Royal Navy&#x27;s Best

"Blasted thing—" James mutters, smacking his cell. "The further we travel from the ships, the worse the signal gets. No post can get through."

He pauses, reconsidering for a long second, hands on his hips, staring out into the void. He clicks his tongue, then starts walking again.

"Charles," he says, looking at @thebestcharles. He hates to ask this, but seeing as he has no other choice, turns to his current confidante and says, "Do you reckon this a suicide mission?"

Goodsir's expression shifts from determination to horror. Erebus has mutinied?

"No, that can't be. The Erebites are good men. They would never--"

Even as he speaks, the look in his eyes is one of bitter acceptance. He closes them, weeps for a moment, wipes his eyes so that they don't freeze shut.

"They are good men..."

What would have become of Harry, had he stayed? What would have happened to him if he never went to Terror? Would he be alive, or would he have been shot?

Held prisoner, he can only assume.

Maybe his love for Irving had saved him.

James slides his cell back into his greatcoat and puts his arm around Harry's shoulders, viewers be damned. He squeezes him gently to him, then says, changing his narrative again, seeing now that Harry cares as much as he does,

"They're not all lost, dear," James says, voice softening. "I'm sure something can be done. But not now. Now we have this mission, these men to save, and what will come after, will come after." He drops his hand off Harry's shoulders. "They just... need to be guided back to their place again. Lost sheep, that's all. I am sure something can be done."

He gives a smile, though he's not so sure how well Harry can see it in all this gathering dark that clusters around the wan light of Harry's lantern.

He can feel Mr. Best watching them.

Goodsir, despite not being an especially small man, seems almost dwarfed as he wraps himself in the coat. "It is...terrible. So terrible. I feel guilty."

"Guilty?" James asks. "For what? None of this was your fault."

If anything, it was mine, he wants to add, but he refuses to make himself look weak in front of Harry and in front of Mr. Best.

"The men have simply been cooped up in the dark and the cold for too long. They had to find someone to blame, so that someone was me because I am authority, and therefore, the reason for why everything is done the way it's done."

It is clear in Goodsir's countenance that he does not feel comforted, but he doesn't say anything about it. Perhaps he just doesn't want to argue with James in front of one of his men?

#terror rp #//ooc just short; i think it's a good place to stop unless you wanna add more!!!#//ooc best has nothing to say. he is the homophobic dog

James smiles, glad to see Harry understands, then squeezes his shoulder again.

"I am glad for your company, doctor," he says.

"Blasted thing—" James mutters, smacking his cell. "The further we travel from the ships, the worse the signal gets. No post can get through."

He pauses, reconsidering for a long second, hands on his hips, staring out into the void. He clicks his tongue, then starts walking again.

"Charles," he says, looking at @thebestcharles. He hates to ask this, but seeing as he has no other choice, turns to his current confidante and says, "Do you reckon this a suicide mission?"

Goodsir's expression shifts from determination to horror. Erebus has mutinied?

"No, that can't be. The Erebites are good men. They would never--"

Even as he speaks, the look in his eyes is one of bitter acceptance. He closes them, weeps for a moment, wipes his eyes so that they don't freeze shut.

"They are good men..."

What would have become of Harry, had he stayed? What would have happened to him if he never went to Terror? Would he be alive, or would he have been shot?

Held prisoner, he can only assume.

Maybe his love for Irving had saved him.

James slides his cell back into his greatcoat and puts his arm around Harry's shoulders, viewers be damned. He squeezes him gently to him, then says, changing his narrative again, seeing now that Harry cares as much as he does,

"They're not all lost, dear," James says, voice softening. "I'm sure something can be done. But not now. Now we have this mission, these men to save, and what will come after, will come after." He drops his hand off Harry's shoulders. "They just... need to be guided back to their place again. Lost sheep, that's all. I am sure something can be done."

He gives a smile, though he's not so sure how well Harry can see it in all this gathering dark that clusters around the wan light of Harry's lantern.

He can feel Mr. Best watching them.

Goodsir, despite not being an especially small man, seems almost dwarfed as he wraps himself in the coat. "It is...terrible. So terrible. I feel guilty."

"Guilty?" James asks. "For what? None of this was your fault."

If anything, it was mine, he wants to add, but he refuses to make himself look weak in front of Harry and in front of Mr. Best.

"The men have simply been cooped up in the dark and the cold for too long. They had to find someone to blame, so that someone was me because I am authority, and therefore, the reason for why everything is done the way it's done."

"Blasted thing—" James mutters, smacking his cell. "The further we travel from the ships, the worse the signal gets. No post can get through."

He pauses, reconsidering for a long second, hands on his hips, staring out into the void. He clicks his tongue, then starts walking again.

"Charles," he says, looking at @thebestcharles. He hates to ask this, but seeing as he has no other choice, turns to his current confidante and says, "Do you reckon this a suicide mission?"

Goodsir's expression shifts from determination to horror. Erebus has mutinied?

"No, that can't be. The Erebites are good men. They would never--"

Even as he speaks, the look in his eyes is one of bitter acceptance. He closes them, weeps for a moment, wipes his eyes so that they don't freeze shut.

"They are good men..."

What would have become of Harry, had he stayed? What would have happened to him if he never went to Terror? Would he be alive, or would he have been shot?

Held prisoner, he can only assume.

Maybe his love for Irving had saved him.

James slides his cell back into his greatcoat and puts his arm around Harry's shoulders, viewers be damned. He squeezes him gently to him, then says, changing his narrative again, seeing now that Harry cares as much as he does,

"They're not all lost, dear," James says, voice softening. "I'm sure something can be done. But not now. Now we have this mission, these men to save, and what will come after, will come after." He drops his hand off Harry's shoulders. "They just... need to be guided back to their place again. Lost sheep, that's all. I am sure something can be done."

He gives a smile, though he's not so sure how well Harry can see it in all this gathering dark that clusters around the wan light of Harry's lantern.

He can feel Mr. Best watching them.

#terror rp #//ooc answering this in 3rd person pov coz it's just too fucking funny

Sir, perhaps, in order to stay warm, we should shave Goodsir and use his hair for insulation

James receives this message, the only message that comes through, and immediately locks eyes with Mr. Best, squinting at him. Mr. Best shrugs.

'is there.... something i should know about, captain?' Mr. Best asks.

James just slowly flips his cell open and prints:

Mr. Best, if this was you, know that I don't appreciate these types of letters in my inbox. There are very serious problems at hand here.

He sends the letter reply and raises his eyebrows at Mr. Best again, and the boy just shrinks into himself, shrugs.

'Sorry if i did something wrong, Captain,' Mr. Best replies, having no fucking clue what Captain Fitzjames is making faces at him for. Does he know that I doubt him???

James just sighs and turns and keeps walking.

"Blasted thing—" James mutters, smacking his cell. "The further we travel from the ships, the worse the signal gets. No post can get through."

He pauses, reconsidering for a long second, hands on his hips, staring out into the void. He clicks his tongue, then starts walking again.

"Charles," he says, looking at @thebestcharles. He hates to ask this, but seeing as he has no other choice, turns to his current confidante and says, "Do you reckon this a suicide mission?"

Charles sighs. Yes, he thinks, it most definitely is. But it is not his place to say.

"I'm merely walking this direction," he says with a shrug. "Suicide mission or not, Captain, if you don't mind my saying, I think you're too hell-bent on finding them to care much at all whether this will kill you or not."

Commendable, he wants to say, but doesn't.

James nods. The boy is right. There is no way in hell he's turning back now, and no way in hell he's asking that demon Crozier for help, much as he wants to.

Much as he's afraid.

Much as he knows this won't work.

~~~

After another long while of walking, maybe an hour, maybe more, Mr. Best shifts next to him, pointing out a figure on the ice. James squints through the dark, his heartbeat quickening in his chest. Maybe, by sheer goddamned luck, just maybe, he's found them.

But it's just one man, approaching them, and as he comes closer, with lantern light nonetheless, James sees with a good amount of disappointment it is only Harry @erebusanatomist48 (though his heartbeat quickens in a different way at the sight of him, feeling all-too-warm, breaking into a smile as he locks eyes with him). Before he can stop himself, he's saying,

"Oh, Harry, dear, am I glad to see you—" a shocking display of emotional honesty he should have tried harder to hide, and then—"Whatever are you doing on the ice? I was told you were safe on the Terror."

He's very aware of the way Mr. Best is watching the both of them, and he forces himself not to take Harry by the hands.

"Nothing I should be, Captain," Said Goodsir, waddling up to stand beside them. "There are three more doctors in the ships. The mutineers have none. I know what I am doing is grounds for lashing or hanging, and we may already be too late, but I would rather be punished for trying than to live with the shame of doing nothing."

James isn't glad to see him. He isn't glad to add one more life to the list of lives that could lost. And he isn't that glad he disobeyed Crozier's order, even though he knows he was planning to do the same. But he is glad to have a doctor, and he is glad to have someone he knows cares on his side. Someone in case Mr. Best turns on him, and yet another man to add to the group so it isn't just seven against one.

James sighs, heavily. Harry isn't wrong.

"The Erebus has mutinied, doctor," he says. "They exiled me, and shot at me as I ran, though I evaded their bullets and am not currently injured." He clasps Mr. Best on the shoulder. "Mr. Charles Best here, able seaman, was so kind as to join me in pursuit of what I believe is the only option we have now—finding those mutineers and saving our men." He starts walking, clicks his tongue. "Vile animals, those men on the Erebus, the lot of them. They do not understand the importance of hierarchy or command." James sighs, shakes his head. "I meant to tell Captain Crozier of the mutiny, but my letters were not able to be sent. As long as they decide not to take the Terror, it shouldn't be our biggest concern." He sighs again, pushes closer to the doctor, not ashamed to admit he's seeking his heat and his company like it's the last thing keeping him alive here. "I'm positive we will find those mutineers. Mr. Best here is an excellent navigator."

"Blasted thing—" James mutters, smacking his cell. "The further we travel from the ships, the worse the signal gets. No post can get through."

He pauses, reconsidering for a long second, hands on his hips, staring out into the void. He clicks his tongue, then starts walking again.

"Charles," he says, looking at @thebestcharles. He hates to ask this, but seeing as he has no other choice, turns to his current confidante and says, "Do you reckon this a suicide mission?"

Charles sighs. Yes, he thinks, it most definitely is. But it is not his place to say.

"I'm merely walking this direction," he says with a shrug. "Suicide mission or not, Captain, if you don't mind my saying, I think you're too hell-bent on finding them to care much at all whether this will kill you or not."

Commendable, he wants to say, but doesn't.

James nods. The boy is right. There is no way in hell he's turning back now, and no way in hell he's asking that demon Crozier for help, much as he wants to.

Much as he's afraid.

Much as he knows this won't work.

~~~

After another long while of walking, maybe an hour, maybe more, Mr. Best shifts next to him, pointing out a figure on the ice. James squints through the dark, his heartbeat quickening in his chest. Maybe, by sheer goddamned luck, just maybe, he's found them.

But it's just one man, approaching them, and as he comes closer, with lantern light nonetheless, James sees with a good amount of disappointment it is only Harry @erebusanatomist48 (though his heartbeat quickens in a different way at the sight of him, feeling all-too-warm, breaking into a smile as he locks eyes with him). Before he can stop himself, he's saying,

"Oh, Harry, dear, am I glad to see you—" a shocking display of emotional honesty he should have tried harder to hide, and then—"Whatever are you doing on the ice? I was told you were safe on the Terror."

He's very aware of the way Mr. Best is watching the both of them, and he forces himself not to take Harry by the hands.

"Blasted thing—" James mutters, smacking his cell. "The further we travel from the ships, the worse the signal gets. No post can get through."

He pauses, reconsidering for a long second, hands on his hips, staring out into the void. He clicks his tongue, then starts walking again.

"Charles," he says, looking at @thebestcharles. He hates to ask this, but seeing as he has no other choice, turns to his current confidante and says, "Do you reckon this a suicide mission?"

Jeames I think I’ve got something.

I’ll brief you in the command meeting tomorrow before we go out to find those lost men. (We are going to find them.)

Small detail: How many peaches are aboard Erebus? Sounds cockdumb I know but i need the figure. answer quickly.

yours in command,

Crozier

apologie— answer unknown— DO NOT— erebus is—

James heads out, down and out, onto the ice, alone, with nothing but the slops on his back, empty-handed. He knows they've sentenced him to death doing this, and by the time he's far enough away from the Erebus, he's exhausted and out of breath and seeing double and so so so very tired.

No matter, he thinks. No matter. He's on the ice, just as he wanted. He'll find those mutineers, he thinks. Somehow. Blindly. Who the hell knows. But he'll find them. Come hell or high water, he'll find them, if it's the last thing he'll do.

He walks for what feels like an hour, he doesn't know, when he hears footsteps behind him.

Charles doesn't know how he does it, but he does it. Sneaks out, even though the watch is doubled. He has a path he treks around the ship when he gets bored and pent up, he knows his way around, he knows all the little hidey holes and nooks and crannies, all her blind spots. It's how he's kept himself occupied—that, and reading every book he can get his hands on (Mr. Bridgens has been a great help in furthering this goal). He knows he'll be cast out and trialed and even hung in some court martial for this, but after Gore had died the first time, and Charles had come back with the straggling remains of that group, exhausted and scared and tired, Sir John had kept him talking, kept prodding him with questions, and it had been Captain Fitzjames who had said, 'let the boy rest,' before Charles had collapsed, and it had been Captain Fitzjames who had come to check on him, so it was Captain Fitzjames Charles was loyal to.

He has a gun in hand; Captain Fitzjames had just sent Mr. Couch below to access the armory, and the guns were being passed out when mutiny broke out on the top deck. Charles had taken the moment to slip out, though he knew he didn't have enough powder, though he knew he was a shit shot, though he knew there was no way in hell he'd find his way out here without getting lost, though he knew joining Captain Fitzjames doomed him to a slow icey death.

But he'd had enough. Better die out here, at his captain's side, than on that stinking, dark hell of a ship with all those whispers and that all-permeating stink of fear and hate, all that swirling, festering doubt. The men had a point, this he knew, but they were wrong, too.

Command was there for a reason.

Captain Fitzjames turns, a flash of fury crossing his eyes, and Charles throws his hands up.

"It's me, sir," he calls out quickly. "Charles Best, sir."

James squints at the man—boy?—in front of him. Charles Best, he thinks, who he'd chosen for this mission.

"Mr. Best," he says, acutely aware of the vast gap in rank and class that stands between them. "You should turn back to the ship. They will have you shot if you are found on the ice."

Charles shifts a bit, then shrugs. Captain Fitzjames starts walking again, and Charles gathers the rifle on his shoulder and hurries after him, trying to keep pace, though by Captain Fitzjames's stride, it seems he's attempting desperately to lose him.

"If you don't mind my candor, sir," Charles starts, out of breath now, but trying desperately still to keep stride, "I wanted to give you a little bit more of a fighting chance, in case you were to encounter the beast out here." He takes a second, takes Captain Firzjames's silence as encouragement to continue, and adds, "Plus, though I can't speak for the others, I can speak for myself when I say that I am on your side, not the mutineers' side. We would not want to lose our Captain, sir."

James stops, and Mr. Best practically crashes into him as he does so. James tilts his head at the boy in front of him.

"You would not," he says, and he considers his options carefully as he watches the boy. He'd love to have his support. In fact, he needs his support. But Captain Crozier was correct when he said no more lives needed to be lost. And Mr. Best being here is yet another life that could be lost, and an all-too young one at that. James must send him back, whatever the cost. "I disobeyed orders, Charles. They were right. I am no captain of theirs, nor no captain of yours. Turn back now, before they notice you're gone. I am getting my due."

Captain Fitzjames starts walking again, and Charles hesitates, almost considering it, then giving up entirely and following Captain Fitzjames again.

The captain glances back at him with a squinty, steely look, but before he can utter another word, Charles simply says,

"Then I am not following you as subject to king. Consider this being a coincidence instead. I merely happen to be at the same place you are, walking the same direction you are, for motives completely my own, not bound to any instruction or loyalty."

A brief pause, then he adds,

"And if I do happen to fire this gun and save your life, consider it done for selfish means in an attempt merely to save my own."

James's eyes narrow further, and he shoves his gloved hands deep into his slops. The boy has a point. And he is much too tired to argue.

Much too tired and much too scared and well... company is welcome now.

After a bit, he attempts a question,

"Charles—" using his Christian name in favor of erasing rank, for the time being, as that is how Mr. Best wants this conversation played, and James figures it best to be on the boy's good side— "if you don't mind my asking you, do you know if it is possible to figure out if the direction we are going in is the right one?"

Charles stifles a smile. He would not want the captain see that his plan is working. He processes the question, and now it's his turn to squint.

"I thought you were following the tracks," he says, sidling up next to Captain Fitzjames so he can see where Charles is pointing, a barely visible groove of lines, so faintly seen under the rapidly gathering fresh snow.

James had not seen the tracks. He had not seen anything really. He was just walking blindly into the dark, away from the ship, perhaps following the vague general direction he'd seen Graham disappear into. He can barely see any tracks now, and he is a bit impressed that this Mr. Best could. He clears his throat, nods.

"I was," he says, "You're right," and he glances skyward, towards the black void of cloud-cover, no sign of stars, then thinks on the fact that the compasses don't work out here, and realizes with a deep, sinking feeling that they are totally and entirely doomed, and that Crozier, after all, had been right.

This was a suicide mission from the start, and he had planned to take three men down with him.

James heads out, down and out, onto the ice, alone, with nothing but the slops on his back, empty-handed. He knows they've sentenced him to death doing this, and by the time he's far enough away from the Erebus, he's exhausted and out of breath and seeing double and so so so very tired.

No matter, he thinks. No matter. He's on the ice, just as he wanted. He'll find those mutineers, he thinks. Somehow. Blindly. Who the hell knows. But he'll find them. Come hell or high water, he'll find them, if it's the last thing he'll do.

He walks for what feels like an hour, he doesn't know, when he hears footsteps behind him.

Charles doesn't know how he does it, but he does it. Sneaks out, even though the watch is doubled. He has a path he treks around the ship when he gets bored and pent up, he knows his way around, he knows all the little hidey holes and nooks and crannies, all her blind spots. It's how he's kept himself occupied—that, and reading every book he can get his hands on (Mr. Bridgens has been a great help in furthering this goal). He knows he'll be cast out and trialed and even hung in some court martial for this, but after Gore had died the first time, and Charles had come back with the straggling remains of that group, exhausted and scared and tired, Sir John had kept him talking, kept prodding him with questions, and it had been Captain Fitzjames who had said, 'let the boy rest,' before Charles had collapsed, and it had been Captain Fitzjames who had come to check on him, so it was Captain Fitzjames Charles was loyal to.

He has a gun in hand; Captain Fitzjames had just sent Mr. Couch below to access the armory, and the guns were being passed out when mutiny broke out on the top deck. Charles had taken the moment to slip out, though he knew he didn't have enough powder, though he knew he was a shit shot, though he knew there was no way in hell he'd find his way out here without getting lost, though he knew joining Captain Fitzjames doomed him to a slow icey death.

But he'd had enough. Better die out here, at his captain's side, than on that stinking, dark hell of a ship with all those whispers and that all-permeating stink of fear and hate, all that swirling, festering doubt. The men had a point, this he knew, but they were wrong, too.

Command was there for a reason.

Captain Fitzjames turns, a flash of fury crossing his eyes, and Charles throws his hands up.

"It's me, sir," he calls out quickly. "Charles Best, sir."

James squints at the man—boy?—in front of him. Charles Best, he thinks, who he'd chosen for this mission.

"Mr. Best," he says, acutely aware of the vast gap in rank and class that stands between them. "You should turn back to the ship. They will have you shot if you are found on the ice."

Charles shifts a bit, then shrugs. Captain Fitzjames starts walking again, and Charles gathers the rifle on his shoulder and hurries after him, trying to keep pace, though by Captain Fitzjames's stride, it seems he's attempting desperately to lose him.

"If you don't mind my candor, sir," Charles starts, out of breath now, but trying desperately still to keep stride, "I wanted to give you a little bit more of a fighting chance, in case you were to encounter the beast out here." He takes a second, takes Captain Firzjames's silence as encouragement to continue, and adds, "Plus, though I can't speak for the others, I can speak for myself when I say that I am on your side, not the mutineers' side. We would not want to lose our Captain, sir."

James stops, and Mr. Best practically crashes into him as he does so. James tilts his head at the boy in front of him.

"You would not," he says, and he considers his options carefully as he watches the boy. He'd love to have his support. In fact, he needs his support. But Captain Crozier was correct when he said no more lives needed to be lost. And Mr. Best being here is yet another life that could be lost, and an all-too young one at that. James must send him back, whatever the cost. "I disobeyed orders, Charles. They were right. I am no captain of theirs, nor no captain of yours. Turn back now, before they notice you're gone. I am getting my due."

Captain Fitzjames starts walking again, and Charles hesitates, almost considering it, then giving up entirely and following Captain Fitzjames again.

The captain glances back at him with a squinty, steely look, but before he can utter another word, Charles simply says,

"Then I am not following you as subject to king. Consider this being a coincidence instead. I merely happen to be at the same place you are, walking the same direction you are, for motives completely my own, not bound to any instruction or loyalty."

A brief pause, then he adds,

"And if I do happen to fire this gun and save your life, consider it done for selfish means in an attempt merely to save my own."

James's eyes narrow further, and he shoves his gloved hands deep into his slops. The boy has a point. And he is much too tired to argue.

Much too tired and much too scared and well... company is welcome now.

After a bit, he attempts a question,

"Charles—" using his Christian name in favor of erasing rank, for the time being, as that is how Mr. Best wants this conversation played, and James figures it best to be on the boy's good side— "if you don't mind my asking you, do you know if it is possible to figure out if the direction we are going in is the right one?"

James heads out, down and out, onto the ice, alone, with nothing but the slops on his back, empty-handed. He knows they've sentenced him to death doing this, and by the time he's far enough away from the Erebus, he's exhausted and out of breath and seeing double and so so so very tired.

No matter, he thinks. No matter. He's on the ice, just as he wanted. He'll find those mutineers, he thinks. Somehow. Blindly. Who the hell knows. But he'll find them. Come hell or high water, he'll find them, if it's the last thing he'll do.

He walks for what feels like an hour, he doesn't know, when he hears footsteps behind him.

Charles doesn't know how he does it, but he does it. Sneaks out, even though the watch is doubled. He has a path he treks around the ship when he gets bored and pent up, he knows his way around, he knows all the little hidey holes and nooks and crannies, all her blind spots. It's how he's kept himself occupied—that, and reading every book he can get his hands on (Mr. Bridgens has been a great help in furthering this goal). He knows he'll be cast out and trialed and even hung in some court martial for this, but after Gore had died the first time, and Charles had come back with the straggling remains of that group, exhausted and scared and tired, Sir John had kept him talking, kept prodding him with questions, and it had been Captain Fitzjames who had said, 'let the boy rest,' before Charles had collapsed, and it had been Captain Fitzjames who had come to check on him, so it was Captain Fitzjames Charles was loyal to.

He has a gun in hand; Captain Fitzjames had just sent Mr. Couch below to access the armory, and the guns were being passed out when mutiny broke out on the top deck. Charles had taken the moment to slip out, though he knew he didn't have enough powder, though he knew he was a shit shot, though he knew there was no way in hell he'd find his way out here without getting lost, though he knew joining Captain Fitzjames doomed him to a slow icey death.

But he'd had enough. Better die out here, at his captain's side, than on that stinking, dark hell of a ship with all those whispers and that all-permeating stink of fear and hate, all that swirling, festering doubt. The men had a point, this he knew, but they were wrong, too.

Command was there for a reason.

Captain Fitzjames turns, a flash of fury crossing his eyes, and Charles throws his hands up.

"It's me, sir," he calls out quickly. "Charles Best, sir."

James squints at the man—boy?—in front of him. Charles Best, he thinks, who he'd chosen for this mission.

"Mr. Best," he says, acutely aware of the vast gap in rank and class that stands between them. "You should turn back to the ship. They will have you shot if you are found on the ice."

Charles shifts a bit, then shrugs. Captain Fitzjames starts walking again, and Charles gathers the rifle on his shoulder and hurries after him, trying to keep pace, though by Captain Fitzjames's stride, it seems he's attempting desperately to lose him.

"If you don't mind my candor, sir," Charles starts, out of breath now, but trying desperately still to keep stride, "I wanted to give you a little bit more of a fighting chance, in case you were to encounter the beast out here." He takes a second, takes Captain Firzjames's silence as encouragement to continue, and adds, "Plus, though I can't speak for the others, I can speak for myself when I say that I am on your side, not the mutineers' side. We would not want to lose our Captain, sir."

James stops, and Mr. Best practically crashes into him as he does so. James tilts his head at the boy in front of him.

"You would not," he says, and he considers his options carefully as he watches the boy. He'd love to have his support. In fact, he needs his support. But Captain Crozier was correct when he said no more lives needed to be lost. And Mr. Best being here is yet another life that could be lost, and an all-too young one at that. James must send him back, whatever the cost. "I disobeyed orders, Charles. They were right. I am no captain of theirs, nor no captain of yours. Turn back now, before they notice you're gone. I am getting my due."

James heads out, down and out, onto the ice, alone, with nothing but the slops on his back, empty-handed. He knows they've sentenced him to death doing this, and by the time he's far enough away from the Erebus, he's exhausted and out of breath and seeing double and so so so very tired.

No matter, he thinks. No matter. He's on the ice, just as he wanted. He'll find those mutineers, he thinks. Somehow. Blindly. Who the hell knows. But he'll find them. Come hell or high water, he'll find them, if it's the last thing he'll do.

He walks for what feels like an hour, he doesn't know, when he hears footsteps behind him.

Charles doesn't know how he does it, but he does it. Sneaks out, even though the watch is doubled. He has a path he treks around the ship when he gets bored and pent up, he knows his way around, he knows all the little hidey holes and nooks and crannies, all her blind spots. It's how he's kept himself occupied—that, and reading every book he can get his hands on (Mr. Bridgens has been a great help in furthering this goal). He knows he'll be cast out and trialed and even hung in some court martial for this, but after Gore had died the first time, and Charles had come back with the straggling remains of that group, exhausted and scared and tired, Sir John had kept him talking, kept prodding him with questions, and it had been Captain Fitzjames who had said, 'let the boy rest,' before Charles had collapsed, and it had been Captain Fitzjames who had come to check on him, so it was Captain Fitzjames Charles was loyal to.

He has a gun in hand; Captain Fitzjames had just sent Mr. Couch below to access the armory, and the guns were being passed out when mutiny broke out on the top deck. Charles had taken the moment to slip out, though he knew he didn't have enough powder, though he knew he was a shit shot, though he knew there was no way in hell he'd find his way out here without getting lost, though he knew joining Captain Fitzjames doomed him to a slow icey death.

But he'd had enough. Better die out here, at his captain's side, than on that stinking, dark hell of a ship with all those whispers and that all-permeating stink of fear and hate, all that swirling, festering doubt. The men had a point, this he knew, but they were wrong, too.

Command was there for a reason.

Captain Fitzjames turns, a flash of fury crossing his eyes, and Charles throws his hands up.

"It's me, sir," he calls out quickly. "Charles Best, sir."

James squints at the man—boy?—in front of him. Charles Best, he thinks, who he'd chosen for this mission.

"Mr. Best," he says, acutely aware of the vast gap in rank and class that stands between them. "You should turn back to the ship. They will have you shot if you are found on the ice."