Chapter Text
In deserts, such as the arctic archipelago of northern Canada, or out in the wavering heat of the Sahara, where the air is less polluted by man made things, there are places where reality begins to bend to the will of nature. The sparse wildlife that call these places home lie hidden beneath the scalding sand, or sliding through water so cold it will stop your heart if you immerse yourself in it. Out in those places, the rigid structure of physics becomes more susceptible to intrusive tendrils of long-forgotten magic. Time becomes cold, drawn out and brittle. Time dehydrates, burns, and breaks apart a little when no human is there to sense it. Things happen in places such as these, and creatures exist in such places that no human has ever seen, and most who’ve tried to venture into those barren lands have either perished, or returned deeply wounded and humbled.
Intrinsically, the Inuit know this. They did not invent the magic that twists its way through their icy lands, but they respect it deeply, and know to be careful of what you touch, how you speak, or how close you let yourself get to the precipice of a seaside cliff, slick with ice.
Out in deserts, strange things can happen.
Crozier hears Jopson’s footfalls receding in the direction of the galley, cracked teacup in hand. The first cup had broken when Crozier had thoughtlessly knocked it off the table with his elbow, and he’d insisted on an immediate replacement. It was after all his preferred stealthy method for drinking whiskey during the day.
Jopson’s footfalls cease suddenly, faltering back to life a long moment later, only, this time, coming back toward Crozier’s cabin. His steward must have forgotten something. Unlike him, but it does happen every once in a great while…
“Jopson?!” Crozier calls out. The footsteps outside in the corridor once more falter in their rhythm, seeming uncertain in their return to his cabin.
Perhaps Jopson is unwell. The thought makes Crozier’s gut tighten with worry. Out here, somewhere north and east of King William Island, frozen into the pack, even a small cut, if it festers, could spell an early grave, and he cannot afford to lose Jopson. Even a light contemplation of that possibility makes Crozier’s chest seize with fear. The other man has become so integral to every part of Crozier’s life and comfort. It is impossible to consider living without him.
“Francis?” Jopson’s voice rings out in the corridor, and already Crozier can tell that something isn’t right. Jopson never calls Crozier by his given name. It is always “Captain Crozier’, ‘Captain’, or ‘sir’.
"Jopson?" He asks, his voice made cautious with uncertainty.
"Francis!" Jopson’s voice rings out hopefully from the corridor, again calling Crozier’s given name, as if they are somehow equals and friends, rather than captain and steward.
Crozier hears Jopson’s fingers scrabble at the door, somehow struggling to slide it open, which also deeply concerns him. Then, once Jopson finally manages it, he steps into Crozier's cabin, but rather than dissipate in a rush of familiar relief, the feeling that something is not right increases exponentially when Crozier lays eyes on him.
At the very first second, Crozier’s brain struggles to invent reasons for Jopson’s sudden change in appearance. Swiftly though, his reasoning melts away in a fog of confusion, as several strange and unassailable facts present themselves to him. Jopson is dressed far differently than a few moments ago, and he'd not been gone long enough to change clothing. What he is wearing is unfamiliar to Francis, who is of course very familiar with every article of clothing in Jopson’s meagre yet well kept wardrobe. His steward is dressed in a dark, sleek, fine looking pair of trousers, a wine red woollen shirt, thick, and without buttons. His face is flushed and a bit sun-kissed. His hair, always well ordered and neat, appears to have been just washed, and is thick and glossy. Far cleaner than any man currently aboard either ship. It appears shorter as well, as if it was recently cut.
The Thomas Jopson who'd left Crozier’s cabin not 20 seconds ago had been pale, with chapped cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. This man standing before Crozier now, blinking in what appears to be extreme confusion, looks as if he’s ready for an evening at the theatre.
"Francis!" Jopson says again, stepping closer. His eyes roam over Crozier’s face and clothing in a way that Crozier finds too familiar, and very different from Jopson’s usual, respectful manner. “I almost didn't recognize you in this costume. What in god’s name is happening, Francis?” he asks. “I had an off moment there by the loo. I got confused whilst looking at that galley display, and now, I’m inside some sort of diorama, and you’re in fancy dress.”
He places a hand on Crozier’s shoulder, something else he never does, outside of helping Crozier to dress. He’s peering at Crozier in alarm, and then his eyes jerk away from Crozier’s face to take in their surroundings, and real concern etches itself into his features.
“What’s happened to you, Thomas?” Crozier asks, ignoring the casual, warm weight of Jopson’s hand upon his shoulder, and the resulting spike of nervous tension it causes to zigzag through his belly. “You don’t look like yourself. Where did you get those clothes?” Now that Jopson is standing near to him, Crozier can see in more detail the fineness and smoothness of the fabrics used in his clothing. Even Jopson’s skin looks smoother and healthier. He looks as if he’s been in the sun, which is impossible of course. The sun has not made much of an appearance in months. The pink chapping on his cheeks has been replaced by a real flush of colour, which can only come from regular meals and adequate sunshine. He smells of some heavenly cologne or perfume. A scent as rich and unusual as it is pleasing.
“What’s happened to you?” Jopson asks incredulously, disrespectfully, leaving off the honorific of Captain or Sir once again. “Why are you in that costume? Is this part of the event? Where on the property is this? It looks really…” he pauses, his eyes wandering the cabin once more in what appears to be awed confusion, “authentic,” he finishes, before his sea-glass eyes come back to rest on Crozier’s face. There is a lack of pain in their depths that sends a renewed jolt of apprehension through Crozier.
“Jopson, something is very wrong,” he says.
Jopson’s face clouds with concern and confusion once more.
“You were on your way to fetch me a new cup and more tea,” Crozier prompts, impatiently. “You’d only just left the room.” He can hear the tremor of building apprehension in his own voice as he speaks, and he feels the added chill of a thin, cold sweat on his brow and neck at the impossible queerness of their situation.
Perhaps he has fallen asleep, and is dreaming of Thomas Jopson’s fresh, healthy face and glossy hair and strange, new clothing? Jopson does often make an appearance in Crozier’s dreams, but he’s never looked like this. The man appears ready to dine with the Queen.
“Tea? You don’t drink tea. Where are we?” His question is once more put in the least respectful and most familiar of terms
“We are aboard Terror,” Crozier says firmly, feeling a twist of dread grip his insides.
“Aboard Terror?” Jopson repeats faintly.
Crozier watches as a glimmer of real apprehension skitters its way across Jopson’s flawless, sun-kissed face.
Crozier is convinced, suddenly, that this is not Thomas Jopson. “Who are you?” he asks, grasping the other man by the shoulder. “You’re not my steward.”
“Steward? Francis, you’re scaring me. What’s happening?” For the first time, he seems to truly see Crozier. His eyes widen. “When did you shave?” he asks. He looks around again, his nose wrinkles. “Why does it smell so off in here?”
“Who are you?” Crozier asks, this time, more intently. His fear is making him angry. He can’t understand what’s happening, nor can he explain this strange man, who looks exactly like his dear Jopson, somehow now looking and sounding like a stranger.
“I’m Thomas!” the man wearing Jopson’s face exclaims in frustration. Crozier watches as he composes himself, trying to stop the rising alarm inside him. “I’m Thomas, and I was just at the exhibition. The Terror and Erebus exhibition in the Gjoa Haven visitor centre. How can you have forgotten? The travel plans took weeks. Now it seems they’ve roped you into some sort of…cos play?” His breath is coming faster, and his voice, though he tries to control it, has risen in volume to a level unacceptable when addressing one’s captain. It’s clear that he’s growing more alarmed.
Crozier has no idea what he’s just said. “What exhibit? There’s nothing out here but the pack.”
“Ah. Alright. I can see you’re getting into the swing of things. It’s all very believable, only they could have told me they’d enlisted you to be part of the exhibition. Now our schedules have gone off.” There’s an edge to the man’s tone that Francis hasn’t heard from Jopson before. A frustration that his steward would never dare display in front of him. It only serves to make the situation more unsettling.
Francis takes Jopson, or rather, this stranger who looks exactly like his steward, by the shoulders and shakes him. “Who are you?!” he all but yells into this eerie stranger’s face. “You’re scaring me, Jopson. You aren’t you, and yet you look like you! I feel as if I’m going mad.”
Jopson’s eyes go wide once more when Crozier grabs him, and the physical contact and verbal demands seem to get through to him. “Francis…I…” He stammers, and then Crozier can see comprehension dawn on the other man’s face. “Where the hell am I?” the man asks, voice shaking, “and who are you?”
“I am Captain Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier, of Her Majesty’s ship, The Terror. Who in God’s name are you, lad? For you’re not my steward, that much is certain.”
“I’m Thomas Jopson. The personal assistant to Francis Crozier. Only his middle name is Frederick… not… not.”
“Rawdon Moira?” Crozier supplies. His actual steward would never forget Crozier’s name for an instant, let alone his place and his duties. His actual steward would never dream of calling Crozier by his Christian name, casually, nor would he touch Crozier with such familiarity, as if they were old friends, rather than master and servant. This is indeed a stranger he’s speaking to.
There’s a knock on the door frame. “Francis? You and Jopson alright?”
It’s Blanky, thank all that’s holy, for Crozier isn’t in the mood to explain this baffling situation to anyone other than his closest friend and confidant.
“What’s going on here?” Blanky asks as he steps inside. He takes one look at the man standing beside Francis, and his brows rise to his hairline. “Who in God’s name is that?”
—-----------------------
Francis momentarily loses track of Thomas. At least, he’d thought he had, until he spots his PA at the end of a hallway at the Terror and Erebus exhibit, by one of the exhibition displays, near the loo. Only, Thomas looks different. Francis can’t quite figure out how until he draws closer.
“There you are,” he says, as he steps up to Thomas, only to stop in his tracks. First, he notices the broken teacup at Thomas’ feet. “Did you break an exhibit piece?” He asks gently, not wanting to guilt-trip Thomas, who would be mortified to damage any of the salvaged artefacts from the two ships. “You-” What Francis had intended to say, some sort of reassuring statement about it not being a big deal, dies on his lips, as he notices several things at once that stop him dead in his tracks. “Did they rope you into doing some sort of historical dress up for them?” he asks, because Thomas is wearing what looks at first glance (and Francis would know, being that he spends a good bit of time studying naval history) a mid nineteenth century midshipman's uniform. A pair of dark blue woollen trousers, a dark red jumper, under a navy waistcoat with a row of brass buttons down the front. He looks pale too, and is his hair longer? That can’t be possible.
“Captain?” Thomas steps closer to him, then stops abruptly. His eyes take in Francis’ face and body, and a look of confusion steals across his features. Thomas’ gaze moves past Francis, to take in the people milling about in the exhibit at the other end of the hallway behind him. “Where are we?” he asks, eyes wide with what looks like shock. “Am I dreaming?”
“You’re here at the exhibit with me,” Francis says, a cold feeling taking up residence in his gut. Thomas does look lost. Haggard too. He’d only left to go to the loo a few moments ago, and yet his skin has gone parchment pale, and there are dark circles under his eyes.
“I was on my way to fetch Captain Crozier his cup of tea. I must have fallen asleep. I must be dreaming, for this is not Terror, and you sir, though you look very much like him, are clearly not my captain.” Thomas’ eyes are trained on Francis’ face, and his own face is a mask of confusion.
Something he’d said catches Francis’ immediate attention. “You said Captain Crozier? Thomas, are you involved in some sort of promotion for the exhibit? I’m so confused. Please let me in on what’s happening.” He steps a bit closer and puts a hand to Thomas’ shoulder. This seems to calm the younger man. He looks up into Francis’ face, his eyes full of confusion and anxiety.
In stepping closer, and in getting his first really good look at Thomas, Francis is shocked to see how poorly his PA appears. His skin is indeed pale. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his eyes themselves have a haunted quality to them that’s entirely unfamiliar to Francis. Thomas is typically a happy sort of person. A bit uptight to be sure, and not interested in sharing deep emotions. He’s a private sort of person, but generally pleasant, and he always has a brilliant smile for Francis whenever he sees him. This Thomas looks like he’s been in a POW camp, or trapped in a basement chained to a water pipe, somewhere, like in those horror movies advertised on late night television. He looks traumatised.
Francis is waiting for him to admit that he’s gone and gotten made up as one of Franklin’s men. It would make sense, being that this entire exhibit came about in part due to Francis’ studies surrounding the Franklin expedition of 1845. He’d discovered a genetic link between himself and the captain of the HMS Terror through a casual interest in the subject, which led him to becoming rather obsessed with the doomed expedition.
He’d become so obsessed in fact, that he’d abandoned his well paying career as a popular news anchor to write a best selling novel on the subject entitled “Terror and Erebus: Franklin’s Lost Men”. People ate it up, and wanted more, and there are plans in the works to write a second book, this one about Crozier’s trip to Antarctica in 1839.
He’d read about Crozier’s steward, Thomas Jopson, in records of the expedition, and in crew manifests in old books in the Library of London, but mentions of Jopson were few, and incidental, and somehow Francis hadn’t paid much attention to that detail of Crozier’s life. Not until his editor had pointed out that his personal assistant had the same name as Crozier’s long ago steward, Thomas Jopson.
They’d had a laugh about it, about how Thomas was such a good personal assistant, he’d gotten himself reincarnated, just so he could continue working with his captain. Francis had found the joke a little unsettling, because, well it was rather a strange coincidence.
Now, it seems, Thomas has gotten into a bit of impulsive role play. Maybe he’d been hired by the exhibition to pull a fast one on Francis by secretly roping him into cosplay for a presentation? Something about that theory seems dreadfully off though. Gjoa Haven is a small hamlet in the northern Canadian territory of Nunavut, with a population of just over thirteen hundred. This isn’t a place known for impulsive and rather niche pranks, nor is this exhibition open to flashy celebrities like Taylor Swift or Ryan Gosling. Attendees are mostly scientists, historians, linguists, Michael Palin, family and friends of Louie Kamookak, local Inuit people interested in learning more about the expedition or interested in seeing their own ancestors represented in the exhibits they were attending. Really anyone obsessed with the lost Franklin expedition, with the money and time to fly in a miniscule crop plane to the top of the world to attend an exclusive first peak at finds from the recently recovered wrecks of Erebus and Terror were there, and that only accounted for perhaps fifty five people.
Life in the arctic is serious business. The locals don’t seem the surprise flash mob sort. Not to mention the fact that Thomas isn’t the type to volunteer for play acting. What’s more, he doesn’t look happy, or like he’s in on a fun secret. He looks terrified. He looks awful.
“Did the director put you up to this?” Francis asks, gently. He’s squinting at Thomas, trying to spot the telltale signs of stage makeup he remembers from years of reading the nightly news in front of a television camera. He finds none. No smears. No powder. No uneven application of white makeup to make him look ghostly pale. The paleness of Thomas’ skin reaches up into his scalp. Something makeup alone could never accomplish. Nor could makeup account for the stunned, haunted look in Thomas’ eyes. He’s only been out of Francis’ sight for perhaps six or seven minutes. Not nearly enough time to create this highly accurate costume.
Thomas doesn’t answer his question. He doesn’t even seem to have heard Francis, for his eyes keep wandering past his boss, and his gaze is fixed on the people milling about at the expedition. “I must be dreaming,” he repeats faintly, his hollow, pale eyes flicking back to Francis’ face.
“Thomas, what’s wrong?” Francis says softly, stepping closer and giving Thomas’ upper arm a gentle squeeze.
Surprisingly, Thomas flinches away from Francis’ touch, a thing he never does. His eyes go wide. “I… I’m sorry, sir,” he says. “I do not know you, sir. You look very much like my captain, but you aren’t him, and this place… these people. You cannot be here, sir. No one is here but ourselves and the men aboard Erebus!” His voice has risen, and his eyes have a wild look in them.
People are turning toward the sound of Thomas’ panicked voice. “That’s it. Come with me,” Francis says, and, putting an arm about Thomas’ shoulders, gently turns him in the direction of the office he’d been loaned to use while he’s at the expedition. This necessitates them walking along the outskirts of the exhibition space, to a doorway across the room, and Francis makes sure that his body is between Thomas and the other exhibition goers, who seem to be making his PA highly anxious for some incomprehensible reason. They walk down a blessedly silent and empty hallway, and Francis ushers Thomas into the office and closes the door behind them.
Thomas’ eyes flit about the room, seeming to drink in the details of the art on the walls, the glass paperweight on the table, and linger in a confused fashion on the speakerphone unit and computer.
“Where are we sir?” he asks, once more looking piercingly at Francis. His face is a mask of confusion. He’s trembling.
“Thomas, you know where we are. We’re in Gjoa Haven, in Nunavut. At the Terror and Erebus exhibit. Remember? We prepared for months.”
“The Terror and Erebus exhibit…” Thomas trails off in confusion. “Who were those people, sir? Walking about in that large room?” He asks. “Have I died and gone to heaven?”
“They’re people attending the exhibit,” Francis says firmly, fighting the spark of panic that’s trying to claw its way up his throat. This isn’t like Thomas. Thomas never loses his composure. He’s always in control of himself, and he presents a calm, cool, yet polite face to the world. Francis has only seen him truly upset once in the past decade, and that had been a private matter that he’d politely refused to elaborate on when Francis had asked. “Thomas,” he says gently, “perhaps it’s time to call it a day and get you to hospital. I think there’s a clinic in town where they could at least check your vitals.”
“Town?” Thomas' eyes fill with tears.
“Hey,” Francis steps close again, puts his hands on Thomas’ shoulders. “Hey, don’t cry. What’s happening? Talk to me.”
Thomas flushes bright pink across his nose and cheeks, and his eyes drop from Francis’ face. Twin tears escape his lids and tumble down his cheeks, and Francis notes with a fascinated sort of dread, that their tracks do not leave trails through any pale makeup. Thomas truly isn’t wearing any makeup. There is a cognitive dissonance there that hasn’t fully soaked into Francis’ brain yet, and his conscious mind jerks back from what it might mean that Thomas is standing before him, pale a ghost, with hollowed cheeks and dark circles under his eyes, having only left Francis’ sight minutes prior.
“I was just aboard Terror, sir,” Thomas whispers, eyes rising to once more search Francis’ face, with a look of pleading desperation. “We were trapped in the pack ice, and there was no hope of rescue. At least not while the ships were frozen in. Yet here I am, in this strange place, with you, sir. You look so much like my captain, sir, only he is clean shaven, and perhaps a bit..a bit older than you.” Thomas’ eyes flick back up to take in the features of Francis’ face, and Francis is struck by the emotion in them. There’s an intense longing in the depths of Thomas’ ocean eyes that takes Francis’ breath away. It’s a thing he’s never seen before in the face of his tidy, endlessly even-keel PA.
“Thomas,” Francis makes his tone firm yet still kind. He doesn’t want to scare Thomas, but Thomas is certainly scaring the hell out of him. “We’re in Nunavut, in Northern Canada. The year is twenty eighteen, and we’re celebrating the discovery of the Terror. We found the Erebus in twenty fourteen, and Terror in twenty sixteen, only two years ago. It was decided that we’d celebrate the recovery of the wreckage of both ships by having this exhibit. The proceeds go to the Gjoa Haven Head Start Center and the Medical Center. Don’t you remember any of this? You bloody well organised the whole trip.”
“The wreckage…. The wreckage of…Terror?” Thomas’ tears have not stopped falling. He looks terribly confused and… grief stricken.
“Right. That’s it. We’re taking you to hospital,” Francis says. “Stay here. I’ll just go talk to Peter.” Peter Amarok is the local AA meeting organiser, town electrician and part time event coordinator they’d been introduced to that morning. A warm, distractible sort of man with a crinkly smile and a soft voice. Francis had liked him instantly and feels the need for a friendly face.
He turns to do just that, but Thomas reaches out and grasps him suddenly and tightly by the hand. “Don’t go!” he yells. “Please don’t leave me!”
Francis feels fear tickle its way down his spine as he looks again into the wide, frightened eyes of his once self possessed, effortlessly professional personal assistant. “Thomas, are you somehow… have you convinced yourself that you are one of Franklin’s lost men? Are you having some sort of psychotic break? I need to know what’s going on, and we need to get you to the medical centre for some treatment!” He can’t help that his voice has risen along with the fear crawling up his back.
“Yes! I am one of Franklin’s men! I’m Thomas Jopson, Captain’s steward! I serve Captain Francis Crozier, aboard Her Majesty’s ship, the Terror!” Thomas’ tone is one of pleading, laced with hysteria.
Francis is stunned. Thomas sounds anguished, and he’s clasping Francis’ hand in both of his own so tightly, as if he’s afraid to let go. “Your name is Thomas Jopson,” he says slowly, softly, “but you’re not some long ago ship’s steward. You’re my personal assistant. I’m an author and an historian. The year is twenty eighteen.”
“Twenty eighteen?” Thomas says slowly, utter confusion written on his face, then his eyes roll back, and he sways. He’d have knocked his head badly on the way down if Francis hadn’t awkwardly and inexpertly caught him. Thomas’ weight pulls Francis to the floor as well, but at least it’s in something of a controlled manner. Now on his knees, with an armful of unconscious man, he manoeuvres Thomas onto his back and quickly fetches a pillow from the small sofa in the corner for his head. Simultaneously, he has his mobile out and is speed-dialling the medical center. Luckily, Thomas had programmed the number into Francis’ mobile on the flight over from Yellowknife, insisting that if they went to the Arctic, they should have an established line to medical assistance. That’s Thomas. Prepared for anything. At least, that’s how he used to be. Now, he is a pale, unconscious man, lying on the floor.