A/N: Procrastination devoured me. I haven’t written anything for eons.
“The C the C the open C…” Peglar whispered inside his cabin as he stared into his diary.
Although he had spent time only on sea for the past two years, it felt like ages since the last time he witnessed the enchanting sea that lured him into a life as a seaman.
The glittering blue that sang him lullaby as he sat under the pale sunlight. The roaring thunder that pounded against the quiet shore-- he hadn’t seen either of those in months. There hadn’t been much to do and see amidst this dreadful white world.
“It grew so fresh the ever free…”
His fingers brushed across the words he wrote months ago. The rough texture of the paper reminded him of when he brushed his finger across Bridgens frozen cheeks while there was no one around them, inside the labyrinth of ice, beneath the thin sunlight. He could not feel a thing with his numb hands, nor had John felt his touch with his iced face, but he imagined this was what his cheeks would feel like.
Suddenly he quivered. Not out of the coldness that constantly dwelled below deck, nor the intermittent moan of the ship, but a sudden terror slipping into his already dampened skin, as he remembered a poem from Sappho.
But thou shalt ever lie dead,
nor shall there be any remembrance of thee then or thereafter,
for thou hast not of the roses of Pieria;
but thou shalt wander obscure even in the house of Hades,
flitting among the shadowy dead.
He lied down to ease the agony spreading across his knuckles, the pain that continued to remind their predicament. He started to breathe slowly and focus on the rhythm. Nowadays every physical activity had become laborious. But that didn’t seem to be the case for his dear friend Bridgens. That old man strolled across the deck with his swift feet. The weary appearance beneath his already pale hair, covered in frost, always greeted Peglar with the warmest smile that could melt his trouble away. Bridgens existence was the ineffable source of illumination in this world of darkness.
His lips curved slightly. These days the mere thought of Bridgens would calm him down. He liked to look back to those days when he would visit Bridgens at his home for, for whatever reason he came up with. The long nights they spent reading poems written in words once foreign to him. How those wise and radiant eyes beamed in the semi darkness across the flickering candle between them.
When was that, he tried to remember, when they set sail under the broad sky in the Southern hemisphere, when they set foot on those petite islands full of peculiar species? He remembered his nonchalant attitude towards the rumours about Bridgens. Then they grew close with each other after the voyage with the Beagle.
Yes, he remembers, the southern sky, borderless and blue. Or maybe it was pale? Like the sky he’s staring at now, pale and dull like the scenery he had been gazing for the past two years. His mind wanders in the bloody mist. Has it been two years? Or more?
A pain strikes into his guts, he wants to scream. But he holds it in, with only an imperceivable moan escapes his withered lips. Warmth surrounding him, it reminds him of the countless nights he curled up in his cabin, with his tattered notebook in hand.
Writing and reading, he learned those from Bridgens. And now he couldn’t have survived this far in the eternal darkness without them.
the ever free
Someone has turned off the sun, at least it is what he imagines, as his vision grows dimmer. The pain has gone. Or has it? He could not tell anymore. All he knows is that he wants to sleep. A good night’s sleep, is what he has yearned for, albeit having the experience of spending days in darkness with nothing to do. He recalls that day they spent in the white maze. His hand on Bridgens cheeks. He wishes he could have gone further.
