Chapter Text
The dreams had always been with him.
Since he was a child, Thomas would wake at night, images from a time long past dancing in front of his vision. Some were beautiful, peaceful even. His favorites were the ones with another younger boy; they played in a garden or climbed trees together. There is a woman too, sometimes; darning socks by candlelight, or singing softly under her breath as she tended to supper. She would take Tom to what looked like a farmers market, basket swinging on her arm. Those dreams left him feeling warm and content upon waking.
Some dreams were sadder, starring the same characters, but changed. The woman, older now, cradling her damaged hand, wailing. A green bottle turned over and emptied. The boy, now a man, looking at Thomas with desperation in his eyes. The high-pitched, deranged laughter of an unstable mind. He would wake with an ache in his chest after these dreams, feeling heavily burdened with unknown responsibilities.
Then, there were the other dreams.
An unending expanse of white. Snow and ice for miles around. He is on the deck of a ship. The ice grinds against the hull, the noise tingling in his skull. There are others with him, dark forms scurrying about, busying themselves with tasks that seem meaningless to Thomas. He feels the sting of the wind on his cheeks and his breath puffs out in small clouds. There is a dog barking in the distance.
The scene changes rapidly and he is inside the ship now, in a large ornate room, probably meant for the captain and officers. A white blur passes over the windows. He's shouting now, words he doesn't fully understand.
“It's at the stern!”
A loud, unnatural growl, unlike anything Thomas has heard in his waking hours, rumbles through the ship. He hears men screaming. Thomas runs out of the room and is met by several other men, huddled around a ladder. They're trapped below deck. One of the men works to pry open the hatch, desperately pounding on the wood. The Captain is there. Thomas does not know how he recognizes this man as the Captain, only that he does. Looking at him sends a wave of powerful emotion through him. He knows this man, cares for him a great deal. He has no time to think on it further, as the hatch is opened and the men rush up the ladder. Thomas hears a cannon blast.
He sat up in bed, sweating profusely, but feeling colder than he had in years. He ran a hand over his face.
They were getting worse. More vivid, more real. He felt like he was going crazy. No longer could he write them off as an overactive imagination, like he could growing up. Once he started secondary school, he had blamed stress and hormones. In college, clearly he was indulging too much in the drink. But now, he had run out of excuses. He tossed the sweat-soaked sheets onto the floor and got up to retrieve his laptop. There would be no getting back to sleep tonight.
Settling back down on his bed, he opened the search engine and stared blankly for a moment, before typing a short phrase.
past lives
He clicked on the first link tentatively and found that it led to a website filled with conspiracy theories and outlandish claims. Feeling utterly foolish at even typing the words, he shut his laptop. He was being ridiculous. They were just dreams. He was tired, that was all.
Thomas sighed and brought his hand up to brush his hair out of his eyes, only to remember he didn't have hair long enough to do so. Panic welled up in his chest as his breath quickened. Where was he? What time was it? It was still dark, but that was a poor indicator of time in the Arctic—No, he shook his head, not there. He is at home, in London. He gripped his laptop so hard his knuckles turned white, and he heard the ice-- the plastic-- creak under his hands. He flipped it open again, letting the blue light illuminate his face in the darkness. Thomas exhaled slowly. The bright screen grounded him in the present, the 21st-century technology whirring in his lap. With shaking hands, he opened the search engine again.
historical arctic expeditions
It was going to be a long night.
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Francis groaned as he was jostled from his peaceful sleep yet again by a nightmare. It was another winner–the night Blanky lost his leg to Tuunbaq because of Francis' shortcomings. Sure, Thomas had long forgiven him, but Francis would never forgive himself.
He peered over at the too-bright light of his alarm clock: 12:03 am. He'd barely slept an hour. Resigning himself to another long night of insomnia, he rolled out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.
-------
Children laughing as they race on horseback. A tiny baby cradled in his own young arms. Pride on an older woman's face as she adjusts his uniform.
The soft glow of lamp light. The gentle rocking of a boat at sea. Bitter winds catching at his face.
Cannon fire. A creature's roar. Red against white.
" It's ran off sir!"
Edward blinked awake slowly, his eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness after all of that white. He rubbed his face to smooth out his beard, only to remember he was clean-shaven. He frowned.
Flashes of his dream welled up again. The sound of a saw through bone. More blood. So much blood. Edward's stomach lurched and he scrambled to find his bedside trash bin. Thankfully he didn't miss tonight.
He winced at the mess before shoving the bin away–that was a problem for future Edward. He was an expert at avoiding his problems. Like the dreams themselves; Edward had successfully bottled that up for over twenty years, and he wasn't about to start unpacking it now, even if they were getting worse by the day.
Shaking his head, he flipped over onto his stomach and shoved his face into his pillows, praying he'd get some dreamless sleep for once.
----
" Francis."
"No. I'm sorry, but we mustn't stop until it is finished. I mustn't stop. And you mustn't let me."
"I may….I may beg you."
James was roused from his dream by the chirping of his cellphone, much to his relief. That was a difficult memory.
He snatched his cell from the bedside table and deftly unlocked it with one hand. It was Dundy, as he expected.
He tossed his phone aside, wincing when he overshot and it clattered onto the floor. He hoped it hadn't broken; damn things were so fragile.
Turning over onto his side, James shut his eyes and tried to remember what Francis' face looked like when he smiled, but the only memories that came to him were filled with tragedy.
Well, he'd take what he could get.
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An image of a clock ticking down. Ice fields. Dark waters. Blood.
Silna opened her eyes.
It's time.