[ Irving can deeply empathize and understand Little's paradoxical sense of failure all too well, knowing both how relieved he'd felt when Crozier ordered them all not to shoot at the violently ill Mr. Morfin, how glad he was to have been spared such that wretched burden, and that if only he'd had the instinct and courage necessary to shoot at Hickey as he'd crouched ominously over Mr. Farr's still body, then so much β perhaps everything β could have turned out so differently.
He stares down into his tea as he stirs and stirs it, unable to bear making eye contact for how strongly he feels that deep sense of shame and failure again. Right now, to look Little in the eye is something he neither deserves, nor can bear to face until he's more certain he won't himself tear up at the sight of Little's own wet-eyed despair.
Misery loves company, so it's often been said, and truer words than those may never be spoken for as long as either man shall live. The pain is immense and somehow endless, infinite, yet the simple act of sharing it seems to render it only just bearable, as that of a man being crushed slowly with stones being spared that final, fatal weight.
They are ghosts, and perhaps that's almost the worst of it, because ghosts do not exist, cannot exist, because there is simply no such bridge that connects the living with the dead in such a wayβ what the Catholics would call a purgatory. But then what can this be called? True enough that there remains no bridge connecting their lives before with this one now, either, but are they dead or are they living, now?
They are both. And they are neither. They are lost souls trapped inside the unholy in-between where God cannot find them. ]
But it should have been my first instinct, Edward, Hickey was... he killed Mr. Farr right before my very eyes, and I... I-I thoughtβ
[ What had he thought? Irving's skin prickles with the memory of being drawn towards the entangled men with a racing heart and breathless lungs, both fearing the worst yet not quite capable of comprehending what it was he saw. ]
I was... responsible, Edward. Responsible for both their lives and their safety. And what kind of officer does that make me, then, to have failed so very miserably at such an essential and profoundly simple duty as that one?
[ He takes a breath, swallowing hard before his voice can break, then chances a glance over at Little when his first touches him on the shoulder with warmth and compassion. Any reflex he'd typically have to flinch or draw away from the contact is buried down deep and forgotten. ]
Make no mistake, Edward, it is you who is the better man between us... a far braver man than I, and more capable an officer than I could ever hope to equal. I would have followed your command clear to the other pole, if it took us there.
[ His loyalty to Crozier and Fitzjames had been much the same as well, of course, but there was a certain effortlessness to being at Little's side that he never managed to achieve with his captains.
Irving's chest tightens with a queerly sudden impulse to gently dry Little's tears with β for lack of having a handkerchief to hand β the sleeve of his nightdress, so he quickly looks away again, cheeks and ears burning as he slowly tastes his tea. ]
I... believe that we've all crossed over some dark and unknowable threshold we can never return from, [ he continues softly, shaking his head. ] Beyond which we must now more than ever strive to keep hold of the light, of... whatever goodness still remains. Do you understand?
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He stares down into his tea as he stirs and stirs it, unable to bear making eye contact for how strongly he feels that deep sense of shame and failure again. Right now, to look Little in the eye is something he neither deserves, nor can bear to face until he's more certain he won't himself tear up at the sight of Little's own wet-eyed despair.
Misery loves company, so it's often been said, and truer words than those may never be spoken for as long as either man shall live. The pain is immense and somehow endless, infinite, yet the simple act of sharing it seems to render it only just bearable, as that of a man being crushed slowly with stones being spared that final, fatal weight.
They are ghosts, and perhaps that's almost the worst of it, because ghosts do not exist, cannot exist, because there is simply no such bridge that connects the living with the dead in such a wayβ what the Catholics would call a purgatory. But then what can this be called? True enough that there remains no bridge connecting their lives before with this one now, either, but are they dead or are they living, now?
They are both. And they are neither. They are lost souls trapped inside the unholy in-between where God cannot find them. ]
But it should have been my first instinct, Edward, Hickey was... he killed Mr. Farr right before my very eyes, and I... I-I thoughtβ
[ What had he thought? Irving's skin prickles with the memory of being drawn towards the entangled men with a racing heart and breathless lungs, both fearing the worst yet not quite capable of comprehending what it was he saw. ]
I was... responsible, Edward. Responsible for both their lives and their safety. And what kind of officer does that make me, then, to have failed so very miserably at such an essential and profoundly simple duty as that one?
[ He takes a breath, swallowing hard before his voice can break, then chances a glance over at Little when his first touches him on the shoulder with warmth and compassion. Any reflex he'd typically have to flinch or draw away from the contact is buried down deep and forgotten. ]
Make no mistake, Edward, it is you who is the better man between us... a far braver man than I, and more capable an officer than I could ever hope to equal. I would have followed your command clear to the other pole, if it took us there.
[ His loyalty to Crozier and Fitzjames had been much the same as well, of course, but there was a certain effortlessness to being at Little's side that he never managed to achieve with his captains.
Irving's chest tightens with a queerly sudden impulse to gently dry Little's tears with β for lack of having a handkerchief to hand β the sleeve of his nightdress, so he quickly looks away again, cheeks and ears burning as he slowly tastes his tea. ]
I... believe that we've all crossed over some dark and unknowable threshold we can never return from, [ he continues softly, shaking his head. ] Beyond which we must now more than ever strive to keep hold of the light, of... whatever goodness still remains. Do you understand?