EVENING OF 12TH JULY. THE OFFICER’S DINNER. / ORIGIN. for @intrepidim.
old man, augustus dares to scoff within the private insolence of his mind. what do you know of what mistakes i’ve made culminating here in this moment of my most exquisite misery? i could be amongst the crew having a proper old time of revelry and wicked liveliness and not this suffocating display of politics and military ritual masquerading as a banquet. alas, my inclination for reckless self-immolation and the declaration of civil war with the half of my own soul that walks about this ship, has ensnared me.
“my mouth is what got me into this mess in the first place,” augustus mutters darkly, storm-weathered eyes boring into the champagne glass in his hand as if it is the root cause of all his suffering. my name, too, he thinks bitterly, ears still ringing with affront and beyond that, incapacitating regret. a foreign feeling, one that sunk within him like an anchor to the bowels of the sea. “forgive me, sir, but when you were young scotland likely still had sovereignty.” demure, and skirting the very extremity of impertinence, he chances a wry smirk from behind the rim of his glass. “isn’t the point of being a good man not to make mistakes?”