singillatim | 1. I've heard teeth can explode in air this cold. Imagine.

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1. I've heard teeth can explode in air this cold. Imagine.

Who: Harry Goodsir and divers hands.
What: Continuations from Harry's TMD threads, plus open to anyone else who wants in.
Where: All around.
When: In the days leading up to September's event.

Harry has found a house. It's much like the others, but what catches his attention is that it appears to have been owned by a person—a woman, he concludes from the clothing and other belongings left behind—with an interest in natural history. There's a bookcase in the front room with a variety of scientific and medical texts—nothing scholarly per se, but popular studies accessible to lay readers. He cannot find any other trace of the former inhabitant—no body—and so after wrestling with his conscience for a bit, he eventually gathers up what seems most personal and puts it all in a storage closet. Just in case.

He'll open the door to anyone who stops by.

Otherwise, he is out and about, making himself useful where he can.

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That tiny flame of anger only gets stoked by Little's explanation. Part of Goodsir wants to go easy on him, but a harder, colder part, the part that was winning at the end, stares with judgement.

"A vote. Had Captain Fitzjames lived, Le Vesconte would have never entertained such a thought for a moment." He closes his eyes for a moment, seeing again Fitzjames's despoiled corpse, Hickey's face as he pulled on those fine leather boots. He looks directly at Little. "Perhaps I've misunderstood the chain of command? With Fitzjames dead, you were Crozier's second, were you not? And that is what you did with it?"

It had seemed.... almost laughable in its absurdity. The idea of a vote, safely taken while he'd slept. Would they have cast it when he was awake and aware?

Does it matter, now? Nothing does, nothing except what had come from it. Edward can't look up at the other man, head dipping downwards, and he reaches up to remove his officer's cap, peeling it from tangles of unkempt hair, lowering it into his hands. Everything Goodsir says is correct, every single thing, and to have someone speak those words aloud to him... the words that have been haunting him night and day...

"There— there was nothing I could do. Not on my own." He says the words slowly, thickly, mouth and eyes wide. Even now, it feels like someone else says them; he feels detached from himself; he has not remotely begun to process the true extent of this horror. "I could not... save him. Any of you. Not on my own."

Edward's mouth forms a deep grimace, pained, like a keening animal. He should have threatened them, used force. Should have died trying. Isn't that what true loyalty would be?

"I am sorry. I— God, I am sorry."

The kettle, forgotten some time, lets out a piercing shriek. Goodsir starts, then goes to take it off the heat, grateful for something that stops him having to look at Edward Little's face.

His hands are shaking as he pours hot water into cups, over the little tea sachets that he'd found earlier and which had caused him some confusion before he realised you weren't supposed to tear them open.

"Sorry," he echoes. He sets the kettle back down, and absurdly, mechanically, goes through the social motions of bringing Little's mug of tea to him, setting it down on the small table beside him.

"Of course there was nothing you could have done alone," he says, as he takes his own seat again. "But an officer gives orders, does he not? Or did you fear some sort of second mutiny, against your authority?"

Edward startles at the sound, looks up for a moment to watch the other man move, silence falling to the air between them. Only his own pounding heart thrums in his ears, unpleasant, suffocating. When Goodsir returns, Little does not meet his eyes, his gaze staying on the cup that's placed near him.

He shrinks from the words like a struck dog, as Goodsir continues to speak the words that live inside of himself. As if the other man is his own conscience, his own guilt and shame and horror. He's giving a soft shake of his head, willing the words up and out of himself, hollow against his throat.

"If ever I had authority over those men, it was all lost by then. They...they did not see me as a lieutenant."

When did it happen? That his position meant nothing.....? Those faces stared back without fear of him at all. Without respect. He was nothing.

"....They did not see me as anything at all," he utters, quietly. Why did they even want him to come? Why not just kill him?

(Would a better man have demanded death, in the end? Kill me, then. I will not abandon our captain. Spoken those words?)

At that, Goodsir can't help it—he feels a surge of pity for the poor man, even alongside that anger. No indeed; Little had never commanded the respect that Fitzjames or Le Vesconte did. Though perhaps if he'd worked up the courage to take a stand, he might have earned it? Or was it too late?

"I am sorry for that," he says, his tone softening, just a little. "It is no easy thing, to seize respect if it isn't already given."

But.

"And so the men voted to march on, and you with them," he says. "What happened then?"

He was never on the same ground as some of them, to be sure — not charismatic and jovial, certainly could never compare to Gore, the poor man who'd been taken too quickly. How differently things may have been if Erebus' beloved first lieutenant had lived to face those dark days with him. (Could they have worked together? Kept the men true?)

Neither was Edward harsh-tongued or foreboding. Men did not fear him, and to be feared would have made his stomach feel ill.

....But there was a time he held respect, of his own way. He was the one beside Crozier at nearly all times, or acting on his behalf. Even if quietly, never brash, and often so unassuming that it would be easy to forget he was in a room at all. But the men knew his position, his proximity to Crozier. And he tried. God, he tried. ...Yet even as Le Vesconte claimed to him that they did not mean to oppose his command, that they did not question it.... Edward could see that questioning it no longer mattered, not to those men, not even with their heads bowed as though in shame.

His position no longer mattered. His disgust of them, his morals. His loyalty, the idea of loyalty at all. None of it mattered to them any more. He was alone in a vast sea.

He breathes in softly at Goodsir's empathy, but he can't allow himself to be soothed for long, and the story is far from over. Little's features tighten again.

"We left the sick behind. With— supplies. Their intention was to return for the ill, once making a new camp, but— of course it would not happen. I knew that. They knew that."

His eyes have gone a little wide as his speaking grows quicker, tumbles from him, like rambling. Of course they wouldn't return. There was no strength to. The men left behind would only die, slowly, and alone.

"—Captain Crozier ordered that no man would ever be left behind. I reminded them of that. But what could I do?" Finally, Little's head falls forwards, hands moving up through the unkempt waves of hair trickling into his eyes. He yearns for anyone to tell him — pleads it softly, now. "Goodsir, what could I do?"

There was a time when Goodsir would have been truly horrified, outraged even, at Little's report of the treatment of the sick. And he is appalled ... but it's an exhausted, cynical feeling. And he feels very sorry, very sorry indeed, for Edward Little. Not sorry enough to stop being angry and disappointed, but he pities the man.

"You could have tried to find men to follow you nevertheless. You could have come on your own. But perhaps I ought not judge you, for I was not there." He laughs quietly, a hollow, humourless sound. "I was committing my own sins."

None of it is meant as a challenge to the other man, or to make demand of him. No, it's only a plea. A plea to know, to try to understand— What would anyone else have done? And especially someone as well-disposed as Goodsir is known to be. Never has his nature betrayed a temper or a cruelty, as far as Little knows. His opinion is held in a high regard.

And there it comes. Things that Little knows within himself. The answer is already there. Yes, yes, he could have tried to find men. Picked through the ones with hesitance in their eyes, if any could be found — spoken to them when Le Vesconte was not lingering. Swayed them.

And yes. He could have come on his own. He could have come, and he may have died for it, but it would be with pride in his heart. Not the hollowness as he'd walked onwards. To survive — but at what cost?

His head hangs forwards a little, Goodsir's words stealing another soft sound from his lips. Shame burns within him, unbearable. He cannot speak. Only after taking a few moments to process what the other man says next, does Little's head lift slightly, but his eyes can't bear to meet the other pair.

"Sins forced by Hickey's hands." He doesn't know the situation, has no idea the scope of it, but he knows that Hickey took the good anatomist for a reason. Perhaps he forced him to kill? Armed him the way he had the others, hid behind him. Little's voice drops, quiet and aching. "I have no doubt of that."

It's Goodsir's turn now to burn with shame. Crozier's words come back to him: You're clean, Goodsir. Clean. Even as your hand is forced by swine.

Forced, but he still did the thing.

"He wanted me to anatomise Gibson. For—for meat," he says, his voice steady and quiet as it ever was. "I refused until he threatened to torture Hodgson. So I chose the welfare of the living man over the disposition of the dead—a lesser wrong, but a wrong nonetheless."

And the hell of it—which puts a bleak, humourless smile on Goodsir's face—is that it isn't even the worst thing.

Those words are what finally lifts the other man's head, slowly, eyes finding Goodsir's face and staring there. The words are almost... impossible for Little to process. Never could he have fathomed such a horrible concept; it's difficult now to, to make sense of it. To accept such a thing as truth. His mind buzzes with a disconnect, and again, this moment feels as though it is happening to someone else.

He stares, listening as the horror continues. Feeding on a man, threats to torture another.... So that's why Hickey wanted Goodsir? Not to serve as a doctor to help sick men, but....

"Did he... truly do it?" Little can barely speak the words, expression anguished. Even now, some sliver of him clings so desperately to the hope that no man could actually do such a thing. "....Feed on Mr. Gibson?"

Goodsir nods.

Dead, sir, and consumed. I'm sorry.

"I had told Gibson that ..." He draws a deep breath, ashamed now of what he said. "That he must prepare to die; the scurvy was killing him swiftly and he could no longer haul. And so Hickey murdered him in front of me, and, as I said, coerced me into reducing him to meat."

He looks at Little, his expression tired and hollowed out. "As I said to the captain—however unpleasant this is to hear, I must put it into words nevertheless."

Murdered Gibson.... outright. Not even as deviously as he'd killed Irving — spinning an entire web of lies, blaming innocents for an act of incomprehensible brutality.... no. Not that, anymore.

Outright murder. In front of Goodsir's eyes, no less, and then... having him butcher a human being...... Little sits there in his shock and despair, as the familiar scent of fresh tea somehow co-exists alongside everything that is abnormal and horrendous.

He can't voice anything for awhile. Doesn't want to voice what comes next, at all. But eventually it must, though Little has to force it from his own throat, these dreadful words.

"Was that also his.... intention, with our captain?" To have him killed. Eaten. Why else would Hickey have him stolen?

Goodsir shakes his head. "I know not what he intended for our captain, but I do know that he was angry to find him hurt—asked me to treat his injuries, commanded his men to leave him be."

Why should Hickey be concerned for Crozier's injuries...? And with that thought, another horror — the captain was not necessarily... injured when Little parted ways from him, which means that those men harmed him. (Which ones? Did Hodgson also take part? Had every man so quickly shed his loyalty?) If Little had been with him... if he could have protected the captain.... God, how it aches.

But even through that, there is some relief. Hickey did not mean to... consume Crozier, so perhaps that horror was not his fate. But then, what of the other men....?

"...Then, did Hickey plan to feed on the other men instead? Hodgson...." He shakes his head, slowly, pained. "Dr. Goodsir, I fear they may all be dead now. All of the men."

He ought to tell Little what he did. The poison.

But he's already put so much on the man. One more thing ... he can't bring himself to do it; his shame is too deep, and his dread. So he only nods agreement, miserable.

"Perhaps. Hickey's plans were not a matter of mere survival. I believe he sought a kind of victory over the land, its people, the creature ... but whatever his intent, the lives of others were merely incidental."

How had it happened...? That one man could become such a pivot towards disorder and corruption? Perhaps one could say warning signs had been evident from early onwards; Edward remembers a ranting Hickey's inability to stay silent even when commanded, a clear disregard for not only the first lieutenant's orders but the captain's himself. And certainly, Crozier progressively displayed a particular distrust in the petty officer, one that at times even Little found to be unfairly judged without evidence (before he was, of course, proven wrong with the gruesome evidence found in poor John Irving's stomach itself). But that it could turn into this...

"....I recall, back when he forced the lady Silence aboard," Little begins quietly, voice thick with despair and exhaustion. He's... exhausted, as he suspects Goodsir may also be; he can practically feel the waves of weariness radiating from the other man. Both of them here in the face of so many horrific things done, confessions made.

"...He had much to say about the... creature. He said he'd seen it. Watched her communicate with it." He pauses his sombre thoughts, another creeping inwards as he slowly looks back up to Goodsir.

".....Did he also harm her? Silence— was she there, in that camp, with you? With him?"

He knows she had been let gone by then, but... it seems horrifically suiting that Hickey would somehow find her and order her taken there with his band of hostages.

"I believe she's with her people now," Harry says, and his expression softens at the mention of her. "He has not so much as glimpsed her since she left us."

Little nods softly, looking down at his own gloved hands again. One less person for Hickey to... destroy, as he's certain that he would have, if ever given the chance again. He would kill Silence.

But as to everyone else.... what is to be done now? Are he and Goodsir truly the only survivors?

(No, in short time, he'll learn of another. Of that fiend himself, here with them.)

Little stays quiet and miserable for a few more long moments, watching his tea. It's likely getting cold by now, but he can't bring himself to drink it.

"I don't know what to do now, Dr. Goodsir." He still hangs onto the title, the one that the captain and so many of the men had begun using for Goodsir. It was a comfort.

"...What do we do now? We are trapped in this.. impossible place. Our men are gone... our captain. We are alone."

"I am—" he begins, and trails off before he can finish the sentence, no doctor. It doesn't seem worth the effort.

"We try to live," he says simply. He's thought about this, and it's the only conclusion he has come to. "There are others here, others who will need help, and who do not understand how to survive in a place like this." There's a sad, brittle smile on his face. "At least we have that, and we may do some good."

Live.

Little's head stays hanging for a moment longer. The captain's final order to him — meant as a surface gesture, covering up a truer order beneath.... and yet the terrible irony that Little and those men ended up following it, in the end. Trying to follow it. He does not know if they were successful, back in their own world.

Ache and guilt threaten to consume him, and he sits there, shaken. But through it, Goodsir's words are... something to hold onto. Others to help. To protect.

'we may do some good'

Finally, Edward pulls his mournful gaze back up to the younger man.

"You are right. It's... it's what we must try to do. Some good." Surely it will be what fuels him in these coming weeks, to help and protect, in the ways he failed.

"Thank you. I am deeply sorry to have added more burdens to your heart." Poor Goodsir has already suffered so much, and Little knows what he's told the man is yet another dreadful weight. He feels sick from the confessions, that the sick were left behind. That no rescue attempt would come for those at Hickey's camp.

"I'll not bother you for longer," he adds, beginning to move to stand. "But I am grateful that you are here. I thought... I was the only one."

To be the last left behind.... is a horror of its own.

Goodsir rises, goes to him, and places a light hand on his shoulder.

"We must look after one another, you and I," he says. "And the others here as well. My door is open to you whenever you like."

Standing now, Little lifts his head as the other man approaches and places that hand upon his shoulder — a light touch, but no less significant. A gesture, in this moment, of closeness, and to Little, of comfort.

They are not alone. Survivors, somehow, impossibly, to this place.

"Thank you." He gives his head a gentle tip forwards, and there is much more to say, perhaps; his heart is heavy, there is much to process — but there is time. In the days and weeks to follow, he'll make certain to keep an eye out for Goodsir on his daily patrols, and especially after learning that Hickey is here... Certainly, Edward will be fretful that the man may target Goodsir.

"Be well. I will speak with you again soon," he promises, clapping one of his own hands gently against Goodsir's shoulder in return as he moves towards the door.

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1. I've heard teeth can explode in air this cold. Imagine.

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apologies for the mini-essay..... but this thread is such Good Food

<3 !

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