiencing with the plan seems to pass, and they begin to push forward through the snow again, never mind the mad wolf ahead of them or the hungry wolf behind.

He feels heat at his side and momentarily forgets the risks of taking his eyes off of the path in front of them, turning to look at -- a flaming knife. That's certainly unusual. He trips in surprise but catches himself before he falls. Forward, Francis, forward, don't turn your head again.

The wolf must sense he's injured, seen the stumble, because it suddenly lunges forward towards the two men.

Turning at this speed while he's got an arm around Francis' back is a risk. Even letting go as he turns Raju risks pushing the other man without meaning to, or unbalancing him, or maybe nothing at all if they're both lucky — but the risk is there, a risk Raju doesn't think about it for a moment because there's no time to think, only time for that sharp awareness of his body to send his hand and the knife in it darting out toward the threat and there's a yelp, the wolf's leap must end before it'd been meant to but there's no time to look and make sure of it either, no time for anything but making sure Francis is still running, for getting the both of them closer to safety. The cabin is there, just there, and there's no room for anything but making it.

Edited (clarity) 2024-02-18 18:03 (UTC)

After the yelp there’s a scorched smell, like burning hair, but his attention on the wolf is fleeting. There’s no pain, no contact save for Raju and the crunch of snow underfoot, so Crozier moves forward without paying any mind to any other environmental distractions. Move forward, push forward—-

His foot hits the first step of the rickety porch. It creaks, gives under his weight ever-so-slightly, but ultimately holds.

The porch is larger than the ones he's seen in the other cabins, or maybe it only seems larger because somewhere behind him he can hear snarling; he wraps his arm around Francis' back again to try and pull him up the steps unthinking whether Francis actually needs the help, turning as he reaches the door to face whatever's behind.

"Go!" Raju's voice is urgent and hard, his focus is narrowed to the beating of his heart and the weapon in his hand and the eyes reflected in the dark. There's the smell of burned hair and a dark shape writhing in the snow, and something moving in the distance, and something close. Even if the other nearer wolf makes it onto the porch, even if the door of the cabin is closed against them, Francis is going to make it inside. "Window if it's locked!"

The door is not locked, but Crozier has to all but throw his shoulder into it to knock away the ice in the frame. It gives suddenly and Crozier pitches into the freezing, albeit safe, darkness of the inside of the hunting cabin.

He manages to once more catch himself and grabs for Raju, intending on pulling him to safety with him. No need to fight the wolves now, there's safety here. They've made it, it's going to be all-right --

Crozier's head spins slightly, Raju's figure blurring slightly.

Raju's fingers are tight around the knife. The blade of the knife burns in the dark. The air burns inside his throat. Behind him there's a heavy, solid noise — Francis must be trying to force the door — from the darkness there's a rough, animal noise, something between a bark and a growl, the shining eyes move up in a leap, claws shining in the moonlight too, Raju feels something pulling him from behind and lets himself loosen just enough to let it pull him backward through the doorway, he slams the door—

There's a thump against the wood outside. The fire over his knife flares at the noise and Raju's still for an instant, watching, and then moves forward and uses its light to see the doorknob, hand moving as quick as he can to lock the door. Then he steps back again, turning on his heel. The fire over the knife is starting to gutter, flaring and dimming with every few beats of his heart. It doesn't make for very much light, and the fading of the moment, the realisation that they might be safe, is making Raju conscious of it in a way he wasn't before. He holds the knife half behind him, shaking it to try and put the fire out, and steps toward Francis, trying to see what he can of his face.

"Francis." His voice is heavy with relief, with all the breath he hadn't allowed himself to take when the threat was too near, and his free hand grabs at Francis' upper arm. "We did it."

Obvious, maybe, but worth saying for the laughter creeping into his voice, and the triumphant smile growing over his face. Not much warmer than it had been outside, and darker, but safe. That feels worth being proud of, right now.

Did they --

Is it possible the wolves didn't follow them inside? The freeze? The potential for more harm? He tries to feel the relief that's supposed to accompany a close call, an actual successful escape, but instead he only feels his brain continue to swirl about inside his skull.

He tries to grab for Raju in return, his hand connecting briefly before his brain decides that the adrenaline can no longer sustain it. He touches his arm and then promptly drops, body crumpling to the floor of the dusty cabin with a low 'thump'.

"Francis!" Raju goes to his knees beside the darker shape he can see crumpled over the floor, the last of that particular awareness of his body, of the threats, not falling away but narrowing, changing, and as the knife clatters to the wood behind him the last of the fire over it goes out. Raju doesn't notice. He rolls the body — Francis — over, straightening it out enough to hold his hand in front of the mouth, hoping to feel breath.

If one of the wolves had gotten to him, Raju would have noticed. So of course he isn't dead. But when he fell, probably jarring his ribs awfully, he hadn't screamed. And he'd mentioned a headache, hadn't he? If that had meant something worse than just a headache...

"If I could just see," Raju mutters, frustrated, and then raises his voice a little and makes it brisk, patting at Francis' cheek. His other hand grips the man's arm, a little more tightly than he realises. "Francis. Wake up now. There's still too much to do, you can't sleep."

His body's finally hit its limit. He's taken beatings before - metaphorical, literal - survived poisons and illnesses and starvation, an attack by an actual god-like being, having his hand amputated, but Francis Crozier is only human. It's all been too much, and he's so, so tired.

He groans softly as his cheek is tapped. He's alive, conscious enough to respond in the smallest of capacities, but any more than that is asking for far too much. If he had the wherewithal to apologize to Raju he would.

"Cold," he whispers, voice so faint that if there were any other noise he wouldn't be heard.

Raju’s eyebrows pull together at the sound of that voice. Only a moment ago Francis had been running though every rough step must have pained him, had been pulling Raju to safety, saving his life— but a moment ago they were being chased by wolves. When a man is running to keep his life, he might do all sorts of things you hadn’t expected him to before. But Francis sounds so weak now.

Raju takes a bracing breath, straightening his back. Cold. That should be the first thing. A fire to warm Francis up, and allow Raju to take a real look at him. He’ll take care of that first, and everything else will follow from there. There’s the fireplace in the room just to his right filled with a few ancient looking logs and ashes, and that will be enough to start with.

Tinder first. There’s an old newspaper nearby— further from town, this cabin might be less picked over than the ones closer — and Raju grabs it, then digs the quartz and the head of some old hammer, small but good enough to spark, out from the pocket in the blanket over Francis’ chest, then moves over to the fireplace with them. He crumples the newspaper and tears it roughly, more concerned with being quick than thorough, and watches his hands try to mimic the movements that remind him of Seetha now, of remembering the way she’d used to light the stove before meals, the way he’d used to sit and watch and talk to her. But the smooth way he’d been able to do it when he’d practiced before is gone; his hands aren’t steady enough for anything that precise. They’re shaking again, or shaking still, he’d thought that had stopped but he can’t get a single damned spark.

He looks over his shoulder, frowning, jaw clenched. It’s too dark yet, he can’t see Francis from here, and the man’s voice had been so quiet before. At this rate if he says anything else at all, needs anything, Raju isn’t going to hear it.

Damn it all. This first, then. Francis will need to be closer to the fireplace eventually anyway. Raju tosses the useless quartz and steel on the ground and walks back over, crouching behind Francis’ head.

“I’m going to drag you now,” Raju tells him matter of factly, not sure if his words are even being heard, saying them anyway. “It’s probably going to hurt.” He takes a breath for more, an apology waiting behind his teeth, but hesitates before it comes out. It doesn’t do anyone any good, does it, apologizing for something that he’s still going to do.

Still, he hesitates.

Then he moves, sliding his arms under Francis’ shoulders and hooking his elbows around Francis’ armpits, and goes backward in a crouch. It isn’t far. He’ll be able to settle Francis where he needs him in a moment, in a few seconds, and then Raju will be able to hear if anything happens, and then he can figure out how to get on with things.

There’s not much else Crozier can do but lie there and keep himself from succumbing completely to the overwhelming urge to sleep. He’s not overly warm, and he can tell he’s indoors, which is enough to reassure his struggling brain that he isn’t dying of hypothermia.

But the exhaustion, the exhaustion and agony —- he barely even makes a noise when he’s dragged across the dusty floor of the cabin, despite being twisted and moved and feeling his broken ribs get pushed and pulled. It’s not just the sort of tired in mind and body, but his soul is worn and ragged.

It occurs to him that it would be so easy - and welcome - to just let himself slip away. It wouldn’t be fair to Raju after how hard he’s fought for him, but it’s tempting. His mind begins to wander, slipping away from the present and bringing him back to that silent tent in the mutineers’ abandoned camp.

“They all died. They all died, every single one of them…”

Time is important, still, but for a moment Raju doesn't do anything but look at him, the frown starting in his eyebrows and shifting to his mouth, confusion fading into worry. The pain surely hasn't gone, but there hadn't been a noise. And now this.

But he can worry while doing what Francis needs him to. He moves himself over to the quartz and steel, picks them up to hold them over the fireplace, tries to strike one against the other and scowls at his shaking hands.

He glances over at Francis, needing to split his focus to something other than his failure, needing to check on him, to know:

"Francis," he tries. It's not as if he couldn't guess it, that there's some kind of shadow in this man's past. Irishman sailing with the British navy, but living long enough in a frozen place where nothing grows that he'd need to learn from the people living there. And he must have spent years living in close quarters on those ships, but wouldn't stay in the Hall during that storm, the Hall where the majority of the food and firewood and preparation was going into, and wouldn't say why. There was always something there. It was never Raju's main worry the times that they'd talked, and wasn't any of his business. Is Francis telling him now, for some reason? Or has he forgotten it isn't happening? "Do you know where you are?"

He knows where he is, but his answer comes after a pregnant pause. "Milton," he whispers, "I know where I am. Milton, somewhere south."

Crozier grimaces as he hears Raju trying to light a fire, pain in his chest throbbing now that his body's started to settle into the hardwood floor.

"Jopson, Little, Goodsir...Gibson, Hickey -- I know them, Raju. I know them. They were a part of my crew, my men."

Raju's frown at his hands, for a moment, is more confused than frustrated. Then he places the rest of the names, the ones he knows, and understanding takes the place of the frown.

"I thought there were an odd number of navy men about." It's hard to make the kind of light comment he usually would, and his smile tells the strain. But despite Francis' answer, Raju isn't confident that Francis does know where they are, not entirely, and the first thing Francis had said after collapsing was how cold he was, and Raju's damned hands still won't work. And of course the... the thing which doesn't bear thinking about is gone from his knife, and gone now that he'd use it on purpose, if he only knew how.

He moves his hands, tries to brace them against the side of the fireplace and the floor. He'll try it this way. And he'll try to keep Francis talking; it's important again, if he wants to try to keep the man's mind here, with him. But a man who's dazed like this might share any number of things that he wouldn't if he were healthy and feeling well, and Francis is a friend, and there's nothing that Raju has to take from anyone that they wouldn't give, here. Not knowledge or anything else.

But it's hard to keep a man talking without pushing to know more. He'll try.

"You're their... captain? Did you tell me your rank, when we met?"

He wouldn’t have given him his rank, even when he did finally think to give him his name. But in his current state he can’t quite remember, and he furrows his brow as he stares up into a cobweb-laced ceiling.

“No,” he finally answers, voice sounding faint. “No, I’m their captain no longer. They’re dead, all dead. I don’t know why they live here, but where I’m from they’ve been dead for years.”

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