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Chapter Text

“Tell us about Birdshit Island, why don’t you, James?” Crozier snapped, cutting into the long-winded war story spilling from Fitzjames’ lips. “That’s a capital story.”

Alexander jerked from his thoughts. He raised his head, gaze darting back and forth between the captains, but when nobody looked at him, he breathed a sigh and sank back into his chair. Part of him wished to thank Crozier; he had lost the plot of the conversation countless minutes ago, and was now saved from continuing to feign interest.

The air in the wardroom froze, quivering on a knife’s edge. A curtain of silence dropped over the room as Crozier and Fitzjames stared icily at each other from either side of the head seat. Crozier’s knuckles were white around his glass, and there was nothing Alexander could do but watch as he swallowed the last mouthful of amber liquid. Now empty, Crozier set the glass back on the table, and Alexander flinched at the clatter.

Alexander shook his head and dropped his eyes back to his plate, but the food was unappetizing now. He poked halfheartedly at some of the pickled cabbage; however, his stomach only twisted further as it squished and oozed juices. He contained a grimace.

Sir John began to speak about the ice. His voice droned like a professor’s, and it was all too easy for Alexander to let it fade away into the dull creaking of the ship. Forcing his focus seemed too much effort, and ice master Blanky was a good friend; if Alexander needed a report, he could have it later in more pleasant company.

Alexander thumbed his half-empty glass of Allsopp’s, debating whether or not he ought to finish it off. The crystal glimmered under the light, warping the shapes and colours of the table, until a shadow suddenly passed through, and Alexander’s eyebrows shot up.

Thomas Jopson loomed at the crack of the door, cupping the knob with delicate fingers as he exchanged inaudible words with an unseen figure outside. His other hand was splayed across the wall, and as Alexander watched, it slowly tensed, then returned to neutrality and dropped to Jopson’s side. Following that, Jopson leaned back and eased the door closed. His gaze searched the room for the briefest moment until it landed on Alexander, piercing him with icy shards as he gave him a curt nod.

Alexander startled at the eye contact, but he couldn’t muster the will to tear himself away. He continued staring, tracking Jopson around the edge of the room as he crept behind the seats, invisible to all others. Like a cat upon a fence, Jopson deftly navigated the narrow passage, and came to rest at Alexander’s elbow.

Jopson spoke with gentle gravity, his words quiet yet heavy in Alexander’s upturned ear. “One of the ship’s boys, sir,” he murmured. “He’s taken seriously ill. Doctor Peddie requests your presence immediately.”

As messengers went, Jopson was every inch a forboding one. Under the intensity of his frost-blue eyes, hair rose on the back of Alexander’s neck, and he shuddered. If only his raven-black locks had been a real raven’s feathers, Alexander might have believed it was an omen of death.

Alexander tossed his napkin onto the table and stood, drawing every pair of eyes to him. “I’m needed in sickbay,” he stated, firmly. “Might I—”

Crozier interjected before he could finish the request. “Dismissed,” he grunted, with a halfhearted wave of his hand.

Alexander bowed his head and pushed back his seat. However, he wasn’t able to take even a single step before a loud throat-clearing rang out and stopped him in his tracks. Slowly, Alexander looked up.

From the head of the table, Sir John fixed him with a stern, pointed glare. His eyes penetrated deep into the recesses of Alexander’s soul, sending an ice-water shiver down his spine, and Alexander swallowed.

“May I have your leave,” Alexander asked, every word like a hesitant step across creaking floorboards, “sir?”

For one long, tumultuous moment, Alexander stared into the freezing depths of an expression he couldn’t read. His muscles tensed, anticipating conflict even as he took a deep breath and told himself to relax.

Sir John heaved a long-suffering sigh and tapped his fingers on the table. “Very well, Doctor. Run along, now,” he said. Condescension dripped from every word, and he flippantly shooed Alexander away.

With cheeks burning and fists threatening to clench, Alexander fled from the wardroom.

The sickbay was in pandemonium when Alexander arrived. Boys—and men barely more than boys—crowded the door, blocking Alexander’s view. As he approached, one of the older lads spotted him and started waving them out of the way.

“Hey, let the doctor through! C’mon, Evans, it’s Doctor McDonald, let ‘im pass.”

Bill Strong had a sway over the boys, and at his command, they tripped over themselves to clear the way. Alexander murmured his thanks as he went by, and Strong replied with a salute.

Inside, Alexander’s fellow surgeon stood over the convulsing body of David Young, fighting with his flailing limbs. The stench of fresh blood clung to the air as Young retched and spat it up, painting John’s apron with crimson, but John didn’t so much as flinch.

Alexander shed his coat and threw it away to who-knows-where, then hastily rolled up his sleeves. Neither he nor John spoke; they didn’t need to.

When Young finally fell still, Alexander breathed a long sigh. The boy’s chest continued to heave as he stared up at both surgeons with wide eyes, but his limbs were now limp against the examination table, and no new blood spilled from his mouth.

A tight-lipped smile rose to Alexander’s face, and he patted Young’s shoulder with one blood-slick hand. “You’re alright, lad,” he reassured him. “You’re alright.” Then, he looked up at John.

The flat expression on John’s face said it all, and a rock the size of a mountain dropped into the pit of Alexander’s stomach.

Alexander forced a smile back onto his face. “Excuse us for a moment, please, David,” he said, years of practiced bedside manner chasing the quiver from his voice. “Try to get some sleep, if you can.”

Young’s posture crumpled. “’m gonna die, aren’t I?” he whimpered.

“We don’t know for certain,” Alexander responded, truthfully. “Doctor Peddie an’ I will have to do a couple more tests, but it might just be something you ate, hm?” He bent down a little more, putting himself at eye level, and rested his hand on Young’s wrist. “I’d really appreciate it if you tried your best not to worry until we figure it out. Can you do that for me. David?”

Slowly, Young jerked his head in a nod. “I’ll try,” he promised, hoarsely. “It’s just that… ‘s just that… they say you don’ get to… to ascend if it’s sickness that gets you.” He winced, looking away as he shoved his hands down against the bed. “‘s it true?”

Alexander stiffened, the smile falling from his lips. Then, in a sterner tone, he replied, “I need you to rest, David,” and his chest tightened as he turned away.

Some time after, Alexander let himself into the great cabin. All three captains were scattered around the room: Crozier was slumped into a chair near the door, Sir John was perched in the captain’s seat behind the desk, and Fitzjames was toying with the chess board by the window. He cleared his throat.

“Sir,” Alexander began, inclining his head towards Crozier and keeping his gaze there, though Sir John’s silhouette attempted to distract him. “We’ve given the boy a Dover’s powder and settled his spasms,” he explained, wiping his hands clean with a handkerchief as he came to pause in the centre of the room. “He’s resting now, as he can. But he has dark blood in his stool—digested blood. He’s bleeding above his colon.”

“That’s a vivid description,” Fitzjames commented, with the air of a man attempting to lighten the mood at Alexander’s expense, but no-one seemed to find it amusing.

Sir John hastened to speak, asking, “Is it scurvy?” and Alexander was forced to bring his attention to the holy creature that still deigned to call itself an officer of the Royal Navy.

Alexander had heard the rumours of an accident, during one of Sir John’s infamous land expeditions, but the details were kept firmly under wraps. Regardless, it must have been fatal—or nearly fatal, if not for the grace of God taking hold in his last moments and revitalizing him, through the mysterious and rare process known most commonly as ascension. Now, he sat before Alexander as a medical curiosity and a messenger of the Lord, indicated by the most obvious traits of his transformation: two great, white, feathered wings that spread across the cabin and encroached upon Crozier’s space so egregiously that Alexander knew he would be swatting at them if it were in any way appropriate.

Alexander shifted uncomfortably and answered, “Though I see nothing to mark it as such, I can’t rule it out.” He slipped the handkerchief back into his pocket and made a concerted effort to give Sir John his attention. However, he was quickly forced to place his gaze on the wall behind Sir John’s head, as his supernaturally piercing eyes made Alexander’s skin crawl. “But, if I were to wager a guess at this point, I’d say the patient’s consumptive. It doesn’t always attack the lungs.”

Sir John stood and folded his wings towards his body as he did so. The longest feathers brushed the floor of the cabin, and the wing-tips scraped the ceiling, filling the room with his angelic presence even as he attempted to contain himself. “Doctor Stanley should examine him,” he declared, with the voice of a man that was accustomed to being obeyed without question. “Perhaps he can discern something more.”

At that moment, both other captains rose to join Sir John, though Crozier had to surreptitiously lean out of the way to avoid being smacked in the head by a wing as it moved. “I’ll send a gig for him,” said Crozier, gruffly.

“No, no, there’s no need. We’ll take him with us,” Sir John replied, dismissively.

Crozier shot Alexander a look of disbelief, which Alexander could only agree with. “Young? In his condition?”

“Yes. Wrap him up well and have our boat readied.”

After another look from Crozier, Alexander realized that the responsibility was falling to him, as the medical practitioner present, to convince Sir John of his folly. “I—I would… hesitate to move him, sir,” he began, and he uttered a silent prayer that telling an angel he was wrong was not considered a sin. “I don’t frankly know how much… spirit the boy has left in him.”

“A bit of cool air will freshen him,” Sir John reassured him, with the unwavering confidence of a man who had only ever needed faith to keep him in good health. “He’ll be tucked up just the same in half an hour’s time.” And that was the end of the discussion, as he briskly swept through the door with Fitzjames on his heels, and Alexander was left staring down the barrel of Crozier’s irritated scowl.

“Angel be damned,” Crozier swore, the moment that Sir John was reasonably out of earshot. “He’s a fool if he thinks this won’t just kill the boy. He’d rather sentence one of my men to death than listen to the likes of you or me. It’s—”

Alexander cut him off. “Sir,” he said. “They’ll be waiting for you on deck. And I don’t think that having to send someone to fetch you will help your case much.”

Crozier grumbled something unintelligible, but nevertheless took his advice and went, leaving Alexander alone to wonder what on earth he was supposed to tell Young.

Indeed, when Alexander relayed the outcome of the meeting, Young’s eyes went as round as saucers, staring pitifully at Alexander. “You’re— you’re letting ‘em take me?” he questioned, voice quivering, and Alexander’s stomach clenched. “But… what if I don’ come back? I don’ wanna die over there, I— I barely know any of ‘em, an’— an’ Tommy said he’d visit—”

Alexander recognized Young’s gasping wheeze as an indication of oncoming tears, and hurried to place his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Don’t worry yourself, lad,” he murmured, attempting to inject confidence into his voice that wasn’t quite real, as he fought to find something reassuring he could say that wasn’t an outright lie. “I trust Doctor Stanley with my life, an’ if there’s anyone on these ships that can do something for you, it’ll be him. I’m sure he’ll send you right back as soon as he’s finished making sure that you’re fit for duty.”

Behind Young, John cleared his throat, and Alexander glanced up to find him slowly shaking his head. Then, he beckoned Alexander over, turned, and crossed the room to the little office that granted them their only privacy from their patient.

“Excuse me a moment,” Alexander told Young, hurriedly, and he hastened over to meet John.

As soon as the door slid shut, John stated, “That boy’s goin’ t’ die, Alexander.”

“He doesn’t need to know that,” Alexander responded, slightly ruffled.

“’s cruel.”

“Is it?” Alexander huffed a sigh. “Look, John, it’s hardly going to make a difference. Either he spends his last days scared out of his wits, or we let him have a little bit of hope to make the whole thing a little more painless. It’s not as if I’ve actually told him he’s going to get better, have I?”

John stared at him, expression unreadable, for a long moment. Then, he said, “If ‘t were me, I’d want t’ know.”

Alexander softened, and he reached out to place his hand on John’s shoulder in much the same way he’d placed it upon Young’s. “But it’s not you,” he told him, quietly. “It’s a young man who’s barely seen anything of the world an’ is terrified of everything he has seen. Let’s spare him this, for now. Please.”

“Aye. I hear you,” John conceded. He lowered his head.

When Alexander went back out, Young was watching him, eyes pleading and desperate. “David,” he began, approaching slowly, but Young was ready with an interjection.

“Is there— is there any chance I’ll ascend, Doctor?” he asked, words quivering as he forced them out. “Please— please— I need to know…”

Alexander took a deep breath and he stepped up close to Young’s bedside. “I don’t know,” he admitted, softly. “As far as I’m aware, ascension only happens to those of us unlucky enough to be faced with a terrible, violent end… but, then again, we know so little about it, an’ the Lord works in mysterious ways, hm?” With effort, he gave Young a small smile. “There’s a first time for everything, after all, David.”

“I wanted to be ‘ere,” Young whispered, “when we found it.”

“Have faith,” Alexander replied, for want of anything better to say. “I’m certain you will be… in one form or another.”

With the addition of the ice masters and engineers, Erebus’ wardroom table was not large enough to accommodate the full breadth of the command meeting. Thus, as third lieutenant, John Irving had been relegated to a bench beneath the window. It wouldn’t have bothered him quite so much if the spot hadn’t previously been occupied by a minuscule, pampered primate by the name of Jacko, who was peering at him from atop the shelf. As the other men took their seats, John surreptitiously shifted away from her, trying to dissuade her from any attempts to regain her perch.

Jacko chattered at him, almost conversationally, and John stiffened, attempting to silently indicate that he wasn’t eager for her company. However, she either didn’t understand or purposefully ignored him, because, almost in unison with Sir John’s commencement of the meeting, she skittered right to the edge and sniffed eagerly at his arm. John’s hand twitched, wanting to shoo her away, but he didn’t dare with Sir John so close by. Knowing his luck, he would end up accidentally hurting the poor creature and incurring Sir John’s wrath.

“News is in about Erebus.” John politely turned to regard Sir John, though he kept an eye on Jacko. “While she can still make headway under steam, the flagship’s efficiency has been compromised.”

“How badly compromised?” demanded Crozier.

“She can still pull two knots, maybe three, with the boiler full up,” came the answer from the opposite end of the table.

“Half-power, more or less.”

“Yes.”

Sir John cleared his throat, drawing attention back to him, and continued. “As well, we know that the ice ahead is increasing dramatically, both in thickness and amount,” he said, “but we must be nearly in sight of King William Land. Then, it isn’t but another two hundred miles before we can pick up the western charts and draw in this final piece of the puzzle once and for all.” His wings lifted as he spoke, reflecting the man’s clear belief in his words, and John found his eyes instinctively drawn to them, even draped towards the ground as they were. His gaze then settled on the extra seam stitched into the sides of Sir John’s uniform to accommodate for his feathery appendages, before he realized that he was staring and shook himself, embarrassed.

“Hear, hear,” John caught Fitzjames saying, and he nodded along, urgently.

There was a brief pause, as the sentiment was passed around the table, before Crozier hesitantly spoke again, saying, “Our situation is… more dire than you may understand.”

“Dramatic opening shot,” snorted Fitzjames.

Sir John gave him a look not unlike that of a father disappointed with his son, and John was briefly overwhelmed by what an exemplary representative of the Lord their expedition’s leader was. “Please,” was all he needed to say, and Fitzjames looked appropriately chastened. “Go ahead, Francis.”

“That is not just ice, ahead,” Crozier explained. “It is the pack. And you are proposing that we cross it—in September. Even with leads, it could take us weeks of picking our way through it.” He took a breath, creating a dramatic pause. “We may not have weeks.”

“Well, weeks at most,” scoffed Fitzjames, and John could barely contain his shock at his continued disrespect, even after being quieted by a spirit of the divine. If George’s back hadn’t been to him, John might have shot him a look of disbelief, in the hopes that they might share that opinion.

Crozier ignored him. “You’ve seen the sun dogs, Graham,” he said, turning to look at Lieutenant Gore, seated down at the other end of the table. “How many have there been now?”

Gore hesitated a moment, looking first to Fitzjames to receive his nod before answering. “Three.”

“It’s already a colder year than last—”

Sir John politely interrupted before Crozier could finish. “I’ve been to the Arctic, Francis.”

“On foot,” Crozier pointed out, swiftly. “And you nearly starved. Not all of your men returned. I say this with all due honour—”

“For God’s sake, Francis,” Fitzjames cursed, and John flinched, but Sir John didn’t react nearly so strongly.

“A captain is due his candor,” Sir John told him instead, and John admired his patience. “So, what would you propose instead? Wait out winter here?”

“No.” Crozier shifted in his seat to gesture to the map before him. “The exact shape of King William Land is unknown. As we discovered with Cornwallis Land, it could be King William Island, with a chance to sail around its eastern shore.”

“Yes, but east would add miles—we might not be out this year after all.”

As the captains debated, George shifted his chair slightly, tilting him on just enough of an angle for him to glance back at John. John met George’s eyes, surprised, but George simply shot him a small, tight-lipped smile. John returned it, as best he could, and George’s expression visibly lit up in response.

“But only because Erebus is lame,” Crozier went on, breaking John out of his stupor. “If we consolidate all our coal on the less damaged ship, we’d have enough to go for broke and get east of King William Land, possibly around it, before winter. It’s our best, and probably only, chance.”

There was a beat, and George turned his gaze back to Crozier, expression unreadable.

“Yes. We should go for broke,” Blanky put in, oddly subdued.

“Abandon Erebus, is… is that what you’re saying?” Fitzjames questioned.

“If it is a dead end,” Crozier continued, once more ignoring Fitzjames, “we can overwinter in complete safety, out of the pack, in some… sheltered harbour. We retrace our steps come spring—tired of one another, no doubt, but alive.”

All eyes in the room fell on Sir John, waiting for his response. “That is an interesting… speculation,” he conceded, after a long moment. “But, of course, we will not be abandoning Erebus, nor Terror, should she suffer some… minor misfortunes. We are almost there, gentlemen—”

“Hear me, John.” There was a note of desperation in Crozier’s voice, the likes of which John had never heard before, and the notion that Sir John—divinity in the flesh—could be wrong was terrifying. Quickly, John dismissed such a blasphemous thought. “It won’t matter if we’re two hundred or two thousand miles from safe water. If the leads close up and we are out there in it, we will have no idea where the current will move the pack, of which we will be a part. We could be forced into the shallows on the weather side of King William and crushed to atoms, if we’re even upright by then.” He leaned in, forcing George to shift once more to stay out of his way. “As a trusted friend once put it… this place wants us dead.”

Fitzjames, who didn’t know when to leave well enough alone, immediately snipped, “Who is this friend? Does he also write melodrama?”

Crozier slammed the table. The china rattled, and John nearly leapt out of his seat. Poor Jacko did leap out of her seat, with a screech. There was nothing John could do to stop her before she’d sprung onto his shoulder and he was forced to lean forward to become an appropriate monkey perch.

George, who was looking increasingly uncomfortable with his place in the seating arrangement, diligently stifled an inappropriately-timed chuckle at John’s misery. At least, John supposed, his suffering could bring a little bit of joy to his favourite dandyish lieutenant, and he restrained a sigh.

Crozier was once again speaking; in a low, almost threatening tone, he said, “Sir John, myself, Mr Blanky, and Mr Reid. Only four of us at this table are Arctic veterans. There’ll be no melodramas here.” In the silence between his words, John could have heard a pin drop. “Just live men… or dead men.”

John’s eyes wandered back to the tips of Sir John’s pearly wings trailing across the floorboards, trying to centre his focus on something other than the little primate fingers digging into his shoulders or the heavy weight that had dropped into the pit of his stomach. His hand began to shake, so he pressed the nail of his opposite thumb into it, dragging it back and forth until his nerves twitched from pain rather than anything else.

Sir John wrested back control of the conversation without so much as a ruffled feather. “It’s certainly good to see colour in your cheeks again, Francis,” he complimented, quite sincerely, “but we are… two weeks from finding the Grail. And it is my belief that God, and winter, will find us in safe waters by the end of the year—the Sandwich Islands, or even further.” He spread his hands, as if he were Jesus Christ offering bread and wine to his disciples at supper, and there was nothing else he needed to do to remind the room of the power he commanded.

John swallowed thickly; Crozier was fortunate that their Lord was a merciful one.

“If you’re wrong… we are about to commit an act of hubris we may not survive.” Crozier warned him, grimly. “You know what men are like, when they are desperate. We both do.”

Sir John lifted his chin, looking down at Crozier over the end of his nose. “I shall continue to command from Erebus”—Crozier huffed—“but due to her injuries, I’m putting Terror in lead position. She may not be the better ice-breaker, but she is the more powerful ship now,” Sir John explained. “Bury your boy, Young, and we’ll be on our way; west, around King William Land, as planned—”

“Bury?” Crozier interjected.

“Yes.” Sir John fixed him with a stern look, as if daring him to interrupt again. “A mercy. It was a long night.”

John couldn’t have agreed more.

When they arrived back aboard Terror, it was George’s immediate duty to relieve Edward on watch. Crozier’s conduct at the meeting must have truly rankled him, because as Edward descended, George rushed past both of his fellow lieutenants with hardly a word.

Edward’s expression immediately soured, and he reached for John’s arm, drawing him close so that he could ask in a low tone, “What happened?”

John glanced over his shoulder, and though it was quiet at that time of the night, he didn’t like the look of the caulker’s mate obviously trying to seem busy, nor did he particularly want to air officers’ business out where anybody could hear. “Not here,” he murmured, laying his own hand on Edward’s elbow. “Let’s… let’s talk in private, please, Edward.”

Edward, bless him, did not protest; he simply nodded and escorted John back to his cabin, then followed him inside.

John wrung his hands together for a moment, then forced them down to his sides as Edward slid the door shut. “You are a spiritual man,” John started, “aren’t you, Edward?”

Edward blinked. “Not quite so much as you, but—”

“Nevertheless,” John cut him off. “You wouldn’t dispute the ways of the Lord with— with an angel, would you?”

Edward stared, his expression shifting into something incredulous. “No. No, I wouldn’t.” He shook his head. “Not… Sir John? John, who… why…”

John leaned in, lowering his voice even further so as to inform him, “Our captain.”

For a moment, Edward was silent. Then, he began again, “John. What happened?”

“Captain Crozier proposed a change of course,” John told him, tactfully. His hands twitched, nervously, and he laced them together behind his back rather than let Edward see him fidget. “Sir John disagreed—and rightfully so, I think.”

Edward heaved a great, exhausted sigh, and his shoulders drooped. “I know that can’t be all of it,” he said, dejectedly. “Please. Don’t spare me the details.”

“If you insist,” John conceded, dipping his head. “Captain Crozier believes that if we continue on in this way, we will all surely perish.”

Edward’s pupils widened in horror.

“Absurd, isn’t it?” John whispered, with a wary glance at the door, as if Crozier might suddenly appear there, listening. “And to suggest such a thing to— to Sir John, as if he isn’t… you know.”

“An angel,” Edward repeated. His gaze was downcast, now, refusing to meet John’s eyes.

“I should think that he, of all people, ought to know whether or not the Lord intends to grand us safe passage,” John pointed out, with a slight lift of his chin. “To suggest otherwise is— is blasphemous. The captain ought— ought to be ashamed of himself!”

Edward cleared his throat, then, and John was jolted away from his tirade to find that the other man had shrunk into his coat, looking dejected and downtrodden. “John,” he croaked, weakly. “You don’t need to convince me.”

“Right. Right, yes, I’m sorry,” John replied, turning away as he was abruptly overcome by the same shame he had wished upon Crozier. “Perhaps… perhaps you should go.”

“I’ll go,” Edward said, at the same time. “I’ll— I’ll let you be. Goodnight, John.”

“Oh— oh. Goodnight, Edward.” Dejectedly, John watched Edward leave, and he knew that Sir John would surely not have bungled such an interaction so terribly.

A couple of weeks later, John staggered through the doorway into George’s cabin; his limbs felt awkward and uncoordinated, most likely because he hadn’t slept in several days. “George. Tell me that I’m dreaming, tell me that this is some cruel test of faith—”

“John,” George greeted from atop his berth, brow instantly furrowing as he took in John’s unruly appearance. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s— what’s wrong?” John repeated, his voice pitching up to nearly a squeak. “What’s wrong? You’re asking me what’s wrong?”

“Should I fetch Doctor McDonald? Are you having some kind of hysteric episode?” George questioned, and the sincerity of the suggestion momentarily gave John pause.

“George,” John began again, firmly, “I am not hysterical.”

“Oh, are you not?” George responded, innocently. “Pardon me. My mistake.” He snapped the book in his hands shut, then put it to the side as he swung his legs over the side of the berth. “What’s troubling you, then, John?”

John clasped his hands together, trying to ground himself with the sensation of his nails digging into his opposite hands. “The ice,” he started, trying to find a way to explain himself without seeming manic. “Sir John was wrong about the ice.”

“Yes?” George cocked his head, as if he were still expecting further explanation.

“George, he can’t— he’s not supposed to be able to be wrong!” John exclaimed.

“Why not?” George shrugged. “Part of him’s still a man, isn’t it? He can’t be perfect.” He waved a hand, then, dismissively. “Besides, overwintering is perfectly normal—you know better than anyone that we have plenty of provisions, and our captain’s been to the Antarctic. If you’re really concerned, perhaps you ought to speak to Mr Blanky—he’ll set you right, I’m sure.”

John stared at him. “I suppose…” he murmured, mostly to himself. “I suppose, if Sir John didn’t prevent this from happening, then it must be… so un-noteworthy that it doesn’t concern him.”

“Exactly. Nothing to worry about,” George reassured him. “We’ll be on our way come summer, just you wait.”

“I… yes. Yes, of course.” John ducked his head and retreated towards the door, embarrassed by his outburst. “I’ll just be— I’ll be going, then. You’re right. Nothing to worry about.” The more he said it, the more it seemed real, and now he felt quite a fool for interrupting George with his ridiculousness.

“Oh, John, it’s alright, you don’t need to—”

But John was already in the corridor, turning away from George’s door and fleeing aimlessly into the bowels of the ship to search for somewhere he could be alone with his thoughts. As he wandered, head down, trying not to attract too much attention to himself, he caught sight of Edward leaving the sick bay, and moved to intercept him without a second thought.

“Edward,” John breathed, slightly fatigued from his swift departure. “Are you alright?”

Edward stuttered to a halt in front of him and blinked twice, then looked left and right as if there were another Edward that John might have been speaking to. “Er… yes?” he answered, brows scrunching together in confusion like two great furry caterpillars inching across his forehead.

“…you were in the sick bay,” John explained, with no lack of concern evident in his voice.

“Oh. Yes.” Edward nodded, stiffly. “Don’t fret; it wasn’t about me. Doctor McDonald just needed a word.” However, he refused to meet John’s eyes, instead focusing on a spot just past his shoulder, and he then brought the conversation to a sudden end with a brusque, “Excuse me.”

John dutifully stepped out of the way and let Edward pass, studying the gentle slope of Edward’s shoulders that seemed to grow ever steeper with every passing day. Whatever he had been speaking to the doctor about, it was another burden that John wished he could relieve Edward of; but, as third lieutenant, there were still some matters that were above him.

Chapter Text

“There’s plenty of lemon juice, an’ it’s still as sour as ever,” Alexander explained, pressing his thumbs together, “so I don’t expect to see many cases of scurvy this year. Maybe a couple here an’ there, but nothing that a couple extra rations can’t solve.”

“Mm,” hummed Lieutenant Little, affirmatively. However, when he opened his mouth, it was a long moment before he finally managed to say, “May I just ask a question?”

“You don’t need my permission, Lieutenant,” Alexander reminded him, with a soft smile. “Ask away.”

Little huffed a small sigh, slouching deeper in his seat as if he might be able to shrink down into his coat where Alexander couldn’t see him. “Well, it’s only that—” He pressed his palms together between his knees and paused for another brief second. “It’s just that… I feel the captain would benefit from hearing this.”

Alexander skilfully kept his expression neutral. “Well, you can report it to him, can’t you, lad?” he responded. “No need to drag him all the way down here to listen to me prattle on about supplies.” He chuckled, and Little nervously echoed the sound.

“Right. Yes. Of course,” Little said, hurriedly. “There’s nothing… nothing to be concerned about, then?” His eyes darted around, flickering up to Alexander’s face and then back down to the desk, as if he couldn’t bear to witness Alexander’s reaction to his words.

Alexander’s eyebrow rose. “What sort of things should I be concerned about?” he questioned, and he leaned back in his chair.

Little shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, you know,” he replied, with a vague wave of his hand.

“No, I don’t know.” Alexander adjusted his posture again, sliding forward and steepling his hands on the desk so that he could lean in towards Little. “Lieutenant, anything you say to me in confidence will remain between us. Captain Crozier won’t hear a word, I can assure you.”

Little sheepishly looked up, shame painted across his face, and a pang of sympathy twinged in Alexander’s chest. “Captain Crozier has… a fondness for whiskey,” he started, gingerly.

Alexander nodded. “So I’ve noticed,” he admitted.

“Do you think that he may…” Little wrung his hands, “…overindulge?”

“Well,” Alexander huffed a quiet laugh, trying to keep the mood light, “he’s an Irishman, not a drunkard. We all have our vices.” Then, his expression grew more serious.

“But, if you want my honest opinion, I don’t think our captain’s very eager to, er… let loose, shall we say, in front of Sir John, what with the rumours of a proposal or two to Sir John’s niece. I doubt I even need to mention that Sir John isn’t exactly a fan of spirits, and if Crozier slips, he’ll be the first to know. From where I’m sitting, as long as he keeps turning up to command meetings, I don’t think he’s likely to get sloshed enough that you need to worry, Lieutenant.”

“Right. Right,” Little murmured, glancing down into his lap. “I apologize for bothering you with it.”

“No, you were right to, lad,” Alexander rushed to tell him. He’d once known a young whaler like Lieutenant Little—always desperate for approval and downtrodden the moment he was given any hint of dismissal—and pitied him that the affirmation he was most anxious for was the one that he was least likely to get. “Better to have it out in the open than mucking up the inside of your brain, I think. Besides, it’s never wrong to have your captain’s health in mind.”

There was a beat. Then, Little replied, “I suppose you’re right. Thank you, Doctor.” He tapped his fingers together and glanced from side to side. “Is there anything else that you require from me?”

“No, that will be all. Thank you, Lieutenant,” Alexander answered, with a nod, and Little stood to go.

Once he was alone, Alexander drummed his fingers on the desk, then sighed. Little’s concern was, indeed, the exact reason that he had chosen to meet with him instead of Crozier. As they spoke, the captain was over on Erebus, dining with Sir John and Commander Fitzjames, and Alexander suspected that he would not be in a very conversational mood when he returned.

There was truth to what Alexander had said—as long as Sir John led the expedition, Crozier wouldn’t dare give into his vices. However, the lieutenant’s fears were also entirely justified, and Alexander would be remiss to claim that he didn’t share them.

Alexander only wished that someone could reassure him the same way he’d reassured Little.

“David Young has passed.”

“Do I really need to explain to you what is an hallucination?”

“I don’t see scurvy. I don’t see anything at all.”

Though they’d been in the ice a couple of weeks now, the idea of walking from Terror to Erebus was still entirely foreign. The weather had been so poor, to start with, that if not for how completely still everything was, it would have been easy to mistake the ice for the sea.

But, eventually, it had cleared enough for non-essential trips, and Alexander found a spare moment to make the trek himself.

“Doctor McDonald!” greeted Erebus’ cow-eyed assistant surgeon, Harry Goodsir, when Alexander climbed aboard. He eagerly extended his hand to shake, though their thick gloves turned it into more of a fumble, and let out a nervous laugh.

As Alexander looked Harry up and down, he mulled over how he had the advantage of serving on whaling ships prior to this. He had never seen the Arctic, but at least he had some sense of cold. Harry, on the other hand, looked like a fledgling bird, bundled thickly for even a few brief minutes on deck. Alexander chuckled, returned the greeting, and ushered him below.

Harry escorted Alexander to the sick bay, then murmured an apology and ran off to divest himself of his layers. Thus, Alexander was alone when he poked his head inside, knocking three times on the doorframe as he called, “Hullo?”

Instantly, Stephen Stanley was in front of him, like flies swarming to a corpse, and he loomed close. “Doctor McDonald,” he drawled. “I thought you had better sense than to go shouting into another man’s sick bay. There are men here trying to rest.”

Alexander couldn’t help but crack a wide, fond smile. “A pleasure to see you too, Stephen. It’s been too long.”

“Not long enough, I think,” Stephen grumbled, but, nonetheless, he gestured for Alexander to follow him back to the far corner.

Alexander gazed around the sick bay as they went; it was much the same as Terror’s, with a low ceiling and hammocks strung up all around the outside. Only a couple of them were occupied, but the stench of injury and illness still permeated the air—slightly different from what Alexander was accustomed to, but familiar.

Stephen ducked inside the small office, disturbing a stack of papers on the desk before sinking down into the vacant chair on the other side of it. It was cramped, with no other designated spots to sit, but all of the cabinets and shelves were neatly organized, so it was clearly just the size of the room and not any mess making it feel smaller.

Alexander decided to take a seat on the edge of the desk, beaming cheerily. Stephen glared at him.

“And where has Mr Goodsir wandered off to this time?” Stephen demanded.

“Oh, really, Stephen, you’re much too cruel to the poor lad,” Alexander said, with a disapproving shake of his head.

But, Stephen said nothing—he simply fixed Alexander with a harsh stare and waited, silently, for his question to be answered.

Alexander sighed. “He’s putting away his woollens.”

“That wasn’t so difficult, now,” Stephen sneered, “was it?”

“O, Stephen, treasured friend of mine,” Alexander shot back without hesitation, “everything is difficult with you.”

There was a moment of tense silence, and Alexander feared he’d misread. But, then, Stephen snorted a chuckle and Alexander let himself beam a smile in return. “Your letters have certainly aided in making things less dull,” Stephen said, as if he were carefully picking his words so as to avoid complimenting Alexander directly. “I may have begun reading the dictionary otherwise, just to have something to bury my nose in.”

Alexander tossed his chin back and laughed. “Oh, well, thank God for that, then. Sometimes I worry that if you don’t have enough to do, you’re going to start taking it into your own hands to create more patients.”

Stephen huffed. “Don’t fret, Alexander. I would be perfectly content if nobody ever walked into my sick bay again.”

Unfortunately, that was the exact moment at which Harry decided to join them. He slid open the slatted wooden door and hastily let himself inside, then stood before them both as he caught his breath. After a moment, he gasped out, “Doctor Stanley, Doctor McDonald, I apologize for keeping you waiting—”

“Oh, no, it’s quite alright—” Alexander began.

At the same moment, Stephen said, “We weren’t waiting for you.”

Alexander shot Stephen a warning look, which Stephen conveniently didn’t seem to notice. “In any case, come in, Mr Goodsir,” he invited, waving Harry over.

Relief passed over Harry’s face, and he graciously stepped closer. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Have you, ah, discussed much, then?”

“Ah, nothing serious, just catching up,” Alexander assured him, with a wave of his hand. “I wouldn’t exclude you from an important conversation.” This time, when Alexander looked, Stephen met his eyes, but not for long before he huffed and turned away. Alexander moved back around to face Harry. “Sorry about him,” he told him. “He doesn’t like working with younger, more eligible bachelors.”

Harry let out a quiet, surprised chuckle, as if he wasn’t quite sure if laughing at Stephen was allowed. “Ah— yes, I see,” he replied, sheepishly. “Perhaps— perhaps we ought to move onto the reason you’re here, Doctor?”

“I suppose,” replied Alexander, with a note of humourous reluctance. “If we must.” He glanced at Stephen; though he poked fun, he never wanted to truly offend.

“Very well. Get on with it, Mr Goodsir,” Stephen snapped, and he pointedly gazed in the opposite direction.

“Right. Yes.” Harry withdrew a notebook from the inside of his coat and set it down on the desk, then flipped through until he found the page that he was looking for. “David Young, David Young… here we go. You see, Doctor, these are all of my notes here”—he shifted the book towards Alexander so that he could read it—“and I performed the autopsy myself, but I couldn’t… neither of us could find anything wrong,” Harry explained. “Aside from… well, aside from the fact that he was dead, he seemed perfectly healthy.”

Alexander frowned as he tugged the journal closer, reviewing the jotted-down notes within. “That’s certainly uncommon,” he commented.

“I’ve reviewed all of his observations,” Stephen informed him. “They are, for the most part, accurate.”

“Thank you,” Alexander murmured, though he was only half-aware of what Stephen was saying. “Mr Goodsir, may I make a copy of this?”

“Oh, certainly,” Harry responded, eagerly. “Allow me to find you…” He made to depart, then stopped as Stephen waved for him to remain.

“Don’t bother,” Stephen insisted, rising from his chair. “I’ll go. You’ll simply put everything back in the wrong place again.” And he swept from the room, leaving Harry with a pinched expression of confusion.

The next thing that Alexander knew, Harry was leaning close to him, conspiratorially. “While he’s gone,” he murmured, “there’s something else you should know—something I left out, because Doctor Stanley didn’t think it was noteworthy.”

Alexander raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Young… saw something, before he died,” Harry continued, stumbling over his words in his haste to get them all out. “A hallucination, Doctor Stanley said, but I checked—he had no fever, and he was clear-eyed. He told me… ‘he wants us to run’.”

Alexander met Harry’s eyes. “How strange,” he mused. “He didn’t say anything else?”

Harry shook his head. “No, nothing. Whatever it was, it terrified him; he wouldn’t stop screaming.” He glanced from side to side, as if he were afraid that someone—or something—might have been listening. Then, he leaned in even closer. “It was almost as if he died of— of fright.”

Alexander hesitated, not knowing what to say. As the seconds dragged on, Stephen’s shadow appeared at the door, and he nodded to it, trying to get Harry’s attention. Then, he composed himself, and said, “Well, I’ll see if I can find any new insights in your notes, an’ I’ll be sure to ask you if I have any questions.”

“Ah—” Harry looked up after him, eyes widening slightly. “Right, yes. Thank you, Doctor.”

There was little further discussion after Stephen’s return. Alexander set about copying down Harry’s notes to take back to Terror with him, and when he was finished, he politely excused himself. To his surprise, Stephen insisted on walking him up to the deck.

“I do mean it,” Alexander said, as they went. “About Mr Goodsir. He’s desperate to do right by you, you know. He looks up to you.”

Stephen scoffed. “Ridiculous.”

“Oh, please,” Alexander responded, exasperation tugging at his words. “You may be stubborn, but I know you’re not a fool. Just give the poor boy a chance, will you?”

Stephen said nothing.

“As we’re in a wagering spirit, should we place odds on Francis favouring us with his presence this evening?”

“I hope he does. Perhaps it’ll give him a lift, seeing the parties off.”

“Hm.” John leafed through the hastily-scrawled notes in his hands, studiously examining them while Alexander looked on. “I think your Doctor Goodsir’s onto somethin’, here.”

“Where?” Alexander leaned over, craning his neck to try to see which part of the report John was referring to.

“That th’ poor lad scared himself to death,” John explained, matter-of-factly. “Seemed fit as a fiddle before coughin’ up blood all over th’ mess. An’ nobody’s been able t’ find anythin’ else wrong wit’ him.”

“It can’t have been,” Alexander protested, as he walked around to the other side of the desk. He leaned down and looked John in the eye. “I’ve never seen symptoms that severe from fear. For heaven’s sake, John, his internals were bleeding!”

“I know,” John replied, shaking his head, “but none of ‘t makes any damn sense.” He tossed the papers down on the desk and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap as he gazed at Alexander.

Alexander sighed and clawed his hands over his face. “I told him he would be alright,” he mumbled, as gnawing guilt reared its ugly head in the pit of his stomach.

“You did.”

Alexander peeked at John through his fingers. “Do you still think I was wrong?” he asked. He felt terrible for even asking, but John was his most trusted friend—he had to know.

“By the sounds of it, ‘t was a nasty way t’ go,” John said, “so, no, I don’t. Th’ lad needed every comfort he could get, I think.”

Alexander was silent for a long moment, mulling over John’s words and committing them to memory, before he murmured, “Thank you.”

In response, John simply reached out and gripped Alexander’s shoulder, and the steadiness nearly made Alexander weep.

“There’s nothing more natural than pulling weight, Doctor. Watch Morfin here in front, and me out of the corner of your eye.”

“Seventeen years. Maybe it spooks them.”

“Technically, I’m just a surgeon. Anatomist, in fact.”

As the winter eased off, meals in the wardroom became tense, quiet affairs. Terror’s lead conversationalist, George, had departed east in search of leads, and nobody else was quite up to the task of filling his shoes.

John attempted, at first, to dismiss the silence with easy chatter of his own, as he and Edward often enjoyed each other’s company, but the presence of Captain Crozier had a profound effect on their mood. Often, it felt improper to swap pleasantries about their respective homes while Crozier scowled and all three of them struggled with the burden of commanding through such a difficult time.

Thus, the polite conversation eventually faded, leaving only the clinking of silverware and Jopson’s soft footsteps to provide any respite from the unyielding absence of sound.

One afternoon, on a bright, cold day that hopefully heralded the coming summer, Crozier pulled John aside. He informed him in a low voice that his seat of ease had a draft, and he needed John to fetch one of the caulkers to repair it. John murmured his assent, then set off in search of either Mr Darlington or his assistant—whichever he happened to find first.

Both seemed to be themselves scarce, though, as John found himself in the hold before finding either man.

John couldn’t see anybody, but the hold was suspiciously not as silent as it was supposed to be; he could hear breathing in the dark.

“Who’s there?” John demanded, made confident by the light of the deck above shining down around him like a beacon. He kept the ladder at his back, and didn’t dare stray. “Answer me!”

To John’s surprise, it was his very own steward that stumbled out from behind a stack of crates, greeting him with a breathless, “Lieutenant Irving!”

“Mr Gibson!” John hissed, with a little more shock than anger, blending into confusion that he fought to keep from showing too obviously on his face. “What are you doing down here?”

“I… I came down for coal, earlier this morning, and heard one of the ship’s cats crying back here—”

As Gibson spoke, the sound of clothes rustling drifted out from behind the same crates that Gibson had emerged from, and John’s breath caught. “Is someone with you?” he asked, cutting Gibson off in his haste.

Gibson averted his eyes. “Yes, Mr Hickey was… was kind enough to accompany me in trying to find it, he’s been looking… all over…”

A pounding began to arise in John’s temple—fury and shame and sympathy rolled into one—and he squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to escape, but Gibson’s image was burned into the insides of his lids.

“The captain,” John barked, drowning out whatever lie Gibson was stammering. “His seat of ease has a draft. Have Mr Hickey see to it.”

John hesitated to turn his back, but more than that, he needed to vacate the presence of two men who had so freshly sinned, lest their corruption mar his own immortal soul. By the time that Hickey deigned to make himself known, his hands were already on the rope of the ladder.

“Oh, I’m here, Lieutenant,” Hickey informed him, as chipper as ever, as if John couldn’t see his hands still adjusting the waistline of his trousers. The observation brought bile into John’s mouth. “Sir?” he continued, when John didn’t turn back.

There were many things that John wanted to say—accusations, condemnations, passages of scripture, reminders of the Articles—but his tongue tasted so foul and sat so heavy behind his lips that he could not manage any of them. John had not become an officer through foolishness; the men thought him naive, but he knew of the world, and the sordid things that men did when out of sight, despite every sermon and promise of punishment. And for his own steward to engage in such behaviour, despite John’s attempts at guidance and the presence of an angel only a short walk away…

Over his shoulder, John shot Hickey a withering glare and climbed out of the hold, his heart thundering in his chest.

“He’s running to inform.”

“I’ve seen him at Sir John’s Sunday service. I’ve watched him pray. That’s a man afraid of chaos.”

“John, what on earth is wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” George grasped John about the face, not unlike a fretting mother might, and peered down his nose at him, as if he was a curious natural specimen to be studied. “I haven’t been gone quite that long, have I?”

“George, please.” John attempted to wave him off, but George swatted his hand away, and John relinquished himself to being poked and prodded.

He’d been on his way back to his cabin to pray and cleanse himself of what he’d seen in the hold when George had caught him. After taking one look at John’s stricken expression, George had dragged him into his own cabin for this interrogation instead.

“Have you caught something? Are you ill?” George barrelled on, using his thumbs to tug at the skin of John’s face. “Have you seen Doctor McDonald? Have you been drinking your lemon juice?” Then, he attempted to stick one of his fingers up John’s nose, and that made John jerk reflexively and tear himself from George’s grip.

“George,” John repeated once more, backing himself up against George’s berth. “You can’t keep asking me questions without giving me any time to answer them, or you’ll get no answers at all.” There was also the matter of not wanting anybody so physically close to him after what he’d seen; if he had been contaminated by their misdeed, the last thing he wished for was someone to provoke a reaction—especially not such a dear friend as George.

“Well—”

John decided not to let him start up again. “No, I’m not ill. No, I haven’t been to see Doctor McDonald. Yes, I’ve been drinking plenty of lemon juice,” he rattled off, as quickly as he could. Then, he sighed, and went on, “I’m afraid your first suggestion was the closest to being correct; while I haven’t seen a ghost, I have indeed just witnessed something… ungodly.”

George gasped, covering his mouth with his hand as if he were a woman about to faint. “You’ve seen a ghost, John? I thought you didn’t believe in such things!” he exclaimed, in an attempt at a whisper that did nothing to make his speech less audible.

John’s skull ached. “That is exactly,” he said, “the opposite of what I said. Would you please calm down so that I may compose myself? I’ve had a bit of a shock, George, and I am very much in need of your support more than anything else.”

“Right, yes, of course.” George shook himself, then, as if ridding himself of whatever influence had been invigorating him. Once he was finished, he gestured to his berth and urged, “Sit—go on, John, sit down, you’ll feel better.”

Obediently, John sat.

Immediately after, George came to his side and knelt, then gently laid a hand on John’s knee. “There you are,” he cooed, softly. “Feeling alright, now, John?”

But the heat of George’s skin seemed to radiate right through John’s layers, and his heart caught in his throat. The way George had arranged them… not only was it improper for a man of higher rank to lower himself before him, but it evoked a vision in his mind of how Hickey and Gibson might have been arranged, where John hadn’t seen them. It was perverse.

George’s voice was quieter when he prompted again, “John?”

John stood without a word, forcing George’s hand to slip from his leg as he crossed to the other side of the room, placing himself in front of the door. “No,” said John, hoarsely, and he tried not to look at George’s face. “No, I’d rather— I think I’d like to pray on my own now, George. Please.”

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw that George looked utterly crestfallen, and his heart plunged from his throat down into the pit of his stomach. “I’m only trying to help,” George murmured, delicately.

“I know,” John told him. “I know. I apologize. I will speak to you… later.” With urgency, he slid the door open, and George didn’t move, still staring at him from his place kneeling on the floor. John despised how the sight urged his cheeks to heat, and hastily departed from the room before he could condemn himself by blushing.

In the corridor, John lingered at the door. He wondered if he ought to go back in and confess all, so that George might take pity on him and report all three of them—Hickey, Gibson, and John himself—to the captain.

Eventually, John convinced himself to move, and turned around directly into the looming shape of Edward, who seemed like he was trying to sneak past behind him without asking him to move.

“Edward?” John blurted, seeing his own surprise reflected in Edward’s widened pupils.

“Er—” Edward glanced around, giving the illusion of allowing John to see his brain working inside his skull as his eyes flashed back and forth, though John knew that was quite impossible for one still so human as he. Then, his gaze landed back on John’s face, and he seemed to compose himself. “The last lead party’s been sighted. I need to… will you tell the captain?”

“Oh— yes— yes, of course,” John stammered, slightly taken aback. “That’s—”

“Lieutenant Gore’s.” Edward’s nodded. “I’ll be—” He gestured vaguely off in the opposite direction of the great cabin, then dismissed himself and went that way with enough haste that it almost seemed as if he disappeared into thin air.

John stared after him for a moment, then shook himself, re-focusing onto the duty he’d just been given. No matter what else was on his mind, he was still a lieutenant, and he had a job to do.

When he reached the door, it was already slightly ajar. Without waiting for an invitation, he knocked and pushed it open, but the scene that greeted him made John stop dead in his tracks. Crozier wasn’t alone.

On the other side of the table, holding a glass full of whiskey and seemingly engaged in friendly conversation with Crozier, stood Cornelius Hickey. He spotted John immediately, and the look that he gave him was downright smug.

So disturbed was John that he nearly missed Crozier’s prompting of, “Yes, John?” and had to quickly untie the knot in his tongue so that he could respond.

“The… the last lead party, sir,” John managed, sluggishly.

Hickey’s eyes narrowed, as if daring him to speak on what he’d witnessed in the hold, and John felt an awful lot like a mouse pinned beneath the talons of a hawk.

“It’s been sighted, sir.”

Crozier didn’t hesitate; he snatched up his coat and brushed past John through the open door, leaving him—however briefly—alone with Hickey in the great cabin. If John had been a smarter, braver man, he might have had something witty or threatening to say, but as it stood, he could only quiver as Hickey raised his glass in a salute that was assuredly meant for the captain.

And, instead of rising to the challenge and imposing his authority, John simply turned and fled with his tail between his legs.

Chapter Text

Alexander knew that something must have gone horribly wrong the moment that Crozier barged into the sick bay and barked, “Doctor, you’re needed on Erebus.”

With only a brief word to John to inform him of where he was going, Alexander abandoned his work and snatched up his coat. As he went up to the deck, he fumbled with the buttons, then had to hastily redo several because he’d put them in the wrong holes.

On the other ship, rumours flew. As Crozier and Alexander were escorted below deck, Alexander tried his best not to listen. Sailors were like to exaggerate, after all. However, one thing was certain—Lieutenant Graham Gore was dead.

And, in his place, the party had returned with two Netsilik: a man, laying supine on Stephen’s operating table with a bullet lodged in his chest, and a woman, who barged into the sick bay on Alexander’s heels, shouting desperately in her language.

Overwhelmed, Alexander stepped to the side. He exchanged a glance with Stephen, whose lip was curled with disgust, and his stomach turned. A Royal Navy ship was no place for two Inuit; Stephen’s expression was proof enough of that.

Crozier held the woman back from the table as he desperately tried to explain what was happening, but his Inuktitut was rusty, even to Alexander’s out-of-practice ears. After a moment, however, it got through, and she stopped fighting him. Crozier let her go, then, and she looked directly at Harry before saying something else, more slowly and clearly, as if that could bridge the language barrier.

Though words were familiar, Alexander’s experience was eluding him. He could only parse one thing: “This man is her father.”

Harry looked up at Alexander from where he was bent over the man’s torso. “Can you tell her that this will be painful for him, but I’ll be as quick as I can be,” he said, hastily. Then, without waiting for a response, he began to dig his forceps back into the bullet wound, eliciting new groans from the Netsilik man.

The woman immediately began to protest again, pushing forward to try to stop Harry. This time, Alexander moved in to help keep her back, careful to remember that he was touching a lady, not an unruly sailor.

Crozier took on the task of translating, in bits and pieces. Alexander’s heart panged as he watched the woman weep and felt her struggle in his grasp, until he couldn’t bear to see any more.

Alexander looked again at Harry. His expression had solidified into one of steely concentration, working diligently even with the disapproving eyes of Stephen and Sir John at his back. The skill in his hands was evident, but so too was the severity of the wound.

As Alexander watched the man writhe, a memory surfaced. In his time on Cumberland Sound, they’d never had much luck conveying the concept of ascension to the native people, but unlike some of his compatriots, he saw no reason to assume the gift wouldn’t be shared among all men. More likely, they spoke about it differently, or didn’t speak about it at all, and they’d given up too soon.

With that in mind, Alexander squeezed his eyes shut, and prayed to God that all others were wrong, and that He might take pity on this man and let him live.

“You deserve a prize for your orienteering, Mr Des Voeux.”

“A bear did that?”

“I’ll get the lieutenant.”

The surgery went on for far longer than Alexander expected Sir John to permit. Agonizing seconds stretched into blood-soaked minutes, until it was Harry who finally called it to an end, admitting defeat.

“It’s lodged too deep in the tissue,” Harry explained, downtrodden. “Every breath he takes is making it worse.”

“Can’t you cut it out?” Crozier croaked.

Harry shook his head, and Crozier turned to carefully relay his words to the Netsilik woman.

Her expression changed as he spoke, concerned eyebrows lowering into intense desperation. Suddenly, she lunged once more for the table, but this time, Alexander made no move to stop her. She shouted again, her words choked with tears.

“Stretcher, bring a stretcher—”

“Francis, what’s happening?”

“She says he must die on the ice, not here—”

But, it was already too late. By trying to save him, they had only consigned him to a death among the unfeeling eyes of strangers, cut off from the land that was his home.

The woman cried and slumped over her father’s body, as if she could shield him from the judgemental gazes intruding on her grief. She continued to speak, pleading through her weeping as she clutched at his animal-fur coat, and part of Alexander’s heart broke for her.

“What is she saying?” Fitzjames demanded, in a lower voice.

Numbly, Alexander responded to the order almost instinctively. “She’s… begging him not to ask this of her,” he relayed, cautiously.

“Ask what of her?”

Alexander didn’t have the answer; some of the words she was using were entirely unfamiliar to him, and she wasn’t exactly trying for clarity. He wished he could give her a word of comfort, but he knew he was far from her ally here. His sympathies would mean nothing to her.

And, through it all, Alexander kept one eye on the man’s body, praying for a miracle.

But, nothing happened. The man fell still and remained that way, and the woman continued to wail—a terrible, heart-wrenching sound that dug its claws directly into Alexander’s chest.

As shock settled over the room, Alexander couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if they’d left him out on the ice, where he belonged.

“I’d like permission to bring the woman aboard Terror.”

“You’re staying here, Francis, until we’ve heard from every member of Graham’s team about what happened out there.”

Shortly thereafter, with the exception of Harry and Stephen, all of the gathered men—and one woman—were chased from the sick bay.

Alexander followed for a few moments, until Crozier drew towards the great cabin to meet with Sir John and Fitzjames. Then, Alexander caught him for a brief word about his intentions, and was dismissed to do as he wished.

Hurriedly, Alexander made his way back to the sick bay. With so many of the men were focused on ‘the girl’, he managed to slip by relatively unnoticed.

Alexander found Harry there, vigorously scrubbing his hands clean. Stephen was nowhere to be seen, and Alexander considered that lucky; he had no interest in hearing Stephen’s opinion on this matter.

Harry’s chest was heaving and his eyes were wide, looking down at the basin as if he wasn’t quite seeing it, but rather seeing through it. His face was so slick with sweat that some of his curls had adhered themselves to his forehead, and he was entirely oblivious to Alexander’s entrance.

“Harry?” Alexander prompted, as gently as he could so as not to startle the poor man.

But Harry jumped nonetheless, and whirled around to stare at Alexander. “Oh— oh, I apologize, I thought you were Doctor Stanley come to fetch me,” he explained, stiltedly. “What… what can I do for you, sir?”

“Frankly, Mr Goodsir, I just wanted to make sure that you were holding up alright, with everything that’s happened,” Alexander told him, and he began to make his way closer. “It’s not easy for anyone to have a patient die on their table… and I heard about what happened to Lieutenant Gore.”

With a shuddering breath, Harry jerked his head from left to right, shaking his head ‘no’ in a way that wasn’t quite natural. “No— no, that’s not everything. I haven’t… I haven’t told anybody everything. Not yet.”

“Well, then”—without hesitation, Alexander moved to the nearest chair and sat down facing Harry, with his hands folded in his lap—“would you let me be the first?”

Harry hesitated. “It’s… quite unbelievable.”

“Please, allow me to be the judge of that, lad,” Alexander insisted. “Besides, you look like you need someone to talk to.”

“Oh, goodness, Doctor…” Harry reached up and dragged his hands over his face, then removed his glasses so that he could do it again.

“Have a seat, it’s alright,” Alexander offered, gently. “Take as long as you need.”

As if he’d been waiting for the invitation, Harry grasped a chair and dragged it over, then slumped down into it. Alexander was struck by a sudden urge to go over and clasp him on the shoulder, as John had done for him, but he kept himself in place for now, letting Harry simply take the time that he needed to steady himself.

“Lieutenant Gore,” Alexander prompted, when Harry seemed to have caught his breath. “What happened to him, Mr Goodsir?”

“There was… a bear,” Harry began, slowly.

“A bear killed Lieutenant Gore?”

“Yes.” Harry nodded. “It was following us. When we shot the Esquimaux man… we thought we were shooting the bear. Mr Des Voeux called me over, and then, when I went back to fetch the lieutenant…” His gaze slid away, across the floor of the sickbay, and became unfocused.

Alexander knew where he was needed. He stood—gradually, trying not to unsettle him—and made his way over to Harry’s side. When Harry looked up at him, his eyes were as round as saucers, and Alexander calmly met them. He said nothing, not wanting to intrude into the delicate nature of Harry’s recollection, but sombrely laid his hand to rest on the curve of Harry’s spine.

Harry shuddered, and squeezed his eyes shut. “I watched the bear kill him,” he explained, in hushed tones. “I watched the bear kill him twice.” He began to mime the actions as he described them, almost as if it was subconscious. “It held him in its paw as he ascended—an angel, of course—and I thought that all would be well, but… when he was finished, it tore his head right off.”

When Harry looked up again, it was with utter desperation in his eyes. “I didn’t think that was possible. Tell me that it’s not possible, Doctor. Tell me that I must have been mistaken.”

Alexander swallowed his horror and asked, “Do you believe that you were mistaken?”

Harry opened his mouth as if he were going to respond verbally, then hesitated and closed it again. He shook his head.

“And what happened to the bear?” Alexander questioned.

“It ran off,” Harry told him, “before the others could make it back. There was nothing… there was nothing they could do.”

For a long moment, they were both silent.

Then, Alexander admitted, “I don’t know what to say. I’ve never heard of anything like this before.” Ascended men didn’t die. They vanished, eventually—called to their home beyond the land of the living—but they didn’t die, and they especially couldn’t be killed.

“I know,” said Harry, softly. “I know.”

“How long did you search for Lieutenant Gore, before you decided to leave him?”

“Leads, Doctor. Did you find any leads?”

“Are you an expert on the ice, now, too, Mr Goodsir?”

“He had no tongue.”

Bile rose up in Alexander’s throat. He was escorting the Netsilik woman to Terror, and she was evading all of his attempts at conversation; she didn’t even ask where he was taking her. Eventually, Alexander let the silence consume them both; nothing he could say would bring her father back, and for all he knew, he might have been imposing on a vow of silence.

Thomas Blanky joined them on deck, and tipped his hat to them both, in turn. “Ma’am. Doctor,” he greeted. “I’d hope that nobody on Terror would dare give you any trouble, but better safe than sorry, eh?”

“Thank you, Mr Blanky,” Alexander replied. “Let’s just get her somewhere she’ll be safe an’ comfortable until the captain returns.” He paused, giving the woman a once-over. “I ought to make certain she hasn’t been hurt, as well.”

“Sick bay, then,” Blanky decided. “Alright, come along—it’s too bloody cold out here.”

They were fortunate to make it there without any incidents, aside from a few inquisitive and suspicious glances thrown in their direction. However, Alexander wasn’t willing to take chances, and ushered the woman inside as quickly as he could.

On the other side of the room, John looked up from their shared desk. “Who’s the bird?” he asked, brusquely, as he set his pen down.

“We don’t know her name,” Alexander admitted, and he indicated for Blanky to find her a seat. “Lieutenant Gore’s sledge party shot her father by mistake.”

“Christ,” John swore, his eyes widening, and he stood. “Is she alright?”

“That’s what I want to find out,” Alexander responded, before realizing it wasn’t quite what he meant. “Er… emotionally, of course she isn’t. But physically, I can’t be certain until I examine her.”

John nodded, and came over to join them.

After checking the woman over, then reporting to the captain, Alexander took his leave. John had vacated the sick bay at Crozier’s arrival, and so it was as he was going in search of him that he ran into another John—Lieutenant Irving. In fact, the running into was very nearly literal, as Irving just about collided with his chest, then jerked back, wearing a pinched expression, as if someone had waved something foul beneath his nose.

“Woah! Easy there, lad,” said Alexander, reaching out a hand to steady the lieutenant. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, no, I simply…” Irving blinked, as if he wasn’t quite sure himself how he’d ended up there. “Is the captain here?”

Alexander stepped aside and gestured to the door. “Yes, he’s inside. He just returned from Erebus.”

However, Irving made no move to enter. “Good. Ah— and… do you happen to have seen Lieutenant Little at all?”

“I’m afraid not,” Alexander confessed. “I’d assume he’s in his cabin. Do you need something, Lieutenant?”

“Only to ask… well, Doctor, the men are saying there’s a— a native woman on board,” Irving stammered, sounding more than a little flustered. Alexander could hardly blame him; not only was it supposedly bad luck, but a lady in such a climate as this was a strange sight for any sailor. “Is… is she…”

“She’s with the captain,” Alexander answered, “an’ Mr Blanky. Are you sure you don’t need anything? You look… well, to be frank, lad, you look like you’re in a bit of a tizzy.”

“Please trust me, I mean no disrespect,” Irving replied, hastily, “but if there is anything I might need, it is spiritual guidance, and I do not know you to be a theologian.”

Alexander let out a soft chuckle. “Aye, well, I can’t deny that. But, I’m no heretic, either, an’ you know you can speak to me in complete confidence, don’t you?”

Irving blinked. “Ah… yes. Yes, I’ll keep it in mind. Thank you, Doctor.”

For good measure, Alexander clapped him on the shoulder and leaned a little closer, noting how Irving’s pupils widened at the action. “That’s an order, Lieutenant. You’ll come to sick bay if you’re in any sort of way.”

“Yes— yes, Doctor,” Irving spluttered, and his cheeks took on a rosy shade of pink.

Alexander decided to be merciful and leave him be after that.

“She says that if we don’t leave now, we’re going to...”

“…disappear.”

Alexander’s feet carried him to John’s door as his thoughts wandered, tainted by exhaustion, and his hand was poised to knock before he quite realized where he was. After a moment, he rapped on the door, and after it slid open to reveal John cutting a fine figure in his shirtsleeves. Alexander swallowed thickly.

John stepped out of Alexander’s way and nodded for him to come inside. Then, wordlessly, he gestured to a nearby seat and went to the basin of water sitting atop his vanity.

Alexander sat and watched him, curiously, as he dampened a cloth and brought both the basin and the cloth over to his side. Then, belatedly, Alexander’s mind caught up.

“Oh, no, I’m alright, thank you—” Alexander began to protest, but John wasn’t having it.

“Doctor’s orders,” John insisted, and he began to dab the cloth on Alexander’s forehead. It was freezing cold, making Alexander shiver and reflexively flinch away, but despite how constantly frigid he felt, the cool fabric was soothing to his nerves.

After a moment, Alexander sighed, and he let his shoulders droop. “Christ,” he breathed. “It’s been a long day.”

“Can’t disagree wit’ you there,” John replied. “For you more so than me. Is it the lass you’re frettin’ about?”

“No, not entirely,” Alexander admitted. Gingerly, he relayed what Harry had told him about Lieutenant Gore, while John regarded him with slowly-dawning horror.

“I’ve never heard of a creature like that before,” he finished, quietly. “To kill an angel… it can’t be possible. But I trust Mr Goodsir’s word.”

“What’re you goin’ to do about it, then?” John asked. “Sir John’ll never believe it.”

“I know.” Alexander looked down at the floor, where his boot was slowly scuffing a mark against the wood. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“I’ll be giving a divine service tomorrow. Mandatory, for both ships. Tell the men, will you?”

“Oh, except for the men in the blind. They are to keep their focus on hunting the bear.”

On a personal level, John had not known Lieutenant Gore very well, but his death had shocked the entire expedition to the core, John included. Not only were they now equipped with one less strong, capable lieutenant, but it had been obvious to any man with eyes that Gore was Sir John’s favourite.

And one would think that being an angel’s favourite would make him just about immortal.

But, Gore was dead nonetheless, and both ships were thick with the crushing air of mourning, and the tense static of a grieving angel.

Despite the ice keeping them solidly in place, John had never felt so unmoored.

He supposed it was the least he could do, then, to allow Gibson into his confidence. Hopefully, that would allow him to make sense of something that was transpiring aboard Terror.

“Might I come in, sir? I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

John looked from left to right and caught sight of Hickey standing not a couple of yards away. His breath hitched. “If you must,” he murmured, and he took a step back into the safety of his cabin.

As soon as Gibson slid the door shut behind him, John had a creeping sense that he’d made a mistake. Prior to finding him in the hold with Hickey, he had never quite taken much note of his steward; in fact, John had made a conscious effort not to pay too much attention to the man that changed his bedpan and held a straight razor to his neck, for fear of finding something there that was less than agreeable.

Now, Gibson towered over him with height that seemed to have sprung from nowhere. He gazed down at him in a way that was so utterly unlike how a serviceman typically regarded his superior that John began to second-guess his authority, and shrink down into himself.

“Sir. Your washing,” Gibson said, after a long moment of silence, and John immediately jolted out of his stupor.

“Ah…” John glanced around his cabin, then gave up and waved his hand vaguely. “Just… just put that anywhere for now. You can sort it out later.” When I’m not here, John wanted to add.

Gibson did as he was told, then, while John not-so-subtly stared at him. “Was that all, Mr Gibson?”

Gibson straightened, brushing his hands off on his vest. “No,” he said, “sir. Respectfully, I feel obliged to… explain myself.”

A chill ran up John’s spine, and his muscles froze. “Explain yourself,” he repeated, dumbly. Words began to spill from his mouth without thinking. “I don’t— I don’t believe there’s anything to explain. I am not… I am not some blushing bride that can be fooled by a tale of ship’s cats crying—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Gibson interjected, swiftly, “sir. Only that I wasn’t given much of a choice in the matter.”

John stared. “Mr Hickey… he— he forced himself upon you?” he questioned, abruptly dropping his voice to a shocked whisper. “Mr Gibson, I—”

“He said,” continued Gibson, “that if I refused, he would report me to the captain. I’m not proud of it, sir, but it’s the truth.” He held John’s gaze, evenly, with such intent that John had to look away. “Now that you know… I assure you that it will not happen again.”

“See… see to it that it doesn’t, Mr Gibson,” John replied. “And, if you need… I mean, if Hickey continues to bother you… you need only say the word.” He shifted awkwardly, pressing one thumb into the palm of his other hand as if it could ground him. “Such behaviour is… unacceptable aboard a ship of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

Gibson nodded, curtly. “Thank you, sir.” He made to turn towards the door, then appeared to remember himself, and looked back at John. “By your leave.”

“Ah— ah, yes… if there’s nothing else, then, yes, you’re dismissed,” John told him, and he waved his hand vaguely towards the door.

Gibson left, then, without so much as another word.

As soon as he was gone, John stepped back towards his berth and crumpled down onto the sheets with his head in his hands. And, if he had been a weaker man, he might have let out a curse.

“I apologize for the timing of this request, but its virtue is in its speed.”

“It is a captain’s duty, after all, to mind for the worst case, not for the one he hopes for.”

“Put together a list—our eight most able men.”

“Lieutenant Irving. I was hoping we’d meet.”

It was everything John could do not to flinch at those words. Another man brushed by, and it gave him an excuse to step away, expelling some of that nervous energy. He looked back at Hickey, whose little rat-like face had smoothed out into something resembling gratitude, and his stomach churned.

“I wanted to thank you… for your help. For your discretion, I mean,” Hickey went on, and John was in danger of losing his lunch.

“Call it anything but help, Mr Hickey,” John managed, weakly. “Please.”

John steeled himself and took a step forward, overly conscious of all of the possible eavesdroppers wandering by—even as he wished to stay as far away from Hickey as possible.

“I… exercised clemency for a man abused by a devious seducer. That it also benefited you is a sin in itself, I’m sure.”

Hickey’s gaze dropped, then flickered back up to John’s face, his brow pinched. “A devious seducer?” he repeated, as if he’d never heard the words before and wasn’t sure quite what they meant.

“Yes, Mr Hickey,” John said, releasing some of the tension in his body as his voice turned into a hiss. “Mr Gibson told me everything. How you… pressed him into service, threatened to expose him should he ever refuse you—”

“I pressed him?” Hickey’s tone was incredulous, and he followed it up with a breathless, disbelieving laugh.

“You laugh.” John uttered a silent prayer for strength and forded ahead; he had never been this sort of man, but his hand was forced. He couldn’t let such a devil disrupt the peace of their sacred mission. “Turn your wolf’s ear to me now, and hear. Or the next piece of council you’ll be given on the subject may come from the end of a cat o’ nines.”

John advanced once more.

Hickey looked small, gazing up at him with beady, rodent-like eyes.

John took a moment to remind himself that he was the hunter, here, not the prey. “We are… separated, here, from the temptations of the world,” he went on.

“At sea, a man can find spiritual benefit in the collective. It is no accident the world was reborn clean out of an ark.” Yet, they weren’t truly at sea, now—but, John pushed that thought away. “Man’s worst urges can be satisfied by Christian pleasures and graces: singing with friends, watercolours, study, climbing exercises—”

Hickey, boldly, took that opportunity to interrupt him. “Climbing, sir?”

John’s temple pulsed with growing anger. “Your crisis is an opportunity to repair yourself,” he snapped. “You are in the world’s best place for it.”

“Do you think so?” Hickey’s nonchalance was infuriating.

John had never been so certain that a man held a demon within his soul. Angels were most common, of course—they were the ones who deserved to be resurrected—but every once in a while, a man would become a monster, and his entire life would be wiped from all written record. In John’s eyes, Hickey was one of those men.

“God sees you, Mr Hickey,” John told him. “Here, more than anywhere.”

With that, John could no longer stand to remain in Hickey’s presence. He hastily took his leave, and left his words to hang in the freezing air.

“Posterity awaits, Mr Goodsir.”

“Why don’t you sit with us?”

“Do you need a chaperone?”

“By Jove, John, what is it that has you so rankled?” George demanded, as John finished his seventh set of nervous paces across George’s cabin. “You’re going to wear a hole in the floor.”

John stopped in his tracks and turned to stare directly at George, chest heaving. “Tell me,” he demanded. “Do you believe that what someone might become after death is chosen for them by God at birth, or is it determined by their actions in life?”

George raised his eyebrows, leaned back in his seat, and tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Well,” he began, “I suppose it would have to be from birth, wouldn’t it? The divine plan, and all of that.”

“Yes, but if one chooses not to follow the Lord’s guidance, would that not change the fate of their soul?” John questioned. “The Lord might have a plan, but if we were bound to that plan entirely, there would be no point to anything at all, and faith would be meaningless. Ergo, there must be some element of free will in the matter.” John refused to consider that his faith was meaningless.

“But, it also seems to me that there are sometimes men born with demons in their souls that never bother trying to become anything else, and the rest of us ought to be warned before they inevitably turn into monsters!”

George stared at him as he finished his spiel, blinking slowly. “Perhaps… perhaps we ought to get some fresh air,” he suggested, and he slowly rose from his berth. “It’s quite good for the mind, or haven’t you heard?”

Hurt sparked through John’s chest, but he didn’t flinch. “You don’t agree?” he questioned, pointedly. “George, I’m serious.”

“I don’t doubt that you’re serious!” George replied, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “But, I am your friend, and I’m aware that you have a tendency to over-think yourself into a frenzy, and I feel terrible just sitting here unable to say anything helpful.”

John gazed back at George, his eyebrows slowly pinching together, before George’s words finally struck him and he deflated, eyes dropping to the floor. “But you are helpful,” he whispered, and he cringed at how delicate his voice sounded. “George… you must know that I value your words very much.”

George’s shoes stepped forward, and John didn’t know whether to relax or tense. “It simply pains me to see you this way,” George admitted, his tone soft and tender in a manner that hurt John once more, yet in a different way—it was a dull ache, rising in his chest, and it made his heart leap with panic.

“The only thing that I can do is talk, but sometimes, the more that I talk, the more agitated you get… I only wish that there was another way—”

Suddenly, George’s hand fell on John’s shoulder. John could only assume that it was meant as a comforting gesture, but the pure terror that wracked John’s body as a result was far from comforting.

John jerked back as if he’d been burned, stumbling to the opposite wall. He struggled to regain his balance and stared, wide-eyed, at George.

“Do not—” John gasped, weakly holding out a hand as if he might have to physically push George away. “Do not touch me, George, please…”

Pain was etched across George’s face, as clear as day. He pressed his hands close to his chest and seemed to fold in on himself, slowly. “This is exactly what I mean, John,” he said, sadly. “I… I’m going up on deck.”

Careful not to pass anywhere near John, which stung as much as it gave him relief, George departed.

Slowly, John slumped down into the chair at George’s desk. His head fell into his hands, as if he could simply hide from the guilt and shame welling up inside of him, and his body ached with something akin to heartbreak.

John stayed there for several long minutes. Eventually, he began to fret that someone might find him within George’s cabin, and once the thought had struck him, he escaped into the hallway with haste.

Then, he paused. He gazed at the door to his own berth, torn between simply shutting himself in it for the rest of the night and going up to apologize to George. He knew what the right decision was, but his heart thundered so loudly in his chest that he thought it might deafen him.

At the very least, George was correct—the fresh air might clear his head.

John entered his cabin to get his coat, and he fumbled with the fabric as he tugged it down his arms. Then, he hurried back into the hall, his breaths coming short as he followed George’s trail.

In the distance, rapid gunshots cracked.

And John’s panic immediately transmuted into pure, bone-deep terror.

John had only one guess as to what the men might be shooting at, and it didn’t bode well.

As he hurried to the deck, he reminded himself that Lieutenant Gore hadn’t had Sir John in his party, and that a bear was no match for an angel. Still, he fretted that it may have developed a taste for lieutenants’ blood.

John hurtled into the blisteringly cold air just a half-step behind Captain Crozier, perfectly in time to hear George comment, “They must be waltzing with that bear after all.” Relief flooded through him at the sight of his fellow lieutenants standing side-by-side, unharmed and seemingly unbothered, even as Crozier called for Terror’s marines.

“What’s going on?” John asked Edward, hurriedly, as he stepped up beside him, still trying to respect George’s space. “Is it— is it the bear?”

Edward’s face was ghostly pale. “That’s no ordinary bear,” he murmured, but his voice was so quiet that John thought he might have misheard.

“Oh, don’t fret, Edward,” George admonished, from his other side, and John gave a start at the sound of his voice. “Sir John’s with them. They’ll make quick work of it, I’m sure.”

A thunderous roar split the air, and John’s blood chilled.

Edward shuddered and tried to retreat deeper into his coat.

“I’m sure,” George repeated, but he sounded less certain by the moment. “We should— should we— guns?”

“Yes, guns,” Edward agreed, hurriedly.

John followed them in a daze, his every sense focused on the faint shouting of orders and cracking of gunshots. It sounded like they were losing, but that wasn’t possible.

It was just a bear.

As Crozier led the force from Terror out over the rough terrain, John trailed close behind George and Edward. His boots slipped, and he felt clumsy and awkward, like a newborn deer stumbling behind its parents. His breath blew a foggy cloud in front of his eyes, and on his face, his sweat froze to his skin.

Just a few yards away from the ship, a blinding light flashed out from the horizon. An earth-shattering boom rocked the earth, accompanied by the horrific sound of ice shattering. The air rippled.

John winced and covered his eyes. His ears rang, and he stumbled forward into George’s back. He mumbled an apology, but George didn’t seem to hear him.

At the head of the group, Crozier had changed direction. He charged towards the source of the sound, and stopped dead in his tracks.

“The fire hole—”

“No—”

“Sir John!” Fitzjames’s voice cut into the sailors’ gasps and whispers. “Get me a line!”

John numbly stepped to the side, fanning out to try to get a better view of the mind-boggling sight before him.

Where the fire hole had once been, the ice had been cleaved apart, opening a massive chasm that plunged all the way down into the frigid depths below. It yawned nearly as wide as one of their ships, and John took a tentative step towards the edge.

The ocean shifted and rolled, but John saw no sight of Sir John—nor the creature that had been pursuing him.

“Are we sure— are we sure that Sir John—” George panted, as he and Edward came up beside John.

In lieu of an answer, Edward simply turned and pointed to the long, bloody streak staining the snow and leading towards the crevasse.

John’s mind immediately leaped to other conclusions, not quite willing to believe that it was angel’s blood, what with how ordinary it looked. However, as his eyes continued to follow the trail, he saw something more—a severed leg, still inside one of Sir John’s boots. Bile rose up in his throat.

Belatedly, John heard Crozier ordering, “Carry any wounded back to the ships. I want every man accounted for—go!”

Another man rushed in front of him, disrupting John’s vision, but he didn’t stop staring until George physically pulled him away.

“John— John, come, let’s go, someone else will deal with that, it’s alright—”

John was too numb to flinch, this time. He felt nothing but hollow as George dragged him from his vigil, away from the dying light of the expedition’s guiding star.

Nothing on Earth was supposed to be able to kill an angel. Nothing.

Like the ice, John cracked.

And somewhere behind him, Fitzjames howled in agony.

Chapter Text

A pleasant buzz hummed through Alexander’s veins, dampening the sting that had become a steady presence in his chest over the last year. He leaned forward to clink his glass against John’s and took another swig, then slumped back into his seat with a sigh.

“How long until we have to be in the wardroom?” he asked, trying not to slur his words too egregiously—lest anyone say he couldn’t hold his liquor—as he looked across the room at the partying sailors he was somewhat supervising.

“‘n hour, give or take,” John told him, without bothering to double-check. “Unless th’ captain decides t’ postpone.”

“You think he might?”

John shrugged. “‘s impossible to tell what he’s thinkin’, these days.”

“I wish I could disagree with you.” Alexander went back to his drink, trying to drown the knowledge that their captain was doing the same at every meal, and then some. “Well, I’d ask if we have someplace else to be, but I’m not sure there’s much point in going back to sick bay, is there? Before the meeting, I mean.”

“Party’s wrappin’ up,” John pointed out, nodding towards the men beginning to slip away from the festivities towards their respective duties. “Gonna have to clear out soon anyway. Might as well get a move on.”

“Ah, but I’ve only just gotten comfortable…” Alexander faux-complained, with a smile on his face.

John tsked and shook his head. “Sometimes ’s impossible t’ tell what you’re thinkin’, Alexander,” he commented. “Y’change your mind more than a lass on her wedding day.”

Alexander snorted a laugh. “Oh, an’ as a bachelor, you would know?” He raised an eyebrow, questioningly, then shifted in his seat. “In any case, I blame the drink. Been a while since any of us had a cause to celebrate, hm?”

John merely grunted in response, and they both fell into silence.

Alexander was sure they were both thinking about the same thing—Sir John’s recent, shocking death at the hands of some strange beast. Without hesitation, Alexander knocked back the rest of his glass, letting the burn distract him from his thoughts as it went down, and set the empty cup back on the table.

“Alright, back to work,” Alexander announced, and he rose from his seat with only minimal wobbling. Then, he turned and shooed John from his seat, doing his best impression of a fussy housewife. “Up, John, let’s go.”

John rolled his eyes, but did as he was told regardless. “Well, I’m certainly not marryin’ you, if this is what you’re like,” he joked, gathering up their glasses. “Remindin’ me too much of my nan.”

“I thought that was the point of marriage,” Alexander shot back, chasing away his unpleasant musing with a good-natured grin. “To find a nice young woman to take the place of your mother.”

John barked a laugh and put a hand on Alexander’s elbow. Then, after a moment of fumbling, he managed to hook his arm around Alexander’s, and leaned in close. “Escort me home, then, won’t you, miss?” he asked.

The two of them chuckled all the way back to the sick bay.

Alexander ended up grateful that John had taken his arm, even in jest. The ice had begun steadily pushing up Terror’s bow, giving everything a slight slant, and with the alcohol affecting his coordination, he might have stumbled an embarrassing amount more than usual.

In any case, he didn’t make a fool of himself, and he nearly thanked God for that before reconsidering. God most likely had far more important things to worry about, since He’d decided to reclaim both Lieutenant Gore and Sir John—among others.

In spite of those thoughts, Alexander and John remained in good spirits for several long minutes after. They swapped merry tales that the other had undoubtedly heard countless times before, until they were suddenly interrupted.

The sound of gunshots resonating down from the main deck caused them both to sober in an instant.

“That can’t be good,” John breathed, his eyes darting over to meet Alexander’s.

“No,” Alexander agreed, “certainly not.”

“That’ll freeze. Move him down below immediately.”

“It’s come onto the ship, Edward.”

Private William Heather laid across Alexander’s examination table, eyes wide open but seeing nothing. The top of his head was cleaved open like a coconut, and Alexander felt rather sick to look at it, though he was almost certain that was the alcohol still sloshing about in his stomach.

Alexander reached forward with two fingers and slid the man’s eyelids shut, though he could feel a disapproving look on the back of his neck.

“It seems he’s not failing from his injury,” announced Stephen, hovering at the head of the table with his hands folded behind his back. He looked down his nose at Heather, observing him with all the detachment of a man witnessing a particularly odd bug.

“Then, let’s proceed without delay in cauterizing the edges of it—or are we still in disagreement there?” Alexander snapped, jerking his head up to meet Stephen’s eyes with a glare.

Stephen’s voice was soft when he responded, “No, no, he’s yours, do with him what you wish.” He took a step back, giving Alexander his space, but the irritation persisted nonetheless. Alexander respected Stephen well enough, as a fine man and a spectacular surgeon, but sometimes the man’s bedside manner was sorely lacking.

“I see no reason to keep you both any longer; we can do without you from here,” Alexander said, looking between Stephen and Harry, who was making himself small in a different corner of the room. It was the politest way he could come up with to tell Stephen to get out of his sick bay, but Stephen remained exactly where he was, as if he had spontaneously sprouted tree roots.

“I’d like to stay, if I might. To learn,” Harry piped up, tentatively.

“Very well,” Alexander replied, without a moment’s hesitation—Harry was always welcome in his sick bay, no matter how Stephen was acting. Then, he turned to John, and asked, “Could you heat up the cauters, please?”

Stephen continued to stare down at the private’s body, and as John moved away, he raised a surprisingly innocuous question: “Do you have any sealing wax?”

“For letters, you mean?” Alexander raised an eyebrow; it was an uncharacteristic thing to bother him about at a time like this.

Stephen’s gaze slid back to Alexander’s face, his pupils dark and harrowed. “We can affix the eyes,” he explained, quietly.

Alexander glanced down. Heather’s eyes were wide open again, fixing the ceiling with an unsettlingly dead stare. “In that cupboard over there,” he answered, nodding to a spot near Harry.

Harry took the hint immediately and went in search of it without having to be told. An uncomfortable mix of gratitude and distaste boiled up in Alexander’s chest; by the way Harry’s posture was charged with fear, it was clear that his eagerness wasn’t entirely philanthropic.

Beside him, Stephen took a deep breath and announced, “It’s a pudding, basically.”

Again, Alexander was torn between opposing feelings. How could a man be soft in one breath, then nearly humourous in the next, and yet still be so cruel that his assistant surgeon was downright terrified of him?

“I would have said cathedral,” Alexander couldn’t help but comment, wryly. “I suppose it depends on the man.”

A gentle smile twisted his lips before he could stop it, and Alexander allowed himself a brief moment to stare at Stephen’s fine-cut figure. Alexander studied the hidden emotions etched between the lines of Stephen’s face with an inquisitive head tilt, then asked, “Do you have any idea as to what might be causing this… unusual state?”

“A weakness of the spirit, most likely,” Stephen concluded, with unshakeable confidence. “The soul is unwilling to return to a body in such condition.” His lip curled, revealing his hatred for such a notion.

Alexander shifted uncomfortably, uncertain of what to say, and busied himself aiding John with the cauterization.

Stephen’s words hung in the air for a moment, until Harry said, “I have a hypothesis, if I might be permitted to share it.” His head was down, focused on the wax in his hands, and Alexander couldn’t read his expression.

Alexander glanced at Stephen, but Stephen raised no objection. “Go on, Mr Goodsir.”

“What if…” Harry begun, but then he hesitated. He looked to Alexander for reassurance, and Alexander gave it, in the form of a short nod. Harry swallowed, and went on. “What if it’s not that the soul is unwilling, but unable?”

“What do you mean?”

“When a man… ascends…” Harry continued, not-so-subtly glancing at Stephen with every word, “the common belief is that the soul is shaken with such— such violence that it causes an overwhelming burst of energy—a dam of divine power suddenly breaking.”

For a moment, Harry seemed as if he were going to gesture with his hands, but then he remembered that they were handling hot wax and hurried along with his theory. “What if… Private Heather nearly ascended, but his soul was intercepted—shaken so ferociously that it was ripped from his body entirely?”

Stephen scoffed, and Alexander could have slapped him for it. “It’s an interesting idea, Mr Goodsir, but there is no creature in this world that could accomplish such a feat.”

As if he’d been expecting that response, Harry clarified, “No known creature. But there is much about this region that we don’t yet know, isn’t there?”

A beat passed.

“As fascinatin’ as this is,” John suddenly cut in, “there’s a man dyin’ on my table, an’ I’d appreciate a little help here.”

“Right, yes—” Alexander didn’t need to be told twice, even as his mind was spinning with hectic thoughts. “Allow me, Doctor…”

“You’re saying a bear staged a misdirection?”

“Does one not bring his habits to Terror?”

“No. I don’t owe her a bloody thing.”

“Stephen,” Alexander began, firmly stepping out in front of him. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” Stephen raised an eyebrow.

“You know about what,” Alexander snapped, but Stephen simply continued to stare, and said nothing. Alexander sighed. “Mr Goodsir. Harry. The way you’re treating the poor lad—”

“I have nothing to say about him.” Rudely, Stephen attempted to push past Alexander’s shoulder, and Alexander was so stunned that he simply let him do so. “It’s none of your business how I treat my subordinates.”

“Actually, it is, when dismissing his concerns like that could be disastrous, not to mention crushing to his spirit—good grief, Stephen, what if he’s right?” Alexander reached out and grasped Stephen’s arm, stopping him in his tracks and earning him a murderous glare, but Stephen didn’t pull away.

“Oh, yes, what if he’s right, Alexander? What happens then? We report this to the captains, and even if they believe us, we have to figure out a way to… what, fight some kind of mystical creature that even an angel couldn’t defeat?” Stephen took a step back towards Alexander, towering over him with fire gleaming in his eyes, and it took all of Alexander’s willpower not to shrink away from him.

“If Mr Goodsir is right,” Stephen emphasized once more, “then we are all doomed.” Then, he turned and stormed away, his jaw set and his expression fierce.

Alexander stared after him, fingers still flexed as if they continued to grip the sleeve of Stephen’s jacket. A dark hollowness welled up in the cavity of his chest. As much as he wanted to believe that Stephen was merely being callous, he couldn’t deny that his words rung true.

“Doctor?” came Harry’s soft murmur from behind him, stirring him from his stupor. “Are you alright?”

Alexander’s first instinct was to pretend that nothing was wrong, and so he hastily threw a smile onto his lips as he turned towards Harry. “Ah— ah, Mr Goodsir! Yes, fine, just fine—”

But Harry didn’t return his cheerfulness. “I heard some of what Doctor Stanley said,” he confessed, and Alexander’s face fell.

“Ah. Yes. Well.” Alexander fumbled for a moment, trying to find a suitable response, before he finally settled on, “Don’t concern yourself with him, Mr Goodsir. He’s seen an awful lot of war; his perception of these sorts of things is bound to be different from yours or mine.”

Harry’s eyes were large and terrified. “Please,” he said, “don’t lie to me, Doctor. I can handle it. Do you think he’s right?”

Choosing his words carefully, Alexander answered, “I think that there are a lot of ways for a man to die out here. An’ I think that Doctor Stanley is right about many things. But the likelihood of both you an’ him being correct in this instance is… very slim, considering the insufficient evidence we have so far.”

Harry’s shoulders dropped as he breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. That’s— yes, of course. You’re right. Thank you. We don’t have enough evidence to conclude anything yet, so we shouldn’t jump to— yes,” he stammered, while nodding hurriedly to himself. “I should— ah, I mean, Doctor Stanley will be looking for me; we ought to get back to Erebus.”

“So you should,” Alexander agreed, grateful for any excuse to end the conversation. “Run along, now, before he leaves without you.” He quickly patted Harry on the back, and Harry smiled at him before racing away.

Off to the side, Alexander caught John looking at him. His eyes betrayed disapproval.

“Don’t you start,” Alexander warned him, with a sigh. “I don’t need that, not tonight.” As he spoke, his gaze drifted to the back corner of the sick bay, where their newest patient resided. “At least… if it’s not a way to cure Private Heather, I don’t want to hear it, John. Please.”

Blissfully, John said nothing, but that that only made the silence more deafening when he turned away.

“They say that you found her camp with the last sledge party.”

“Tell me where you found it. Exactly where you found it.”

John had never felt so useless in his life.

The men were in chaos, shouting and pushing each other out of the way, and when he raised his voice to try to quiet them, he was nothing more than a mouse among lions; even if anybody heard him, they paid him no mind.

John’s breath caught in his throat as he called for someone to get the captain. He stared distantly into the throng, and cursed himself for being such an unbelievable coward.

Captain Crozier burst from the great cabin with an unfamiliar ferocity painted across his face, pistol in hand, and a swell of relief filled John’s chest. He took a step forward, considering that he might say something—an apology, perhaps—but found no time to speak before Crozier thrust out his arm and shoved John out of his way.

Reeling, John stumbled back into the wall and let out a small, timid gasp, his eyes wide as he watched Crozier—and Jopson, at his front—ford through the pandemonium near-effortlessly.

John swallowed, thickly, and pushed his bare hands down against the wood, feeling the grain beneath his skin as he tried to internalize it, as if it could cure him of his terror.

The men began to dissipate—streaming after Crozier, towards the deck—and John steadied himself before he followed suit. He had no weapon, but felt more confident now that he wouldn’t need one, if the captain had his. He quickened his pace, and soon emerged onto the sheltered part of the deck, where Crozier was imposing his will on the unruly mob.

A gunshot cracked through the air, and John flinched. “Everyone on their knees, right now!” Crozier bellowed, his pistol raised high. There was no question of whether or not he would be obeyed; the men sank to their knees, all at once, and John spotted the source of the conflict.

There, in the centre of it all, was the Netsilik girl, her expression utterly unreadable.

And, beside her knelt Cornelius Hickey, wearing the unsettling glow of pride.

John averted his eyes the moment that they fell on Hickey, but he suspected that his look hadn’t gone unnoticed. When Hickey stood, claiming responsibility, John tentatively turned them back, worried that it would be more inappropriate not to stare, now, and mercifully found Hickey’s focus to be entirely centred on Crozier.

However, it seemed he was not fated to be spared forever, as Hickey passed him by, just a little too close for comfort, and met his gaze with a piercing stare that whispered, I know you.

John raised his chin, steeled his expression, and thought back, I will never be like you.

“And what of the bear’s eyes?”

“Twelve lashes, for each of you.”

“Tell Mr Johnson that Mr Hickey will be punished as a boy.”

As third lieutenant, John did not attend Hickey’s trial; instead, it fell to him to oversee the punishment of the rest of the men as they holystoned the lower deck. That was something he could do, and do well; perhaps he wasn’t fit for barking orders, but he was more than capable of standing where he was needed and appearing to have authority, like a particularly imposing bit of wood.

John had some sympathy for the men he was supervising, as well; not all of them had participated in the riot, and those who were innocent didn’t deserve to be punished, but there was nothing that John could do about that.

In particular, his gaze fell on Henry Peglar—the captain of the foretop and one of the most dutiful and honest men that John knew—as he diligently scrubbed away at the boards. His respect for the man only grew as he considered how he was taking a punishment he didn’t deserve with such dignity, and not a single complaint that the treatment was unjust.

“Lieutenant Irving!”

The sound of approaching boots stirred John from his thoughts even before he heard Edward’s voice. He turned on his heel, hands folded behind his back, to greet him.

“Lieutenant Little,” John replied, and he gave Edward a quick once-over in an effort to determine his mood. He found it futile; Edward carried a dark cloud with him everywhere he went, these days. “How fares—”

“Mister Hickey, Mister Manson, and Mister Hartnell have all been sentenced to lashings,” Edward blurted, at the same moment that John spoke. He immediately looked ashamed of himself for interrupting, but John silently assured him it was nothing with a quick wave of his hand. After that, Edward went on, “Gather the men for punishment—posthaste.”

As Edward turned to leave, John impulsively took a step forward and caught Edward’s arm. “Wait, Edward,” he began, more quietly than before. “What— what is happening here?”

Edward glanced around, taking stock of the men gathered around them, before he met John’s eyes again. “I can’t talk about it,” he confessed, his voice barely a murmur. “At the very least, not here.”

John nodded and released his sleeve. “Of course. I apologize,” he replied, feeling appropriately dismissed.

“No, no, John—” Edward cast a look over his shoulder, then back at John. “It’s alright. We’ll talk later. Yes? We’ll talk later.”

However, he didn’t even spare a moment to wait for John’s response before he was gone, and John was left alone once again with his orders.

“Will it hurt?”

“Yes, Manson. Very much. That’s the point.”

John’s shoes were grafted to the floor, rooting him in place, as a pair of sailors untied Thomas Hartnell and brought forth Cornelius Hickey. The stench of blood and sweat hung thick and heavy in the air, and, with every moment, John’s stomach grew more unsteady.

The sight of Hartnell’s lacerated flesh and Hickey’s pained expression while Crozier read his charges only made the sensation worse; he tried to avert his eyes, but nowhere was safe to look, and guilt gnawed at his gut the moment that he did. The point of his presence was to bear witness; it was his responsibility to watch, no matter how much he wished to be elsewhere.

The marines yanked down Hickey’s trousers, exposing his backside, and pushed him down over the bench to bind his hands there. John swallowed thickly and made the mistake of turning his gaze to Hickey’s face; Hickey’s eyes locked directly onto him and narrowed, glaring at him as if he held John personally responsible for what was about to happen. John was a coward; he looked away.

With a sinister crack, the first lash fell.

John restrained a wince and focused instead on how Hickey’s hands flexed and pulled against their bindings. The metal tang of blood filled John’s mouth, overwhelming his senses as if he were the one being whipped—and in some part of his mind, he thought that he should have been. With Sir John absent, the responsibility had fallen to John to keep the faith of the expedition strong, and clearly he had failed.

John dug his nails into the palms of his hands, forcing them in deeper with every strike against Hickey’s flesh, as if he might be able to transfer to himself some semblance of the pain radiating through Hickey’s body. It wasn’t enough.

Hickey’s body writhed, exposed for all to see, and the discomfort in the room was thick enough to cut with a blade. His eyes burned a bloodshot red when he lifted his head, staring forward with glazed, unseeing pupils.

Crozier called, “Again,” and Gibson, standing next to John, flinched almost imperceptibly. Yet, when John looked sideways at him, his posture was as firm as stone, so much so that John thought for a moment that he might have imagined it. He appeared so innocent and pure, his body as still as a marble statue, that John wondered if he was grateful that he’d been spared the lash, or if he resented John for what he’d done.

Or, in this case, what he hadn’t done.

The minutes stretched out endlessly, bleeding into one another like the rivulets streaming down Hickey’s legs. At a certain point, John found it hard to continue believing that Hickey deserved this punishment.

Surely, his sin had already been purged from him.

Surely, Crozier would extend the hand of mercy.

Surely, someone would come to their senses and make this cruelty—because that was what it had become—cease.

If John had been a braver man, he might have done it himself. But, instead, he remained a shameful coward.

Eventually, the whip-cracks faded into silence, and two men peeled Hickey’s twitching body off of the wood. Every part of him was flushed, and his expression was dazed as he seemed to slowly remember where he was, then hoisted up his trousers and shuffled away with the barest semblance of dignity remaining.

Without any further acknowledgement of what had just transpired, Crozier came forward to address the gathered men. “The Terror is at risk, men,” he announced. “She sits on a pressure ridge that is quickly becoming precarious.”

Crozier went on to explain the options—of staying or moving to on Erebus—to the crew, but John had slipped into a state of semi-consciousness, fixating on a knot in the wood behind Crozier’s head.

All too soon, the men began clearing out, and John was startled by Edward’s hand suddenly falling on his shoulder.

“Steady, there,” Edward murmured, breaking the uncomfortable silence that John had been drowning in. “Are you… alright, John?”

“Yes,” John gasped, quickly, and he frantically smoothed out the wrinkles in his uniform. “Fine. It’s only— it’s been a while since I’ve seen…”

Edward’s expression softened. “Of course, I understand,” he murmured. “But Captain Crozier wants us to take a poll of the men—see which volunteer to berth on Erebus for the time being. Would you—”

“Whatever you need,” John blurted, a bit too quickly. “That is… yes, I’m able to help you with that,” he amended, and he dipped his head, embarrassed. Anything to stop him thinking about how Hickey’s body bucked and arched against the strokes of the lash. Anything to keep him from descending into the madness of guilt and shame.

And when John looked back up at Edward, he found the same confusing, conflicted mess of feelings painted clearly across his face.

“There’s been an incident on Terror. Men were lashed.”

“I turn that task to you, Mr Goodsir. I know you dream of such things.”

“I hope the Terror lads are alright.”

Alexander still had fresh, wet globs of Tom Hartnell’s blood on his hands when Hickey waddled in, holding his trousers up about his waist to preserve his modesty, and he couldn’t help the pang of sympathy that rocketed through his chest.

He’d heard the charges, and been regaled with the tale of what Hickey and his comrades had done by Thomas Blanky, yet when he looked at the young man and invited him to settle himself on the table, he saw nothing but a poor Irish lad, far from home and doing his best to impress the crotchety old captain who controlled whether they lived or died.

“We need to clean an’ salt you, an’ then we can dress these wounds,” Alexander said, and he turned around to find a fresh cloth and basin to treat Hickey with. Both Manson and Hartnell had cleaned up well, so far, and he had hope that Hickey would do the same; Johnson was a decent hand with a whip and tended not to cross his strikes too egregiously, so as far as lashing wounds went, these were fairly shallow and well-placed.

And, unlike the others, when Alexander came around with a wet rag and his other supplies, ready to start, he could lay a hand on Hickey’s back to steady him, and though the man winced, it wasn’t from the pain of the touch.

“This will be the hardest part,” Alexander told Hickey, in a quiet and gentle tone that he had developed from soothing children and animals—not that the sailors he used it on ever knew that. “It’s going to be cold, an’ it’s going to hurt, but you’ll feel better once I’m done, so just sit still an’ focus on the cold instead of the pain. Can you do that for me, Cornelius?”

In situations like these, the use of a Christian name could sometimes be the only thing that elicited a reaction, and most men didn’t mind such familiarity from a doctor. He doubted that Hickey would remember it later, anyway.

Hickey jerked his head up and down, in an awkward semblance of a nod. “Yes,” he croaked, his voice dry and cracking. “What… whatever you say, Doctor.”

Alexander was surprised to hear that Hickey’s English accent persisted without even the slightest shift, despite the agony coursing through his veins. He had thought that it was fake, like Harry’s, but he knew how difficult it was to maintain an unnatural accent under duress. In any case, it was neither the time nor the place to be wondering. His patient came first.

“Just breathe, lad,” Alexander urged him, as he mopped the blood from Hickey’s wounds and his body twitched beneath his hands. “You’re alright… I’ve got you…”

And when Hickey buried his head in his arms and began to weep, Alexander pretended not to notice.

Chapter Text

“Thank you for your help today,” Alexander told Harry, his voice light and friendly.

The young anatomist was a recent addition to Terror’s crew. He’d arrived that very morning in the company of Lady Silence, intending to continue his work learning her language after Captain Fitzjames had sent her away from Erebus.

Despite the circumstances, it was nice to see him without Stephen breathing down the back of his neck.

“You have a busier sick bay than I’d imagine, with so few men aboard,” Harry commented, as he absentmindedly fluffed a pillow.

“It’s the weather,” Alexander replied.

Even John was laid up with a particularly nasty sneezing fit, which was why Alexander was particularly grateful for Harry’s extra pair of hands.

“I’m going to suggest to the captain that he cancel all trips to an’ from Erebus until it breaks,” Alexander admitted. “I don’t want to see another one of these boys lose a piece, or a part.”

Hornby’s heart had entirely stopped on the way back, and Alexander had just given him a clean bill of health a couple of days earlier. It was impossible to predict who might be struck with what next.

Harry wrung his hands. “I’ve heard that teeth can explode in air this cold.” He let out a breathy laugh, as if he were trying to distract himself, and looked sheepishly at Alexander. “Imagine.”

“I don’t have to,” Alexander replied, wryly. “In ‘39, Captain Penny—our lead whaler’s—tooth did just that. The root stays warm, but the surface freezes, like…” He hesitated, brow furrowing slightly, then went on. “Like a little bomb.”

A viscerally uncomfortable expression passed across Harry’s face, and he hastily changed the subject. “While I’m here, do you have any men aboard suffering a line?” He lifted his fingers to his mouth to demonstrate, gesturing across his top row of teeth. “On the gums. Like a line of ash, in the tissue.”

“No.” Alexander barely needed to think about it to give his answer; he was certain he would have noticed, or John would have mentioned it to him if he hadn’t. “Are there any other… symptoms?”

“Headaches, numbness, joint pain,” Harry listed, “possibly even dystrophy of the memory.”

“Something other than scurvy, then—I know you’ve started to see cases,” Alexander identified, his voice calm despite the anxious leap that his heart made at the prognosis. “What comes first to your mind?”

“I thought immediately of bismuth,” Harry admitted, albeit a bit hesitantly, as if he wasn’t used to being asked his thoughts. “I trained on cadavers, some of whom were syphilitic—they’d been treated with bismuth for months; it had built up in their gums… the colour’s not the same, but it’s the same presentation.”

Alexander frowned to himself; the description had triggered a recollection, nearly forgotten, and he grasped at it before it was gone entirely. “Is he indulgent with drink?” he asked, slowly.

“He has not much access to it beyond his evening grog, why?” Harry answered. His brow was furrowed, and he tilted his head inquisitively towards Alexander.

“I remember reading about a case in Devon where the… cider presses were causing a similar vexation,” Alexander explained, his tone contemplative as he attempted to recall the details. They were fuzzy, but they were there; Alexander had always had a good sense for these sorts of things.

“The presses?” Harry repeated.

“Yes,” confirmed Alexander. “They were…” His mind jumped several thoughts at once, and he had to pull himself back, reminding himself that he had company, before he continued, “…they were made of lead.”

“Our water tanks are lead,” Harry pointed out. An edge of terror struck through his voice, but Alexander was quick to reassure him.

“It doesn’t affect neutral liquids, fortunately,” said Alexander. “Handling the stuff can be harmful—the French have proved it, and Charles Thackrah has written about gout in plumbers… what’s his job, your man?” He pursed his lips, thoughtfully—where on Earth would a sailor be coming into contact with lead?

“He’s one of the mates,” Harry told him. “He hasn’t handled anything without gloves on deck for years, I’d imagine.”

Alexander frowned, turning pensive as he couldn’t immediately come up with a plausible explanation. “Well, I’ll start making inquiries, Mr Goodsir—I haven’t seen this myself.”

Harry was silent for a moment, letting his sweet, cow-like eyes speak for themselves, before he admitted, “I wish you’d call me Harry.”

Despite everything, Alexander chuckled. In a time like this, the mundanity was amusing. “I might call you Doctor,” he replied, with a gentle fondness that he hoped Harry took to heart—the poor man needed an ego boost. “You’re sounding very like one to me just now.”

Goodsir smiled—a tight-lipped, sheepish thing that betrayed how foreign the compliment was to him—and turned away.

“The captain is leaving the decision to you in case I’d be too missed.”

“And don’t forget to invite us all to the wedding.”

“Is he always that cheeky?”

At suppertime, Alexander let himself into John’s cabin, bearing a bowl of canned mush and the burden of heavy thoughts.

John, of course, noticed his mood immediately—Alexander never could hide anything from him.

“Somethin’ is eatin’ you,” the other surgeon commented, from his spot atop his berth, where he was wrapped tight in blankets. “Don’ be shy; spit it out.”

Alexander sighed and pressed the meal—if one could even call it that—into John’s hands. “Not in your state,” he responded. “I do wish for your advice, John, but I’d rather have it once you’ve recovered.”

“It’s not fair t’ make me worry if you won’ tell me what I ought to be worryin’ about,” John told him, bluntly. “For all I know, you could be dyin’, ‘n’ thinkin’ that definitely won’ help my recovery.”

Alexander sighed and, with some reluctance, explained to him the mysterious condition that Harry had observed.

“But I haven’t seen anything like that on Terror,” he added. “Have you?”

John thought for a moment. “Not all of it in one man, no,” he said. “But the symptoms… we’ve got a few here ‘n’ there. Could be Mr Goodsir’s strange ailment, could be somethin’ else. Won’ know until it develops further.”

“But where on Earth could it be coming from?” Alexander questioned, tone betraying a hint of exasperation—not at John, but rather at the impossibility of the situation. “By all accounts, we should be perfectly well, aside from the usual scurvy an’ the like.”

John spooned a hunk of canned meat into his mouth, chewing slowly, and confessed, “I don’t know.” Then, he added, “God help us all.”

“You think He’s still watching?” Alexander questioned, as he lowered himself into a seat. “After Sir John—”

“None o’ that, now,” John chastised, though his tone was nothing but fond. “Th’ men look up t’you. If you lose faith, they will too.” He took another bite of his slop. “I think He’s goin’ to send us another angel. Sir John was a good’un, but past his prime. If God reclaimed him, there’s got t’ be another on th’ way, eh?”

Alexander sighed. “I certainly hope you’re right.”

“Do you know the word, Mr Blanky?”

“It’s killed five men on this expedition, ripped them apart—”

“What in God’s name is happening here?”

Checking on the captain had become part of Alexander’s routine; he was one of the few afforded the knowledge of how dependent on the drink Crozier had become, and it pained him that despite their friendship, the captain had not heeded a single word of his advice.

Their stores grew lower by the day, and Crozier less aware of his surroundings, and though Alexander couldn’t deny a man his occasional indulgences, at some point he knew that that powder keg would explode.

He just hadn’t been expecting it to happen so soon.

The slant of Terror’s bow made the walk towards the great cabin more challenging than usual, and Alexander braced himself against the wall, almost as if he were the one affected by copious amounts of whiskey.

Jopson loomed out of the darkness as he passed, like a statue from atop a headstone, and that morbid thought refused to leave Alexander’s mind even when he was given pause by the sound of voices rising from beyond the next set of walls.

In front of Alexander, the door to the great cabin opened. To his surprise, it spat out a haggard-looking Blanky, bundled in all of his warmest clothes and stumbling like a newborn foal.

“Mr Blanky!” Alexander called, quickening his pace to catch up with him before he vanished above the deck. “What’s happening?” He glanced sideways at the wall, where the two captains—for he could recognize their voices now—were arguing.

“He’s ill with it now,” Blanky answered, bluntly. Then, he clapped Alexander on the shoulder, making him stagger again as well, and told him, “Fetch your coat an’ come up.”

Alexander trusted Blanky’s judgement, so he turned to do as he was bid. However, he only made it as far as the other end of the hall before an awful crash resonated through the ship.

Alexander’s heart stopped, and the corridor grew silent.

After a beat, Alexander looked up, and found Jopson exactly where he’d been stood before. “Mr Jopson,” he began, “would you be so kind as to fetch my coat? I have a feeling it’s going to be needed.”

And Alexander turned and rushed once more towards the great cabin.

The captains were only beginning to emerge when he reached them. Alexander didn’t stop to explain; instead, he leapt past them onto the ladder and scrambled up to peer through the gap in the hatch.

Outside, Blanky was attempting to haul something off that seemed to be blocking the hatch. His face was contorted with effort, and the wind whipped through the hair of his beard.

“Blanky!” Alexander shouted, deciding to forgo the pleasantries.

“Doctor!” Blanky pushed back his cap slightly and bent down to speak to him face-to-face. “It’s the tuunbaq— the creature, it’s here, we’re tryin’ to get down but it’s stuck—”

The creature.

Alexander had nearly forgotten, amongst everything else, about the beast that was stalking their expedition.

“We’ll try to help from here,” Alexander told him, even as his throat protested against the volume at which he was speaking. “Stay close!”

With one mittened hand, Blanky saluted.

Alexander hastily jumped back down the ladder, coming face-to-face with both captains and Thomas Jopson, among a handful of others that had arrived to investigate the commotion.

Jopson offered Alexander his coat, and he took it, with a murmur of thanks. In response, Jopson simply nodded.

Then, Alexander turned to the captains. “The creature,” he said, a bit breathlessly, “it has them pinned down.”

Crozier’s expression sobered, but not quite as much as Alexander would have liked to see.

“The forward hatch!” he cried, but he was interrupted before he could begin leading the men in that direction.

“It’s been sealed, sir,” said Billy Gibson, whose lean form had been nearly invisible against the wooden walls until he spoke. “Just today.”

Then, Jopson reappeared from the great cabin—Alexander hadn’t even noticed that he’d left—with a cry of, “It’s at the stern!”

Alexander swiftly moved himself out of the way, so that Crozier could take his place on the ladder.

He heard Blanky shout something down, but couldn’t quite make out the specific words; Crozier’s response was more clear, as he informed him, “It’s at the stern—it’s coming up!”

Around the edges of the crowd, Alexander caught sight of a familiar mop of ginger hair and a pinched, inquisitive face. With a glance at Crozier to ensure he wouldn’t be missed, Alexander slipped away and caught the caulker’s mate by the arm.

“Mr Hickey,” he began, in an urgent whisper. “The forward hatch—you need to clear it.”

“Me?” Hickey said, belligerently.

“Mr Darlington isn’t here, an’ it’s the only way up. Yes, you,” Alexander reiterated, and he gave the man a gentle nudge in the right direction. “Go!”

Hickey stumbled a little, though Alexander hadn’t exerted much force on him, and stared back at him for the barest of moments.

Then, he seemed to come to his senses and started off in the opposite direction, though not before calling out what he was doing to the others.

After that, Alexander turned around to find Harry almost directly behind him, eyes wide with panic and his breaths coming short.

“Doctor,” Harry gasped, clearly trying to hold himself together. “What’s— what’s going on?”

Alexander grasped Harry by the shoulders and looked him directly in the eyes.

“Harry,” he said, letting his tone drop into something deadly serious. “I need you to go to the sick bay and prepare it for emergency patients. Can you do that for me?”

Shakily, Harry nodded.

“Good lad,” Alexander praised. “Ask Doctor Peddie if you don’t know where to find something.” He clapped Harry on the shoulder, and Harry left.

Alexander’s nerves were alight as he joined the rest of the group at the bow, watching Hickey chisel away at the blocked exit. Nobody else seemed to quite know what to do; there wasn’t much they could do except stand and wait for him to be finished, and the idea of idle chit-chat had deserted them all. The wind howled against the walls of the ship, carrying with it the sounds of creaking and cracking that may have only been the ice but made Alexander think only of the creature.

Eventually, Hickey broke through onto the deck, and the men streamed out, but Alexander stayed behind.

He knew where he was needed, and it was down in the safety of the ship’s walls, waiting for patients to be delivered unto him.

And, it seemed, accompanying a quaking Lieutenant Irving, who had been ordered to remain as well.

“They’ll be alright,” Alexander finally said, breaking the silence that hung heavy in the air. He wasn’t sure he fully believed it, but he thought back to what John had told him, and allowed himself some hope that one of the men above would become their new angel.

“How can you be so certain?” Irving asked.

“Because it’s my job to make sure of that,” Alexander told him, “and I’m fairly good at it.”

Irving said nothing, and averted his eyes.

It wasn’t long before a gaggle of men reappeared at the hatch, holding between them a wind-whipped and frost-covered Blanky.

“He’s frozen through,” one of them announced, grimly.

Alexander took one glance at Blanky’s leg and made a diagnosis. “Lieutenant,” he said, as he turned back to Irving, whose face was deathly pale. “Go to the sick bay, and tell whoever’s there—Dr Peddie, Dr Goodsir, both, I’m not sure—to prepare for an amputation.”

Irving nodded and ran off, as if he’d been waiting for an excuse to flee the scene. Alexander couldn’t blame him; the scene looked like death.

Alexander guided the men down to the sick bay, where the table and his instruments had been readied for him. There, he tried to get Blanky in place as quickly as he could, but the ice master groaned and grunted with every shift. All things considered, however, Alexander thought that he was bearing the pain incredibly well.

Finally, the men were able to set him down, and Alexander wasted no time tearing the ripped fabric away from Blanky’s wound to inspect it properly.

It was a clean gash, straight through the muscle of Blanky’s calf and cleaving deep enough to graze bone. At least, that was what Alexander observed on first glance—it was incredibly difficult to see amongst all of the gathered men’s shadows.

“Could I get some more light, please?” Alexander called, with perhaps a bit more sharpness than usual, but only because of how he was dedicating most of his brain to his patient. He had meant what he’d said to Irving—he was a damn good surgeon, and he’d seen worse than this under Penny—but that didn’t mean he could operate unconsciously.

In any case, it wasn’t going to be pretty, but he was going to make certain that Blanky did not die tonight.

As Jopson brought another lantern over to him, Alexander leaned down to gently prod the edges of the wound with two fingers, trying to get a clearer view of the damage. The light swung back and forth like a pendulum as it settled into place above his head, casting a warm glow over Alexander’s hands.

Blanky twitched and grunted beneath his minstrations, and Alexander grasped his knee with his other hand to keep him still. Fortunately, Blanky didn’t fight back.

The layers of Blanky’s flesh stretched out before Alexander, displayed as a neat stack of red tones like a cut of butcher’s meat. The only difference was, of course, that it was his friend’s leg and not an animal’s that had been hacked open so viciously.

There was nothing for it; Alexander’s initial assumption had been correct. Had the wound been thinner, he might have been able to close it, but the size of it was simply begging for an infection, and, at that point, Alexander would have to remove the leg anyway. Better to get it over with while Blanky was still half-frozen and high on his encounter with the creature.

Alexander stepped back to retrieve a tourniquet, and caught sight of Lieutenant Hodgson hovering around the edges of the scene, looking rattled and chilled but otherwise well.

“Lieutenant Hodgson, are you fine?”

“I— I’m alright, yes,” Hodgson stammered, though he didn’t sound quite sure of it.

“Could you find the key an’ get more rum?” Alexander emphasized his words carefully, ensuring that they rang clear. “I’ll give Mr Blanky some coca to soothe him, but we’re going to have to get him good an’ plastered as well.”

“I’ll go,” Crozier interrupted, from beside Blanky’s head, before Hodgson could reply. “I’ll go.”

Nobody objected, and so Crozier stumbled off, leaving Hodgson to retreat further towards the edges of the room. On the other hand, Jopson drew even closer, and replaced Alexander’s grasp with his own to hold Blanky’s leg steady as Alexander readied the tourniquet.

Then, Alexander slipped the leather band around Blanky’s calf, just below his knee, and yanked it as tight as it would go.

Blanky howled.

Alexander’s heart twisted, but knew that this was far from the worst Blanky would go through before the night was through, and if he was going to get this done right, he needed his leg constricted as much as was possible.

Once he’d made sure it was secure, Alexander took the captain’s place near Blanky’s head as they waited for him to return. “Mr Blanky,” he began.

“Thomas,” Blanky gasped. “I’ve told you.”

Alexander couldn’t recall such a thing, but he obliged nonetheless. “Thomas,” he corrected himself. “It is exceedingly important that you tell me if you are going to ascend, before I do this.”

“Not— ‘m not gonna,” Blanky told him, though it was clearly a struggle. “Don’ need to. Should’ve— should’ve earlier, not gonna now.”

“I know that’s what you think,” Alexander said, “but ascension is a fickle thing, an’ your body might respond to the amputation as a new threat. If that happens, you need to tell me so that I can clear the room. Otherwise, once I start, I will not be stopping, no matter what else you might say.”

He gave his explanation in short, hurried bursts, and worried that Blanky might not have been absorbing it all. However, there was some clarity in Blanky’s eyes, and he met his gaze and nodded firmly.

“Understood, Doc,” Blanky grunted. “Nobody else gettin’ hurt tonight, not on my watch.”

Alexander breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

Just then, Crozier returned, barrelling back into the room with a bottle of whiskey clutched in one mittened hand.

“Whiskey!” he exclaimed, and Alexander stepped out of the way to let him press it into Blanky’s grasp. “There you go, drink up—”

“No, Francis!” Blanky objected, with a startling amount of clarity.

The room fell completely still with shock, and all eyes turned to Blanky, waiting for his next words.

“Everyone gets a shot!” Blanky declared. “Feels like we made a connection tonight, me an’ it. Feels like I got engaged an’ I wanna celebrate.”

Alexander knew better than to deny a delirious man such a simple request, so the bottle was passed around and shots given out. Then, the bottle eventually returned to Blanky, who raised it in a toast.

“To us! Me and… it,” he declared, before he finally put it to his lips and began to drink it down.

It was empty in moments, and Alexander hastily followed up with the question of, “Are you ready, Mr Blanky?”

“Mm,” Blanky responded, sounding more than a little dazed, and Alexander figured that was the best he was going to get.

With one hand on Blanky’s ankle to steady him, Alexander placed the sawblade just below the line of the tourniquet, hefted his shoulder, and began to heave it back and forth with all of his might. It wasn’t the time to start slow; Blanky screamed the moment that the saw bit into his flesh, and Alexander’s primary concern was getting it done as quickly and as cleanly as possible.

Then, as the blade touched bone, things began to go wrong.

A loud crash made Alexander hesitate and glance up, where he was greeted with the sight of Jopson struggling to right himself against the wall. It almost seemed as if he’d been shoved, but in Blanky’s state, he shouldn’t have been able to muster such strength.

Alexander knew he couldn’t stop, but his rhythm fluctuated slightly as he looked to Blanky’s face for reassurance, and found the ice master’s eyes rolled back to show only the whites.

And, for the briefest of moments, Blanky’s eyes flashed with a blindingly bright light.

“Thomas!” Alexander barked, even before the spots cleared from his vision. “Everybody— everybody out, get out of the room, we have to stop, he’s going to—”

Blanky’s voice was dry and raspy, yet boomed like rolling thunder. “No,” he groaned, and he twisted his head to the side away from Alexander. “No, I can— ‘s all wrong, not gonna— can’t— need to keep goin’— Alexander—”

“If he’s going to ascend, we have to evacuate this end of the ship now,” Crozier said, sounding hollow and rattled. “Doctor—”

“No— NO!” Blanky howled, and Alexander swore the very walls of the ship quaked with the force of it. “Can’t stop— ’s all wrong— get it OUT OF ME, ALEXANDER!”

Alexander looked at Crozier, and Crozier stared at him with a shocked and grief-stricken expression that he knew must have been echoed on his own face.

“Go,” Alexander told his captain, urgently. “Get everybody else clear. I’ll stay with Mr Blanky.”

There was no debate, no attempt to convince Alexander to reconsider; Crozier simply nodded and began to do as he asked, urgently ushering the other men from the room.

Alexander adjusted his grip on the handsaw and looked back to Blanky’s face.

“Thomas,” he said, firmly. “If I continue with the operation, an’ you ascend, you will kill me.”

“Not gonna happen,” Blanky insisted, weakly. “Can’t— can feel it, but somethin’s wrong—”

Light flickered forth from Blanky’s eyes for a second time, but now it was fainter, and surged several times before going out.

Alexander had never seen anything like it.

But, God help him, Alexander trusted Blanky, even in this state of clear delirium. He trusted Blanky not to put him in danger. And he trusted Blanky to recognize what was wrong.

With that in mind, Alexander took a deep breath and resumed sawing through Blanky’s leg.

The blade grated against his bone, drawing out a horrific sound, and Alexander’s heart skipped a beat.

Blanky roared in brand new anguish, but the light did not return.

Alexander breathed a sigh of relief, but there was no telling how long he might be safe for. Anxiously, he doubled his pace.

Once the bone went, the rest of Blanky’s flesh quickly followed suit. The moment his saw grazed the table, all of the tension drained from Alexander’s body, and, for a moment, he could only stare as Blanky’s severed leg dropped off of his body with a dull thunk.

Then, he slowly went to the door, and knocked on it with the back of one blood-slick hand.

Crozier opened it, looking Alexander up and down with trepidation written across his face.

“It’s done,” Alexander told him, exhaustion creeping into his voice. “He’s clear. Tell— tell Mr Goodsir I need his help, please.”

“I will. Well done, Doctor,” Crozier responded, softly.

Alexander shook his head. “This had nothing to do with me,” he admitted. “I would be dead if it wasn’t for…” He trailed off, glancing back at Blanky’s still form on the table.

“If it wasn’t for…?” Crozier repeated, raising an eyebrow.

Alexander was quiet for a moment before he replied, “Truthfully, Captain… I think only God knows what happened tonight.”

Chapter Text

Edward stood outside of John’s door, and he looked a wreck—his hair was matted, his whiskers tinged with frost, and his coat hung off of him in such a way that he seemed to be drowning in fabric. Pure misery was etched across the planes of his face.

“John,” he croaked, desperately.

“Edward,” John replied, anxiously looking him up and down. “Are you—” He cut himself off before he could finish the question; it was obvious that Edward wasn’t alright.

“If I could have a moment of your time,” Edward said, “Lieutenant.” His words sounded hollow.

“Ah— of course… Lieutenant,” John responded, awkwardly, and his limbs felt a bit too heavy as he stepped to the side to let Edward in. Then, he slid the door shut behind him, and looked up at Edward’s miserable face.

Edward opened his mouth, then shut it again and collapsed onto the small wooden chair in front of John’s desk.

The room was entirely silent.

Edward reached into his coat and retrieved a familiar pistol. He dropped it onto John’s desk with a clatter, as if he couldn’t let go of it fast enough.

“I don’t know whether I should keep it with me,” Edward confessed, quietly, “or stow it away in my cabin. When I carry it with me, it’s like an anvil dragging me down, and when I leave it behind, it just reminds me… that I’m not fit to be a captain.”

John didn’t know what to say. In his haste to respond, he blurted the first thing that came to mind, which was, “I—I’m sorry, I can’t keep it for you.”

Edward rubbed his forehead. “I know,” he said. “I’m not asking you to. I just… need to talk to somebody. Somebody who understands.”

John couldn’t hide his surprise. “And I… I understand?” he questioned, though he didn’t mean for it to sound that way. “I mean, yes, of course, I understand. Or, I try to, but I don’t— Edward, I’m only third lieutenant, I’ve never been anything close to a captain…”

“But you know…” Edward paused, took a shuddering breath, and continued. “You know what it is to feel inadequate—to doubt your ability to fulfil the task placed upon you. Once, you told me that it was only through God’s blessing that you had ever become a lieutenant, and that if God had so much as suggested another path for you, you would have taken it in a heartbeat.” He looked up at John through his water-flecked eyelashes, and John swallowed thickly at the trust harboured therein.

John took a step back to support himself against the wall, but that wasn’t enough, so he adjusted again and slid down the edge of his berth.

“Yes,” he responded, uncomfortably. “I did… I did say that. And I often wonder what God had planned by sending me here. But regardless— I am here, and so are you, Edward. You must have been given this burden for a reason.”

“I wish I could believe that you’re right, John,” Edward replied, dejectedly. “But it seems more and more with every passing day that if I’m not relieved of this burden soon, I will simply collapse under the weight of it.”

“Well, then,” John said, grasping at straws for something he could say to reassure his friend, “please, allow George and I to support more of the weight for you. There’s no need for you to bear it all alone.”

The corners of Edward’s lips looked as if they intended to raise, but it was a futile effort. “Thank you, John,” Edward replied, and though his tone was still downtrodden, it sounded sincere. “I will… I will try.”

“Don’t push it.”

“It was my mother.”

“How did she fare, once she was through it?”

Alexander couldn’t help thinking that if only Crozier had begun to wean himself off of the drink earlier, they might have not been where they were now. Their captain was bedridden and his life in danger, but the truth of his condition kept close to the chests of the few who knew it. Gastritis was what Alexander had told the rest of the crew; he wasn’t sure how many men actually believed it.

Outside the captain’s cabin, Alexander took a moment to compose himself. He’d made a habit of it—not just to steady his nerves and brace himself for the smell of sick and excrement that permeated the room despite Jopson’s dutiful cleaning, but to give Crozier and his steward a few extra moments of privacy before he intruded. They had always been close, but the illness had brought them even closer, to the blurred edge of familiarity that tiptoed between respectable and illicit. Alexander didn’t condemn, by any means; he simply didn’t wish to be the one to catch them unawares in some compromising situation. Though, how compromising it could be with Crozier’s health in the state that it was, Alexander wasn’t sure.

“Doctor.” As usual, Jopson opened the door just seconds after he knocked, as if he had some sixth sense for when there was a guest in the hall. “Come in. He’s… not doing well today.”

Before he admitted that crucial piece of information, Jopson’s gaze flickered out behind Alexander, verifying that nobody was there to overhear his admission. Alexander knew firsthand how the steward fretted over how the men percieved Captain Crozier—far more than the man himself did.

“Thank you,” Alexander murmured, politely, and he followed Jopson inside.

Crozier was laying on his berth, tipped onto his side with his face directed towards a bucket sitting on the floor. His body was slick with sweat and his expression contorted in a relaxed form of agony—the sort of expression that arose only after weeks of continual discomfort, when one could remember nothing but pain. He had the blankets bundled up around his chin, as if he were a small child protecting himself from the wicked winter winds, and a familiar pang of sympathy shot through Alexander’s chest.

“Captain,” he greeted, gently.

Crozier’s glassy eyes slowly slid to the doorway, taking him in with a stare that wasn’t all there, and he grunted something that might have been, “Come.”

In any case, Alexander took it as an invitation and entered, with Jopson a half-step behind him. “How are you feeling?” he asked, tentatively, though he was fairly sure he already knew the answer.

Crozier simply grunted, and so Alexander waited until he could compose a proper reply. “Bad,” he eventually confessed, gruffly.

“Alright,” Alexander responded, and he let it sit for another moment in the air in case Crozier wanted to elaborate.

He didn’t.

Alexander knelt beside the berth and pressed the back of his hand to Crozier’s forehead. It was burning hot, and Crozier didn’t even flinch at his touch. “Mr Jopson,” he said, and though the steward was out of his view, he knew that Jopson had perked up. “His temperature needs to be brought down. Could you—”

“I’ve been filling a cloth with snow ever hour to try to regulate it,” Jopson informed him.

Alexander was pleasantly surprised. “Good— good, keep doing that,” he replied. “If you do… he should stabilize soon.” Alexander stood, and even though he knew Crozier wasn’t a fool, he leaned nearer to Jopson to add in a lower voice, “I hope.”

Later that day, Alexander made the trek to Erebus with the rest of Terror’s senior officers for a regular command meeting with Captain Fitzjames. The meeting itself wasn’t incredibly noteworthy; Irving made a report on the current inventory numbers, Le Vesconte on the status of the men, and Blanky on the state of the ice.

On the topic of Blanky, even in such a short time, he had made a miraculous recovery. Alexander credited it to his unfailing positive attitude and the replacement leg that Mr Honey had fashioned for him. In fact, as they were crossing the ice between the ships, Alexander had a hard time remembering that Blanky had even lost his leg at all, with how deftly he propelled himself over the terrain.

More than once, Alexander had informed Blanky that he was his best patient. Blanky had always laughed and told him not to share that information with Crozier, so as not to make him jealous.

After the meeting, Alexander began to gather his things to return to Terror, but he was interrupted a haggard-looking Harry emerging from a gaggle of sailors.

“Sorry, sorry—” Harry apologized to each man as he pushed past them, until he finally ceased tripping over people and came to a halt in front of Alexander. “Doctor McDonald!” he exclaimed, sounding slightly out of breath. “May I— might I steal you for a moment, sir?”

“Ah— yes, of course, Mr Goodsir,” Alexander replied, and he turned to explain to his companions where he was going, but Lieutenant Little happened to be standing very close behind him—entirely silently—and nodded to indicate that he’d heard. “Right. Quickly, though—I’d like to be back to Terror before bedtime.”

The comment elicited the breathy chuckle from Harry that Alexander had hoped it would, before he headed back down the corridor.

Alexander assumed that he was being taken to the sick bay, but they instead went towards the officers’ quarters, and Alexander soon found himself standing inside Harry’s cabin.

“What is this about, Harry?” Alexander asked, quietly. “An’ why such privacy? Have you had more men come down with that odd illness you told me about?”

“No— well, yes, but that’s not what I wanted to ask you about,” Harry replied, as he wrung his hands and stepped further into the room, though there wasn’t very far for him to go. “Captain Crozier…”

Alexander’s heart sank. “I can’t tell you anything about that, lad, I’m sorry.”

Harry looked crestfallen. “Not even whether or not he’s exhibiting the same symptoms? I know it’s not gastritis, Doctor, that much is clear—”

Alexander sighed. “As far as I can tell, no, he’s not suffering from the same affliction as your men,” he reassured him, “but that’s all I can say. It’s up to Captain Fitzjames to decide what information should be shared with you an’ Doctor Stanley, I apologize.”

“Doctor—”

“I really must be getting back to Terror.” Alexander was ashamed of himself, but it wasn’t his fault that he had been sworn to secrecy—and he was going to respect the oath he’d taken, Harry’s trusting doe eyes be damned.

“I need your help, Jacko.”

“It’s not your little painted bowl, I know, but we can make do until I find it.”

“…as such, we can expect to finish our full supply of coal before November next,” John told the room, anxiously rolling a pen between his bandaged fingers. The rest of his report was mostly numbers, which he rattled off dutifully—maths was his specialty, and he knew every digit was perfectly in order. The implications of their dwindling stores were terrifying, but the act of counting them was one that John found relaxing.

As the meeting wrapped up, John’s eyes were drawn to the hunched figure of Doctor McDonald. He and Doctor Stanley made an odd pair; Doctor Stanley’s back was ram-rod straight and his expression made of steel as he stared emotionlessly across the table at Captain Fitzjames, while Doctor McDonald, on the other hand, was folded over into his own lap, with one elbow resting on his knee to support his head, and he wore the expression of a man who was far too tired to school his emotions into anything more appropriate than what they were.

John uttered a silent prayer for both doctors; neither had easy jobs, especially not with Captain Crozier so horribly unwell. For Doctor McDonald in particular, keeping the truth and severity of Crozier’s illness under wraps had to be unimaginably draining. On top of that, other men didn’t simply stop getting sick and injured when the captain did.

It was several days after that meeting that John first heard word of the carnival—from George’s mouth, at dinner, with more excitement than any of them had felt in months.

“A carnival!” George declared, his eyes glowing as he clapped his hands together. “Oh, we will all have to put together costumes, we can’t let ourselves be outdone by Erebus—what say you, John?”

“Pardon?” John blinked, having been thoroughly absorbed in pushing around the pickled cabbage on his plate. Dinner had become a dreary affair with both Crozier and Blanky absent, and he’d not expected this one to be any different.

“A costume, for Captain Fitzjames’ carnival!” George repeated, cheerfully. “To celebrate the end of winter, of course. Haven’t you heard?”

“I… I will have to think about it,” John stammered, and think about it he did.

John went back and forth endlessly on the idea for his costume. However, the only thought that continued appearing in his mind was an angel, but he worried extensively that it might be disrespectful to Sir John’s memory. Eventually, he decided that the men needed the inspiration that an angelic image would evoke, and if he intended it as an homage to their lost leader, then, surely, nobody would dare accuse him of sacrilege.

(Besides, John had always dreamed of becoming an angel, and dedicated his life to the dutiful following of God; if anybody deserved to indulge for one night in such a harmless way, it was him. As far as he was aware, dressing up as an angel was not a sin.)

On the night of the carnival, John enlisted George’s help to tie himself into his costume—the false wings needed to be fastened in a place that John couldn’t quite reach—and they set off across the ice together.

More than once, John had to help George prevent his massive wig from tipping off of his head, and by the time they reached the tent, he already felt warm.

With the lights low and so many of the men wearing masks, John felt as if he’d wandered into a dream. The air was alive with raucous merriment, and for a moment, John could only stare in awe at the sheer joy radiating from every corner of the festivities.

Even in England, he had never seen such jubilation, and he had begun to fear that he would never see a shred of happiness ever again. But, here it was, in the middle of King William Land, after all of the loss they had already experienced, and John knew it was a blessed, holy thing.

John was then startled from his thoughts by George very nearly bowling him over, before shoving a cup of grog into his hands and urged him to drink.

“Dance with me, John!” George exclaimed, as John choked on the awful, burning taste of alcohol and his eyes began to water.

“Wait, George, I don’t—” But George was already tugging at John’s arm, and so John quickly downed the rest of his drink and let himself be dragged along into the fray.

Through a whirlwind of sounds and colours, John found himself drinking in excess, and feeling in excess like a limp marionnette being tugged hither and thither by a number of conflicting strings. He wept in George’s arms, he let himself be yanked around in a dance by Sergeant Tozer, and he even laughed along with Lieutenant Le Vesconte at a ridiculous story of Mr Blanky’s. At some point, he ended up on a makeshift stage amongst a handful of musicians, nursing yet another cup and bellowing a rousing rendition of an old tune he half-remembered from his childhood.

Then, the captain arrived.

John was far too sloshed to immediately sober up in his presence, but he managed to somewhat rein himself in and drag himself to Edward’s side. His eyes blurred as he looked Edward up and down; he wasn’t in costume, and he hadn’t been drinking, but his nose was red as if he had. For the first time, John allowed himself to note what a fine figure Edward carved in his uniform.

Then, cheeks burning, John tore himself away.

He searched, desperately, for something else to catch his attention, and felt as if he were flickering in and out of his body, a lamp-flame running too hot and trying to escape.

He was staring at the blue-painted tarp ceiling when the crowd began to part before Crozier, like the Red Sea before Moses, and, at first, John looked in the wrong direction.

Then, he righted himself and watched the Esquimaux woman stagger into Doctor Goodsir’s arms, blood dripping from her mouth like wax from a candle.

It had been warm from the start, but now, John had begun to sweat. It was sweltering.

John’s eyes kept being drawn back to the light, but there was so much.

Too much.

There was too much light, and it was far too hot.

And the smell—

John turned, and there, holding aloft a torch and drenched in fuel, was Doctor Stanley—King Nebuchadnezzar, about to cast Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego into the fiery furnace for refusing to worship.

Belatedly, John remembered that this was not a scripture, and he would burn just like anybody else.

And panic began to trickle through John’s mind as Doctor Stanley erupted into a pillar of flame.

Chapter Text

Lantern oil poured over Stephen’s body, dousing his clothes and flesh like a holy anointment. The torch in his hand flickered as he drew it to himself, and the smell of smoke filled Alexander’s nose.

“Hold him— HOLD HIM!” Crozier howled.

Alexander knew he was standing just a hair’s breadth too far away to stop him in time.

He lunged anyway.

A half-second later, his body slammed into Stephen’s at a rate that should have been impossible, but Alexander wasn’t fortunate enough to knock the torch from his grasp.

Instead, they went down together, with the flame pinned between them, and Alexander had barely a fraction of a second to note the shock and rage in Stephen’s eyes and utter a silent curse—along with a prayer, for good measure—before they simultaneously caught alight.

For a moment, Alexander’s nerves couldn’t even register the intensity of the pain; it was as if his body’s internal scale had simply exploded under the force of it.

Then, the most unimaginable agony blossomed in his chest and spread outwards, searing through layers of his costume in an instant until it could sink its burning teeth directly into his flesh.

It felt like being chained to the sun.

And Alexander could only watch as, below him, Stephen suffered ten times worse.

His flesh hardened, flaked, and turned a charred black, and the only sound that escaped his searing throat was a guttural, wailing groan.

Alexander replied with a noise that fell somewhere between a scream and a whimper, and he fisted his hands tighter into the fabric of Stephen’s coat.

If nothing else, they would go down together.

The scent of meat cooking wafted beneath Alexander’s nose, and it took him a moment to realize that it was his own flesh. With it came the revelation that this was how they were going to die.

Or so it seemed.

Ascension was always presented as something miraculous—a divine intervention, swooping in at the last moment to deliver mercy upon God’s chosen. Something beautiful and holy, like the rising of Jesus Christ from the tomb.

The brutality of the crucifixion was comparatively downplayed—not the suffering, but the raw viscerality of it. Nobody spoke of how many strikes it took to drive each nail through the flesh of Christ’s palms; nobody dwelled on the feeling of what it was to die torturously over hours and strung up on display for all to see.

It followed thusly that some details had been left out of what it was to ascend, too.

The fire spread to Stephen’s eyes, curling around the whites before igniting in the centre. His lip twisted, and he snarled with vocal cords that should have been incinerated, “Get off of me, Alexander!”

Then, before Alexander had a chance to recover from his shock, he brought a leg up and shoved.

Alexander hit one of the tent’s support beams before he even knew what was happening, and it cracked dangerously.

Pain exploded across his back.

His vision went black, then white, then blurred, then black again.

He tried to move, but his body wouldn’t respond.

With all of the detached clinicality his delirious brain could manage, Alexander identified that his spine was broken.

Focus eluded him; the best he could do to try to steady himself was estimate which of his vertebrae were crushing themselves and which were still intact.

It was the opposite of helpful.

In flashes of lucidity, Alexander watched as Stephen rose—no, struggled to rise. He got up, then fell to his knees and buckled over, as if his injuries were too severe to push through, and a tall, lean figure—Fitzjames?—rushed towards him.

However, he stopped in his tracks when Stephen threw back his head and roared.

The ground shook.

Pale, unbroken, unburned skin began to crawl across Stephen’s body, consuming his injured flesh as if someone had simply turned back the clock on his immolation. For a moment, Alexander assumed it was merely a near-death hallucination, until the horrible sound of bones cracking and skin tearing pierced his eardrums.

Stephen folded in on himself, crumpling into a ball and rending at his face with his fingernails. He gasped and howled in pain as something began to shred through the fabric of his costume.

And, though it was slick with Stephen’s blood, and Alexander was fading fast, he recognized what it was immediately:

Feathers.

In mere moments, Stephen had birthed a pair of great angel’s wings from his back—birthed in every sense of the word, from how he was struggling to catch his breath to how every inch of his new appendages was coated with blood and viscera.

Then, he raised his head to look directly at Alexander, spearing him through the chest with his gaze, and spread his wings wide, shaking the gore from them to reveal their true white and black colouring.

“Just for that,” said Stephen, his voice low and guttural, as he shakily raised himself to stand on a set of bird’s talons, “you will have the privilege of dying first, Alexander.”

But, as a final act of resistance before Stephen could reach him, Alexander let his eyes slip shut, and breathed his last.

His lungs emptied, and he saw nothing.

For a moment, all was deathly still.

Then, his spine snapped back into place with an audible crack, and Alexander’s eyes flew open in shock.

A full, gasping breath forced itself into his chest, and his body jerked with the strain of it, bringing him up closer to Stephen’s looming figure.

“No— no,” Stephen snarled, and he roughly grasped the front of Alexander’s coat. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare try to stop me—you don’t understand.”

Alexander gave Stephen a dazed smile. The meat of his back begin to tear and warp, but it was nothing compared to the agony he’d felt before—of his spine crushing itself under its own weight.

In a way, it was liberating, as if there had been an itch under his skin that he’d never quite been able to scratch, and now it was finally being cut away. Talons pierced through slightly-too-small boots, and feathers shredded the rough material clinging to his skin. His heart beat faster.

“Harry told me everything,” Alexander whispered, through blood-soaked lips. “I can’t let you do this.”

And Alexander exploded.

Complete sensory overload, he would have called it, if he’d been asked to give it a name.

His vision went white, his nerves prickled with static, and his breath simply didn’t come, as pure feeling wracked every inch of his body.

Then, just as quickly as it began, the sensation simply vanished, and Alexander came back to full consciousness, but he wasn’t quite himself anymore. His veins pulsed white-hot, and his gut burned with rage.

Without hesitation, Alexander punched Stephen in the face.

Stephen’s head snapped to the side, and he stumbled. Alexander went to hit him again, but Stephen caught his fist in his hand before he could swing.

“Get out of my way, Alexander,” Stephen growled.

Alexander blinked, and replied, “No.”

Stephen huffed, and used the hand still clutching Alexander’s front to heave him straight upwards. He shot towards the ceiling like a rocket, propelled with far more force than a human man should have been able to muster, and Alexander decided that he was really quite sick of Stephen shoving him around.

Instinctively, Alexander spread his wings.

Tawny feathers emerged from beneath a layer of viscera as he slowly beat them, keeping himself aloft and out of Stephen’s reach, along with preventing a high-speed collision with the ground. If he’d reached up, he would have been able to touch the canvas ceiling, and part of him was momentarily consumed with thoughts of tearing it down and escaping into the night sky, but then he reminded himself that there was a rampaging angel that needed to be stopped.

The men all looked so small, though Alexander wasn’t really all that high up; some were scattering away from Stephen like ants already, but others, such as Captain Fitzjames, seemed as if they were going to try to reason with him.

Alexander couldn’t let that happen.

“Captain!” Alexander shouted, and Fitzjames stopped in his tracks, his head snapping up to look at him. “Get everybody out! Now!”

Fitzjames hesitated, and met Stephen’s eyes.

For a moment, they were both frozen, staring at each other, until Stephen flicked a hand and the ground beneath Fitzjames’s feet burst into flame.

To Alexander’s relief, Fitzjames leapt back before his clothes could ignite, and cast one last look at Stephen before he turned his full focus to his men.

Stephen advanced on the fleeing sailors with slow, menacing paces, like a confident predator toying with its prey, and the flames around him leapt up to surround his body in an aura of divine power. He seemed to have forgotten about Alexander completely, intent on spreading fire and death to the rest of the ship’s company. With his arms and wings spread, he appeared like some twisted fascimile of Christ, and Alexander instantly feared how easy it would be for desperate men to convince themselves that this was their destined day of rapture.

With that thought in mind, Alexander wasted no more time.

He swooped down towards Stephen, talons outstretched. He intended for a clean strike, to dart down and snatch Stephen off of the ground before he could hurt anybody else, but the great wings on his back were still unfamiliar to him, and so he was almost instantly off-balance and ended up careening directly into Stephen’s back instead. Heat engulfed Alexander’s body, but the pain was no more than a tickle.

Stephen flipped over, sending both of them tumbling across the ground, and Alexander groaned as he caught his new appendages between his shoulders and the ground.

“Again?” Stephen drawled, from where he was propping himself up on his elbows. “How many times are we going to do this, Alexander?”

“As many times as it takes,” Alexander answered, breathlessly, and he pushed himself up to standing. Then, he charged, with his wings flared out behind him, and Stephen couldn’t rise to meet him fast enough. Alexander reached out and hooked his dextrous talons into the back of Stephen’s tattered costume, then mustered every inch of inhuman strength coursing through his veins and hurtled him directly upwards.

The canvas ceiling tore, unable to do anything to hinder Stephen’s flight as his body crashed straight through.

Then, the rest of the tent began to fall, in swathes of cascading fabric, but Alexander only had eyes for Stephen.

Alexander kicked off of the ground and beat his wings to launch himself into the air. He needed to keep Stephen away from the men, whatever it took, until they could get to safety.

As Stephen opened his wings to catch himself, Alexander shot towards him. He pulled back for a punch, but Stephen recovered fast, and caught it before it could land.

“All of these men are doomed regardless,” Stephen growled, slowly intensifying his grip as if he was trying to crush the bones in Alexander’s hand. “Why bother prolonging their suffering?”

“Sickness is one thing,” Alexander replied, grimacing as he tried to pull his hand free and stay aloft at the same time. “Murder is another.”

Then, he took his other hand and socked Stephen in the nose, feeling it crunch behind his knuckles and watching as blood trickled from Stephen’s nostril. When it didn’t heal immediately, Alexander realized that they weren’t as impenetrable as he’d thought; Stephen’s nose righted itself as he watched, but slowly—slowly enough that Alexander could have broken it again, and worse, before it had healed.

However, Alexander took too long coming to that revelation, as Stephen took advantage of his momentary stupor to toss him backwards into the air.

Then, as Alexander righted himself, the flames wreathing Stephen’s wings crackled and raced down his arms to cover his hands, before leaping off to hurtle balls of fire in Alexander’s direction.

Alexander ducked the first one, easily, then had to hastily flap his wings to get out of the way of the second. Out of nowhere, a third whizzed by Alexander’s arm, and, for a moment, he thought that Stephen had missed.

Then, he smelled something burning, and his body suddenly lurched downwards. He turned, and his stomach flipped as he took in the blackening feathers.

Stephen had set his wing on fire.

Frantically, Alexander flapped his wings harder, trying to stamp out the flames and sending himself higher into the sky in the process. Cold wind whipped through his hair, and his lungs burned.

Beside him, another ball of fire exploded through the clouds, creating a dazzling burst of scarlet and copper.

Alexander looked down.

Stephen was chasing after him, his massive wings propelling him up with speed as he continued to channel flames in Alexander’s direction. The distance was closing, and fast, and his aim was only getting better.

Under the influence of pure panic, there was only one thing that Alexander could think to do: he flew higher.

The air grew steadily colder as he climbed, making the sudden heat of the fire even more striking as it blew past. Then, Alexander faltered briefly, and a ball of flames seared into the joint of his wing. Blinding pain erupted down towards his back, and he could no longer stay aloft, but he spread his other wing as far as he could to catch the air.

Then, he crashed down directly onto Stephen’s back.

He dug his fingers into Stephen’s wings and tore his feathers out in clumps, a righteous, protective fury overcoming him as he thought about the men Stephen was condemning to death—Fitzjames, Crozier, Blanky, Harry, John—and knew that he was the only one standing between Stephen and killing them all.

Then, as Stephen began to falter, Alexander drew his head back and slammed his forehead into Stephen’s face, over and over, until he felt the other man fall limp enough that he knew he wouldn’t be retaliating.

After that, he let go, and watched coldly as Stephen plummeted like a stone. He tucked in his wings and dove after him, but did nothing to stop his fall, just watched him struggle until he crashed into the shale.

Smoke billowed up from where Stephen had landed, and Alexander wasted no time looking for something he could use as a weapon. A moderate-sized boulder caught his eye, and he snatched it up, then staggered back to where Stephen was slowly starting to come to his senses. His one functioning eye opened slowly, and he began to try to speak, but Alexander was having none of it.

Alexander brought the rock down, and Stephen’s skull crunched. Then, he hefted it back up, and slammed it down again and again until Stephen’s head caved into a pulverized, bloody mess of viscera.

Chest heaving, Alexander tossed the boulder to the side, then collapsed to his knees beside Stephen’s body.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, desperately. “I’m sorry.”

Chapter Text

Alexander’s feathers were still smoking as he rose, his cheeks wet with tears he couldn’t remember shedding.

He didn’t look down at the broken body of his friend, not even as he stepped over a beaten, ash-stained wing and gazed towards the burning carnival tent on the next ridge. His back muscles ached and protested, but he forced his wings open, knowing it was the fastest way back if he wanted to help the captains evacuate men from the still-raging fire.

It was incredible how quickly flying had become natural for him, and how much it unbalanced him to be missing only a handful of feathers. He lurched and jerked about in the air, garnering what he felt were a few judgemental looks from some nearby Arctic birds rushing past him as quickly as possible.

Alexander didn’t blame them.

He swooped down towards the blaze, taking note of the gaggles of men that had already managed to clear out. Among them he spotted some familiar faces, but none of them were Harry nor John.

Without hesitation, Alexander dove through one of the gaps in the ceiling and landed amongst the flames. When he looked down, he could see his trousers catching fire and underneath, his legs beginning to burn, but it registered as only feeling warm, on the edge of hot.

What was worse was the smoke hanging thick in the air, carrying with it the smell of burning flesh, and Alexander urgently covered his mouth and nose with his hand in an attempt to block it out.

Nearby, Alexander caught sight of a handful of stragglers attempting to bash their way through a solid wooden wall. He couldn’t rush to help them fast enough; he beat his wings and used the momentum to propel himself over piles of debris.

By instinct, he came to perch on the nearest unburnt piece of wood, curling his talons around it to keep himself steady. Then, he took a page out of Stephen’s book and scooped up a ball of flame from the detritus around him; to his pleasant surprise, it remained formed into a jagged sphere, just as it had for Stephen.

For a moment, Alexander was captivated by how the flames danced across his fingertips, but then he remembered what he was there for and turned to hurtle the fireball directly into the wall.

The wood practically evaporated before his eyes, and the fireball dissipated as soon as it passed beyond the walls, leaving the men staring in awe. Then, the moment passed, and the men stumbled over each other in their haste to escape, without giving a second thought to their saviour.

But, to be perfectly honest, Alexander didn’t care if he was given recognition. All he cared about was getting as many people as possible to safety as quickly as possible.

Alexander began to make a loop of the site, breaking down walls wherever he saw anybody trapped. As he went, the fire steadily consumed his clothes and his skin, but it didn’t burn fast enough to stop him from healing.

Then, he slowly began to realize that it wasn’t that he couldn’t feel the pain; it was simply that his physical nerves were no longer communicating the same way with his consciousness, as if his consciousness had been detached from his physical brain.

This revelation didn’t rock him as much as he expected it to—possibly because he was immediately distracted by a familiar face peering at him from within the debris.

“John!” Alexander screamed.

He raced to the other surgeon’s side. “John, John, I’m here, I’ll get you out—”

John blinked up at Alexander from where he was laying on his back, pinned beneath a set of the tent’s wooden supports. Blood trickled from the edge of his hairline, and Alexander could hear his breath coming in ragged wheezes. Alexander’s heart leapt into his throat.

“Alexander…?” John rasped.

“Just hold on— hold on, John—” Alexander pleaded, and he quickly evaluated the situation before him.

First, he shoved away the crate that had fallen across John’s back, sending it crashing into the flames that were slowly drawing closer to where John was laying. Then, he went to the beam pinning down John’s leg and dug his fingers in; the wood began to sizzle beneath his touch, but he paid it no mind, as all of his focus centred on getting John free. It wasn’t very heavy, but his grip kept slipping, and so it took him a few moments before he could heave it away and reveal the damage it had done.

John’s leg was broken, that much was clear; his trousers hid most of the injury, but Alexander could see that it was twisted.

Alexander knelt at his side as John weakly clawed at the ground, futilely trying to lift himself up.

“Christ…” John groaned, and the sound of his familiar voice in the swelling flames made Alexander’s heart fill. “Leave me, Alex, I— I can’t…”

“You numpty,” Alexander breathed, fondly. “I’m here to rescue you. Come along.”

Thinking nothing of it, he slid his hands beneath John’s body—one supporting his back and the other hooked under his knees—and began to lift him into his arms, but something was wrong. John’s clothes were smoking, even though Alexander was keeping him safe from the flames, and his face was slowly contorting into an expression of agony.

A moment later, John began to writhe and howl in anguish.

“No— no, no, just hold on—” Alexander pleaded, assuming it was his leg causing him such pain, and he spread his wings to take flight. Then, he smelled it—it was all around them, but now it came from John himself, that same scent that came from a juicy haunch of lamb roasting on a grill.

John was burning alive, seemingly from the inside out.

Another moment passed before Alexander realized the truth, and he nearly dropped John in his shock. He couldn’t think of anything else to do but lay him back down, even as the safe patches of ground were growing smaller and smaller, and hastily remove his hands from John’s body.

He checked them both, turning them this way and that, but the only indicator that they were burning was an unnatural redness, and constant flaking of his skin that instantly repaired itself.

“Alex,” John croaked, and Alexander gazed down at him with pure sorrow aching in his chest. “Suppose I was right about another angel, after all…”

He reached up, slowly, and brushed a thumb over the crest of Alexander’s cheek, even as it made him wince, as if he were wiping away a tear that had already evaporated.

“Hold me,” John begged, and Alexander’s heart broke.

“I can’t,” Alexander told him. “You’ll die.”

“I’ll die anyway,” John replied, matter-of-factly. “At least… let me do it in the arms of a friend, eh?”

With clear effort, he tugged the corners of his lips up into a rough approximation of a smile, and Alexander could do nothing but obey his last wishes.

Alexander drew John’s battered body into his lap, and watched in misery as every breath came weaker than his last.

Eventually, with a murmur too quiet for Alexander to make out, he fell still, and though no tears could flow, Alexander sobbed.

Then, he drew in a shuddering breath, and screamed.

By the time that Alexander came back to himself, the fire had burnt itself down to ashes, and John’s body had withered in his arms, until it seemed as if there had never been any life in it to begin with.

The sun was creeping over the horizon, illuminating the smoldering remains of the carnival tent, but its light was cold and distant, and gave John’s face a sickening glow.

Alexander couldn’t bear to look, but nor could he stand to look away.

“Doctor McDonald? Doctor McDonald!”

Someone, far away, was calling Alexander’s name.

His head twitched, and he drew his wings—tattered and ash-stained from hours among the flames—closer around John’s body. He didn’t know what instinct drove him to it, whether he wanted to protect the body or protect the men from the sight of him.

Or, perhaps, it was the desire to not let him go until absolutely necessary.

“Doctor— Alexander,” the voice continued, and Alexander belatedly recognized it as Harry’s.

A trickle of relief managed to pierce the numbness in Alexander’s body, but then it was gone, evaporating back into the burning grief that consumed all else.

“Alexander—”

From the sound of Harry’s footsteps and the movement of the air, Alexander knew he was going to put his hand on his shoulder before his fingers so much as brushed his skin, and Alexander didn’t even need to turn his head in order to catch his hand before it fell.

Harry gasped, and the tendons of his wrist flexed beneath Alexander’s fingers. His heartbeat raced, and Alexander briefly considered how easy it would be to snap his radius and ulna in one go.

Then, he released Harry’s arm.

“I— Alexander, we found Doctor Stanley, and we thought… I can’t believe you’re alive,” Harry stammered, his words quivering with anxiety.

Alexander cocked his head; he didn’t think that an angel would be particularly difficult to spot. Then, he glanced at his wings again, and found that their tawny brown had been thoroughly caked in shades of ashen grey, and realized that until the fire was fully extinguished, he must have blended in with the rest of the debris.

“I’ve been sending half the injured to Terror, half to Erebus, so we can be sure of having enough supplies,” Harry went on. “I… I need your help, there’s only so much I can do on my own… and, er, I don’t know where Doctor Peddie’s gone, I haven’t seen him—”

Abruptly, Alexander stood, and he let John’s body drop from his arms. It hit the shale with a sickening crunch, and its head lolled to one side to stare directly at Harry with glassy, unblinking eyes.

Harry gasped, and Alexander felt nothing.

“I’d better be off to Terror then,” Alexander drawled, low and gravelly from the smoke clawing at the inside of his lungs. “Find me if you need anything.”

Harry just stared.

Alexander shook his wings open, but he knew there was no hope of flying back to the ships. Too many of his feathers were damaged—torn, twisted out of place, or burned away entirely—to support him.

So, he let them fall, and as he walked away, his wings dragged behind him as merely dead weight.

Chapter Text

In the aftermath of the disastrous Carnivale, John set his nose to the grindstone and kept it there in preparation for the impending walk-out. He did his best to ignore the new divine presence on Terror; he had tried, on one occasion, to speak with him, but Doctor McDonald had simply barked at him to get out unless he was in need of medical attention

John had avoided the sick bay after that.

John knew he wasn’t the only one that found the shift in McDonald’s personality disconcerting. The men spoke about it in whispers, and the officers more openly, when McDonald wasn’t present. Most of them simply blamed it on the grief and shock of losing Doctor Peddie and Doctor Stanley in one fell swoop; John wasn’t sure he agreed with them.

Doctor McDonald was now an angel, after all—if he couldn’t be assured that Peddie and Stanley were waiting for him in Heaven, then who could?

Thus, for John, the simmering rage that unpredictably boiled out of McDonald’s body was a signifier of something else. What that something else was, though, he couldn’t be certain. It worried him; scared him, even. God would never create an angel so full of unrighteous fury.

A demon, perhaps, but never an angel. And yet, demons famously did not wear feathers.

However, the walk-out on the horizon dwarfed all things, and even with Crozier back on his feet, John was laden with endless burdens. There was always something more to do—more inventory to take, more stores to pack, more personnel lists to update—and, more than once, he found himself falling asleep before his head hit the pillow.

It only got worse when Edward was chosen to lead the advance party. Their goodbye was short and anxious—John was sure they were all thinking of Lieutenants Gore and Fairholme—and afterwards, John and George were saddled with twice as many duties to make up for his absence.

Luckily, it was only a day or so before they were on their way after him.

It was difficult to talk, while they were hauling, and so John was left with only observations to distract himself from his thoughts. George had been assigned to the same sledge as Hickey, which made John both nervous for George and relieved that it wasn’t him. However, with among such a large group, Hickey didn’t dare attempt anything untoward—aside from trailing slightly behind and forcing his sledge-mates to pick up his slack.

John spent an embarrassing amount of time considering whether or not to mention it to George, before he eventually conceded that he ought not to ruin the tentative truce that had arisen between them. Besides, it wasn’t as if he was the only one that had noticed.

On the other end of the scale, Doctor McDonald hauled a sledge entirely on his own, and still managed to outpace the rest of them. John watched him in awe out of the corner of his eye, the harness straining around his shoulders as he ploughed ahead, eyes downcast and tattered wings trailing on either side of the sledge’s bow, leaving extra lines in the snow.

Occasionally, one of the men needed a rest before it was time to stop and camp, and without hesitation, McDonald insisted on hauling them on his sledge as well. His pace barely slowed with the extra weight; it seemed like the only limiting factor on how much he could pull was the strength of the harness.

When they came to a halt on the first night, McDonald was included in the command meeting, taking Edward’s place as watches were decided. John couldn’t decide whether it was worse to stare or avoid looking at McDonald altogether, so he settled on staring at Captain Crozier, who looked aged beyond his years as he ran a hand though his thinning hair.

“Doctor McDonald,” said Crozier, turning to the man in question, and John hesitantly allowed himself to look.

McDonald’s eyes were dark and his expression weathered, and he appeared almost ordinary with his darkened wings fading into the shadows of the tent and his talons hidden beneath the table. “Captain,” he replied, his voice even, if a bit gravelly.

“In the morning, would you be able to scout ahead? With your wings, it’ll be faster and safer to send you alone—” Crozier began, before McDonald cut him off.

“I can’t fly.”

McDonald gave the confession as if it was another meaningless piece of information, but John had noticed his minuscule wince at the mention of his wings. John couldn’t help it; now, he stared, aghast, as his mind wrestled with the notion of an angel that couldn’t fly.

“I heal fast, but I suppose there’s only so many times one can be burned in the same place before it does some permanent damage.”

John swallowed thickly, and gazed down at the table. Beside him, George’s hand crept onto his knee, and John let out a shaky exhale.

“I can still scout ahead, an’ be faster than anybody else,” McDonald went on, flatly, “but only on foot.”

Crozier pursed his lips, looking like he was holding a frog in his mouth, and awkwardly conceded, “Well, alright, then. If you don’t mind.”

McDonald dipped his head, and the rest of the meeting went on without issue.

As the officers began to exit the tent, John stood immobile for several moments, watching McDonald depart towards the medical tent. Then, George elbowed him in the ribs, and he jumped.

“Go, John,” George stressed, as if it was obvious.

John blinked. “Pardon?”

“Don’t be a fool, go talk to him,” George said, nudging him with his elbow again. “He’s not so queer as you might think.”

“I…” A dismissal was on the tip of John’s tongue, but George’s encouragement created a swell in his chest that made him doubt his own doubting. “Alright, yes. Yes, thank you, George.”

George fondly clapped him on the shoulder, and gave him a bright smile as he hurried after McDonald.

“Doctor McDonald!” John called, speeding after him as best he could with his boots slipping every other step. “Doc—”

Abruptly, McDonald stopped, and he turned on his heel to face John down. “Some of the men are trying to sleep,” he snapped. “Keep your voice down.”

“Ah— ah, right, I apologize,” John stammered. He dropped his head, averting his gaze as he drew his arms in towards his chest, feeling rightfully chastised.

McDonald looked him up and down, then sighed. “What do you want, Lieutenant?” he demanded, but he sounded more exhausted than angry.

“Perhaps— perhaps we could talk somewhere more private?”

“Very well.”

John let himself be led out of the camp, but not further than the marines’ perimeter, to an icy outcropping that formed a rough, natural place to sit. That was where McDonald stopped, and he gestured around.

“Will this do?” McDonald asked, with a tinge of impatience that implied he would be annoyed if John said no.

“Yes, yes, this is suitable,” John insisted quickly, and he took a seat. The ice was so cold, even through his slops, that his backside felt numb almost immediately, but he was determined not to complain in front of McDonald. Besides, the angel’s very presence radiated a dull warmth, and John clung to it eagerly.

There was a moment of silence, and then McDonald admitted, “I know what you want to ask me.”

“You… you do?” John replied, eyes wide. “Do you know my thoughts?”

“No, not like that,” McDonald scoffed. “I only mean that you can be quite a predictable man, an’ there’s been an elephant in the room for a little while now.”

Slowly, McDonald spread his wings, casting a grand shadow over John, and he shuddered.

“Go on, John.”

John swallowed thickly. “You… are an angel,” he began, slowly.

“How observant of you.”

Shame welled up in John’s chest once more, but he forced himself to ford ahead. “Do you know what plan God has for us?” he asked.

“No,” McDonald answered succinctly. “I know nothing, John.” He took a step forward, and John looked up at him, eyes wide.

“But you must… you must have some inclination,” John said, urgently. “You’re an angel!”

“You don’t think that I’m aware of that?” McDonald snapped, and the temperature around them both suddenly skyrocketed, making John uncomfortably warm. “You think I don’t pray every day for some sort of guidance? There is nothing, John.”

He advanced again, looming over John with an intense, fiery stare. “If God is real, He isn’t here. I’m certain of it.”

John was speechless.

After a moment, McDonald turned away, and simply said, “Goodnight, Lieutenant.”

Later, when John returned to the lieutenants’ tent for the night, he didn’t attempt to hide the devastation on his face.

George saw him, instantly, and his expression turned to sympathy as he began, “Oh, John—”

Lieutenant Le Vesconte, who had been laying motionless on his bedroll, got up without having to be asked. “I’ll give you two a moment,” he announced. “Seems like you need it.” And then he was gone, leaving George and John alone.

“What happened, John?” George asked, gently.

John shook his head. His throat had closed up, choked with anguish, and took a few staggering steps forward. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Oh… come here,” George invited, extending his arms out wide. “You poor man…”

John slumped into George’s embrace and sobbed.

“Is Mr Morfin camped near you?”

“I didn’t want to go to Carnivale. I compelled myself to go. I compel myself to do everything now.”

“My mouth and my stomach, they don’t know horrible from supper.”

The tattered remains of the Union Jack flapped pitifully in the wind, and whatever part of John’s heart might have been lifted at the sight of it sank halfheartedly instead.

Then, he saw the man standing beneath it, cap askew and rifle hoisted over his shoulder, and it was all John could do not to race to him at once.

Every muscle and bone in John’s body ached, yet he disentangled himself from the sledge harness with newfound energy and haste. “Lieutenant Little!” he cried, though ‘Edward’ had been on the tip of his tongue. He ducked his head, suddenly ashamed of his outburst, but when he glanced around, nobody was looking at him save George.

John hurried to meet Edward with as much grace as he could manage, his feet slipping on the shale as he adjusted to the lack of weight dragging his body down. Genuine joy tugged at John’s lips, sincerely grateful to see him alive and unharmed, yet his face couldn’t quite manage to make the correct shape of a smile.

He tried, regardless.

“John…” Edward seemed in a similar boat, struggling to bring more than a tight-lipped grimace to his face. “It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise.” It was all John could do not to wrap his arms around him. “Was it— did you— is everything well?” he asked, cautiously.

“Very well,” Edward answered, with a small breath of relief. “But I missed you very much, John. And— and you, too, of course, George.”

John gave a start; he hadn’t even noticed that George had come up to join them, accompanied by Crozier and Fitzjames. Flustered, he stepped aside and averted his eyes to the ground.

“No trouble, Lieutenant?” questioned Fitzjames, with a raised eyebrow.

“None at all, sir,” Edward answered, and he inclined his head respectfully. “In fact, it was better than expected.”

His eyes settled somewhere behind John’s head, and John stilled.

“We must have been blessed.”

John followed his gaze, though he didn’t need to; he knew who he would find at the other end, and his stomach seamlessly tied itself into a knot.

“You shouldn’t be on any watch you haven’t got the bottom for, Morfin.”

“Nobody’s going to put you down.”

“At ease, Sergeant.”

“A mate of mine was stationed on a ship in Baffin Bay for two seasons,” said Armitage, breaking the silence that had settled over the group of men. “Said that caribou doesn’t have the tallow beef does. But the taste is strong, and tastes more strongly of what is the animal’s diet.”

John looked over at the young steward. It was the first time that John had ever heard more than five words from his mouth; not because the man was naturally quiet or anything of the like, but simply that John didn’t spend extended time associating with men of Armitage’s rank. He opened his mouth, but he couldn’t find anything to say—nor he didn’t know what was appropriate to say.

Luckily, George swooped in to rescue him. “Would that be rocks, here, then?” he asked, politely. When Armitage didn’t immediately answer, he went on, “The word ‘diet’ comes from the Greek dieta—a way of life.”

Sensing an oncoming wealth of less-than-practical information, John hurried to divert the conversation himself. “We have an hour left before we need to return,” he said. “Let’s cover more ground.”

“I’ll go east,” George volunteered, “with Mr Armitage and Mr Pocock.”

John had but a moment to decide how he was going to respond. If he insisted on sending Hickey with George, he knew that George would allow it, but at the same time, John was only third lieutenant, and it wouldn’t do to appear as if he were undermining George’s authority.

On top of that, he would only be re-emphasizing to Hickey how he feared him. He swallowed thickly.

“Farr, Hickey, you’re with me,” John responded, brusquely. He looked at George. “We’ll go south, walk half an hour, and then turn back. We’ll meet at this spot.”

The men were losing hope—they all knew it—and the only thing that would rejuvenate them now was game. As much as John wished for it to be different, even his own faith was unsteady.

Neither Farr nor Hickey were particularly conversational on the trek. John stumbled ahead of them, trying to keep up the appearance of being in charge, but he was beginning to sweat under his slops, and his feet ached with blisters.

The shale stretched on, endlessly, and the grey hills rolled like waves. John could almost hear them crashing, and his heart ached with homesickness; not even for Scotland, but just for the rocking of a ship on the ocean.

Everything had been simpler on the sea.

“Lieutenant!”

John stuttered to a halt and turned to look at Hickey. Then, he followed Hickey’s eyes.

“My God,” he breathed.

At the bottom of the hill was a group of natives—Netsilik, by the look of their clothing—hauling a sled.

“I’ll… I’ll approach them alone,” John decided, hastily. “We don’t want to spook them.” He glanced between Hickey and Farr, wondering if it was proper to leave them together, before deciding it was worth the risk.

And, as he began to shuffle down the ridge, John heard Farr say, “The captain said so, didn’t he?”

The natives stopped as he drew close, staring at him with guarded expressions, and John was suddenly conscious of how awful he must have looked—unwashed, unrested, and unfed. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender that he hoped was universal.

“My name is… Lieutenant John Irving, of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy,” John said.

The strangers stared at him.

Desperately, John pointed to himself and repeated, “John.”

After a moment, one of the Netsilik—a middle-aged man at the front of the group—attempted to imitate him. “John.”

“Yes.”

Then, that same man gestured back at himself. “Koveyook,” he said, simply.

“Ko… Koveyook,” John tried, parsing the unfamiliar sounds as best as he could. “Koveyook.”

Koveyook made the tiniest chuckle and told him, “Aye, Koveyook.”

At least, that was what it sounded like to John.

“My… my friends and I,” John began, with a glance back at the hill. The silhouettes of Hickey and Farr were still there, watching. “We are looking for… game. Food?” He mimed breaking something off and putting it to his mouth. “Food?” he repeated.

Koveyook nodded, slowly, speaking words that John didn’t comprehend. However, their meaning was clear, as he retrieved from the sled a small piece of meat.

John could have cried. In fact, he began to, when the fresh meat touched his tongue, and flavour beyond his wildest dreams—flavour he had forgotten—burst throughout his mouth. He chewed, slowly, torn between savouring it and swallowing it as fast as possible.

“Thank you,” he breathed, but he knew his foreign words could never properly convey his meaning to these strangers.

John patted himself down, searching for anything on his person that he could use to express his gratitude. Inside his pocket, he found the familiar shape of his spyglass—the only personal item, aside from his Bible, that had survived this far into the march—and drew it out. He unfolded it with a series of satisfying clicks and raised it to his eye, attempting to demonstrate how it worked.

Then, John offered it to Koveyook.

With understandable hesitation, Koveyook accepted the gift and looked through it. Immediately, he cried aloud in surprise and wonder, and one of the other men came near to investigate. After a moment, Koveyook passed the spyglass to the other man, who had much the same reaction of delight.

For the first time in a long time, genuine joy lifted the edges of John’s lips. He laughed in childish glee, watching these natives delight in his strange technology, and felt their excitement shared with him.

Then, he remembered his men.

And when John looked back, there were no shadows on the horizon.

If John’s heart was the sun, blossoming with warmth, it was as if a cloud had suddenly passed over it. He gulped.

Turning back to Koveyook, John put out his hand and tried to stress, “You… stay. Here.”

Koveyook blinked at him, but John saw understanding.

“Stay,” John emphasized. “Please.” He brought his hands together in an instinctual gesture of prayer, of pleading, and didn’t turn until Koveyook nodded.

John’s heart pounded in his chest. He didn’t think; he only ran.

At the top of the hill, the shapes of Hickey’s and Farr’s bodies were intertwined. The details were obscured, and John’s mind first went back to the hold, but that was absurd.

“Hickey?” He stumbled closer. “Hickey!”

Time slowed down.

Hickey rose from Farr’s body and rushed towards John. The sun glinted off of the knife clenched in his grasp, and his other hand came up to grab hold of John’s slops.

There was nothing John could do.

And Hickey drove the blade into his gut.

John sucked in a breath. His lungs didn’t fill.

Hickey pulled the knife free, then shoved it in again.

John’s knees buckled. Every nerve in his body froze. Adrenaline raced through his veins, but he couldn’t gather his strength.

Hickey pinned him down. His face filled John’s vision.

A chill settled into John’s bones.

In, out, in, out.

John lost count of how many times he plunged the knife in.

It was so cold.

Grey clouds drifted by overhead as Hickey’s face slid out of focus.

The shale dug into his back where he’d fallen.

Everything was numb.

John gave no last, shuddering exhale, as Christ had on the cross. Instead, all simply fell still.

For one eternal second, John was an ice-cold corpse. No breath filled him, and yet he was still aware, still watching as Hickey admired his handiwork.

Thoughts escaped him.

He was gone.

Then, from somewhere deep within, a cold instinct reared its ugly head. It was a single tendril, rising up from the darkness of John’s sinful soul, but it was enough.

John blinked, and knocked the knife from Hickey’s hand.

Shock leapt across Hickey’s face. John gave him no time to react before he struck him across the cheek, and Hickey’s head snapped to the side. Three gashes blossomed out of his skin, and John looked down at his hand.

In his numbness, John had failed to notice the flesh splitting along his fingers, revealing hideous claws marked with Hickey’s blood.

He should have been horrified, but he felt nothing.

Hickey stumbled away, clutching at his face. “You— you—” he stammered, pointing an accusing finger in John’s direction. “You monster!”

John dragged himself to his feet. Pins and needles prickled all across his body, and his bones crunched audibly. With aching slowness, the skin peeled from his back, flaking off in great chunks, until a pair of great, leathery wings emerged from his shoulder blades. At the same time, a tail snaked free from the small of his back, and blinding agony took over John’s body.

With a shaking hand, Hickey picked up the knife.

John flapped his wings once, thrusting himself into the air, and crashed down on top of Hickey, pinning him to the ground with the claws piercing out of his boots. He bared his teeth and growled animalistically, operating on some deep-buried instinct that overrode every conscious part of his mind.

Hickey stared up at him with true fear in his eyes.

John sank his claws into Hickey’s chest without hesitation. The fabric and flesh gave way easily, and he tore. Warm blood bubbled beneath his fingertips, a welcome respite from the cold, and John only wanted more.

“John? John!”

George’s voice jolted John back into his body. He looked down, and horror struck a discordant chord within his body.

“John, what are you doing?”

The only thing worse than Hickey’s blood on his hands was the look of horror on George’s face as he shakily levelled his shotgun at John’s head. He shifted his grip, nervously, as if he wasn’t quite sure of what he was doing, either. Behind him stood Armitage and Pocock, but John only had eyes for George.

John’s chest tightened, and he let Hickey go.

Hickey scrambled away, eyes wide and desperate. “He tried to kill me!” he cried, reaching out for George. “Lieutenant Hodgson— he’s a monster— kill him, kill him now!”

John didn’t wish to find out whether or not George would take the shot. Even deep in his heart, he didn’t know what was the best decision, and he couldn’t bear it.

With haste, he choked back tears and fled into the sky.

Chapter Text

Alexander knew what had happened even before the presence appeared at the entrance of his tent. His body had burned with residual heat ever since Carnivale, a warmth that the Arctic cold couldn’t penetrate. Ergo, when a freezing wind swept by, he was certain that it could only be one thing:

A demon.

However, Lieutenant Irving was the last person he had expected it to be. Nor did he expect the man in question to stagger into his tent, hollow-eyed and drenched in blood.

“Doctor,” he rasped, “help me.”

As Irving’s eyes rolled back, Alexander leapt forward to catch him. He gasped as their skin came into contact; it sizzled, and Alexander’s body temperature dropped several degrees. Reflexively, he brought his wings around to draw Irving into his arms, supporting him.

Irving curled in towards Alexander’s body and breathed out, slowly sinking down against him. “Oh… you’re warm…” he mumbled, deliriously.

Alexander wrapped an arm around Irving’s back and tucked him under his wing. He wasn’t quite as delirious, but he couldn’t deny that Irving’s freezing skin was having an effect on him—it was almost calming, and part of him never wanted to let him go.

Then, he raised his head.

“Doctor Goodsir?” he called; he could sense the man’s body heat lurking around the other side of the tent. “Doctor Goodsir!”

Harry poked his head inside. “Yes, Doc— oh, goodness, what’s happened to him?” he asked, gaze immediately falling on Irving.

“I don’t know,” Alexander confessed. A chill ran down his spine, and he shuddered. “I need you to fetch the captain as soon as he’s back from the cairn. He needs to see this.”

“Er…” Harry glanced down again at Irving, then nodded. “Alright, yes, I’ll— I’ll do that.” Without further ado, he left.

Irving whimpered and sniffled against the side of Alexander’s neck.

Alexander tugged Irving over to the nearby cot and gently guided him down to sit on it. Then, he seated himself next to him and took his hands.

“Lieutenant Irving,” he started, and then he paused and reconsidered. “John. Can you tell me what happened to you?”

“Hickey,” Irving gasped. “Mr Hickey, he— he killed Mr Farr, and he killed— he tried to kill me, too.”

“The caulker’s mate?” Alexander blinked.

Irving nodded, jerkily. “The hunting party— I left them alone to meet with a group of natives, and when I came back—”

Suddenly, a cacophony of noise erupted outside, ringing in Alexander’s ears, and he unhappily disentangled himself from Irving.

“Stay here,” Alexander directed. “I’ll close the tent behind me. Do not let anybody in to see you. Do you understand? I need you to stay put, John.”

It wasn’t as if Alexander couldn’t track him down if he went missing, but he didn’t want Irving running into anybody else and risking distressing himself further.

Irving slowly wrapped his wings around himself, creating a leathery blanket. Then, he looked up at Alexander and nodded again. “Yes, Doctor,” he whispered.

A beat passed.

“Alexander,” Alexander corrected. “Call me Alexander, please.”

Irving didn’t respond.

Alexander left the tent and pulled the flap closed. He tied it tight, then went to see what all the fuss was about.

The hunting parties had returned.

Hickey was flanked by Hodgson and Armitage, wrapped in a blanket and shaking with manufactured fear. A small crowd had formed around him, listening with rapt attention.

“He turned into a monster,” Hickey was saying, gravely. “A demon, he… he killed Farr, and then he tried to kill me.”

Alexander lurked around the edges of the impromptu gathering, hiding himself behind another tent. He didn’t want to attract any unnecessary attention.

He didn’t think it would do any good—not now, with Irving terrified of his own shadow and the captains still away from camp.

He hung around just long enough to get a grasp on Hickey’s story and watch the men around him grow agitated, then returned to the medical tent.

First, Alexander made sure that Irving was still within; he could sense him, a pillar of frost emanating from the tent, and so didn’t need to look. However, he still intended to go inside, because it was obvious that Irving was shaken, but that was when Harry arrived with the captains.

“Doctor,” Crozier greeted, with a firm nod. “What on Earth is going on here?”

Behind Crozier, Harry stood nervously alongside Fitzjames and Little. Alexander wondered where Le Vesconte and Jopson were.

“Lieutenant Irving, sir,” Alexander answered. He quickly explained what had happened.

Crozier’s expression was steely. “I want to speak with him,” he insisted. “In the meantime, I want Hickey arrested. James, would you—”

“Gladly,” said Fitzjames. “Lieutenant Little, with me.” He waved to Little and immediately headed back in the opposite direction.

Alexander stepped sideways to cover the door. “I don’t know if he’s ready to receive visitors, sir,” he said, lowering his voice. “He would barely speak to me.”

“I understand your concern, Doctor,” Crozier replied, “but I need to see my lieutenant.”

Alexander stepped aside.

They arrested Hickey without incident.

There was fuss, but Lieutenant Hodgson turned on him the moment he was faced with orders from the captain. At least, that was what Alexander was told—he remained behind with Irving for the duration, to keep him company.

But then there was the matter of the trial.

“I need you to be there,” Crozier said, kneeling at the cot with his hand on Irving’s knee. “I need you to stand up and tell everyone what happened to you. I can hang Hickey, but without your testimony, I can’t prove that he did anything wrong.”

Irving stared past Crozier’s shoulder, his expression blank. He curled his wings in closer.

“Captain…” Alexander began, tentatively, but Crozier didn’t listen.

“I can tell the men anything I want, but if you’re not there to prove it, who’s to say I’m not just telling tales?” Crozier went on.

Finally, Irving spoke. “I can’t do it,” he croaked. “I can’t, sir, I’m sorry. I can’t let the men see me like this.”

Crozier’s expression softened. “Oh, Irving…”

Alexander’s chest boiled over. “He’s not really necessary, if you think about it,” he cut in. “You only truly need his coat.”

Quizzically, Crozier turned back to look at him.

“Could I have your coat, please, Lieutenant?” Alexander asked, extending a hand to Irving.

Looking confused, Irving slipped out of his coat and handed it over.

Alexander held it open for Crozier to see. “The knife marks,” he pointed out. “If Irving had already ascended before Hickey tried to ‘defend’ himself, he would never have been able to land these blows. An’, I’m sure you would find the same marks on Mr Farr’s body.”

Crozier sighed. “It’s something,” he conceded. “Thank you, Doctor.” He took the coat. “Are you coming?”

“Perhaps I ought to,” Alexander admitted, “but Doctor Goodsir can speak for me. If Irving is remaining here, then I’ll remain with him.”

Crozier nodded. “I’ll let Doctor Goodsir know.” He left the tent.

“You don’t have to stay behind,” Irving mumbled, as soon as Crozier was out of earshot. “I don’t need you to stay with me.”

“Yes, you do,” said Alexander. “Don’t be ridiculous, you’re a wreck.”

Irving opened his mouth, said nothing, and then closed it again.

They sat in silence for a while, until Irving suddenly began to speak. It was mostly rambling, about his home and his family and his faith, and Alexander sat and calmly listened until another commotion erupted outside.

“What’s going on?” Irving asked, lifting his head to look up at Alexander. “Alexander?”

There was a mighty roar, and Alexander’s blood ran cold.

“It’s the creature,” Alexander realized. “We have to go.”

“Go? Go where?” Irving questioned, but he stood nonetheless.

“Anywhere. Away from here,” Alexander said. “Don’t you remember what it did to Sir John? We’re not safe, neither of us.”

Irving swallowed thickly.

Alexander crept from the tent, checking this way and that to make sure that the coast was clear before gesturing for Irving to follow him.

“Edward,” Irving whispered, “and George. We need to find them.”

For a moment, Alexander wanted to snap back something about how they couldn’t afford to, but then he realized that that would be hypocritical.

He swallowed his words.

“Alright,” he said. He might not have been able to save John or Stephen, but he wouldn’t let the same thing happen to Irving if he could help it. “This way.”

The camp was covered with fog. Sounds of gunshots and the creature seemed to come from every possible direction. Then, finally, they made it to the gallows.

Immediately, Irving began to investigate the corpses, searching for familiar faces. “They’re not here,” he declared. “I— I think.”

“Well, let’s just follow the trail, then.” Alexander led Irving in the direction of the most pandemonium, picking his way through the bodies with careful grace.

The tents created a sort of labyrinth, boxing them in on either side to funnel them between rows and columns. There was no natural cover, only what they had brought with them, and so Alexander kept low, and Irving followed suit.

Alexander sensed it before he saw it. A force, like an invisible wall that his awareness couldn’t penetrate, hiding its nature from his view, along with anything else. In an instant, he knew he needed to say nothing to Irving; he had sensed it too.

They ran.

The beast roared as soon as their pace picked up, bellowing loud enough to strike a freezing-cold needle into the inferno of Alexander’s soul. It charged after them, footsteps heavy on the shale.

Alexander weaved through the camp, taking sharper and riskier turns even with Irving on his tail. Then, they skidded directly into a dead end—a pile of crates, stacked too high to climb over. Without thinking, Alexander shoved Irving behind him and turned to face the monster. He had seconds, maybe.

“What— what are you doing?” Irving breathed.

Alexander grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “Fly away. Now.”

The beast slammed into a tent pole at the end of the row, blocking the only other way out. Alexander’s breath caught.

“But you can’t—”

“I know.” Alexander shoved him back towards the crates, and he stumbled. “Fly, Irving. Go find Edward an’ George. An’ don’t weep for me.”

Shock was painted across Irving’s face, but he finally did as he was told and took to the air.

Experimentally, Alexander flapped his wings, too, hoping that he might have been mistaken and didn’t sacrifice himself needlessly.

But, the wind didn’t catch.

The monster was barrelling towards him, now. Alexander had hardly noticed.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Alexander whispered, hoping that the Arctic wind might carry his words to somewhere he could hear. “An’ good luck.”

The last thing that Alexander saw was a mass of teeth and fur and claws, and he was gone before his body hit the ground.

McDonald’s eyes rolled back as his body fell. John sensed the moment his fire vanished; he didn’t realize how strongly he’d felt his presence until it was absent. When his corpse hit the ground, it was staring up at John, all life gone from its frame.

John stared for a long moment, until the creature lifted its head and fixed him with an eerily human-like stare. Then, John began to beat his wings furiously, fleeing as quickly as he could manage.

His first instinct was to climb higher into the sky, and he almost did, before remembering that he still had friends in the camp.

He needed to find them before the creature did; he couldn’t just abandon them, even as some dark instinct whispered otherwise.

John soared over the camp, but the fog was thick; he could barely see anything happening on the ground. Eventually, when he felt he’d lost the creature, he tucked in his wings and dove. He landed behind a tent and stood there for a moment, bracing himself against the wooden supports to catch his breath.

A familiar shock of blond hair caught John’s eye.

“George!” John stepped out without thinking, desperate to catch his attention. “George, thank—” He almost said ‘thank God’, but stumbled and corrected himself at the last moment. “I’m so glad you’re—”

A bullet streaked past John’s ear. Behind it, George stood, readying his gun for another shot. There were tears in his eyes.

John didn’t wait for him to pull the trigger again. His heart broke, but he forced himself to flee.

He ducked sideways between the tents and kept down, his mind whirling with shock and betrayal. However, he knew the fog was dense; George might not have even recognized him, and just fired on the first unfamiliar shape he saw.

He didn’t know how much he believed that.

John ran until he collided directly with another man, both of them stumbling away from each other, and John raised his defenses before he realized who it was.

“Edward?!”

“John!” Unlike George, there was nothing but relief on Edward’s face at seeing him alive. “You’re alright, it’s alright—”

“Edward,” John gasped, clutching at the front of Edward’s coat with his claws. “George shot at me. He shot at me.”

“He’s scared, we all are,” Edward said, grasping John’s forearms. “He’ll come around once it’s over. But we have to— we have to hide, John, we have to go—”

The creature roared. It was close—too close.

“You go,” John insisted, letting go of Edward’s uniform. “I’ll hold it off. You find George, and you go.”

Bones crunched as the monster claimed another victim. White fur emerged from the end of the tent row.

“No. Not without you, John.”

“Look at me, Edward, I’m a monster!” John shrieked, spreading his arms wide. “Have courage and save yourself!”

The creature’s gaze fell on them. It charged.

Edward shoved John to the ground.

“What—” John’s voice caught in his throat.

“You said, have courage,” Edward repeated.

And the creature ploughed through him without stopping.

Edward hit the shale and rolled, his blood spilling onto the stones.

John screamed.

“No— no! Edward!”

He scrambled to his feet, not even checking to see if the creature was gone before he raced to Edward’s side. John rolled him over onto his back, taking in the massive gouge in his stomach and the blood dribbling from the side of his mouth.

Then, he realized that Edward was still breathing.

“Edward— Edward, please, stay with me…” John begged, drawing Edward into his arms.

“John…” Edward rasped.

“You can ascend, I know you can,” John told him, gently shaking his body as if he could compel it into doing what he wanted. “You’d be a perfect angel, I’ve always thought so—”

Slowly, Edward shook his head.

“Edward, don’t leave me,” John begged. When his tears fell, they instantly froze on his cheeks. “You have to come back, please, you have to convince George—”

With shaking hands, Edward drew his thumb to mouth and gathered some of the blood there. Then, he reached up and smeared it across John’s lips. Confusion sparked through John’s mind, and he wanted to ask so many more questions—but that was when Edward’s hand fell limp.

“No… no…”

There were so many footsteps in the chaos that John didn’t notice when a pair stopped to stare at him.

“You killed him,” said George’s voice, numb with shock.

John immediately let go of Edward’s body. “No— please, George, you must believe me, it was the monster—”

“You’re the monster!” George raised his shotgun, but John could see the barrel shaking.

“If that’s what you want.” John stood and faced down George with as much resolve as he could muster. “But, please… I thought you were my friend.”

“I don’t know what we were,” George said. “But now… I…” He hesitated.

“Alright.” John hung his head. “Alright. Without you and Edward, there’s nothing left for me here anyway.”

“What?” George breathed.

“It’s alright, George,” John reassured him, softly. “You’ll never have to see me again.”

George shook, and he dropped his gun.

John turned around, and began to walk away. Away from George, through swathes of corpses, and away from the camp. He didn’t stop.

And as he left everything he’d ever known behind, his heart froze over, and John Irving ceased to exist.