i have given my confession to the snow } ＯＰＥＮ.

[extramuralise]

Who: John Irving (extramuralise) + OPEN!
What: Irving returns from Silverpoint, Bible study / seminary homeschooling, & various other occurrences.
When: throughout July (& possibly onward)
Where: Silverpoint, Milton & surrounding areas
Content Warnings: repression, religion, repentance etc... you know, the usual; will update as needed!

( closed & open starters! feel free to PM or plurk me @ reggiemantle for plotting, or just wildcard me something, babbyyyyyy! )

Comments

✰ men will cry unto the mountains⸻⨟ Ｏ Ｐ Ｅ Ｎ.

[extramuralise]

► TAKE ME TO CHURCH;


[ Since returning from Silverpoint — and not counting the handful of subsequent visits he's paid there and back — Irving has felt newly motivated towards working to restore Milton's humble church back to some semblance of its (presumably) former glory so that the town's small, yet strongly spirited, demographic of congregants may finally have a place here that can actually feel worthy of their ever steadfast devotions. They have been making do well enough (and for long enough) so far, yes, but the building was already in a rather moderate-to-severe state of abandonment and disrepair when first any Interlopers had even begun setting foot within the town of Milton's boundaries, and after so many years enduring so much extreme battering from the elements, its condition has only been growing poorer and poorer.

Thankfully it has not yet fallen into complete dilapidated ruin, but how much longer can it truly remain standing without something being done? And don't God's faithful deserve a place of worship without broken windows and rotting, splintered wood, besides? Pews that have not become so irreparably buckled from all the damp and under the considerable weight of ice and snow that they are comfortable to sit upon, or a roof that does not leak, walls that can adequately keep the cold from always leeching in, even prayer books and hymnals whose pages are neither permanently warped nor discolored from years of dust, dirt, and mildew.

It'll take some time and quite a lot of work, of course, but Irving feels like this is something that may well be within his reach both to organize and then eventually manage to completion.

First things first: beginning with whatever simple chores and tasks he can most likely accomplish on his own without much need for additional help, which means spending many days within the church cleaning windows, sweeping up piles of dust, leaf litter, and broken glass, scrubbing floors, and painstakingly scouring off mold and dirt that has caked onto statues or else polishing badly tarnished articles of virtu made of bronze, iron, or occasionally even silver— meticulous and seemingly never-ending, mostly thankless work, but Irving goes about it methodically almost every day he's there, knowing that any actual repairs or reconstruction that surely lie ahead will most certainly be the hardest part... but he'll cross that bridge whenever he finally comes to it.

Some days, however, are far more restful; days when Irving will merely sit inside the church and read from any number of different volumes on theology, religious history, and plenty other seminary-essential or adjacent subjects, or else hum quietly to himself while taking notes in his typical preparations for the weekend's upcoming Bible Study, or perhaps even content himself by simply reading a novel or writing a letter for the duration of an afternoon ... in other words, while he might be spending an upward average of 15-20 hours per week these days working at or inside the church, many of those hours and days are not always accounted for with work, necessarily— because agenda or no agenda, Irving simply likes spending time there whensoever he is able to spare it. ]

[tedandroses]

[ooc: lmk if you’d prefer brackets!]

July (it took Teddy a while to determine the date, but now that they have they’re determined to keep track of if) hasn’t exactly been uneventful. For better or worse, or maybe just both at the same time. Nothing since arriving here has; obviously just getting used to living off the grid is a change, but that at least isn’t entirely foreign. Everything else…the weird fogs, the aggressive animals, The …Darkwalker? occasionally dropping in to make Teddy feel briefly insane before they’d figured out that wasn’t just them (if it can kill people why bother being vaguely insulting and creepy, though?). Those are the things that make the other shoe feel about to drop.

But you can’t be on alert every second, and the truth is that it really doesn’t take Teddy long to get impatient with things that just keep her alive. If nothing else, she could be helping other people. Or entertaining someone — hm, she should see if the musicians around want to do something - or learning —

And if the memories dredged up early in the month have made Teddy a little guiltily aware that wanting to help people has to come with actually acting on it… Well, nothing wrong with that.

They’re considering all this, taking an unhurried walk to try and get a better feel for where everything is in the town, when they spot — first, the church, but more unexpectedly when looking at a clearly dilapidated building, a man bringing a bin of detritus and dust out.

“Oh—“ Teddy startles, stepping out of the way. “Sorry. I was just — taking a look. I’m…pretty new.” Probably evident. “Do you work here?”

[extramuralise]

It's not an uncommon feeling around these parts: that sickening sword of Damocles atmosphere, the sense that at any moment the other shoe is indeed about to drop. This place brings it out in spades every time yet more happens which is impossible to be prepared for, or even during the strange, placid stillness of all the recurrent lulls in between.

Irving, too, struggles often with trying to subdue his prey animal sense of night-constant hyper-alertness, which is an especially difficult condition to overcome or control when appearing in a world like this one not so terribly long after having just died violently in your own— coming off a Naval expedition already riddled with dangers, discomforts, and outright problems, not least of which had been the enormous polar bear spirit-creature which had stalked and hunted their crew for the entire duration of the time they'd been stranded.

And Irving, well, he has always been a natural worrier; one of those perpetually flustered, list-making sorts. The kind of man who feels most content from prayer, busywork, and mindless tasks like cleaning out old, abandoned churches.

Turning the bin over to empty it of dust and other natural debris, he startles a bit, too, mainly as he hadn't been expecting anyone to come by the church at this time of day, though he's hardly displeased by the development. Who can say how well-attended this church used to be back before Milton became a ghost town, but as of now there has only been a small handful of church-goers among the (also rather small) Interloper population.

Irving looks at Teddy, then glances back at the church with a tentative shake of his head.

"Nobody works here— not really, although I aim to change that soon. I'm just doing some tidying to make it a bit more habitable in there." There's a beat of silence as Irving regards Teddy again, before offering a polite smile. "Though you can still go ahead inside, if you like."

[brushoff]

[ It is very noticeable that despite the fact that the church ostensibly has someone living in it, someone who should work on upkeep, Dorian has been noticeably lax in a few of the areas. A big one is the windows: ever since that lovely little change from the Darkwalker, Dorian's been avoiding any and all sunlight. And if that means the windows are a bit more grimy? If it's a bit more dark and dank inside than it should be? Well, he's only one man, he doesn't have a ladder, he has plenty of excuses as to why he's been slacking off on the job.

Excuses that he doubts Irving will listen to, but his point stands.

The busy beaver nature of John Irving has inspired a bit in Dorian as well—though his focus has mostly been on the cellar space below the church. Considering that a few unsavory things have happened in that cellar space, best to clean it all up before the altar boy starts poking around.

One day, their cleaning schedules overlap: Dorian dragging a bucket of dirty water up the stairs, only to run into Irving working on some of the windows (how aggravating). He clears his throat, mostly to get the other man's attention, before asking, ]

No need to worry about the cellar. It's hardly spic and span but it's a cellar, that sort of room is never going to be perfectly clean. Have any use for dirty soap water, or shall I empty it outside?

[extramuralise]

[ If Irving has taken much notice yet of the various signs that someone might, indeed, be occupying the church full-time, he's been managing thus far to blissfully ignore them all in favor of focusing on the amount of work there is to do on it instead.

The idea is to unsettling to dwell upon, especially knowing that if anyone has taken residence here unbeknownst to him, then it couldn't be a man (or, he supposes, even a woman) of the cloth — Irving would surely know if any had finally arrived in Milton — nor would it seem to be anyone interested in maintaining the actual upkeep of the building — let alone improving it! — which, by process of elimination, makes the culprit most likely a squatter who has for some (most likely sacrilegious) reason chosen the to say in the church rather than one of the many empty houses that populate the town.

Suffice it to say that Irving finds the notion about as appealing as finding a family of raccoons living in his attic would be, if not even worse. So, yes: Dorian's appearance from the cellar downstairs comes as a bit of a surprise. It's the one part of the church Irving hasn't yet explored, although he's been telling himself to at least have a look to assess what level of disarray must be waiting down there.

He's currently on his hands and knees, scrubbing around the base of one of the stained glass features that run almost floor to ceiling. ]

Ah— [ He blinks, stunned briefly into speechlessness. ] Well, y-yes, I would assume that'd be the case... I'm sorry, I hadn't realized anyone was down there.

[ He frowns mildly, considering the pail of dirty water. ]

And you may as well just toss it— with how often it snows here, we thankfully shan't likely be facing any water shortages in the near future.

cw brief reference to gore!

[brushoff]

[ Fortunately for Irving, there's weirdly not that much disarray in the cellar. Unfortunately for Irving, that's because Dorian split a corpse's head open in the cellar to pull out the brain and give it to Kostya's weird space worm as a gift but look, Irving doesn't have to know about that, okay??? Nobody has to know about that. Dorian did a damn good job scrubbing the blood and viscera away and quickly burying that mutilated body in an unmarked grave, everything is fine. Everything is good. ]

There's more cleaner in the kitchen cabinet, [ Dorian muses. ] I'll grab that after I toss this—ah, don't go out the back. Obviously I'll try and toss the water not directly in front of the door, but I can only do so much.

[ Especially considering that, based on those scrawny little playboy arms, Dorian has zero muscle tone. He half carries, half drags the bucket to the back door of the church. As he opens the door, a blast of cold air shoots into the room. Dorian empties out the bucket, shivering slightly, before he loudly calls back, ]

Might as well scoop some more snow to melt for more water. No use getting cold twice.

[ He says 'getting cold' like it's the worst thing on earth. ]

[moralabsolutism]

[Rorschach's relationship with God is.....complicated to say the least. He's not an atheist by any means. Rather, he feels that God simply does not care about those who are under his watch, that he's become so far removed from humanity that he no longer observes as the innocent suffer, or feel any need to intervene to help them out.

Sometimes, he muses in his more philosophical moments, perhaps He made Rorschach the way he is because he needed someone physical on Earth to carry out the vengeance He once wrought Himself in the Bible, an avenging angel in the form of a man who had such a tender heart that he had no other course of action but to form a hard stone shell around it instead so that all the suffering he saw in his day-to-day life around him wouldn't overwhelm him completely.

In the time he's been in Milton, Rorschach has gone to the church on a number of occasions, though it had lessened after the massacre the Darkwalker had wrought occurred in there. Sometimes he wonders if the specters of those that have died haunt the place.

But today, he feels more contemplative than usual. He opens up the door about an hour before the sun would be going down if they weren't caught in this cycle of eternal sunlight. Ever the observant one, he notices that the place looks a little better than it has been, as if someone has been cleaning up around there. Interesting. He finds a pew that's less dilapidated than the others and takes a seat. He leans back, looking up, as if hoping somewhere in the semi-gloom of the roof he might find the answers he seeks.]

Am I on the right path?

[He thinks he's the only one in the area and so speaks with his Aurora Call power to the Almighty, that hoarse, deep, and gravelly voice projecting outwards.]

If You brought me here for a reason, I want to know what it is. To protect the innocent? To remove the wicked? To just make sure they all survive? If You've got a plan, I wouldn't mind knowing what it is.

[He pauses, sighing audibly.]

Why do I even ask? You've never answered before and never stopped me from what I've already done. Either You already approve or You just don't care.

[extramuralise]

[ Most relationships with God ultimately are, somehow, complicated at their core, which is something nobody ever actually warns you about upfront alongside the more sanitized, traditionally textbook fundamentals, therefore setting a dubious standard for the countless generations of ever-starving faithful who will go on to live out their entire lives desperately wanting and waiting for answers that will never come.

Some, like John Irving, even go so far as to compulsively forbid themselves against any efforts of overthinking the myriad paradoxes and contradictions inherent to their faith, as if to merely so much as question God's will would be almost as grand a sacrilege as to outright cast doubts upon Him. After all, the Lord works in ways both evident and unknowable for they, the most wise of all His humble Creations, and how could that not be according to His greater Plan for each and every one of them? Everything must, surely, still happen for a reason, and regardless of whether or not one has yet the clarity and fortitude needed first but to fathom it, it is simply not their place to question why.

Now, on this particular day, at this particularly moment, Irving happens to be out back behind the church taking his customary midday break to hastily gulp down a sandwich for strength and sustenance when suddenly, alarmingly, an unfamiliar voice seems to blare within his mind, asking (admittedly, for the most part, reasonable enough sounding) questions, but—

He gets up, rushing back inside through the back door. ]

Hello? ... Is someone there?

[moralabsolutism]

[Rorschach sits there, waiting to see if God will answer. He doesn't but someone else does. His head snaps sharply in the direction of the back door opening. Apparently, someone heard him talking with the Almighty. It's a touch embarrassing for someone who is as private as Rorschach is.

When he gets closer, Rorschach realizes he recognizes him. He's seen Irving before at bible study, though he's never talked with the man before. Rorschach never really contributes to the discussions. He just shows up, listening while hanging around at the back of the room like some feral cat, and then departs again. He's always silent as the ghost his mask makes him resemble, never saying a word.]

Someone is.

[The two words are said darkly and a little sardonic. He might as well own up to what he'd said. It's not like there's anyone else around he can blame it on.]

[astrogator]

[Lieutenant Tayrey has never been inside a church before. She doesn't truly understand what it is, beyond a name on a map and a run-down building that she has walked past far too often. She'd like to say that it's curiosity that finally leads her to step inside, but the truth is that the rain has begun to fall, unexpected and heavy. If she's reading the sky correctly, the downpour will be as brief as it is sudden. She'd rather not go about smelling of wet wool for the rest of the day, so she slips inside.

The layout fails to signify much to her. She notes the pews, the dais at the far end. Some manner of assembly hall? On the Prosperity they'd all had to crowd into the emptiest cargo bay if the captain wanted to address everyone at once, but buildings planetside have no such restrictions. She notices the fragments of colored glass swept into a pile, and sees that the offending window has been boarded up, and she begins to feel a certain unease. It isn't utterly deserted, then.

A moment later she spots him. Irving, standing behind some statue, scrubbing at it.

Tayrey takes a quick step backwards, immediately assuming she has intruded. Shipside, privacy is sacrosanct, and her perspective hasn't changed even now that she has a living space larger than a cupboard.]

My apologies! [Her words are hurried, but loud enough to echo through the space.] I didn't know that there was anyone... living here? [It's said with an upward lilt, a hint of doubt.]

[extramuralise]

[ Well, what are churches if not meant as sanctuaries for those who may find themselves in need, after all...? Or so should that remain ever their most essential function apart from primarily serving as a house of worship— ❛ Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me, for in You my soul takes refuge; in the shadow of Your wings I will take refuge, till the storms of destruction pass by...❜ sayeth Psalm 57:1, and any number of other similar passages which invite all to come shelter below God's roof so long as they might need to dwell there.

In theory, that is, if not necessarily always quite so in practice, but Irving himself certainly has no intention of turning anyone away even had he such the authority to actually do so— which, of course, he does not. Technically Tayrey has near to as much every same right as he does to be there regardless of her own personal reasoning for doing so, but Irving is no less startled by her sudden presence than if she actually had been in some way trespassing. ]

Oh— [ He jumps slightly, almost dropping the brush he's scrubbing with in an inelegantly clumsy fumble. ] O-oh... n-no, not at all, no apologies necessary, Miss.

[ He smiles at her with an awkward timidness, shaking his head. ]

I'm only doing what I can in order to help restore the place, but I couldn't live here. I... [ He looks around, equal parts assessing and also sheepish. ] I'm not so sure that it's even quite fit for being lived in, at the moment.

cw internalized fatphobia

[faa]

[ Freddie had been directed toward the church by a few different people when he'd asked about where one might go to present information—disseminating everything he learned in Level C SERE has been on his mind since he got here in between his moments of panic and exhaustion, but he's mostly been preoccupied with scavenging: for the toothpaste and floss he goes through so quickly, for glucose test strips and coin batteries to refresh his quickly dwindling supply, for food that won't cause his blood sugar to spike so terribly, because it's a cruel joke that the things that are the most shelf-stable—refined carbohydrates in various shapes—also tend to be the things someone like him should avoid at all costs.

But SERE-C has remained on his mind. How would it not? He uses what he learned daily; he sees the mistakes his instructors warned him about in other people when they're out in the wild. He's not a certified instructor, which requires a level of last-man-standing survival proficiency and rugged endurance normal people could only dream of (and certainly someone like Freddie as he is now), but he has a good memory, and he's trained. He's been deployed three times, even if it was to deserts every time, and he knows more than a lot of these people.

He needs a place to teach, and there are only so many chairs to be had in the community center. It would be an ordeal and a half dragging in more from the various cabins around here, and then people would just have no chairs until the class, which will no doubt last at least a month, concluded. And then they'd have to put away the chairs and set them back up every single day so that the community center could be used for its original purposes, and that would get tedious and inconvenient fast.

But a church. It's a place designed to hold people while they listen to one man speak, it should have a small stage for a choir that he can demonstrate on, and there's a flat meadow beside it where students can go out to practice. It would be perfect, and, in Freddie's humble opinion, a much better use of the building than its original one.

The man who seems to have taken over renovating the church is none other than the Lieutenant Irving who led him to the community center, and from that alone Freddie knows him to be a kind man. He's a Christian, no doubt; given that he's a mid-1800s Englishman that's more-or-less a given—but at least he's no doubt Anglican, ironically more similar to his own background than the Southern Baptists and snake-handling Pentecostals with their ankle-length skirts and butt-length hair he had to deal with encountering in Louisiana. This guy, at least, doesn't literally believe the devil is going to come out of the ground in the form of a snake and tempt him, which is more than could be said for a lot of the people Freddie knew almost two hundred years after his time.

So, while the fact that he's religious isn't ideal, it could be much worse. It's not enough for Freddie to immediately dislike him like it would be were he from some other, more fundamentalist American sect.

He knocks on the door of the church before he opens it, even though he knows that's exactly what people who run churches don't want you to do because they want you to feel like everyone is welcome in the house of God at all times. The doors are no doubt only closed to keep out the cold, but still, it's hard to overcome the urge to at least warn whoever's in there that the doors are about to swing open.

Freddie steps in and does see Irving; he's at work trying to swat down some cobwebs from the rafters with a broom held by the very end of its stick. Good thing he gave that heads up. ]

Lieutenant. Sorry if I'm interrupting.

[ Even if they're no longer in their respective services, that's the shared context between them: Lieutenant Irving of Her Majesty's Royal Navy and Major Lavoie of the United States Air Force. He's dressed the part, too: though he wears the heavy wool overcoat he found with Maelle shortly after his arrival here, half because it does a good job hiding the unflattering contours of his body, he's done his hair before coming, made sure he looks respectable. He also got and still gets the feeling that Lieutenant Irving is gay, and he is both attractive and slimmer than him, and he is not going to swan dive into the role of fat and gross that seems so easy for that demographic to pin him in around this man by coming in disheveled. ]

I wanted to ask you about potentially using the space for a community project. I uh, I found this while I was scrounging and thought I'd bring it over while I was here in case you had a use for it.

[ He holds out his find after approaching: a half-empty bottle of Murphy's Oil Soap with a peeling label, and some rags to put it on. The pews look like they could use it, at the very least. ]

[extramuralise]

[ The precautionary knock is indeed very much appreciated, because it's just now spared Irving the indignity of being startled into stumbling atop — or altogether toppling off of — the chair he's been balancing upon in order to reach many of the church's higher recesses of which there are certainly plenty.

He lowers the broom in a wide, careful arc so as not to drop any dust or cobwebs straight down upon him, then turns his attention to the doors. ]

Ah, Major Lavoie!

[ Truthfully, there have been a good many days, and particularly as of late, in which Irving has not missed the Navy at all; frankly, even before his end had finally come, even before he'd so much as been hired aboard the Franklin Expedition, it had been rather a fraught and troubled relationship for quite some time already. Still, lieutenant does remain among the most comfortable forms of address for him, and of course Irving would never think to disrespect another serviceman by not referring to him ("they") by his ("their") own proper title— he only hopes he hasn't gotten it wrong, as he's far less familiar with American military hierarchies, never mind their so-called Air Force.

Irving steps down off the chair and, despite his prior cautions, still brushes off any dirt or dust that may have landed on his shoulders before approaching with the timidly pleased smile of someone who is glad for either an excuse for a break, or for the company— or in this case, most likely both. ]

No trouble at all, [ he goes on, in that ever-favored insistently polite British manner: clipped and efficient, yet soberly earnest. ] What is it that you— oh, what's this?

[ Irving's gaze drops down to the bottle Freddie proffers to him. Intrigued, he inspects the bottle carefully, both because the product is unfamiliar, and because he's still unaccustomed to handling bottles not made of glass or metal of some kind.

The words wood cleaner are clear enough, however: he beams at Freddie gratefully. While normally he might be mildly skeptical of such a product, he can use all the help he can get with cleaning that damn wood. ]

M-my goodness, this is very generous. You have my thanks.

[ He clasps Freddie's hand and quickly shakes it in gratitude, before then gesturing for Freddie to sit, if he'd like, in one of the cleaner pews. ]

Now, please— go on, what sort of project have you in mind?

[faa]

[ Lieutenant Irving smiles, and it’s a reward well worth the trouble of finding something to bring to him—it takes over his whole face, wiping away its usual seriousness and brightening his blue eyes. Even with a beard, he has an attractive smile, one that radiates warmth and makes Freddie smile right back at him, involuntary, as he lowers himself onto one of the pews less in need of the stuff. It’s also not bad hearing Major Lavoie again, especially from someone who understands the significance, even coming from a very different time (and branch of service). ]

Well, I’m glad it’s gone to a good home. I was thinking about teaching a course here in Milton. To be a pilot I had to go through some pretty intense survival training in case my plane ever went down. Things like finding food, shelter, water, warmth. Treating injuries.

[ Beat. He’s heard about the Forest Talkers. ]

Escaping capture and resisting interrogation. I’m not certified as an instructor, but… I think a lot of it would be useful to the people here. The problem is that I need somewhere to teach it, if you catch my drift. Somewhere with a lot of seating.

[ He nods to their environs. ]

I'd be happy to help you with cleaning the place up.

⸻❝ they'll pray to die, but cannot win ❞ } for EDWARD LITTLE.

[extramuralise]

( The enclosed bundle of letters have been written by John Irving, to Edward Little, while the latter (Edward Little) has been away and living apart from the cottage which has become their shared homestead— throughout the months of May & June, many of which were written while the former (John Irving) was away himself visiting the coast of Silverpoint. While these letters would ICly be dated I have chosen to forgo including dates here for the sake of simplifying timelines. )

► ❶

[extramuralise]

M Y DEAR FRIEND EDWARD,

It has been too long since last we've spoken, and so you must Forgive me these belated Missives — I would have written sooner had I thought you might be anxious to hear from me, or to hear of other news that has taken place in your Absence, though I feared it may do more harm than good when you would perhaps prefer to be left alone altogether at this time. Still I hope you will not cringe upon reading this, my dear Edward, as there is so much I've wished to tell you while I've been away in Silverpoint that I could not resist picking up the Pen and transcribing to you my Thoughts, fully knowing you may well discard many, if not all, of these letters unread, but such as the case may be. I shall be hopeful that you will forgive me this imposition nonetheless.

But please, before I continue, do not think that I bear you any grief or Judgement for having left us behind — if anyone can understand why you must have felt a need for Self-Seclusion then indeed, I'm afraid it would be I, although I maintain Every Faith you will return to us when you're ready.

As you know, I had been — or still continue to be — Myself quite Out Of Sorts since earlier this year, which I hope has not influenced your decision to take leave of our humble little Cabin. I fear you will have taken some offense to my behaviour, and for this I cannot blame you as I remember well my temperament at the time had been in unpleasant Disarray. I grew aloof and cold, or more distant, perhaps, and you will remember that I had drawn apart our twin beds and then left them apart for some time without explanation. I was greatly vexed by Turmoil and Melancholia at that time, much more so than I am now — by now I am learning to make my Peace with it. By no fault of your own I felt I could not be trusted, which I expect you can understand with far greater clarity now, however I would still never have wished such a grim Knowledge upon you. I have mostly overcome this Perturbment now, so you need not fear sleeping beside me. The beds remain joined again in anticipation of your eventual return.

I must confess that I still know very little about what has occurred between you and Miss Marsh to cause such upset, and I have not asked. I know Better than Many what kind of Man you are, Edward, and so I Refuse to hear One Word of Gossip spoken in my Presence. No, whatever the case may be, I should not hear a word about it except from you directly. From other men I might fear the worst, but I know you — you have become like far more than just a Brother to me; a Dear Friend whom I should not care to live without.

I am ever your Affectionate Friend,
—JOHN IRVING

► ❷

[extramuralise]

M Y DEAR FRIEND EDWARD,

I hope you are well and keeping your Health; I recall how poorly you had been before you left and I hope that your Condition has not since worsened now that I cannot be at your Bedside to care for you while you're ill. I suppose Miss Earp will be better equipped to nurse you back to Able Fitness again, and certainly easier on a Healthy man's eyes than my own boyish countenance (I fancy you laughing heartily at this image, as well you should; a Poor Man's Nurse I would make, indeed!) though for you I would undoubtedly dote like a Matron were you still in any need of such.

Considering your uncertain Condition I may not have recommended you make the long journey to the Coast regardless, and the Road that led us there was a trial indeed, littered with the many Frozen Bodies of those who came before; although now I'm here I regret that you cannot see it as I do. You must come once you're well again, Edward. I can see no other Land, nor Ships, when I look out across the Water, which I'm sure is very disappointing to Most — and understandably. It is Early in Summer yet but I do not think the View is likely to change much, when conditions must be about as clear right now as they'll ever be.

There is a Church here, and best yet, also a Reverend with a small Congregation. It makes me wonder what more might be done with the Milton Chapel to restore it back to some measure of its former Glory. I have begun studying on my own, and with Father Thomas's welcome guidance, so that I might learn to fashion myself into something akin to a Clergyman myself — though strictly in an unofficial capacity, of course — and work towards organizing efforts to restore the Church. Otherwise, the people of Milton have nowhere and no one, because while many of us do attend with varying degrees of regularity, the current state of the building does leave Much to be Desired.

Miss Marsh is doing well. As well as can reasonably be expected, that is. She has seemed to be in particularly subdued Spirits as of late, although I daresay that is quite understandable, nor terribly unlike her Typical Demeanor as it is. We have spoken some, but I do not expect her to confide in me as she would in yourself or Miss Earp. We two speak mainly of God, and while of course I am always most glad of it, in your absence I am especially aware of my Many Deficiencies when it comes to engaging a more intimate Discourse. For now, however, I believe I have helped to quell the worst of her concerns that you might never come home to us at all — I know you are unwell, but still I can think of nothing short of Elopement that might keep you apart from us For Ever.

Somehow I feel we are not at any immediate risk of that, although I suppose I should ask Father Thomas if I might legally Marry you once I've gone through all the approximate motions of Seminary Study; better that than for the two of you to carry on Living in Sin, if indeed that is what you have been doing while Away. I may jest, after all, but I make it a rule not to exaggerate.

As always, I am ever your Affectionate Friend,
—JOHN IRVING

► ❸

[extramuralise]

M Y DEAR EDWARD,

I remain as vexed and confused as I've ever been.

I know I should not trouble you with this; least of all you, Dear Friend, but my mind has been plagued with Thoughts the likes of which perhaps not even God can help me with. I feel greatly unbalanced in your absence and should like to once again see your face, that is all. Such feelings have been easily enough discarded while I've been Away, too, in Silverpoint, but already I find myself dreading the return to our lonely Cabin if you are not there. I miss you as friends and brothers do, and regret deeply my horrid feeling of Jealousy that you are gone from me, and Miss Marsh, recovering elsewhere whether in Solitude or in Company that is not mine ours.

I know it is Selfish of me. I know you and Miss Marsh have both been wounded in ways I cannot hope to understand, although I should gladly listen if you would only confide in me. I would gladly be of Service to you however you may need me — nothing would please me more. Were I currently in any position to insist upon it, then you must believe that I would.

I hope you do not take offense; there is no other purpose to this letter besides, I suppose, the Exorcism of whatever bile has thereof given forth from mind to paper. It is as I feared in Wintertime. To merely long for a person's company while apart is hardly itself Sinful, but when it is your bunkmate who has Gone, then it soon becomes both the first thing on one's mind after waking, as well as the last thing before one gives himself over sleep.

Perhaps it is good job you are away after all; I fear no Demons in your blood — only my own.

For the girl's sake, even more than my own, I will remain hopeful of your return. I have mentioned before how she and I are not in so close a confidence that I imagine she will come to me with what troubles her should she need the Audience, and I remember at her age having a great many troubles, myself, to mind. What's more, I am quite certain I have not the slightest notion of how to adequately advise a young girl on any matter in which a young girl should want or need for it, particularly not one of these more permissive libertarian generations.

I remain ever your Affectionate Friend,
—JOHN IRVING

⸻❝ when the firе comes down from heaven ❞ } for TIM DRAKE.

[extramuralise]

@PLOYBOY

I

t is very difficult to remain calm about being trapped inside a burning building, especially when it's a building you have absolutely no recollection of either visiting or entering. Irving shouldn't be here, so why is he?

The building is burning and no matter how long Irving runs for, he still hasn't manage to find any sign of an exit, nor does he seem to get any closer to the screaming children he can only — if he strains and knows what to listen for — just barely hear over the roar of flame and the splintering gunshot crackle-pops of collapsing wood exploding glass. The hallways lead only to more hallways and then more hallways still, every step bringing him no closer to anything but the fearful certainty that he will die here if he cannot find the staircase that would surely usher him straight down to the front door; he'll die like a rat in a trap, like the 76 men who perished while trapped within the burning maze of Carnivale tents that had so quickly turned from revelry into a nightmarish mass grave.

Finally he does find a staircase, almost blind with panic as he forces himself down it carefully in case the whole thing were to crumble to pieces below his feet, or if he were to simply trip down them and break his neck. Neither occur and he makes it down safely, only to immediately stumble over a body on the completely smoke-obscured floor and then sickeningly recognize that he's just collided with the dead weight of a corpse.

"God help us," he chokes out, wrapping his scarf around his nose and mouth as if to protect himself from both the smoke and the smell, that horribly unforgettable sour cooking flesh kind of smell, but no matter which direction he tries to move in there are still more bodies.

Through the smoke Irving can see the silhouette of a boy meticulously circulating himself throughout the room to inspect them all, perhaps even one by one, but he calls out to the first sign of life besides his own that he's seen so far: "What are you doing?! There's no time— we've got to get outside!"

cw death mention

[ployboy]

There's fire. A lot of fire. Which is great in a not-great way; but it does follow a pattern, and that's what Tim latches onto. There was his father dying and his father's body, and following that is a parade of funerals: Darla's, Dad's, Steph's; and in Tim's mind, all out of chronological order unless there's some need (and there never is, has been, so far) what follows Steph is fire.

(It secured life when life was unsteady, and is warm and comforting when everything else is cold around you-- until it turns and bites you like a dog that never knew your face and you're left there swearing up and down that you were companions through the betrayal-) Holy-- pause. Wait. Uh-uh. Oh. Oh. No. No, he really, really promises that he didn't mean to compare Steph to a dog, not like that, oh my god, he's not, like, he didn't mean it like, uhhhhhh For fuck's sake, anyway: fire. Fire bad. (But not all the way unpredictable.)

It's Milton House standing in the same layout and same damned state as Milton House of yesterday. Tim had hurried Kate out of the flames the first time; had detoured and dawdled a little too long because of ghosts. Then he'd returned and found Robin in a particular pose, on his knees and speaking to... Alfred? Alfred's ghost? is that what had happened back then-? And for one rare moment they had worked together and put aside the phantoms (the children, the backdrafts, the pains of fire) and Tim figures they'd done pretty damn well back then:

the powers the Interlopers are gifted all tell a story, and when someone is bent over with bone-wracking guilt they will always want to tell a story.

Anyway-- this is a story playing out, just as his was played out for Kate (and for Bruce). And it's not just guilt that tells stories. The dead do, too.

Tim isn't squeamish around the dead anymore. That shouldn't be okay.

But he doesn't mind it as much as he minds the way the smoke turns dark and darker still, and his throat is tasting the revolting taste of h u m a n as the fats and flesh are consumed in front of him. Tim Drake is bothered by the smoke because it means he has to get closer to the corpses, get his hands on them to turn them-- gently as he can, always gently (once upon a time he was called a very... gentle boy).... and he's bothered by that barking. When he turns his eyes to the source: another man, thinking he knows what's worth his time and what isn't, and Tim feels the guilt as well as the searing-white anguish of fire at his leg (it's a ghost, a projection, it's fine despite the way he clamps his teeth together to keep from howling) that compels him to explain

"I'm staying! I don't know if my brothers are dead!"

Fucking hell, that's gotta mean something!

cw also death mention / ptsd in general

[extramuralise]

Despite having some amount of sense by now of what this place can apparently be capable of, to Irving it still feels like anything but a story: in the flames he can just about see the familiar image of a revelry-turned-inferno, even hear a chorus of screaming overtake what had just before been joyful music overlapping boisterous chatter of all sorts, but then it all resolves back into a singular raging storm of smoke and fire and burning, burning, burning.

Feeling light-headed, it takes another moment for Irving to orient himself enough to relocate the boy through the rapidly thickening smoke, which, despite the broken windows, has been taking on opacity from the increasing lack of circulating oxygen.

Brothers, did Irving just hear him say? You mean to tell him there are people here with their brothers?!

"And so will we both if we don't leave here at once!" he manages, lowering his scarf briefly so that his voice might actually carry over the ambient noise of destruction. The boy sounds young; Irving can't just leave him behind. What kind of monster would do that? But making his way any closer to drag the boy back up to his feet requires first stumbling through a minefield of hidden bodies, and... well, he'd have to do that anyhow just to make his way to the door, wouldn't he, so he supposes that it's on the way.

cw past injury, and let's just make the death & ptsd a permanent label here

[ployboy]

It's all training. So Tim guesses he has that much to thank Bruce Wayne for, and it's a heavy burden to know just how much he really owes him. There's a box, neat and with its cardboard corners tucked into itself to keep its secrets from spilling out, way in the dark corner of Tim's mind. Tim turns away from the man, bullheaded when he shouldn't be, and he's met with fire. Fire caught on the sleeve on his jacket. It claws at him fast, but slowly- because it's all so slow compared to a bomb. To the flash of heat that gnawed at his back, his head. It's all of that that goes into the box.

Tim gasps.

You know, because being on fire hurts. The jacket on him is thin and he knows not to swat at the tongues of red and orange. In a fluid movement he's shed the jacket.

And there's no choice now, and, coughing, he hates it. Hates the relief of seeing the shadow of the man stumbling through thick smoke:

clumsy. needing help.

Another moment and with ash in his lungs he's moving deftly to get a hold of this other person. A wildcat of a young man, so in his element as the world strains to eat them all alive. There's barely a blink of a second where Tim's coughing subsides, and he can't not make use of it- "Door's this way!"

⸻❝ and thе blood shall fill the sea ❞ } for JAMES FITZJAMES.

[extramuralise]

@GILDEDLIFE

T

he Cannery in Silverpoint looms especially large and ominously after the unforgettable Goldner's tins disaster which had previously befallen those few who still remain here of the ill-fated Franklin Expedition, yet nonetheless has Irving still been finding himself increasingly — if not indeed also borderline compulsively — preoccupied by a persistent spiral of tirelessly repeating thoughts which have been threatening to drive him at least halfway towards distraction.

There have been many murmurings of gossip circulating throughout the village about how there apparently might still possibly be a reasonable cache of remaining edible stock somewhere within that now derelict maze of warehouses, hopefully all sitting pretty there amongst the thick layers of dust and filth and ruin of so many years past, surviving even now in a state of perfectly unspoiled preservation. (Hopefully.)

But just to think about what such a thing could mean for their humble community should it prove to be actually true, should the tins be not only retrievable but also undamaged with all their contents still edible— Irving's mathematical little mind spins thrillingly with so much anxious hope and potential. As wary as they've all become of eating anything from a tin can these days, surely they have to at least go and have a look, right? Just in case?

And so Irving goes to seek out Fitzjames, in order to validate if perhaps his Commander, too, might believe that this could indeed be a worthwhile endeavor, and then if he might also be willing to accompany Irving along for the task— because regardless of whether or not the Cannery does turn out to be a great boon upon their resources and supplies, it doesn't at all seem like a safe place to go venturing into alone.

[gildedlife]

James couldn't get out of Milton quickly enough.

A part of him feels guilty for it, as though leaving for Silverpoint is the same thing as running away or, worse, absconding from responsibilities. He feels like he should be doing something more, like he should be staying to assist with the next horrible thing that happens, but what could he really do by staying there? He can't stop these things from happening, and Silverpoint is their only lead in finding a way out of this place entirely. It's reasonable to make the journey, especially with Irving going back as well.

And so, James had made the trip once more, this time accompanying by a new friend; his newly adopted dog, Scout, travels with him, and makes the experience far more bearable. James has only had the malamute for a week or so, but she's already improved his mood a great deal, something which he'd desperately needed after the trauma of the last month.

He's managed to get a room at the Inn, and so that's where he and Scout are when Irving comes looking for him. James opens the door right away once he realizes who it is, offering a small smile and immediately stepping aside to let Irving in, as Scout watches curiously from the bed.

"Hello Lieutenant. All well?"

He seems alright, but still best to ask.

[extramuralise]

While Irving would, quite honestly, much rather live in Silverpoint full-time himself, sometimes, there remains a part of him, as well, which feels similarly guilty about harboring what feels like such a nigh-mutinous sentiment towards, if not the town of Milton itself, then the handful of people living there to whom his relocation would surely seem like a betrayal.

Is he just projecting? Well, yes... but maybe not entirely, either, because aren't certain people simply owed the loyalty of not being left behind? People whom Irving would feel as though he's betraying with desertion? Of course. And while his sense of responsibility towards those few may be almost entirely self-appointed, there are still people in Milton — almost the community as a whole, really — to whom he feels he owes some kind of debt of service towards, and so to leave would be to therefore callously abandon them to their fates in pursuit of greener pastures.

All the same, to Silverpoint he's gone once more, driven as he always is by a renewed — if, this time, somewhat trepidatious — sense of purpose.

"All well, sir," he affirms with a small smile of his own, grabbing the brim of his cap between two fingers to remove it as he steps inside. "May I presume that I'm not interrupting?"