Thomas Jopson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lieutenantsteward) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2023-11-02 08:20 pm
lieutenantsteward) wrote in singillatim2023-11-02 08:20 pm
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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"Thank you," he coughs, turning his head to stare up at Crozier, finding him far from the man who had left him behind.
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He meets Jopson's gaunt stare with a sharp inhale.
He's alive.
"Thomas." His voice is watery as he pushes himself forward, sitting on his knees in front of his former steward. He doesn't take him into his arms, not yet, afraid that he's not quite real. He's hallucinated Thomas Jopson before. "Thomas, you're..."
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Thomas turns his attention back to the fire. "Alive, sir," he says coldly, as cold as the ice surrounding him in his final moments.
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"Alive," he repeats, "alive and...Thomas. Thomas, you must know, I found my way back to you. I was too late, but I tried."
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Back after he had abandoned him.
"Did your - expedition not fare well, sir? You look older; you must have survived."
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"No one fared well. Not a soul."
There's something not quite connecting here, two people having two different conversations. He makes a guess, one that he hopes bridges the gap between them. "The creature slaughtered Hickey. He was mad in the end, believed himself able to commune with the creature, control it like a shaman. I survived the last encounter, but only just. I don't know how long it took to recover -- weeks, perhaps more." He rubs at his wrist idly.
He'd wanted to search for them, but he'd been weak, and the men were scattered. He found small camps here and there, sometimes no more than just a tent or a lone body. They were everywhere and nowhere all at once. "Did they leave you, Thomas?"
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He had believed himself abandoned, but that question makes him shudder, shivering deep inside of his soul. It cuts deeper than any chill.
"Yes, sir," he answers, the ice in his voice cracked and broken, melting in the warmth of fire and truth.
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Clearly not. Clearly nothing had been said to this poor man. No wonder --
No wonder he'd been found on his belly, clad in underclothes, arm outstretched as though begging to not be left behind.
He'd wept when he found him, and he'll weep again now. Quickly his arms go around Jopson, holding him as tightly as he'll allow himself for a man still very much dying of scurvy and lead poisoning.
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"I am sorry, Captain," he mutters against him. Sorry for failing him, sorry for doubting him, sorry for all of the thoughts he had and misplaced anger. There aren't enough apologies in the world to encompass the regret that sits in his chest.
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"None of that." A gentle, encouraging pat guides Thomas' head to the soft furs of his shoulder, out of the way of his tears lest the salt bothers his open wounds. "I've got you now. I've got you."
What a terrible reason for a reunion, but there's the slightest spark of joy in his chest to see life in Jopson once more. So many of their deaths had been upsetting, but Jopson's had destroyed him.
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And only then does he take Crozier's wrist, brushing his thumb across it. "What happened, sir?"
Hickey defeated by the very beast he followed. Crozier captured. Then what?
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"Hickey had myself and a few others chained to a gig. He had us haul him on that damned sledge until we met tuunbaq, and then it devoured the men one-by-one."
He looks down at his mangled wrist. Silna did what she could, but it was still an amputation.
"I just barely survived the encounter, chain swallowed in the gullet of the then-dead beast. Lady Silence found me, and freed me."
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"He's a madman," he mutters to himself, just loud enough for Crozier to hear, of course.
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"True enough." His belief that he could control the creature was incredibly stupid.
"Are you warm enough?"
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"I have some food from the feast. Can you eat?"
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He stares into the fire, mesmerized by the flames.
"They're beautiful in their own way," he mutters. "Strange how much beauty I had almost forgotten. In the fire. In the trees."
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"Even in the snow. When it's settled on the ground it's quite beautiful. It almost glows."
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"Why are we here, Captain?"
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"I don't know," he says softly, moving closer towards the fire. He holds his hand and wrist out, twisting them so they're blanketed in the heat. "We might be dead and not know it."
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Whatever brought him here had healed him, if only enough to live.
"But does it matter if we are?"
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Crozier offers Jopson some water.
"You'll stay here tonight," he tells him firmly.
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The water is taken with a nod of thanks.
"Tomorrow will be better."
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