Dying of scurvy is no way to go, either. And it takes longer.

[ He offers, feeling stupid as soon as he says it. Goodsir was there. He would know a hell of a lot better than Tim would. Still, he feels the need to offer comfort. A good man wouldn’t confess it like a sin, with ghosts behind his eyes, or come to comfort him when his own troubles are so small in comparison. It tugs at his heart, the depth of a pain he can hardly imagine. 

Tim’s eyes meet his with softness. Not judgement or fear. Sorrow, maybe. For Goodsir, and all the other men made real with his presence here, the gravity of a doomed expedition so much stronger for it than it had been reading from a book. ]

Maybe you’re not perfectly innocent. [ Who is? Even Tim, who’s tried his best to do good and live justly, has bartered with lives, weighed their worth. There’s blood on his hands, too. Not directly, but how long until this place forces that too? ] But you were put in an impossible situation. With no good choices. Get up.

[ Tim stands, motioning with his hand for Goodsir to do the same. If he does, Tim will pull him closer, strong arms holding him in a tight hug. ]