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Leaving the command tent that morning left a bad taste in Henry’s mouth. A steward, promoted. It was almost laughable, but then again, at this point, what about this wasn’t? A Terror swelling their ranks felt unbalanced, even here away from the ships where Terrors and Erebites were less designations and more artifacts describing their origin. No, those of them that were left were one expedition, now more than ever. Henry struggled to push away the thought there was a perfectly good first mate who could have and should have been promoted from Erebus. But then, Crozier would have ever had to make an attempt to interact with any of the Erebites, beyond James. He wasn’t sure if that would have mattered.

As Henry walked through the camp, he overheard Lieutenant Hodgson speaking with someone in one of the tents. He hadn’t realized he’d returned already from burying Morfin. Was it Hickey, maybe? From Terror? He paused outside of the tent, only getting close enough that he could hear, without shifting the shale and listened, an eyebrow raised. Interesting.

After the conversation had ended and he had all the information he might need, he walked away from the tent, with intent to return to gather Hickey when it was time for the hunting parties.

Around an hour later, he approached the tent. “Officer entering,” he announced, and stepped into the tent to find Mr. Hickey sitting, cross-legged on the ground. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hickey. You were with Lt Hodgson on duty this morning, I did not see him come to the command tent when you returned,” he started, probing. 

Hickey did not rise when the lieutenant entered, he simply stayed seated on his little mat. His expression was guarded, but not nervous as he met Henry’s eyes. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about Lt. Le Vesconte.” The way he said Henry’s name was almost mocking, without any evidence of it on his face. “I did not speak with him after we returned.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Mr. Hickey, we both know you’re smarter than that,” he told him, tipping his head to the side a bit and offering a slight glare. “I overheard you talking just an hour ago.”

Hickey regarded the Lieutenant carefully, looking him up and down, taking in his stance and the look on his face, weighing his options before he spoke again. “It doesn’t seem to me that you’ve brought anyone with you. Am I not in trouble then?” he ventured, a slim smile growing on his face. Henry hated it, hated the way his features twisted and his teeth showed, but he pressed forward nonetheless.

“Not at this juncture. But I would tread much more carefully on this subject going forward. Jopson has a hawk’s ears,” he told him, and was surprised by the venom in his own voice as he said Jopson’s name. By the look on his face, Hickey was too. Henry continued to speak, before he could be interrupted. “Hodgson is not the leader you need to make this legitimate, he’s far from the confident decision maker that will keep the men going. I know you did not spend any time on my ship on this expedition so you do not know me, but I spent the better part of the last few months in charge of most of these men. How many of my men have you recruited?” he asked evenly. It only took Hickey a moment to realize that he meant Erebites.

“Des Voeux. Hoar. Pilkington. A few others.”

Hearing Des Voeux’s name listed first did sting him just a bit, but he could not begrudge him that. It had been a hard journey, and he did not begrudge anyone that. It had been years trapped in the ice longer than they were even supposed to be gone, after losing their leader, and now walking out over 800 miles. No, he couldn’t hold that against anyone, or he would not be standing here. 

“Do you have a plan?” Henry asks.

“Perhaps. Plans change. Can be improved,” the mate replied with a quick little shrug of his shoulders. 

“Well, perhaps you can share some of that plan with me,” Henry told him, raising his head just a bit. Best to seem nonchalant about this for now. He could play at innocence later if he needed to, if he ever stood accused of taking part in whatever this became. “For now, you’ve been added to our hunting parties. Go and get your kit, and meet Lieutenants Irving and Hodgson on the south side of camp.” And that was the end of the conversation. For now. 

That afternoon all hell broke loose in the camp.  

Henry didn’t know it until he had returned from his hunting party with his men. He had been sent out hunting with Jopson, adding insult to the injury he was nursing about the promotion. The camp was in disarray, and the guns were immediately stripped from the men on their return. He found James, desperate to know what was going on. Irving, stabbed to death during their search, allegedly by natives. Henry felt bile rise up from  his stomach and wondered if this had been something else. He stamped the thought down and put an officer’s face back on to deal with the situation at hand as it was.

He, James and Jopson made their way to the command tent, what was left of Terror’s command team already assembled, Hodgson being questioned about what had happened. The party had split in two to cover more ground. Hickey and Farr had gone with Irving, and when they were meant to regroup, only Hickey had run back to them, explaining that they had made contact with the Netsilik and they had attacked them. Hodgson and his men had followed Hickey to that spot, and shot the natives before bringing Irving and Farr back to the camp. 

Something about the story didn’t feel entirely right to Henry. Crozier seemed to agree, and was taking Blanky, Jopson and Hickey back to the scene to investigate. Little was buzzing nervously, as he often did, concerned about the marines and setting a perimeter. Crozier ordered him not to arm anymore men as long as the fog held off, which didn’t sit quite right with Henry, but he kept his mouth shut for now, staying in camp to help keep what little peace was left.

Henry had ended up on the northside of the camp as the fog rolled in. He hated to admit, but it set him ill at ease, and he could sense the marines he was with were also feeling that way. He did his best to set their minds at ease, assuring them that their captains had everything in hand. He was well aware of the irony of expressing this to the men when he had his own doubts, had been considering….considering what? Desertion? Mutiny? just a few hours earlier himself. 

He shook the thoughts from his head and paced anxiously along the edge of the camp. When he turned back towards it, he saw many of the men, holding guns, making their way to the edges of the camp. He frowned deeply, wondering if something had changed while he had been out there, and no one had thought to come tell him. “Stay here, and stay alert, men,” he told them, turning back into the camp, his own gun at the ready, arriving at the armory at the same time as James and Little. 

He realized quickly that no order had been made, not by a wardroom officer. Before anyone could explain anything, there was a whistling, and then a gunshot. Instinctually, Henry turned and raised his own gun in the direction, keeping his gaze as sharp as he could, through the fog. When they heard the captain’s voice call back, Henry relaxed, and James walked past him, a hand on his shoulder as he asked him to stay at the armory and ensure no more distributions took place. He nodded his assent before James continued out of the camp to meet Crozier.

He stayed there, and dismissed many of the other men, so that he did not have to worry about the actions they might take against him. He felt he was alone there for a long time before anyone came back to make sure he was fully apprised of the situation at hand, and when they did it was Hodgson and Des Voeux, who was to be left in charge of the armory, as Hodgson oversaw the return of the guns with Little. 

Henry left the tent, his gun over his shoulder to find James and get a better understanding of what was going on in their camp. James was in the command tent with Crozier, who exchanged an inscrutable look with James before exiting. Henry didn’t say anything, just removed his hat and looked expectantly at James for information. The commander sighed in an exhausted way that Henry hated he had become used to hearing from him, and he tried not to think about the complaints he’d been trusted with, of bleeding in James’ scalp and gums, of how exhausted he felt, beyond what was normal, of how he struggled to recall the date. He tried not to think of the way his closest friend was wasting away in front of his eyes. 

“It would seem that we are under threat of mutiny,” James started to explain in a low voice, and Henry couldn’t help the burn of guilt in his chest. He hoped it didn’t show on his face but James continued, not looking at him. “It would seem that Mr. Hickey stabbed Lt. Irving to death. We… had Mr. Goodsir cut into his stomach, there was seal meat. The Netsilik had fed him, not attacked him. And…Sargeant Tozer here had authorized the distribution of guns to the men. Lieutenant Little had taken responsibility for it, but he had come upon it happening. They are both being arrested now. The captain intends to have a hanging this afternoon,” he finished, his voice heavy. 

Henry nodded slowly as he finished. He was wondering if it had all been a part of Hickey’s plan all along or if things had just worked out this way. As he watched James, part of him thought about divulging what he knew, but considering it was truly next to nothing, and Hickey and Tozer were already facing the consequences of their mutinous plans, he didn’t think it necessary to burden him anymore at this moment. “What do you need from me?” he asked the commander. James looked up at him, and they held each other’s gaze for a few long moments before he answered. 

“Someone will need to keep watch over Tozer until it’s time for their hanging. The captain has ordered men we can trust to be deputized but…I’d prefer it was you,” he told him. 

“Consider it done, sir,” he assured him with a nod, turning to take leave of the tent and track down where Tozer was.

It didn’t take him long, finding Crozier, Little and Hartnell standing outside of a tent. “I’ve come to keep watch, at Captain Fitzjames’ order,” he explained, and the men all nodded at him. He stepped inside of the tent, sitting in front of the door, words about ‘men they can trust’ ringing in his ears. He tried not to let his own shame build up in his stomach as he sat, gun in his lap, trained on the man sitting comfortably, cross-legged on the ground in front of him.

Henry was not sure how much time passed. The camp had grown fairly quiet since he had settled down in this tent, almost eerily so. In the distance were the sounds of wood and hammers, a gallows being erected. 

He glanced at the marine, and decided he couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself. “What exactly was the plan, Sergeant Tozer?” he asked, his voice guarded. 

“I was just doing what I thought was best to protect the camp, Lieutenant,” Tozer replied, trying a bit too hard to be nonchalant. Henry couldn’t help the scoffing noise he made in response, which caused the other man to look up at him. “Something wrong with that, sir?”

Henry weighed his options, glancing at the other man and then out the door of the tent. “You and both know that there was more to this than just protecting the camp.”

Tozer stared at him for a long moment, both of them seeming to be appraising what the other knew. Before either could say anything else, there was a shuffling outside and James appeared, signaling it was time for justice to be paid. 

They handcuffed the man and together, they walked him a quarter mile out from camp to the gallows. Henry stood beside Tozer and listened to Crozier’s speech, trying not to let his own frustrations and doubts about their situation show on his face as the captain spoke. He did have to admit the evidence against Hickey was pretty damning. But as Hickey’s turn to speak came, he began to unravel Crozier’s lies (about his plan to leave them behind, to lead a sledge party himself and resign his post as captain, leaving them all behind to figure it all out themselves). His stomach turned and he realized instead of leading the sledge party himself, Crozier had sent out Fairholme, leaving Henry the only Lieutenant on his ship. And then practically all of Crozier’s men came to berth with them, with just a single captain and lieutenant to care for the bulk of the expedition. He shook his head, as Hickey’s impression of Crozier’s accent rang in his ears, and tried to keep himself from seeing red.

He was pulled from his thoughts, as they all heard manic laughing to the south, and he turned, gun raised, while keeping a close eye on Tozer next to him. But when Collins emerged from the fog, his tension ebbed slightly, dropping the end of his weapon so as to not cause an accident as he went by and clapped him on the shoulder. 

His calm didn’t last long though, as a fearsome roar broke through the fog, and the horrifying realization that that thing was here cut through his mind. His body coiled tightly and he raised his gun in the direction of the roar, even though his instincts were telling him to run. The creature materialized out of the fog just feet from him, and Henry couldn’t believe the size of it. He managed to get a shot off, and he was certain he hit it directly in the side but it didn’t seem to affect the creature at all. It continued to run after the men, fleeing back towards camp.

Henry let his instincts take over. He had lost track of everyone, all of the men the same dark shape in the fog wearing their jackets. Tozer was gone from his side, and he had no idea what had become of the rest of the command group. So he ran towards camp, ready to do whatever needed to be done. 

He came upon a group of men near one of the sledges on the far side of camp. He could hear the creature far from them at the moment, so he knew there was at least a moment for them to prepare. “Who here is armed?” he asked.

“Me, sir,” he heard Des Veoux say, though he was busy moving things about the sledge. He saw two more men run up to them and deposit a crate of food, and some other things, though he didn’t quite catch what they were. Things were happening too quickly to catalog them all. Suddenly Hickey was with them, Hoar and a tied up Goodsir in tow, and for a moment when Henry raised his gun at him, and Hickey froze for a moment. 

“Are you with us, lieutenant?” he asked simply, glancing back at the group of men assembled near the sledge. Before he could answer, there was another roar, frighteningly close to them. 

“Let’s go,” he heard Des Veoux hiss, and Hickey nodded, giving an order to the men to start pulling, whether Henry was with them or not. But without another thought, Henry knew he was going with them. It didn’t take long for a few other men to appear, likely men who Hickey had long ago recruited. Armitage, from Terror, showed up with a gun, and then Tozer with several more. 6. 6 total guns between them. It wasn’t much but it would have to do. He glanced at Hickey, who seemed to be doing a very similar inventory as the noise of the creature started to fade behind them, taking stock of the men they had gathered and the supplies they had. From the look on some of their faces, Henry was sure at least a few of them had ended up here more out of shock than anything. 

They walked and they hauled, quiet amongst all of them, until the sun started to dip low, and the fog started to dissipate. Eventually Hickey called for them to make camp. As the men started to unload the boat, Henry took down a proper inventory to see what they had. A fair amount of canned provisions, which was better than nothing. Enough tents to make a proper camp. Medical supplies for the doctor. They were well supplied. Hickey did have a plan, that surprised him just a bit. 

Henry crawled into his tent, laying down that night and putting his hands over his face. He wanted to scream. How had he ended up here? Participating in a mutiny? Abandoning half his men and deserting his post? What was James thinking about him at this moment? Did he think he’d been killed? Carried off? Press-ganged like Goodsir?

God above, had he made a mistake? Was there any going back now, even if he had? Could he find his way back to the Terror Camp before they moved on?

Henry didn’t remember falling asleep, just remembered waking up in the morning to the sounds of the camp. He made his way out and had breakfast before finding Hickey, who was standing on the outskirts of their little camp. He straightened up and approached him. “So, care to share the plan with me now, Mr. Hickey?” he asked him.

Hickey turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow and smiling thinly at him. “Good morning Lieutenant. Sergeant Tozer and Private Armitage went to check on the status of the other camp. When they return we will be continuing forward.”

Henry nodded curtly in response as he looked around at the men. As he did Cozier’s words about Hickey burning through the men like fuel echoed in his mind. He resolved not to let that happen. If he was going to be here, he was going to take care of these men. He knew better than to trust Hickey, but for now, this was the alliance he had.

It wasn’t long before Tozer and Armitage did return, bringing news that the Terrors had moved on, as well as a few more supplies between the two of them, which were loaded into the sledge, and everyone started to break camp. Henry made sure he kept track of his gun, not willing to lose it as they all started to figure out their places in this new hierarchy. Luckily no one made a move to take it from him.

They set off, the strongest amongst the men, as determined by Hickey, doing the hauling. They had been hauling for several hours when Henry heard a frantic yelling over the rumble of the boat on the shale and he held up a hand to make the men stop, so he could hear better. Hickey looked annoyed with him for a moment until they looked down over the ridge, a figure waving and approaching them. 

“Lieutenant, what a miracle!” Hickey shouted as he grabbed a canteen from Tozer and ran towards the figure. Henry narrowed his eyes, and realized it was Hodgson, as he and Tozer started to walk forward as well.

“You have things….in hand then?” he heard Hodgson ask Hickey as they approached.

Hickey paused in that little way he seemed to when he was preparing exactly what to say next. “There’s still a place for you here, lieutenant,” he told him, and Henry could hear the smile in it, even without seeing Hickey’s face.

Hodgson looked up and he and Henry locked eyes for a moment, both of them seeming to understand the situation, and some sort of silent agreement passing between the two of them, an understanding that they were just doing what it took to continue onward, to get their men home.

The men walked a few more miles that day before they set up camp that evening. As their dinner finished, Henry walked through the camp, checking on the men, making sure they were all doing as well as they could be. As he walked past Hickey and Hodgson eating together, he overheard just a bit of their conversation. 

“What would we be willing to do next to survive?” he heard Hickey ask Hodgson. He felt his stomach turn a bit at that, and he caught Tozer’s eye, seeing him go through a similar thought process. He shook off the thought and continued onward through the camp, helping clean up from dinner before turning into his tent for the night, thoughts of survival rattling around in his head. 

The next few days all felt a blur. They would wake up, pack up their meager camp, load it into the boats, and march forward. They would get a few miles under them, but the effects of scurvy were as clear in this party as they had been in the main group, and they did not get far each day. 

The Goodsir that was with them was very different from the one Henry had known on Erebus. He had once been kind, and excitable, and gave off a sort of warmth that made you trust him. Now, the best way Henry could think to describe him was coarse. He was sure that change had much to do with the circumstances they were now facing. Henry couldn’t bring himself to speak to the man, filled with shame about his choice to join this band.  He couldn’t bring himself to look at him, afraid to see the disgust he felt reflected there.

It was that third evening that they lost Gibson. Henry had watched him limp into Goodsir’s tent from where he sat, filling in his notes. It wasn’t long after that Hickey followed. He reemerged, not long after, crossing the small camp to his own tent, and then returning to the tent again. Henry heard the noises of a struggle, and he hurried across the shale to the tent. He stood in the doorway, absorbing the tableau in front of him; Hickey, with an arm around Gibson, and a hand in his back, Gibson slumped forward against Goodsir, Goodsir struggling to pull the two of them apart, before seeming to give up and simply holding Gibson between them. When Gibson stopped struggling, Henry watched Hickey pull a knife from his back and leave him there with Goodsir, brushing past Henry as he exited the tent. Goodsir looked up at him, and made eye contact with him, and he could not fathom the look in his eyes.

Henry stepped into the tent, and reached down, lifting the dead man’s frail body from where it had slumped onto the doctor, and stood with it in his hands for a long moment. He was having a hard time thinking of it as a body and not as something that had been one of his men not 5 minutes ago. After a few moments of being frozen in place, he carried it to one of the cots set up in the tent, laying it down, and then turning and fleeing the tent without sparing another look at Goodsir. 

He wandered out of the borders of the camp, and over the ridge they were nestled, needing a moment to himself. He was starting to feel like he was unraveling.  When he felt he was sufficiently out of sight, he sunk into a low crouch and put his arms over his head, and let out a single, choked sob. If that was how Hickey treated the people he cared for, his men, what could the rest of them expect? Those of them that had come because they had happened to be near the boat when all hell had broken loose in their camp? Those of them that hadn’t fully made the choice to join him but were there all the same? Those of them who were quickly becoming sicker and sicker, unable to haul or let alone walk?

Henry couldn’t be sure if it was panic or bile that was rising in his chest and he leaned forward, retching what little was in his stomach onto the shale, before wiping a shaking hand over his mouth. He knew he couldn’t be missing from the camp for long, that someone would take notice. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself before he rose to stand again. 

He made his way back into the camp and found his journal, returning to his notes on the day, though his thoughts were clouded. He hoped that didn’t show on his face. The men had begun gathering around the slab that served as a table for dinner, but no cans were being distributed. Henry watched them all curiously, until Goodsir came out of his tent, dressed in his apron and carrying two bloody sacks, which he dropped heavily on the shale when Hickey made eye contact with him. 

Henry felt his stomach roll again as his brain processed what must be in the bags. He felt light-headed, like he was watching from far above as Tozer stood and retrieved the sacks, and the men started distributing the meat amongst them. And then, as he saw one of them start to eat, he felt his stomach growl, which made him feel even more sick.

He rose from where he sat, tucking his journal into his trousers and went over to the table to receive his ration. 

Henry was not sure how long he sat next to Hodgson, staring at the bloody meat on his plate, brain filled with flurries. What he does notice eventually is Hickey staring at him, watching him, waiting for him to eat, so he steeled his nerves and reached down onto his plate, lifting a piece of meat to his mouth and ripping it in half with his teeth. 

At first all he tasted was iron, red and metallic in his mouth. He had to fight down the urge to spit it back out, and instead focused on chewing slowly, and deliberately. It felt shockingly like chewing pork. He chewed until he felt that the meat was as macerated as he could get it, and swallowed it, hard. He repeated the process until all of the meat was gone from the plate in front of him. It was a meager portion, and Henry was disgusted by how much stronger he felt after it. 

The next few days continued in much the same way. They would walk their precious few miles, they would set up camp, they would rest. If a man fell, he would be shared amongst those who remained. 

It was early in the morning, before the sun had even begun to color the horizon. Henry had been unable to sleep. He slipped out of his sleeping roll and left the tent, crossing to Goodsir’s, lifting the flap to peek inside. He was surprised to find the man sitting upright in the tent.

“Lieutenant,” the doctor said simply when he saw him.

Henry nodded stiffly and stepped into the tent. Now that he was here, he wasn’t sure what to say. It wasn’t often he was at a loss for words. He supposed that nothing in how he had been trained had prepared him for this. He felt lost, without direction, and out of his depth. 

“I’m here to discuss Mr. Hickey,” Henry eventually settled on, since it wasn’t entirely untrue. 

Goodsir raised a curious eyebrow at him, but said nothing. 

“Something needs to be done about him, he’s going to lead us all to our deaths,” he continued, as if that weren’t completely plain. 

“And what exactly is to be done about him, Lieutenant? Another court marshal? Because that worked so well the first time. And as though you haven’t done something worthy of a court marshal yourself. Kill him? And what good exactly do you think killing Hickey will do us, Lieutenant?” Goodsir replied. His shoulders sagged heavily, and his words felt almost empty. 

Henry stood in the tent, his mouth gaping open as he stared at the surgeon. He closed his mouth and felt a frown settle on his lips and brow as he looked across the tent at him. “I did what I thought was best for the men at hand,” he replied carefully, evenly. 

“I’m sure you did, lieutenant. Regardless, you made a choice to be here,” Goodsir said, his head tilted at him, his eyebrows pulled together. It felt almost condescending. Henry clenched and unclenched his fists a few times, trying to keep himself under control.

“Must be nice to sit on such a lofty spot while the rest of us survive,” he growled out, his venom once again surprising him. 

It seemed to have no effect at all on Goodsir though, who simply sat where he was, looking up at the lieutenant. He looked exhausted and emptied out of every ounce of empathy or kindness that had once exuded from him. The emptiness felt like it unlocked something in his chest, something that boiled out white hot and throbbing. He whirls around, looking for something to-to what? Throw? Break? Something, anything to do with the anger that’s been building inside of him for how long now? 

It was like a flash in the pan, though, and just as quickly as it had ripped through his chest, it disappeared, and Henry felt weak and exhausted. He turned and left the tent, stumbling across the rocks and collapsed through the door of his own onto the bed roll, vision fading to blessed darkness.

It could have been hours or days later when Henry’s consciousness returned to him. For a moment, there was panic that he had been left behind. After a moment, he could hear movement in the camp beyond the canvas of his tent though. He got to his feet shakily and stepped out into the harsh sun, saw the men packing up their tents, so he began to do the same, rolling everything up and loading it into the boat before they began their journey for the day. 

Henry wandered in a daze, feeling like he was moving through molasses the entire day. He watched Hickey ahead of him, who seemed to be stumbling in boots that might have been a bit too large for him. Their miles that day were short, and they made camp again after just a few hours. 

Henry set up his tent mechanically, the motions familiar no matter how hollow he felt. He was vaguely aware of Hodgson’s presence near him as they set up the tents. He looked up slowly as he heard him murmur “Oh god.” He looked up at the other lieutenant, and slowly followed his gaze to the far side of camp where their dinner table was set. And on it, a body.

Not just any body.

Oh god.

James. 

There weren’t words to describe how he was feeling, or what he was seeing. His friend, emaciated, sickly, waxy looking. Dead. He crossed the camp on weak legs, and sunk to his knees, which protested greatly as they met the hard shale. They had lost so much, so many, but this, this he had not prepared himself for. He raised a hand to his friend’s hair, shaking violently as he did. 

As he began to process this, the body on the table, Goodsir’s presence, the white hot rage from that morning bubbled up in his chest again. He stood and rounded the table, full of righteous anger, and landed one strong, square punch to Hickey’s face, in the meat of his cheek. He had put his entire weight behind it, and it knocked both of them off balance, sent Hickey tumbling backwards into Goodsir and both of them falling to the ground as Henry stumbled a few feet away. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he roared, the fury in his chest still burning hot. Before he could say or do anything else there were hands on his arms, pulling him away, leading him from the camp, and he didn’t struggle, just stumbled along uneasily on his feet. 

“That’s enough of that now,” he heard someone say when they were a bit away, and it took his brain a few moments to process it as Tozer. He looked at the marine whose face showed almost nothing. “Keep going. Go on,” he told him, until they were over a ridge away from the camp. 

Henry still felt wild, but the blind rage that had driven him before was slipping away. He stopped and turned to face Tozer.

“What in the hell-” he started but was cut off. 

“You think any of us like this? Except for maybe him?” Tozer hissed out, his voice low. “We’ve all lost friends here. And we’re doing what we have to to get as many of us back home as possible. So if you don’t have the stomach for that, you better figure something else out.”

That sent Henry off kilter again and he looked down at his shaking hands, his raw knuckles, bleeding and bruised. A new wave of vertigo hit him and he struggled to figure out what part of the world was up. He sunk into a low crouch and retched on the shale, before leaning on his hands, trying to gather himself. He wasn’t sure how long it took, but when he rose again, Tozer was holding out a canteen for him. They didn’t say anything else, just nodded to each other and walked back into the camp. Henry went straight to his tent, unable to face the dinner that night.

After the incident, Henry feels himself being iced out of the inner circle of the group. He was surprised he was allowed to continue with them at all. 

He took turns hauling with the rest of the men. 

He did not remember the last time he had his gun.

He took watch duty, and scouting parties. 

It was monotonous and felt hollow. 

He had heard stirrings in the camp, something about the ice starting to thaw, about going back to the boats, about trying to sail out of there. He didn’t know what to make of it, how much stock to put into it though, until he overheard Tozer talking to Armitage and Pilkington about it. Until he heard Tozer say “This needn’t be another mutiny”. Perhaps it needed to be. He looked at the remaining men (scarcely more than skeletons after weeks of hauling and barely eating) and considered if they could still get them home to their families. A plan started to form in the back of his mind. 

The next day as he crawled from his tent, he was surprised to find several of the men missing. Des Voeux, Hodgson, Manson. Everyone else hung lamely around the camp. Something was going on. He was no longer privileged enough to know what that was. All he could do for now was wait until they returned.

He didn’t have to wait long. They returned midafternoon, Captain Crozier in tow with them, bruised and bloodied. Henry was standing outside of his tent as the Captain’s eyes swept the camp, taking inventory of the men there. When his eyes landed on him, Henry had to look away, look at the shale, look anywhere but at him as the shame burned hot in the pit of his stomach. 

He watched out of the corner of his eye as he was escorted to Goodsir’s tent. He found himself a spot to sit in the camp, a spot to watch as he observed and waited for an opening, of what kind he wasn’t exactly sure just yet. He’d know when he saw it, he was sure. After dinner, Crozier was shown to Diggle’s tent, still tied, and he knew he could wait until the rest of the camp slept to go speak to him.

As the camp fell as quiet as it did (it was never totally silent anymore; so many of the men were so sick with scurvy they couldn’t sleep soundly, not to mention the nightmares they lived through and had each night), Henry slipped across the camp carefully, slipping into the tent. Crozier was awake, sitting upright, and gave him an icy look, which almost made him turn right around and forget everything he wanted to say.

“We don’t have time for excuses,” he started in a low voice, hoping it was enough of an apology, “I’m here to make a plan.”

Crozier exhaled and nodded stiffly. “I know Lieutenant Little’s nature. I told him to carry on, but I am expecting him to stage a rescue.. Do you have a gun?” he asked him. Henry shook his head grimly. “Ah. No matter. Just be ready to be a friendly face when things begin. Run southeast, with as many men as possible if we aren't together.”

It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough. Henry could run from this camp. He could get a gun back in his hands. He could be back on the right side of this. 

Henry was not sure if he slept at all when he made it back to his tent. He was waiting for any sound on the shale, any sign that the rescue they were waiting for was happening. 

As dawn approached, he started to hear the familiar sounds of the camp coming to life, and anxiety flooded his chest. Little wasn’t coming. Or, he had come, and they had left him behind. 

Henry forced his limbs to move, even though they felt as though they were full of lead, fear making him feel heavier than he ever had in his life. He stood in front of his small mess of canvas, watching the camp start to struggle to life, watched Hoar duck into Diggle’s tent, and then back out. No alarm was raised. Crozier must still be there. 

No one was coming for them. 

He turned and started to slowly pack up his tent, as everyone else around him did the same, trying not to let the despair make what was left of him crumble.

The shot that rang out through the camp made him nearly jump out of his skin, and he dropped into a low crouch behind the nearest tent as shouting started, the camp quickly breaking into confusion as men went for cover, and others went for guns. Henry moved through the camp, and saw Little up on the ridge, his gun pointed down into the camp. He had gotten a shot off on Tozer, whose arm was red, but he was still standing, fumbling with the large gun as he tried to make it work with one hand.

Henry was suddenly aware of Crozier’s presence beside him, both of them tense as they both came to the realization that Edward was alone. It only took Henry another moment to spring to action. Armitage was coming out of a tent not 15 feet from him, gun in hand as he tried to figure out what was going on. He took his chance, charging the steward and tackling him, both of them tumbling to the shale as Henry reached for the gun, getting his hands around it as the younger man landed a blow to the side of his head, dazing him. Still, he managed to bring the butt of the weapon to hit him in the face, and scramble to his feet with it in hand, pointed at the man on the ground, and looked up to the stand off on the other side of camp. 

Just in time to see Des Voeux bring a gun up as he exited his tent, firing. Not a moment later, Little crumpled to the ground, and the noise tore from Henry’s chest was inhuman and raw, full of desperation. He heard footsteps running towards him and turned, still screaming just in time for Manson to tackle him to the ground, his head hitting the shale and everything going black. 

Henry wasn’t sure how long it was until he was conscious again. His first awareness was of the throbbing in his temple, in time with his pulse but amplified by hundreds. Next was how heavy his hands were as he tried to raise them to his face to feel for injury. He blinked slowly, his vision slowly coming to him as he moaned in pain, and he felt a hand very gently touching his hair, something cold and heavy brushing his cheek.

Crozier was above him. Touching him, chains attached to his wrists. He helped Henry sit up, and he realized there were chains attached to his own wrists too. He stared at them for a moment, his bloody, messy hands, before he looked up, around him. Hodgson, Tozer were both chained to them, and they were all chained to a boat. It struck him as odd, all of it, but he didn’t have the energy to even begin to process what was happening, or to make any guesses as to why.

“Good, he’s awake, let’s get moving,” he heard a voice bark, and realized it was Hickey. He looked up as the tiny rat of a man jumped up into the boat, wearing nothing but his long johns. He sat, gaping up at him, until Hickey looked down at him again. “NOW. Let’s go!” he bellowed at them, waving a knife in their general direction, until Henry felt two pairs of hands on him, hauling him to his feet. He was unsteady, dizzy, and fell against whatever man was closest to him, before they pulled him back to his feet and held onto him until he was steady. Then, they started hauling. 

Henry had no idea what they were doing or where they were going, but hauling felt like second nature at this point. He held onto the chain, his hands raw and painful as they walked, but he kept going, his eyes on Crozier in front of him, following behind him as they continued on whatever new path to hell this was.

They came to a halt at Hickey’s command, and Henry sank to the ground, feeling deeply unwell and dizzy. He laid down on the shale, thankful for the moment's rest, as Pilkington fired a shot into the air. He was barely aware of the conversation around him, his head spinning. They were talking about the creature? Why? Were they going after it?

He felt the chain rattle against his arms and he looked up to see Tozer above him, yelling at Hickey to let him off the chain and he laughed a little, but couldn’t stop it once it started. The idea of being free seemed to unlock something, unhinge something in him. He laid on the ground, laughing to himself as the conversation about the creature and what he was eating continued. He felt eyes on him but couldn’t bring himself to stop. As Hodgson murmured something in French, it had the opposite effect, making him laugh even harder. He was breathless when he was finally able to stop, little chuckles still shaking his body occasionally. 

He was staring up at the sky as Hickey monologued about killing a man and assuming his identity as some kind of way to escape his life and get to the tropics. He couldn’t even be surprised at this point, as that swirled in his mind, unphased by each revelation today. Even as the man started to scream, and another was sick somewhere beyond the edge of the boat, Henry couldn’t be moved. 

It wasn’t long before there was more shouting. The creature, his brain vaguely registered as he pushed himself to sit up, listening to the orders Tozer barked at the men, trying to keep them alive, trying to give them the best fighting chance they had against the thing. He heard the advice to not run repeated several times. That almost set Henry laughing again. He didn’t have it in him to run, he was sure none of them did.

Tozer was continuing to give orders, asking Armitage to give him the gun because he was the best shot they had. He found himself strangely focused on the young man’s face, watched his thoughts move through giving Tozer the gun, realizing that Hickey was an enemy, was not going to get them home safe, and that something had to be done. He raised the gun towards Hickey’s position, but before he could do anything a shot rang out, and he fell to the ground, felled by one of the other men, Henry couldn’t quite be sure who.

The fear of the men around them was starting to become palpable. There were hands on him again, pulling him to his feet, directing him to move with them as they tried to get the keys for the chain so they could free themselves. He froze as someone behind him hissed the order. He watched Hodgson continue to fumble with the keys, bringing attention to them. Henry didn’t even have time to react as the creature snatched the other lieutenant in its jaws, pulling the length of chain with him, and Henry found himself on the ground again, his head having collided with a rock, sending bright, colorful spots across his vision. His ears were ringing and he could feel the same deep, horrible laughter shaking his body again as he rolled to the side, trying to find his feet.

He can’t tell what was shouting and what noise was coming from inside of his own skull anymore. The edges of his vision are darkening, and Henry feels like he is trying to pull himself to the surface of some great body of water, thicker and heavier than anything he has ever pulled himself through. He thinks of James, of all of their adventures together across continents and worlds far from this one. He sees flashes of home, of his parents, an admiralty ball, of a childhood spent running free. He sees flashes of the boats sailing away from Greenhithe, of being on deck and commanding their men, of the ice, vast and empty around them, the ship packed to the gills with practically the entire expedition, of heat and screams and the smell of burning filling his nostrils. He feels flashes of rage and anger as he remembers the worst moments in the camps over the last few weeks, digging into his chest almost as hard as the boat harness.

The next thing he feels is a burning in his middle, unlike anything he’s ever felt before. Like he’s being lit on fire and then, like he is being scraped apart, every fiber of his being ripped from the one beside it as a deafening roar fills his ears and his vision goes entirely, blessedly dark, and it stops all at once, leaving a great, dark void where Henry once was