Each word is an unpleasant prickle against his nerves. Some part of him, even now, hates this — this conflict. This confrontation; he wants to shirk from it, to avert his eyes from any of this man's anger. The other part, the one fueled by something beyond himself, can't let go of his own. No matter if he knows Crozier speaks the truth; he was there, he'd seen what happened with Sir John. He'd seen Crozier care, try to care, only to be met with an unwillingness from his senior, one that had cost— everything.
'I'd written the letter, I was going to leave that very night.'
Little stares at him — stunned, but in some way not fully shocked, because the words aren't wholly fresh. The truth is some needling little insect that Tozer let loose in his brain, one he hadn't believed but it had perhaps continued to live inside of him for all this time, and here it is now, confirmed.
'Crozier was going to lead that sledge party himself and leave. Quit the Navy, quit all of us.'
It wounds him, visibly, but even those words don't wound him as much as what Crozier says next. For different reasons, in different ways. Abruptly, Little realises his eyes are wide and wet. He knows that Crozier loves them. He'd seen it, felt it. He is a good man, and despite everything, he'd been a good captain. Is it fair to bring up and fixate on every dark part of their past when it's done with? But it's all he has, all any of them have, really. What happened, what went wrong. What could have been done differently. And so any soft thing in his eyes hardens again, after a moment. It's all he can see, or maybe all he needs to see. Tomorrow he'll regret all of this. For now—
"It could have been me. To fall to the cold out there, to die for a bottle." He can't stop thinking of it, of Frederick Hornby, of the sheer helplessness, the horror, the hurt, the anger of that night. It's directly connected to what he's feeling now, which is— so terribly alone. It's a particular poison that's needed lancing in him, but he knows the damage has already been done.
"I know I am not a great man. I am not like- I am not like Lieutenant Gore was." The words fumble; they hurt to voice aloud. He knows he isn't, wasn't; Erebus's first lieutenant, the great and beloved and capable man that he was, died so quickly. Too quickly; if they'd had him...? If it had been Graham there towards the end, Graham as one of the few remaining officers, might Crozier have accomplished more? Saved more? Would those men have voted against Gore's wishes?
And just like that, every hurt and every unspoken thing comes to one question. His voice is louder than he means it to be, almost a shout, such a rare thing for him.
"Why did you give me that order?"
Not the direct one. The one underneath it. The true order, the one that hinged on Little's loyalty, his driving force. He remembers what Goodsir said to him here. He was waiting for you. 'He'll be here by day's end', he said. Imagining you'd be coming over the ridge with a dozen armed men.
"They were too sick to fight. They wouldn't come, they— they were never going to follow me! You knew I had no power, didn't you? You knew they looked at me and saw weakness. All of them, and Lieutenant Le Vesconte, they—"
The anger and blame belong to himself, but it grows ever more misplaced, floods into other spaces. (Ironically, later, he might realise he seems so like a child, angry at his father. He does love Crozier just as much, and that is why all of it hurts so deeply.)
LONG ESSAY OF PAIN IS SO LONG...
'I'd written the letter, I was going to leave that very night.'
Little stares at him — stunned, but in some way not fully shocked, because the words aren't wholly fresh. The truth is some needling little insect that Tozer let loose in his brain, one he hadn't believed but it had perhaps continued to live inside of him for all this time, and here it is now, confirmed.
'Crozier was going to lead that sledge party himself and leave. Quit the Navy, quit all of us.'
It wounds him, visibly, but even those words don't wound him as much as what Crozier says next. For different reasons, in different ways. Abruptly, Little realises his eyes are wide and wet. He knows that Crozier loves them. He'd seen it, felt it. He is a good man, and despite everything, he'd been a good captain. Is it fair to bring up and fixate on every dark part of their past when it's done with? But it's all he has, all any of them have, really. What happened, what went wrong. What could have been done differently. And so any soft thing in his eyes hardens again, after a moment. It's all he can see, or maybe all he needs to see. Tomorrow he'll regret all of this. For now—
"It could have been me. To fall to the cold out there, to die for a bottle." He can't stop thinking of it, of Frederick Hornby, of the sheer helplessness, the horror, the hurt, the anger of that night. It's directly connected to what he's feeling now, which is— so terribly alone. It's a particular poison that's needed lancing in him, but he knows the damage has already been done.
"I know I am not a great man. I am not like- I am not like Lieutenant Gore was." The words fumble; they hurt to voice aloud. He knows he isn't, wasn't; Erebus's first lieutenant, the great and beloved and capable man that he was, died so quickly. Too quickly; if they'd had him...? If it had been Graham there towards the end, Graham as one of the few remaining officers, might Crozier have accomplished more? Saved more? Would those men have voted against Gore's wishes?
And just like that, every hurt and every unspoken thing comes to one question. His voice is louder than he means it to be, almost a shout, such a rare thing for him.
"Why did you give me that order?"
Not the direct one. The one underneath it. The true order, the one that hinged on Little's loyalty, his driving force. He remembers what Goodsir said to him here. He was waiting for you. 'He'll be here by day's end', he said. Imagining you'd be coming over the ridge with a dozen armed men.
"They were too sick to fight. They wouldn't come, they— they were never going to follow me! You knew I had no power, didn't you? You knew they looked at me and saw weakness. All of them, and Lieutenant Le Vesconte, they—"
The anger and blame belong to himself, but it grows ever more misplaced, floods into other spaces. (Ironically, later, he might realise he seems so like a child, angry at his father. He does love Crozier just as much, and that is why all of it hurts so deeply.)
"Why did you do this to me?!"