cw: references to character death, references to suicide
[ Kate knows she was stupid to go off into the woods by herself. She knows it was reckless and dangerous and desperate. But she was desperate. Days of fruitless searching, no sign of Harry Goodsir and an endless silence whenever she tries to call out to him — a very particular kind of horror she can't seem to put words to.
She takes any scolding and chastisement, mild as it often is with the Lieutenants. Swallows it with slow nods and half-murmured apologies, unable to look anyone in the eye. When she's well enough to get out of bed, the sombreness hangs off her like an old friend.
Days are spent bundled beneath blankets and wrapped in layers, trying to fight off a kind of cold that won't seem to melt from her bones. Not even Merry's warm fur can help fight the ice. Her limbs feel stiff and heavy— the joints filled with frozen glass. She doesn't complain, she doesn't say much.
The fire is low for the night, but it's still burning. The cabin is still, and the threads at her fingers are beginning to wane. Grief is a suffocating thing, and a painful reminder of the price of surviving. She can still smell medicinal herbs when she concentrates on it hard enough.
She didn't get to say goodbye.
(Did he write a note? Who would have been there to read it? Anyone that cared? God forbid Mr Hickey would get his hands on such a thing.)
Kate didn't write a note either. No one will get to say goodbye to her, either.
There's movement, but she doesn't turn around. She's used to the sounds of the two Lieutenants by now, all those nights Tim would sneak in her room and she'd wait and listen for their noises. Lieutenant Little's footfalls are heavier, a little slower. She realises with a slow inhale: Lieutenant Irving. ]
I just wanted to stay by the fire a little longer.
— he has thrown down the cavalry / john irving
[ Kate knows she was stupid to go off into the woods by herself. She knows it was reckless and dangerous and desperate. But she was desperate. Days of fruitless searching, no sign of Harry Goodsir and an endless silence whenever she tries to call out to him — a very particular kind of horror she can't seem to put words to.
She takes any scolding and chastisement, mild as it often is with the Lieutenants. Swallows it with slow nods and half-murmured apologies, unable to look anyone in the eye. When she's well enough to get out of bed, the sombreness hangs off her like an old friend.
Days are spent bundled beneath blankets and wrapped in layers, trying to fight off a kind of cold that won't seem to melt from her bones. Not even Merry's warm fur can help fight the ice. Her limbs feel stiff and heavy— the joints filled with frozen glass. She doesn't complain, she doesn't say much.
The fire is low for the night, but it's still burning. The cabin is still, and the threads at her fingers are beginning to wane. Grief is a suffocating thing, and a painful reminder of the price of surviving. She can still smell medicinal herbs when she concentrates on it hard enough.
She didn't get to say goodbye.
(Did he write a note? Who would have been there to read it? Anyone that cared? God forbid Mr Hickey would get his hands on such a thing.)
Kate didn't write a note either. No one will get to say goodbye to her, either.
There's movement, but she doesn't turn around. She's used to the sounds of the two Lieutenants by now, all those nights Tim would sneak in her room and she'd wait and listen for their noises. Lieutenant Little's footfalls are heavier, a little slower. She realises with a slow inhale: Lieutenant Irving. ]
I just wanted to stay by the fire a little longer.