singillatim | see who I am in the lion’s den

Entry tags:

see who I am in the lion’s den

Who: Cornelius Hickey & Edward Little.
What: Following a concerning Missing Person announcement in the Community Hall, Little decides to check in on someone he fears may be connected.
When: Early October.
Where: Hickey's dwelling in Milton.

Content Warnings: Mentions of mutiny, torture, and cannibalism are likely to come up, potentially in introspection and/or dialogue.

Someone has gone missing.

There are certainly a variety of dangers in this place. The wolves, the wilds themselves.... and then the strangeness without explanation: the spasmodic flickers of ghosts, the hush of a Voice whispering reminders of all the worst parts of a person, coaxing them towards an ending. There are many factors that could be responsible for a person abruptly gone.

Little immediately thinks to one, and it's with a sickness deep within himself. In his time here, he's... learned from Goodsir, about the atrocities that Hickey had apparently committed in that camp. Of course, he had not seen any of it with his own eyes, and evidence is impossible to procure in this place. He has only the word of poor Mr. Goodsir himself — nothing that Little doubts, not from that man, but some part of him struggles still to accept these nightmarish truths.

All Little can do is hold to what he has known and been trained for, even amongst all that is so unfamiliar. It means keeping order. It means doing things fairly. And so he's oddly calm on the surface as he heads out towards the home Hickey's claimed as his here, though his gut aches with so many ghosts, regrets, and questions. (Should he have killed this man, back when he'd first bumped into him, in this place? He had Hickey at gunpoint. Is someone in Milton dead because of him?

If he had killed Solomon Tozer, could all of what followed been prevented?

It's an unfathomable horror to think that the crime of taking the life of one man may have saved the lives of so many others.)

The lieutenant steps up to the door and draws in a slow, steadying breath before he raises a fist and knocks against it, hard and firm, solid sounds. His shoulders are squared, posture assured, steady.

"Mr. Hickey," he calls, voice rich, deep and clear, meaning there to be no surprises with his appearance; he'll proclaim who he is right at once. Edward isn't here to cause turmoil, but to find truths and evidences. His shotgun is strapped to his back as usual, but he leaves it there out of his hands, not aimed like before.

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The house is objectively too much house for one person. But it's more house than Hickey's ever dreamed of having so fuck it, it's his house now. The family who had it before isn't using it now. And even if Hickey's kept most of his activity to one room (best to stay as warm as possible—that fireplace doesn't get some of the back rooms), what does it matter? It's still his house. These are still his rooms.

He's warming his hands by the fire in the fireplace when he hears Little's voice outside. Urgh. Great. Hickey doesn't know what that man wants—what he does know is that it's guaranteed to be annoying.

He's leisurely as he gets up, taking his time to stretch, warm his hands a bit more, then saunter over towards the front door. As he opens it, he gives Edward a once over. They make quite the pair—Hickey's adapted, wearing clothing more fit to the modern era than their attire back home. He's got on sweatpants, a fleece hoodie, and his new favorite piece of footwear—thick socks that have rubber grips on the bottom. Perfect for wearing inside, leaving those slightly-too-big snowboots in the entryway.

"Mr. Little," he responds, with a little nod of his own. "I must say, the visit is unexpected. Come to take me up on my offer?"

There is, of course, every possibility that Hickey won't answer the knock to his door. Little means to keep this as civil as possible, so he has no intention of forcing his way inwards, but...well, he isn't looking forward to potential alternative possibilities, here. He's relieved (if that is the right word for it) when the door opens, though..... what he's greeted with takes him by visible surprise, blinking widely for a moment at the sight.

He's seen a variety of strange clothing in this place, from men wearing pants that are much too tight, to women in pants, to a man in a flowing sort of dress(?)..... but seeing Hickey dressed like this (the socks are really what makes it) has him completely baffled. Before he's regaining his composure, furrowing his brow severely.

'Come to take me up on my offer?' — Is that how he'd done it? Caught the young man who's gone missing? God, anyone could see that message Hickey had left and make their way to this house, never to be seen again.....

"We need to speak." Little swallows back his abhorrence (and something that feels like fear), controls his expression. This man has fed from other men. He is speaking with a monster.

"About that offer of yours. May I come in?" A pause, remembering how things went down last time, and Little shifts his gun.

"I'll leave this outside, if you wish."

The socks are cozy and wonderful and he doesn't slip on the floor in them so hey, up yours Little. Hickey leans against the door frame, casual as everything, looking up at Little with a careful little smirk—which instantly falters for just a moment when he hears that 'we need to speak.'

He's assuming he knows about what they'll speak on. Goodsir's here, after all. Goodsir probably wasted no time in telling Little all of Hickey's so-called sins, all the things that he shrugged away from and feared, all the nasty little bits of survival.

Prick. Goodsir was only instrumental for the butchery. If he didn't waste himself, he could have survived through to the end.

"Either leave your weapon outside or give it to me," Hickey says, as his eyes linger on the gun. "Your choice. I'll give it back, of course."

He makes no move to let Little in otherwise.

Little stares for a long moment, not at all oblivious to the tension already lingering beneath this surface civility. Certainly, he's guarded himself, and it's no surprise that Hickey would be, either.

He's not so naïve as to hand his gun to this man, so Edward tugs it off of his arm and sets it purposefully down outside, neatly folding the strap beneath it. When he stands upright again, he gives a slight nod of his head forward. This is going fine! Just fine!

The next step is that, when allowed, he must walk into this man's house unarmed. Perhaps that is naïve, but Little certainly hasn't come here without much thought in advance. If anything happens to him, he knows Goodsir will understand immediately what has happened. As horrific as the thought is, he has some trust in Hickey's own smarts to know as much, too.

"Now may I come in?" he asks, and it's not impolitely, but there's a darkness to his eye, and a bit of a squint. He doesn't like you either! You.... man-eater!!!

There's a little part of Hickey that's annoyed Little didn't give him his gun. But it's easily overwhelmed by the rest of Hickey's mind bluntly pointing out that hey buddy, you had zero chance of getting that gun in the first place. Still. Would've been nice.

"Feel free to make yourself comfortable," Hickey says, as he gestures for Little to enter.

The house is a three-bedroom house, one that obviously used to house a large family. That being said, the only immediately accessible rooms are the living room and the kitchen—a hallway door closes off the rest of the house. The living room is obviously where Hickey's been spending the most time: the fire is blazing in the fireplace, he has wood stacked near it, and he's dragged a mattress and linens out from one of the bedrooms to sleep on. There are two chairs near the fire, and he'll gesture for Little to sit in one of them.

The kitchen is visible from the living room and it looks messier. There are a few random bloodstains, strips of meat, assorted empty food tins, and pots of water set out on all of the counter service.

"I've got to be honest, I thought you'd be more adapted to this," Hickey lightly sasses, as he goes to sit in the other chair. "Barely a month here and you already need my help...whatever will we do with you."

Little moves slowly inwards when he's finally allowed entry, expression grim. As if he could ever be at ease in a situation such as this... every instinct within him knows it's wrong. He does not want to be any closer to Cornelius Hickey than he ever has to.

But this is about more than only himself.

Little allows a look around the space, eyes lingering on the mattress there in the living room for a moment before making their way towards the kitchen. He stares at the meat visible from his position, feeling an odd flip within his stomach before he turns back to the other man, drawing to a tense, awkward seat in the gestured chair.

"I suppose not all of us are as quick to... adapt to such horrors as you are, Mr. Hickey."

From his own flat tone, it's clear Little hardly means the reply as any sort of compliment. But he's careful to stay polite regardless, not allowing any true venom to seep out. Not just yet.

"I'll get right to it. I'm here to inquire as to a missing person — a young man. Perhaps you have seen the alert, posted in the community center."

Hickey nods. Indeed, he has seen the alert. He swings by the community center every so often, just to see who's put up something new. What the gossip of the day is. If anyone's actually using it. He also suspects he knows what Little is implying by asking him about the missing person.

He's going to make Little actually say it, though. If he wants to think that Hickey's the cause of the man's vanishing, he's going to have to outright ask Hickey.

"I have," he nods. "So kind of you to keep an eye out for the missing man. Unfortunately, I've seen neither hide nor hair of the boy." He gives Little an innocent little smile. "You'll have to ask around and chat with other men."

Edward's jaw tightens a little, but he controls his expression otherwise, keeping his back rigid and his posture straight.

"I plan to ask everyone. But I thought I'd start with you, given your particular reputation. And, given that particular reputation, you must see how I have a difficult time believing your words, Mr. Hickey. But whatever has happened to this young man, evidence will come forth, eventually. And when it does... whomever is responsible will be made clear."

Edward stares at him, choosing his words carefully.

"Need I remind you that you don't have your.... allies here with you. The people of this town may decide to take matters into their own hands, and I may not be able to protect you."

The thought of it makes him ill, but even now, Little would not let this man be thrown to the wolves here, so to speak. Not without a trial....

"It would be in your benefit to allow me to handle things with decency and dignity. So I will ask you now — have you had any part in his disappearance?"

If Hickey is stubbornly trying to get him to outright accuse him of cannibalism, Little is just as stubbornly trying not to voice it outright just yet.... but oh, a storm's likely coming.

With decency and dignity. The idea of a trial. All of that makes Hickey want to laugh. People here may pretend to play civilization, they may pretend to be genteel and calm and all the sort of things they are back home, but Hickey knows where the chips will fall in the end. He knows how this sort of thing ends.

So he simply listens to Little. The implication that he killed that boy is, to him, laughable. Hickey thinks himself a deeply practical man (whether he is or not, that's a different story.) What would be the use in outright murder? At least, what would be the use now?

Though there's one other thing that's even more laughable than that idea.

"Let's get one thing straight," Hickey points out. "If people here took matters into their own hands, you wouldn't even try to protect me. Men like you don't go against the grain."

Little had tried to prepare himself for the particular way in which Hickey makes him feel when speaking to him — as though he's not fully in control of his words, of his own reality. The younger man has a way of making him feel hesitant and uncertain. He'd made himself ready to face that.

And yet here he finds himself stricken by those words. Perhaps they press against a very specific ache within him, a very specific.... guilt. Edward's body language stiffens, and a true anger darkens his tone, voice lowering, eyes narrowing. This anger does not fully belong to Cornelius Hickey, but his tongue snaps the words more than he would like for it to.

"You do not know what kind of man I am." It seems that someone's touched a nerve!!

"I would not allow anyone in this town to fall to frenzy and harm someone without just cause. Even if that someone were you."

You do not know what kind of man I am.

Oh that's rich.

Hickey can't help but laugh at that. It's a short, bitter laugh, he shakes his head as he continues the conversation.

"Who was the one who kidnapped Crozier? Who was the one who made it so you had to make decisions on your own? No captain, no commander, just Edward Little in charge of a group of men who knew he was wanting." Hickey had Crozier. Fitzjames was dead—took those boots for himself. And Hickey knew that Little wasn't the sort who could take command. After all, when would he? Most of the men jumped ship to Erebus the moment they got the chance. The captain was drunk and in his cups. The second in command was weak.

"The moment the greater good decides that I, or anyone else here, is useless? Is better off dead? You'll be standing right there next to them, not knowing what to do next."

Edited (i can do html, i swear) 2023-10-20 03:12 (UTC)

All of the things Edward knows about this man are there, little pinpricks of horror and upset. He killed Irving. Staged a mutiny. Stole Goodsir, Hodgson, Crozier, and God knows who else, for some... nefarious purpose. To use them, it seems, given what Little was told by Goodsir.

He'd fed from a man's body.

Those things are there within him, uncomfortable, festering over these days and weeks, and yet Little has been trying not to act on them, to constrain his own emotions through this. But Hickey's words make those upsets boil, hot and aching and unbearable.

His body moves suddenly, gets up from its seated position, stands instead. It's with such force that the chair tips back just slightly before falling to a steady position again with a soft thud behind him, and Little's facing the other man. It's with restraint, not even very threatening, certainly not looming over him. But his fists are balled, nose scrunched and nostrils slightly flared.

"I am giving you more tolerance than most other men would, but make no mistake. I would like to see you hung for all you've done, and some day I mean to. But it will be with the process it requires."

Little swallows, jaw stiffening.

"Now tell me, so that I may do what is needed — did you have any involvement in that young man's disappearance?"

Hickey's eyes just shine with excitement. He touched a nerve. Good. He was waiting to see which part of the good lieutenant that he was poking at would show a result. Hickey stays seated, but he's looking up at Little with a bright, intense, focus in his eyes.

It will be with the process it requires. So that means it's never going to happen. How reassuring.

"You've already made me the villain in your mind," he points out. "If I give the wrong answer, you'll find me wanting." There's a pause before, "And no. No, I didn't have any involvement in that man's disappearance. Never even talked to him while he was here."

Later, Little will look back on this moment with a particular shame, a regret. Nerves worn raw, a thread that's so close to snapping — displaying signs of his deeper upsets is something he strives to do as little of as possible.

Part of him expects the younger man to jump right up at him. There's something worse to the fact he doesn't, and Little doesn't like the way it feels, to be looking down at those gleaming eyes. He's never desired to overpower another, or to seem foreboding. (Not that Hickey seems to be in danger of either of those things from him, but....)

He doesn't like how it feels. He's taking a step back, head dipped slightly. Almost apologetically, though his lip curls, and his eyes look towards the mess in the kitchen.

"Then I'm sure you won't object if I take a look around." A pause of his own. "To disprove your villainy in this place." Emphasis on that word, because certainly this man has proven to be a villain in other places.

But this is not... where they once were, and Little's stomach coils at the thought of condemning someone who doesn't deserve it. Indeed, prove his suspicions wrong, Mr. Hickey.

"Of course," Hickey says, with a little nod. And, because he sees the opportunity to twist the knife just a little bit more. "You saw my notice. I have opened my doors to anyone who needs aid. This includes you."

Look at how generous and altruistic he is! Such a nice guy, that Mr. Hickey.

He turns back towards the fire, stoking it and keeping it going, letting Little poke around as much as he wants. The mess in the kitchen turns out to be a poor attempt at butchering an animal. The strips of the meat are small, the blood is far too little to have come from a human, and there are small tufts of rabbit fur on the floor or in the sink. It is literally just 'Hickey caught a rabbit, needs to work on his skinning and butchering game, and has been far too lazy to actually clean up.'

Oh yes, he'd seen the notice. And of course, the worry and horror is exactly where Hickey means it to be — that his door is open, that anyone may come in. Any soul unsuspecting of what this man is capable of.

Edward glowers before he moves away again, towards the kitchen. It's slow, cautiously, and he glances back over his shoulder as he walks, wary to turn his back to the other man. His nerves are still prickling, an anxious fretfulness making his chest tight, but he had become paralysed before, and he'll not allow it to happen again.

He moves into the kitchen, taking his time with looking around, thorough. Though it's an unpleasant sight to greet him, the little mess of blood, skin, and fur, it's clearly from an animal. (What did you expect to find as "evidence", Little? An entire dead body lying on the table?)

Stone-faced, Edward quietly opens a few cabinets as he moves around, checking.... but although he finds nothing particularly strange, his stomach is curling. He thinks of what Goodsir had told him. The.... reason that Hickey took him, kept him. What Goodsir in particular was able to provide. After a long while of more glowering silence, he calls from the kitchen.

"Learning how to prepare meat, are you? I suppose it's more difficult than one may think."

And Hickey just watches, keeping an eye on Little as he moves through the house, inwardly gloating over the fact that for all the lieutenant's worries, there's nothing there. There's no sign of any ill-doings. Because why would there be? Hickey knows the value of appearance. He can place nice right now. He can blend in with everybody else. He'll put his knife to the throat if the situation calls for it but right now? It doesn't. Right now calls for someone who's happily part of the herd.

Edward's comments about preparing meat cause Hickey to let out a small little chuckle.

"It certainly is." And because Cornelius Hickey has never known where to stop, because he's the sort of person to keep pushing, keep being trouble, see how far he can go, he continues with a wry smile and a, "I had some help last time."

Little doesn't want to say it outright. Maybe there's multiple reasons for that: one being a concern that revealing it will inevitably reveal he'd gotten the information from Goodsir. It could make the man a target for Hickey (if he isn't already one).

There's another part to it, though. Again, it goes back to the horror of accusing someone of something false. Edward believes Goodsir, has absolutely no reason to doubt him at all, but.... it's still difficult to truly follow through on such a horrific claim when he hadn't seen evidence of it for himself. When he remembers how... unfairly the captain had treated Hickey, as Edward believes it had been, no matter if Crozier was ultimately right in his assessments of the man... At the time, it was unfair. It was too much. The lashing, the punishments. There was no evidence, back then, that this man was any sort of monster. He did not deserve what was given to him.

It's one of many uncomfortable turmoils within Little. He stays in the kitchen, expression tight and struggling (no doubt failing) to conceal his distress, as he listens to that response. Part of him wants Hickey to say it, to admit outright to it, because then... Little can truly, truly believe it. Truly follow through with that horror, and what it may mean.

"No one that wanted to provide that help to you, I'm certain," he finally answers, quietly. Both of them, not outright voicing the most horrible part of it.

"...I wonder how it is that you convinced those men of anything," Little adds after a moment, eyes narrowing. "At gunpoint? Perhaps knifepoint? Is that how you came to acquire Lieutenant Hodgson?"

Edited 2023-10-28 03:44 (UTC)

At the mention of Hodgson, Hickey can't help but laugh. "He was the first one of yours I recruited."

Irving never would have happened, mostly due to the man's personality. Little never would have happened—and it's not like Hickey would have wanted him anyway, indecisive wet blanket that he is. But Hodgson. Hodgson, obviously the most popular among the men. Someone who wants to seem important and wants to be recognized but never really got there. Who was always a little to the side, even among Crozier's inner circle, and who never really knew what to do with it.

"He came willingly. We ran into him after that business with tuunbaq, when the bear attacked the camp. He joined my crew rather than die." Hickey shrugs before, "People will do unexpected things to want to live. The smart will do whatever it takes."

Of all the men he'd seen make an appearance over that slope, it was Hodgson that was the worse shock. One that Little still hasn't fully been able to process through, beyond those surface thoughts. Of course Hodgson was threatened — Goodsir told him as much. Told him how Hickey threatened to harm the second lieutenant if Goodsir didn't do as told. It's surely how Hickey stole him away at all — threatened the poor man. Little hasn't assumed any differently, hasn't remotely entertained any differently.

That isn't what Hickey says, however. Edward freezes where he'd been looking through another cabinet, slowly moving away from it and back into line of sight. He wants to see the other man's face.

"You're spinning lies. Just as with what happened to Lieutenant Irving — you're lying." His heart is a tight fist within his chest, squeezing harder, harder. He doesn't look away. He needs some sign, any sign, that this man is being deceitful.

"The men were afraid of you. Of what you were capable of. Lieutenant Hodgson would never join you of his own accord."

What he sees instead of any sign of deceit is manic certainty. Hodgson did join. Granted, he might have joined mostly because they found him, on his own, about to eat his boots. That still counts. Hodgson still saw sense. He still had things under control in the end.

"I gave guns to the men. Tozer. Des Voeux. Private Armitage. Any one of them could have shot me dead where I stood at any time. But they didn't." That mania still sparkles in his eyes, that look of absolute delusion flitters as Hickey continues. He keeps his voice calm, level, like he's talking to a scared child or a particularly stupid horse.

"D'you know why? Because they knew what was what. Because they wanted to survive. How many men did your little group have left in the end, hmm? I know you lost Fitzjames. Hartnell. Probably a dozen or so more died in between the time my men and I left and we obtained Crozier. D'you know how many I lost in that time? Two. And of those two, one of them slit his own wrists."

As far as Hickey's concerned? Goodsir doesn't count.

"The guns" elicits a haunting memory in itself, because before Hickey gave those men guns, Little did. He certainly hasn't forgotten, how it all played out like some nightmare as the last threads of everything fell apart in the fog. Each name is a flinch within him, of the mutineers: Des Voeux, Armitage, Tozer.

If he'd stopped it then, what might have happened? What might have been prevented?

He's staring, staring, at the sparkle of Hickey's eyes — something that he might've once found bright, charming, and now knows what perhaps Crozier always did. But too late. All of it is too late.

"Silence!" he hisses, and he's feeling himself move forward again, only this time he doesn't catch himself. That anger from before hasn't left, he'd only swallowed it down and down and down the way he always has. It boils, that anger, along with so much horror and hurt and shame, and though he doesn't yet know which man Hickey refers to with that — one of them slit his own wrists — it's the final straw. Little gets in Hickey's personal space now, glaring. He lets himself do what he couldn't before — looms, an aggressive stance. It isn't something he ever wanted.

"The other one. The other man you lost." His voice trembles with emotion. "You used him for— meat. You fed from him."

He's angered Little.

Good.

It's refreshing to see how easily the good lieutenant loses his standards, how quickly Little becomes just like the rest of them. Hickey looks up, matching that ferocity with a manic intensity of his own. Little's going to feel real bad about this later, and Hickey is relishing in that.

He suspects he's going to get punched in the face for this. But Cornelius Hickey has never met a metaphorical bear that he wasn't going to poke.

"I used both of them for meat."

So there was more than one. It shouldn't be surprising, but the information is abhorrent within him, makes him want to gag.

He knows who the first man was. William Gibson — the officers' steward. He'd known that man for the past three years, shared much space with him, much time. Getting too intimately familiar with the crew was not something Little did much of, not like some of the other lieutenants, who tried to befriend the men, treated them more like companions (Hodgson and Le Vesconte, looking at you); as the captain's First, Little was more businesslike than anything.

....But there was still companionship there, and perhaps something even deeper than that formed, in those years all of them spent together on the ice. A bond between all of them, one forged from only such horrific circumstances. That man was one of his men, and under his protection.

And there was another...? Another, butchered and used like an animal. Little's gloved fists tighten, and he's so tense it's palpable, painful. His eyes are filled with anger, true anger, one he so rarely allows to show.

He doesn't strike Hickey, though it would be a lie to claim the desire wasn't there. No, he doesn't touch him, though he stays very close, using his height and weight, pressing inwards, nostrils flared.

"And you forced Goodsir to.... prepare them. Butcher them." His lip curls. "Did you then force the others to... eat? To make everyone into a devil like you?"

Little, please stop asking horrible questions if you don't want horrible answers.... but he has to know, the extent of this, and he suspects Hickey will be honest about this much, at least. Wanting to gloat of it.

Indeed, Hickey is honest. His eyes sparkle with excitement, there's a manic air about him, as he gives Little a cavalier little shrug.

"I forced Goodsir to butcher Gibson. Everyone ate of their own free will." Gibson. Not Billy. Not to Little. He knew they served on the same ship, he knew that Gibson was Little's steward, but as far as Hickey's concerned? None of those men really knew him. None of them truly gave him the time of day. Not like Hickey did.

So it's just Gibson. Billy in private. But like hell he's going to show any signs of that internal battle, of the still complicated feelings Hickey has about carving into the man he could have loved.

"The other one we ate from was Goodsir himself. I took care of the butchery myself." If you could even call it butchery. Goodsir wanted to break it all down into parts, to remove the Billy Gibson of it all. No man. Just meat. Hickey could have done the same. But why would he do that when he had a perfectly good signal to send out? Follow his orders. Stay by his side. Don't do anything rash. Or you'll just be a corpse, splayed out on a table, sliced into, like this man was.

"And again. I forced nobody to eat. My men were simply hungry. It's the duty of a captain to provide, to care for his men. And didn't I do just that? Certainly did it better than those mystery tins—at least what I offered didn't weaken us." There's a pause as Hickey shakes his head. "Though technically speaking, I did force Crozier to eat. The rest were sensible enough."

Everyone ate of their own free will.

Little can't hide the way his jaw stiffens, the way his eyes flash with some quiet horror. No. It can't be true. Hodgson wouldn't....

...But he'd never expected to see George coming over that hill along with the others. Everything had happened so quickly, he hadn't had time to process it, but it's been one of many horrors nestled within him, playing itself over again and again in his nightmares. Hartnell shot, Crozier's eyes wet, Little's gun still lifted, so tense he felt like he might die from it. There was Hodgson, who should've been standing beside him, who should've come back with him.

What Hickey says next steals the focus of his horror, then. Goodsir was the other man that was consumed. Goodsir. And Crozier was forced to feed on him....

Suddenly, Edward's fist is closed around the front of the smaller man's clothing, and his breathing is ragged. It isn't red that he sees. Only white. Blank and blinding, like the ice itself.

I'll hurt you, he thinks, and later, the thought will make him unbearably ill. In this moment, it's all he can see. His words come out strained and hoarse; it feels as though someone else is saying them.

"Stop.... Stop speaking, Mr. Hickey."

Edward is there. Against him. Fist closed around his clothing. He's angry, he's distant, he's going to do something about this and Hickey is thrilled. To have pushed Little to this point, past any claims of decency or respectability or good English values he so desperately craves. Shows how useful you are now, yeah Lieutenant? Push a man far enough and he becomes just that. A man. Nothing more, on equal footing with the rest of them.

Hickey's eyes are shining with a bright mania as he looks up at Edward. There's only on question on his mind as he watches the lieutenant look down at him.

"And what'll you do if I don't?"

What will he do? To this man who has committed such horrors? Murdered and mutilated, lied, mutinied, consumed? This man who even now holds no remorse for any of it? In truth, Hickey frightens him. Little can't understand the mind of someone like this — a man who does not see other men with respect and human compassion. A man who could so easily take his blade to someone, who would turn his back on decency. A man who could become worse than an animal, who could do things that can hardly be imagined.

There is much anger inside of Edward Little, bottled up and swallowed down over so many years, anger and hurt and frustration. For a moment, his gloved hand tightens with tension against the smaller man's clothing, fingers curling inwards. What will he do? There are many things he would like to do.

His mouth parts, breathing ragged, and then he slowly lets go. No. He won't do anything to Hickey. Not now. Not like this. He shudders, looking deeply shaken, voice strained.

"I am going to continue searching these premises, and then I am going to take my leave."

What will he do.

The answer, to nobody's surprise, is fucking nothing. Because that's the sort of man Edward Little is. A man who can't take initiative on his own. A man who looks for others to make decisions. A man who fails. He looks annoyingly smug as Little lets go. Because of course he would. Rest of the Terror crew would be pleased if Little throttled Hickey then and there. But that would involve making a tough choice, and God forbid Little do that.

"Yeah, that makes sense." There's a smirk on Hickey's face as he points out, "Can't avoid me forever, though."

Little has always believed that there are times where it requires more strength to not act. And perhaps, in his particular position, that most times it is the case. A good lieutenant should wait, trust the rules of sensibility, place his faith in the process of how things should be done. He should not allow emotion or personal upset to colour his experience.

(But what does one do in the face of a murderer? Of a man who has... killed his friends, his brothers, his men? Stolen his captain? Had men butchered and eaten like cattle? What does a good lieutenant do when someone like this has completely shattered all that is normal?)

He does want to hurt Cornelius Hickey. He wants him to pay for what he's done. But he can't exert that justice himself. It... it wouldn't be right. It would only cause further harm. (Right?)

...For now, he steps back, though his fists are still clenched and his eyes are dark, pupils swollen, angry. His breathing is so tight it hurts. 'Can't avoid me forever.' It feels like something looming, a dark cloud. What else will Edward Little be unable to avoid forever?

He turns and walks away, hating the man behind him, and hating himself perhaps even more. And he'll spend some time searching the home, but will be unsurprised when he finds nothing. No evidence of a young man's kidnapping and slaughter. Nothing. All that's left to do is leave, stomach a tangle of knots.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

see who I am in the lion’s den

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cw: reference to suicide

cw: reference to suicide and cannibalism, hashtag #TerrorThings

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SORRY FOR THE ESSAYS, ur giving me so much good food I gotta ramble about it!!!

sure does suck to learn all the secrets, ned!!!

the truth will set you free! unless it just gives you a nervous breakdown (◕‿◕｡)

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A good place to wrap, unless you'd like to tack on anything else after!!!