singillatim | — the dove, she promised land, as she laid the branch right into my hand

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— the dove, she promised land, as she laid the branch right into my hand | OPEN.

Who: John Irving (

extramuralise) + OPEN!
What: Catch-all for various threads (event-adjacent or otherwise), and everything else in between!
When: Throughout March
Where: Milton & surrounding areas.
Content Warnings: Repression, religion, repentance etc... you know, the usual. Will update as needed!

( closed & open starters! feel free to PM / plurk me @

reggiemantle for plotting. )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Edited 2025-03-09 17:50 (UTC)

✧₊⁺ O P E N ✦｛ A DEAL OF MATCHLESS VALUE.

The month has been tense and unnerving, fraught with malfunctioning — or simply functioning — electronics that have no business working after having been abandoned for so long. Irving, of course, is both fascinated and frightened by this phenomena in equal measures, unable to decipher any meaning from it, yet certain it must be of some greater significance, somehow— a sign from above, even, if only they can puzzle out what it's telling them.

The radios, televisions, and cars capture most of his interest; the phones and computers are more complicated, inaccessible to him for all their arcane operations, but the radios he'll spend hours fiddling with sometimes, trying to locate any similar sound or message patterns to the ones he'd heard before, with Gibson.

Then, for the first time ever since he's been here, Irving experiences a dream alongside the Aurora, a dream of... food, of plenty, of hunger, thirst, and emptiness, though once he wakes he feels content, despite the unbearable dread that had accompanied the dreaming itself.

Again... what does it mean? Irving can't say. It certainly isn't a vision any more than the electronics randomly activating after all this time had been, but certainly, it must mean something. He just can't imagine what.

Still, he goes about his days following that dream a little bit lighter on his feet, the overhanging anxiety he's felt for so long about food — scarcity, rationing, supplies, nutrition, poison, all of it — seemingly abated for the first time in a long, long time, but he returns to what's more important: trying to get a useful signal from one of the radios, or maybe even getting one of the cars started...?

He has no idea, and it only takes looking at a single car engine to realize how out of his depth he'd be trying to figure this out himself. Still, it's impossible not to think of supply runs, or driving out to find help.

stay put,

Edited 2025-03-21 02:54 (UTC)

EMPTY STATEMENTS OF BONES AND MEAT. ｝✦ 𝓣AYREY

When Irving embarks, this time, on something akin to pursuit of the Bear, his aim is neither to fight nor hunt it— merely to seek, if possible, some sort of greater understanding. Certainly, he still does not venture out unprepared, bringing both his shotgun slung over shoulder and a spear gripped tightly within his shaking fist, but violence is not his aim so much as preventing what of it he can.

The Bear isn't to be fought, he's become increasingly convinced; it simply can't be hunted, isn't to be killed, at least not by them, at any rate. After all, they're the Interlopers, the ones who don't belong here, whereas the Bear has belonged here since time immemorial ... there is, perhaps, some greater lesson in all this that God would have them learn, but although Irving has his reasons to believe this could be the case, he still can't claim to have unpuzzled what exactly that lesson may be yet.

Mostly, he is just hoping he might be able to stop others from making a grave, perhaps even fatal, mistake.

Which brings him to now, running through the snow towards the sound of a struggle. Blood speckles the ground erratically, giving him something of a trail to follow, although thankfully not yet in any concerning amounts as far as he's able to see. From a distance, he sees a woman. He sees the Bear. He raises his shotgun to the sky to fire a warning shot, more to alert the woman to his presence than anything else, although if it manages to scare the Bear away as well, all the better.

Edited 2025-03-21 07:36 (UTC)

[ooc: this may be the oldest tag you ever get, but I just noticed that I never responded here and I feel awful - sorry! I am definitely up for still doing this with extreme backdating, but I fully understand if it has been too long, feel free to ignore if so <3]

[Tayrey isn't a hunter. Oh, she has killed people and animals both, and not thought twice about it, having developed the sort of callous pragmatism that comes when you see your first airlock execution at thirteen, but she doesn't have the instincts for it. She likes things swift and civilised, a blast of energy from a distance, clean hands.

What Tayrey does happen to be is a lieutenant without a ship, which is an especially useless sort of thing to be under normal circumstances, let alone being stuck planetside in primitive conditions that everyone else seems better at handling than her. It makes her want to prove her usefulness, to be something other than that spacer who has so much to learn.

This is why, when she saw The Bear, she saw opportunity. Everyone wants the creature dead. Who better than her to take the risk, to protect the damn colony, uninsured wasteland or not?

She's a good shot, and the temperature doesn't affect the reliability of her energy pistol. She hit the creature once, and again, right on target - but the result wasn't to kill the thing, but enrage it. Suddenly it's thundering down on her, and she's tumbling, and all she sees is white on brown on white, and then the hot red of her own blood beneath her fingers, the torn blue strips of her uniform sleeve. Staggering to her feet, she doesn't retreat but presses forward. Only a coward would let a scratch deter her, when the freezing air is already numbing the pain. She'll try again. She'll hit it through the eye, or-

The shotgun blast shatters her thoughts, and she turns toward the sound, sees the man, and starts hurrying towards him, leaving more drops of red on the snow behind her.]

Peace and prosperity! [Her greeting is hushed, urgent.] I'm going to kill that bear. If you're here to help, I'll be glad of it. If not, I'll advise you to stay well clear.' She doesn't explain why. Those claw-marks down her arm are all the reasoning needed.

𝓕ITZJAMES ✦｛ RECURRING THEMES THAT ARE TAKING ME DOWN.

A bad night's sleep, indeed; as it is, by now it already feels as though Irving hasn't properly slept through the night in months, although mostly it's just been very restless and fitful ever since that whole business with the finger-threads. He'll get up in the night and wander the cabin as quietly as he can manage, sometimes putting a kettle on, or else cleaning or reading quietly downstairs.

He (and by association, Little as well) hasn't been in any kind of direct danger from whatever has been stalking (killing?) slumbering Interlopers as of late thus far, if only because their sleeping arrangements typically involve two twin beds pushed together, 50s style, to form one big bed. Yet this, perhaps, plays no small part in Irving's recent sleep troubles, given the rather confusing and somewhat concerning nature of his odd ... connection with Little, so discovered by the gold-and-red "thread" which had been linking them only a couple months prior. As far as Irving still knows, no one else has mentioned possessing any similarly two-toned bonds... at least not to him, anyway.

(Not that he's been asking.)

Given this recent epidemic of sleeplessness, however, it seems prudent to maintain some degree of safety in numbers, so Fitzjames (among others in their company) has been invited to drop by their cabin should he happen to find himself awake and in want of a hot drink and some manner of engrossing — or at least distracting — conversation on any given night. Odds are that Irving will have already put the kettle on regardless, but he's loathe to wake up his own housemates to sit up with him if they're actually managing to get some rest.

Edited 2025-03-21 22:52 (UTC)

[Now that James has fully recovered, he isn't sleeping nearly as often as he used to be. When he does, it's not particularly restful; as is likely the case with many of the others from the expedition, reliving memories of their ordeal often awakens him at strange hours, and sometimes it's far easier to just get up for the day than it is to attempt falling back asleep.

It doesn't help when, one night, James wakes to realize there's something in the far corner of the room. It's soon gone, before he can get a look at it, and he writes it off as a combination of his poor night vision and the vestiges of a dream. Fortunately, however, that day he both overhears more details from other Interlopers and receives the invitation to stop by the lieutenants' houses, so when the creature returns the second night, James knows not to risk a third.

It isn't exceptionally late at night, but it is late enough that most would be sleeping by the time he knocks quietly on the door of the cabin. He thinks he can see the glow of the fireplace, so hopefully someone is already up, and he won't be disturbing anyone.]

[ The sound, though soft and unobtrusive, is momentarily startling in the cold night's silence, jarring Irving from his restless, sleep-deprived reverie. Though he isn't initially certain whether he imagined the noise or not, he still doesn't wait long to see if the knocks reoccur, because if anyone were currently standing on the other side of the door just now, then it likely wouldn't take too terribly long for them to freeze out there. ]

Ah, Commander Fitzjames! What a pleasant surprise. [ Having been prepared for much worse, Irving is glad to see him, greeting him with a smile. ] Please, do come in—

[ The cabin is quiet save for the warm, gentle crackling of the fire and the semi-distant white noise of a simmering kettle, although not even closing the door can fully block the harsh sounds of wind rattling at the walls and windowpanes, however quickly one gets used to that sort of thing around here.

Irving moves as though to take Fitzjames's coat, although then he falters mid-motion with uncertainty if Fitzjames even means to stay for long enough to need remove it. Maybe he's only dropped by to see if they're all still in one piece here, Irving, Little, and Miss Kate Marsh, although Irving hopes that Fitzjames might stay a bit longer at least to warm his bones, or even socialize. Insomnia gets a bit lonely, after all, but Irving is equally unwilling to wake anyone who isn't already up for purely his own selfish purposes. ]

Have a seat wherever you'd like, [ he continues awkwardly, gesturing to either the sofa or a vacant armchair. ] Are you well, sir? Can I get you anything?

[Ah, so someone is up, though James hadn't exactly expected it to be Irving; brooding late-ish at night is something he'd more expect from Edward. But it's certainly not a disappointment that it's Irving instead, and James returns the smile as he steps inside.

The awkward, half-finished gesture to take his coat earns an amused raise of James' eyebrows, but he doesn't otherwise call attention to it; James is still unsure himself of how to navigate the niceties and social expectations here, where everything is so less clear, and those of the expedition in particular so unsure of what from their time and place should still remain in effect.]

Thank you, lieutenant.

[It's to both the invitation inside and the offer to a place to sit, and he does shrug his coat off, the gesture more fluid once again as his old wounds have finally healed up. But he carries it with him to the sofa, neither sure where to put it or intending to making Irving handle it, and he might end up needing it anyway; even now, after months here, he still always finds himself cold.

He sinks as gracefully as possible onto the sofa, offering a nod at the question.]

I'm well as can be, considering.

[It's half a joke--are any of them really well in this place?--but also certainly meant to reassure. He's far better than he was before, despite everything else going on, which includes the reason for his visit.]

However, it seems I have been visited by the... Being, others have been describing. I presume that is the reason you're awake at this hour yourself?

[ It's true that Irving isn't typically (or rather, historically) much of a night owl in particular — shift rotas permitting, of course — but as of late he's been finding it increasingly difficult to remain in bed the whole night through, for reasons which have felt as uncertain as they've also been... somehow complicated.

Despite these recent sleeping troubles, though, Irving is, at the moment, feeling rather more manic than tired; that particular breed of high-strung, unfocused energy which can, ironically enough, result from being far more overtired than one might truly be capable of realizing while they're still too busy fussing with things that could have easily waited until morning.

But then, such is the nature of insomnia. Irving has spent some of sleepless nights on his knees scrubbing floors or washing already clean dishes until dawn, while others he might instead opt to reread entire books of the Bible until his eyes finally begin to itch from strain.

Why, compared to any of that, or even more, it's practically a privilege being able to welcome in a guest even at such an ungodly hour, and particularly a capital-G Guest like Fitzjames, who, as far as Irving is concerned, is always welcome here at their humble home.

All the better that his fatigue is helping to drown out the worst of his usual stress and anxiety to more of a dull, barely perceptible hum that merely simmers quietly beneath his skin. Rarely is he ever able to truly feel comfortable or at at ease around his superiors, especially those whom he admires, but tonight his nerves have quieted almost to the point of white noise. ]

I've... well, n-no, not exactly, [ he begins carefully, after a considerable pause. ] That is to say, not entirely— naturally I have also been hearing of many similar tales, myself, although I've personally yet to witness anything thusly untoward with my own two eyes.

[ But then, hadn't that also been more or less the case with him and the Tuunbaq, as well? So clearly, Irving's own two eyes need not really factor into the equation at all. ]

How... would you describe it, sir?

Edited 2025-04-25 01:15 (UTC)

[He should be glad to hear that Irving apparently hasn't been visited by the being, and he is, though that of course means that Irving is awake at this hour for other reasons. Insomnia is certainly nothing new to James, but he realizes he isn't completely sure whether or not it might be for Irving, or if there might be something specific that has prompted this bout of it.

He files the thought away for the moment, intending to circle back to it, but allows the question first.]

I've not seen it clearly myself.

[The darkness and haze of sleep have made it impossible to get a good look at the creature before it's gone. Still, he has certainly seen enough of it to have a basic description.]

But it appears human, save for that it appears to have been... Elongated. As though its limbs have continued to grow.

[It looks off, and wrong, and terribly unsettling to find in one's room, not that James will say such a thing. And as unpleasant as it is, it's still hardly the worst thing he's ever seen.]

You said that you have yet to see it; have the others?

[Have Edward or Kate had an issue, or has everyone in this cabin been safe from it so far?]

[ Fitzjames's description sends a chill through Irving's bones, his mind somehow managing to conjure up unbidden impressions of a frightful, hungry silhouette lurking in the darkness just beyond one's vision— images which should normally be well beyond what Irving's imagination is capable of visualizing, creatures only human-like that skulk about like oversized spiders upon long, spindly limbs.

Irving suppresses a shudder, wondering dimly how his mind could even paint such a picture based on such a brief, vague description. ]

No—

[ Irving says with what he very quickly realizes is a flimsy, misplaced certainty. ]

O-or... well, at least not that either of them has bothered mentioning to me as of yet, and I can't imagine why they would keep it secret if they had.

[ Then there's a beat as he briefly pauses to consider this. ]

I'm sure that if Lieutenant Little had seen it, I would be among the first to know— [ Since they do, after all, a share a bedroom, and in many ways also a bed, ] Although I suppose Miss Marsh may not so readily wish to confide in me these night terrors, as she and I haven't such the familiarity to allow it.

[It isn't an entirely reassuring answer, but it's good to know that Edward isn't dealing with this particular problem either. One less thing for any one of them to be contending with, the better.

But James is still slightly concerned with the lack of confidence about whether or not Kate's been seeing the creature, though he finds Irving's explanation for not knowing to be... Not odd, exactly, but perhaps unexpected. James had presumed Kate and Irving would be close, as Kate and Edward are, since they're all living together. But perhaps it's more of a situation where Kate and Edward are close, Edward and Irving are close, but Irving and Kate are still figuring out where they stand with each other.

It's a familiar situation--albeit one that's different in the nature of the relationships--to one that James has found himself in recently.]

I would hope she might've told Edward at least, and as the situation is serious he would have likely informed you in turn.

[Of course it's impossible to say for sure, but it does seem like Irving's probably right to assume that neither of the others have seen the being. And if no one in the cabin is being haunted by the creature, that only leads back to a previous question.]

If the being is not a current concern, what has you awake at this hour?

[ Actually, the question does make Irving wonder if he should head upstairs shortly just to check and make sure Little is still safe — because after all, if he's down here, then how can he know for certain one way or another? — but then he quickly tries tamping down on that concern again, at least for now, because . ]

I'm sure that she would have told Edward, yes, [ he confirms, after a slightly awkward momentary silence. ] though he'd be under no obligation to further share her confidences with me, such as it is... I'm happy enough to honour a young lady's privacy, so long as she has someone to share her troubles with.

[ Even if that 'someone' simply happened to, of course, be God, but Irving does know Kate just a bit better than that, at least, to also know she could still do a lot worse than having both God and Edward Little in her corner.

Kate and Irving, on the other hand, are significantly less close— not that he's particularly close with anyone, really.

And as for Fitzjames's question... ]

W-well, I— [ He clears his throat, face flushing slightly pinker. ] I-I suppose I've just... still been recovering from our ordeal with the— you know, I'm not even sure of quite what to call them; the invisible string lights, on our fingers? In any case, I found it very disorienting.

[James is expecting perhaps a little hesitation in answering--as many things that might be keeping someone up might be a bit personal--but Irving's response indicates that there might be something even deeper there, and his mention of the strings hints at several ways that could be.

Of course he can't help but be curious, even if it suddenly feels like a slightly dangerous subject to dig into considering his own recent experiences.]

Disorienting in what manner?

[James had found using and understanding the strings to be very intuitive, but perhaps Irving had found it less so, or was simply not very enthusiastic about dealing with magic in general. Or, of course, the issue could have been in what the strings revealed, something that James has far more experience with than he wants to think about.]

[ Ah, and there it is: the million dollar question, so to speak, which also happens to be one that is potentially dangerous enough to almost make Irving regret bringing it up at all.

Then again, what else have they to talk about at this late, late hour of an otherwise fitfully sleepless night... or very early morning, really? Fitzjames may be charming and a natural conversationalist, but Irving could not so easily — or frankly, even truthfully — be described as either one of those things, and can likely at best only hope not to thoroughly humiliate himself in the process of trying.

He clears his throat again, struggling to quite find the right words to answer with; ones which may still seem relatively innocuous rather than possibly, for all he knows, far more...

—Well, and that's just it: how can he possibly know what any of it might truly mean? ]

Er, well—

[ He looks down at his fingers, which fidget and pull at themselves uneasily. ]

Did you happen to hear of anyone who had been experiencing certain... well, I-I suppose you might call them blended colorations, while, at least to my own knowledge, the majority of our number had instead commonly shown only a singular color at a time per each of their fingers?

[ Is that perhaps both the stupidest and nerdiest possible way to pose that question...? Yes, well, probably, but Irving hopes it just doesn't sound like anything more than purely curiosity for curiosity's sake, a simple and straightforwardly academic interest because, if for no other particular reason, how many of them actually have compared their notes on the experience by now?

(And never mind, of course, that Irving is not traditionally any example of such an academic, being more numerically-inclined toward logical, answerable problems — good ol' mathematics, in other words — rather than the realms of those who much prefer seeking theoretically scientific explanations via theories and hypothesis.) ]

[As roundabout a way as Irving puts his question, it's still more than clear enough for James to understand what he's asking, although perhaps that's because he has his own experience with such a thing. Perhaps it's also the same reason that causes him to immediately assume Irving has his own experience with such, rather than this being a simple question of curiosity, though then again a question of curiosity likely wouldn't be weighing seemingly so heavily on one's mind.]

It seems to be uncommon, but yes. I have heard of such.

[And considering James has more than one of his own, he also knows they comes in multiple combinations. The big question he has, now, is which colors Irving's possible threads might be.

But he doesn't ask, as least not immediately, instead allowing them to continue dancing around the topic.]

But perhaps it should not be a surprise that some relationships are too complex to be neatly categorized.

AND SIGNS DO PULL, AND SOUNDS DO PUSH. ｝✦ 𝓛ITTLE

The twin beds have once again been pushed back together after a brief, trial separation while Interlopers still had so many intangible threads extending from their fingers like cobwebs, but no longer: order has nominally been restored.

Irving had, admittedly, been somewhat reluctant to rejoin the beds, although not through any fault on Little's part, but rather Irving's own fear of ... well, he still isn't quite sure what, exactly. Temptation, perhaps, or else something like it — not that he would have ever thought himself even capable, before the strange and confusing impact of the invisible string's emotional connections — but then, why should he ever feel temptation while lying in bed beside Edward Little?

And temptation for what?

Yet it clearly meant — clearly means — something of deeper significance, that vivid, red-veined gold that held him and Little tethered to one another, but the very notion of trying to examine his own thoughts and feelings any further for clarity immediately fills Irving with a frantic, bottomless fear that he refuses to understand.

The beds have, of course, been moved back together for practical reasons above all, to once more consolidate and distribute their body heat between themselves underneath the quilted blankets, and now also, apparently, for their own safety.

The sun hasn't yet begun to set in true earnest, slowly and steadily moving its way westward. Irving doesn't at all know what to expect once the sun finally goes down, but whatever shadowy figures may or may not be lurking at their periphery somehow seem insignificant compared to his own nebulous sense of a strong, lingering discomfort.

Honestly, the vibes in the cabin have just been seriously off in general, as of late...

Edited 2025-03-22 06:35 (UTC)

[ There was a dream. Edward could call it a nightmare, only the true nightmare is what he's living now in those hours since he woke.

He's been Changed, and the true horror of it all is that it isn't wholly a surprise. On some level he's been expecting this, though he couldn't have known the exact form it would take. And now, a few days after waking from that terrible dream and recovering from the initial sickness that took hold of him, he knows that it's even worse than he might have been capable of imagining.

For the sunlight itself makes him sick again — its presence, its warmth, its illumination. Every component of light feels like a drain to his body both physical and mental, and the night, by contrast, makes him... feel whole. Not only that, but stronger, brighter, more, similar to how his wolf form perceives the world. Senses wide-open, body fueled by the darkness, by the cold absence of sun.

He's become something other, something dark. It frightens him to his core, but there is something else to it all, something growing more and more, and it's the worst of all.

He's hungry. He's hungry for something he can't quite explain or comprehend — not any true food or drink but a sustenance of another category. Something... else, something deeper-down. He doesn't understand it just yet, but when he comes across someone with one of Enola's gifts, that hunger spreads through him like a second presence — not just housed in his belly but moving into every piece of him. Something in him needs to feed on something inside of other people.

He balks from this with a ferocity, this horrible thing, this awful hunger. He knows what men are capable of when hungry, and that has always been a fear tucked away beneath all of the layers of himself. It should not happen, not here; there is food. He is not starving. He's regained weight and muscle mass and fat over his time here; he is no longer a dying man.

Yet his body hungers as though he is, seeking something, needing it. He won't allow it to happen. So he keeps himself as maintained as possible, takes care not to be alone with Kate or John in any room of the household (both of them stir that hunger in him now), keeping up a distance from them in general as he desperately tries to hold onto the sun, believing that it might be what can save him, or some part of him. If he can keep to the light... refuse that darkness....

But it's difficult. It seems to go against every core part of him now. Edward stands in the bedroom where he's kept himself sequestered nearly all day, sitting down on one of those twin beds when he needs to (which is often, his body so weak, almost feverish in its burning fatigue). He reads to keep his mind busy; he folds clothing and rests, but he will not let himself sleep. He must stay awake, must keep to that sunlight, must sleep in the night, for if he can manage that, then he can keep his darkness locked inside as he slumbers. It won't be able to roam in the dark hours, strong and vital beneath the moon.

But he's so tired, eyes heavy beneath fluttering lids, complexion pallid as he stumbles across the wooden floorboards, feet heavy. He keeps the curtains mostly closed so that he doesn't lose himself completely to illness, but stubbornly insists on one being kept drawn open, casting a small cone of light into the room, of which he can step out and safely watch from some distance.

He moves from it now, fumbling towards one side of those conjoined beds, torso leaning over it as he breathes, thick and heavy, fists clenched into sheets. Today is one of his worse days. He shuts his eyes tight, mouth moving with soundless words, throat working itself as though on the verge of a dry heave. Don't, he mouths, and his heart squeezes itself in response to the horrible thing he's trying to refrain from. Don't give in. Don't shut out the light. Don't let it out of you.

It — that beast, that darkness, that hunger. No. Edward pants quietly as he stands there leaned over like that in a room with its faint, yearning window of light. Alone for now, and it would be better if it remained that way. ]

[ And yet, with rumors circulating about certain unknown Night Terrors lurking about Milton as of late, now is especially not the time to be isolating oneself or sleeping alone... not that Irving can't sympathize, to some extent, with Little's plight, because he too has been having trouble sleeping, himself, staying up many nights restlessly attending to very similar busywork — cleaning floors, washing dishes, dusting shelves and countertops, clipping coupons, etc. and so on — as Little tries to occupy himself in the day.

And maybe, in his own tiredness, he doesn't notice Little's deteriorating condition quite as immediately as he might have otherwise, but he does notice the increasingly odd hours, then how more and more how Little seems to be having to literally drag himself through each day.

It's been... concerning, to say the least, yet Irving hasn't quite worked out how best yet to broach the subject.

It isn't yet dark, but he's already noticed Little stumbling back into their dark bedroom, all curtains drawn shut but for one slim, buttery glimpse of pale winter light. ]

Edward? [ he says softly, following his friend into the darkness. His own body, too, feels heavy with fatigue, but concern keeps him animated. ] Are you not feeling well?

[ The sound of his own name has him startling like he's been struck, body snapping to attention, head turning quickly as he tries to stand upright. It's too fast, too dizzying; he's nauseated, throat bobbing up and down, tongue thick. ]

John. I'm sorry, I— [ None of them are well. He can tell that in the other man's movements, his lethargy. Exhaustion is like a sickness.

But what is this sickness he feels? Is anyone else experiencing it? Surely not; surely this dark infection is his punishment alone, as he deserves... (Edward... it's not) ]

I do feel ill. [ It's not a lie, though it doesn't at all grasp the horrible scope of what compels him to turn to face the other man and then take steps back away from him, back towards that safe ribbon of light cast upon the wood. It's smaller now. His heart pounds. ]

I fear I might have something that could be.... dangerous to you, and Miss Kate. [ His head tips apologetically; his eyes are wide and wounded. ] You might keep distance from me, for your sake.

[ Irving draws back in faint alarm at Little's unexpectedly strong reaction to his presence, one hand flying up to his heart as if he were the stricken and startled one— a symptom, perhaps, of the obviously overtired feedback loop that has recently been at play within their cabin, mutual exhaustion fraying both their nerves raw and sensitive. He stumbles awkwardly on his feet, using his free hand to brace himself against the wall, but then knits his brows in disagreeable confusion. ]

Nonsense, [ he says immediately, barely missing a beat. ] If you're ill, then you'll need caring for until you're well again, otherwise you'll only succeed at making yourself worse.

[ And Edward Little is one of the very last people around whom Irving can ever imagine fearing for his own safety; if anything, Little's company brings Irving great contentment, which is rare feeling for him indeed.

Closing the distance between them, Irving reaches out to press his palm to Little's forehead like a mother checking if her child has a fever, though it's still difficult to tell for certain— the skin doesn't seem overly warm to him, but the clamminess of Irving's palms offsets any ability to be properly objective.

Sheepishly, he withdraws his hand quickly, as if burnt. ]

Let me help you.

[ Of course John is meeting Edward's warning with goodness, selflessness — unwilling to abandon him, to draw back from him, and in fact moving closer. Edward's taken aback by it and yet not at all surprised, somehow, because he knows his friend would seek to nurture him.

And he wants to let himself slip into that. He wants— closeness, warmth, help. He wants help with this; he's terrified. That fear runs deeper than fat, muscle, bone, down to the depths of himself where all of the things he's feared the most have scraped away at him, making him hollower and hollower over time. He doesn't want to be alone. The palm to his forehead is cool to the touch but a welcomed balm, and for a moment Edward's like a child, eyelids fluttering, heart wide open with trust.

But seconds into the touch, he feels it, a prickling awareness of something that he shouldn't be aware of, and he doesn't know how to identify it. He doesn't know that it's the "gift" his friend has recently been bestowed with, that what he hungers for is not flesh or blood but a sort of life force.

John's hand pulls quickly away and Edward's startling in the same moment with a sharp, alarmed hitch of breath. He's hungry. He's so hungry. He takes another step back, then another, until his back is against the nearest wall. His hands come up close to his mouth as though in attempt to block a taste, or smell. His mind is spinning with nausea and fear and something slick, like saliva pooling, like the lining of a belly aching to be filled. He's known hunger before, of course, but never like this. ]

John, I— [ His words are breathless, rushed. How can he possibly convey what's wrong with him? What is happening to him? ]

This is no... illness of this world. I had a dream— a nightmare. I have been... touched by something. [ He doesn't know how to explain. The darkness is like a living thing, affecting his senses, his thoughts, his— desires. ] ...Infiltrated by it. I—... There is something very wrong in me now, and I fear it might lead me to hurt you.

𝓖IBSON ✦｛ FALLEN FROM THE SKY WITH GRACE.

» backdated(-ish)

Even after all those so-called 'threads' seem to finally have gone, echoes of their bewildering impact still somehow reverberate within the surrounding atmosphere like an unpleasant, stale odor— like smoke that stings and chokes the air, or perhaps even a stubbornly persistent residual hangover; neither fully gone yet or forgotten.

Those connections, that is, but not all the fraught, confusing emotions accompanying them, and Irving has been having plenty of those, to be sure... certainly often enough and strongly enough that these conflicted feelings of tender affection dueling with repulsion and self-loathing might well have transmitted down the wire, something not at all so organized as morse code, but a muddled and turbulent emotional language unto itself.

So, yes, the hangover of that experience still lingers heavily upon Irving's shoulders, tormenting him with uncertainty. He could always chalk it up to outsider influence polluting his mind with strange new thoughts and feelings that don't belong to him, if he really wanted to, although deep down he knows better. Less deep down, he regrets ever tugging at a single one of those cursed "threads," and will readily grasp at any easier, more digestible explanations than accepting these emotions are indeed his own.

Edited 2025-04-01 23:27 (UTC)

[ It takes a while for him to find out.

Not that Billy didn't already get those strange sensations broadcast to him while the strings were still present. It's why he easily knew that those were emerging from someone else's mind, rather than his own. Hell, even if the strings weren't there, that sort of strange self-loathing is foreign enough to him as a person that he would have known it wasn't one of his own feelings. It was someone else's.

But when the strings were still present, he didn't want to tug on them too much to see whose feelings they were. He was nosy about it, yes, but tugging on the threads came with the risk of the other person also realizing what he was doing, and that's something Billy desperately wanted to avoid. He has a hard enough time sharing his thoughts and feelings with the people he's actually close to - and many of the strings belonged to people he would wish to share those with even less.

It meant a different sort of investigation. First going around the people he's close to, just to rule out they were the source of it. Acquaintances were more difficult, but just having an ear out around town leads to you knowing most of the gossip, knowing who might have a reason to feel such a way.

That all came up with nothing. And while Billy knew he hadn't investigated every single avenue of investigation, he knows that something about the feeling felt.. familiar, almost. Not on a personal level, but something about the mix of emotions feels like may not have felt them before, but seen them before. On someone's face, perhaps. In the way someone acts. That is the realization that led him to Irving, though the affection stood out in all of that, didn't quite fit in as easily. Frankly speaking - and very, very uncharitably thought, honestly - he didn't imagine Irving was even capable of that sort of feeling at all.

It makes him curious. What could possibly make John Irving feel that way? So affectionate one moment, then loathing himself the next? Logic would dictate there is one thing that could make Irving feel that way, but-- surely it wouldn't be that.

Or would it?

He doesn't actively seek out the other man. But there's inevitably a moment where their paths cross - it's a small village, after all. Maybe it's while they are at the feast together when the newcomers arrive, or just the moment they happen to be in a communal space at the same time. That's when Billy decides to just-- go for it, rather than keep turning these thoughts over to himself. ]

Mr. Irving.

[ His facial expression is very blank - hard to read anything off there. It stays that way too, regardless of how the other might be looking or reacting right now. ]

Can I have a word?

[ Hey, at least he's being polite about something that.. will likely turn out to be not so polite in a few moments. But still. ]

[ It doesn't occur to Irving for even a moment what it is that Gibson could want with him, and even less does he assume it must be about him, because well, whyever should it be? Their conversations, if and when they have them now, are — for obvious reasons — usually about Cornelius Hickey.

But considering their previous conversation, Irving cautiously allows himself to feel some faint thread of hope that perhaps Gibson has actually given more thought to what Irving was trying to tell him— that perhaps he's finally realized what a mistake he's made by throwing in so ardently with Hickey. It takes some people much longer to come to such revelations, after all, but that isn't what matters; all that matters is they come to them eventually, if at all.

Gibson may not have been ready to accept Irving's help before, but Irving can and will forgive him that gladly. Better late than never. ]

Mr. Gibson.

[ Irving bows his head and lifts his cap to politely return the greeting, his expression unsure but obliging, as if he assumes Gibson has something important to say; a teacher or a priest ready to counsel those who come looking for it. ]

Indeed, you may. How might I be of service to you this evening?

[ The other's reaction isn't too surprising to him - considering how often he has seen similar things on Irving in the past - but it also instantly makes him realize the other has no idea what he's about to hear here.

Then again, that's only logical, isn't it? Even though he could feel the emotions and thoughts of others over those threads, he tried very hard to not think about the fact that it meant other people could also feel his. John Irving seems like the type to do the same, though Billy loathes having to make that internal comparison between the two of them, finding a similarity like that. ]

I imagine this isn't about what you assume it to be about.

[ He'll give the other that warning in advance. At least that much. ]

I wanted to ask something about those strings from the other month. I imagine we were also connected by one.

[ Trust that if Irving did have any idea what Gibson is about to say...

Well, he certainly would not be voluntarily choosing to stay and listen to it, at the very least. As it is, one can already reasonably assume that almost anything Gibson could possibly have — let alone want — to either say or ask of Irving isn't likely to be anything Irving will actually be happy to hear or be asked, but God help him, he would still prefer to believe otherwise.

And even without the strings, his expression is, as ever, unschooled enough to more or less reflect how he's feeling: confused and wary, yet dimly hopeful, although the mention of those strings is enough to make it shutter somewhat with trepidation. ]

Well, I suppose it is always... possible we might have been, yes, [ he allows carefully, if somewhat evasively. ] Given how we know each other.

[ He pauses, then, as if perhaps that had, in fact, been the full extent of Gibson's question in itself, even though Irving knows better— even though he can't actually avoid this inevitably necessary follow-up short of simply walking away mid-conversation: ]

Now then, what exactly— [ He hesitates, visibly growing slightly tense. ] Er, well... th-that is, you say you had... something you wanted to ask me.

Yes.

[ Maybe it's easier to just be direct. It's clear Irving is being very evasive here - which isn't really a surprise, considering what he knows the other man to be like. There is absolutely no way that John Irving is going to be the man to ever bring up what Billy had felt in that moment. He might even have stowed the very thought of it away from himself, somewhere deep down.

So rather than keeping this going for an unnecessary amount of time, Billy decides to be direct for once. It's not really his forte on the outside, but-- well, it mostly just requires letting go of his filter, really. His thoughts are usually a lot more direct than his words, after all. ]

I felt a strange longing that was certainly not my own. One that was also quickly suppressed. Do you understand what I might be talking about?

[ Irving blinks a few times quickly as though he's suddenly struggling to grasp quite what he's looking at (although, spoiler warning, it's very much simply still William Gibson as its been this entire time), his mouth dropping open in mute shock not too unlike that of a gasping fish slowly suffocating upon dry land that Gibson, of all possible men, has even just dared to accuse Irving of—

Of... of yearning, of harboring a suppressed sort of longing of most nearly any kind, let alone the kind of which Gibson seems to be very meaningfully trying to imply.

Irving feels his heart begin to race fast enough that he can almost feel it in his throat, unable to do anything else but simply stand there, wide-eyed and speechless, while his hands anxiously fidget at his sides. ]

How... h-how dare you, [ he manages to stumble out just a bit too softly to convincingly evoke either confidence or authority, somehow both looking and sounding more fearful than angry. ] How dare you even suggest that I-I could somehow possibly ever so much as hope to understand a man like you, Mr Gibson— men like you, w-who...

[ He takes a step backward, with eyes as wide and round as saucers and hands now mildly trembling, though despite it all he somehow manages to continue holding wet, feverish eye contact without once breaking it to instead gaze shamefacedly downward. ]

The answer is no, Gibson. [ As if dropping the prefix for once might add more conviction to his words. ] N-no, absolutely not, and you ought know better than to even ask me such a thing.

[ Then, after falling briefly into a desperately fragile silence, he adds more quietly, almost beseechingly: ]

H-how could you even ask it of me, William?

[ It's strange. There was a time where this sort of thing would have inspired fear in him, yet now it's the other way around - in this place where there's no command or punishment to fear. Irving holds no power over him, and that combined with the intensity of the other's reaction makes it so easy to see the fear in it, despite the words themselves meaning to convey anger in any other tone.

And he just stands there as he watches it. Surprisingly still, like he's taking in the other man's reaction moreso than providing any of his own. Even the mention of men like him doesn't sting anymore, so far away from the world they have left behind.

Or when, in the light of this reaction, it might seem like there is more than one such man in this exact spot right now.

He doesn't soften in the light of the other's desperate near-plea, though something also seems to keep him from hardening to the point of anger in this moment - though it might have been the perfect opportunity to say words he has wanted to say before, to sharpen his tongue. Cornelius would have taken the opportunity, were he in his shoes, and he knows it. William Gibson himself isn't so sure though.

It's why there's a moment of quiet between them - he has to decide on what to say exactly here.

And when he does speak, he speaks slowly, as if he wants to make sure every single word reaches the other. ]

"Why do you behold the speck in your brother's eye, but consider not the beam that is in your own eye?" [ He may not be a fan of Bible study - and that's putting it lightly - but it's hard to escape picking up on at least some of the texts when you have to hear texts from the Bible often enough. ] Doesn't it say something like that?

[ He knows it's probably not fully accurate given the above - and of course John Irving would know - but he's still pretty sure he's close enough.. ]

What do you have to fear? Are you judging me in an attempt to absolve yourself of the same judgment, Mr. Irving? [ Both his tone and expression seem relatively calm, but that by itself does make it clear there's none of the usual nervous fidgeting there usually would have been in front of Irving - that there has been in the past, especially when he found them in the hold. He even holds the eye contact on his end as well.

A beat, and then he adds: ] That is why I am asking you as much.

[ The silence hangs there in between them heavy and thick, choking the air as though it had suddenly been drained of oxygen. Irving feels faintly dizzy, sinking fast into the airlessness like quicksand, though he manages — if barely, with no small amount of difficulty — to recover himself, lest his weakness show. His heart pounds in his ears like so many booming kettle drums beating out a song of war, the sweat prickling at his neck and temples.

In truth, Irving has never fully understood Gibson's animosity towards him, as if he alone were responsible for penning the laws, scriptures, and Articles against sodomy— certainly not, and hadn't he always tried to help the man, to shield and protect him even? Hadn't Gibson all but asked him for that help?

Well, perhaps always is rather a grand overstatement, but all the same, Irving had tried, had he not? He probably could have been reprimanded, even, if it had ever been discovered he had failed to report the indiscretion in the first place, but such transgressions had easily been the least of their expeditions concerns— a minor matter of morals and discipline in the face of, say, monster bear attacks, starvation, and keeping two ship's worth of crazed, desperate sailors from deciding to perhaps burn their Native passenger as a witch. ]

It would serve you well, Mr. Gibson, to remember that I have judged you quite a bit more kindly than the Crown would have— never mind the Word of God. I would have thought you'd be more grateful, in fact, rather than choosing now to accuse me of— o-of these... fraternal improprieties.

[ Regardless of any supposed moral high ground, it's a struggle to keep his voice sounding even, each word threatening to catch and tremble between leaving his throat and traveling past the barrier of his lips. Yet some part of him does, perhaps, understand the allegations Gibson's making all too clearly, and that he may even fail to beat them, ultimately, despite having yet acted upon nothing still. ]

... Now, I am myself, of course, no stranger to the various perils and temptations that may befall a man, during the course of his daily life— thoughts may at times turn toward the impure, or even the unnatural, but we still need not always condemn ourselves to the inevitability of the physical sin simply for harbouring the root of such actions in a moment of weakness. [ He exhales slowly, sharply. ] Do you understand what I am trying to tell you?

[ He is pretty sure that he knows what the other is trying to tell him here.

Though maybe it'd be better if he wasn't. It's not even like the words sound all that strange, coming out of the other's mouth. It's all exactly like something Irving would say. Maybe back in their world he wouldn't even have thought too much about it, especially with everything else there was to think about.

But in this place - and with the knowledge gained from conversing about these things with people who come from very different places - it sticks out more to him. John Irving is admitting that he has had these thoughts and feelings, just as Billy suspected during their emotional linking. But he is also claiming it's something that happens to all people sometimes, and--

Is it? It's hard to tell for him, given that it's all he has ever known, but other people in this place seem to say the opposite. Not to mention that he has seen some men talk or act about women in a way Billy could never imagine they could if they felt the same things he did. There's no way it's a truly universal experience.

But thinking too much about that, fully thinking about that--

His lips are tightly pressed together. He looks a little less hostile in this moment, and more like he's wrestling with something - wondering if this is a path he wants to go down, given how much of a mess his head feels when he only thinks about it. ]

You are admitting you have had those feelings. [ It's the only thing he can say right now - both as an answer to the other's question, but also in bewilderment as the realization that he was right - and all that comes with that - is dawning upon him. ]

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— the dove, she promised land, as she laid the branch right into my hand | OPEN.

✧ ＥＶＥＮＴ —

i. THE AURORA; TERTIARIUS — ＯＰＥＮ.

ii. THE HUNTED (PART TWO) — ＣＬＯＳＥＤ.

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iii. DON'T SLEEP — ＣＬＯＳＥＤ.

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iv. DON'T SLEEP / TIES THAT BIND — ＣＬＯＳＥＤ.

cw: cannibalism themes

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v. TIES THAT BIND — ＣＬＯＳＥＤ.

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AS ALWAYS IM SO SORRY FOR MY SLOWNESS pls know that i love this thread and also u so much ok...!!

it's okay i ended up being even slower this time....

(stares in horror at these latest timestamps) wanna bet 😭

no worries i am still here!!! always!!!!!

ftr i'm still game to continue but if it's FINALLY too old atp i completely understand lmao 😭

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