The man he's watching doesn't do anything, barely moves, but it's that lack of a reaction that's more startling than anything. The stare. Edward stares back, mouth parted slightly, heart frozen in place.

He doesn't know if this is a true ghost, or the man himself. It could be either, this limping figure clinging to the side of an old home. He looks as though he could have crawled his way up from a grave (although there was no grave for him, Little knows. None of those men would have graves. And none of his own group, either.)

Edward swallows, and takes a slow step forwards against the relentless pounding of his own heart. If this is a ghost, will it fade away as he approaches? Is he more or less afraid of it staying with him?

"Do you know... who I am?"

God.... it's him. It's Thomas Jopson, here, alive (or whatever this state can be said to be, for all of them in this dreamscape of a town.) Little gives a soft gasp, finds himself moving forward, numb to begin with. His heart aches, but it feels faraway, as though happening to someone else.

He doesn't stop until he's right in front of the other man, and he's looking him over, eyes wide, mouth parted.

"Are you—..." the words fall away; of course he isn't all right. He looks like he'll keel over any moment, and it's a wonder he's able to move around at all.

"Do you need to sit down? There's— steps, just here." He looks back to the porch of the house, with a few wooden stairs leading up.

Though there's hardly much behind the push, given how weak the other man is, Edward steps back regardless, allowing himself to be kept away. His eyes widen, and he doesn't for a second have to reason why this man would have hostility towards him. Wouldn't want him near.

Of course. Though it breaks his heart all the same, and he dips his head, horror and shame pooling inwards as his eyes drop away from Jopson's face, those cold eyes.

"Please," he all but whispers, still half-wondering if this is a vengeful ghost; he can't help trembling slightly. But whether it is a spectre or truly the man himself... there's no difference. This is a ghost that has haunted him regardless, and always will, and he deserves no differently.

"Jopson, I am— I'm so sorry."

Hearing those sounds of exhaustion, Edward quickly looks up again, only to flinch at the way Jopson's looking at him, sounding — an anger that he's never witnessed from the reserved younger man in all these past few years of knowing and serving near him. Not even when everything around them crumbled, when so many of the men became like animals. He and Jopson were among the rare few who tried so hard to... stay the same.

"Why what?" he asks, voice strained.

He winces as though struck, at those words. But he doesn't move away, won't dare move away.

"I didn't want to leave you." His own words come out in a tremble, a rare display of emotion for Little as well, who had always kept such things swallowed down. "I tried. I tried. But the others — they wouldn't. They wouldn't... help me. They wanted to leave, they cast a vote while I slept, I—"

Never had he felt so helpless.

"We were going to come back for you. As soon as we made camp again."

...Were they? It had been the intention, even Le Vesconte said as much, but all of them knew the truth, didn't they? They were all sick, most could barely walk as it was. Did intention matter, anymore? Were they just hollow words, some last desperate way to try and be decent?

His head hangs again, the words returning. Over and over again, they've repeated themselves within him.

"I tried."

But it wasn't enough. He wasn't enough.

A fresh horror swells within him like a tidal wave, knocks everything inside of him askew. He feels sick from it.

Jopson had.... seen the boats leave? Pulled himself from his tent— No. The thought is too much to bear; Edward's eyes stay on the ground, brows knit, expression horrified. They had thought Jopson, like those other men in the tents, was so close to death that he wouldn't last much longer. And that was clearly true — but that he managed to find the strength to pull himself from his tent regardless.....

Edward had no idea. His guilt and shame make him ill, and he gives a soft sound as he shudders, only looking up again when he hears the other man cough. Even now, Jopson could die....

"I never wanted for you to suffer," he finally says, voice a tremour. "Any of you. I— I did the best I could." But even now, he's helpless. He can offer no comfort, no brave words, nothing. He is nothing. He betrayed his captain, and the men his captain so desperately wanted to protect. Gave everything left of himself away.

He's reaching a gloved hand out, slowly, tentatively touching the other man's shoulder.

"But please— let me help you now, Jopson. Please, you may die out here—"

This man does not owe him an ounce of mercy. Of kindness, compassion, forgiveness — no, Edward isn't seeking those things from Thomas Jopson. He isn't certain what he might be seeking, if anything at all. To see him is a shock to the system, and then to hear what Jopson's just told him... that he'd seen them leave, crawled from his tent.....

Little doesn't know what to do with it. With any of it. Certainly there are many things to be said, things he's had nightmares of, what he would ever say to this man if he sees him here. But in this moment, trembling, it's difficult to find those words. All he can voice is... pleading. Pleading for him to understand, that he never wanted them to suffer, to be left alone — Jopson, who'd expressed such disdain and horror of that very idea once, not long ago. The decision hadn't been.... easy, he'd resisted, fought it as much as he could; it had taken everything from Edward Little. He will never be the same, after what he'd done.

He wonders if Jopson also knows that the decision meant he betrayed the captain. That he had failed to save them both.

Edward expects Jopson to shove his hand away, to flinch from him, and so the touch is almost feather-soft, already preparing to remove itself. But the other man gives in, at least enough for this much — exhausted and sick, no doubt. Edward nods immediately, grateful for the opportunity to at least help him this way. Carefully, his fingers grasp his forearm and his other hand dares to press against Jopson's chest, as though trying to help keep him up that way as he starts shuffling towards the steps.

"Do you want to rest outside, or go in?"

Edward can feel the heaviness, the exhaustion, and worries that the other man's poor body may collapse any moment. How Thomas Jopson is even still walking around... is a wonder in itself, though he can waste no time, and gets right to work trying to help the other man up the steps and into the home.

It's a long, laborious process. Little moves painfully slowly, one leg at a time, bending to help the other man's legs make their way up the steps as much as he's able.

"We're almost there, just— a little more," he pants, holding on tightly, using a hand to shove open the door and then haul Thomas in.

His arms are practically around Thomas now as they make that last movement into the home, and then the other man's finding things to lean against, Edward feeling him pull away to seek support against furniture as he moves. The lieutenant still stays close, rushing forwards in case Jopson should begin to fall over.... but then he's collapsing onto the bed and Edward's leaning for a moment to catch his breath, before looking up at him. He might reach out to grasp the other man's shoulder to comfort him, offer support as his body lies draped and aching upon the bed, but he doesn't think Thomas would want him to.

His own guilt and shame stay burning within himself, his stomach a tight knot; he feels ill. But Jopson isn't yet secured, and Little hesitates, fretful.

"Are you.... warm enough?" A swallow. "Can I bring you more blankets? Anything? I— I'll bring you anything."

The fireplace — Edward's moving to quickly tend to it, reaching for a small log from a dwindling pile nearby, likely what belonged to the last resident of this place. It's not much left, and he'll make certain to bring Jopson more wood in the days to come. ....Even if that means leaving it at his doorstep. He'll keep checking in on him, however he's able.

But for this moment.... it's clear the other man wishes to be rid of him. Little bows his head, eyes dropping to the wooden floorboards. His mouth parts; there's so much still to say. Not now. Jopson needs to rest.

"I'm not far away." It's not entirely true; his own cabin is on the outskirts of town, but Edward will be coming back here many times, to quietly guard this home. He's afraid what Hickey might do if he learns Jopson is here, and so weakened.

"....—" He starts to say something, but falters, gives a nod instead, and turns to leave, gently closing the door behind himself. His heart is lodged in his throat, breathing strained. Every step walking away from the other man feels unbearably heavy, and surreal.

But then, of course, it isn't the first time Little has.