Work Text:
Boyd brings the hammer down, nail through wood, plank to plank. A simple construction— two nails, two boards, multiply by six. If he were feeling more magnanimous, it might be eight, but Lindus and Slauson are more casualties than tragedies, and he is not.
Finding the wood for this project was not hard. There is no shortage of wood in a place built from the stuff, and which depends on it to feed its fires. But the nails were harder to come by, and they are rusted things, leftovers from building projects long past, discarded among the falderal that comprises the fort. If a system of organization existed at Fort Spencer, its keepers had not lived long enough to pass on that information, and Boyd had hunted them out from the stables and the lean-tos that dotted the camp over the course of the day. Now, leaning intently over a workbench not far from the spot where Ives had branded himself with the symbol of the cross, Boyd sets to work on his own version.
Hammer to nail to board. He tries not to think of Ives, willing the image gone with another swing of his arm. The hammer rings like a gunshot each time metal meets metal, but he does not flinch. He sets aside Knox, moves onto Hart, hands stinging and splintered where he's gripped the wood tightly. Boyd has never been the most devout, but he can’t help thinking of Roman craftsmen as he works— of complicity.
Hammer to nail to palm. To foot.
It would be easy to ascribe the expansion of the Fort Spencer cemetery as an act of catharsis, a meager attempt to excise the guilt that burns in his chest and throat when his thoughts stray. A plea for forgiveness. But Boyd isn’t naïve— forgiveness is a choice that a corpse doesn’t have. The crosses are not about forgiveness. They're an act of rebellion.
He sets down his hammer and gathers the dead in his arms, setting off towards the back gate. He is clumsily attempting to open the gate with an elbow when the object of his rebellion arrives.
“Need a hand?” Ives asks, although he’s giving him little choice, already moving through the narrow brush-lined passage to stand beside Boyd, who grimaces, clutching tighter to his armful. Ives cocks his head, eyeing Boyd carefully, gently pushing at the tension that buzzes like flies in the air between them. Boyd doesn’t look, won’t meet those dark eyes. He is afraid if he does, his resolve will crack and melt away like pack ice in spring. So much for rebellion.
Ives flips the latch open, “Well then. After you.”
The evening passes slowly as Boyd works. Positioning each cross methodically, hammering them evenly into one tight, unbroken row, gathering and stacking stones around the base for stability. Ives watches, smoking cigarettes and keeping his mouth shut; a minor concession, if that. Boyd can feel Ives’ eyes boring into his back, and hopes his powers haven’t progressed to mind-reading. Hopes he can’t feel Boyd’s pulse racing as he drives Cleaves’ cross into the snowmelt-softened ground with the same mallet he once fantasized driving into its bearers’ back.
After seeing the sixth cross safely into the earth, Boyd straightens and surveys his work. Behind him, Ives exhales smoke, and breaks the silence, voice wry, “Bit conspicuous.”
Boyd allows himself a small smile; it is conspicuous. The uniform row of crosses looks stark against the landscape, nearly fencelike, especially in contrast with the scattered group of graves original to the plot which the new additions stand behind. It’s simple animal psychology— beasts in a herd disguise their numbers, they blend together. Straight lines defy nature, entreating beast and man alike: do not ignore me.
Boyd does not want this ignored. His small act of rebellion; his admission of complicity.
Together, they appraise Boyd’s handiwork as the sky shifts from the oranges of sunset to the penultimate pinks and dusky purples of evening. Ives drops his cigarette and grinds it into the dirt with his heel.
“Supper, Boyd?”