holyposition | IC Inbox

Well, it’s true. I’ve opened up a lot here. It’s hard to make real friends when it’s dangerous for them to know who you really are.

What’s exciting about germs? 😊

What, a hunting dog?

As usual Tim, you're completely correct. I am very glad you've no such issues here.

Everything! It explains so much about disease, fills in so many gaps. You know, just between us, those of us who have worked at sea have long held that a clean sickbay frequently aired out is preferable to one that is not. But to now understand that cleanliness has a scientific purpose!

No. You are familiar with the great white bears of the Arctic region? Something like that. But not quite. It was not, strictly speaking, an animal.

It killed a good number of our men, including Sir John Franklin. Many of the men believed it targeted him quite specifically.

Something I've always taken for granted. Vaccines are pretty new though, in my time. No more smallpox or polio.

Really? Why would it do that?

What a miraculous time to be alive this is!

Really.

It sounds absurd to say, but for revenge.

Tim, I have told you that I love that land, even now, and I do. But we were not meant to go there.

[ When he thinks of the Arctic, he thinks of something desolate, lifeless. There's an awareness, of course, that there are Native people who live there, polar bears, seals, other things. But he doesn't think about it as something with a will of his own, the way sailors speak of the sea, or hunters speak of the forest. ]

Revenge for what?

If you would hear that story, I would be more comfortable telling you in person.

Only if you're comfortable. I'll be free after dinner.

You may think less of us, after the telling is done.

After dinner is fine. You are welcome in my quarters anytime.

[ After dinner, Tim warns Hawk that he might be gone for a while, and finds his way to Goodsir's place. He feels awkward, unprepared without having brought anything - a bottle of wine, a plate of cookies. Things he hasn't put any thought towards for a while, since he won't be allowed until Easter.

And because every so often, it almost seems like he's being flirted with. Which is delusional, or this place has warped his perception to see subtexts that aren't there. Or wishful thinking? Which is even more absurd - he doesn't need a rebound, and Goodsir doesn't need a younger man sniffing around him before he's even gotten his strength back. He's made that quite clear.

It's easy enough to shake away those stray thoughts, with a deep breath and a knock on the door. ]

Hi, Harry.

[ Smiling. The conversation promises to be somber, so they ought to get them in while they can. ]

You know, your last confession didn't scare me. So I doubt I'll think less of you. [ ... ] Not, a confession-confession. You know what I mean.

[Goodsir's room has had no modern touches added besides those installed by the hosts; it maintains the old English manor aesthetic near perfectly. Books are piled on every flat surface, bookmarks poking out from the pages.

He opens the door and smiles warmly as he ushers Tim in. Comfortable in Tim's presence, he wears no coat.]

Now, Tim. 'Daddy' I understand, but 'Father' might be a bit far.

[A joke! He gestures to the cuck chair every bedroom seems to have. He pours some water from a carafe into a glass to offer Tim.]

I'm afraid I don't have answers for all the questions you may ask. In spite of my best efforts, my knowledge of Inuktitut is extremely basic. And even if I had a decade to practice, there are things that remain very private to the Netsilik people.

[He sighs, not sitting but instead pacing back and forth.]

I will have to start at the beginning.

We were out on the ice, scouting for the shore. We, that is, Lieutenant Gore and half a dozen men and myself. It was very dark. Sergeant Bryant fired upon what he thought was a bear. It was not. It was a Netsilik man. He was with his daughter. It was an accident, a most terrible accident.

Almost immediately after, Lieutenant Gore was mauled to death by the creature. We fled, making it back to the ship with the Netsilik man and his daughter.

I tried, Tim. I tried to save him, I really did. But I failed. [This haunts him perhaps as much as his final acts.]

[ He laughs, agreeable, almost scandalized with himself for doing so - but the joke about their differences only highlights the ways that they're the same. It might offend, coming from someone else, any of the many people here who don't respect his faith, or come from a place where it's an oddity to be either scorned or studied. Goodsir, despite his crisis of faith (which he can't judge him for, for Tim's own are nerve-wracking and frequent), comes from a place where these are facts of life, not something which needs constant justification.

It's a rare comfort here.

Tim settles into the armchair near the bed and takes his water with a soft thanks. And listens, carefully, dragging a coaster nearer with his fingernail. ]

I'm sure you did. [ Softly. Not convinced that the death of one man would call a bear-like creature into action, but his eyes are warm, more curious than truly doubtful. ] You said it was an accident. A horrific one, of course. But no malice in it. Why would the land want revenge?

[While religion is not a focal point in Goodsir's life, it is nonetheless interwoven simply by virtue of his culture. It is this distance that allows him to treat Tim's faith as something perfectly acceptable - were he another of the men he'd sailed with (one John Irving, perhaps) he would consider the man a heathen.

He spares Tim a soft smile.]

Yes. But he still died on my table. His daughter was in a panic - she wanted to take him outside, to the ice, so he could expire there. And after he was dead, at the instruction of Sir John, we dumped his body down a fire hole cut in the ice.

[Goodsir's voice remains soft - it almost always is - but there is a note of bitter anger lurking at the edges of his words.]

We still thought the creature to be a bear. Even I, who had seen it. So a blind was set up, to shoot the thing. And indeed, it came for us. Killed Byrant. Killed Sir John.

[He stops pacing abruptly, looking Tim in the eye.]

Can you guess where the creature dumped Sir John's body? Down the same bloody hole.

All we had to bury of him was his leg.

[He shakes his head.]

The man we killed, he was a holy man. He first, and then his daughter, the Lady Silence. To this day I do not understand it all, but I do know that when that old man died it left the creature without a master. And it hated us. Oh, how it hated us.

[Goodsir squeezes the bridge of his nose.]

One of the men realised the connection between it and Lady Silence. And that brings me back 'round to what I told you, how she came to be held aboard Erebus.

A nasty tale, is it not? And one for which I bear some responsibility.

[Indeed, more than he knows - if he'd not interfered with the body's possessions, would that have helped anything? Very possibly.]

[ How quickly can one adapt to changing circumstances? Well, the Tim who arrived here would have written this off as nonsense. A coincidence at best, a delusion brought on by lead poisoning at worst, or simply hopeless, desperate men trying to assign meaning to what’s happening to them, after accepting in their hearts that they’ve begun a slow march towards death. A vengeful bear-spirit soul bonded to some shaman. A bad drive-in movie. A blasphemous suggestion.

Almost a year later, he’s known werewolves and vampires and wizards, seen the dead rise from their graves, endured mind control and memory loss and being drained nearly dry by the fangs of a friend. It’s getting harder not to believe that anything is possible. That maybe historians never learned what really happened to the expedition because it was fundamentally unknowable, and the answers contained things that man wasn’t meant to understand. It’s sacrilege, but these unnatural things are in front of his face every day. Is it not the bigger sin to keep his head in the sand and lie to himself? ]

It is. [ A nasty tale, which he waits for Goodsir to finish before speaking, despite the urge for more questions, more reassurances. ] But you can’t blame yourself, Harry. You tried to save him.

[ And he was spared. At least from the beast. As Tim was spared in the killing games, despite being unable to save anyone. ]

If we hadn't been there he'd not have been shot at all.

[Goodsir had signed up for the Discovery Service out of a genuine desire to see the world, and he'd done his best to respect the land and it's people... but that doesn't change the fact that he was just another white man crashing his way, uninvited, into a place for Mother England. He had time to think about it, at the end.]

When Lady Silence was aboard Erebus, we spoke. Well. Eventually. We killed her father, dragged her back to a ship full of men, and I tried to explain that we were there for the good of the economy.

[Goodsir finally sits on the edge of the bed, hiding his face in his hands.]

Yet she still tried to help us. We didn't deserve her.

I didn't deserve her.

[ Guilty by association. Tim is a hypocrite, telling him not to feel it, when every bit of blood and bile that McCarthy spilled for two years stains his hands, too. He didn’t ruin anyone’s life (except for Caroline’s, poor Caroline with her rosy cheeks and infectious grin...) but he’d helped him do it, made the process easier, more efficient. Oiled the gears on the meat grinder, in service of protecting American values. He’d believed in it, then. Part of him still wants to. ]

Maybe you didn’t.

[ This isn’t confession-confession, he isn’t a priest and this isn’t a church, he won’t assign prayers or penance...but he has no other frame of reference for how to receive such a confession, no other way to react than as a priest might. With passion and forgiveness, but not coddling. ]

But you can still become the kind of man who does. This place can be a second chance, if you let it. I’ve seen people improve themselves.

[ He sets his glass down on the coaster with a cork-muffled clink, and leans forward, elbows on his knees. Tim’s hand itches to reach for his, to offer comfort, but he stops himself, fingers wringing in front of him instead. It’d be inappropriate. ]

[Goodsir thinks of the hours he'd spent in that cramped little closet below decks, lit by warm lamplight, pointing and gesturing and repeating words over and over. Lady Silence's inscrutable face gradually opening in subtle ways.

Goodsir looks up into Tim's eyes, so kind and dark. He reaches past the distance between them and grips his clasped hands with his own.]

I don't deserve your kindness either, Tim. But by God I am thankful for it.

[He squeezes once and lets go, sitting back with the awkward little laugh he has accidentally perfected, the one that seems to say, 'ah, yes, I'm a terrible embarrassment, apologies!']

I do promise that one day we will have a pleasant conversation where I do not inflict awful stories upon you.

[ He squeezes back, warm and ever so slightly overeager, but it’s such brief contact. Tim is careful now of hovering too much, and leans back in his chair, getting comfortable within the plush leather. The awful stories stick in his mind, conjuring gory images of maulings that leave behind only legs, of blood smeared through the saltburnt chapel, and piles of ash where men used to be. And he musters a smile, barely managing but forcing the issue, an attempt at reassurance.

For someone to be thankful for him is a blessing. Something to get him through. ]

Maybe next time, it’ll be my turn. We can trade burdens for a while.

[ An attempt at a joke, veering too close to the truth to actually be funny. ]

[Goodsir smiles back, gaze still somber.]

I would like that. To be a... a source of comfort, for you. If that's not, ah, not presumptuous of me. Or inappropriate.

[Why would it be inappropriate? Just because Tim had mentioned feeling safe in a different context before? Harry, please. Get ahold of yourself.

...but he's suddenly certain hugging Tim would feel quite comfortable indeed.

Slightly flustered now, he studies his hands.]

I talk too much. I always have, really. It drove my mother mad when I was a child. I'd like to say I improved with age, but I've not. If anything, I think I've gotten worse.

[Another awkward chuckle.]

But I do very much like to listen. Especially if you've ever a heaviness of mind and heart.

It isn’t.

[ Why would it be? It’s just listening. The occasional touch of a hand, a hug when a friend needs a shoulder to lean on. Nothing untoward about it. Unless one thinks it might be.

Tim chuckles himself, shaking his head to ease any concern about talking too much. It was he that asked, wasn't it? ]

To be honest, I can't remember the last time I didn't have something heavy on my mind. But it's nothing, compared to...

[ Dying in the Arctic and butchering your friends. ]

No matter what I've lost, I know you've lost more.

Tim. [An impeccably British dryness to his tone, and a note of command. In this moment it's possible to believe that this soft, gentle man had enough spine to defy a group of desperate men.]

Misery isn't a contest.

Your loss matters as much as anyone's.

[ ...stern. He’s taken somewhat aback, and tries to hide that reaction in his hands, rubbing them over his cheeks and briefly knocking his glasses askew. ]

I didn’t mean—no, of course it isn’t. But you’re dealing with a lot, you don’t need my heartache on top of it.

[ Does anyone need anyone else’s miseries? ...maybe. To commiserate, to understand them better. Tim breaks his gaze on Goodsir, looking down at his hands to pick at a hangnail. ]

It’s been a hard couple of months. I had to be a soldier, I buried a friend. I had a boyfriend, except I never got to formally accept the title, and now I can’t, because he’s gone. It's just...hard.

[Goodsir reaches over once more, this time to gently place a hand on Tim's forearm.]

I am very sorry for your loss.

[And he is. It's evident in his voice, in his touch.]

I wish I'd some words that would lighten your heart. All I can tell you is that I am confident that you brought much love to their lives, and that matters. Very much.

[ Love. If not that, at least not yet, then Tim had felt something like it. Something with the potential to grow and last, fill the parts of him that still hide in the dark with light. His thumb fidgets with a small ring on his middle finger, a simple chain link circle below the knuckle. ]

His name’s Harry Dresden. He said he could see a future together, with me. Which is ridiculous. He’s from...sixty years into my future, and he’s a wizard, and I’m just normal. It sounds stupid when I say it, but he really believed it. So, I did too.

[ He pats the hand that covers his forearm, a thankful acknowledgment before taking his fogging glasses off, and putting them next to his water on the table. ]

People go missing all the time. But he's the first that I was really close to.

It does not sound stupid.

[He lets go when Tim moves, but he stays leaning forward a little.]

Is is a... a unique form of torment to try to live your life while knowing that those in it may vanish at any time.

[Whether by evil house or spirit bear or whatever.]

But what choice have we?

Yeah. I know.

[ That all the struggle means nothing if he succumbs to it. Despite all that's wrong today, Tim has hope that things will be better. That they'll turn out okay, when it's all said and done. He has to. ]

We don't have anything if we don't have hope. I know that. But...boy, are some days just harder than others.

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