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When the fog cleared and they burned the rest, they buried Lt. John Irving in a grave of rocks with a maths medal and a few lines spoken from a dog-eared page of his bible. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. But Edward could find no comfort in the following days as they kept walking, walking and walking away from John and the mutineers and the burned bodies of the dead and the ships. He felt neither God nor the Devil here, only ever the cold and his aching bones.
The Captain put Thomas in charge of the personal things of the dead, the things they had taken with them from the ship to this place. Important things. The only things left of men whose bodies were burnt on the shale. They handed them off to who each dead man would have called a friend. Thomas handed Edward John’s bundle and a gloved hand slid over his own as he took it, intended to comfort.
They buried him with the medal because John once told Edward how he kept it with him to remind him of home. He should have that, even now. The rest, a gold-chained pocket watch and the well-loved bible, found a place among Edward’s own belongings. He kept the gold chain wound tight between his fingers as they hauled and still in the night as he lied on the rocks and tried to sleep. Alone in his sack, he wanted to think only of John’s lips moving in prayer, his hand on the cross around his neck, his eyes alight when he spoke passionately.
The flap of the tent opened and Edward heard Thomas enter. It was Thomas because there was no one else. George was gone and John was dead.
“Lt. LeVesconte relieved me. He requested watch again tonight,” Thomas said. Edward heard him undressing. Coat, Welsh wig, and boots. He was lying in his sack with his back to Thomas but they both knew that sleep did not come so easy now, even when they were so very tired.
“Henry thinks it better to be alone when…” Edward's whisper trailed off.
“When Captain Fitzjames dies,” Thomas finished the sentence Edward found too hard to say. Though no one had said it plainly, that was what they were waiting for... Their handsome dashing captain would not last the week and they could not wait a week. Henry resigned himself to visits with Fitzjames and walking the perimeter alone.
Thomas slipped into the sack along Edward’s back close enough that Edward could feel his every movement rustling the furs.
“I’m sorry,”
“For what?” Thomas’s accent was rough in the way many of the men's were but still, it felt distinct to Edward. Maybe it was his tone, with the command and care of an officer. Maybe it was having the words spoken hot against the back of his neck.
“My words this morning,” He breathed deeply. “You and the Captain are right. We shan’t leave anyone behind. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Edward,” Thomas had sounded angry this morning. Now he only sounded sad. His hand moved beneath the covers and found Edward’s own, fingers entwined with John’s watch chain. He ran his thumb over the links in the chain pressing them lightly into Edward’s knuckles. He could feel each link. “You were thinking that you want to get home. We all want to get home. The sick, they want to get home. We’ve already lost so many.”
During the day, the cold and the white sky and the white ground faded and all he saw was John scalped, his chest and belly gouged. At night his body ached on the stones and in the darkness he saw John’s insides exposed and his bits hacked off.
Edward nodded.
“Roll over, Edward,” Thomas said, his voice taking on a steadying tone. Edward did as he said and turned so that he was looking Thomas in the face. Even in the dark Thomas’s light eyes shone like the sea in the moonlight. Thomas still had Edward’s hand in his and he brought it to his chest. He felt each breath and each heartbeat against his hand. The other found Thomas’s cheek. Thomas was sicker than he was. His breath was labored, rattling his ribcage, skin clammy under Edward’s touch. When his mouth found Thomas’s it tasted of blood. But Thomas was stronger than him.
For thou art with me… comfort me.
He had John’s Bible and his own in his pack. Neither he’d opened since they began this leg of their journey. He only found solace with Thomas’s body pressed against his. And that he did not deserve.
Edward was a weak man and Thomas knew that.
“Love...” He choked out against Thomas’ jaw when they broke apart. He tucked his face into Thomas’s neck. He felt the tears at the back of his throat and clenched his jaw, pursed his lips. Thomas combed a hand through his hair.
“It's alright,”
That was enough. Edward’s breath hitched and soon he was sobbing into Thomas’s neck, wetting his skin and the collar of his shirt. His whole body shook. He hadn’t cried since after Carnivale over a bottle of gin in John’s berth, over bodies charred and burnt. They became bodies mangled. Bodies, bodies unrecognizable. Still worse, familiar bodies. Mutilated and naked on the doctor’s table. A body pressed against his in dark, filthy and sick and dying even as he breathed hotly against Edward’s ear. He wept and Thomas held him, still with his hand in Edward’s, pressed tight between their chests. All he could do was walk on.