singillatim | There's a certain Slant of light

Entry tags:

There's a certain Slant of light

Who: Jopson and OTA
What: Just being a sad scurvyed, lead poisoned cold boy
When: Arrival and after
Where: Outside of town, then around! Never too far from center.

Content Warnings: illness and disease, talk of death, more TBD

[I. Arrival - Closed to Crozier]

Jopson pushes himself up from the snow, a feat that already has him worried. If this is indeed heaven, then God's picked a poor place. If this is hell, well, Jopson almost yeans for the warmth of hellfire. He tucks his forelock behind his ear, touching the hair that’s gotten far too long, taking stock of himself. Shoes. Trousers. Feet that aren’t frozen yet. Fingers that work and only hurt when they move. A coat -

- he’d been wearing this coat when he was promoted. When things didn’t seem so bleak. This rifle, pointed right at Hickey. And the kit in an inside pocket?

The devil has a terrible sense of humor.

So.

He walks.

Only when the woods clear does he see the town in the evidence of small fires and smoke that billows up in around dilapidated buildings. His feet give out long before the first house is within reach, but he uses the rifle to keep himself up.

He calls out with the last bit of strength remaining in his skeleton where each bone strikes the other.

[II. Should You Really Be Outside? - OTA]

He can walk. It’s a miracle in itself, considering the last memories he has before coming here are of dragging himself across frozen rocks and ice and everything falling apart around him. It's the feast in the hall, it's the clatter of plates and cups and silverware. It's the feeling, the unending, yearning maw of guilt and horror and grief and loss all over again. It weighs on him, even here.

He takes several breaks as he tries to map out the place. He should be resting, he knows he should be, but it feels good to be upright, to have a view that isn’t the inside of the tent.

He leans against the walls of homes, of stores, and catches his breath in the sunshine. As it starts to get dark, he’ll return from where he came - a structure of four walls that had once been someone’s home.

[III. This is a Good Idea - OTA]

Of course, once Jopson’s mostly back on his feet, the first thing he needs to do is make himself presentable. There’s no reason to be sloppy. Not here. Not when he can move about, when everything doesn’t seem bleak.

There’s a house he’s found but is loath to claim as his own. It feels wrong, somehow. But still, that’s where his belongings, meager as they are, rest. That’s where his fire sits. That’s where he boils his water. And that’s where the filthy mirror is.

After cleaning it, he walks outside of his house, scissors in his hand, catching what light he can while he can. The beard is more difficult, considering the quality of knives he’s seen around, but he can at least trim his hair. The back is more difficult and he tries to turn a bit to do it himself, but it’s proving quite ineffective.

It also doesn’t help that he’s still recovering. Shaky hands and coughing fits do not a clean trim make.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Last month, she had told Edward Little that it was entirely possible that more of his men might find themselves in this place. It's all like something outta science-fiction, so like... who knows, really? But whatever happened, there had been the promise that if any of them did come here, now knowing of the scurvy and the poisonings — she would do whatever she could to help.

So when the Lieutenant had come to ask her fairly urgently to seek out one of them who'd recently arrived, there was really nothing more to be said. The bottle of rosehip syrup is carefully tucked into her satchel as she heads out looking for the man — a name and a general description in mind.

Eventually, she does come across said man, in the midst of trying very hard to cut his hair in the dim daylight — looking far worse than Lieutenant Little, Mr Goodsir or... with an internal grimace: yeah, even Mr Hickey. It's hard to hide the worry, she was never all that good at lying — no even with facial expressions.

"Excuse me, Mr... Jopson?" she raises a hand in greeting, a tiny smile at her lips. "Sorry to bother you. I'm Kate Marsh. Lieutenant Little sent me?"

The mention of Little's name doesn't seem to register on Jopson's face as he turns to regard her politely. Never let anyone know, he tells himself. Steel his face and his mind and his body. That's the way the steward survives.

He inclines his head, a small bow of acknowledgment.

"Miss Marsh. Is there something I can do for you?"

And indeed he sets the scissors aside, ready tontry and attend to whatever she requires.

Huh. That's interesting. Maybe... maybe they don't know one another...?

"Actually, it's more— well, something I can do for you." There's a little hesitation, as if trying to go about the gentlest way of explaining it. For a brief moment, she looks apologetic, then fretful. "I'm... I know about the situation, your situation. About the Scurvy in the Expedition, and the problems with the canned food."

She turns to retrieve something from her satchel and pulls out a large glass bottle filled with an orange-red liquid. Rosehip syrup.

"I promised I would help, if— if more of you came. I made it myself." she holds it out to him. "Please, it's a gift."

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II. Should You Really Be Outside?

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I. Arrival.

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