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

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.

Raju is pacing again. Without anything else to notice, he'd noticed the sharp energy in his limbs flagging and the leaden feeling pulling at his eyes, and gotten up instead. It's almost better than being next to Francis, where he'd feel how relaxed Francis seems, how close he seems without the fever to being alive, being well. And moving helps.

When he turns back, Francis is awake. Properly awake. Aware.

Raju's heart is beating hard, and he hasn't moved toward Francis yet. I am still, he thinks, and hope and fear are tangled up in a knot somewhere in his chest or stomach where a moment earlier had only been echoing empty space.

He walks toward Francis, feeling his heart beating. He wants to smooth his hand down over Francis' side and find out whether the never again, never this ever again would still be there and would still hurt. He wants to touch him in the way he always has, to feel what he always feels, to want what he always wants. Raju wants to feel his friend in his arms and kiss him in the long, grateful way he used to kiss Seetha after stepping off of the skiff at home for the first time in too long.

He raises a hand to cup Francis' face. His hard breaths are pushing his chest in and out, loud through his open mouth. The smell of his own raised arm makes it to him, and he realises he smells horrible.

He's been washing Francis so carefully, but not himself at all. It isn't the smell of honest effort, it's the sour smell of stress and fear and he had barely realised how much of it was lingering on him until now. It hadn't mattered at all, then. And Francis is...

Awake. Above everything else Francis is awake, and his fever's broken, and he's alive, and nothing else should matter, not even the things Raju wants as intensely as he wants this now. And moving Francis would hurt him anyway. And he needs to hear that voice saying something that isn't the last thing it will ever say, and he pulls in a sharp breath through his lips, his gaze darting everywhere over Francis' face and settling on the clear look in that one eye.

"Francis." His voice is rasping and sharp, intent, his other hand moving to clasp Francis'. "You're alive, still. With me. You're here."

Like Christ, with more nails.

No, it isn't as bad as all that, which is a wonderful realization unto itself. He doesn't feel like he's been dropped off at death's doorstep. And while he's certainly not well, his mind doesn't feel so clouded and murky as it had before.

He can't really remember how he'd even gotten to the cabin. Raju must have found him out there in the snow, but how he'd gotten from A to B is a mystery. Granted, one that's easily solved, with his savior there in front of him holding his face so very tenderly.

"Still here," he croaks, voice just as rough as Raju's. "Apparently."

God, but Raju looks terrible. He looks like he's been somehow run over and dragged behind a horse. When was it that he last slept? How badly had it all gotten? He can feel the broken things inside of him, feel how difficult it is to take a breath in and hold it, but he can't tell -

How long has it been since the fight?

Crozier licks his lips without any saliva on his tongue. Everything is so dry. "Raju." He exhales softly, searching his face and finding dread still lingering in his expression. It's so deeply ingrained it must be hard to release. He should apologize, he should apologize for worrying him, for doing whatever it is that did to him.

"How long was I...?"

“Ah…“ Raju looks away toward the window. Fire still takes up a good part of the view from between the curtains but it’s flickering wildly now, rather than steady the way it has been, and he can see hints of sun between the firelight. That doesn’t really help him tell the time. But it’d been a little darker before, hadn’t it?

“A… day, maybe, since you, ah...” His eyes flicker down Francis and back up again, needing to make sure nothing’s changed in the seconds he’s been looking away. His lips, at least, are more or less as they’ve always been, and Raju wants to kiss him very much. It probably isn’t a misfire, the thought, not feeling the way he feels now with any kind of physical release the very last thing on his mind. He wonders dimly if any of those other thoughts, when his priorities had been different, hadn’t been misfires either. Or, if they had been, whether that matters any now next to simply wanting to. He has the thoughts, but doesn’t know what to do with them after. They drift around inside his mind, as unmoored and slow as everything else.

He realises he hasn’t finished his sentence. He hadn’t wanted to say— well, he can’t say ‘died’. Then he’d forgotten he’d been saying it.

“…Fell asleep,” he finishes. “The second time.” The hand on Francis’ face drifts down to his neck, and then his shoulder. He frowns a little, realising what had drawn his eye to Francis’ lips in the first place. They’re dry. He’d been licking them.

“You—“ He remembers realising nothing he could do for Francis would do any good. He could ask now and be told ‘no’ and have to realise it over again, and feel it again. He asks anyway. The thrill of hearing anything from Francis, putting more of Francis’ words between him and what Raju had been sure would be his last coherent ones, makes it worth it to say almost anything.

“You want to drink something. Or eat? You haven’t eaten in… a while.”

“Water,” he murmurs, “please.”

It’s all he can think about now. Water, god, he needs water. He can’t even think about the hand on his, the hold on his shoulder, the way Raju keeps searching his face - likely to make sure his injuries aren’t too extensive to his head.

He ducks his head down, his face giving a weak little throb, gaze settling on Raju’s hand in his. He knows his friend; he didn’t leave his side at all, he wouldn’t.

He hates to ask him for more, but as good as he feels now he knows he’s far from stable. Rot could set in, he still makes a horribly wheezing noise when he breaths, he can’t see out of one eye. “I need a doctor.”

He’d wanted to give Francis water before. He’d started to. It hadn’t mattered. What Francis had wanted was for Raju to sit with him while he died.

Francis wants water now, and a smile breaks over Raju’s face, and he lets something out in his slow breath. When he turns to pour the water, and when he turns back to cup the back of Francis’ head and lift the cup up to his lips, the view in front of his eyes is blurred.

“You’ll have one,” he rasps. “I’ll bring someone.”

Things are going to be alright. They are. Raju can tell that now.

The doctor comes, and then she goes again. Raju bathes. He sleeps more deeply than he has since he’s come to Milton, waking with difficulty only when Francis needs something. The fire dies down at some point before he wakes again, and he’s more exhausted somehow once it leaves. But he’s never minded exhaustion when it’s got a direction.

Fishing takes too long and hunting, if Raju was more practiced at it, takes too long. Raju’s got enough familiarity with Francis’ traps that he maintains them, trying to leave his distaste for hunting behind and succeeding best when he remembers who he’s doing it for. It’s not easy leaving it behind but not as hard as he’d expected here, needing to, and no longer building up a surfeit of suffering to make up for.

Odd jobs sewing here and there make it possible to barter for what he needs, though people aren’t always willing to part with their food after so many weeks where game was rare. Once Francis’ supply of dried food finishes dwindling and disappears Raju will have to figure out how to keep Francis safe long enough for Raju to risk being gone, but for now he stays, sews, washes blankets and clothes and dries them and gathers meltwater, and cooks as best he can figure out how to, and watches Francis whenever he can.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, looking down with a brief surprised grimace at the needle when he stabs his finger again. He’s never lost track of where his hands are this often before, no matter how often he was looking at something else. But things are different now. There are a dozen things all knotted together inside him fighting with each other whenever he looks at Francis now, and he hasn’t untangled enough of it yet. Maybe the part of him that’s supposed to be confident and sure about what his body’s doing and where his hands need to be have been recruited to attack that knot inside him, too.

Pricking his finger doesn’t matter. He looks back up anyway. Raju had washed him when he was dying and that might have been the closest to a thorough wash Francis has had since before he was hurt. When Raju is in the cabin with him — which is is as often as he can manage — Raju’s started to be able to tell it with his eyes closed. But when he imagines Francis whole and well, taking off his shirt, it’s compelling in that same way Raju is learning to recognize now. Raju still wants to do the same things. Maybe not exactly now.

He watches Francis and tries to remember if Seetha has gone this long without washing before. It’s always been a quick way to destroy the barest hint of interest Raju’d had in anyone else. “If you talk me through making something I’m sure it’ll turn out alright.”

He's in abject misery. He thought it couldn't get any worse bruised and battered as he was, head split open in places and body swollen and twisted mostly useless. He assumed the pain would be something he'd be eager to leave behind - lord knows he'd begged for reprieve when the whiskey was working its way out of his system, and then prayed to a god he wasn't sure he believed in anymore while his left arm was healing.

But no, apparently it's far worse to be halfway healed than it is fully invalided, because he can't do anything about it. He can't help Raju with the chores or venture out to forage and fish. He can't cook, can't clean, can't mend - he can barely take care of himself! At least when he was still mostly broken he spent his time sleeping, and the expectation wasn't for him to get up and move about to help with his healing. But this?

It's goddamned misery.

He's up now, midway through his afternoon walk from one side of the cabin to the other, when he finally snaps. It's the look on Raju's face that does it, having pricked his fingers a thousand times over because this is what it takes to survive, little pinpricks of pain in between just trying to sustain the two of them. At least Raju's taken to resting when he's not asking Crozier to drink more water or insisting on changing and inspecting his bandages right at that very moment, but it's clearly not enough.

He's run this poor man into the ground, and still he has another favor to ask of him. An embarrassing favor too, one that he's been absolutely dreading but increasingly sees the need for it with each excruciating day that passes.

"I need your help," he says with a grimace, pausing to survey the meltwater by the fire. It's warm but not boiled yet, the perfect recipe for bathwater. "With bathing. I can't do it on my own, and if I wait another day I might crawl out of my own goddamned skin."

Crozier ducks his head. Raju's seen him at his most vulnerable already, in the hot springs, when tending to his wounds, but this is different. He needs him to touch him.

I need your help he says and Raju's chin lifts, alert, and he sits up ramrod straight. Francis would be acting different if it was some kind of emergency, he knows that, he... almost knows that. He doesn't quite know that, and when Francis elaborates Raju huffs out an amused, relieved breath, the line of his shoulders relaxing, smile curving over his face.

"I was wondering if you'd ask." He looks down at his hands — can't trust himself to do it without looking, he's getting used to that — to put the needle in the cloth for later, then sets it aside. It's something he might have suggested himself before when wanting to touch him so badly was the natural result of feeling the way that he does. But maybe it is still, because how does Raju feel about him anyway? It'd seemed very easy to categorize before, when being a man meant he had been simply a very dear friend, and that had been all that there was to it. And the pull he feels toward Francis is tangled up with fear, now, this desperate need to reassure himself that all is well and to make sure of it by taking care of him.

So he hadn't asked.

It's a relief, being asked to do it now. Being asked means he gets to stop thinking about whether he should, and it's been dawning on Raju that introspection might not be a strength. Like reassuring dying men.

He takes a slow breath to try and wash the thoughts away and focuses on Francis again, standing. He moves closer, following Francis' ducked head and the urge that comes from somewhere to set a hand on the back of Francis' neck. The smell of him is worse this close. Raju wants to scratch his fingers into Francis' hair anyway, somehow, and so he starts doing it while he talks. "Do you think you could make it to the lavatory? We can do it just as well in here, but it won't matter how wet we get the floor, with the tiles."

Edited 2024-06-19 11:52 (UTC)

Wondering if he’d ask, or hoping? To paraphrase one of his dearest friends, he probably smells like a thousand-year-old armpit, all the sweat in his hair and under his arms. But it’s very kind of Raju not to say so, and to still want to touch him (and doing so without making a face).

“Mhm.” He’s fairly certain he can make that walk; he’s getting stronger and stronger every day, after all. Not so strong that he can bathe himself, of course, but his stamina for things like standing and moving is growing to the point where he can tolerate longer and longer walks. “I’m for convenience these days.”

But he does extend his hand to him, hoping that the silent plea for assistance will be enough. He needs to lean on him for this, will need the help to remove his clothes and lower himself onto the seat or in the tub, depending on how Raju wishes to do this. He’s putting himself entirely in his hands.

Being vulnerable isn’t a new situation for Crozier, but being vulnerable like this, with Raju and those heavy eyelashes and expressive eyes, is downright humiliating. He has to stop thinking of it that way - trusted friends may do this, and it’s entirely acceptable - but those strong feelings of admiration and love are hard to stamp out entirely. He just doesn’t want Raju to see him as a sad, old, invalid.

Francis holds out his hand and Raju sets his forearm underneath Francis' and clasps near his elbow, giving him something steady to lean against, and wraps his other arm around Francis' shoulder while they walk. It's a relief to do it, both to feel Francis against him and to do something that helps.

The lavatory is as it always is, bathtub and facilities and tiled floor, bucket of meltwater next to the toilet, soap shavings and rags sitting in a dish beside the tub. The bucket smelling of pine needles is new — Francis had been sleeping while Raju'd been boiling and straining it and setting it in here, or he's mostly sure Francis had been sleeping, but they aren't going to wash with it today anyway. Only the real soap is going to do.

"The tub might be easier to lean back against," Raju notes. But they'll need to take Francis' clothes off before they do anything else. The wild things knotted up inside him try to get his attention when he thinks it but it doesn't matter what he feels about the matter, or why exactly he wants it; Francis needs it, and needs it from Raju, and that's all that Raju needs to be sure about. He knows it's a relief to be able to help, and feels right to be the one Francis is counting on in this way, and that's enough. The logistics of how to do any of this are the only thing that matter much outside that. "But getting in and out of it might be tricky. What do you think?"

Crozier holds a quick debate within himself - awkwardly step inside the tub, knowing there’d be a struggle to get back out, or sit on the seat and make an enormous mess for Raju to clean. There’s a clear winner.

“Convenience,” he says again, motioning towards the tub. “You’ll have to help haul me out, but it’ll feel better on my sides.”

Only a slight lie, it would probably feel better to sit with his back against the side of the tub than have to hold himself upright.

He takes his hand back to grip the sink and steady himself, physically and mentally. He needs the help now, Raju needs to strip him down because he can’t do it fully on his own. He glances towards him and then back towards the tub, hemming and hawing for a few seconds more before he’s attempting to pull the tunic up over his head.

“I need a change of clothes,” he sighs, waiting with the tunic tucked up under his chin for Raju to assist, signaling him with a brief glance. If he keeps talking through it maybe it won’t be quite so awkward for them both. “The fit might work for some of the things you brought from the other cabin.”

At the glance Raju moves close again, eyes darting here and there as he tries to decide how to pull the tunic over him in a way that will hurt Francis the least. He'd hesitated before he'd done it; had he hesitated when they'd been in those caves about to step into the water, too? With everything that'd happened after they hadn't gone back in the way they'd intended to, and at the time Raju thinks he might have been too excited to be warm to pay as much attention to Francis as he might have otherwise. Keeping his manner matter of fact about this is the best course anyway.

"That soft thing you picked out when we were packing up," Raju notes, glancing at Francis' face with a smile before looking back at the careful efforts of his hands pulling the shirt over Francis' chin and gently up over his face. "That would do. I don't think you've worn it yet."

Something soft. He’d nearly forgotten about the something soft, but it sounds absolutely heavenly. “That should do,” he says, voice muffled temporarily by the sealskin being pulled over his head.

It feels good to be without it, just as it does when his tunic’s pulled up and those bandages are changed. He looks down at his own chest to inspect the bruises, still an angry-looking mix of purple, red, and yellow. But they’re better. Everything is slowly becoming better.

He decides to take the trousers off before the bandages, for practicality’s sake. His thumb hooks into the waistband and he turns slightly, facing away from Raju, even if there’s no use hiding anything now. It’s slow work getting them down over his hips, and he pauses when he gets them down to his knees and can’t duck any lower.

“Help me step out? Just hold me steady.”

Francis had been naked in the caves then, too. They both had been. But Raju hadn't seen much.

He had seen that Francis doesn't wear anything underneath his trousers. He'd seen that, and he'd felt... A little like he feels now, probably, being so clearly reminded of it.

Raju keeps himself from clearing his throat by force of will and, in the same way, raising his eyes when they want to linger over Francis' hip and the curve of his side as he bends down. The man's moving so slowly because he's in pain, Raju thinks, raising his hands hurriedly toward Francis' shoulders, away from the hips that he could be holding. Francis is in pain right now, and this is ridiculous.

"My trousers would be tight on you though," he says and wonders why he'd said it when the size Raju wears isn't the only size they have here, and then hurries onward, words sounding just a little hurried too. "But I can find something else. Some of the larger ones are more comfortable anyway."

Crozier makes a soft noise in response, unbothered by Raju’s suggestion or how unprompted it seemed to be. He’s more concerned with not falling the hell over or further exacerbating his injuries -

But he can see Raju is staring a little. He can’t see himself unfortunately, but he knows the rest of him will start going red starting with his ears if this keeps up. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, he’s distracted by the lifting of each leg and that uncomfortable little wiggle he has to do to get the hem of the trouser off of his feet.

Once he’s naked, completely and thoroughly bare aside from the bandages around his chest, there aren’t any further tasks to distract the two of them. He needs Raju’s hands on him now, unfurling the bandages from his healing ribs.

“Should I…should I sit first?” he asks quietly. All he can be is humble in this moment, standing stark naked in front of this very handsome man who makes him laugh and has given himself wholly to him to care for his weakened self.

Raju hums thoughtfully, his wandering gaze alert again. Francis might be… here, all of him is very present, every inch of him is very present for any pair of eyes that might take an instant to move down—

Well. In any case, above any of that, Francis is trusting him, and that’s more than enough to put his mind onto the track it needs to be.

“I think so. You won’t want to move too much without your ribs bound. Here, take my hand again, and then I’ll get some water for us. Unless you’d like me to use that bucket there.”

Raju nods toward the one next to the toilet, melted but in this colder room further from the fire certainly not warm, but with a grin. “Nothing wrong with a bracing cold bath.”

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