Here’s some sketches exploring one of my ideas for the creature from “The Terror” by Dan Simmons, and how I imagined it could work as a supernatural element while still able to be mistaken for a polar bear at a glance or in the distance.
Hello everyone in the terror community. I’m here to give you guys a heads up- a friend of mine (ladyprocrastinator) here on Tumblr has been scammed/hacked. She was told her account was mass reported and that the account would be deleted. It all looked official to her and she did what she was told until they asked for money. They now have her account and because she was decently active in the terror community she doesn’t want anyone else to be scammed with her account. So please beware. She is absolutely devastated. Do NOT tag the actual account as she’s trying to get it back with Tumblr. I’ll try to delete this post so it doesn’t clutter up the terror feed after this fiasco is over. Thank you and as we all know.
James Fitzjames
nothing to lose, 1.1k words x fem!reader (ao3 link)
"Well, I am not dying yet." 1.1k words x gn!reader (ao3 link)
Henry Foster Collins
divine intervention, 3.6k words x fem!reader (ao3 link)
death with dignity, 664 words x gn/male reader (ao3 link)
Francis Crozier
"Leave me. I cannot walk." 732 words x male!reader (ao3 link)
"You've something in your hair..." 2.4k words x fem!reader (ao3 link)
"You were the best thing that had ever happened to me..." 1k words x gn!reader (ao3 link)
Graham Gore
"Shh, you're safe. I will not let you go." 2k words x fem!reader (ao3 link)
"I do. I do love you." 3k words x spouse!reader (ao3 link)
Harry Goodsir
"What were you thinking?" 740 words x gn!reader (ao3 link)
"Don't move." 810 words x gn!reader (ao3 link)
do not waste yourself in this place. 5.9k words x mermaid!reader (ao3 link)
"It cannot get any worse." 1.5k words x gn!reader (ao3 link)
"There is too much blood." 1.6k words x gn!reader (ao3 link)
Cornelius Hickey
"Take my hand!" 918 words x gn!reader (ao3 link)
"Do you trust me?" 626 words x gn!reader (ao3 link)
John Irving
"it is not right... it is not... it is not right." 4.2k words x male!reader (ao3 link)
Henry Le Vesconte
no complaints, 9.1k words (ao3 link)
Edward Little
gone, gone, gone, 1.26k words x wife!reader (ao3 link)
shot in the dark, 5k words x fem!nurse!reader (ao3 link)
"It... It is only temporary. I will be back before you know it." 321 words x wife!reader (ao3 link)
"Oh, my love, it was only a dream." 805 words x gn!reader (ao3 link)
Solomon Tozer
wait for you, 742 words x gn!reader (ao3 link)
"Stay! Just stay there." 837 words x gn!reader (ao3 link)
"It has gotten under my skin." 1.5k words x gn!reader (ao3 link)
"How... how are you still standing?" 1.3k words x gn!reader (ao3 link)
"SERIES"
the view in between - also posted to their individual characters above.
Warnings: angst, suffering (come on it has to do with Francis you had to know this was coming), alcohol (should also be a given)
People don’t try to fall in love. Sure people wish for it, they fight for it, they find reasons to run from it. You didn’t wish for it, you didn’t fight for it- but you won’t run from it. The many flower petals covered in blood and tears in the sink are proof of that. Tears well in your eyes as you look to the mirror and can only see his reflection staring back at you. The slight gap between his teeth, his dimples when he smiles at a bad joke said by Blanky, his sandy colored hair speckled with white. You could almost hear his voice smooth and dangerously tempting like the whiskey he drinks. Never English whiskey, only Irish, only barrel aged and never out of anything other than a shot glass. Once-when this all started, you had thought that maybe there was the slightest possibility that if you talked to him things would change. If you confessed, the flowers in your lungs could turn into flowers in front of an apartment the two of you could share. A broken laugh bubbles up out of your throat as you fight back more tears and wipe the blood from your mouth with the backside of your hand. Your hands grip the edge of the sink as you grimace, the pain was getting worse seemingly every time you saw or talked to Francis. ‘No’ you thought, Francis hasn’t loved anyone since Sofia Carcroft.
Muttering under your breath you grab your keys and work bag before you lock the front door and go to catch the bus. Your empty flower beds mocking you from the front porch.
Walking into work that morning was rough to say the least, your usual smile that graced your face was strained ever so slightly. A few “Mornin’s” and “Hey’s” here and there. However everyone was too busy to notice after all Franklin Exports were known for their speed and resilience. Plus with Franklin’s passing numbers had been a mess, apparently he had been hiding multiple noteworthy issues within the company’s numbers and legal documents. Things he messed up no doubt, but now everyone else had to fix it. The whole ordeal is a Terror to the employees, especially with Lady Franklin breathing down everyone’s necks.
However it doesn’t take Francis long to spot your office light on, nor does it take him long to get to your office where he knocks while one hand holds a stack of weekly reports. Sliding the stack across your desk you expecting him to leave right away so you mumble a “Thank you Francis” while continuing to type away at your computer. What surprises you is that Francis sits down in the only other chair you’re allowed to have in your office, his eyes never leaving you. Turning to face him you stop typing and lean back only to pause and ask “Is there something else you need from me Francis?”
With arms crossed and eyes squinting as if staring straight into your soul he responds “There’s something wrong with you.”
Almost spitting out your coffee you sit down your mug and sputter “Excuse me wha-“
Summary: After a mission gone wrong, Reed struggles with your loss and tries to bring you back. Turns out, there are forces bigger than him that don’t like that. But they show him that, you and he are intertwined in many universes.
no complaints
— henry le vesconte x gn!reader oh, life had always been such a difficult subject for you. every waking moment bled into you like an aging blade, allowing no space for anything more. you were raised to be an officer. you were raised to be the best you could be. now, you can blame God and the weather all you want, and you can try to escape the truth, but just because you heal after every wound, it doesn't mean you are safe. there is no space meant for you here, and the arctic will make its opinion known, whether you wish for it or not. lieutenant le vesconte will never recover once he holds you for the last time.
word count: 9.1k words
a/n: reader is gn! BUT is heavily implied to be male (they are an officer for the erebus so it's up to you to use your imagination). basic terror trigger warnings such as illness, death, period-typical attitudes (such as homophobia), religious guilt, religious undertones, tuberculosis, prayer, angst, doomed narrative, etc. there are two instances of implied sexual content and while it is implied and written up to the point, there is no direct vocalization of it. remember that most of the religious commentary comes from me, an agnostic, who grew up in a southern baptist church. take from that what you will.
There were worse things in life that you and the men among the Erebus and Terror had been subjugated to throughout your lifetimes. Bouts of the tail end of scurvy, tuberculosis coming at you from every which way—people who wished you harm as you sailed through their hallowed lands (which, of course, you had been there once upon a time for Queen and Country).
You had been bitten far too many times but impropriety, rejected advances, and the reality that now, deep within the pack ice and far away from proper civilization, you would die alone amongst men who you had only known the moment you stepped on the ship for an officer’s posting. God must have damned you the moment you set foot on this dastardly thing, hoping for the worst possible outcome for you and the men alike.
You had not volunteered—not like they had You heard rumors of Captain Crozier’s reason for volunteering. You knew Fitzjames sought to make a name for himself. And with Sir John Franklin, anyone could easily tell why—his stent in governmental affairs was short lived and quite frankly, one of the biggest mistakes of his long career.
Many of them were good, decent men—perhaps a few made you question this, like that odd, skinny fellow on Terror, Hickey, who often looked at the others as they truly were, pawns in the game of life—but many you did not know. You could not name every face you have seen thus far, though your dreams at night were plagued with the faces of 124 men, not including yourself. They haunted you, much like the dreams of your family, so far away and safe at home (or you so hoped).
Some faces were unfamiliar. Others… you knew them quite well. Mr. Goodsir was kind, courteous, and had a penchant for learning—the woman, Lady Silence, had taught him several things over the last few days. Since the death of Sir Franklin, kindness was much needed. So was patience.
You knew Commander Fitzjames just as well as some of the other officers had, the pompous but astoundingly dedicated officer who was taking the Captain’s death rather hard. His closest officer, Lieutenant Le Vesconte—you knew his face far too well for comfort. He was oh-so-quiet with a penchant for simmering in the silence, lending an ear or a helping hand when it was required of him. He and Commander Fitzjames trusted each other far more than you realized. This trust between them was unbreakable, even so far on the ice, so far from saving. It was something that you, yourself, wished you had. It would have made the time out here far more bearable to know you had a friend out here, so far beyond civilization.
Your dreams often focused on him. A terrible thought, that was, knowing that your superior knew you quite well in your dreams. Every inch of your body, the way you would react to his calloused touch.
If only your dreams were proper—filled with things that you could discuss amongst the others without fear of lashing or at the worst, finding yourself on the cusp of a hanging (would they do that now, with so little men to continue on?).
Had you been anywhere close to finding your way back home, there may have been some dissonance in the revelation that you did not know as many names to faces as you should have.
But you knew who you believed was important, and you did well by the seat of your pants—part of being an officer was playing the part as well. Any of them would be lying if they said it was not so.
—
For every fault you found so far from home, there was that inkling little whisper in the back of your mind claiming that “It’s not that bad.” Or what’s worse, “You’re not sick yet.” Signs of illness were sure to creep up behind the lot of you, trickling in where the cracks and crevices begged for attention.
You could complain. Oh, in a perfect world, it would not be so, but here you were in an icy hellscape, and you just knew you would complain. But what good was there in complaining about things that could not be changed?
Were you so foolish as to think anything would be changed? That one of your fellow officers would find a way to save all the remaining men?
You wished you were. That foolishness would come in handy in times of great strife.
—
Work on the ship granted you little reprieve. It was just enough to take your mind off of it for a bit of time, and then you were right back where you started.
How could you explain something like this to anyone? Before the words would even leave your mouth, you were sure it would convince them that as soon as you returned to England, you should be committed.
If.
If you returned to England.
There was no “as soon as” in this equation.
If you returned to England. If you were able to return unscathed. If you did not die in the process, either of illness, elements, or God forbid the very men of the ship.
Who was to say it would happen?
Alas, the prospect was nice—you may be committed if you revealed your thoughts (your dreams, really) to others, but at least that meant you were back in England, safe and sound and far, far away from the damned Arctic.
To hell with the posting. You should have ran the moment you heard it. Things could never be that simple, and here you were, proving that right.
You did not know if your feelings were the same, but there was a way about the men that made you think otherwise. Some of the men seemed so sullen, so downtrodden that merely a gust of strong wind would send them spiraling off the deep end. Some of them, like Lieutenant Le Vesconte, seemed to be an enigma of an individual, not allowing so much as a grimace across tired features.
Hair was kept as trimmed as possible, beards up to Royal Navy standards, but it was hard not to notice the unkempt looks that some of the men had begun to sport.
Not that you could blame them, of course. It wasn’t like you went out of your way to perfect as you once had.
Le Vesconte, ever your favorite officer to observe from wherever you kept yourself (which was typically wherever Sir Franklin—er, Commander Fitzjames—told you to be), seemed to have… well, changed would be redundant. You have all changed, even if you believed you wouldn’t.
Still the same in your dreams, you could not help but notice the reality that you all faced.
There was no possible way to remain unchanged here. You had to adapt, or be forever scarred by the very ice under your feet. Or perhaps it had already happened, and the lot of you were simply picking up the pieces and calling it adaptation.
Had Le Vesconte more silver to his hair? More tired lines sketching his features in the way that Michelangelo himself would have carved into fine marble had he the chance?
Oh, these thoughts—these damnable thoughts. It was foolish to have once believed that the Navy would ever help to squander them. There was no way to completely avoid the fuzzy feeling deep within your gut, threatening to jump out and cling to any who would look at you with so much as a kind glance. It is not as if they were unknown to you—you had known for far too long that these feelings would have damned you to Hell had it been revealed to any in the Church you frequented from the time you were young.
Not that you believed. You did not know what to believe. In a way, you wished you had, so the prayers Sir Franklin had given out with many a sermon would have resonated within you. And yet, you were still so belligerent in the idea that whatever was out there was not Just. If He were so Just, then this pitiful feeling would have scurried the moment you stepped foot in a house of worship. It would have vanished the first few prayers, the first confession you had ever remembered.
It would have vanished in the nights you spent, praying the feelings away, bundled tight in your bed, in your cabin, in your very mind.
Dear Heavenly Father, hear my prayers. I cannot live a life such as this, the one in which You want for Your children. Help me, Father, and take these feelings from me. Let me live as though You lived through me, with prayer on my tongue and no cursed feelings coursing through me. Father, I pray that You would remove this from me, to help me live a life away from sin.
Prayer never changed a thing.
You had prayed for far too long for things to simply continue as they once were.
The feelings remained, floating from person to person, infatuation to infatuation. You were lucky to have kept it under wraps for so long—the revelation of a lifetime sat just beneath your tongue, prepared to jump out the moment it was given the signal.
God was not there to save you, just as He was not there throughout your childhood, helping you become righteous when truly you were just an abomination.
Would someone so Just send you to Hell for feelings that you could not control? It was not as if you went out of your way to favor a man. It was not as if you went out of your way to develop these feelings, to see where the wind would take you. You did not ask for eternal damnation.
Even if Hell did not exist beyond this plane of existence, it was clear to you that He had sent you to the thing closest to it.
How cruel to give these feelings to such a dedicated soul—how cruel to seek eternal damnation for the soul You cursed for loving another.
Love. It was not love.
It was not lust, either.
Or was it? Was it either one and you were just oblivious to the truth?
Le Vesconte, ever your favorite officer, was the target of these damnable thoughts.
He, though you knew it was not allowed, kept close to your heart and even closer to your head, filtering through your dreams like a ghost without a haunt. He was here, there, everywhere. When he wasn't around, you still thought of him. When you weren’t around, you wondered what he was up to, if he was doing well.
Did he think of you? The junior officer who spoke very little, who admired him from afar?
It wasn’t not hard to figure it out when you were locked in the pack ice, waiting out another year of wintering instead of picking up and hauling all the men could handle to find the Northwest Passage by foot instead. The ships would not last many more winters like this, shown by the tilt of the Terror and the creaks and groans of her boards.
There was only so much you could do, especially considering you very much lived in the present, aware that your lives depended on your work and cooperation as officers.
What a cruel way God tended to work.
If it was not eternal damnation for the feelings you harbored, it was eternal damnation for Queen and Country.
—
Passing by your fellow officers always seemed to be a bit of a fever dream—it was as if you could not fathom that you were, indeed, amongst the ranks of these powerful men.
Had you been a seafaring individual for longer than what you had, you would be where Le Vesconte or perhaps Little had been.
Did you want that? That kind of responsibility? Even just thinking of it was enough to send shivers down your spine.
You had signed up long ago, as a young teenager, to be an officer for the Royal Navy. A position of great esteem, especially for those who could afford to send their children off as volunteers. You barely scraped by. But by God, you did it, pleasing not only yourself but your guardians in the process. But was it all in vain? Living as if your entire life was a lie. Did you truly wish for this? To be so far from home, to be locked out in the ice only to succumb to some gnarly way of death?
—
Far into the night did he come to you in your dreams.
Gentle touches, caresses with the utmost care, hands and body so warm that you almost tricked your mind into believing that you were somewhere else, that the sun had blessed the lot of you with its rays of warmth.
Your name fell from his lips as they kissed from your lips, to your jaw, to the flesh of your neck, tongue finding your pulse point in quick succession. Strong hands grabbed onto your thighs as he pulled your hips close to his, his arousal evident beneath the tent of his trousers.
"Lieutenant," you gasped at his touch, hands quickly gripping onto his button-up, fumbling to undo the only thing that separated the two of you.
"Ah, ah," he whispered, the gentle reminder catching your gaze. "How many times have I told you?"
He wished for you to call him by his name. Lieutenant was not the title he wished of you, not in your dreams.
The soft whimper that escaped the back of your throat only spurred him on, his lips finding yours in an instant as you worked on the buttons, still. Your fingers felt so stiff, frozen and useless. He noticed, and pulled back slightly, taking your hands in his. He pulled them to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.
"Look at you," he cooed, a small smile evident on his handsome face. "Wake up, Lieutenant. Find some gloves while you're at it."
The comment alone was enough to essentially shock you into waking up. Your eyes shot open but you made no effort to move. Your own arousal was evident, though he had not done much other than touch and kiss you in your dream.
Damned mind of yours—it would have you killed if it wanted to, you were sure of it.
You reached up, freezing cold hands rubbing your eyes with the heel of your palms. Sure enough, he had been right—you needed warmth and not just the kind that you could find from your dreams. You cursed softly, slowly pushing yourself to sit. Your sock-clad feet fell to the wooden floor, a reminder of where you were and in what predicament.
These dreams of a certain officer would surely have you surrendering yourself, if you were only given the chance.
—
You were posted on the deck, keeping an eye out for any peculiar creature or a sighting of the natives that Lady Silence and her father may have known. There were a few other men, such as the able seaman, and a Marine keeping watch as well. Since the attacks, it has been a very long and difficult time of figuring out what type of watch was best kept.
So far, the more eyes on the ice the better.
As you did what you could, looking about and pacing the deck, you heard your name called from behind you—title, surname, each spilling from Le Vesconte in proper succession.
Your eyes widened and you glanced back at him, coming to a stop. He was, of course, your superior—you may have been an officer as well, but the chain of command typically gave way to those who have been in the business longer (or those who had good friends in high places, as one James Fitzjames had).
“Lieutenant,” you said, giving a small nod and quick salute. You could feel your heart leap to your throat. The sight of him alone was enough to make you warm inside, just as he had in your dreams.
He greeted you in turn, nodding his head.
“Quiet night, hm?” he asked, soft brown eyes meeting head on with the abyss before him, stretching on toward the end of life as you knew it. Of course, none of you truly knew it.
Only God knew.
“Yes,” you answered, a gloved hand resting against the wooden capping. The chill of the night threatened to take hold of your skin, of your sanity if you let it.
Not yet.
”No sightings?”
It seemed as if he was only there for routine. A check-in with the officer on duty. It made you wonder if he was reporting back to Fitzjames, just to keep him updated—this, of course, was not far fetched at all. You were careful with your gaze. The want you had within was not proper—it could not be shown.
If he showed it first, then perhaps things would be different...
“No sir,” you said, shaking her head.
At that, Le Vesconte pulled his gaze away from the darkness, settling upon you in a way that set your heart aflame. Or perhaps it was indigestion, from the canned meal you had a few hours prior.
For a moment, he wished to say something: “There is no need for formalities”; “You know me well enough to avoid ‘sir’”; “Speak to me as an equal, as we truly are.”
The words do not leave him, dying on the tip of his tongue. He, a man so inclined to sticking with protocol, to what was right, could not bring himself to say what he wished from you… for how could you tell another that you wish the world from them without breaking each and every rule in the handbook?
Dramatics aside, it was not something he planned to do.
He would not do it.
He pursed his lips and cleared his throat, giving you a small nod.
“Do be careful,” he said, taking a step to the side so he could walk around you to return inside the ship. “We have lost many recently. I do not think we should have to bear another.”
Without looking back, Le Vesconte left. You, ever in your mind, overthinking and underestimating all at once, watched him retreat to the warm safety of the hull of the ship.
—
The Lieutenant had a flare for the dramatics. It was one of the reasons he and Fitzjames got on so well—these similarities stretched on to sway his ranking, his position, his ultimate way of life.
Without the pull of James, Henry may not have been approved for this posting. A cruel thought when he looked back on it now, knowing that there was nothing special of this journey. A wasteland waiting to take them, calling them to succumb to the elements and perhaps even their own hands.
Henry did not fault his dear friend. He, of course, accepted the posting. Had it not been so, then maybe he would feel differently. There was no man to force his hand.
And yet, it was still just as frustrating.
Had the Admiralty known? Several failed expeditions before this one had greeted them with unhappy results. This one, surely, was another on a long line of ultimate failures.
Wintering for months on end, the deaths of a few men whether it be by disease or unnatural causes (the innate desire to claim supernatural was eating him alive—bear or not, something unnatural was fighting its way to them), it was all accumulating. There was only so much he could take before the world he knew would be uprooted from its tender home deep within the rich soil he once cared for so thoroughly.
The soil had soured, the roots shriveled.
He had not a day of normalcy since the moment they arrived in the Arctic. He was already reaching the end of his rope, and it wasn’t even halfway to the end of it all. Perhaps his rope would start to burn had he given it the chance.
Long nights bled into long days, each a copy of the last until it wasn’t, and then, the days turned monstrous, as if everything bad had unleashed itself on the ships and the men inhabiting them.
Pacing back and forth in his cabin, he bit nervously at the edges of his properly trimmed nails. They may have been stuck here, but the routine of a man of the Royal Navy had not left him. His hair, still greased from that morning, now lay with a few stray tufts, evidence of his nervous tousling of it.
James was not help at the moment, grieving Sir Franklin and what not—not that he could blame him. Captain Crozier, well, who knew what the man was doing at this point in time. He’d speak with Lieutenant Little later and perhaps he would give him some insight, but his confidence for that was not high.
He was in his own little world, lost to the only enemy that had a name—nothing.
There was nothing here. Ice, rock, water. Nothing grew, nothing shone, nothing, nothing, nothing.
Henry eyed the small desk he had in the room, seeing his leather bound notebook neatly placed in the last spot he had it. Hesitantly, he walked over and sat down before the desk, grabbing the inkwell and his writing utensil before opening the notebook.
One day, perhaps his words would be heard. He could not guarantee it would ever be found, but the risk of not doing so outweighed the fear of it all.
The ink dripped from his pen, dabbing onto the paper in one big blob. He frowned to himself, making no effort to dry it up. He simply watched.
His thoughts, ever racing anymore in this damned place, went back to what he had said to you only an hour prior. “We have lost many recently. I do not think we should have to bear another.” A foolish thing to say when the person who made your heart race stood right before you, so close to touch and yet so far away.
Henry had not always cared for the touch of a woman, or any for that matter. If he wished for it, he would have it, caring not for who it was and only that the company was good.
Would you be that for him? Good company?
The way he catches you looking at him, the gaze in which you admire him with—with each passing day, he wondered if it was something that he should pursue. It would only be a matter of time before the ice finally caught up to all of you, and as much as he wished to live, to return to England... Those chances seemed to slim with each passing day.
As soon as he were able to, he would act on it.
He had to. Waiting any longer and he would be risking death for either one of you.
—
Days passed by since the last you spoke briefly with Le Vesconte. As always, you pondered and observed, finding it far more useful than any other method. Knowing what was to come was easier when you were able to watch and understand the semantics of it all. A ship was no different.
Tonight you were granted a brief respite in your cabin, the chill beyond the ship not quite reaching you down below the deck. You knew it was only a matter of time—before Fitzjames and Crozier would reveal to the men that you would have to leave the ships and be on foot the rest of the journey. Was there much point in postponing? Crozier was ill, as far as the men could tell—Fitzjames had temporary order over all. You and the others were simply pawns in a game of chess, waiting for the final orders. Would an event of castling be in order? The King moving with the rook, rook defending the King in hopes of safety and tranquility amongst the board? Or would it simply be a matter of strategy, hoping for the best and putting whichever piece to the test?
It would not be long, now. The King could not stay idle forever. The rook would grow restless, chattering and begging for a chance to act.
Could you act in the Arctic?
How far could chess pieces move with the icy fingers of the Arctic curling around them, taking piece by piece until only the few grandiose pieces were left?
You could not sleep. No, not tonight. You laid restless in your bed, staring up at the wooden ceiling. Every creak of the wood sounded through your small quarters, the ice surrounding you eating away at anything it could touch. Your blanket was not enough to comfort you, let alone help you drift off to sleep.
And then, the sound of someone walking through the hall caught your attention.
It was quiet, clearly someone who didn’t wish to catch those awake. But then the steps came to a stop just before the entrance to your cabin.
There’s a soft knock—one you know all too well. That of Le Vesconte.
Your brows furrowed. What could he want at this hour?
You slowly sat up, ignoring the fact you were in what seemed to be night clothes—after so many months abandoned to the elements, most stopped caring what you wore as long as you were clothed. Crossing the small room quickly, you pushed the curtain to the side to look up at Le Vesconte. He was quite tall, even for an Englishman’s standard.
“Lieutenant?” you questioned, confusion evident on your face. You did not often find yourself face to face with him, and this was enough to make your heart flutter within.
Le Vesconte seemed to think for a moment, opening his mouth and closing it soon after. His brows furrowed and he averted his gaze.
Finally, he finds his voice. "Are you well, Lieutenant?" he asked, looking down at you. "You seem... rather tired, lately."
You raised a curious brow. "Am I well?" you asked, repeating the question in much confusion. Had you been that different as of late? You felt no different—the same exhaustion that you had been dealing with the moment you stepped into the Arctic was there, but it was not much to go off of.
"Yes," he said. "Yes. Are you well?"
"I believe so," you said, nodding. "Why? Is something amiss, Lieutenant?"
He frowned. He did not like the constant title, but he said nothing of it, hoping to squander any curiosity on that particular area.
"I am simply... making rounds," Le Vesconte said, attempting to brush off the question. He was here, now. He needed to act on it, but...
"Making rounds? Is it not early morning?" you asked, stepping back slightly to find the small clock in your room. It was a wonder it still worked as it did, for you knew it was on its last legs. "It is nearly one," you said, looking back up at him.
His lips parted, his brown eyes flickering to yours before he glanced away, attempting to hide his slight flush of embarrassment. How could he admit that his dreams were focused on you that night? How could he say he had just needed to make sure you were alive and well, and not dead in the manner of his last frightful dream?
He wouldn't.
So he said this, instead: "You would be surprised who is still awake, Lieutenant."
At that, your lips quirked up in a small smile. "That is probably not a good thing."
"No," he said, shaking his head. "Perhaps it is something I will run by Fitzjames in the morning."
"It would not be too bad of an idea," you agreed, shifting uncomfortably where you stood. Pins and needles crawled up your spine, a constant reminder that something was not quite right, and it hadn't been for some time.
Le Vesconte eyed you warily, noticing the discomfort. He said not a word, though it was clear he saw. He was losing the ability to be as subtle with you as he was with others—or perhaps it was your ability to read him that caused this to happen. He wished for many things in the world, and to be seen by someone like you was one of them.
Oh, Hell, he was in trouble.
"Right, then," you said, catching his eye. "I need to try and sleep. Same to you, Lieutenant. The sunrise will be here before we know it."
"Hm," was the only thing that escaped Le Vesconte. He gave a nod, watching as you gave a small smile.
"Good night, Lieutenant," you said.
For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to say something. His lips parted and his breath hitched, but nothing more left him. He gave a tense smile and nodded his head, stepping back from your cabin. You watched him for a moment too long and then let the curtain fall shut. He listened to you shuffle back to bed, hearing the way your body ached as your head found your pillow.
He would put in a recommendation with Doctor Stanley—perhaps a checkup would not be too brash.
Le Vesconte only made it a few feet from your cabin when a hand suddenly latched onto his. A quick glance over his shoulder gave way to you. He could have sworn—
"I need to ask something of you," you blurted, not giving him a moment to collect his thoughts. "Please."
A slow blink gave way to a nod.
"In my cabin," you continued, though this time you spoke much softer. "Please."
Le Vesconte allowed you to lead him back. He made no effort to pull his wrist from your grasp. It was all he could do not to lose his mind right then and there.
A beat or two passed you by. The elder Lieutenant listened for anything out of the ordinary, ears perked to the small sounds the ship made at night. There were a few people above deck milling about, keeping watch, but it seemed as if the rest of the men were asleep. He should have been asleep.
The silence was enough to allow Le Vesconte to admire you—the way your eyes lit up at the sight of him, your lip caught between your teeth as you thought of what you truly wished to say. No question ever left your lips. No question could have—for the Lieutenant met your lips with his own, a tentative hand (the one not held by yours) cradling the back of your neck. Nothing needed to be said, no words were shared as you melted into the kiss, a hand going to grip onto his jacket.
Chapped lips molded together, Henry's front pressing against yours. He gently backed you up against the wall of your cabin, careful of too much sound. His hands found your hips in the way that your dreams had so often shown you—it was far better than any dream, far better than any moment you had thought of on your own.
His lips parted from yours only momentarily as he sucked in a sharp breath, eyes meeting with yours.
A silent question—Is this okay?
When no response was given, just an almost imperceptible nod from you, his lips found yours once more, the taste of you forever ingrained in the very soul that you had damned the moment you looked at him with eyes like diamonds, wanted by so many but only garnered by few.
He would never forget your taste—it would stay with him until the day he died.
—
The next he properly saw of you was nearly a week later, much to his apparent disappointment. Much had happened, and in the chaos of it all, there was not much that could be done. The ships had been abandoned, many of the men had died, the smell of burning bodies had chiseled itself into the back of your mind.
Bundled up and ready to walk, or as ready as you could be, you acted only as ordered and nothing more. Your mind was foggy, as if you had slept terribly the night before. Hardly any conversation had been shared between the two of you, though you wished for it. The ache of your skin, the bruising of your lips which you claimed had been a nasty accident of ice and foot. You wished for his touch, for the way he knew you.
Leaving the ships may have been the worst idea yet, but what was there to argue? You had wondered once why it had taken so long, and now that you were out amongst the ice, you wondered what in God's name you were doing out this far. It would have been easier to stay with the ships.
You had half a mind to return to the ships. A few men were staying behind, just in case. What would be so bad if you turned around now to join them?
As you remained fully engaged in your own world, the sound of your name came from beside of you.
Henry Le Vesconte.
You glanced at him, eyelashes wet from the moisture in the air. It had snowed a bit moments prior, and the chill was evident to all. Le Vesconte's cheeks were rosy, a remnant of the frozen wasteland that plagued you all.
"Are you well?" he asked, voice audible for only your ears. His voice alone was enough to remind you how his lips felt on your skin only a week ago.
You hummed softly. Why had he asked you that so often recently? You were perfectly fine. You were walking, were you not?
"I would like an audible answer, if you wouldn't mind," he said, blinking owlishly at you.
"Yes," you said almost instantly after. "I am fine."
"I did not ask that," Le Vesconte said. "I asked if you are well."
If looks could kill, he would have died right on the spot. Not that you wished death upon him, but perhaps a rather small shove in the right direction. You gave him the answer he was looking for, had you not? He asked if you were well. You were. You think.
"Perhaps it would help if I clarified," Le Vesconte said, a soft scoff escaping him. It was obvious, though, that he took no offense to the look you gave him. "Are you ill?"
You blinked slowly. Your chapped lips pursed together, tongue darting out to wet them. "Am I... no, I think not. Unless Doctor Stanley said otherwise at my checkup, I am not ill."
He frowned softly. Not too long after he had forced you to see the doctor, after he gave you what it is your dreams so often sought, Carnivale happened. Was there more to the story than what you were giving him?
Most likely. It wasn't like the two of you had a grand heart-to-heart after you slept together.
"When we stop for camp, I would like you to see Mr. Goodsir."
"Harry?"
"Yes," said Le Vesconte. "Of course. Harry Goodsir. I feel as though he may be able to see the things that Doctor Stanley had not."
A frown was given—one that did not go unnoticed by the Lieutenant to your right. He said nothing of it, watching as you nodded reluctantly at his request. The fact of the matter was, there were only so many officers remaining. Of course, the others were sound and of healthy mind and body, but what happens if one of them comes down with something passable? Surely if that was the case, then it would have happened already.
He could not fathom the idea. Henry Le Vesconte would much rather it be him that caught ill than you. If that were to be so, then he would die a happy man knowing that you were kept from such a debilitating existence.
Did you know that? How he would wish illness on himself if it meant you would not have to deal with it?
Of course not. He had never voiced his wishes. He had never voiced what you meant to him—he never would. Vocalizing that could mean disaster for all.
—
You shared a tent.
Le Vesconte had set up his things on the left, and you had the right. He had been insistent that you take the more "comfortable" side and that he would be alright with the not-so-savory one. He had almost implored you to refer to him as Henry when amongst each other—you had known him far long enough to be able to call him such a name. You knew him well, at least where his body was concerned. It was only fair.
You had asked him if Dundy was preferable, to which he grumbled and asked for you to call him by his first name and first name only, when you were without company.
Had you the ability, perhaps you would have been embarrassed. But as of late, you were far too tired for embarrassment to even grace your mind.
One cold, windy night, there was nothing that could be done to stay warm. You had bundled up, your clothing was on tight and layered. You slept with your boots on. And yet, you shivered, the act alone causing exhaustion that no god would ever speak of for it was impossible.
You had found yourself in the tent far before Le Vesconte had. He had stayed to speak with Fitzjames and Crozier about something—you did not remember what it was, and quite frankly, you cared very little.
Sleep did not greet you early that night, especially once you heard Le Vesconte enter the tent, the flap closing behind him. You did not move, merely listening as the ground crunched beneath his boots. There was something off about his gait, as if he ached in every crevice of his body (but of course, how would you know that? It was not like he told you every time the Earth beneath him seemed to shake).
A shiver, one strong enough to echo the chatter of your teeth, ran through your body. Your cold eyes opened, gloved hands unable to keep warm.
"You are freezing," Henry said, rather stupidly. Stating the obvious was not a huge help, neither was it a problem. It did, however, make you look in his direction to which he paused, nose scrunching as he watched you. He did not ask you for your permission as he took his sleep sack and moved it to be close to yours.
He could hear your protest starting and he quickly hushed you.
He knew your body. He may as well help it, too.
"If we are close together, you will be warmer," he said, sitting down beside of you. He looked down at you, strands of hair falling before his eyes. You could not help but notice just how tired he seemed.
You all were.
You could not avoid it.
Henry watched you for a moment longer before he laid back, sighing softly. It had been a long day—a long evening, really. The lines had started to blur between the passing minutes, and yet it still seemed just as long as the moments in which he had a proper pocket watch. Had he the ability to stare at one, he would have been far too appreciative.
"You cannot warm me by just being here," you indignantly said, frowning at him.
Henry fought the urge to scoff. As much as he appreciated the dramatics, he did not appreciate that.
"If you wish, I could sleep on top of you. That would warm you up."
The sound that escaped you startled him a bit—a soft snort, as if you meant to laugh but stopped yourself short.
"You would kill me."
"I do not think that would kill you."
"It would not take much, I'm sure," you retorted. You slowly moved to face him, careful of how you did so. Pins and needles prickled at your fingertips. You could not feel much of your left foot, but you dared not say a word of it. He did not need yet another thing to worry about. Neither did you.
"Perhaps..." Henry began, but trailed off, turning to face you as well.
Had you ever laid so close to a man like this before? So close that you could memorize every line of his skin, every chiseled piece of his life echoing back at you. You wished for a way to remember it always. He was so handsome, and so, so close. Even darkness could not abide to your heart.
"Perhaps if we..." he started again. Le Vesconte was not someone who lost his train of thought easily. He could give it to you as needed. But at this very moment, he felt as if he was losing his mind. He felt so... frightened, as if he asked the question it would make you see him differently. It was not like he had acted on his own accord only weeks ago, though it seemed to have been much longer. He had kissed you so suddenly, without warrant, only making sure that it was okay with you after he kissed you. Why was he so scared to know your answer now?
"If you wish to get close to me, then do so," you blurted. "Otherwise, I will turn away and try to sleep."
Henry's eyes widened at your words. One thing was for certain—since they had been forced to leave the ships, you had been a bit more brazen. Perhaps that was all you needed—a push in the right direction. He was glad to see it, even if it was a bit too late for it to truly matter.
Henry's tongue poked out in a nervous way, wetting his lips as he watched you. "You wish for me to get close?"
"If that is what you want," you simply answered.
At that, he let out a soft huff. Only in a moment, though, did he move closer to you, an arm tentatively going around your body and pulling you close to himself. The warmth was instant, and though it did not reach all the places you wished it would, it was enough to lull you into a dreamless sleep.
It was the first night in months that you did not have a dream. Even a dream with the very Lieutenant haunting the narrative.
It would surely be the last.
Who were you to complain? The man that you had eyed for so many days, now, held you in his arms. It may have been freezing, and he would not have done such a thing in different circumstances, but the damage had been made. There was no coming back from such a thing as this. Sleeping with him was one thing, but sleeping was an entirely different prospect. At least, so you thought. Society may not have seen it so, but then again, who were you to say whether or not it was right or not?
If Henry had been unsure of your feelings toward him, as of now there were no other questions. God had moved his pieces, playing the game as meant to be. For in a world such as this, it was only a miracle that would grant him with comfort such as this—the comfort of another in a place that no Englishman had walked before.
—
The jagged rocks beneath you bit into your knees as you collapsed, gloved hands barely doing much to keep you from completely splaying out on the cursed Arctic ground. There was no shout that came from you, no call for help. There was no need—Henry Le Vesconte was upon you the moment your hands and knees hit the ground, quickly sitting you back on your hind so as not to do any further damage to your body.
Red-rimmed eyes, dry throat, lips that felt as if they were on fire. No words needed to leave you for Henry to call for Mr. Goodsir, for Henry to look to Crozier for a bit of guidance. The look alone had Crozier telling Fitzjames to set up camp right then and there.
Fitzjames left their side and ordered the rest of the men to set up camp there, so as not to disturb the tentative peace that had placated them thus far.
Henry helped you to sit up straight as Harry Goodsir came over, checking you as best as he could without all of his equipment set up. There was not much he could have done for you, anyway. It was obvious that you were suffering from something in the realm of lead poisoning, scurvy, or the most recent emergence of tuberculosis. The not-so-expertly hidden handkerchief you had in your pocket gave Goodsir a definitive diagnosis of the latter.
You were dying. Not of scurvy, or of the supernatural spirit that seemed to follow your every step, but of tuberculosis.
Henry held his breath for a moment, an arm around your shoulders to keep you up, his cheek pressed against your hair as he squeezed his eyes shut. Out of every goddamn thing in this godforsaken place, you found yourself ill with the one thing he wished would have stayed far, far away. To die of anything out here was terrible. To die of something so familiar to each of the men—well, that was a beast in itself.
You were cursed.
A cursed land had they found. A cursed future you had guaranteed for yourself.
You were all cursed.
Goodsir pulled back from his observations and looked between the two of you. "You should be careful, Lieutenant," he said. "It spreads easily."
"If it is to spread to me then so be it," Henry said, turning his gaze to the surgeon. "It would have already happened."
Goodsir watched him with that sad, curious gaze of his. There was nothing he could argue in benefit of the Lieutenant's health. Each one of them, each one of them would meet their demise. It was only a matter of how and when, not if.
"Once the camp is set up, I will bring a tonic that will help with the pain," Goodsir said, mostly to you, though the Lieutenant nodded in acknowledgement.
You were already so weak. All of you were.
Henry did not have months to spend traversing the Arctic with you. He had days, at most. Days in which he would lose himself just like God intended.
—
Seeing the end of it all was not as bittersweet as you wished it would have been.
No, this was… disparaging in the worst of ways. The little talks with the Captain and a few of the officers, the fact that Lieutenant Le Vesconte had yet to leave your side though you wished for him to (only so that if you died a terrible death, perhaps coughing until you choked on your own blood, he would not see). He stayed, and he stayed, reminding you that he would not go though you wished it from him. He couldn’t leave. He thought it would have been clear at this point.
Sleeping alongside you when he had the chance, gentle touches here and there that surmounted to nothing but still existed in the realm of possibility—he wished possibility did not come and go as it did, but he had no say in the way of the world.
He had no say in the way of his heart, in the way of your mind, body, and soul. You had bewitched him, even if you did not realize it.
Henry would not utter a word of it. No one would hear the truth—not from his lips, that was certain.
You would not hear how he had lived in utter vexation, cursing the very God who sent them to this wasteland.
It was odd, to you—how the end of your rope looked so similar to the middle. Each part had its own bit of twine, but the middle and end had knotted itself so tightly, wound by God Himself, that it was impossible to tell the difference between the two.
This was your fate. It had always been your fate. A death fit for no one but the punished souls that dared to see things differently.
This was your fate, and perhaps a final curse all in itself.
There was nothing you could do to stop it anymore than Henry could bring himself to say just a few simple words, or perhaps even a goodbye.
It had only happened the one time, before you were sent away from the ships, to take the world by foot. And yet, at that moment, he felt as if it had been a goodbye of sorts. A way for him to show you how he felt, even if it felt like it had been so long ago.
Your breath hitched in your throat and you let out a disgruntled groan, squeezing your eyes shut. Nothing seemed to be helping you.
“Shall I fetch Goodsir?”
His voice was so quiet. You wished you could listen to it, always.
“No,” you said, voice raspy even with such a simple word.
”Are you sure?” Henry asked, a hand reaching forward to take your own. He wore no gloves, same as you—he wished to feel you, or as much of you as he was able to. He would never know what it would be like to know all of you, so he would take what he could get. He may have had you, once upon a time, but he would never know the divots of your spine, the hook of your knees, the veins lining your back, or the way you behaved when well rested, far healthier than what you had, now.
“Yes,” you said, huffing softly at his stubborn line of questioning.
Henry weakly smiled at you, unable to help himself. Even in your poorest of moments, you still kept with your own—you would be fine until you weren’t, and then, you would deal with it once you were there.
He wondered if you understood the severity of the situation. If you had come to terms with your death, with his.
He hadn’t. Henry was scared of dying. He did not wish to die, to succumb to a fate that he knew was waiting for him just beyond the horizon. Just the other night he and James had spoke much of death, of the prospect of dying in the Arctic—what it meant to die, what it meant to find yourself all alone at the end of the world.
There was much to complain about. The chill in the air, the illness in the camp, the lack of proper food. No complaints came to him, much like they evaded you. Though you wished they would, what was the point?
Complaining would not get you far in life, especially now. You wished to complain, but there was no point.
Especially now that you knew what it meant to see death as a gift instead of a punishment.
How cruel was God to give this life to you.
How cruel was it to know that the world you knew will remain far across the ocean, beyond the icy depths that had you captured the very moment you accepted that damned appointment.
Not a word left Henry as he watched you, seeing the way your chest fluttered with each breath, the way your eyelids flutter shut as you tried to comfort yourself.
Had he the ability, he would take your illness and give it to himself. Perhaps he would give it to the spirit that still walked this earth, hunting the men. Henry would do anything if it meant you would live.
But there wasn’t a thing, was there? He could see you—really see you, and the only thing you wished for was a minute of respite, a minute of true rest.
You’d find it soon enough, with or without the help of any Captain or Lieutenant. Death would find you as it finds all, taking and taking before it truly stopped to wonder if it was the right time, the right moment.
Henry would have to deal with it. There was nothing he could do, and nothing that could be done.
Complaints would filter through your minds, but never once leave your lips.
Who are you to complain?
He brought your cold hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. The sound of the tent flap closing caught his attention but he made no move to pull away from you. Goodsir had come by, tonic in hand, but it seemed as if he would not get to use them.
For Death had found you in the quietest of moments, taking as it had always meant to—just as God intended.
Goodsir stood behind Henry as he slowly lowered your hand to your side, the cot that held you just as cold as your touch.
There was no honor in your death, only heartache and pain—the kind that Henry would never have the chance to forget for as long as he had left. A funny little cough had fought its way into Henry's lungs, the kind that you had attained shortly before your own death.
The tonic in which Goodsir had planned to give to you was handed to Henry instead.
"I will let Captain Crozier know," Goodsir said, voice solemn and gaze not quite reaching his.
Henry stared at the dark liquid Goodsir had handed him, a frown on his lips. Exhaustion had riddled itself deep within him. There was no coming back from this. No complaints would help. None at all.
"Thank you," Henry simply said. He sat the bottle down beside of him, grateful for the stopper Goodsir had put on it. He listened as he left, merely watching you. Little could be done, now.
He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. There were no tears, no gestures of importance. Only the kiss of a tired man and a century of regret paving into your dead skin.
So I made this nifty little wheel you can spin to receive an AU for prompts or discussions or whatever. This seemed like more fun than a randomizer, so… Enjoy! (And tell me what you got on your first spin!)
i had been watching the terror with my best friend, and we watched the last episode last night. she turned to me and said "wow. that was really good, but i feel dead inside. my chest feels like, empty. i love you, but i don't think i ever want to watch that again."
tell me why the first thing i see when i open my phone this morning is a text from her saying, "rewatching the terror"
— using this list with the prompt, "Shh, you're safe. I will not let you go."
word count: 2k words
a/n: tw: panic attack? overthinking? pre-expedition anxiety. colonialism? yes. fair tw. thoughts of death, being left alone, etc. wife!reader. called Mrs. Gore at one point, but no use of y/n or anything. kind of proof-read. kind of given up because it's 2am. find all posted here or here.
It was as if you could never catch a breath. The night had grown darker with each passing second—each moment you stayed awake sent you further spiraling, tears in your eyes as you tried to steady your breathing. Graham had been asleep for nearly two hours now, and yet you hadn't found an ounce of sleep waiting for you. The sandman had deceived you of your hopes and dreams, instead giving way to the harrowing thoughts that often plagued you before Graham was off for an assignment.
It wasn't anything new, though you wished it had been. If these anxious feelings were new, perhaps they would be easier to handle. But they never changed. It was always something and ever since you first married Graham Gore, you had had these feelings.
Each time it was harder and harder, especially knowing that he would be so far this time. It wasn't like he was going to the Mediterranean or to China once more. He was to be shipped off to the Arctic in an attempt to find the very thing that would give glory to God and Country. The Northwest Passage. Did it even exist? Was this something that Graham truly needed to go off and leave you for?
How was it that the Royal family stayed safe and sound while their people left to do their dirty work? Graham loved his work—he was glad to be able to do what he could for his country regardless of what the situation was. But an inkling of doubt festered within your mind each and every time. Graham was an older sailor, not like his much younger counterparts that would be going with him. He was perfectly capable and had experience, but it did not cease your mind's quarrel with itself. Despite your insistent that he would be okay, the other part of your mind, the one controlled by your heart, screamed that you were wrong. That this was a mistake. That sending him off would be a death sentence in itself.
Would this assignment be the very thing that changed everything you have worked for thus far? A nice marriage which was few and far between with your friends and colleagues, a home that you enjoyed living in especially when your husband was around, a man whom truly loved you—one that was grateful for the moment he had met you years prior, one that was grateful for the moment you said yes to his inquiries of courting and ultimately betrothal.
After tossing and turning for the last half hour, you finally sat up, slowly pushing yourself out of the warm bed. You slipped on your house shoes and quietly left the bedroom, finding yourself in the sitting room soon enough. Your husband did not deserve to hear your tears which had yet to cease. Tear tracks dried upon your cold cheeks. You sat on the loveseat, rubbing your face with the palms of your hands. The chill of the room struck you to your very core, fingers brushing against your eyelids as you tried to stop your tears.
Late February had never given your home a warm night. Not even early March had allowed you such an honor. The chill of your home despite the fireplaces you both tried to keep kept you chilled. Had you the nerve, you would have stoked the fire or grabbed a quilt from the sofa just across the room. However, you did not move, a victim of your own mind.
The sound of someone shuffling came from behind you. Immediately, you recognized Graham's disgruntled noise as he came into the living room.
"Where have you gone, wife?" he asked as he came over to the loveseat. You leaned back against the cushions and Graham leaned over the back, his arms gently wrapping around your shoulders. His cheek pressed against the top of your head, his eyes fluttering shut. "I woke when you left," he informed you, knowing your first question would be why he was awake. "I thought it was a dream at first but then I came to."
You hummed softly in response but gave no proper spoken answer.
"Why are you here?" he asked, pressing a kiss to the crook of your mandible, lips moving to your cheek and then your temple in that order. "You could have waken me if I had truly disturbed you so in your slumber."
You let out a soft scoff at his words. "It was not... it was not anything you have done, Graham."
"Oh? Then why have you left me? The bed becomes quite cold without you." His words are playful—you were the only person whom he became so unserious with. While he did enjoy a good joke or two, this side of him was reserved for you and you only. Perhaps his mother would hear that of him, but even then it was limited.
"Graham..." Your voice was small. He knew this side of you well.
He grunted softly in response, his eyes fluttering shut as he leaned his cheek against your head again. He doesn't say a word, simply holding you close as sleep threatens to take him asunder once more. Your husband was quite capable in the field, but when he was home with his wife, comfort allowed him a brief respite. You allowed him a comfort he often missed while at sea.
"I have not been able to sleep."
Your words draw him from his silence. He looked down at you, a bout of confusion washing over his face before it made way for understanding. This was typical of you—months prior to his engagement with the sea, you found yourself a nervous wreck. It was not fair to you that this always happened, but a part of him thought it endearing. To have a wife so worried for you—it showed how much you loved him. How much you cared for him. He wished it could be shown in another way, but alas, you cannot always get what you want.
"You have not slept at all?"
"No."
"Just tonight?"
"I... a bit of tonight," you said, almost hesitant. "I did not sleep much the night before."
"Oh, darling," he sighed, letting go of your shoulders. He walked around the loveseat and sat down beside of you, taking your hands in his. "Are you thinking of my assignment again?" he asked, giving you a small smile. He volunteered for this voyage. He knew what he was getting into—at least, he believed he did. Many of the men were familiar with the Arctic and it was obvious that they would encounter things unlike one of the many countries and cities that belonged to England.
"Yes," you answered, frowning. "I am."
"There is nothing to think about," he said. His calloused thumbs pressed against the middle of your palms, drawing your attention to your hands. He rubbed a small circle there, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your cheek. "I will be safe and return to you before you know it. Once I am back, we will settle down as you wish, my love. You have my word."
You sniffled softly, unable to stop yourself. "Graham..."
"Perhaps we will finally have the babe you asked for," he said, gently nudging your chin with his knuckle. "Or maybe we could find a home in the countryside and care for a stable dog and a few horses."
The familiar quiver of your lips kept you biting the inside of your cheek. Looking away from your husband, you tried to keep yourself from crying.
"I will be back before you know it."
You are unable to let out the sob that had settled within your bosom. "Graham, you cannot say things like that," you cried, shaking your head. "You do not know if that is what we will do. What if you do not come back? What if I am left all alone without you? I cannot fathom a life without you, I—"
His strong hands gently cupped your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. He pulled you into his embrace, a kiss pressed to your forehead. He said your name, hands squeezing at your tense muscles as he held you close.
"I will always come back to you."
"And if you do not? What will I do? I cannot li—"
"You will," Graham interrupted. "You will live without me, if it just so happens. I know that because you lived without me once before."
"Before I knew you, sure," you scoffed at his words. "But you—you do not understand. You have become so ingrained in every aspect of my life. I cannot close my eyes without wishing you were with me."
He frowned deeply. "You must live without me. If... if your worries come to fruition, which I know they will not, then you must live. For me." His thumb gently brushes against your trembling lips. He leaned forward and gingerly kissed them. "Do not cry."
At this point, you were unable to stop yourself. The tears flooded the gates in which you fought so hard to hold, wetting your eyelashes and falling down your cheeks. It was not often that you cried in such a manner, but the fear of your husband not returning to you... it was enough to shake you to your very core.
"Shh," Graham attempted to soothe you. His arms wrapped around you properly this time, holding you close to his chest. "Shh, you're safe. I will not let you go."
Another sob escapes you. "I am not afraid of you letting me go," you said. "I am afraid that I will have to let you go because you left on this—this expedition, this death sentence—"
"Wife," he interjected, frowning at your words. "It is safe. There is nothing you need to worry about. After many years of war, this expedition will grant us a healthy living and the opportunity to make a name for myself. It will be fine. I am not worried about the safety of this journey, and neither should you. If Sir John Franklin is returning to the Arctic, if Francis Crozier is doing so, then surely there is no reason to worry. Seasoned Arctic explorers will be there. You worry for naught, my love. Please..."
With a few heavy breaths, you managed to calm yourself down thanks to his words. You let them mull over in your mind, brows furrowed as you looked up at him. His hopeful look would be burned in the back of your mind until the day you died. He did not wish for your fear. He did not wish for you to think of his death in the Arctic.
He was right. You were worried for nothing. It would be alright—the expedition itself was nothing short of safety, and it would be as easy as breathing. Surely. It had to be. You did not know what you would do if it were not so.
Graham leaned forward and pressed yet another kiss to your pouty lips.
"Come, now, Mrs. Gore," he said, a hand rubbing against your back. "Let us return to bed. If you wish to still cry, you may do so in my arms."
You sniffled softly, averting your gaze. You were not embarrassed—just... flustered. Your husband had pointed out the obvious in your fears—that was all they were. Fears. Irrational, even.
Graham Gore would return to you just as he had left—safe and sound. All you had to do was wait for his return. Nothing more, nothing less.
He offered his hand to you which you gladly took. You needed to rest, and the idea of spending the rest of the night in your husband's arms was a comforting one. He eyed you warily for a moment longer, perhaps just to see if you would get upset once more. At the solemn look on your face, he pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles and led you back to your bedroom where you would spend the rest of your night pressed up against his body, hopefully sleeping until the morning sun started to peer through your curtains. One could only hope.
— using this list with the prompt, "Well, I am not dying yet."
word count: 1.1k words
a/n: tw: immediate talks about the carnival/burned bodies. no direct mention of suicidal tendencies but the thoughts/vibes are there? steward!reader but no direct references to gender. find all posted here or here.
Carnivale had come and gone. Smoldering embers of the tent and whatnot produced enough smoke to capture your attention. The smell of roasted meat remained stringent in the air, woven into the very folds of your mind. You could not forget the smell even if you tried.
The men who had died during Carnivale had gone through Hell only to remain completely and utterly in the haven that had been entertainment. For what was Carnivale if not an attempt at distraction? If not an attempt at something more than the obvious?
Fitzjames stood at the outskirts of the remains, staring out at the mass death that had been caused by Doctor Stanley. Beside of him stood you, one of the stewards alongside Thomas Jopson. He was with Captain Crozier, examining some of the ones who had died. You stood close beside of him, eyes focused on the grim sight in front of you.
”Do you think they suffered?” you softly asked, almost unsure if it was even your voice you heard.
“I hope not,” Fitzjames said. “But I do not think they were that lucky.”
You looked up at him, a frown on your lips. There wasn't a thing you could say to make this better. James had attempted to bring some happiness to the men before sharing the news of leaving the ships for good—that wintering another year was out of the question and that everyone needed to be ready. But how do you bring happiness when such disaster continued to strike them further into the ice?
Fitzjames hadn't looked away from the remains for a solid minute before he turned to you. "Have you seen Captain Crozier?"
"Yes sir," you answered. "He was with Lieutenant Little over by the—"
"—tell him that I will meet him at the ships. We need to get a move on."
At his interruption, you paused but nodded in understanding. "Yes sir."
"Now, if you wouldn't mind."
You did not answer this time, watching as he made his way back to the ships. Guilt followed his steps, burning his footprints into the very ice beneath him. He could not blame himself for this disaster, but who's fault was it? He had planned this—had created a way for the men to be happy and ignore the issue at hand. Much like many of the men, though, he knew that there was no ignoring this. There was no ignoring the fact that they had been abandoned. No one was coming to save them. They had to save themselves—he and Captain Crozier had to save their men.
—
Nearly an hour later, you were following Captain Crozier to the ships. Lieutenant Little had gone off to do God knows what—you hadn't caught the orders Crozier gave him before he parted. Crozier had ordered you to go along with him, giving a task to Jopson to gather his final things that he hadn't thought to bring along. The ships would be abandoned soon enough. Memories of tension and irrefutable moments lingered. Wooden walls closed in the further you walked through the Terror to Crozier's quarters.
Sir John Franklin's sermons and words of encouragement had long since vanished. It was a world away—nearly a century ago that you had last heard words from such a dedicated man. His dedication only went so far, disappearing the moment death had strung him along.
As Crozier and Fitzjames began to speak to one another in what seemed to be the last time any conversation would be held in this godforsaken room, you eyed the books on the shelves. The decor that Franklin had pinned to the walls years prior. Time had warped your memories. Time had changed the way you held yourself, the way you breathed. You were unlike Lieutenant Little who remained a dedicated officer; you were unlike Captain Crozier who kept a steady head on his shoulders as long as he stayed away from the bottle. You were unlike Jopson, whom you quite liked—kind, loyal, irrefutably one of the best stewards to ever grace this ship's hallowed halls. But what were you? A steward who followed James Fitzjames like a lost puppy, waiting for your next order. A steward who was steadily losing what it meant to be a moral human. Someone who was counting the days until they would be saved, whether by death or the rescue party sent out many months prior.
Death would be a kind release.
You heard your name once. It caught your attention the first time, which it typically did—it did not matter how many times you found yourself lost in your thoughts. Fitzjames' voice always brought you out of it.
"Let us go, now," he said. "We need to finish preparing to leave."
You gave a small, hesitant nod. Had James looked away a moment prior, he would have missed it. But something within him urged him to continue to look at you, eyes scanning your features in the way that only Fitzjames could. He knew you quite well—it scared you as much as it scared him.
"Are you alright?" he asked, adjusting his gloves as he watched you.
"Yes. I think so."
He hummed softly, raising a slight brow. He said nothing more of it and said goodbye to Crozier, who had a few more things to finalize before they left the ships for good. The Captain's log wouldn't write itself...
You followed after Fitzjames, your body forcing your feet to move. Your mind knew you should move while your heart wished you would stop. Perhaps it would be soon.
Fitzjames looked back at you as the two of you climbed up to the deck. "You've been quiet," he said, your name soft on his lips. If any on this ship had been your friend, it would have been him. "What's on your mind?"
Your gaze was enough of an answer.
"Badly worded," he said. "I apologize. But the question still remains. We've time yet, and we will make it."
It seemed as if he was trying to convince himself as much as he was you.
"Truly, Captain, that cannot be what you think."
He paused, turning to face you completely. "Once we start thinking that way, there is no telling what will happen."
"Maybe," you huffed, looking away from him.
"Well... I am not dying, yet," the man said. "Perhaps that is enough for me to keep going. I will return to England. I must."
"Must you?" you countered, although the bite of your words did not quite match your quiet, tired voice. "What if we do not return home?"
"Then we will deal with that once we cross it," Fitzjames supplied. "It is only a matter of time before we see what God plans to do with us. And I..."
Your eyes flickered to his.
"I'd like to believe we have a chance to make it out of this."
You are silent for a moment before you nodded. "Yes. It would be a nice thought, would it not?"
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