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 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?"

Fever. Of course. He’s sweated out the whiskey and fought a fever for weeks after the tuunbaq.

“I…I think so,” he mutters, not really knowing at all what works. He knows what he did for his men as they laid dying, but they’d been without a doctor then, and it really only a matter of comforting them at that point. Raju’s hand on his neck does just as well as a damp rag, if not better.

“Raju, if I die,” he starts, stopping only to take a harsh breath in. “If I die from this you’ll need to warn the others. I need you…them…I need you to live. Do you understand?”

Raju's expression had been polite interest a moment ago, when he'd been asking a question that didn't matter. It's shifted very slowly, stricken as he hears the words, feels them attach themselves to his skin and start sinking down inside. It was inevitable, wasn't it, that this moment would come. He realises that now. Of course Francis would wake up again, because he hadn't done this yet. He hadn't passed this on for Raju to carry it instead. Of course he couldn't die before he did that.

Raju feels his heart beating against his ribs. He hears the roaring from the fireplace, from outside. He feels the air settling heavily against his skin, pressing down against the centre of his chest, his throat. The roaring noise keeps going, low, heavy, unrelenting.

If I die...

Boiling. That's what he's hearing. The water is boiling. Raju turns away from Francis all at once, hand dropping away from his neck to dart toward the handle, yank itself back, go at the pot again with a rag messily wrapped around its fingers this time. His head is ducked down to look only at the water in it, and his breaths come hard and shaking through his nose, and the water is too hot.

If I die, I need you to...

Francis won't be able to drink it like this. His hands dart hurriedly to the pile of rags once and then, reconsidering, another time, dipping them into the water and lifting them and twisting to wring out the water and feeling whether they're hot enough. He can still use this. He can heat these up with it, and put them over the back of Francis' neck. That will make him more comfortable. He should be more comfortable, now. Never mind why.

He's more lucid than he was when Raju first found him, but that can't mean much. He'll forget. If Raju doesn't reply, dying will distract him, and he'll forget.

Raju's hands go still. He doesn't look up. He doesn't know what to do with the thought, so he doesn't do anything. But Francis will need something soon. Something else. So Raju can do that instead.

He doesn’t want to hear this. Of course he wouldn’t; that deathbed promise forced on thirteen-year-old still lingers in the forefront of Crozier’s own mind. He understands why, but he doesn’t have a choice now. It’s important he knows; he may not get another chance.

“Raju, please,” he whispers, frustrated that he can’t even reach for him. He’s so, so ill, body sluggish and words forming slowly. If he falls asleep and doesn’t wake up again he won’t have been able to -

“Listen, please,” he pleads quietly. He has to keep talking, even if Raju doesn’t pay him any mind. “All that’s mine is yours. My clothes and my knife. My amulet, the one in my parka. The one Silna carved. My furs. All that’s mine.”

If he dies he’ll keep him warm still. It’s all that he can do.

Raju, please. Francis' voice is still so quiet. Likely doesn't have the strength for anything else. He keeps talking anyway, keeps trying even with everything it must take to do it. Like Raju had wanted him to, all that time ago. He'd wanted Francis to try. To fight. To keep going. He keeps going, fighting through it, so he can give Raju everything. Raju's lips tremble, pressed tightly together.

The rag is clenched tightly in his hands. It's a little damp, and very warm. He should do something with it. He turns toward Francis again, watching his hands as they tuck the warm rag very slowly, carefully over the back of Francis' neck. He'd tucked rough cloth around his father like a blanket, he remembers now. He doesn't know why. It hadn't done any good. Not the way he'd intended it to.

He adjusts the thing against Francis' skin, tugging it this way and that so it can lie flat. "You can drink the water once it's cooled off," he says. It comes out in a rasp. "It'll help." He swallows to make more space in his throat, watching the efforts of his hands. "You need something warm inside you."

The cloth feels nice, but it isn’t want he truly needs. “Sit by me,” he says. He doesn’t want to die like this, with Raju fussing and trying so desperately to not hear him.

He knows it’s more than he deserves, but if given the choice he’d die like Fitzjames - a friendly face looking into his, holding his hand, speaking words of comfort to him. He wants to feel loved in his last moments, to have his death be a release instead of a grim end.

He doesn’t say it again. He waits, hoping that Raju heard this time.

It's clear Francis isn't going to push. Likely he can't. Only had the strength to ask it once, and Raju—

He watches the cloth for a moment. He pulls it flat one more time.

Raju doesn't have the strength to answer it, that most important question. The promise. If I die, I need you to— All that Raju has to say is yes. Yes I promise, yes I'll warn them, yes I'll take care of it for you, so they can live.

He isn't strong enough. The knowledge appears in him from out of nothing, one moment knowing what his dearest friend needs from him to help him at the last leave something good behind, and in the next the knowledge that he can't, frozen and brittle and already settled all through him. It's the first time he's ever thought it about himself.

All Francis wants is for Raju to sit with him, now. Hasn't the strength to ask for the other thing again. Or maybe he's given up on it. Because the moment's already passed when he'd needed Raju to say yes, and Raju didn't.

He shifts around to sit beside Francis. What else is there to do? It's a very familiar position now. New to Francis, who wasn't conscious for any of Raju's waiting. Raju leans his head back against the wall for an instant and then leans forward and around, gaze darting from Francis' swollen face to his broken body, his hand starting to reach for him but hovering in the air, unsure. There doesn't seem to be any place that he could put his hand that wouldn't hurt.

"I don't want to move you again," he manages, words mostly steady, quiet. "I think this is as close as I can get."

Raju is in agony, possibly worse than how Crozier actually physically feels in the moment. Saying the obvious out loud had been a blow to whatever state of denial or peace he’d settled into the moment he found Crozier outside in the snow. It brought to the forefront a very real possibility; his friend could die. No one wants to have to think about these things.

He can’t stand being handled with kid gloves, even if he very obviously should be. He’d rather be in pain than see that lost look on Raju’s face. He leans himself forward to make room for whatever that needs to be done. Discomfort be damned, he’s going to hurt anyway.

“Put your arm around my back, just under my ribs.” Holding himself like this is exceedingly painful; he hopes he moves quickly.

Edited 2024-06-17 00:10 (UTC)

Raju's eyes widen, and he moves quickly. He remembers the horrible noise Francis had made when Raju had sat him up; even a small movement like that must take strength. Strength where Raju can't find his, even for the sake of a dying man who cares and needs him. Moving quickly is the least that he can do.

His arm is around Francis' back, under his ribs. It all feels more fragile than it had when he'd sat this way before. Almost this way. When he'd told Francis that he wanted him to stay.

Raju turns his head against Francis', nose against his hair, and breathes out hard. He's as aware of the body under his arm as he's ever been of anything. Francis feels warm, despite how cold he says he feels. He feels warm and alive. But the need to see Francis, look into his face, impossible to ignore now that he's this close, pushes Raju to lift his head again, to look over the handsome face he knows underneath what's become of it. The backs of his fingers trace very carefully around the swollen eye.

I could get snow for this, to keep it cold. For the swelling. His mouth is already open to say it. It stays open as he breathes out, the air coming out of him in a sigh, very slow.

"Is this alright?" The words come out on his slow breath. He can't bring himself to mind the swelling, just now; it feels alive under his fingers, too.

The ache from the jostling is immediately offset by the warmth of Raju's arm around him. The pain doesn't matter now, the discomfort, the chill in his body and the struggle for each breath. It's entirely selfish to have Raju close in this way, to want to die beside him knowing just what that'll do to his dear friend.

He makes a soft noise in response. Even if it wasn't all right, even if he somehow felt worse for having the arm around him, it would be exactly what he wanted.

He could apologize; he still has the clarity of mind to offer up those final words to him. He's sorry that it's come to this, and he's sorry that he's brought Raju in so close only to put him through Hell. It was never his intent. He's sorry that he'll have to fight alone, with the knowledge that Cornelius Hickey - not his true name, that rat bastard - survived the friend he beat to death.

But an apology would be hollow and unwelcomed. He knows what he should be saying instead. If this is the last time he'll be conscious enough to speak, he should make it count. By god, he should be true to himself for a change, and not be so damned afraid. Rejection is not the end of the world. Being able to live and love again is the greatest gift a person could ever be given, isn't that so?

He shivers and closes his eyes. He knows Raju is studying his face. "Raju," he says softly."You must know that I care for you."

Everything Francis says now hurts. Raju's throat hurts. Francis feels alive against Raju now, even the shivering feels that way, and Raju wants to protest it, wants to tell him, You're alive, you shouldn't be talking this way, you're still alive. That must be what's crowded up thick inside his throat. Because he isn't strong enough to be the man Francis needs right now, isn't strong enough to reassure him, make another deathbed promise that everything is going to be taken care of, but Francis doesn't have a choice but to forgive him now because he's dying and Raju is the one who's here, so Raju's weakness is all he has. Francis has so little strength left and he's using it for this.

"I know." That hushed, half-strangled voice that's been coming out of him here and there isn't familiar yet. Like something out of one of the dreams where speaking is a struggle, but real. Real this time. Odd to know, for once, what he's going to be dreaming about while it's still happening. To be aware of it that way as he's feeling the moments passing for the first time. The moment, every moment, shapes itself with a hard-edged, unforgiving clarity that he recognizes now.

"Of course I know. How could I not?" He can't grasp at Francis like he wants to. He doesn't want to hurt him. The hand around Francis' waist tries to tighten its fingers and he straightens them, tries again and he grabs at Francis' shirt instead where comes out from under the padding that's wrapped around his ribs. His other hand drifts down from Francis' face to his chest, above where the wrapping starts, and curls without grasping, and rests the backs of its curled fingers against the familiar texture of the sealskin. It's a texture he's always associated so closely with Francis that he's never realised it until now, trying to dig for every hint of familiarity and pile them all up against the moment they won't be familiar any more.

"You've been generous with yourself from the moment we met. Of course I know. You don't have to worry about that." He shouldn't worry. Raju's too weak to reassure him about everything, but he can try. He can try for this, at least.

Ah, it was never going to be so easy. He wants to pour his heart out and bare his soul but he needs to be succinct, his body starting to fight his mind for control. The fever rages, his limbs feel heavy. Such a blessing it would be, such a gift to pass away quietly.

His good eye slips shut. Just to rest, he tells himself, just to placate his insistent body for a moment. Raju has his arms around him, and he's so warm pressed against his frigid body. He was never any good at saying no to baser urges.

"Of course you know," he repeats, mind drifting to the ice and its screams as it entombed Terror. Raju knows. "I wanted so much for myself...but never deserved half of what I received." What merit has granted him this second, third chance? What acts of glory or valor? He accomplished nothing. The ice took and took -

"In his flight, Jacob lighted upon a certain place because the sun was set. He thought it a terrible place. No house, no hearth. But that night he dreamed. A ladder set upon the earth, and the top of it reaching to the heavens.

He hears Sir John's voice reading the words now, the quiet mumble he interrupted with a soft knocking on the table.

He often thought about death and the afterlife. He's eager to see Thomas and James again, the Hartnell boys, Doctors McDonald and Peddie, and yes, Sir John himself. He never hated Sir John, but what must his commander think of him now? If there's some other side that awaits them all, what must Sir John have been thinking when he watched them all perish one by one?

Crozier pulls his mind back from the ice, just briefly. Raju, Raju is here. Raju is warmth and strength and unexpected happiness in an inhospitable place. Raju is - was - an unexpected gift.

"The Netsilik thought me cursed, an ill omen. I stayed that way here as well, apart and alone. Cursed. Then I met you." His head leans slightly into Raju's, drifting, drifting... "And I loved you. Imagine my surprise, to be given one more chance to feel alive."

Francis’ eyes are closed and Raju’s breath is faster, harsh and pulled in through his mouth. But Francis keeps talking and Raju keeps listening, every word crystalising themselves in his memory, and then Francis’ head is leaning into Raju’s, and Raju doesn’t know if it’s affection putting it there or if he isn’t aware enough to hold it up on his own anymore. The hand against Francis’ front reaches down, scrambling to grasp his hand.

“You said, once—“ The words hurry out of him. He can hear the awful, painful sound if Francis’ strained breathing and clings onto it. “That I didn’t know how much I made life worth living. For you. I never said anything about it after that, to you, I just thought…”

I thought it meant you were going to stay, he thinks. He clenches his jaw with a sharp breath, and forces himself together. Pleas for the impossible don’t have any place here, now. That isn’t what Francis needs. He can be what Francis needs, in this one way. For as long as he still needs it.

“You felt alive,” he manages, quieter, slower. He watches Francis’ body, memorising how it feels against him, watches Francis breathing and listens to the sound. “With me.”

It isn’t apparent whether Raju fully understood or not, from the indirect response to his own slowing brain functions, but in this moment it doesn’t matter. If those were to be his last words he can drift peaceably away knowing that Raju heard them, and knew that he was loved. How doesn't need nuance, not when Raju’s arms are about him and his tone is so soft and patient.

“I am still,” he protests, fainter and fainter. He can’t reassure any further than that. His teeth chatter again and he twists to seek more warm.

He’s tired again. Sleep is too tempting - Raju too tempting, that hold screaming security and safety. He could just stop fighting, just for a little while. Just for a few minutes more.

Francis twists to face him, to curl into him, and Raju’s urgency is what he knows first, instant and reflexive. Francis is going to hurt himself moving that way and Raju shifts to meet him before he can try to move too far, chest against his chest, hand moving from Francis’ up his arm to grasp it desperately, and then let go, and then grasp at it again very gently. Then he remembers: Francis is dying, and there’s no little adjustment, no warm drinks, no help Raju can give that’s going to make any kind of difference now.

Francis’ words hit him after that.

I am still.

I am still, on the awful straining of his breath.

Raju ducks his head down against Francis’ soft hair. He’d teased Francis about this hair, once. Told him how it looked bright and shining under the sun. Francis hadn’t quite liked hearing it, but it’d been true.

Raju’s pushes his own strained breaths out against Francis’ hair, blinking fast. Francis would feel the tears on him if they fell. He’d feel them, and he sounded so peaceful. He’d sounded quiet.

I’m still alive, with you. Raju’s throat hurts, and his chest hurts, and he waits just this way without thinking anything at all, waiting for the moment when it isn’t true.

There isn’t much awareness after that, just the feeling of be cocooned and protected. His mind floats on soft waves, awareness and then blissful nothingness, alternating as he finally falls back into an uneasy sleep.

He doesn’t wake again with the same level of consciousness for another full day. The fever burns and burns, conjuring hallucinations that leave Crozier whimpering and sobbing in a pool of his own sweat. His mumbling is mostly nonsensical, but occasionally he groans and it almost sounds like he’s asking for someone. ‘Thomas’ is a frequent name, ‘James’, ‘Sophie’ - but none more clear than ‘Raju’.

Finally, after fighting for so long, the fever breaks and Crozier quiets, resting without being plagued by pain.

For a while Raju just breathes, gasping breaths, and he cradles the back of Francis' head, and thinks about holding the tears at bay and nothing else at all. But, like before, time passes no matter what anyone else involved might like, and life — apparently — isn't a play where his dearest friend finishes dying at the most dramatic time.

It's a while before Raju realises that. It doesn't occur to him to wonder how long. It's a while after that before he has to stand. He's cramping, and it hurts. He's going to start twitching soon and jostle Francis and Francis is going to hurt again, that as one of the last things that he feels at the end.

Raju paces. His pacing closes in on the door and he thinks of the things Francis had asked. The things he hadn't had a choice but to stop asking, because Raju couldn't bring himself to agree. Hickey could be doing anything out there. Francis had hoped that Raju would protect the people here from him. Francis had asked him to. He should go. He's supposed to go and help.

Most of the times he reaches the door and pauses, thinking that way, Francis whimpers or sobs or sometimes moans out a name — sometimes Raju's name — and his footsteps move him back that way on his own. Guilt rises sour in his throat, but he doesn't leave. He remembers when he'd wanted to cup Francis' face and stroke his hair during nightmares, and does that instead. Impossible not to try to do something; useless or not, dying or not, he cups Francis' face and feels the sweat pouring down him and finds himself wiping at Francis' skin with cool damp rags, then from there as far under Francis' shirt as he can get with their dwindling supply of soap.

Thoughts have been coming to him here and there, all this time. Conversations they've had. Things they've done. One comes to him now, with the side of his hand brushing the soft skin of Francis' stomach. There'd been just as much pull to touch him then as now, as ever, but particularly then, watching his skin flush red from the hot water.

In a rare quiet, still moment he risks untying the wrapping and removing the padding and lifting the sweat-soaked tunic and putting his hand in front of the deformity of his ribs on the one side. Without that — before it — the line of his chest and waist here had been strong and broad in a way Raju's hadn't been built for, soft in a way Raju couldn't ever allow himself to be. He hadn't touched Francis when he'd had the chance, when he could have felt his friend's warm skin under his without this wrenching grief. He hadn't because... it would have been strange. Would it have been? He'd only wanted—

Raju stands and stalks away, shoving the heels of his hands against his eyes. Those urges have been misfiring since before he met Francis, and plenty of times after, but there's no real place for them here, and certainly isn't a place for them now. This isn't the time.

He paces. He settles back in front of Francis with water and with soap, and cleans the parts of him that he can, hands very controlled and very careful. He wraps Francis' ribs again.

Eventually, despite himself, he starts to hope. He starts setting his hand and wrist against Francis' forehead now and then, and eventually his skin feels cool under Raju's and Raju kneels there with his insides clenching up. Some of that is hunger. The rest...

The side of his face has been too swollen to recognize, this whole time. But it's less, isn't it? The swelling's gone down, if only a little. Raju runs his palm down over it, barely touching. He tries to take a deep, hard breath and it hitches before he can fill his lungs. He holds the emotion down, whatever it is, under the clenching of his throat and shallower, harshly controlled breaths and sits next to Francis, arm careful around the back of his neck. His hand keeps clenching tighter than he wants it to over Francis' shoulder. His other hand takes Francis' in it and he leans his head back against the wall, jaw clenched. He'd dozed for some odd, impossible period of time before Francis had woken up and said those terrible, wrenching things but now he's in that familiar land after exhaustion where energy is odd and flighty in his limbs and his will holds everything else back. He sits there with his side against Francis' and resists the distant pull that comes with sitting down now, feeling Francis' hand in his and not hoping for anything.

Waking again is a slow process. He's vaguely aware of his surroundings as he fades in and out, rousing briefly only to fall back asleep when awash with comfort from the fire or the furs, or the odd arm wrapped around him. It takes hours before he's able to keep his eyes open - or eye, as the left one is still swollen badly enough to not be functional.

He blinks through blurred vision. The roar of pain in his chest has dulled to a soft, persistent gnawing, that sharp headache faded to just the discomfort of the swollen muscles and tissue in his face. He feels sturdier than he had when he'd fallen asleep, and realizes there are tight bandages wrapped about him.

There's no way of knowing how much time has passed, but he's aware that he's horribly thirsty, even a little hungry. It's a good sign. It means that his body's recovered enough to move out from that survival state, on to craving the things it needs to continue on rather than remain in stasis.

He licks his lips, mouth dry like the desert sands. His head picks up and he surveys the cabin briefly.

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