#a surprise goodsir appears

[arcticclimes]

[oleworm]

@frommarshtheycome tagged me in a meme!

1) Three non-romantic duos: Cornelius Hickey and Harry Goodsir from The Terror (2018)--I read a lot of resurrectionist fic back in the day. Cornelius Hickey and Charles Des Voeux. John Irving and George Hodgson if they ever spoke together.

2) A ship that might surprise others: I'm not much of a shipper, but Criston Cole and Alicent Hightower after he confesses his sins and she appears like a vision of the Mother to stop him from killing himself. #Juzt Catholic thingz.

3) Last song: What Is Love? by Haddaway. I'm always listening to this in my mind.

4) Last film: Do short films count? If so, the Hedgehog in the Fog:

5) Currently reading: Temporada de huracanes by Fernanda Melchor. It's fucked up and more people should read it so we can chat.

6) Currently watching: In the Mood for Love by Wong Kar-wai (I started watching it on MUBI but then I forgot!)

7) Currently consuming: Nothing right now, but I just had some melted chocolate ice cream.

8) Currently craving: The flow state that can only be achieved when you sit down and start doing things!

Tagging @bacchanalium, @charlatanesque, @smileofacaffeinatedsaint and @stalinistqueens if you want to do it!

[vreenak]

I send you The Terror!

blorbo (favorite character, character I think about the most)

Stanley, no surprise

scrunkly (my “baby”, character that gives me cuteness aggression, character that is So Shaped)

Oh gosh, idk, Goodsir, JFJ or Gibson?

scrimblo bimblo (underrated/underappreciated fave)

Sophia is usually ignored and thus underappreciated, but I love her!

glup shitto (obscure fave, character that can appear in the background for 0.2 seconds and I won’t shut up about it for a week)

If I had to pick one, George Chambers

poor little meow meow (“problematic”/unpopular/controversial/otherwise pathetic fave)

Hickey!

horse plinko (character I would torment for fun, for whatever reason)

Nah, that's not my thing. OH WAIT, Des Voeux!

eeby deeby (character I would send to superhell)

Robert Golding, he's probably the only character I actively dislike.

Thank you, @alittletoosmarttobestraight and anon!

[adndmonsteraday]

A balhiir was a magic-absorbing creature from the negative Energy plane.

“Tell ye of the balhiir? Ah, a curious creature, indeed. I hear it was first—the short version, ye say. Very well, ye are paying. The short version is thus: a curious creature, indeed. Thank ye, goodsir, fair day to ye.” — The sage Rasthiavar of Iriaebor, A Wayfarer's Belt-Book of Advice, Year of the Many Mists, 1282 DR

Balhiir appeared to be softly-glowing clouds with sparkles of light within, about 6 feet (1.8 meters).

Balhiir approached concentrations of magic, and consumed them by simple contact. In their home Negative Energy plane, they could also consume other forms of energy. It was believed that if balhiir had a guiding intelligence, it had to be too alien to comprehend.

On their own, balhiir possessed little power beyond that which they had to absorb energy. When they absorbed too much, they eliminated the excess as heat and light. They could pass through any aperture over 1 inch (25 millimeters) in diameter in their search for energy; they supped on magic by simple contact, steadily draining the energy from items. The creature could sense magic and life forms up to 100 feet (30 meters) away, even through solid rock; it also passively absorbed any magic unleashed within 10 feet (3 meters) of it.

Balhiir were very difficult to engage in combat, as no physical weapon could harm them. The usual method to strike them down involved the use of too many spells of too much power cast quickly enough to overwhelm their ability to absorb and release energy safely. They could also be bound with magic, in which case their behaviours were modified.

In their home plane, balhiir were capable of absorbing lifeforce as well as magic.

Those that became bound to an object were believed to change behaviour upon release, and that it was only those who released them that could bind them again. A person who released a balhiir somehow could also bind them into themselves, and attempt to absorb their power; upon doing so, if they did not immediately die from absorbing the balhiir's power, they'd temporarily gain the ability to unleash spellfire. They were at risk of death again once the balhiir's power ran out, however. The process to bind a balhiir was largely unknown; when Narm Tamaraith performed it under Elminster's guidance, it involved casting any spell on the person who had released the balhiir, Shandril Shessair for their particular case.

Balhiir that ran out of power went into hibernation. Some sages suspected they may have been the natural predator of the xeg-yi.

The usual way of destroying a balhiir, per Elminster, required five mages tearing it apart telekinetically; the process likely killed many of them.

Erimmator, a mage of the Cult of the Dragon, bound a balhiir to an enemy mage, Garthond Shessair, on or around 1339 DR for the purpose of draining his foe's magic. Years later, Elminster came to suspect it was an experiment to test whether Garthond's offspring would be born with the ability to unleash spellfire.

Shandril Shessair released a balhiir in 1357 DR from a balhiir-globe she smashed into the face of the Shadowsil, an enemy sorceress, while trapped in the lair of the dracolich Rauglothgor; the balhiir then disrupted the magic of the sorceress, the dracolich, the Knights of Myth Drannor, and of Narm Tamaraith. The balhiir was recognized by Florin Falconhand, who also revealed the superstition only the one who released the balhiir could slay it. The balhiir also annihilated the dracolich's phylactery, and much of the magic in the hoard. Prompted by Elminster and with the aid of Narm Tamaraith, who employed the belch cantrip upon her to draw the balhiir's attention, she bound it back upon herself, awakening her latent spellfire in the process.

The Shadowsil escaped and warned Aghazstamn of the balhiir, when seeking his aid against the Knights of Myth Drannor. After the battle, Elminster was surprised by the power the balhiir had absorbed, but then judged Shandril released far more power than the creature could have possibly been holding; he later confirmed she became able to use spellfire independently of the balhiir.

Source: https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Balhiir

[bertievi]

@brassandblue continued from X

“There’s someone here to see you, Dr. Goodsir.”

His housekeeper had poked her head in, reluctant to disturb Harry--or get too close to him--as he was sat up in bed, propped on pillows and in a feverish state. He had half a dozen or so books scattered within reach on his bed, but at present he’d been enjoying a hot cup of tea and the gentle breeze from a nearby open window.

“Thank you, Mrs. Brixey. But I doubt they’d want to see me like this,” he added with a little smile. He was ruddy faced and his hair was tussled, and whenever he caught a glance of himself in his bureau mirror, he knew he looked as hollow-eyed and ill as he felt.

“Mm, well, yes indeed, Doctor, but--” she glanced away, down the hall and back again, lowering her voice. “--It’s His Majesty the King.”

Harry’s surprise triggered a coughing fit, which he dealt with by covering his mouth with the crook of his arm. When it subsided, he rested back against the pillows, winded and in pain. He wanted to be indignant and send Albert off, but he couldn’t just do that. With a congested sniff, he mustered up the strength to say: “Ah, sorry. Please see to our guests, then. Will you show him to my room, please?” A sheen of sweat had begun to appear on Harry’s forehead, and with a soft tsk Mrs. Brixey bravely stepped forward, took a wet cloth from a bowl at his bedside, and dabbed at his face to help ease the fever’s heat.

“Of course, Doctor. Shall I fetch one of your surgeon’s masks?”

He looked up at her, weary eyes very grateful. “You’re an angel.”

Mrs. Brixey beamed and patted Harry’s head--she had children his age and he found her bedside manner to be better than that of most of his colleagues. She promptly left and went to see to the King (and his entourage, if any) and put the kettle on for tea. She also fetched one of Harry’s masks from his study, which had started out as an exam room shortly following his return from the war, and graciously brought the King to Harry’s room.

Like a stern mother, despite being only slightly older than Albert himself, she would not let him in until Harry had put the thing on.

It was not in the habit of the royals to visit their sick staff, usually it was acknowledged with a fruit basket, a card wishing for a speedy recovery and they were left alone to recover without any expectation or drama. Albert had clearly thought otherwise on this occasion and hand delivered the fruit himself. Maybe they were out of cards at the palace? At least he obediently waited for Mrs Brixey’s cue to go in, giving her a polite and genuine thanks as he did so before he turned and saw Goodsir’s condition. 

A small frown of worry appeared but he quickly brought it back under control as he walked further into the room, carrying the fruit basket under one arm. “I -had not intended -to intrude like this, it is not easy -for me -to turn up anywhere unannounced but I felt I -had to see you.” He began seriously, “I -heard you were unwell and thought for once you might allow me -to return the -favour of -care in what ways I -can.” He lifted the basket filled with oranges, grapes, grapefruit, plumbs and bananas. Naturally arranged in as fancy a way as could be given where it had come from. “So I -took it upon myself -to check on you.”

He set the basket down within reach of Goodsir’s bed but not intrusively just in case. “How are you?” A question that did not really need an answer, he could see quite plainly that he was unwell but better ask the doctor himself in case he was coming up to the worst of it and needed help. Not that he thought Mrs Brixey would allow him to not take proper care of himself regardless, she seemed really rather attentive. 

[hope-on-hope-ever]

@brassandblue - continuation from Prologue

The deep mahogany door to Erebus’ Captains quarters opened, and there stood the Expedition commander. Not a crease in his uniform or dishevelment in appearance, or waver in his serious confidence. But still it could not fully hide the grave concern in his eyes.

A noticeable shock crossed Franklin’s features. The expedition leader was surely expecting someone else - anyone - other than who he saw before him.

“Leftenant—“

Astounded, he gave a long frown of confusion, brow knit, and there was then an awkward silence between them for a long few seconds.

It was then Sir John glared at Goodsir, with the same hardened gaze when the poor man stood before them (as though in court martial) bearing the news of the all too recent disappearance of Lieutenant Gore.

But not before long Sir John looked to Arthur. Over his many years at sea, Sir John had seen many a hideous sight of battle wounds, but this was something still bordering on the unbearable. And riddling him with tormenting guilt. Even with the bandages and state of proper dress, one look and he could relive the nightmare. There was healing, yes, but what hell was it to endure every day?

And yet ocean blue eyes still met sharp green. Both with their own sort of stubbornness. But before he opened his mouth again, noting those behind them curiously trailing his surprise visitors from a safe distance, he silently gestured the two men inside and ensured the door was shut behind them. To honor a necessary privacy before the commander’s disquiet and irritation - and pain - rose in his voice.

“Praytell, what on earth are you doing out of bed, Leftenant Kirkland?! Just what sort of state of mind are you -” there was an unusual bite in Sir John’s voice that he still managed to keep from being raised too loudly “And you, Mr. Goodsir! I demand an explanation for allowing such negligence!“

[seacollectsrivers]

@calamitys-child

I spy 👀👀 Granada Holmes I am INTRIGUED by magic au also!!! And YES genderfluid Miranda... My life........

THIS GOT LONG OF COURSE HDFKJG thank you friendo for giving me an excuse to rant hahahaha

Granada Holmes is The Secret Fear, (trans Holmes, established relationship, he has a lil freak out), which I posted before I figured out my gender stuff (!!), and the follow-up prequel! it's been stuck on 2/3 chapters for a bit.... i do have it all planned out, the beats written down even, but here i am :U i've nothing good written for ch3 but here's some from the earlier scrapped version of the prequel! the idea is the same (confidently bi Watson comes out to Holmes, they're both crushing on each other but Holmes is trans and scared and has missed out on a lot of queer Victorian culture, so ~misunderstandings~ happen), i just scrapped the introduction.

I believe I can safely call Holmes my closest friend -- he certainly knows more about me than anyone of that title previously. Whether or not he counts me as his, I try to not think too hard on. I understand we probably view each other quite differently, if only because Holmes views everything so differently, but it does still sting if I allow myself to linger on it.

(...)

«I do believe I know Mrs. Sophie Rowe.» Holmes lifted an eyebrow, and gestured for me to continue. I cleared my throat and looked down, faintly embarrassed, although I had no reason to be. If this was the Sophie I believed it to be, our friendship was absolutely respectable. Only how we met was not. «I met her when I was younger, before the army. Lovely girl. Woman now, I suppose. I cannot quite imagine she would commit adultery.»

THE MAGIC AU. i still want to write this, but it became TOO INVOLVED. There are two versions: a High Fantasy AU and a Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell fusion.

High Fantasy AU has half-elf James Fitzjames dying of some mysterious curse, human Crozier FRETTING, an inn-owning human OR dwarf Blanky, and a vaguely defined forest-creature Goodsir hired to figure out how to break the curse. i didn't want to do a re-telling of the show but the more i planned out the more i was like... this is just a different story, this could be anyone lol. so it's up for grabs if people want it hahaha.

JSaMN fusion is a fun one! More accurately a crossover, but very few from the original JSaMN would appear, as it's set half a century before the Terror. JFJ as a magician with thirst for recognition. Crozier as someone who seems very anti-magic, but he just doesn't care for the anglo-centric view of English Magic and the arrogancy of English magicians. Possibly has some fairy-blood (i was toying with people assuming Fitzjames has fairy blood, because he's the Handsomest Man (not in the Navy in this one), and then SURPRISE it's this grumpy old teapot). they're forced to cooperate to find a way magic could help the Discovery Service. then.... plot happens hah.

YOU INSPIRED GENDERFLUID MIRANDA!! i haven't actually uh... reread it since i published it? but it's here! with a link to your post an all :D it's a pre-canon James POV! i've vague ideas to explore t more from her POV, and introduce some less rigid gender binary, but we'll see.

[radiojamming]

the very, very basic version of Stuff I Learned on My Research Trip (in-depth information forthcoming)

John and Tom Hartnell were both very well-behaved during each of their trips on the HMS Volage. Neither were mentioned as having been lashed for anything or punished in any way. I can’t say the same for some of their fellow sailors (who were lashed sometimes up to 48 times).

Captain William Dickson of the Volage seems to have forgotten Irving was going to be his new lieutenant and appears just as surprised to see Irving as Irving was to see him.

Sarah Hartnell (John and Tom’s mother) was an A-class neighborhood gossip (”Just five weeks from last sight and young Harry Bane he has taken a fresh wife on 9 shillings a week.”) and a very loving mother (”I assure you I have many anxious hours about you but I endeavour to cast my concerns on him who is too wise to err and too good to be unkind.”).

Charles Hartnell (their brother) was adorable, sometimes wrote phonetically, and adored his brothers. One of his lines hurt to read: “But if I tell you all the news now I shall have none to tell you when you come home.”

John Hartnell’s apprenticeship form says no drinkin’, no dice-playin’, no marryin’, and no fornicatin’.

Betsy Hartnell was just Like That.

Jane Goodsir was an incredible writer and her letters are so emotional that they kinda hurt to read.

Robert Anstruther Goodsir, on the other hand, is hilarious and I want to read every word this man ever wrote. (”Fancy a thousand toothaches put into one and you have some idea of my tortures.”)

JAMES FITZJAMES WAS A SILLY MAN AND I LOVE HIM. He doodled everywhere, wrote out his laughter phonetically, made jokes, and fit a bunch of letters on repurposed party invitations. Also he had the ability to make his handwriting microscopic.

Archibald Stirling Irving, John Irving’s younger brother by a year, was an incredible poet in the Romantic style who just really, really loved his wife.

The Irving family was raised with a gigantic library of books and could read in Greek and Latin, while also reading books by Eastern philosophers. They also sometimes wrote in Scots. Woohoo!

Archibald also wrote a tragic play called ‘The Vaudois’ and wrote enough poetry to fill two small books which have never been republished. 

Aaaand Archibald was described by his wife as having dark tousled hair that was constantly tangled from him walking outside all day, as well as having ‘cerulean’ eyes that were also described as ‘ocean-dyed caves’. Romantic poet INDEED.

The youngest three Irving brothers (John, Archibald, and David) were mainly raised by servants after their mother’s death. As a result, all three tended to be shy and bookish.

Honestly, the Irving family dynamic is a mess and I didn’t realize how bad it was until now.

I just have a lot of emotions right now.

[fairytalesandfandoms]

can’t believe my own subconscious called me out for being too into The Terror

so towards the tail end of my dream last night, I was meeting up with my friends in Edinburgh, and we’d gone to a very old-looking pub, as in, exposed beams old-looking (I remember being like ‘are we allowed to do this’ but apparently we were.) Pretty sure this pub does not in fact exist, especially not where I imagined its location. We were all getting food, and were sitting around a table while we waited for it, just chatting. At some point (not sure when, but I know it was some point before other things happened because I wasn’t at all surprised) a guy who must have known some of my friends, I guess, sat down next to me, but we didn’t really interact because I was talking to friend R who was sitting on my other side and he was talking to some of the others. I was vaguely aware of him wearing a long dark coat, but then it’s Edinburgh, people walk up and down the Royal Mile in all sorts of getup and I’ve certainly worn stranger outfits.

Speaking of which, suddenly a man wearing an old-fashioned soldier’s uniform appeared behind R, and started arguing with her. Now, the guy in the coat noticed this, and he stood up, so he was now leaning over my head to talk to the guy behind my friend, and basically try to persuade him to leave her alone. And after a couple of seconds of looking up I realised: he was in some sort of Goodsir cosplay (he wasn’t Actual Goodsir because his face was slightly different). Well, obviously I was very impressed with this.

And then the soldier guy just... disappeared. Literally vanished. We were all surprised at this, and Cosplay Goodsir Dude was like ‘did that happen? Did you see him as well?’ I was like, ‘yeah, he looked like...’ and the first thing that popped into my head was Tozer, because he had a similar uniform, so I went on to say

‘I don’t want to assume anything, but... have you seen the show The Terror?’ (yes, this is the usual Infodump Incoming warning sign)

He said he had.

‘Well, he looked kind of like Tozer, but when he’s still neat at the start.’ (I mean, okay, he had a similar uniform, but he didn’t really?)

Now somehow, SOMEHOW, in the entire 3 or 4 sentences I spoke, I had unintentionally conveyed my sheer excitement at finding someone who a) had watched The Terror and b) did a pretty damn good Goodsir cosplay. That’s the only way I can explain him saying ‘Why are you talking to me like that?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like I’m someone amazing from a world of stars’ (he said it much more poetically but unfortunately I can’t remember the exact wording. If I could I’d write it down and use it in a story.)

And I was like ‘NO of course not why would I do that?!’ And then, presumably due to my brain attempting to prevent me from embarrassing myself further, I woke up.

[septembriseur]

A comprehensive theory of The Terror, pt. I

I come to offer an interpretation of the entirety of The Terror, one that is long and complex enough to divide into multiple parts. I’m placing most of it under cut tags because I may ultimately decide to turn it into an academic paper, in which case I’ll have to remove it, but for now it’s here— and what it’s offering is an argument that The Terror is centrally about not only questions of order/chaos and systems of survival, as various people have posited, but in fact about the order of ecosystems, perhaps even to the extent of containing a moral about climate change.

I want to begin at the point at which I first felt that there was a comprehensive theory of the The Terror to be developed, or, in other words, the point at which I first felt that The Terror was about something, and that it was about something denser, strange, and more complicated than any of the interpretations that I had encountered. This point is the set of intercut scenes approximately 2/3 of the way through the first episode in which (1) Collins is lowered into the sea in a dive suit to clear ice from the propeller, while (2) Goodsir performs an autopsy on David Young. These scenes— seemingly unconnected in terms of content— are very precisely juxtaposed: Goodsir makes the first incision into Young’s chest at the exact moment that the toes of Collins’s dive suit touch the surface of the water—

Collins is therefore likened to the knife that is “cutting” the skin of the ocean open as Goodsir cuts open Collins’s skin.

The comparison continues. As Collins uses a harpoon to dislodge the large chunk of ice from the ship’s propeller, Goodsir uses a saw to dislodge a piece of Young’s ribcage:

—both processes culminating in a successful removal at the same instant:

The ice, in this juxtaposition, is a part of the body— a bone that has been severed from its place.

One might expect that the subsequent removal of Collins from the water would correspond to a removal of the instruments from the chest cavity, but this is not what happens. Rather, the moment of Collins breaching the surface of the water is aligned with Goodsir removing Young���s liver—

Collins has become (or is now being compared to) an organ of the body. The knife that has entered the body (the man who has entered the sea) has become a component of that body, no different from the ice (the chunk of ribcage) that he has knocked loose from the ship (a superstructure of bone). There is a blurring of boundaries happening here, an inability to coherently say that certain objects are or are not part of certain environments. 

To me, it is this sequence— the amount of time devoted to it, its air of foreboding, and the fact that it is the moment at which the first arguably supernatural element (the drowned body of Orren, in the Christ-like posture that will echoed at several important moments throughout the show) appears— that signals the imbalance that will cause the death of the expedition, rather than the shooting of the Netsilik shaman. We have already seen Young’s perhaps-hallucinatory vision of the shaman, and it is at the tail end of the autopsy that Goodsir observes uneasily that he sees nothing to explain Young’s death, so there is a sense that whatever has gone wrong is already happening. The dive/autopsy scenes make explicit several aspects of this wrongness: it has to do with a penetration of something (the sea; the body); it has to do with ways in which the natural world is like the body of man.

Of course, we know already at this point of the story that the question of the human body and its parts (and the degree to which its parts can be part-ed from the body and treated as parts) are going to centrally feature in what happens at the end of the story. So it shouldn’t be too surprising that this theme is already appearing. But it’s interesting to me that the show is playing upon this expectation, in a way, and introducing less obvious linkages.

in the next part, I want to discuss questions of appropriate relationship.

[hungry-hobbits]

For the Terror fic prompts: Crozier/Goodsir, "*hands you a sea slug*" (because why should Fitzjames be the only one who gets to know and love Goodsir-the-naturalist?)

this took me so long because the prompt hit me right in the heart you know exactly what i like, anon

-----

Though Crozier was not at allunfamiliar with the variety of creatures that lurked beneath the depths of thewaves, they did not hold his passion nor attention nearly as much as they didof Erebus’ naturalist. Sir John hadbeen keen to bring him along, toting on about the young man’s boundlessenthusiasm and zeal for life, and now forced the two to interact with a bitmore familiarity than Crozier felt comfortable with.

Goodsir engaged with Crozier with moreposturing than he seemed to hold with his own superiors, which Crozierappreciated to an extent. He felt respected, but seeing his chumminess withFitzjames had him tinged with a small but surprising amount of jealousy.

He, like Goodsir, was a man of scienceand though they came from differing fields they still held an appreciation forthe natural world. Terror had her ownnaturalist that Crozier was far more comfortable with. MacDonald did not flitabout the deck in such an excitable way, and certainly did not chatter as muchas the young Scottish doctor did. It was… interesting,to say the least. Endearing? That was a better word.

The naturalist was knelt at the edge ofa fishing net. The men were careful of him, stepping over and around him whilesimultaneously trying to avoid bumping into each other as they watched him. Hehad stripped unceremoniously of his hat and coat, hiked up his shirt sleevesand quickly began the process of depositing creatures that were not fish, yetstill had the misfortune of being caught up in Terror’s nets, into a bucket provided to him by one of the crew.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loudgasp and short laugh, and Crozier’s eyes were once again on the naturalist, whonow held… something very happily.

Crozier reluctantly crossed thethreshold of the deck, appearing at Goodsir’s side and making the men even morewary of where they stood and walked.

“What is it, Mister Goodsir?”

Instead of replying, Goodsir – with allthe grinning cheek of an excited child, held up a large, wet mass that restedlimply in the palms of his hands. It reminded Crozier of an uncooked sausage;freshly stuffed with innards and meat, though significantly less appetizing.

“Isn’t it lovely? And such animpressive size!”

“It… I’m not sure lovely is the word I would use, Mister Goodsir.”

Almost as if he expected such aresponse, the glee on Goodsir’s face did not dwindle in the slightest.

“It’s a sea slug! I’m not sure whatvariety, but I can safely say what sort of animal it is,” Goodsir held thecreature up to get a better look at it in the light of the high sun, “Justbeautiful. We’re lucky with this one.”

“Are we?” Crozier was beginning to feelthe spark of curiosity within him, as though Goodsir’s enthusiasm wascontagious. He leaned in to peer directly at the creature, knowing not whichpart was the face or if it even had one, as if looking into the creature’s eyeswould grant a better understanding of its existence.

Goodsir laughed. He was such a joyousman for someone covered in sea water and fish scales.

“Yes, sir. Usually they slip rightthrough the holes of the net. They aren’t like fish, they can squish andsqueeze themselves through all sorts of spaces; the benefit of being aboneless, gelatinous mass!”

He saw Crozier quirk his brow andpushed the slug more towards the captain’s face. Crozier did not back away inthe slightest. He wasn’t worried about being harmed, for if Goodsir could soeasily and gladly take hold of it, then he was certain it was not of thevicious variety – if there was one, at any rate.

“Would you like to hold it?” Theposturing Goodsir started the visit with had all but left, replaced with thesort of candor that probably drew Commander Fitzjames to him in the firstplace.

“Holdit? I’m not sure if I should.”

“Nonsense! Hold your hands flatly, itshan’t bite.”

The naturalist gave his superior allbut a moment to prepare before carefully sliding the slug into Crozier’s openhands. With less grace, he sprung up from his place on the floor of the deck tostand by Terror’s captain as hehandled the slug.

Goodsir wasted no time gleefullysharing every bit of information he knew about sea slugs, from their foundregions to their reproduction habits, to whether or not it would be a good ideato enjoy it with a glass of wine or not. He was incredibly animated, more so thanCrozier had ever seen him.

Being the sort of person that succumbedto the desires of misanthropic isolation from time to time, Crozier thought therampant babbling of Fitzjames was a nightmare from which he could not wake, butwith Goodsir’s cheerful rambling he felt no desire to flee at all. In fact, hefound himself… enjoying the conversation,as one sided as it was.

“I should get it back into water, Iwould hate for it to dry out before I have time to properly document it.”

Gladly Crozier allowed Goodsir to takethe invertebrate from his hands, which had become pruned and cold. Briefly theirfingers touched, and while the captain thought too long of it, the naturalistthought nothing of it at all. The slug was deposited into the bucket with asplash, and Crozier could see it settle as best it could amidst its unfortunatebucket-mates.

“You will have to enlighten me withyour findings, should you have anything worth sharing.” It was a gentle andopen-ended invitation, but Goodsir lit up like a sun dog at the prospect ofreturning to talk about ocean based invertebrates at even greater lengths.

“I will! Upon my next visit to yourship, I’ll tell you everything I’ve learned from today’s haul!”

“I think I shall appreciate that,Mister Goodsir.”

[ferylcheryl]

Chapter 2 of Spring Haze is on ao3. Rated E for non-con drug use and my—I mean, Goodsir’s—unhealthy obsession with Collins’ six-pounder.

“I’m making a stew,” Bridgens offers by way of explanation as he steps through the door of the greengrocers’ shop.

“All right,” Harry Peglar says with a laugh. Then, in a lower voice, “don’t you get enough of me at home?”

Bridgens smiles softly as he approaches the counter. His hair, black and silver in thick streaks, is swept back from his face with sweat and his shirtsleeves are rolled up, revealing heavily furred, strong forearms. His fingers rest for a scant moment on Harry’s elbow before withdrawing. “Never,” he says quietly. Then, louder, more hale, he says, “hot, isn’t it?”

Harry’s hazel gaze flicks with something dangerous—there’s something about how John looks in the heat, all gleaming and flushed by the sun, the twin v’s of sweat he knows are darkening their way at this very moment down the back of his collar and up the small of his back. He is always dressed just as a respectable innkeeper should be dressed, regardless of the weather. It’s surprising he’s even shed his coat for this errand, lest someone read anything unseemly in his errand to the young bachelor grocer across the way. It’s an exhausting fiction, and one Harry longs to shatter in the worst way. The only unnatural thing about him and John, he figures, is the elaborate pretense they keep up. He drops his gaze, embarrassed by his reaction to his lover’s mere presence—a soft little quickening in his prick just because the man is there and is sweating, for Christ’s sake. There and sweating and strong, strong enough to bend him over the counter—displayed like oranges in a porcelain dish—

“Yes,” he says lamely. “It’s a heat wave for certain.”

“Uncharacteristic for April, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Peglar?”

This is bloody painful, Peglar thinks and smiles wanly. “Yes,” he says. “Though it’s nearly May.”

“I suppose it is.” A bead of sweat rolls down his temple and Harry suppresses the urge to lick it from his cheek before it’s absorbed by his beard.

The moment is saved by Cornelius Hickey, of all people. Since he’d been hired on at Irewood as a handyman and apprentice gardener a month or so prior, he’d proven himself to be an industrious, genial, and bright young man, liked by all. And yet... how to describe it? It’s something he and Harry have discussed in private. There’s a kind of unwholesomeness simmering just beneath the surface of him, an unwelcome assessing glint to his eye. It is like to some secret end he is figuring out how everything works, how everyone works, and what he intends to do with that knowledge is anyone’s guess. But since he’s done nothing but good, Bridgens keeps his concerns to himself. And anyway, Billy’s a little less churlish in love, even if he’s had to be lectured on the absolute impropriety of, say, appearing with bruises about his neck in public or undressing his lover with his eyes from across a room. They are not in the least careful.

Now the source of said bruises ambles up to the counter, grinning. “Good afternoon, sirs,” he says.

[entwinedmoon]

John Torrington: Redshirt

(Previous posts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9)

“I'm expendable. I'm the guy in the episode who dies to prove the situation is serious.”

–Guy Fleegman, Galaxy Quest

After the exhumations of Torrington, Hartnell, and Braine, and the subsequent publication of Frozen in Time, there was a fresh wave of literature inspired by the photographs and findings from Beechey Island. Novels, short stories, and poems either attempted to recreate what had happened to the expedition according to the latest findings or incorporated this new information in some other way. Some feature Torrington, while some just use certain aspects of the findings, such as the remarkable level of preservation or the lead poisoning theory.

I have read only a handful of the many literary works about the Franklin Expedition that have been published since the exhumations on Beechey Island, so I can’t speak for every novel, poem, or other form of literary composition that has come out since then. For the purposes of this post I decided to focus only on works that feature Torrington himself, and even then, I haven’t had a chance to read every work that does. There may be some that have a completely different take on the story and depict Torrington in a way not seen in the works that I will be discussing, but those will have to wait for another day. For this post I can only focus on the fraction of Franklin-related literature that I have been able to read so far, and if I leave out something that people think is a must-read, I apologize. But feel free to let me know what it is, because I love reading new interpretations of the expedition’s story.

(Unless you’re here to tell me about the Marvel comics character Pestilence, a supervillain who is actually Francis Crozier, preserved in ice for over a hundred years. He’s still alive but he’s gone mad and has magic for some reason. And he can possess other people. Pestilence was first introduced in 1986, and yes, him being frozen in ice was obviously inspired by the exhumation of Torrington. Now, let’s never speak of this again.)

I’m going to start with the various novels that have attempted to tell the story of the Franklin Expedition. FYI, there will be some spoilers, but mostly the spoilers will be about Torrington and other crewmembers dying, which shouldn’t really be a spoiler at this point.

Before I get into the specific books, though, I’ve noticed that there are certain themes in many of these stories, particularly involving Torrington. As his illness and death is a known point during the timeline of the expedition, he inevitably gets a mention in many of these works, but since he died so early in the expedition, he rarely has a major role in the overall story. Not only that, Torrington’s characterization is typically absent altogether. He’s generally depicted as a variant of the Victorian waif—pale and thin and doomed to die—and rarely does he get any dialogue or development. He’s first blood, a harbinger of things to come, but almost never a character on his own. He’s simply there to die, like a redshirt in Star Trek.

I have often flipped through books to see where Torrington comes in, wondering if he’ll be given something to do before he passes, and more often than not I have been disappointed. His death is always included because we know he died, and if it were left out it could be seen as callous at worst or inaccurate at best, yet his inclusion sometimes feels more like the author simply checking something off a checklist. Enters Lancaster Sound, check; winters at Beechey Island, check; Torrington dies, check. Sometimes there might be a funeral, where the main characters speak of Torrington as if he’s been there the entire time and wasn’t just first mentioned only two paragraphs ago, perhaps with Franklin orating the first of many eulogies (“We have lost one of our own today, a fine sailor named John [looks at smudged writing on his hand] Turlington…”).

But one thing that Torrington usually gets is a brief mention of his burial clothes. Since we know what he looks like in death, there’s often a description of him in his coffin, perhaps a mention of his youth, small stature, and wasted appearance. His illness usually gets a mention too—and sometimes he gets berated postmortem for going to sea while sick.

Of course, since Torrington dies only seven months into the expedition, it’s not surprising that he doesn’t have much to do in most stories, but I do wish he could at least have a little more of a role before taking his final bow. It would make his death more meaningful if he was a known character and not just a name in a long list of people who are about to die.

For a deeper dive into how Torrington is typically depicted in novels about the Franklin Expedition, I’m going to start with the most mainstream of the books I’ve read—and also the most inaccurate. That would be The Terror by Dan Simmons, a story that posits what if, rather than starvation, scurvy, illness, and lead poisoning killing off the crew, there was also an evil magical bear bent on their destruction. The book was recently adapted into a television series on AMC, and I watched the show first. I loved the show—it was very well done, despite the evil bear—so I read the book. The book…well, it had some good parts to it, but also some incredibly ridiculous parts and some incredibly offensives ones too. I won’t get into a full review of the book, though—I’m just here for Torrington.

Torrington doesn’t get mentioned until his death in The Terror. In fact, the sentence introducing him is “John Torrington, stoker on HMS Terror, died early this morning.” His slow decline from consumption is described, while also saying that he had obviously been in the advanced stages of the disease when he signed up for the expedition. There’s an aside about how ironic it is that Torrington’s doctor had told him going to sea would be good for his health, something that isn’t based on a known fact about Torrington, but getting away from Manchester and into fresh air may have been part of Torrington’s intent when signing up. Judging by the state of his lungs, he probably had difficulty breathing in the thick smoke of industrial Manchester, so it’s not so far-fetched to think he may have wanted a change of scenery to improve his health.

The dressing of his body for burial, descriptions of the clothes and bindings we know so well from the exhumation pictures, and a brief recap of his funeral get described in just a few pages. The image of him in his striped shirt sticks out in the memory of Dr. Goodsir (who is writing this down in his diary), an image that anyone who is familiar with the Franklin Expedition would know very well. But that’s about it for Torrington in this book. His name does pop up a few more times, though, because Captain Crozier has a habit of going over the names of the dead to himself, assessing how many men he has lost at different points throughout the book. Torrington as part of a list of the dead is mostly how we see him in The Terror.

In the TV adaptation, Torrington doesn’t appear at all, because the show picks up after the ships have left Beechey. The men who died at Beechey are mentioned a few times, usually as a group—referred to as “the men on Beechey” or some variation of that—with only John Hartnell being mentioned by name. Torrington, however, does get a visual sort of reference when one of the ship’s boys, David Young, dies in the first episode. During his burial, his coffin accidentally comes open, and his burial clothes look very reminiscent of the famous photos of Torrington.

Alfie Kingsnorth, the actor who plays David Young, looks a lot like Torrington, making this image extra eerie. In fact, I started watching the show because I saw a screencap of the burial and thought it was Torrington. When I realized that Torrington wasn’t in the show, I was disappointed, but I ended up loving the show anyway.

The next book I want to discuss is a novel that tried to do what The Terror did but without the monster. Robert Edric’s book The Broken Lands tells the story of the Franklin Expedition from the point of view of Commander James Fitzjames of the Erebus, third-in-command of the expedition. Fitzjames seems to be a popular point-of-view character since another book I’ll be discussing in this post is also from his perspective. Fitzjames is an interesting historical person, particularly if you’ve read Battersby’s biography of him, although that was published long after The Broken Lands came out. Being from Fitzjames’s point of view, however, means that the story focuses mostly on what happens on Erebus, which means Torrington, leading stoker on Terror, wouldn’t have had much of a role no matter what.

At least in this book Torrington does get mentioned before his death, but only just. When the ships are wintering on Beechey, it’s mentioned that two men become ill, Torrington and John Hartnell. Since Hartnell died only a few days after Torrington, they would have been ill around the same time. However, rather than showing signs of tuberculosis followed by pneumonia as the killing blow, Torrington and Hartnell suffer symptoms that get mistaken for scurvy but then are assumed to be some form of food poisoning. Torrington dies while Terror’s doctor, John Peddie, sits with him, but there’s not much to the scene. He and Hartnell get buried on the same day after a snowstorm delays their burials. Hartnell gets more attention here because of his autopsy, and there’s no mention of striped shirts and bound limbs.

But that’s not the last we hear of them. In the next chapter, it’s discovered that some crewmembers had been pilfering from the canned food supply. William Braine gets flogged for his part in the scheme, and he starts showing symptoms similar to Torrington and Hartnell. Braine then confesses that Torrington and Hartnell had also been involved in stealing canned foods, and the doctors jump to the conclusion that the canning procedure must be responsible for the illness and deaths of these three men. So instead of going with the known causes of death of tuberculosis and pneumonia, in this version of the story the Beechey Boys die of lead poisoning and only lead poisoning. That bothers me not only because it completely ignores the actual cause of death, but because it makes Torrington, Hartnell, and Braine criminals, stealing food from the ship’s stores. I guess this was Edric’s attempt at explaining why these three men had such high levels of lead so early on in the expedition, but this explanation doesn’t work for me because it ignores a lot of other things in a struggle to make certain puzzle pieces fit. I admit, I got a little overprotective when I saw Torrington being accused of something like this and started ranting about it to my sister—despite the fact that I have no idea what sort of person he was actually like, and he’s been dead for over hundred seventy years, so he doesn’t really need me to protect him from purely fictional accusations. But still…

The other novel from Fitzjames’s perspective is North with Franklin by John Wilson. This is set up as a lost journal written by Fitzjames, using some of the known letters and journals written by the real life Fitzjames as a jumping off point. In these fictional journal entries, there’s a mention of a man in sickbay with signs of consumption in August, and there’s an aside wondering why he didn’t inform anyone about his illness prior to setting sail. However, since this is the sickbay on Erebus, this must be a reference to Hartnell, not Torrington. But it’s a hint at what’s to come for both of them. An update on the consumptive man in November confirms that it’s Hartnell, his condition getting worse, and then it’s mentioned that the leading stoker on Terror is suffering the same. Again, Fitzjames wonders why Hartnell and Torrington didn’t mention their condition before setting sail, calling their weakened lungs a “death warrant” in the Arctic. There’s another update in late December about their worsening condition, until they both succumb. Out of the three books discussed so far, this is the most that Torrington has been mentioned pre-death, but he says not a single word.

Torrington’s death, taking place on New Year’s Day, brings down the happy celebrations of the crew. Again, it’s mentioned that Torrington should never have undertaken the journey with his illness, as if it hasn’t been driven home enough that he and Hartnell had probably been showing symptoms when they first boarded and should have reported it. Torrington’s burial clothes get an overview, with his short, emaciated appearance being compared to that of a child. He gets a funeral, with Franklin presiding.

The repeated mentions of how Torrington and Hartnell should have declared their illnesses before sailing on the expedition almost comes off as blaming them for their early demise. Realistically, of course, they probably had noticed some early symptoms before leaving England. But how bad were those symptoms? Were they enough to make them think they had a disease that would prove fatal? Did they realize that they wouldn’t be coming back, or did they shrug it off as just another cough? Torrington had bad lungs anyway, so maybe he didn’t notice when his black-lung-coughing changed into tuberculosis-coughing.

John Wilson wrote another book about the Franklin Expedition, this one for young adults, called Graves of Ice. This book is from the point of view of one of the ship’s boys, George Chambers. Chambers was assigned to the Erebus, so the main action happens on that ship once again, which means Torrington barely appears. Again. William Braine, however, befriends Chambers and gets far more dialogue and development than Torrington or Hartnell in any of the previous books—or this one—combined. Braine actually gets to defend his actions by saying his lungs had always been weak, and he thought the cold might do them good, explaining why he didn’t bother declaring any illness before setting sail. In real life, Torrington probably felt the same way, but he doesn’t get to stand up for himself here. In a prime example of dramatic irony, Braine calls Torrington an idiot for signing up while sick.

Torrington and his illness get mentioned the same day he dies, just shortly before Dr. Peddie informs Franklin of Torrington’s passing. His death gets called a bad omen among the crew. His burial gets a brief mention, but there’s no lingering on the image of his body in its coffin, or any mention of it even. He has no lines once again, nor does George Chambers ever meet him. At least one crewman admits that there are many men on board with lungs as bad as Torrington, as if to soften the accusation that Torrington should have known better, but it doesn’t soften it by much.

In all four of these books Torrington has had zero lines of dialogue. He gets sick, he dies. That’s it. There’s another book, a self-published one that came out this year, that I had hoped may do better by him. That would be Toward No Earthly Pole by Jonathan Schaeffer, which is from the point of view of James Thompson, the engineer on Terror. Being the engineer, Thompson would have interacted with Torrington a great deal, so I’d hoped I would get to see Torrington fleshed out more as a real character, but sadly that was not to be. Torrington does get mentioned more before his death than in other books, but it’s mostly in superficial interactions where anyone could have stood in instead, such as Torrington pointing out a polar bear.

Near the beginning of the story, Thompson gives a rundown of each stoker, giving Torrington a less-than-stellar description as a weakling, saying that, “He comes across as an old man resigned to his lot in life.” But Thompson does remark that Torrington is handsome, which isn’t really that important, but it is mentioned multiple times in the text. I guess the point was to emphasize that Torrington was cut down in the prime of his young, handsome life, but it comes off as a little awkward.

Torrington apparently has no friends in this interpretation of the story, and only Thompson seems to visit him when he gets sick. The day before he dies, Torrington, in a delirium, says some incomprehensible sentences, ending on an ominous “…do not belong here,” a phrase that Thompson initially interprets as meaning that Torrington realized he didn’t belong there, but that over the course of the expedition Thompson comes to think means the entire expedition didn’t belong there. Torrington gets the usual drawn-out illness coverage, unsurprising death, and a mention of his burial. He also becomes an omen that gets mentioned again as the situation grows worse. Even though Thompson would have been one of the crewmembers to interact with Torrington the most, Torrington still doesn’t get much development as a character.

However, there is one retelling of the Franklin Expedition that gives Torrington quite a bit of development. That would be Kristina Gehrmann’s graphic novel Im Eisland (or Icebound in the English version). I previously discussed Im Eisland in my last post about Torrington in art, but now I’d like to focus on the writing rather than the artwork. Torrington is actually introduced as if he’s going to be a major protagonist of the story, and for a time he does play a large role. We get a glimpse of a sweet little romance between him and his fiancée (we don’t know if Torrington was engaged to anyone, but there’s no evidence that he wasn’t either), and he develops a warm friendship with Thomas Evans, one of the ship’s boys, whom he teaches to read. Torrington comes alive as a real person here, and while yes, he does inevitably become too ill to work and dies, as he did in real life, he’s much more than just the first victim of a tragedy. If you’re looking for some good Torrington fiction, Im Eisland is an excellent choice.

But not all Torrington-related literature is a retelling of the expedition. There is a famous story by Margaret Atwood, “The Age of Lead,” which appears in her short story collection Wilderness Tips. I should say upfront that this story is not about Torrington himself. Atwood described her use of him as that of an extended metaphor, as his death is juxtaposed with that of another character’s in the story. But the story still delves into the pathos around Torrington’s death. In mourning for her friend, Jane, the protagonist, mourns for Torrington in a way too. As Jane remembers sitting with her dying friend, she ponders about who may have sat with Torrington in his final days. His half-open eyes are described as “the light brown of milky tea,” and they look back at Jane as she watches a program about him on television. It’s a touching story that asks some emotional questions about Torrington’s death—did he have anyone to comfort him as he passed, so far from home? Did anyone on the ship mourn him, love him? The story might not be about Torrington in the end, but he makes for a powerful centerpiece, and this story treats his humanity as far more present than many of the novels discussed above.

The last piece of literature I’d like to discuss is “Envying Owen Beattie” by Sheenagh Pugh. In a poem that gives Seamus Heaney a run for his money, Pugh lovingly describes the exhumation of Torrington’s mummified body. She compares Torrington to Snow White by describing his being cocooned in ice as “asleep in his glass case.” The reason she envies Owen Beattie is because of an anecdote Beattie had once told that Pugh recounts here, of how when Beattie lifted Torrington out of his coffin, Torrington’s head lolled onto Beattie’s shoulder, and they stared eye-to-eye at each other, Beattie holding his frail, limp body. This leads Pugh to conclude her fairy tale metaphor by saying “how could you not try to wake him with a kiss?” I have to admit that if I had been in Beattie’s place, I probably would have dropped the body, but Pugh romanticizes the moment instead.

While many of the novels that I’ve described above treat Torrington as just another milestone to get through in the story, Pugh brings far more emotion and love to his depiction in so few words. Torrington looks so very much alive, like a princess under a sleeping spell, so why can’t a kiss break that spell and bring him into the present? A sweet sentiment tinged with the sadness that we know he can’t be awakened by a kiss, because it’s no spell that’s put him asleep. He’s too far beyond fairy tale dreams to come back. The tragedy of Torrington’s death gets swallowed by the larger tragedy of the Franklin Expedition’s demise in the full-length novels, but in shorter pieces such as Pugh’s poem and Atwood’s short story, Torrington’s death is given greater thought and respect. Torrington, after all, was no redshirt on Star Trek but a human being. He wasn’t just a name, a check on a checklist, but a man who suffered and died at too young an age. But the tragedy of the individual is easily lost among the tragedy of the group.

Next: My final post, a personal reflection as I ponder just what fascinates us about him after all these years.

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Torrington Series Masterlist

[myxcenterxstage]

😘 - peppers my muse with kisses (From the touch starved meme, for Goodsir ofc!

[touch starved meme] || always accepting!

“Your reading glasses are here in the library, Harry!”

In their new abode in Edinburgh, Priscilla was seated at her writing desk, pouring over literature on Zoology and scribing notes into her journal. “Yes, over here, darling!” Lifting her head, she turned to face Goodsir as he entered, giving him a warm grin. And lo an behold - there she was wearing Harry’s reading glasses!

Not that she needed them, this was all a staged performance for amusement. They were too big for her face and the lenses made her eyes appear larger - and combined with her broad cheeky smile she appeared almost like a caricature. “Oh, you mean these reading glasses, Doctor?” She slid the spectacles down her nose to look over them at Harry with a serious expression, before slipping them back on to their normal placement and laughing. “How do I look?”

She welcomed him with a warm embrace when he approached, snuggling her head against his chest before picking up her book opening to a page with illustrations of Antarctic penguins. She pointed to the page delicately with her finger.

“Did you know” she mused, “that the Pygoscelis papua, the Gentoo Penguin, are often found to gift their life-mates with pebbles as tokens of their affection~?”

Placing the book down, with both arms free now she reached to wrap her them around his neck for a kiss. Only she was taken by surprise when, instead, he had to found the opportunity quicker to kiss her. 

Priscilla squeaked giggles of delight as she found herself on the receiving end to a flurry of his affections. Her nose, chin, cheeks, and forehead were dappled with little kisses, the rapid movement lightly displacing his glasses from sitting correctly on her nose. 

They both then removed the spectacles and set them down carefully on the desk, before Priscilla found herself in Harry’s arms again and they exchanged a more passionate kiss.

@brassandblue

[brassandblue]

🌡 Bertie for Goodsir

“There’s someone here to see you, Dr. Goodsir.”

His housekeeper had poked her head in, reluctant to disturb Harry--or get too close to him--as he was sat up in bed, propped on pillows and in a feverish state. He had half a dozen or so books scattered within reach on his bed, but at present he’d been enjoying a hot cup of tea and the gentle breeze from a nearby open window.

“Thank you, Mrs. Brixey. But I doubt they’d want to see me like this,” he added with a little smile. He was ruddy faced and his hair was tussled, and whenever he caught a glance of himself in his bureau mirror, he knew he looked as hollow-eyed and ill as he felt.

“Mm, well, yes indeed, Doctor, but--” she glanced away, down the hall and back again, lowering her voice. “--It’s His Majesty the King.”

Harry’s surprise triggered a coughing fit, which he dealt with by covering his mouth with the crook of his arm. When it subsided, he rested back against the pillows, winded and in pain. He wanted to be indignant and send Albert off, but he couldn’t just do that. With a congested sniff, he mustered up the strength to say: “Ah, sorry. Please see to our guests, then. Will you show him to my room, please?” A sheen of sweat had begun to appear on Harry’s forehead, and with a soft tsk Mrs. Brixey bravely stepped forward, took a wet cloth from a bowl at his bedside, and dabbed at his face to help ease the fever’s heat.

“Of course, Doctor. Shall I fetch one of your surgeon’s masks?”

He looked up at her, weary eyes very grateful. “You’re an angel.”

Mrs. Brixey beamed and patted Harry’s head--she had children his age and he found her bedside manner to be better than that of most of his colleagues. She promptly left and went to see to the King (and his entourage, if any) and put the kettle on for tea. She also fetched one of Harry’s masks from his study, which had started out as an exam room shortly following his return from the war, and graciously brought the King to Harry’s room.

Like a stern mother, despite being only slightly older than Albert himself, she would not let him in until Harry had put the thing on.

[bertievi]

🌡for Arthur or Goodsir ^^ I'm partial to either!

Albert was surprised at the extent of the operation he had been through. It was of course explained to him that his entire lung had been removed rather than just part of it. He certainly felt the difference after waking, especially with the oxygen mask. Gradually over the next day or so he had been using it less and less during the day time at least.

That morning, Albert had stubbornly fought with himself into an upright position which he might have been deeply regretting for the pain it caused him. Too soon perhaps but he had been repeatedly told by his officials that he needed to get back to work and they were not keen to leave him much peace either. There was still so much to be done in the recovery from the war and the fall out else where in the world, he simply did not have the time to lie about in bed.

He saw Harry appear in the doorway and for his new position he might have looked a little guilty for breaking the rules. "-Good morning, Doctor -Goodsir." He was sure to greet, voice still a little rough for the adjustment of his position and maybe just a whisper of him cursing himself internally.