Hear me, men

[goingtobeunwell]

Who: The Terrors and Erebites
What: Crozier tells all
Where: Crozier and Raju's cabin
When: ~October~
Warnings: #JustTerrorThings

Lying by omission is still lying.

Lying by omission was never a qualm Francis Crozier had. It was a choice he made over and over again as captain of Terror and then expedition commander, to withhold information for the good of the crew, to preserve their morale and help keep that little flame of hope still burning, but each and every time without fail the good-intentioned lie turned sour and haunting. It was never a lesson well-learned despite this, and the habit continued even when the truth was so obvious and the omission almost an insult to the intelligence and the personal tragedies of the men he survived.

Lying by omission is still lying, and with the arrival of one more in the their party - his second, his confidant and one he'd usually make complicit in those lies - Crozier slowly came to realize that this attempt to preserve did more harm than it ever did good. The decision to relinquish whatever control he still held over their collective narrative wasn't an easy one, but it was correct and just. It wasn't his story, even if it felt like he carried the weight of it on his own all those lonely years. That couldn't be further from the reality of what his men faced day-to-day as living ghosts now.

He was alive, and they had died. He couldn't keep lying to them. They deserved so much more than Crozier's craven attempt to protect them from what they already knew to be the truth.



He gathers them in the cabin in the woods by the basin. His cabin, a small but warm little thing, patched up in the roof and the floor and the walls, mismatched cups in the cabinets and bundles of dried herbs in the kitchen. All are invited save Hickey, the one man he wouldn't forgive, and given an herbal tea sweetened with syrup upon request. An odd thing for a captain to do, but then again, how many times had he asked them not to call him 'captain'?

The story begins in a place different than what might be anticipated. He opens the floor with the argument held by himself and Sir John about the dangers they were in, and then the admittance of what Hickey and Tozer had claimed on the day of the failed hanging: he was going to leave them. He was planning to resign his post and walk to Fort Resolution to bring them aid. Sir John's death put an end to these thoughts, but it was true. That much that Hickey claimed had been true.

Crozier apologizes. He waits a few beats, and then continues:

First with John Irving's death.

He tries to be careful with his words, and measure truth against callousness, but there no amount of wordsmithing that can be done with something so terrible. Most of them already knows what happens when they find John's and Farr's bodies - John Irving does not.

Irving also does not know about the fate of the Netsilik family that had fed him, or about the trial that had come after guilt was proven, or the assault on the camp by the creature, or indeed the kidnapping and escape by the mutineers. Harry Goodsir knows these things all too well, as does William Gibson, but not what happened after, how they burned the bodies of their men after and hoped beyond hope to somehow reunite the mutineers with the rest of their camp. They don't know what it like outside of that hellish camp, but he was sure they could imagine.

He outlines what most of them experienced next. A slow and painful trudge across the landscape and the ever-present stalking of both the creature and the mutineers. His voice is quiet as he describes how men would fall dead mid-step - they all know, they all know - and how they rotted from the inside out and boiled their boots just to have something to fill their bellies. The next death comes and its James', and he can't quite look at Fitzjames as he describes entombing him in his shroud and burying him under a cairn, but he does look at Little. Little remembers that day.

He tells those who don't know about Tom Blanky. An awful blow, Thomas' self-sacrificing death, and he feels it all over all again as he tries to explain the morbid little fact about the forks and rope.

Next comes Rescue Camp, where they rested with the men too ill to walk or be hauled. More of their numbers dead, more and more, and the creature looking ill as well. He recalls the scouting party, leaving those ill men behind in their tents, the men he promised to look after as they drew their last painful breaths, and how the mutineers caught up with them. There was a mole in their party. Who it was isn't important, what's important is they accidentally fired upon poor Thomas Hartnell, who cried as he died on the shale.

The men took him, and he was separated from Little and Jopson and the rest. He admits here that he didn't know what happened to them next, he could only surmise from what evidence he saw later, but could only truly describe what he witnessed from his time with Hickey's men. He does say that he fought Des Voeux over Hartnell's body, but couldn't stop them from taking him for supper. The implication here is clear: this was their practice.

What he witnessed in Hickey's camp is next. Crozier's voice is still steady despite his own anger at what he experienced, what he saw done to men like Goodsir and Diggle, and Manson and Hodgson, and even the mutinous Tozer, who was only ever just trying to survive the best way he knew how. William Gibson was gone by this point. Relieved of his pain and eaten, as he was led to understand.

What happened to Harry Goodsir is integral to his survival, but he's cautious about saying too much. Without a doubt Harry Goodsir saved his life, but it was gruesome end, and one that he doesn't want to unearth without his say-so. He explains that Goodsir formulated a plan, and when he died Hickey and the others feasted on him. He too also ate from Goodsir, but just his foot as he'd been warned, and thus fooled the mutineers into thinking that the body hadn't been tainted.

He didn't know that Hickey's fascination with the tuunbaq had grown into an obsession. None of them really did, as was evident by Hickey's sudden turn on Tozer. It's with great exhaustion that he describes how he and the others were chained to a sledge and forced to haul Hickey, like some ridiculous king in longjohns and stolen boots and coat, to find the creature. He'd planned on performing a poor imitation of the ritual used by Lady Silence's people to bond with the creature, thus gaining some sort of godlike power, but naturally misunderstood entirely the purpose. As the men around him began to succumb to the poison, Hickey lured the creature to them and cut out his tongue as an offering.

The creature devoured him. Devoured them all, in fact. Attempted to kill him, but was too busy choking on the remains of Hickey to finish the job, and thus was easily choked with the boat chain.

The rest is hazy, but he's clear on this one point: Lady Silence had saved his life. She freed him from the chain and his unfortunate connection with the corpse of the creature by cutting off his hand, then nursed him back to health.

Of course, by this point in the story the ending is plain: when Crozier was able to move about once more and went in search of his men he was met with only frozen corpses. He touches briefly on the state of the camp where the ill had been left behind, how he discovered Jopson's body there (though kept the position he found him in to himself, not needing blame or more guilt thrown about unnecessarily) and others in their cots buried under the broken canvas, and then the various pockets of dilapidated tents and huddled corpses he discovered along the way to the final camp.

His recollection of the final camp is grim. Dead men lying on top of one another in tents, dismembered body parts, some still wearing tattered pieces of clothing, sitting in cooking pots or gnawed on raw outright. He doesn't spare the details here: these men suffered until their last breath, and it was horrible in ways that clearly haunt him. He pauses before confessing that there was one man still alive: Edward Little, though he doubts he even realized his captain was there. Little died not long after, delirious and gruesome in his appearance.

"Lady Silence...Silna then took me to her people. They took me in despite what I'd done to the tuunbaq, despite what we'd inflicted on them. I didn't understand how they could be so generous after all that...I still..."

At this point Crozier lowers his eyes to look at his hand and what remains of his left wrist. It isn't obvious what he's thinking until he speaks again.

"Silna was exiled for losing the tuunbaq. She left before I could stop her. I couldn't do anything,I had to accept it, they told me that I had to accept it, but I should have..." He can't quite meet Goodsir's eyes. He lied to him outright about Silna's fate, and he doesn't want to see the rage in his usually gentle stare.

"I stayed with the Netsilik for years. People came looking for us, but much, much too late. I never went back, even when Ross came through the camp. I couldn't go back with him; I never had any desire to."

He leaves the story there. It almost feels unfinished, and perhaps it is, knowing that they're all here now. It isn't satisfying, none of it is, and he feels ashamed for having lived. It's heavy on him now too, all the guilt and sorrow, but he expects more of it to come. It's going to be a long afternoon.

Comments

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[goingtobeunwell]

[bestsir]

Goodsir listens stoically until Crozier reaches the point where their stories converged. He can't look at Gibson—he's avoided telling him for so long what happened after Hickey stabbed him and it's his own guilt that prompts him to interrupt Crozier at the mention of his plan.

"If I may, Francis?"

And then:

"I am not proud of my choice," he says softly. "It was made from despair and from a hardened heart—and pride, I suppose, as I appointed myself judge, jury, executioner ... and instrument of my own destruction. The scurvy was killing me—killing all of us, no matter what we did—and I saw no other way forward." He looks up at Crozier, his gaze haunted. "And so I said to Crozier—that when the time comes that they make a meal of me, he must only eat of the feet, the toughest part, and the part that I knew would not be tainted by what I undertook next."

A deep breath; he scrubs his hands over his face and gathers the will to continue. "That night, I took the various compounds and tinctures from my medicine chest and made of them a poison that I drank and spread on my skin, and then, to avert suspicion, I opened my veins and laid down to die."

That's all; that's the story. He sinks back in his chair, unable to meet the others' gazes, and lets Crozier continue.

He remains thus, quiet, until Crozier brings up Silna, and then he sits up sharply. And he can't help smiling, at first, as Crozier tells of how she saved his life and took him to his people. But the smile vanishes and the blood drains from his face at the word exile. His heart pounds and he can't seem to catch his breath.

Why didn't you tell me before? he wants to scream, but he keeps his control, clenching his fists and staring at the floor. He stays very still until Crozier is finished, and then without another word he stands up and walks out the door.

He doesn't go far, and anyone who follows him will see him take a few steps and then stop at the nearest tree, leaning against the trunk to support himself. The grief swells in his chest and bursts out in a loud cry. Wordless at first. Then, "Damn it all. Bloody ... damn ... fuck!"

He hits the tree with his fists, over and over again until his hands are bloody and he slumps to the ground, falling to his knees.

[lieutenantsteward]

Thomas sits apart from the group, as he always does. As he always has, save for a handful of times. He keeps his hands in his lap, running through everything as Crozier explains it, glancing to the door every once in a while, as if waiting for Hickey to hear his name, to be summoned like the worst sort of genie, to this spot. This sanctuary.

He says nothing at the end for a long, long moment, letting Harry leave for the moment. Some of this is new information for him, but it is only verification of what he already knew.

"Thank you, Crozier," he says at the end, then stands up and follows Harry out of the door. He hears him by the tree, hears that last work, and trots over to him through the snow.

"You didn't know..." he says all at once, all in a realization.

[bestsir]

Goodsir doesn't move as Jopson approaches, but when he speaks, he sits back on his heels and winces as he rubs his bloodied hands.

"He only told me that she had found him and brought him to her people. Not ... not that she was ..."

He draws a long, shaking breath.

"We're to blame for her misfortune. She did nothing wrong, but we wronged her deeply. And now she suffers for it."

later on! (cw: mentions/discussions of murder, dissection and cannibalism)

[notarat]

Crozier's talk explained a lot about the way Goodsir has been reacting to him this entire time. Sure, it was not explicitly there in what Crozier said, and even Goodsir's own addition really mostly addressed what happened later after Billy was already long dead, but Billy is smart enough to put the pieces together.

Hickey made sure they brought the doctor - anatomist - with them. He had been planning on eating people all along. Billy doesn't believe his death was necessarily a part of the plan (not the first part, anyway), but more a very ironic mix of circumstances. And then Goodsir was there to cut into him. Turn him into nothing but meat.

There's no time to address it right away, with Goodsir quickly leaving, and Billy not very inclined to chase him to find out what's troubling him, especially when he sees Jopson leave right after the man. It's only later - when Goodsir is back, or when Billy is leaving and sees him on the way out - that he has a moment to approach the other.

"Mr. Goodsir," he says, mostly to draw the other's attention, though he falls quiet for a moment after that. Like he's trying to decide on what to say here, when there is so much that could be said.

Billy's voice sounds mostly calm, but the way his hands fidget a little betrays the fact he's shoving something down.

All the way until he finally says: ".. I suppose I understand now."

Why Goodsir had been giving him those incredibly guilty looks all these months.

[bestsir]

After talking to Jopson, Goodsir pulls himself together and goes back inside. He wants to talk to Billy Gibson at the very least; he cannot very well condemn Crozier's omissions when he's plenty guilty of his own.

He tries to meet Billy's gaze, but can't quite manage it.

"I should have told you," he says. "And I am sorry that I did not."

cw evangelistic opinions of suicide

[extramuralise]

Suicide is always a most difficult sin to countenance or to judge, truly, but thankfully it isn't Irving's place to do so, either, because there is little question that in this case it was a most noble and courageous choice, however technically immoral. Perhaps he might feel otherwise if it had been a different party of starving men unknowingly made to feast upon poisoned flesh rather than Hickey and his host of deserters, but may God have mercy upon any souls who saw fit to follow Hickey to salvation.

Speaking of immoral things.

"The Lord may look unkindly upon self-murder, but nonetheless, it was a... a brave thing you did," Irving says to Goodsir during a quiet moment after his confession, and before he bursts out the door. "I'll be praying for you to be forgiven in the eyes of the Lord, although I suggest you might do the same. Only you can make yourself right with God again, but in light of such valour, I'm all but certain you should have no trouble doing so."

[bestsir]

[ OOC: Okay so. Since I've been completely out of it for the last two months, would you be up for summing up what's happened here? I'm really sorry I dropped the ball, but life has Sucked. ]

[bestsir]

There's a really uncomfortable moment where Goodsir very nearly laughs at Irving's words. His own words to Crozier come back to him: Is God here, captain? Any god?

He arranges his face and nods, thinking of his brother. Like Joseph, Irving means well. "I am trying," he says quietly. "And I ... thank you for your prayers."

[extramuralise]

For how much John Irving has, up to now, strove to avoid hearing much tell of his and other futures, it is no doubt a great testament to the sheer depths of his loyalty — that which he wields most steadfast and earnestly, as well as that of him which is simply too passive to ever so much as dream of a thing like defiance — that he's in attendance today as compliantly as all the rest, however looking far more like a condemned, penitent soul grimly awaiting execution than a young lieutenant on the cusp of receiving fateful news.

The tea is very much welcome, therefore, in how it helps to somewhat ground Irving throughout the proceedings that follow, as well as put a little bit of color back to his cheeks, but alas that tea can only do so much; it is merely a tonic, not a cure, though soothing nonetheless to feel the warm cup cradled between his palms as he pensively braces himself for what Crozier means to tell them.

From Little he'd heard a few scant details regarding his own tragic end already, and had duly shed his tears for Farr, the Netsilik, and indeed himself as well, but otherwise he's been diligent in not asking after his or anyone else's fate. There are things no man should rightly know, after all, things that belong only to God, and to those chosen few who are tasked to live and bear witness, and Irving has always been content not to hear whatever his heart cannot rightly handle the burden of knowing.

And yet he's here now, tasked both to live and to bear not a witness, but audience.

For the most part, he hears it all without truly hearing it, though his hands do shake, and tears silently streak his cheeks (but over what in particular, not even Irving could say). The tragedy alone is enough to overwhelm near any man into a state of living catatonia, but when his eyes close he thinks of Hodgson: no true traitor, he, (surely not) but men defy their own natures every day in the face of fear; Little: grotesquely both alive and yet not, hanging deliriously on to breath until another living soul could finally bid him rest; Goodsir, who by his own account resorted to self-murder to destroy the mutiny from within; the Lady Silence, who lost everything because of them, and even the terrible creature itself; so far beyond their understanding, just as they, he supposes, must have been to it.

Crozier, who's suffered somehow to survive them all.

And so, so many others.

Even once the words can breach the protective barrier of white noise in Irving's head, much of it is still yet to process, and some of it he most likely never will— there's simply too much of it, and it's all simply too horrid to be believed. (Or rather, to want to be believed.) The teacup rattles in his trembling hands, but still Irving remains seated, unable to summon any strength to stand.

"W-we should... we should say a prayer for them. The lost," he says, as if that number doesn't still include those currently present here now as well. "We at least owe them the dignity of a funeral."

And perhaps owe it to themselves, as well.

[goingtobeunwell]

Once his story was concluded he'd climbed to his feet and gone to pour himself a glass of water, just needing to take himself away from the air of heaviness and sorrow he'd created. They all reacted as expected - some with quiet tears on their face, some blank and almost detached from the events, and some enraged. All devastated by the truth, the whole of the disaster or some horrifically personal piece of the tragedy, all attempting a reckoning.

A prayer for the lost.

Crozier raises his head and looks towards Irving from his place in the kitchen. "I constructed a memorial," he says quietly. "Some time ago."

He visits it often, this quiet place in the forest. He mends the cairns and refreshes the flowers and herbs, and while he doesn't pray in any formal way he does speak to them all. Small conversations, day-by-day happenings and quiet apologies, though they're still looking to him to lead even from beyond the grave.

[extramuralise]

Irving takes care to scrub his wet cheeks with a handkerchief before turning his gaze towards Crozier, managing little more in an immediate reply than to nod slowly in approval— not that Crozier should require any such from him, of course, but Irving's glad all the same to hear that a memorial has already been built to honor their dead and lost. It's only the least they can do, after all, although guilt twists within him for not thinking of it sooner, himself.

Finding his voice again is much harder. Irving's throat feels scraped raw, choked by knots and stone, while his head feels miles away, watching all but from a great distance rather than his seat at the table.

"I... should like to see it," he manages finally, looking forward again at nothing in particular. "One day. If you'll have my company."

[gildedlife]

This little meeting feels... Strange. Not just for the tension of it, but perhaps for how almost-normal it is; many of those here would've had reason to be gathered together for meetings or dinners in entirely normal circumstances, though likely not all at the same time. But it could be mundane, even if this situation is anything but, and that seems to be the strange theme of this place. Almost normal, almost familiar, yet not.

The tea provides James a welcome distraction, though he holds it more than drinks it, running his fingers idly against the surface of the cup and feeling the warmth of it. Having something to do with his hands in a stressful situation has always helped him when it comes to processing things.

There's very little he can contribute to this story himself, very little he could fill in of his own experiences that are relevant to the matter at hand and which Francis doesn't already know, and so for much of this story he just listens. The one time he does comment is near the beginning, when Francis admits he nearly left them to make an attempt for Fort Resolution the day Sir John died; James had of course heard the accusation at Terror Camp, and Hickey had brought it up again here, but hadn't put a great deal of thought into it. It hadn't happened, and even if it had, there are only two things about it that seem important at the moment; he only says the first, trying to catch Francis' gaze when he does so.

"Your reasoning was sound. You would have been right to go."

There's no need to apologize for wanting to try and save them.

But of course, they all know now that there would've been no point in the attempt anyway; the mission had been lost nearly the moment it had begun, and months later they would've simply found Francis' head in the snow in place of Fairholme's. James does wonder, briefly, what might've happened differently without Francis there for the rest of the awful, doomed expedition; would Sir John have ever agreed to walk out, or would he have tried to stay with the ships, leading them to a different but still just as terrible end?

It doesn't matter. What ifs don't matter, and even less so when every potentiality he's allowed himself to mentally follow has still ended in tragedy. There is truly so little that had been in their control and could've changed their outcome, at least up to the point James had reached.

But he hadn't known--other than what Jopson had told him and various hints from Francis at the fates of the others here--what had happened after his own last memory. He'd been aware that most of those here now were dead, that only Francis and Edward had not been at their own points of death upon arrival, but there had been nothing said about the others and so James had held out hope there might have been more survivors. That, as numbers had dwindled, those remaining had at least been able to travel more quickly, with greater resources and supplies. That if they had eventually found game, they'd have fewer people to share between, and therefore more for each of them. That perhaps, somehow, at least a few of them had made it.

But this isn't the case. And not only did none of the others survive, neither did Edward. It's only Francis, and although James is still deeply thankful that at least he made it, he can't imagine what that would be like. To be the only survivor of this horrifying, drawn-out tragedy, to have to live with the loss, and to have been the leader of it all.

The horror of it all is overwhelming even when looking at it in terms of a grand, distant scope, but the details make it infinitely worse. Blanky, who had surely been hiding his deteriorating health for who knows how long, and who James suddenly realizes he should've known to be watching out for, because he can only presume Blanky made his choice with the same thought James had. Bridgens simply disappearing after Peglar's death, for reasons they'd never been as subtle about as they might've thought they had been. Hartell dying needlessly and being taken by the muntineers. Hodgson surviving Tuunbaq at Terror Camp, only to still met his end by the creature later on. Goodsir's decision, and the details Goodsir himself adds to explain the sheer hopelessness of the situation. Dundy being lost at some point along the way, between Francis' time at the mutineer camp and when he had found Edward.

And then, finally, that even the survivors--Francis and Lady Silence, no, Silna--continued to suffer. Silna has been exiled, and Francis had refused rescue, and it does feel unfinished but at the same time, complete. It's a tragedy in all senses of the word, and only fitting that there's no neat, meaningful ending to it. There's no meaning in what had happened to them all. There's no meaning in any of it.

James has never been nearly as good at controlling his emotions as he likes to pretend, or as is expected of someone of his status, but that's also not much of a secret at this point and what does it even matter if it is? So although he does at some point in the story cast his gaze down toward the ground, turning his head slightly to the side in a half-hearted attempt to hide the tears that have begun falling, he can't really bring himself to care if anyone notices.

When Goodsir suddenly leaves, James does look up for a moment in concern, hesitating on whether or not to follow him or give him space. But fortunately Jopson decides to go after him and saves James from having to figure it out, and so he turns his attention back toward the floor, still silent. He really has nothing to say, to add to this in any way that might actually help any of them, and he's really not sure there's anything at all that could.

[goingtobeunwell]

Crozier allows Fitzjames a few moments to mull over the information, then comes to where he sits and quietly joins him. He leans forward, arms on his knees, his right hand and scarred wrist on display as the jumper sleeves pull back. He doesn’t speak for a while, letting the heavy silence do most of the work while Fitzjames chews over the long string of disasters that lead them to this very point.

Lord knows he’s had years to sit with it all, and more time in Milton to soak in this change as well.

“I didn’t know where to begin,” he says softly, finally speaking when a few long moments have passed, “when you first asked.”

[gildedlife]

James doesn't look at him right away, though he takes solace from Francis' presence, and uses the time and silence extended to him to try gathering his thoughts. But what more, really, is there to think about? Is there any sense to be made of this tragedy, or are they beyond that, and all they can do now is accept the horror of it and try to move on?

He's too drained to try to contemplate it right now, but that also means he can't be bothered to overthink much of anything at the moment, so when Francis finally speaks James responds with the first thing that comes to mind.

"Can't fathom why. It's such a pleasant story."

The mild but distinctly flippant sarcasm is meant to be humorous, not cutting, even if James can't manage more than a hint of the smile that should go with it. He's not upset with Francis for not telling him before, even if he might've preferred not to have had false hope; he can't imagine how difficult telling this whole story was, let alone living it.

Silence falls again for another few seconds, as he tries to decide if he wants to continue, but why shouldn't he? They're no longer dancing around this awful, tragic topic, they're right in the midst of it, and there's no better time to just be honest.

"I'd known that my chances were..." Not high, to say the least. He'd been sick for months before the walkout had even begin, and logically he knew that unless they'd had great success with hunting or trading, he would likely never make it the eight-hundred miles they had to cover. But there had been a chance, and he'd always gotten lucky before, so he'd held out hope. And then, well. Time had run out.

"But I'd hoped that perhaps... That some of you would still make it back. That Edward and Dundy had. Bridgens." The assorted, ragtag group of men still standing after Terror Camp. That at least some of them had made it out, made it home.

He's of course immensely thankful that Francis, at the very least, survived. But that it was only him, that he refused rescue, that presumably he'll never return to England, it's an outcome James had never even considered. He'd thought that if anyone survived, it would be through rescue, either by making it to Fort Resolution or by chance encounter. This particular set of circumstances feels strange to him, and he can't quite place why right away.

[fidior]

Perhaps fittingly, Little (the last of the men to die) has already known much of this tale — more of it than the others might. Both from his own timeline (his point of arrival here being just after the decision to leave Jopson and the other sick men was made, just as his boots were beginning to crunch against the shale; as he left those men behind, he abandoned the last of himself, too) and from being one of the first to arrive to this timeline, as well. Edward was one of the original Interlopers to wake in Milton, and so has learned more of the stories from each of the Expedition members to arrive. Learned horrors and truths, and pieced together some of his own.

His own fate was...not entirely unknown, not ultimately — learning from Benton Fraser that history tells there were no known survivors of that Expedition was a sobering thing; he never returned to his family, none of these men ever did. But it wasn't until recently that he discovered the deeper truths to his final breaths, from his former Captain. And now he knows why this place summoned a pocketwatch chain to his bedside, an item he's been keeping with him ever since.

He slips it from his pocket now, as Crozier's words come to an end, as all of them are left sitting with the weight of everything. With each of their fates shared, none less horrific, but gutting in different ways. His eyes are wide and wet as he feels the ache of them all, their awful endings playing on repeat in his mind. These men... He failed to protect them. He failed.

If anyone does wish, he'll speak more about what occurred amongst that last group of survivors, the ones he now knows met their own terrible ending not long after they marched slowly away from those agonised, dying souls, from Jopson's faint, wheezing breaths. (Had Little fed from the last of the men too, after they'd made camp? To survive as long as he had.... was it inevitable that he committed such an act?) In the end, holding on so desperately to the concept of decency, of staying a good man, of grasping onto himself, never even allowing himself to shed the pieces of his uniform... it meant nothing. None of it mattered.

There's potential for the abandonment of the sick to be discussed here, as well as Lieutenant Le Vesconte, the sole other remaining officer. Perhaps also — Edward's own fate, which he now knows the goriest details of. (How did it happen? Was it some act done... to himself, the result of a mind deranged and slipping away? Was he trying to stay awake...? To punish himself? Or was it done by the men? Some form of punishment inflicted by them, or an insane attempt to decorate him, perhaps to... appease something?)

Whatever it was, the fear of it persists, even though he knows it's a fate deserved. He's disturbed by what comes for him — that sort of punishment, of mutilation, his own ghost now one of the countless others that haunt him.

[notarat]

Not much of the story is a surprise.

Ironically enough, it makes the decision to come here after having been invited by Crozier so much more awkward than listening to the story itself. He still didn't want to ignore the invitation since he wanted to hear all of this, but most of the story is just the missing pieces between the things he had already heard - from Hickey himself, from Crozier, even the others. The fact of what happened after his death is now, and it's something he'll have to sit with for a while, but even that isn't surprising. It feels like the final piece of a puzzle that he didn't dare to put in place himself, though he had already imagined the final image the puzzle would form a while ago between the weird guilt he always saw in Goodsir's eyes whenever he spoke with him, Hickey's constant food insecurity, that day in June when he returned home with rabbit meat that clearly was not rabbit meat.

He wonders why he feels no burning anger or upset at it. Maybe it's just that it's too long ago by now, that he's got a new life now. Maybe it's that he doesn't want to get emotional in front of these people, when he doesn't know where he stands with most of them. Maybe it's the emotional control he's practiced to keep his power in check-- or just a mix of all of it. His hands feel hot, but that's it.

It does feel him with other feelings, though. Mostly a sense of awkwardness, especially when Crozier's talk ends, when he notices the way all of the others are looking. When Goodsir walks out so suddenly. There is a lot of emotion here, and he figures some of them might awkwardly try to comfort each other, but-- That makes this no space for him, right? Despite his invitation, he still doesn't feel like one of them.

So though there's some time to catch him, in case someone wants to talk, it doesn't take all that long before he gets up. There are some things he should say to Goodsir, but maybe later, after the other has worked through whatever has to be occupying his mind.

Billy does bother to head over to Crozier, mostly to hand him back the now-empty cup of tea, and give him a brief, half-awkward word of thanks for the honesty.

Unless otherwise stopped, he'll turn to leave after that.

Top levels for post-meeting interactions w/ friends, loved ones, etc.

[goingtobeunwell]

[friendsfordinner]

Hickey didn't plan to crash the party. He knows nobody will believe him. He knows that if (or when) he gets found out, he'll be immediately accused of having some horrible nefarious plot or what have you. It will be his fault because he knows he makes a good punching bag for men like Crozier and Fitzjames. And sure, he's lied. And killed. And robbed multiple corpses. And did a tiny little bit of forced cannibalism. But it was all in the name of survival! Besides, he's only done a little bit of that here.

No, Hickey's plans were to go out into the forest, shift into his wolf form, and spend a bit more time exploring all that he can do. He hasn't had much time to just exist as a wolf lately, what with all that Forest Talker nonsense, and it's relaxing in a way he finds hard to explain. It's easier as an animal, sometimes. Everything is less arbitrary.

But it's as he's exploring, wandering about, romping through the snow and digging around with his wolf paws, that he catches a familiar scent. Billy. He can smell Billy. What's Billy doing out here? What's his pack doing out here? So Hickey follows the scent, nose to the ground, all the way to Crozier's house.

What's his pack doing there?

Discerning Terrors can spot a smallish gray wolf sniffing out around the door or trying to look in a window, as if trying to see what's inside. Most won't recognize it, except for Goodsir (that's the weird wolf I ran into one time), Little (oh hey I played with that wolf as a wolf once), Crozier (that's my weird dog), and Gibson (that's my goddamn husband.)

[notarat]

.. actually, the moment Billy does move to leave, he spots.. this.

And of course he recognizes the wolf. Instantly. Not that he has any clue what Hickey is doing here - he was so sure the other was just going to be out all day like he often is, giving Billy the perfect opportunity to actually go to this meeting without Hickey throwing a fit about it or making up some plan to crash said meeting in the dumbest way possible - but he does know that he does not want the other to be near this. It just spells trouble. And he's already feeling extra done with Hickey in this moment in particular after learning exactly what the other did with his body. Not as angry as he should feel, probably, but annoyed all the same.

So since Billy was on his way out anyway, he quickly opens the door, and he's giving the wolf such a look.

It's a look of 'what the hell are you doing here, please just go, I'm leaving too', but-- you know, he is standing in the doorway. With the door still open. It'd be so easy for someone who feels like ignoring that look to just move inside right past him.

[friendsfordinner]

Hickey looks up at Billy and gives him a definite look in return. And it's interesting how even as a wolf, even with a face that can't really emote, his intention is made clear: 'I'm not leaving.'

Something's going on here! Why is Billy at Crozier's? Why is Billy at Crozier's with all the other Terrors? Is this a meeting? What's going on? Why wasn't he invited? Granted, Hickey has a feeling he knows why he wasn't invited, but the point still stands!

So Hickey absolutely ignores Billy's look and slips inside. He moves directly to a corner of the room, out of the way, and curls up to sit and listen...completely forgetting the fact that he's a goddamn wolf right now, and others might have a problem with that.

Later - when the cabin has cleared

[goingtobeunwell]

He stays in the bedroom despite feeling just as infuriated and violated in this space as he was in the parlor. And of course it's far worse in the bedroom, knowing that Hickey specifically had wormed his way in here, jumped and rolled all over his bed, demanding that Crozier pet his head and flanks all the while listening silently as he spoke without much filter.

There's a bottle of whiskey hidden underneath one of the floorboards. A 'gift' from the aurora, he'd thought he'd save it to give away at Christmas or the New Year. He prided himself in the fact that the sight of the bottle alone made him ill, but now that twisting in his gut is replaced by a beckoning tug. Crozier finds the bottle and slips it into one of his deep pockets, not entirely sure what his aim is with unearthing it, but needing something to ground him as he leaves the cabin and stomps through the woods in search of Raju.

They had plans to meet at Ram's old cabin after the meeting, so that's the direction he heads, bottle thumping against his thigh as he follows a winding path through the trees.

[load_aim_shoot]

It's odd, being in this particular cabin again. It's very different from the one he's used to; stone floors covered with musty carpets, fireplace of a different design in a different place, the occasional trickle of cool air he now recognizes as the sign of a hole somewhere. He's got no way to pass the time now but think about the cabin and the holes in it he hadn't bothered to fix when he'd been sleeping here before. It hadn't mattered, though, before. It'd made the place even colder at night, but of course it had been cold. He hadn't slept in here expecting comfort.

He'd brought books, and he's gathered a little wood. But he brought no hammer, no nails. He paces and wants to repair the place and clean it, wash the smell out from the rugs so Francis will be comfortable here, instead of thinking about the urge to go back and take charge of Francis' confession to his crew himself.

It's strange, being the one waiting for someone else to finish their important work. But Francis is their captain, a captain's failure is Francis' pain, and Francis has to be the one to resolve it.

Raju paces. He thinks about cleaning without any real tools with which to do it. He pokes at the wood in the fireplace. Eventually he wraps himself up again in all his other layers, mittens and scavenged coat and blanket wrapped around his shoulders and neck and head and face overtop it, and paces circles around the cabin, arms wrapped for warmth over his chest. He'll wait a little while longer, he tells himself. It isn't his business to help until Francis is done. There's no telling how long Francis' men will need.

after the rats leave the cabin!

[notarat]

Of course it doesn't end after they leave the cabin. No, that was the entire point of leaving - there are some things Billy wants to ask Hickey about, especially since Hickey was dodging his question earlier, whether purposefully or accidental. (Half of the time he's not even sure which of the two it is with Hickey, really.)

And it helps to not ask them in front of the others. They absolutely do not have to know why Hickey was being weird about Crozier. Or that Billy cares about the fact that Hickey was being weird about Crozier. That's way too many emotions to show in front of way too many people at once, so-- no, thanks, actually.

He doesn't even mind that having handed his coat to Hickey means that he's walking outside without one. Thankfully his ability helps him to stay warmer than most, making it easier to endure the cold as they walk.

So that frown on his face? It's definitely not because he's cold. It's because he's annoyed. Not deeply angry or anything, but-- still annoyed.

"You didn't answer my question earlier," he points out to the other.

[friendsfordinner]

It is so fucking cold out here, especially when the only thing you're actually wearing is your boyfriend's coat. As Billy walks Hickey outside, the cold shoots through his bare feet and Hickey immediately considers turning back into a dog. But no, Billy wouldn't like that, he can stick it out for this conversation. He's a good boyfriend, after all.

But fuck is he cold. And distracted. To the point that he asks,

"What question? The 'why are you at Crozier's' one? I didn't plan on spending time there. It just happened."

That excuse sucks.