singillatim | there'll be oats in the water

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there'll be oats in the water

JULY 2024 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — THE AURORA: REDUX: A storm finally arrives, and with it — Enola extends her hand to help the Interlopers once more, granting them new abilities.

PROMPT TWO — PENSIVE LOOKOUT: With the Forest Talker efforts focused on sabotaging hunting efforts, Interlopers can attempt to explore the Pensive Lookout Tower, where they can uncover secrets from the diary of Sam Bouchard — the former firewatch worker of the summer of 2014.

PROMPT THREE — A PEEK INSIDE: A group of Interlopers get their hands on one of the Forest Talkers in search of answers — and get a little more than they bargained for.

THE AURORA: REDUX

WHEN: Mid-month, for three days.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural/extreme weather; lightning storms; potentially disturbing dreams; dreams of being trapped in ice; dreams of animal death; dreams of the death of loved ones.

July brings warmer weather. The fog has lifted, and the daylight returned — but an odd kind of pressure lingers in the air, the kind that feels similar with oncoming storms but something still feels off about it all. Measurements and readings are erratic, with them often making little sense. It’s hard to predict just what might be coming, but sure enough something is coming.

Hold on a little longer, Enola told you. A storm is coming.

It comes quickly, the gathering of storm clouds. At first, it looks as if a kind of snowstorm is moving in, but there’s something else at play here. Within the grey, cloudy skies, there is a tell-tale sound of an Aurora mixed within those clouds.

And with it, in amongst the dark, the swirling colours. Greens, pinks and purples weaving through the clouds, almost mesmerising to watch. The air is alive with sound: static noise, cracks and pops: a storm and the Aurora mixed into one. For those who’ve been here long enough, it’s a worrying, unnerving sight. The storm rumbles with the low roar of distant thunder, growing ever closer. The electronics of the world begin to come alive, and in the static of it all — you begin to hear Enola’s voice even clearer than before.

After so much darkness, now there is so much light. A lightning storm — aurora colours mingling with the grey clouds, punctured with crackles of lightning. Something powerful and strange — flash forking across the skies, followed by booms of thunder.

The storm lasts three days, and even though her voice is soft — you hear it over all the noise, nestled gently in your ear.

“You're still here. It means something. This isn’t the end, I refuse to let it be the end. It can’t win. You won’t go into the Dark.” Enola tells you. ”I will make you more than what you are, more than what was stolen from you. This place will not be your end. I have to try. We have to try. Together. I showed some of you, once. I’ll show you again.”

She tells you to sleep. For some, they recognise this and realise what may end up happening. For others it feels like going out on a limb. But you sleep, and perhaps a dream may come to you.

COLD FUSION: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape. You dream of a great hall of ice: as if it had been carved into some great ridge of it. You walk through it, marvelling at the beauty of it — a blue gloom, echoing with each of your footsteps. But as you take one particular step, the ground cracks and collapses beneath you, sending you into dark, frozen waters. In seconds, the water freezes around you, encompassing you in thick ice, your entire body trapped within it. The coldness burns you, and you are stuck there — frozen in agony. The pain is immeasurable, your entire body crushed and searing from the ice. There is no escape, no reprieve.

A voice speaks to you, perhaps it is the voice of a stranger, perhaps it is the voice of someone you know: Do you know how you survive the cold?’ They ask you. You do not know, and you wait for the answer: ‘You become colder than it.

Your eyes close. You believe those words, you do. You must become colder than the cold itself. And so you will. Your breathing slows, your heart slows and the cold… it stops hurting, it doesn’t burn. The ice around you begins the crack.

When you awaken the first thing you realise is despite the temperature, you are completely cosy and warmed. You do not feel the slightest chill. It is perhaps only once you are around other than you truly notice the difference to you — you are cold to the touch, lacking the heat you once had. An understanding comes: you are at one with the cold, it will not beat you, it will not cause you agony. Winter is at peace within you: perfect Cold Fusion.

MOON TOUCHED: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape. You dream of running through the silent woods at night. The moon is full above you, the air is calm and still. Hunger draws you forward, everything is so sharp and vivid in your senses, even in this dreamscape. You hear the crispness of the snow beneath your feet, smell the scent of the pines on the air, feel how warm you are against the coldness around you.

The snuffling of a rabbit catches your attention, and you swiftly leap after it, jaws opening and closing around its neck as you capture it. You bite down hard, feeling the crunch of its bones as they break, the sweet coppery taste of blood filling your mouth and nose. You lift your head towards the stars, blood on your tongue. You realise you are not a person at all, but a beast on all fours: a wolf, content and filling your belly with meat.

You wonder, for a brief moment: were you ever a person at all?

You do not know the answer to the question. You do not seem to worry about such a thing but there’s a flash of warning on the air. Something you cannot quite place, but you know that you should not forget it.

When you awaken, you feel… different, somehow. Everything seems a little sharper, as if the world around you had been dull, or behind some pane of frosted glass. With it comes a strange balance of calmness and chaos, tameness and wildness, fear and bravery. You find yourself looking for the moon in the skies and when you finally find it, it hits you — this is what it means to be Moon Touched.

INTERLOPER’S SACRIFICE: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape and then fade into nothing. You dream of kneeling in a darkened, charred wood. You are not alone. In this dreamscape, you dream of a loss, or a time you have never felt more helpless in your life. Perhaps it is when someone you knew died before you, or you stood as someone was sick and injured and you were unable to do a thing. As you kneel, they are there with you: sick or dying or even dead in your arms. You cannot do anything but hold them, and the helplessness is overwhelming.

You look up and a woman in furs stands before you, her expression solemn. Enola herself. There are tears in her eyes, as if she shares the very pain you do: the loss, the grief, the hopelessness, the powerlessness. She approaches you and lowers herself to kneel in front of you and your companion, bracing your shoulders for a long, lingering moment. There are no words, none from neither of you.

Enola shifts slightly, leans forwards. She kisses your forehead, much like when a parent kisses their child: sweet and tender.

And then you feel it, as if you are set alight: an agonising pain that encompasses you whole — so painful you cannot even open your mouth to scream. You feel yourself growing weak, the corners of your vision blurring into black. It feels as if you might die from the pain, and you want for it to stop but it doesn’t.

Enola pulls away and you gasp, slumping in exhaustion, but still alive, somehow. You stare at her, sweating and clamouring for breath, and she offers you a sad smile. Never again. you feel the words inside of you. This time, it will be different. Better.

When you awaken, you can still feel the kiss upon your forehead — enough to make your fingers reach up to touch it, your entire body tingling a little. A small voice in the back of your mind whispers, reminding you as you find yourself looking down at your hands: never again. Never again, you tell yourself and the comprehension comes to you: you have chosen. This is what it means to be: this is your sacrifice. The Interloper’s Sacrifice.

NOTHING: The colours of the Aurora dance around you in your dreamscape, but only for a moment. The edges of your vision begin the blur with black, slowly closing in until everything goes dark and you fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. You awaken, and although you feel rested, as if the dreamless darkness has helped you feel a little more ready to take on the day — nothing else about you has changed.

PENSIVE LOOKOUT

WHEN: The month of July.
WHERE: Pensive Lookout Tower, Lakeside.
CONTENT WARNINGS: themes of survival; possible fall injuries/treacherous climbs; themes of terror; themes of diminished sanity; themes of starvation.

The Old Hunting Lodge is located in the southern-most area of Lakeside, and its surrounding area is generally considered no-go territory with the presence of the Forest Talkers. As June turned into July, the Forest Talker’s presence in the wilds of Lakeside has begun to grow again — but their efforts appear to be focused on sabotaging the efforts of Interlopers, Methuselah and Young Bill in hunting fresh game. If anything, it could mean that with attentions drawn away — perhaps the braver sorts of the Interlopers can explore the area a little more fully.

There’s little in terms of buildings of interest in this area. The wilderness is thick and deep here. Perhaps the odd ransacked cabin once belonging to a local may be stumbled across — its contents picked clean, presumably by the Forest Talkers. Many of these buildings will be completely inhabitable due to the damage done — with some cabins being razed to the ground.

However, on higher ground, with a good hike to access it, stands a watch tower.

These lookout towers could mean a number of things: a chance to access supplies that may have otherwise been forgotten about due to the hike to get up there, a better view of the surrounding area, and the possibility of a radio — given the sign of a radio transmitter that can be found blinking a feeble red on Aurora nights.

With the snow on the ground it’s a little more treacherous, but given the circumstances, anything’s worth a shot, right? Those who attempt the hike may fall foul to slips and trips along the steep slow to reach the tower, and should take care in the ascent. Even with the warmth of July, it’s difficult. One might hope this might make the place a decent outpost, if you think about it. Somewhere hard to reach, and with such a vantage point.

Reaching the tower and climbing it to its interior will it largely intact but a mess. Someone has lived here for some time. Interlopers will find no food here, but some useful tools that belonged to the lookout: binoculars, maps, a compass, an alidade. There is even a radio sat upon a desk, and with it — a journal.

The journal, Interlopers will find, belonged to a man named Sam Bouchard — the firewatcher for the season during the previous year, detailing the months of his arrival and ending in November last year. It is unknown what happened to Sam, but his journal will perhaps offer some insight and even some information.

A PEEK INSIDE

WHEN: The month of July.
WHERE: The Gas Station, Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: themes of kidnapping; imprisonment; self-starvation; blood/minor injuries; psychological torment, supernatural abilities.

The Forest Talkers have a long history in the Northern Territories, long before Interlopers started arriving in Milton. Champions of nature, they have sought to put an end to the industries and tourism-related expansions in the Lakeside area, first peacefully and then… not-so-peacefully. But with the events known as the ‘The Flare’ last year, Forest Talkers have been… acting peculiarly, disturbingly, aggressively.

There are plenty of questions to be asked. But the Forest Talkers are difficult to communicate with. Previous attempts have ended up in aggression or being ignored entirely. And now, even with the events of the previous month coming to an end — game remains difficult to find, and Forest Talkers are keen on sabotaging any attempts of hunting made by Interlopers, Young Bill or Methuselah. And more importantly: what is the yawning grave?

It starts as mutterings between tired and disgruntled Interlopers. They need answers, and there’s got to be a way in trying to get some. They’re hungry and exhausted and so many of their numbers are now dead. Those mutterings grow, and soon enough a plan is put into place. A small group of Interlopers embark into Lakeside and wait.

Soon enough, it bears fruit. A man is captured, bound and blindfolded — quietly and secretly brought back to Milton to be held up in the unused Gas Station to be questioned. It is not the leader, but surely one of them is better than no one at all. He is injured, but not enough to kill him. It will prove challenging in trying to get answers out of him, but soon enough the Interlopers will get him to talk.

News of the Forest Talker in their midst will inevitably spread, as most things do in small communities. Secrets are hard to guard. It won’t be just those behind the kidnapping who might end up coming across the man being held in the Gas Station.

Anyone who goes to investigate will find the man sat on the floor in quiet contemplation. Attempts of conversation will be met with long, silent stares — holding your gaze for an uncomfortably long time. He will spurn any gestures of kindness: spit on the floor at Interloper’s feet, refuse any food offered — as if the man has chosen to starve himself in protest. He says nothing, at first.

But after some time, he will look into an Interloper’s eyes and utter something. A word. A phrase. It may be a name, or a place. It may be a specific thing an Interloper has read, or been spoken to by someone. Something that holds meaning to the Interloper. It may be the name of a loved one from home, or the last words ever spoken to you by a friend. Something the man shouldn’t know.

Whatever it is that he speaks to you, it is not something that will fill you with hope or fondness to remember — but quite the opposite. A reminder of something painful, of a loss, or some other thing that caused you misery. As if he had reached right inside your mind and plucked some painful part of your past from you and spoken it to the wind.

The Forest Talker smiles, and will say nothing else. The damage has already been done.

FAQs

THE AURORA: REDUX

1. The next three Aurora Feats are unlocked! Please see the following page for more information.

2. Aurora Feats are completely optional.

3. Interlopers will only receive ONE Aurora Feat. The only time this is available is this month. After July, players will have to wait for the next Feat round for another chance at an Aurora Feat.

4. This Aurora/storm will last a full three days, darkening the skies almost to night.

PENSIVE LOOKOUT

1. Interlopers who dwell in the lookout for the next Aurora will find the radio works, albeit poorly. They will be able to pick up the same broken morse code message.

2. There are no signs of blood/injury that befell Sam in the lookout. It appears he made good on what he wrote on in his journal and attempted to leave to get to Silverpoint.

A PEEK INSIDE

1. While only a small number was involved in the kidnapping itself, anyone can discover the fact there's a Forest Talker being held in Milton.

2. In terms of appearance, the Forest Talker is very much your typical average white guy. Bearded, weathered by the cold, someone who's lived several years without much in the way of comforts or luxuries.

PLOTTING POST

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He turns the top, opening the small jar and adding it to their soup. It will be something, he decides. Something delicious, at least.

He puts a hand on the Doctor's arm, feeling his excitement and anticipation, his joy at feeling useful and helpful.

And Thomas, so meticulous and reserved, leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek.

His thoughts naturally scatter when he's focused on a task like this, enough that his friend's hand on his arm is steadying again, like it always has been. Keeping him from getting too far lost in a tumble of this and that and so many other things. He feels himself warm at the kiss to his cheek, ducking his head a moment as he smiles. There's nothing that makes him fumble more, though it's a pleasant sort of surprise.

"Oh, that, that, that was a kiss, a good one, lovely," he fumbles stupidly and may or may not be blushing. "If that's for luck, we'll need all we can get with this soup." He's bad at this, he's so bad at this. Apologies to Thomas. He's clumsy but he's smiling softly, his head still ducked as he stirs the soup and reaches out for a moment to squeeze Thomas' hand with his free one.

Thomas stares at him a long moment and then....simply laughs.

He laughs and he laughs until he's almost falling over with it because it's just such an absurd situation to be in and he's got an excess of nervous energy that needs to get out somehow.

He's a dead man back in the arctic at the top of a lookout tower with an alien that he has such affection for and he's acting like this because of course he is.

"Ah, well, if you had done that earlier, we wouldn't be in this predicament, sir."

"I'm to blame? Of course I am, yes, me, the one who's perfect in every way and never does a single thing wrong. Definitely me."

He moves to cross his arms loosely over his chest now, leaning back against the counter a bit as the soup boils with the broth. But he's only barely holding back his own laugh, his eyes light and cheerful. That laugh, oh, that does mean something. It's a good one, a sound he wants to chase and hear again, not least because Thomas is just so...very alive with it, and this is what he wants to hold onto most. Thomas, like this.

Thomas reaches out again, his hand confidently on one of those crossed ones, leaning on him a little as he looks up at him with absolute delight.

"Those who call themselves perfect are the first ones at fault," he points out.

"And yet I'm not so fault-y or unforgivable that it keeps you from holding my hand. Which — by the way, it's a good hand! I mean, yours, of course. I mean to say, both of them, actually, not just the one hand. I don't pick favorites." And he's off and rambling again, more flustered when he's unsure of himself. He's pleased, yes, the contact again is so...good. It's good. He likes holding his hand. He likes his laugh, he likes...

"You can do this, you know. Anytime. Hold my hand. Or not, or...yes. That." Whatever 'that' is, he doesn't explain. There's a little laugh under his breath, though, and after holding Thomas' gaze for a moment, he ducks his head, just looking down at their joined hands. He will never be very good at this, apparently, but the fondness is there.

It's like teasing him about the age all over again. Thomas let's him ramble, let's him back into a bit if a corner, and he laughs again, shaking his head in disbelief.

But he isn't going to let him get away with being vague.

"No, no, sir. Tell me what 'that' is," he says, hoping to get him flustered again.

It really is too easy.

"Uh, that. Important word!" He keeps hold of Thomas' hand, finding it absolutely fascinating, apparently, by the way he gently turns it over and back again, like he's studying it, like he's trying to be anywhere else suddenly, even though this is nice and this is good, and this is...something he's terrible at, apparently. "In the strict definition of the word — that is the person, thing, or idea indicated, mentioned, or understood from a particular situation. Derived originally from Old English, useful as an adverb, conjunction, pronoun, multipurpose."

It's a wonder Thomas hasn't walked off at this point, he thinks. He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, clearing his throat a little.

"That, more specifically now, could be...well, anything, really. Uh, this sort of...holding hands." He already said that, didn't he? "Closeness. And everything I'm terrible at explaining. It means...I like being with you, Thomas. Is there enough 'that' in that?"

He is entranced, absolutely entranced by him, and doesn't make an effort to stop his hands or his talking. When he seems to wear himself out, Thomas simply nods and takes his hand away, placing it on his shoulder.

"Then kiss me like you wish to before your soup burns." And he adds, for a bit of emphasis. "Sir."

The evening is here, their day is done, and Thomas is exhausted in every sense of the word. But this is important.

Is that what he wished? Is it...yes, but...how could he not grasp his own thoughts, how could they be such chaos that a simple thing like this had to be told to him? Something he had to be guided toward by Thomas himself. He knows why, in an instant. Because it's not so simple, it's not, it's important and complicated and doesn't Thomas deserve better? He keeps thinking it, over and over, that he deserves better than this, he deserves more. Because in the end, it comes back to selfishness for the Doctor, this selfish need to not be alone. It's more than that, of course it is, it's a want to care for Thomas, almost desperately, but then the fear that he'll muck it up because he always does that, too. Won't he ruin this somehow?

But this is all they have, this strange and desolate place that's both an end of so much and somehow a second chance, a renewal, of so many other things. It's hope, even in the worst of darknesses, and he doesn't know how or why, but hope is what he clings to so tightly, and isn't that what this is, too? Hope in connection, in being more than just alone here.

"Thomas, I —" He what? Now, now, he'll fumble this and hesitate more than he already has? No, he can't, he can't, he won't, not after all that he's been through. He can focus on him, he can do this, he can be selfish for just a moment. For a little while, maybe, he can even quiet the desperate fear of losing him before this has even become more than just a thought.

Could he stop running, for one moment? For this? It's the remembrance of what Thomas shared a little while ago, too, his knowledge of everything before he was brought here — that's what pushes him past his own fears enough to lean in.

"Fine, fine, shutting up now!" He is still, predictably, clumsy. He can't figure out where he wants to or should put his hands. He starts with resting both on Thomas' shoulders as he closes his eyes and his lips lightly graze his, but then one hand moves down to his forearm, his hand again, all the while he deepens the kiss. And, evidently, can't figure out where to place his hands.

Thomas doesn't actually expect it to happen. He doesn't think that anyone would want this as much as he does. Especially because he doesn't know what "this" is, in particular. Maybe some sort of companionship. Maybe the urge to know that there's someone around who sees him just as much as he sees everyone else.

The hands on his shoulders are tentative, but Jopson isn't as nervous. He isn't as worried. Not anymore.

He takes the Doctor's hands and places them around his waist instead, meeting his kiss with enthusiasm, guiding him as best he can. Here, Jopson is happy to lead. Here, he's happy to show him what he's doing.

Oh, right, right. Hands around the waist, of course. Steady. Logical. That's where they should be. He doesn't know what this is, either, what should it be. For once, on this rare occasion, he can't actually think past this moment. It's been a very long time since he's allowed himself to kiss anyone like this and he's still not entirely sure of himself but he matches his enthusiasm, sinking into this. Just for a moment, just...this.

He pulls back to catch his breath, smirking just a little as he looks to the side. "Your soup is burning," he remarks, looking very much the cat who caught the canary.

His eyes widen, shaky and uncoordinated limbs jerking quickly towards the stove. What do you do first? Touch the pot, of course, the very hot pot, the hot pot nearly boiling over. Yes, very smart — he quickly moves that pot, jerking his hand back the moment the hot steam coils around his fingers, and it's then that he thinks to turn the heat off. Ah, yes, that would have been the right order to begin with, wouldn't it...

"And just whose fault is that?" He calls over his shoulder, teasing, settling his hands on the countertop now as he settles and leans in to inhale the aroma a moment. "Well, it's — it's just developed a very deep complexity of flavors, that's all."

He looks back at Thomas, though, sticking his tongue out at him briefly before moving to the pack to grab the mugs they brought.

Christ, what has he created? He lets the Doctor gmget himself righted, the fire off, and then he reaches out with cool hands to take the others in his own, hoping to soothe away his burns.

"I think you best leave the cooking to me," he says with all the sincerity he can muster in this moment. It really is difficult to think of words when his head is spinning a little and he's rather flustered himself. Fortunately, he's had plenty of practice already.

"Ah...yes, right. Trust you with it, of course." It's probably an easy tell by his reaction to all of this that the Doctor doesn't...do this sort of thing often. He tries, very hard, to not let himself get too close. Close, but not too close. He can't. There's just...no accounting for the unpredictable. By its very nature. He's already gotten too close, hasn't he?

The cold touch to his hands is soothing, and he's happy to let Thomas take over, while he sets the mugs and a few spoons down on the small table in the lookout tower. Although, it's...more of a desk, really, and his thoughts briefly turn to Sam again. Sam, who stored his things here, who lived here for months alone, who vanished. That's somehow an easier thing to think about than all the rest, though his eyes occasionally drift back to Thomas until he settles.

Thomas has tried to forget about Sam, for the most part. Reading stories from ghosts has never really given him any comfort, and he doesn't like to intrude.

As he pouts the meager offerings into cups, he picks up a few of the objects left behind. The compass is of particular interest and he sits down with it, spinning it gently in his hands.

"What do you reckon happened to him?" he wonders, letting a little of his natural drawl escape.

He's grabbed a few of the maps to look through, making just a small mark or two with an old pencil left behind, mostly just noting where they are in the tower relative to everything else. At the question, he shifts his focus from a spot or two on the map to glance around.

"He noted leaving here, making a go of it and trying to get to Silverpoint. I know it's probably the most logical conclusion that he's dead — met with a large animal, our disagreeable friends in the forest, or...fear itself." He pauses on the word, taking a breath, shaking his head a little. "I don't like to imagine him gone, though. He's lost. And anything or anyone lost can be found."

The thing is, despite his words, it's not that the Doctor has a rosy view of their circumstances or what befell anyone here before their arrival. His overly hopeful nature is often proportional to just how much he does accept the dark reality of everything around them. The dark and terrible things will always be there. If Sam is dead, that is a truth that his own words can't erase, that believing otherwise won't fix. But since they don't know the answer and since the night is long and dark as it is, he will opt for the answer that sits a little easier in him for a moment.

He picks up the mug, feeling strange warmth against his hands, and allows himself to enjoy it on his joints for a moment until -

Well, the truth will out.

"He is lost," he agrees. "I can hope that he somehow made it out." He looks over to the maps. "Come and have this soup. You made it, you should enjoy it." And he wants to inspect the compass a little longer and he really can't while the Doctor is being very distracting over those maps.

"Well — suppose these aren't going anywhere," he smiles softly, patting the maps a little, settling the pencil on his ear, and then moving closer to Thomas, to the mugs he's set down. When he reaches for his, he clings to it between his hands, letting it warm him down to his bones, and he smiles softly before sipping at it.

He makes a face, squinting a bit, examining the flavor, sipping at it again. "Saved by the broth, I think," he notes with a soft laugh.

"I certainly have had worse," he says, smiling over at him, suddenly a little bashful here in this damn lookout tower. He takes another small sip, using it to warm himself as much as he is to nourish himself. Just because he can overcome the cold doesn't mean that he doesn't enjoy being warm.

"I don't think I want to eat anything out of a tin again in my life," he mutters. He still doesn't know that it was the lead that did it. That the tins were contaminated, and the scurvy wasn't the only thing that ate at his bones.

But he does know that he's eaten better on this island than he has in years, even if that means he hasn't eaten anything.

He smiles back at him, his expression softening. "No, no, you wouldn't, would you." Tins. It's a thought that lingers in his mind, he can't help it, of course. Just knowing what happened to Thomas — he tucks it away for now. He only wants to think about having warm soup together. It's not easy getting fresh ingredients here, fluctuating wildly between just barely enough or not enough at all, but he wants to make fresh things for Thomas as much as he possibly can. He wants to care for him.

"After this, before we settle in, I'm running back down out there to grab some willow bark. I can make a tea, it should help your joints a bit more to sleep tonight."

If there is any group of people able to survive this place, everything it throws at them, it's the Terrors (and Goodsir.) They have always been able to withstand anything and everything the Arctic threw at them, until, of course, they couldn't any longer. But it was years, not months, not weeks, that wore them down.

At least there is game here. Fish. Rabbit. A fledgling greenhouse.

But Thomas doesn't mind saying yes. He let Crozier care for him once and it - ended in disaster, of course. That won't happen again, he tells himself. It can't. It simply can't.

"There isn't much that can be done for them, I'm afraid. But - I won't stop you from it."

"No cure, I know, I know. No dramatic reversal of the damage that's been done, but it should help you sleep more soundly. If it does, it's worth it."

The warmth from the soup doesn't linger nearly long enough, but he takes his time sipping it, staying near Thomas. He doesn't want to wait too long, though, knowing he must be exhausted. So he sips the last of the soup quickly, setting the cup down and reaching out to pat Thomas' shoulder a moment, lingering.

"Now, don't throw any wild parties up here while I'm gone. At least not without me! Back in a flash, of course."

Thomas takes his hand briefly, squeezing it once in his newfound courage.

"Be careful," he tells him firmly, like a command. "I was made Lieutenant in the field, you know. So. That's an order, sir. Don't get yourself hurt."

Especially with the injury Thomas gave him.

There is, however, an intensity to his words. It's a small thing, but he does not want to think of him harmed in any way.

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