seven devils all around you, seven devils in your house

[singmod]

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

Comments

[extramuralise]

[ This recent fugue state through which Edward Little has been so slowly, heavily dragging himself, like a sleepwalker, like a condemned man physically weighed down even further by cement shoes or the ol' ball and chain, hasn't at all gone unnoticed by Irving these past few days, though nor has he managed to deduce an exact cause— for which, with a depression of this caliber, so sudden, deep, and thoroughly numbing that one might easily mistake Little for having fallen into a state of walking catatonia, there must surely be a cause.

(Both men have somehow managed to keep their heads above water for this long in little to no daylight, after all, so it can't be that, no matter how tirelessly depressing these Arctic climes can become even without other compounding circumstances to make things worse.)

Rarely is it ever Irving's inclination to pry when it comes to such things, however, because he strictly prefers to keep his own thoughts, emotions, and any other such private feelings completely internalized as so he believes they should be, compartmentalized so deeply and intricately within himself that not even he need always acknowledge them. Men are just not meant to express themselves so openly, or so personally, apart from perhaps in writing... or else, with their wives, or maybe a doctor.

Furthermore is he quite certain that a deeper awareness into most of his peers' more intimate inner lives is, in fact, one of the very last things he'd actually want any further knowledge of. There can exist such a thing as too much information, especially among sailors, and for John Irving, that threshold peaks far lower than average; some things, many things, he simply does not want to know.

But to all this, Edward Little is of course an exception— if not always, then certainly by now. Here they've had to become more than just colleagues, more than even just brothers, the fraternal bond between them feeling almost proprietorial at times for how strong their mutual sense of duty and responsibility for each other seems to run, or else even intimate at others for how much, sometimes, it feels almost like a real friendship.

Irving supposes he's not exactly the best judge of that, granted, given his closest friend otherwise was a man he's hardly seen in years but still kept in touch with via sporadic correspondence when he could, but then, it isn't so much the label that's important, anyway, and rather only Irving's growing concern as of late for his fri— his companion's well-being.

He wakes alone, stirred by the chill of a recently vacated bed, and an overpowering silence that's usually nullified by the gentle sounds another living body makes at rest, or sometimes footsteps walking the familiar route to (or from) either the privy or the kitchen in the dark. Tonight, except for the howling wind outside, everything is as quiet as a grave, and maybe that's what gets Irving out of bed, as well, feeling just inexplicably shaken enough that he's fairly sure he won't be able to sleep again without first making some tea.

The cabin becomes decidedly less silent as he's descending the staircase, not just because the old wooden floorboards creak and groan occasionally beneath his feet, but because of the frantic gasping sounds coming from the pitch-dark downstairs floor. Irving cautiously follows them to their source: a hunched but familiar silhouette shuddering in the darkness before the unlit hearth. ]

Edward?

[ He announces his presence carefully, softly, lighting a candle (after a bit of blind fumbling with the matches) before then crossing the room to sit down in a chair adjacent to Little's place on the couch. ]

Are you not cold, down here? [ It's late, it's dark, he's out of bed, and no fire burns within the fireplace. ] I was... just coming down to put a kettle on.

[fidior]

[ It's odd to him now, how quickly his heart changes its pulse — from slow, numb, heavy beats to something quicker, more frantic. Lost. That's how he feels — lost in himself, in the dark walls of this cabin; everything is tighter, and it is harder to breathe. He can't imagine it stopping. He feels it will consume him.

But then— his name sounds, and in his state, he hadn't heard any of the tells of footsteps approaching or even taken notice of the soft glow of a candle nearing his position in the darkness. Little blinks widely, as though startled out of some dream, and lifts his head to stare open-mouthed to the other man. 'Edward?'

The sound of his own name was enough to find him, to catch him, though he's still oddly shaken by his own upset, and though he tries to answer in a steadied voice, something quakes. His throat is tight, his words hoarse, no matter how softly the reply comes out. ]

John. Forgive me, I...

[ The words fall off, at some loss. He knows he must look strange out here in the cold darkness, eyes too-wide, hair a tangled mess of waves from having just stirred from sleep. He isn't so far gone to his upset that he can't see how he must be perceived right now, and there is some flicker of shame, but it's... softer than it might usually be. His heart is still beating too quickly, and he has to give another soft gasp in attempt to catch it, swallowing back against its harrowed pulses.

His eyes linger on John's in the candlelight, wounded and wet, and then he drops them down to his hands, folded together as he leans over his knees in the darkness. His hands are trembling; he stares mutely to them for a few long moments. When he speaks again, his voice catches, crumbling inwards. ]

You should not be burdened with the sight of me this way. I am— I am not well. Please— forget me.

[extramuralise]

Nonsense. I could never forget you. [ His tone is clipped and firm, about as authoritative as it gets from him. ] Though you'll be of no use to anyone catching a draft by foolishly brooding alone in the middle of the night while it's near to below freezing even indoors— least of all me. You're certainly no burden, but pray not take that as a challenge to become one.

[ Little's self-deprecating bent is nothing terribly new, of course, but Irving's never much understood it, either, finding the man a more tempered and thoughtful example of leadership than even their captain had been much of the time— and if not quantitatively more honorable, then certainly demonstratively, at least in much of Irving's own experience.

Not that he, John Irving of all people, can't understand and rather relate to the fine art of self-punishment, as well, but... well, whatever is wrong now, it's clearly troubling Little far more deeply than Irving's ever previously seen him affected. ]

At any rate, I'll be making tea whether you like it or not — maybe some coffee, if you'd rather that — but at least put on the fire, for Heaven's sake, if you still insist on sitting down here in the cold. [ Then, in a softer tone he adds: ] I shouldn't think our captain would want to see you following so closely in his footsteps.

[ Little may not be drunk right now, as far as Irving can tell, but all things considered he may as well be. Irving turns towards the kitchen, brimming with purpose. ]

Wait there.

[fidior]

[ He should — John should forget him, forget this miserable sight, have his tea and return to bed and find whatever sleep he's able to in this miserable place. He's only still quite freshly recovered from his own illness, and there's so much that's awful; he doesn't deserve to be burdened by the dejected, gasping shell of a man who has brought all of this upon his own head.

But John doesn't leave (and of course he wouldn't, Little knows his loyalty). The firm tone, brusque and pointed, does ensnare him quite suddenly, and Edward's eyes widen a fraction, some subtle little tell of awareness. Not yet a burden, but... he might become one. And John has a point, of course; it is foolish to sit here in the cold chill. He just.... he couldn't even think about getting up and warming himself.

......Perhaps he didn't have to, for someone else has. Someone who coaxes him to move, to act, to be assisted ('whether you like it or not'), and perhaps on some level Little isn't capable of being altogether aware of just yet.... is the knowledge that it's exactly what he needs. The sharp edge of a fingernail pressing just enough to his skin to make him move, the assured no-nonsense that confronts his heavy, soft misery. Pliable, like dough — he needs to be pushed into a particular shape.

If Irving's direct instruction wasn't enough to get him moving, that last part certainly would be. 'I shouldn't think our captain would want to see you following so closely in his footsteps.' It's a pang, a wound that goes down deep and one that has existed long before this moment, and he understands. Little knows Irving understands, too. He'd been there, he'd seen it. And somewhere even under all of the weighted ache of himself, he doesn't want to disappoint this man any more than he already has.

So he moves. Wordlessly, eyes wide and wet, body slow and stumbling, but he moves. There's already wood in, and all it takes is a struck match and poking around at the log a little, tossing bits of shredded paper and old magazine, and a flame flickers and spreads. The warmth is immediate, in the cabin's small interior.

Little sits back down, staring into those orange flames and feeling them reflected back upon his own face, dancing against his wet eyes. ]

Tea is fine, [ he finally answers, still feeling far-away from himself, but he's already stopped shuddering quite so much, at least on the outside. He sits there, listening to John in the nearby kitchen area of the tiny home, and swallows hard. He doesn't deserve this man's care. ]

Thank you.

[extramuralise]

[ In a way, that surely must be the main purpose of a chain of command such as theirs; to provide assistance, support, and unquestionable accord, or even to compensate for another's weaknesses without undermining the spirit of their authority.

At the very least, it's always been Irving's understanding of both rank and duty that his priorities should not so much lie in taking new initiatives himself, but to uphold the word and decisions of his superiors— to be their strength, as it were, as even the very best of commands are only ever as strong as their weakest links.

Not that Irving considers Little to be a weak link whatsoever — not in general, and moreover, not as a lieutenant — however much it's become increasingly clear that Little views himself in an altogether less generous light. Irving can certainly relate, of course, as a man who quite often falls short of meeting his own all-too-high expectations for himself (a known symptom, rather than a side effect, to evangelical leanings such as his), but it's loyalty and respect which guide him now, more so than pure rank-and-file duty alone.

That, as well as his own steadfast determination against giving into the easy chaos of depression and despair.

He rests a hand upon Little's shoulder briefly, if not also bit awkwardly (physical affection is hardly his strength, after all), before noting with relief that his words seem to have stirred some sense of life back into the former 1st Lieutenant— enough that Irving can leave him alone for the duration of time it takes to put a kettle on the stove to boil, anyway. ]

No need to thank me, [ he comments upon returning, taking a seat before the fire's growing warmth. ] After all, it's only tea.

[ If Irving were more the touchy-feely sort then he'd likely rest his hand upon Little's shoulder again now, or maybe pat his knee or take his hand, but as it is, he just remains as stiffly self-contained as ever, unsure of how exactly to approach comforting his... associate, his friend?, about something it may not even be his place to question in the first place. ]

Perhaps you might unburden yourself of what's troubling you so— i-if you like, that is.

[fidior]

[ No matter how brief or slight that touch may be, it's a gesture — a bridge, some gentle, meaningful tether to help Little find and ground himself just a tad bit more. It's so... easy for him now, to lose himself — it's become easier over these long months since what happened back in their world. If he once was a more resolute man in the face of horrors, it's practically stripped from him now. He crumbles. It's difficult, at times even impossible, for him to stand upright again when it's like this, at least on his own.

But he isn't on his own right now, and although he still wishes John would slip back into bed for that man's own sake, another part of Edward can't help... being glad that he's here with him. That human need for closeness, to not be alone.. even he isn't exempt. It means something, when he feels so small and childlike. An offer for tea. A touch upon the shoulder. The sounds of movement, of the kettle on, of the fire crackling, of the creak of John's footstep when he returns. Warmth, and living things. He isn't alone in the darkness, and even if it's what he deserves, he can't help being grateful for the fact.

(And he remembers a time, not so long ago, before Irving's arrival here — as the new year was drifting inwards, and a darkness practically subsumed Little. The result of this place and its... supernatural presence, yes, but everything it stirred from him, every guilt and horror and dread and ache, all of those things were pre-existing. It was so easy to fall into that lonesome, heavy place. And it was easier because he was alone here in this cabin; he'd sat in the darkness on this very couch, not eating, not moving, for... days. People sought him out, came to find him, but this is... different. He's not starting out alone at all. There's someone there.)

So, while it may only be tea, as Irving points out, it's— so much more than that. Little can't possibly convey his feelings on all of it to words just yet, so he only smiles thinly — but his eyes soften as they hold to John's, staying there for a few long beats before he finally exhales again and looks back down, as though holding eye contact is a feat in itself.

What Irving offers next is just that — an offer. A choice, not a demand, and every ounce of his being wants to flinch away from telling this man what he'd done (and there are so many other things he's done that Irving doesn't know of), but it's been some days since it happened, and he can't... breathe. It occupies so much of him, presses against his ribcage, a relentless ache against his heart. He can't breathe from it, from this knowledge. From the need to confess it, not to seek forgiveness, but just so that it's known. So that those who look to him with any ounce of.... respect, who think of him with any goodness, can see the truth. He's terrified of what will come from it, but— ]

I've done something, John.

[ And there it is, there it starts. Little can't bear to look up at him, eyes fixed to the floor, body leaned over a bit, hands trembling as he keeps them draped in his lap. It's still hard to breathe; every word comes out tense, strained, and he gives another odd, soft gasp inbetween them here and there. ]

When it was all.. happening. The violence, the— bloodshed. Miss Marsh was being attacked by a young man. I came upon it. She couldn't even cry out for help, he was— he was going to kill her.

I shot him.

[ All of it sounds so unceremonious once finally voiced. How can mere words convey it? The loud blast, the body thrown backwards with such force. The bleeding parts of that boy, forever unmoving. ]

I killed him. He— he's dead. I've killed someone.

[ He lowers his head miserably, neck craned forward, eyes disappearing behind unkempt waves that sweep downwards, concealing his face more. ]

I don't know what to do.

[extramuralise]

[ The confession fills Irving's head with a strange sort of white noise, a monotonous buzzing itching like static at the back of his eyes. So many of their old lives' horrors he had been spared from facing, in the end, but perhaps only for so long— perhaps this is, after all, a kind of rare Hell.

If he's shocked by Little's revelation, the only sign of it is a mild grimace he makes moreso into the greater darkness than towards his companion. He clears his throat, eyes going glassy in the faint light as his memory takes him back to parts unthinkable until he is similarly unmoored.

He tries to speak, heart racing suddenly in his chest: ]

You've done nothing shameful, so far as I can see, Edward. You did only what was... required of you, in order to save that young girl's life, and have no doubt of that. If if I had—

[ ... And fails to speak. His sentence simply hangs there, incomplete, as if he'd run out of words. The language is jumbled up inside him, clogged in a chaotic tangle of hastily repressed terror that frequently spills over its enclosure. ]

Please excuse me, [ he says quickly, softly, only because the kettle is now demanding his attention. A welcome reprieve, really; it allows him a moment or two to bring some order to his thoughts. ] I wasn't sure how you took it.

[ Irving's aware of how Little takes his tea, actually, although he of course can't be sure if that's something that ever changes depending on the man's mood and temperament, or just the passage of time. He's brought out a tray with all the essentials: teapot, cups and saucers, cream and sugar (or the closest approximation he could find in their kitchen, supplies being what they are), and busies himself stirring his own distractedly.

When he finally continues his original train of thought, his voice has gone much quieter, nearly a whisper. ]

I-if I had only thought... if it had even occurred to me at the time to use my gun on Mr. Hickey, then perhaps Mr. Farr could have been saved. As well as so many others.

[ Himself included, of course, but it's the Netsilik people he's thinking of. The spoon rattles between his shaking fingers against the teacup. ]

I could have stopped him, Edward, if only I hadn't... but instead I-I rushed to— and I failed. I failed every last one of you.

[ He breaks off, shaking his head. ]

But it is what we're trained for, Edward: to be able to... act, always, with conviction. Decisively. You did... the only thing you could have, in that moment. And Miss Marsh still lives, thanks to you.

THIS GD ESSAY.........

[fidior]

[ Truly, Edward has no idea how his companion might react. Amongst everything else, there is a particular shame reserved for confessing this to John Irving — a deeper, darker shame than for anyone else here. They might no longer serve upon a ship together, they might as well be considered civilians now, but... he still feels a certain responsibility to be.... what he is supposed to be, for John. His first, a source of stability and leadership. And he's... this, instead. Weak and trembling, and with a young man's blood fresh on his hands.

But what Irving says, immediately, catches him by a certain surprise — 'You've done nothing shameful, so far as I can see, Edward.'

Little lifts his head finally again so that he can see him, staring wet-eyed at the other man as he speaks, finding himself stunned by what's voiced. Or what's begun to be voiced; there's a brief moment in which everything's halted, as Irving goes to the kettle, and something's left unspoken, the shape of which only exists as a spectre, the gossamer-soft suggestion of a thing that flits away as quickly as it had come. 'If if I had—'

He won't ever push this man, press his thumb upon him to speak what he isn't ready or willing to voice, but something in Little's chest stays tight as though locked onto those words. He whispers another gratitude as Irving returns, fixes his own tea quietly — and each act may only be going through the motions of normalcy, but it... helps. The smell of fresh hot tea, the clink of cup upon saucer. The movement of hands; slow and weighted as his own may be as his fingers fumble with ingredients and he places his cup down for a moment to cool a little, they still move. The miserable heavy stagnancy that he's so prone to falling into is a little less easy to become consumed by, with this sort of company.

And then everything in him is freezing at what John says next. Voice so soft that one might think it only the whisper of some ghost (will Edward ever stop seeing them all that way? As ghosts?), but he hears it so clearly. In the quiet stillness, he stares at the other man, watching him as the flames from the nearby fireplace cast flickering shadows upon Irving's face.

It's as though someone's reached into the center of himself, found what aches the most, and squeezed it hard. Little exhales a soft gasp, an involuntary sort of sound, features tightening with an upset that has many layers — he feels seen, and wounded that any man should know it, especially this man. There's an empathy that hurts, and he's staring down at the floor for a long moment, processing.

He hasn't... known much of what happened regarding Irving, out there. When Hickey killed him, and the others. The rest of them learned the truth of it, of course; the... horrific evidence, the autopsy. The pieces had been put into place, but there was no opportunity to ask any of the men who were actually there through it. Only that sabotaging devil survived.

And Little hasn't asked Irving about that time. Wouldn't dare. But now... there it is, a mental image conjured up along with the other man's words. There it is, and what it becomes is....

'I failed every last one of you.'

Oh, it's so— it's so familiar. It's every single thing he's felt and carried, every remorse, every regret. There's such an irony, as well, to the fact that he, too, stood before a man who could have been stopped with a gun — could have potentially saved... countless, could perhaps even have stopped the mutiny — and he was unable to. And now, months and months later, he's done it, done exactly what he failed to do last time, and he feels an entirely different sense of failure for it.

He's truly speechless. (Some part of him remembers, suddenly, George Hodgson in the middle of stunned horror and faced with the knowledge of what dark thing he'd been a part to, coming to him with desperate words. Little had told him much the same — he followed his instincts, his training. It's all we can do. And all of them tried to do what they knew, tried their best, but—) ]

I am..... endlessly sorry, John. That you know what it is to feel the weight of such upon your shoulders. I— [ God, none of this should have happened to Irving. None of it. He reaches to grasp his third's shoulder, palm spreading wide and warm, squeezing tight. ]

You failed no one. You never should have been put into such a position. That your first instinct was not to pull your gun on someone.... it speaks of your heart. Your goodness. You are a good man.

[ He does truly believe that. If it had been easy for John to react with violence, well... then he would not be the John he knows. But he sighs, a full-bodied thing that leaves him feeling so empty, so tired, and his voice drips with ache. ]

But I well-understand your burden. After you... [ were killed ] ....there was a trial. And then the mutiny truly began. I could have.... stopped it, some of it. Less men might have died if I had. But I.. hesitated. I could not pull the trigger when I needed to. I.... froze.

[ He lowers his hand, slowly, brows knit as he looks miserably up to the other. ]

If anything had happened to Miss Marsh due to my freezing again, I.... could never have forgiven myself. And yet, even knowing that, I feel... I have crossed some threshold. That my soul is.... darker. Bleaker. [ He blinks back a sudden wave of fresh tears, a vulnerability he's not used to showing to others, yet in this moment can't possibly consider withholding. Not from this man, and what he's just divulged to him. ]

I do not know what to... hold onto, anymore. What to see myself as.

[extramuralise]

[ Irving can deeply empathize and understand Little's paradoxical sense of failure all too well, knowing both how relieved he'd felt when Crozier ordered them all not to shoot at the violently ill Mr. Morfin, how glad he was to have been spared such that wretched burden, and that if only he'd had the instinct and courage necessary to shoot at Hickey as he'd crouched ominously over Mr. Farr's still body, then so much — perhaps everything — could have turned out so differently.

He stares down into his tea as he stirs and stirs it, unable to bear making eye contact for how strongly he feels that deep sense of shame and failure again. Right now, to look Little in the eye is something he neither deserves, nor can bear to face until he's more certain he won't himself tear up at the sight of Little's own wet-eyed despair.

Misery loves company, so it's often been said, and truer words than those may never be spoken for as long as either man shall live. The pain is immense and somehow endless, infinite, yet the simple act of sharing it seems to render it only just bearable, as that of a man being crushed slowly with stones being spared that final, fatal weight.

They are ghosts, and perhaps that's almost the worst of it, because ghosts do not exist, cannot exist, because there is simply no such bridge that connects the living with the dead in such a way— what the Catholics would call a purgatory. But then what can this be called? True enough that there remains no bridge connecting their lives before with this one now, either, but are they dead or are they living, now?

They are both. And they are neither. They are lost souls trapped inside the unholy in-between where God cannot find them. ]

But it should have been my first instinct, Edward, Hickey was... he killed Mr. Farr right before my very eyes, and I... I-I thought—

[ What had he thought? Irving's skin prickles with the memory of being drawn towards the entangled men with a racing heart and breathless lungs, both fearing the worst yet not quite capable of comprehending what it was he saw. ]

I was... responsible, Edward. Responsible for both their lives and their safety. And what kind of officer does that make me, then, to have failed so very miserably at such an essential and profoundly simple duty as that one?

[ He takes a breath, swallowing hard before his voice can break, then chances a glance over at Little when his first touches him on the shoulder with warmth and compassion. Any reflex he'd typically have to flinch or draw away from the contact is buried down deep and forgotten. ]

Make no mistake, Edward, it is you who is the better man between us... a far braver man than I, and more capable an officer than I could ever hope to equal. I would have followed your command clear to the other pole, if it took us there.

[ His loyalty to Crozier and Fitzjames had been much the same as well, of course, but there was a certain effortlessness to being at Little's side that he never managed to achieve with his captains.

Irving's chest tightens with a queerly sudden impulse to gently dry Little's tears with — for lack of having a handkerchief to hand — the sleeve of his nightdress, so he quickly looks away again, cheeks and ears burning as he slowly tastes his tea. ]

I... believe that we've all crossed over some dark and unknowable threshold we can never return from, [ he continues softly, shaking his head. ] Beyond which we must now more than ever strive to keep hold of the light, of... whatever goodness still remains. Do you understand?

[fidior]

[ He understands. All of it — Irving's insistence that it should have been his first instinct, that he should have done more, been more.... Little understands. There's something almost comical, though certainly nothing truly so light-hearted as that, to the fact both of them strive to reassure one another, yet cannot wholly accept the reassurances offered. It is true that misery loves company, and perhaps that really is all that can be given here: company.

That may be all, but it is an immensely powerful thing. Back during the Expedition.... Little never sat and voiced a single part of his inner turmoil, like this. It would have been unthinkable; no matter that it was almost unbearable to withhold so much inside of himself, no matter than he almost imploded from it, that he could feel the weight of it all eroding more of him away over time. He couldn't let himself fall to it.

But now... Now, in this place, some things have changed, and John Irving is still his fellow lieutenant but he is also his home-mate, and his companion, and.... the person who knows him more closely than perhaps anyone else. He, John, and George were together the most. They were called upon to the same meetings, stood in the same rooms shoulder to shoulder most often, bound to the same ladder of hierarchy: separated by just one rung, stacked on top of one another. (Abruptly, he misses George with an odd aching hole in the centre of himself.)

He listens to Irving, and then he dips his head again, not quite a nod or a bow, but something inbetween, something heavy. Yes, he understands. He could have said every one of those words himself, a pang stabbing his heart — 'and what kind of officer does that make me?'

But it's what John says next that elicits another sharp pang, a different one. A different sort.

'I would have followed your command clear to the other pole, if it took us there.'

Edward sits there, stunned and touched, wounded and grateful all at once. It's almost too much to bear; he can't seem to find words. He fears if he speaks that his voice might split right in two. It's only after John's last words that he's able to reach his own, though it takes him a moment to voice them, shoulders shuddering slightly with effort. ]

Yes. I understand — and you are right. You are right, and wise, and full of goodness, John. [ He drags his mournful eyes back up to his companion, wanting to look at him again. To show him how much he means this. It's so easy for Edward to tumble towards a certain despair now, but having Irving there beside him helps. Oh it helps more than he can say. ]

It is all we can hold onto. Whatever... remains. Of ourselves, and of one another... I know you are right, and I am... endlessly grateful to have you here to remind me. Your strength.

[ He swallows, still reeling in the loyalty that this man has spoken of, to him. That John still sees him so highly... trusts him... It makes him want to try to be stronger. To keep trying at all. ]

There are no other men I could have imagined by my side so closely, than you and George. I have been... I am so proud to know you. [ Finally, a faint smile, the echo of a thing, soft and sad, eyes still wet. The weight of every similar regret and self-loathing they have both voiced is, at least, shared. It isn't a single thing he'd wish on this man beside him, but... it's there; John feels all of those things too, and Edward can't tell him not to. ]

I suppose we are two of a kind, in this place.

[extramuralise]

[ Irving's heart feels all but split right in two, not broken so much as filled in equal parts both with pain and fondness. Perhaps he is right, and could maybe even be called wise, as well, but for what? What good has any of it actually done, up to now?

Like Little, Irving has never once sat and put voice to all his inner turmoil, apart from countless desperate prayers whispered on his knees at bedside; worse than Little, he has never so much as expressed even a single doubt nor word of discontentment aloud concerning the myriad questionable choices made by command over the course of the Expedition, though he'd certainly harbored many, swallowing each one down like so many bitter pills. It would have indeed been near unthinkable to speak, but how much pain and suffering might have been avoided if only he had...?

Might Hickey have been defanged much earlier if only Irving had shared his concerns with anyone? Might their rations have lasted them comfortably through at least another season if he'd only insisted more strongly upon being heard right when he and the purser had first made their report, rather than some months later?

Might so much have turned out so very differently, possibly for the better, even, if only he hadn't been such a bloody coward?

That hasn't exactly changed much now, either, although now, he bears hardly a fraction of the responsibility he once did. Now, here, he is allowed to remain comfortably weak within strengths that aren't as like to be the difference between life and death. ]

I'll... remain there for as long as you would have me, [ he says finally, fingers fidgeting at the edges of his teacup. ] By your side, that is.

[ Even in darkness can he feel the heat of his blush beginning to bloom across his face in both pride and embarrassment, Little's praise flustering him into sudden bashfulness.

Full of goodness. Strength. A man who Little is so proud to know.

Irving so greatly longs to be worthy of such words. ]

After all, there must surely be worse fates still than to merely be known and understood, [ He returns Little's smile, so rueful and faint that it almost seems a grimace. ] A-as with... say, one dear friend to another.