singillatim | seven devils all around you, seven devils in your house

seven devils all around you, seven devils in your house

JUNE 2024 EVENT

PART ONE — A SIGN OF THINGS TO COME: The Darkwalker claims another victim, and that is only the beginning of troubles for the Interlopers as they face a month of endless night and green gloom.

PART TWO — POLAR SUN: As June continues, Interlopers are faced with food insecurity as wildlife flees; tensions grow as they face hunger and the Darkwalker's continued influence. On the day of the Summer Solstice, the tension finally breaks and violent chaos descends upon Interlopers.

PART THREE — REPRIEVE: The end is in sight, and an ally comes to the Interloper’s aid.

A SIGN OF THINGS TO COME

WHEN: June 1st, then onwards.
WHERE: Milton area; Lakeside area (Carter Hydrodam).
CONTENT WARNINGS: death of playable character; supernatural death; mention of dead body; themes of death; supernatural beings; themes of terror; themes of peril.

The evening is quiet and still. May draws to a close and while the sun does not completely set, it dips low enough for the sky to grow a little darkdim with twilight. The midnight sun is almost upon the Northern Territories, the air is warmer than it has ever felt — even if it remains chilly. If this is summer, it is but a gentle brush of reprieve against the unyielding winter. The Interlopers wind down for the night, many turn to their beds to sleep, others sit awake and ponder their existence in this world. They think of home, of loved ones, of their predicament here in this place. The Forest Talkers, the strange beasts and monsters they’ve encountered.

The moon wanes in the skies, nestled amongst the stars. For those still awake to notice, they can see it: slowly, one by one, the stars begin to go out. Then the moon's light is swallowed whole, and a blanket of green gloom descends upon the Northern Territories.

The sky is dark and green and terrible. Many of those will recognise it, what this means and what will come. Others will not understand it, not know what it is that awaits them all.

They will soon find out: the Darkwalker comes.

Under a green sky, a cold fear washes over you — squeezing the breath from your lungs. Interlopers will find themselves overcome with that fear, and everything in their bodies and minds tells them to run. To flee. And so you run, heading for cover. Curtains will be drawn, some may hide under beds, within closets or wardrobes. Some desperately attempt to conceal themselves, make themselves small, unseen. Some Interlopers, in that fear, may rush to friends or loved ones to hide with them, others may simply cower alone — crawling and whimpering away from the night. The fear is irrational, unable to be overcome — even by the bravest or most stoic of Interlopers.

For those within Milton, it is further away but is by no means less potent: Interlopers will find themselves frozen with the constant loom of the Darkwalker’s arrival — even if it does not come to Milton. Those within Lakeside, however, will feel the true force of this presence: more like a knife edge — painfully gripping your heart as it draws close.

The Darkwalker howls: indescribable, unnatural, demonic. Low moans and groans. It comes from the east, the faint booms of footsteps in the distance growing ever nearer. It is coming, once more. It's coming for one of you. And still, you are powerless, unable to do anything. And it is an agony, awaiting its arrival. You cry, you whimper, you cower. Curling up for some shred of comfort, and finding none.

For those in Lakeside, through the fear, they may be able to note the path: a straight line from the east towards Carter Hydrodam. It seems to go on forever, building into a crescendo. Your heart beats so hard you fear it may burst from your chest, as if you might die of fright.

There is an almighty sound; the Darkwalker devours and even with the distance you can hear it. The sound of gnashing teeth, and… laughter. There is no scream, no bright light in the sky — Enola is silent this time. There is only that laughter, echoing off into the night.

The skies do not return to normal. The green gloom hangs in the air. It is done, but it is not yet over. While the overwhelming fear dissolves away, but a kind of… dread remains on the air — almost palpable.

The Darkwalker has devoured another. Braver souls who go out to investigate into Lakeside will find just who has been devoured once they reach the Hydrodam — although it may be a day or two before they will find the body in the medical bay.

At least it is cold enough that the rot does not fully set in — but death will certainly be here.

And this is but the beginning of the Interloper’s troubles.

POLAR SUN

WHEN: The month of June, up to Midsummer’s Eve + Summer Solstice.
WHERE: Milton area; Lakeside area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: themes of survival; food scarcity/food insecurity; supernatural weather; altered mental states; mental manipulation; themes of violence; potential character injury; potential character death; potential NPC death.

In the coming weeks and days, and weeks, the green gloom lingers. From the Darkwalker’s attack, there is no sun. No day, no night. No stars or moon or sun. No Auroras. Just the gloom and biting cold. Life becomes increasingly hard on Interlopers: higher expenditure on fuel — fires and lanterns are imperative to keep the darkness and the cold at bay.

With the green gloom in the air, the wildlife becomes more scarce — as if it has been frightened away into the deeper parts of the wilds. It will be harder to bring in fresh meat in both Milton and Lakeside, and Interlopers will find that they will have to rely on whatever stores they have — and perhaps even rationing for a while.

And it’s not the only thing frightened. Even with the debilitating fear that comes with the Darkwalker’s attack gone, there is still a kind of fear that lingers on the air that slowly eats away at the Interloper’s resolve over time.

Interlopers will find themselves anxious, on edge. Some will be prone to anger in their fear, others prone to fits of melancholy: tearfulness and sorrow. Between the cold, the lack of fresh game and the fear on the air — it’s no wonder spirits are low. Bickering and minor upsets between Interlopers are likely.

They call it the midnight sun, the polar day. It's opposite is the polar night. This is neither and both. On the day of midsummer's eve, that fear on the air is even more palpable. The air feels a little stifling at times, as if the pressure is all off — often quite oppressive, a strange kind of tension. There is something brewing, a low burning thing that begins from the moment Interlopers wake — heavy and sharp in their chest.

’So, Interloper. What will you do now?’ A voice sneers in your ear. The very same voice that has haunted Interlopers since the very beginning. The Darkwalker finally speaks after all these weeks of gloom since its most recent attack. ’When all is gone, when even the sun does not rise? What will you do then?’

A nervousness sits within you as you remember the Darkwalker’s words. What will you do if the sun does not rise? If the darkness is all that is left? If the food runs out? Your wonderings will continue to gnaw away within you. The darkness is hollowing.

’Will you lean on others, like you have always tried to do?’ the voice continues. ’What bonds you hold with them, the ones with those around you. But how strong are they, truly? Can you trust them? Will it matter when your belly is empty and your heart is low? Perhaps it is time to see.

’Never forget, Interloper. I am the Rot. And I will rot within you.’

As the day progresses into the Solstice, that tension lingers in the air, and the wonderings within you continue to wear at you. You find yourself becoming more and more agitated as time goes on. Those feelings that have been brewing for some time now have started to grow close to boiling. You may snap at others, grow restless, become enraged at the tiniest of things — the upsets wildly out of proportion for the smallest slights or issues.

You find your thoughts wandering, too. Perhaps it is to someone you know in this place, or perhaps it is to someone previously unknown to you. Maybe you have an issue with this person, or perhaps the voice’s influence extends further — not only adding to your agitations but creating them, too. A slight, a grudge, a bias.

You feel a bitter gnawing within you. The nightmarish green gloom above you persists and everything bubbles up from within. From the dark, the anger within you become too much. The tension finally snaps.

For some, it might come out as a vicious argument where you air your grievances, or finally let slip the things you’ve been holding close to your chest. A verbal beat down, incredibly hurtful in nature. For others, things may be drawn to getting physical. A literal beat down where your fists grow bruised and bloody, or perhaps even worse. Whatever it is, you want to do damage to someone else — there is darkness here, and so many things come out in the dark, don’t they?

Like a ripple, all around you: all hell breaks loose. Chaos erupts, and the air is filled with violence.

Let’s hope you might stop, or someone else stops you, before someone gets killed.

REPRIEVE

WHEN: Circa three days after the Summer Solstice.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: blood.

All things must come to an end, even the most violent of deadly storms. In the midst of the seemingly endless violence of the night, you find yourself outside. Maybe you're fleeing from another Interloper, maybe you're desperately trying to reach someone you care for, maybe you're simply trying to find somewhere new to hide. Interlopers are hunting one another, blood lies on the snow, bodies too — some breathing, some not.

Perhaps it is a trick of the light. Perhaps it's the Darkwalker’s influence still warping your already frayed mind. Or it's the blood in your eyes, your battered and bruised body struggling to get through it all.

In the gloom, you see it. See her.

A woman, dressed in furs, stones and shells glimmering on her chest like armour, stands in the snow before you. Thin and pale, eyes sunken. Her chest heaves with each breath as she looks around with wide eyes. Her hands are bare and bloody. It drips slowly from her fingers. Is it her blood? Or someone else's? You cannot tell, but you cannot mistake how thick it coats her skin.

Her head turns to look at you. You are stunned, but not frightened. Even through the gloom, after a moment or two, her eyes widen in recognition: she knows you.

Slowly and silent, other than her noisy breathing, she draws close to you. Maybe in turn you draw close to her, closing the distance between you. Up close, her eyes are blue, and sad. You cannot mistake the sorrow in them. She is tired, weary. Her hair is dark, worn loose and long. For some, you feel as if you've seen her before, but you can't quite place her face.

Softly, she says your name.

For some, there may be no recognition. This woman is a stranger, who knows your name somehow. She has been silent the past couple of months, after all.

For others, hearing her speak brings a sudden, jarring realisation: this is Enola.

She’s here. Enola. All this time, she’s whispered to you in dreams, in static, in the very air itself.

She raises one hand, dark and dripping in the green light. Lightly, her fingers brush against your chest. You don’t feel the pressure of them, don’t feel the odd heat of blood — only the weight of her stare as she holds your gaze. It’s a long moment of peace in amongst the chaos.

You feel her exhaustion, a tiredness that sinks into your very bones. Apologies, too. You have never known anything like it. But there’s something else too, something that takes a moment or two to put your finger on. Defiance. A renewal. Something shifts in the air, a growing tension, different from the kind that’s been held on the air throughout the month. It’s the coming of a storm, the rolling clouds, the growing rumble of thunder before the first lightning strike.

Enola nods, her expression grave. She pulls away and turns from you — her head lifting towards the skies as she walks. Her arms raise, bloodied hands twisting and tensing before her. They curl, almost into fists, and she makes a gesture: the slow tearing of something huge and invisible before her — a shriek spilling from her lips. A battle-cry, a last stand, a wail of agony. It echoes.

The sky cracks and splits open before you, dazzling light and colours blinding your vision into pure white. The world tilts too hard below your feet, and you don’t remember passing out.

When you awaken, Enola is gone. The skies are clear and blue, the sun is high in the sky. As you pick yourself up from the snow, in the harsh light of the polar day, blood has never looked so red. The horrors of the night laid bare. Interlopers are dead, but the Darkwalker’s influence is gone. For now.

In the wake of Midsummer, all Interlopers can do is try reconcile. Bury the dead, rebuild, lick wounds. But that feeling in the air still remains — that different, new kind of tension that has come with Enola’s appearance. The first of the lightning bolts has struck, but more are coming.

FAQs

A SIGN OF THINGS TO COME

1. Alexander Hilbert has been devoured by the Darkwalker. His remains can be found in the Hydrodam. The following note has been left by Kates concerning his death: ‘Sveta gets possession of his research notes + blood samples + creepy lab journal because it's all in Russian, lmao.’

2. Information on the Darkwalker’s attack can be found here.

3. Usually, after the Darkwalker attacks, the sky would return to normal. This won’t happen. Instead, the usual atmospheric changes that occur during Darkwalker attacks will remain in place as June continues..

POLAR SUN

1. For an idea how the setting appears for June, it's like what you see in the game during the Escape The Darkwalker Challenge. Inside, there'll be a degree of green shades to rooms etc via what comes through windows but with it being lit up via fires and light sources, the gloom will be chased back.

2. Characters are free to use this event to kill NPC Interlopers. Methuselah and Young Bill are off the table, as are two marked NPC Interlopers. Please let Mods know if you intend on doing this for record keeping!

3. These acts of violence can be physical or verbal altercations, players are encouraged to work with the prompt however they'd like! However, anything potentially world-altering (ie. building destruction) must be first discussed with mods.

4. Interlopers under the Darkwalker's influence can be stopped in a number of ways. Showing genuine care and compassion in the face of violence is one way. Knocking an Interloper out is another way. Sometimes killing an Interloper may be needed, or simply restraining them and keeping them locked up somewhere so they can't hurt anyone else until the night is over would also work.

5. Talismans made by Heartman back in March with a Ward Sigil against the Darkwalker will come into effect during this prompt. It's been an ongoing process, with new Interlopers being offered them from their arrival. Players are free to choose what kind of talisman they received, or if they chose to get one at all. Their effectiveness is dependent on the type of blood used on the talisman.

— Animal Blood: Interlopers carrying talismans using blood from animals found in the world, such as deer, rabbits or wolves will find themselves more susceptible to the Darkwalker’s influence and disposition towards violence. They will be much harder to break out of the hold over them, and become almost frenzied state.
— Monster Blood: Interlopers carrying talismans using blood from any creatures or monsters that Interlopers have encountered in their time in the Northern Territories, such as the Serpent from December’s TDM will find there are no negative nor positive effects. The talisman is essentially useless. and Interlopers will fall under the Darkwalker's influence.
— Interloper Blood: Interlopers carrying talismans using blood for Interlopers will be offered protection/resistance from the Darkwalker’s influence and disposition towards violence. They may be slightly affected but will have their wits about them more compared to others. If the blood came from an Interloper with an Aurora Feat — this protection/resistance will be largely increased, an the Interloper may even feel braver, less affected by the fear in the atmosphere.
— No Talisman: Similar to the Monster Blood Talisman, Interlopers will be affected typically by the Darkwalker's influence in due course.

There are no additional affects with an Interloper using their own blood, just if they have an Aurora Feat or not.

6. Animals owned by Interlopers will be more frightened and will want to hide away in the build up — they will be disturbed by the world. Mostly lying down and whining/restlessness. They may display some signs of aggression on occasion, but not to the same degree of humans.

7. Forest Talkers are hidden away and will not be able to be reached during the Solstice.

REPRIEVE

1. Enola can only be met alone, but she will appear to all Interlopers in Milton.

2. Enola will be nowhere to be found afterwards, there are no tracks to be followed. She has simply vanished.

PLOTTING POST

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He doesn't know that name. But isn't a name enough to know that they aren't safe? He has to get Francis inside. He runs a hand down Francis' back over his spine, paying attention to what he feels, looking around him. It's impossible to tell where Francis is hurt with the man himself not aware enough to tell him. He might be safe to move. But Raju doesn't know the right way to carry Francis back.

He strips the blanket wrapped around him off quickly as he can, slipping the knife inside it in his pocket and spreading the whole thing out beside Francis. "I'm going to roll you over," he says, even as he's setting an arm against Francis' side and grabbing at his hip to do it. "It's probably going to hurt."

There's no time to be gentle or slow so with that he does it, keeping as much of Francis still against his bracing arm as he can and then tying the blanket's edges in a few places around him, then picking up one of the blanket's tight knots and pulling it behind him back the way he came.

"If you can stand when we get back, that will help with the stairs." He calls it behind him as he pulls, in case Francis is aware enough to make sense of it. He isn't worried about making noise; it isn't hard to tell that Milton is busy with its own problems tonight, and if anyone does hear and come to make trouble, he wouldn't mind trying out his aim on a moving target. "Lean on me, and I'll do most of the work. But it'll hurt more if I have to pull you up."

It's excruciating. The little sections of him here and there suddenly light up in a symphony of pain, and Crozier's head lolls back as he goes completely limp.

When he next rouses he realizes he's moving. He isn't quite aware of how it's happening, but he can feel the jostling in his ribs and head every time there's a dip or a particularly large rock. He can see the branches of the trees moving overhead too, at least through his right eye, hear someone ahead of him trying to speak to him.

The forest is oddly quiet. Did Hickey follow him? No - he went a different way. It's Raju, he knows Raju's voice. He asking him...to climb stairs? Well what choice is he going to have, he needs to get inside somehow.

"He killed Patrick," he grunts, hand knocking about as he attempts to fold it over his ribs and hold them together. "Killed him..."

“He?” Raju spares a glance back and down to check on Francis, only for an instant. Awareness is sharp inside him, of the danger, of his own eagerness to go into the forest or the town and hurt someone who deserves it. Whoever did this, probably. But being some place safe, that’s the kind of help that Francis needs right now and so that’s what he’s going to get. Maybe Raju will be able to go after whoever did this later.

‘Who’ is the next question that occurs to him, but it isn’t the important one if whoever it is is coming after Francis still, and Francis is barely aware enough to answer one thing at a time. “How did he kill him? With what weapon?”

"Hickey," he says through gritted teeth. "Hickey."

Crozier grasps tightly at his tunic, eyes squeezing shut as another dip in the road shifts shattered ribs around like a snow globe being shaken. "Stabbed."

He's referring to two things: what Hickey did to the man he'd found, and what he'd done to Hickey after. It's hard to think straight though, let alone recount things in proper order; he can't quite recall what happened in between finding the body and chasing down Hickey to confront him. He's not even certain what he said to Hickey when he did find him; feelings have replaced actual memories in his mind. Anger, anger, anger, pain.

Raju’s step stutters at the name. The man they knew was going to be a problem. The man who announced outright to Francis that he meant to kill him. The man Raju said he would make sure they were prepared for, make sure Francis always had someone with him, just in case.

If someone was with Francis this time, they aren’t here now. He hopes it wasn’t Patrick, whoever that unlucky man was.

His eyes are more narrowed, the set of his jaw harder, all his focus narrowed to the man he’s pulling behind him.

“Stabbing is good,” he notes. “If he’s using a knife, he’ll have to live long enough to get close to use it.”

He’s going to kill Cornelius Hickey. But not now. Maybe if he tries coming after them. But if he was going to, wouldn’t he have come already?

The thought is a disappointing one, but at least it’s convenient now. It would be hard to get Francis up the steps and fire his arrows at the same time anyway.

Raju slows, then stops in front of the old wooden steps. Not many. Just enough of them to make trouble. Raju’s eyes dart over them.

“Time to stand,” he says and sets the blanket down slowly and carefully, for all his former speed, turning to very gently try to slide his arm behind Francis’ shoulders. “Or crawl. It won’t take long. Can you sit up at all?”

Stabbing is only a little good - good because Crozier also happened to have a knife - but bad for a thousand other reasons, including Hickey's proficiency with said weapon, but there's no way for him to articulate that to Raju right now. Not after being asked to actually move himself over an obstacle.

There's only half a second between when the question's asked and actual movement, Crozier gripping Raju's shoulder and leaning on him heavily to get himself onto his feet. He can't spend too long thinking about any one thing or he'll shut down completely. It's almost like having to trick his body into functioning.

Raju's impressed by that degree, that speed of movement from a man who can barely string a sentence together but knows better than to question it and moves them both as quickly as he can, as smoothly and carefully as he can manage, and doesn't try to straighten up all the way. He crouches and leans over and, with his arm around Francis' shoulders, tries to lead him as close to the fireplace and its light as he can get before Francis can't go on.

When he'd left, he realises, he'd left the fireplace lit. The realisation is a faint one. It doesn't matter, but it's strange. Not like him. He always wants to, doesn't like coming back to a house that's nearly as cold as the damn outside and having to wait for it to warm up, but it's too much of a risk to leave it when no one's there. When he left, he'd been distracted. It's convenient now. He tries to lay Francis out close enough to it that Raju can see him.

There's something dark against Francis' lips. Raju reaches down to touch it. It isn't a scab. It isn't dried. "Francis," Raju says, tension in his voice very tightly leashed before it can turn into anything else. "Did you bite your tongue? Or your lips? Anything in your mouth? This is important."

If there was ever an upside to strict regimens and blindly following routines in his formative years, it's that the impulse to just do when asked can sometimes take over when his mind is only half functioning. He drags himself along until he's finally lowered prone again, the fire feeling too hot on very cold skin.

"Did I...?"

He doesn't remember biting his tongue or his cheek when Hickey's punches landed, but he can't be sure. He licks his lips, teeth stained red. "I don't think so."

Raju watches Francis lick blood off of his lips.

He's been trained, of course, to treat this or that thing until a doctor an arrive, but he's never really had to. Not like this. He doesn't want to watch his friend die.

He pushes the thought away, leaning forward to pull up Francis' shirt. None of that matters right now. What matters is finding out what's wrong. But there's not enough light, he can't tell, he can't see—

With a sudden noise the fire grows, brighter and louder, and Raju leans forward, fingers moving very carefully over Francis' chest. "Where did he get you?" Raju demands. "Did he stab you?"

“No,” he groans, protesting at having his layers taken off of him. It’s too cold, and his body is too fragile; that uneasy peace from finally being stationary disrupted. “I stabbed him-”

He stabbed Hickey. Jesus Christ. Did he kill him? Did he bleed out somewhere from that wound in his thigh?

As his tunic is lifted deep, ugly bruises on a slightly misshapen chest are revealed. He’s already red and purple, slightly sickly green, ribs sticking out of place and partially caved in where the worst bruise sits.

“Good,” Raju says to both, what he’s hearing and what he sees. It’s ugly, says fairly ugly things about the state of Francis’ insides, but the thing that’s wrong is clear; there’s something to be done here before sitting back and waiting for his friend to die, instead of skipping straight to that last step.

When Raju settles back next to Francis with a bundle of spare clothes in his arms he doesn’t really remember getting them. But he got the right ones, he sees — it’s useful to have something ill suited to the cold or ill fitting to destroy for rags, and some of these are mostly torn apart already. He starts at them with his knife. He won’t need a perfect strip of cloth, just enough to tie together.

“You stabbed him.” Raju’s words are as quick as his moving hands. He only pauses long enough to tug Francis’ shirt back down, noting his cold skin as he does it, pushing out a hard breath and looking back down at his knife. “But what did he do to you? He got your ribs. What else?”

Edited 2024-06-14 18:36 (UTC)

He brings his hand up to vaguely gesture at his face. “This.”

It’s a half-joke. The wound to his face is fairly obvious, but he heard something crack at that initial hit.

Crozier tries to take a deeper breath and is rewarded with a cough; there’s a slight spray of blood that seeps out of his mouth. “He…” He inhales, sharp and painfully. “Broke something. Ribs. Around my…”

Eye, he means to say eye. “Broke that too.”

Raju’s gaze catches on the blood running out of Francis’ mouth. Raju’s hands are still.

The fire should be very warm, now. It’s brighter than it was a moment ago. He can see nearly everything.

Raju’s hands move, not quite quick enough to stop himself from thinking about it, to wipe the blood from Francis’ mouth with a rag and fling the rag into the fire.

“I’m going to sit you up now,” he says, sliding an arm under Francis’ neck, not letting his gaze linger anywhere. He has to get this done, and not think about what happens after. “Don’t do any work, just lean on me. Your ribs and your face, you’re sure that’s all?”

Crozier does bite his lip this time, hard enough to bleed but not quite enough to silence himself. He cries out loudly as every single broken bone suddenly moves, crumpling against Raju because he definitely can’t keep himself upright in his own with a sorry little whimper.

His breathing was worse off when he was lying on his back, but he can’t tell one hurt from another at this point. “Nothing else,” he answers through gasps.

Raju turns his head, presses his forehead against Francis’ hair. His breath is hard, loud, and for a moment he stays that way, perfectly still, holding Francis perfectly still, counting the moment in his harsh breaths. Something moves through him, some shadow of pain like his body’s trying to feel what he caused, like the noises he forced out of a friend who trusts him, who’s completely helpless to do anything but trust him, could have cut up Raju’s insides, too.

He won’t apologise. He won’t try to justify himself. Raju knows why he had to move Francis’ broken body that way, he knew it before he did it, and all Francis knows is that he hurts. Asking for forgiveness wouldn’t change that. It might even cheapen something; Raju knew that doing it would hurt him. And if Raju did it, he can take responsibility for it. That’s the least that he can do.

Five hard breaths in and out against Francis’ hair. Feeling it against his face this way reminds him of other things, his mind trying to make the feeling into a comfort. Then he nods, feeling Francis’ head against his, trying to smell Francis’ familiar soap and sweat and only smelling blood. It’s impressive, that Francis answered him at all after pain like that, let alone coherently. Raju is proud of him. It hurts, being proud of him.

Raju lifts his head. His face is smiling in a way designed to look reassuring and confident and natural. The flickering light from the wall of fire outside the window lights up the other side of Francis' face too but Raju keeps smiling, keeping the gentle, confident pride at the front of his mind. This is what Francis needs now, and this is what Raju needs, to get this done. In lieu of squeezing anything that might hurt, Raju punctuates the smile by sliding his hand back and forth a few times from Francis' back up to his shoulder and down again. "You did very well. Thank you, Francis. I need you to hold these right here now, I'll wrap something around them to keep your ribs still, and then you can rest."

Raju's smile freezes for a second, and his throat is tight. Rest. There's only so much Raju can do, and rest could mean a lot of things. But there's work in front of him still: the thick pyjama bottoms folded over, a few pairs of different, equally unsuitable sizes, suited for cushioning a makeshift bandage that will, optimistically, need to stay on for a good while. "Breathe in and hold it if you can, so I don't make this too tight. It won't take more than a minute. One more minute and this will all be done. I promise. Can you bear that for me, Francis?"

He might be dying. He’s almost died twice before, he should know when his body’s trying to shut itself down. And yet, as it was the last two times, his mind struggles to give up and give in to that overwhelming need to just sleep.

There’s too much to do. He needs to find his men. He needs to lead them south.

His body argues back. He can’t keep going like this, it’s too tired, too abused. It’s too much, Crozier’s done too much to himself, his body doesn’t want to hold on any longer. Just sleep. Just sleep, there’s no Silna here to save you.

But there is Raju. He hears his voice distantly and follows the gentle orders to hold onto his chest and then catch and keep his breath. One minute. He can hold on for one minute more.

Edited 2024-06-15 12:35 (UTC)

Raju doesn't know whether it actually takes one minute. Time is something distant and strange now, here so fast he can't remember it and there passing very slow. He knows that he works quickly, efficiently, hands steady with the ruthless clarity that comes with terrible moments like this one. He wraps the shredded rags so that the cushion of clothes under them spreads their tension evenly over Francis' misshapen chest, then runs his hands very carefully over his work. Secure, and tight. Whether it's too tight is probably impossible for Francis to tell him.

He realises his hand has stopped over Francis' side, that he's clenching his jaw so hard it hurts. He breathes out, the breath long and controlled, then looks to Francis' face, shifting himself very carefully to put a little more of himself behind Francis to make it easier to lean back into him.

"There you are." His voice is still confident and encouraging. There's blood on Francis' lip. If he doesn't think about what he's saying, then it can come out of his mouth. "There you are. You did well. You did so well. You can rest now."

His throat is tight. His breath is shaking and he closes his mouth tight, breathes in sharply through his nose instead. His arm is around Francis' shoulders and his grip there is trying to hold tight. He loosens it as much as he can bear to. The light shines brightly from the fireplace, from the windows, and flickers here and there across the arms that have held him, the mouth that sang to him not so very long ago. Raju couldn't look away from any of it if he wanted to.

He can rest now. It’s such a comforting thought, but it would have meant nothing if it hadn’t come from Raju himself. He trusts him, so it means he can rest. He’s done what he’s had to, he’s done well.

He thinks of Jopson, offering words of genuine admiration as he wiped the sweat and sick from him, telling him that he was doing so well despite the fact that he was on death’s door. It should feel like he’s being appeased somehow, mollified, but it’s just so nice to hear that he’s done something well for a change, even if it just holding on to consciousness.

His head drops down, chin resting on his chest as he stops fighting for a while. He sleeps. He sleeps for a full day, through the slow piecing together of the events that took place during the Solstice and the immediate aftermath of all the violence.

When he does wake again he’s far less delirious, but the severity of what was done to the man Hickey killed and carved up, to his own body, is at the forefront of his mind. He immediately searches for Raju, not knowing if he’s close or still in the same room.

And just like that, Francis' head dips down onto his chest, and...

And he sleeps. He's still breathing. Raju can hear it. It shows the strength of Francis' will, Raju realises some vague, distant amount of time later. That he'd been holding everything back only on the strength of permission to let all of it go.

And now he has. And everything Raju can do is done. He can't reach inside of Francis and put everything back, he can't make any of it right, he can't help. A large part of him is certain that's the last time he'll see his friend awake. He hadn't expected it, this morning. He knows these things can happen that way. Very suddenly.

Sometimes Raju wakes up later with a panicked start, realises Francis is still alive, then realises that he's been dozing. Eventually, over top of the flames in front of the window, sunlight tries to start peeking in. It's his first time seeing it in weeks. Raju knows that. After a while, he gives up on trying to care.

Time passes, no matter whether anyone wants it to, and Raju has to stand up eventually for the water closet and he paces for a while afterward, shaking the stiffness out of his limbs and stretching his back, and glancing over every few seconds like his head's attached to a rubber band and can't help but turn that way. He stares at Francis for a while. He runs a wet rag over his face very carefully and ends up not making a whole lot of change there, not wanting to disturb any scabbing and most of all not wanting to hear that horrible noise again, the one that he caused when Francis was too weak to protest it, moving a body that wasn't whole enough to stand it.

He's staring out the window, watching the flames. They're lower now, and thinner. He's tired. It's only when he realises Francis is moving that he realises he'd looked away from him, and that guilty fear fights his shock that Francis is awake at all, and the feelings collapse into a confused bundle still wrestling one another for a position at the front of his mind, and Raju ignores them altogether.

"Francis," Raju rasps, reaching for his hand. Francis' back is against the wall now nearest to the fireplace and he's bundled in the soft fur they'd woken up on just this morning — yesterday — whenever that morning had been. The top of the blanket falls down off him a little when Raju shifts, their shoulders brushing together, and very carefully grasps at his arm. "You're awake."

It doesn't necessarily mean anything. Not in the long term. It might not even mean anything good now. Raju leans forward, eager anyway, wanting to see Francis' eyes again.

Yes. Awake. He feels beat to all hell; Lord knows what he must look like. He can’t open his left eye or even really move his head without everything feeling like one big throb. Breathing is a struggle, he can hear something rattling around in his lungs when he tries to inhale, and he can’t fill his lungs. His body is so overwhelmingly sore that he’s hesitant to even move, let alone try to twist to look at Raju, but thankfully his friend’s already working to meet him half way.

Raju looks horrible, exhausted and worn out completely. How long has he been asleep?

He makes a soft noise at the back of his throat and attempts to bring his hand up to his face, gingerly prodding at his brow. Something’s broken there. Something’s broken in his chest. This might be bad.

“Raju,” he murmurs, dropping his hand to touch briefly along his jawline. He gives a little stunted sigh. “Hickey murdered someone. He carved him up and ate him - and I suspect fed pieces of this man to others.”

As Francis prods at his face Raju reaches up, meaning to pull Francis' hand away but not quite willing to pull anything on Francis' body anywhere right now, and ends up only trying to tug it down and away from the damage once Francis is finished feeling at it. The last thing he needs to be doing with this time, this limited time, is worrying, about his face, his injuries, or about anything else. And if it isn't limited, if Francis lives—

It doesn't matter either way. He shouldn't worry. Raju's thinking this, and listening to the first thing Francis says on waking after all this time, maybe the last thing, and it's so disconnected from anything that Raju's thinking that for a moment he can't make out the actual meaning of it. For a moment Raju's expression is blank, uncomprehending.

The meaning follows.

"I'll remember," he says, intent on Francis, his face, the one eye that isn't too swollen to see. He tries to tell how aware that one-eyed gaze is, how close this is to when Raju had first found him. Everything outside that...

There were horrors happening outside this cabin, too. Maybe there still are. But they matter the way that the sunlight matters, still trying to filter in where it can reach over the fire, through the very tops of the windows. But it matters to Francis.

"Don't worry. I'll... figure something out. I'll take care of it. Don't worry about it now." His eyes flicker over Francis' neck, over his shoulders, and then back up again. He wants to pull the edge of the blanket over Francis' shoulder again, but that would mean taking his hand of Francis' arm and he doesn't know if he can do that yet. It's all he can do to keep his other hand fisted around the bottom of the blanket instead of trying to grab at Francis somewhere else, some place that would probably hurt. He doesn't look to have many places that won't. "You're warm enough, aren't you? You were so cold before. I think that part's alright now, but it was hard to be sure without... asking."

He has to worry about Hickey and his crime, he needs to know that there will be consequences for his actions and that someone will stop him. Milton needs to know what Hickey’s capable of and how low he’ll stoop for control. He might try to blame everything on the Darkwalker’s influence, but Crozier knows he’s been planning this from the beginning.

He wasn’t that hungry. The corpse he found was barely carved up at all. Crozier can’t seem to get the image of out his brain - a fellow traveler in the snow, Goodsir on a table.

Crozier leans his head back against the wooden wall. He should be warmer now, he has his heavy furs laid out over him and he’s near the fire, but it feels like the air is freezing in this little cabin. “Cold,” he tells him quietly, trying to sink further down into the furs.

“I wanted to arrest him. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking,” he says quietly, still wondering how it had gone so badly so quickly. Of course he knows - everyone had lost their goddamn minds - but he’d stabbed a man!

Fear.

Raju isn't used to fear. He runs headfirst toward his problems, he pushes until they fold under his hands—

His friend has been dying the whole day, so far as part of Raju is concerned, and now he's cold, and he shouldn't be cold. The fire's been larger than he keeps the real ones, the ones he has to build on purpose, and it's been that way for a long time, and even Raju is warm.

He doesn't want to stand. He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to turn away from Francis for a second, just in case.

"You saw something terrible," Raju manages, voice murmuring and rough, memorising the feeling of Francis' arm under his hand, the quiet, familiar sound of his voice. "And you wanted to make it right."

A moment passes. Some length of time he can't measure. The breath he takes through his nose is quick and bracing, and helps him break himself away from it. He leans back. He sets his jaw. "I'll warm up some water," he says firmly, hands gripping his thighs so they won't try to reach out to anything else, and standing before he has any time to think about it. "You'll feel better with something warm in you."

Bizarre, he thinks as he grabs the first pot he finds and pours meltwater into it, to be doing something like this now. Something he might do any morning. Heating water up for tea. But what is there? Francis is cold, and Raju doesn't have anything else. It isn't tea he'll be making now, anyway. And he can put it straight into the fireplace. And he doesn't need to boil it.

He's back in front of Francis in under a minute, setting a pot into a fire that curls around it and kneeling, looking into Francis' face intently.

He immediately feels the loss of that added heat when Raju moves, and he grunts in annoyance and then promptly shivers, teeth chattering like it's his first day out in the cold. He feels that cold in his bones now, his skin sensitive to the tiniest of pinpricks from his furs. He feels the need to twist and turn and try to find some position that won't make his hips and legs ache.

His head swim a little as he turns to look for Raju, lucidity still holding on despite the extreme discomfort.

"Raju," he mutters. "Feel my head. Is it hot to the touch?"

With his body this swollen and bruised he was bound to have infection take hold somewhere.

Edited 2024-06-16 03:46 (UTC)

Raju's palm is resting over Francis' forehead already, and he's only just decided to put it there. That's alright. His body knows what to do: anything that Francis asks for. He meets Francis' eyes, worry hardened into determination over his face, and gives a single nod, blowing a hard breath out of his nose and looking into Francis' eyes — eye — for a moment more. There's no place for fear here, not when Francis is looking to Raju to take care of him. For however long—

He turns to look at the pot in the fire, as if he needs to check on it seconds after putting it there. His hand slides down to the side of Francis' neck. "Fever," he says, realises how impersonal and cold his voice sounds, and clears his throat.

"Is it heat or cold?" he goes on, voice very casual now as he turns back toward Francis, as if only asking about the weather. "That you do for a fever? Damp rags, that's what people do for those, isn't it?"

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cw very passive mentions of suicide

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