#and jopson believed that crozier had abandoned him too

[caligarish]

Ivan the Terrible, 1944 // The Terror, 2018

[cashmere-caveman]

read a post about there being next to no record abt the historic edward little again (we dont even know what he looked like!!!) and now im thinking a lot about how he died in uniform again.

hes far from the only character to die in uniform (the marines die in uniform! franklin dies in uniform!) and he isn't even the only lieutenant to do so (gore, under his slops, was in uniform; fairholme, too presumably; irving famously wore his coat that hickey steals later; george wore something that used to be his uniform when he got eaten but imo atp he did not wear it as A Uniform anymore that were just the clothes that he had on if that makes sense) but at the end, he is the only one where i still felt that it was an active choice to wear it.

almost everyone else sheds their layers along the way or turns into something else, but ned starts in uniform and he stays in uniform and that's it.

fitzjames famously sheds his vanity and dies in his shirtsleeves, without any of the pomp and pizzazz of his uniform.

jopson, another character who is to me really connected with a certain mindset of holding up appearances, dies in his shirtsleeves, believing himself abandoned by the very person that was his reason to even wear a uniform at all.

goodsir as a doctor/assistant surgeon doesn't really have a uniform in quite the same sense as many others but when he dresses himself before his suicide it is not as an affirmation of his role, or at least not a positive one. he has sworn to do no harm, but he was forced to do it anyway and now he will add a final evil to his toll of sins in the hopes to balance the scales at least somewhat and for that to work, he must wear his outfit as always. he ends up with all pretenses stripped bare anyway.

tozer, a man so proud of his uniform in the beginning, again, dies in his shirtsleeves, no rank left, betrayed by someone who had convinced him to give up everything and yet! reduced to nothing but an ordinary man, he tries again where before he had given up. he cooperates, he coordinates, he even calls crozier captain again, he tries very hard to do the right thing in what looks like a no win scenario from the get go!! and he fails, of course, but he tried.

almost everyone else also ends up either dressed down (bridgens, armitage, dundy, des voeux etc) or somehow transformed (blanky, to some extend silna with her patched and bloody furs) or in hickeys case, both (iconic underwear & greatcoat combo). little never changes. he sometimes has a little scarf, theres the bandage for his headwound for a bit, he sometimes wears the full parade uniform with epaulettes and sometimes just the regular one, there are at least two different uniform hats and ofc you can tell that he loses weight by the way his shape chages under all that wool but he is always. in. uniform.

and maybe this is just my mind making up dots to connect but i think he might even be the last character that crozier ever gives an order to in his official function as a captain (in the tuunbaq seduction/boss fight scene he has been stripped of his rank, at least according to e.c.).

before his final scene, all we get is little arguing over the orders they are given, and how to interpret them. and he is still wearing his uniform!!! wait hold on im not gonna check but maybe he might only wear a jumper in the tent where dundy lauches his soft mutiny actually, so maybe this whole post is crumbling like a domino line but!!! ignoring this. moving on. (even if it is a jumper i remember him wearing sth dark blue aka Uniform Colour so im claiming it doesnt even matter bc spiritually that hypothetical jumper still is a uniform. im not going to let anything like "accuracy" and "real details" fuck up my post smh 🙄. im joking. however! Moving On as i said) (edit: i rewatched the scene and it IS his uniform actually, just v rumpled. going insane btw)

he doesnt even dress up for carnivale! the only other characters that are not in costume are jopson and crozier and they were literally too busy keeping crozier from dying to even begin thinking about joining the communal arts and crafts session! little is atp the acting no2 of the expedition so u might say he was busy but fitzjames has the overall command and still finds time to have a little gender moment in private and the imperialism-approved version of it for the Big Crowd!! (u could ofc argue that fitzy Always has time for a gender moment and who would i be to argue but my point is: i have no doubt that man was fucking busy preparing carnivale & beginning to prepare the walkout and there still was time to Express Some Character!! so how come ned didn't do anything?)

the one other scene we get where we can catch a small glimpse of characters out of their element before it all unravels (pre tuunbaq attack on the camp) is the scene at night when morfin gets shot. it shows lots of characters in various states of undress (silna big blanket burrito i love you) that allows us to see them differently, like their costumes at carnivale did, but in an entirely opposite direction. while carnivale was about putting on masks, this scene is about taking them off. and it drives me insane because i know that little must be there. he is somewhere in the crowd when morfin gets shot but so far i havent been able to make him out and i need to know what he is wearing so bad. it is actually for science (my own curiosity) ! i really need to know. and i cant help but feel that maybe it is intentional that he is just ~somewhere~ instead of In Front of the Fucking Camera because, well. that would be just ned little, wouldnt it? and we dont even know who that is.

[andhumanslovedstories]

1k vampire au ficlet (with some fitzier) that’s partially me absolutely wild about this idea, partially me cyberbullying @plaidmax into writing her version that she’s been talking about and inspired this one 

Summer came and went and still the men stayed away from Crozier, from what his presence offered. The men still hoped. They still saw themselves--in one year, perhaps, in two, in ten, but eventually, surely, eventually--walking the sunlit streets of England. They saw themselves taking communion, fathering children, living a good life, a moral life, the life of a man with nothing to fear from God or the Devil. And if they thought about dying--and they did, more and more as the cold refused to leave--they thought about the promise of heaven. Their captain could survive the freeze only to burn. A shame, thought some men. No less than he deserves, thought some others. 

Still. The men talked about Crozier. They talked about how they couldn't bear to be like him, which meant they thought about what it would be like to be like him, and that was always the first step. The possibility became a little more real. Farr sliced his thumb, his hand too numb with cold to mark where it was in relation to his shaving blade, and he watched how the blood ran down, almost painfully hot against his chilled flesh. Hodgson read his Bible and lingered on the last supper. This is my body, this is my blood. Eat, drink, and never die. 

At supper, the men who used to avert their eyes now watched as Jopson retreated with his extra rations. As many rations as two men got these days, which meant almost enough for one.  

"It's a wicked thing," one muttered to another. "Wicked and evil to use your fellow man as food."

"Indeed," replied the other man who was thinking about his empty belly, about the rations that would do no more than blunt the stab of hunger which would still sink into them as fatal as any other blade. He thought about Crozier, who never looked hungry at all. "Still, there's nothing else for him," he said in the tone of a man testing the ice. "Can't be that wicked if there's no other choice. Even monsters must survive." 

"Must they?" the first man muttered darkly, and Cornelius Hickey changed the topic, for now. Let the knife sink a little deeper into Gibson first, before they discussed what any thinking man must know was coming. Hickey had tasted his own blood. It didn't taste bad, he thought. It certainly tasted better than nothing at all. 

Other men crossed themselves before they ate and wondered how one man could slake their captain's monstrous thirst. Irving prayed every night that Jopson would not be the next pale corpse stacked like firewood in the bowels of the ship. Every morning, Irving was surprised to find his prayer answered.

It was a monstrous burden to serve under a monster. The men believed this, and thought, yet I will not become a monster myself. Sometimes, all the men even believed it.

What they do not see, and will not see, and will never know: Francis dreams of blood splashed across the snow, red and vibrant in a way that nothing in this place is. He wakes with his own fangs piercing his lip. Jopson finds him cursing, pressing his handkerchief to his mouth. By the time Jopson has rolled up his sleeve, Francis' puncture wounds have already closed. Still hurts like hell, which Francis bitterly expresses before turning to his steward who waits expectantly. 

"No, thank you, Jopson," Francis says with a flush of familiar shame. "I am full, truly. It is a craving, not true hunger." 

Jopson does not take his arm away. "Drink, sir," his steward commands, the words a velvet glove that seek to bow his captain's head to the mottled and scabbed forearm that still yet pulses with life. "I know how long you have gone without. You have not fed upon me since last Monday.”

The memory of James' blood spills across Francis' tongue, the lush rich ruby taste of it that could not be tainted even by the acrid aftertaste of James' privation. Francis has imbibed enough to flush at the thought, and he sees that Jopson has seen, sees that Jopson has understood. That is a new shame, Francis is perversely pleased to notice. A new shame is still shame but with less of a stale stink. 

Still, Jopson will not take back his arm. The puncture wounds from last week have still not closed. "You'll put me out of a job, sir," Jopson says. 

"Save your strength, Jopson," Francis says. 

"Your strength is my strength, sir." When Francis looks up in surprise, Jopson smiles wanly. "Please, sir. I could not bear the extra rations otherwise."

"So you'd have me take them," Francis says wryly. His mouth is watering and he hates himself for it. 

"I would have you drink." Jopson holds his arm so close to Francis' face that he can feel the warmth of the skin. Jopson, of course, would feel no warmth at all. "Sir." 

So Francis drinks. He does not drink as he had from James the night before--Jopson would not taste his own blood from Francis' mouth, for one, a wickedness that makes Francis gasp just from the memory of it. But they've long since abandoned the blade and cup that propriety and the British navy once insisted upon. Ever since Jopson had nursed him through Francis' pathetic weaning from the only other thing his kind may drink, they had lost their formality at meals. Francis cradles Jopson's arm as if it were a babe. The familiar sweetness warms Francis from head to toe. He curls his fingers into the crook of Jopson's elbow and the bend of his wrist, feels for the comforting rhythm of life as he drains it from his steward. It should be easier to stop having drunk the night before, but Francis' lips linger even after his fangs shrink back. Satiation. It has been so long since he has drunk his fill. He is close, so close. Just a little more. Surely Jopson could spare a little more. 

Francis returns Jopson his arm. "Thank you," he says, his voice rougher than he means it to be. 

"You look well, sir," Jopson replies. Some future day, Jopson will drag himself dying out of his tent to chase those who abandoned him, and the rocks that dig into his frail flesh will feel like a thousand fangs raking him, wringing out everything that is left, and Jopson will die with the image of Francis smiling as he wipes the blood from his lips and turns back to his dinner party. But that is some future day, and today Francis almost feels like a man, and Jopson bandages his arm, and at any moment the scouting party could return with good news, or the ice could crack, or God could smile. There is still hope that might be rewarded, and that warms as well as blood before it chills, before its fatal chill. 

[lafiametta]

Now we wake with our memory

@kiev4am sent in this Jopson/Little prompt: “Everyone lives, Admiralty party, Edward sees Thomas in full lieutenant’s dress regalia for the first time.  Very shamelessly yanked from a tiny detail in one of my own fics which I knew I could never do full justice to :)”

No shame should be involved – it’s a wonderful story! All of it was great, but I especially loved Jopson and Little’s cameos and, truth be told, had already imagined what their private conversation might have entailed, which made me very excited about responding to this prompt! (The title, again, is borrowed from Rilke, who somehow seems to inspire all my Jopson/Little feelings!) 

Edward had never liked parties.

There were always too many people, too much noise, voices carrying from far corners of overstuffed rooms, mixing with laughter and music into a barely controlled sort of pandemonium that made the stock around his collar feel as if it had been wound far too tightly. Nor, were he truly honest, did he ever really know what to do once he was there. Other men seemed to possess this gift; he watched them move with ease between conversations like the most sociable of bees, greeting one acquaintance with a clasp on the back, another with a wide smile and a warm and genial eye. In comparison, he felt stiff and far too taciturn, always keeping to the periphery, partially from necessity and partially by choice. Even as a younger man, this had been the case: he could recall attending many a village assembly where he spent half the evening with his back against the painted wallpaper, a cup of punch turning warm in his hand. 

Perhaps that was why he had taken so easily to the sea. It seemed so very large, its limitless expanse promising a kind of freedom that could be found nowhere else. There was noise, to be sure – the ships’ bells, the churn of the waves, the voices of men calling to each other like birds from along the deck and their positions in the rigging – but it had a purpose, an order, an underlying rhythm that could be predicted.

For a moment he calculated – and not for the first time that evening – exactly how many days it would be before he was once again standing underneath a full set of sails. 

Still, he shouldn’t have minded this particular party so much, as it was being given partly in his honor, and in honor of all of the other men who had returned home from the expedition. Naturally, the nation had mourned the loss of Sir John – Edward had heard that the queen herself had donned a black armband for a full week following the news – but the successful rescue of the remaining crew had been cause for some celebration, least of all by the Lords of the Admiralty, who with good reason had feared the worst. 

They were all in high spirits now, circling around the officers of Erebus and Terror, resplendent in their dress uniforms that had been dusted off for just such an occasion. Edward attempted to mingle, at one point finding himself drawn into conversation with Sir William Parry, who seemed fixated on the precise location where the two ships had been abandoned in the ice, until he was finally able to make his excuses and retreat into the refuge of his own company. He meandered through the reception rooms, occasionally crossing paths with one of the other expedition officers. They shared some passing words – news of their family, or their future plans – and he was mostly appreciative of the fact that so little needed to pass between them, for what did they not know of each other that hadn’t already been learned in all those years they spent marooned within the ice or else hauling dying men across the length of an unforgiving shore? They were brothers now, a kinship marked by the weight of memory and a slightly haunted look about the eyes. A few he had not seen since they had parted ways upon their return, and it warmed him to see what a difference those short months had made. Bruises had faded, hollowed-out cheeks had filled in, and they had begun to resemble those men he had met when they had first set sail a lifetime ago.

From across the room, he caught a glimpse of Le Vesconte, whose full head of dark silver hair only seemed to offer him an air of greater distinction, although Edward remembered the night it turned that color, all at once, following the death of one of Terror’s men and the realization within the camp of the terrible choice left to them if they all wished to survive the rest of their journey. 

Next to a carved marble fireplace he saw Captains Crozier and Fitzjames, both in conversation with a dark-haired lieutenant Edward didn’t recognize, at least not with his back turned. The captains, he knew, had taken up residence together in Mayfair, the bond they had forged during the expedition flourishing into dearest friendship upon their return. There was gossip, of course; tongues wagged that the two men were more than simply friends, for why else would they live as they did, so flagrantly? Edward ignored such prattle and, perhaps more to the point, found he did not care. If the two of them had managed to find happiness in each other amid such pain and sacrifice, then he would wish them well and be glad of it. 

On the wall just next to him hung a massive seascape depicting the Battle of Lissa and the sinking of the Favorite; amid the billowing clouds and the rough, white-capped waves, he could just make out the French sailors bobbing above the water, clearly hoping to make it to shore before they were dashed onto the rocky coast. One day, he assumed, the Admiralty would commission a dramatic rendering of the Arctic expedition, hang it high upon the wall to be viewed with all the rest, and he truly hoped he would not live long enough to have to look at it. 

“Commander.”

He was still becoming accustomed to his new rank, so he did not immediately turn and acknowledge the person who had addressed him. Even so, there was something in the voice, a soft familiarity that tugged at his mind in a way he could not quite piece together.

Edward Little was not a man easily shocked. But what he saw when he swiveled his gaze was enough to still him entirely, his eyes opening wider as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing. 

The face of the man that stood before him was achingly familiar, one he had had occasion to look upon every day – often several times a day – over the course of many years. If pressed, he might have admitted that he knew it better than he knew his own. And in the months since he had last seen it, he had sometimes found himself trying to recall it, attempting as best he could to reconstruct the exact color of those pale blue eyes, the precise curve of that cheek as it rounded with an expression of unexpected joy. 

Yet it was not the face alone that had drawn his thoughts into sudden disarray. For where Edward would have expected to see the unadorned suit of a steward, he was met with something far more resplendent. The pewter buttons on his coat had given way to the glint of polished brass, that golden color echoing around the cuffs and the high collar, the accentuated narrow waist, along the shoulders in a pair of stiff and gleaming epaulettes. Hands were gloved in spotless white, black boots brought to a mirror shine. His dark hair was sleekly parted along one side, not a strand of it out of place, and he looked every inch the officer, as if he had been born to it. But perhaps Edward should have expected nothing less from Thomas Jopson, whose estimable qualities would always far outshine the magnificence of a dress uniform.  

Quite of their own accord, Edward’s lips curled upward into a modest smile.

“Lieutenant,” he replied, as he dipped his head in acknowledgement. Jopson’s cheeks pinkened slightly in response, and Edward could feel his own heart begin to quicken with warmth and memory. 

He quickly cleared his throat. “I heard the Admiralty had approved your promotion. I must say it suits you.”

The compliment was enough to bring a small smile to Jopson’s lips. 

“I’m not sure how you manage so much finery,” he said, glancing down at the embellishments of his dress coat as he ran his gloved hands along the gilded embroidery. “I feel as if I must have forgotten something vital.”

“You’ll soon grow accustomed to it,” Edward offered, having no better advice for the new lieutenant. But as he spoke, his mind was filled with all the many things he wished to say, words he should have uttered long ago, without knowing quite how to say them. 

They stood in silence, and without the distraction of words, it was difficult for him not to think back to all the tender intimacies they had once shared, the stolen moments they had pocketed and hoarded up like thieves, seizing every chance they could to be together regardless of the ever-present risk of discovery. Just looking at the color on Jopson’s cheeks was enough to spark a host of memories, each occasion springing vividly to life. A space as small and crowded as that of Terror had required them to be careful, forcing them to seek out all manner of places for their assignations. And those encounters, so often, were regrettably brief – in the middle of a watch change, following the conclusion of a command meeting, in the tiny hour just before sunrise – and only seemed to ignite their hunger rather than assuage it. It was a passion that had threatened to consume them both, and at times it felt as if it had, drawing Edward so far from thoughts of his duties that he had come to resemble a man possessed. But how could he be blamed, when any man might reasonably have lost himself in the deep pools of those sea-colored eyes? 

Eventually, though, passion had given way to contention and they began to quarrel, about minor matters at first, and then larger ones. It had all been over nothing – he could see that now – the bitter words they aimed at each other merely a mask for the deeper, unspoken fears that plagued them both. Each morning had seemed to bring a new threat to their survival, whether through cold or fire or the unpredictable attacks of the creature. Yet rather than seeking greater comfort from each other, they had turned their torment outward, day by day weakening a bond he had once thought unassailable. Towards the end they had almost ceased to use words at all, the tent they shared a cold and inhospitable place, so perhaps it should not have surprised him that the final break, when at last it came, was over an idea he had not dared voice to anyone, save Le Vesconte. 

It had been a craven notion – given the benefit of time, he now understood how wrong he had been – and to compound the error, he had continued to defend it to Jopson after the officers’ meeting, in the privacy of their tent. Those were the last words they had spoken, until this moment, for Jopson had gathered his few belongings and left silently, keeping to the captain’s tent until the day they were finally rescued. 

But to see him now, dressed as he was, the light of life shining in his gaze, it was more than Edward could have ever imagined. And yet the pleasure could not be separated from the attendant pain, for he knew the hurt that he had caused, and above all he knew he could not bear to part ways again without at least acknowledging the magnitude of his fault.

He had to find the words, as difficult as that might be.

“Lieutenant,” he began, only to pause, the formal address immediately leaving an unnatural taste on his tongue. He glanced down, pursing his lips together as he attempted once more to speak. “Thomas, I... I am sorry for the way we parted company. If nothing else, I wish for you to know that I regret entirely the position I took, the cause of our quarrel.” 

He could remember each word, each accusation, but most of all he remembered the look in Jopson’s eyes, a mixture of anger and brittle disappointment, and how it had seemed to pierce his heart in ways he had not thought possible. For it was only in that moment that he had understood: Jopson opposed leaving the sick men behind not merely on principle, as any moral man would, but because he also feared the worst for himself. And when Edward had foolishly pressed his case, all Jopson had been able to hear were the cowardly justifications of a man who might abandon his lover as easily as he advocated leaving behind the ones who lay dying in their tents. 

“Had the captain followed my suggestion,” he continued, his breath turning heavy in his throat, “so many men – a few here tonight – would not have returned—”

Jopson shook his head. “The burden you were under was immense. Anyone might have—”

“No,” Edward replied firmly. “You did not. And thankfully the captain did not. You were right. I should have trusted your judgment.”

Jopson nodded, but did not reply. Edward understood; in truth, he did not deserve any more than that, and he knew he should count himself fortunate that Jopson saw fit to speak to him at all. After all that had passed, perhaps the only thing finally left to them was politeness and pleasantries, and still he would accept it gladly, if given the choice.

“So,” he asked, “how have you found life as an officer?”

Jopson shrugged. “Much like that of a steward, in all honesty. I’ve not yet received a commission and I remain on half-pay.” He raised a dark eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling with mirth. “If the situation continues, I may be hard-pressed to afford the polish for these buttons.”

A small laugh escaped Edward’s lips. “You’ll manage, I’m sure. You were always resourceful.”

“And yourself?” Jopson inquired. “Have you been granted a commission?”

Edward nodded. “I’m to serve on the Thetis. She sails from Plymouth in two months’ time.”

He had been pleased to get the commission. The captain, upon their meeting, had seemed able and competent, and there was a large part of him that wished more than anything to start entirely anew, to leave behind Terror and all that had happened in that place, far away in an unimaginable part of the world. But as he gazed once more at Jopson, he was struck with the realization that there might still be some pieces of the expedition worth holding onto.  

“I wish you the best of luck, then,” Jopson offered. 

His face began to grow round with a genuine smile of pleasure, a pair of perfectly matched dimples curling into the pink expanse of his cheeks. Edward remembered that smile – he had seen it often enough during those moments of passion they had shared together – and he resisted the overwhelming and familiar urge to reach a gloved hand up to Jopson’s jaw and pull him closer for a kiss. But there was also something in the warmth of the other man’s gaze that make him think – hope – that there might somehow be more for them than just a lifetime of polite exchanges at Admiralty functions. 

That tiny sliver of hope was perhaps the only explanation for the thought that began to form in his head, one that he felt the need to give voice to before the impulse entirely disappeared. 

“The ship’s captain has tasked me with filling the complement of junior officers,” he said. “As circumstances would have it, I am still in need of a lieutenant and I would be pleased to recommend you to the position, were you interested.”

“You wish me to serve as your lieutenant?” Jopson asked, a touch of disbelief in his voice.

Edward nodded, doing his best to maintain an outward expression of calm, even as his heart was beginning to thrum in a most agitated fashion within his chest, a sensation so profound that he was certain Jopson could hear it from where he stood. 

“We need good men, honorable men. And I know no better man than the one that stands before me.”

[puella-peanut]

A Eulogy for Thomas Jopson

Thomas Jopson was, as they say, too good for this sinful earth.

Everything he did, he did for the sake of his Captain.

From shoe polish to cuff-links. Brass buttons and pressed dinner jackets. Busied with tailoring a Captain for his rank, and then mending the worn fabric of a frayed man sewed into it. Equipped with watchful eye, keen ear. A kind voice. Steady heart.

A man of many talents.

Whatever layers of lives Jopson lived—be it ship’s boy, steward; caretaker, confidante. Lieutenant crafted from the darkest hour—he lived those lives for Captain Crozier.

Lived them with perfect devotion, perfect loyalty.

Perfect faithfulness.

And that never faltered.

Not when his Captain was doubted by his crew. Not when his Captain was found nursing his sorrows with spirits brewed of liquor and despair. Not when his Captain was made the recipient of a mutiny. 

Jopson, a man so loyal, that even when ill with scurvy, completely bedridden and in pain—when visited by his Captain, the first thing he did was ask if anything could be done for him. Sick as he was, exhausted as he was—he tried to sit up, attempted to make himself look neater. Tidy. More presentable.

Even then.

Even then.

If Thomas Jopson had any dreams, any goals in the short clockwork of his days, it was simply to give his life in service to Captain Crozier. Without faltering, without rest. Making life bearable in whatever way he could for a man he so adored.

.

.

.

Imagine then, the agony Jopson would have felt, believing that his beloved Captain had abandoned him to wither away in the Arctic after all of this.

Imagine then, the anguish Jopson would have felt, believing he had been relinquished to the poor comforts of a ragged tent, a harsh stone floor, sickness.

Imagine then, the torment Jopson would have felt, believing he has been left to plead to his Captain’s back, in a voice heard only by cold, by desperation. By disbelief.

Day in, day out, year in year out: undying loyalty, unbroken faith—and then Captain Crozier walks away without paying Thomas Jopson any heed? Without even turning around? Their relationship a farce, Jopson nothing more than a temporary vessel to make use of, then dispose when necessary.

It must have been heart breaking.

It must have been soul crushing.

.

.

.

Then, hallucination.

A banquet, a feast. Captain Crozier seated at the head, star guest invited to a dying man’s illusion.

And despite this all, despite everything; Jopson—starving, ill, abandoned, dying Jopson—wants to crawl to his Captain, be with him. Ignore anything that would have offered some comfort, some respite for himself.

Just wants his Captain to look his way, meet his eyes, tell him that he cares even a fraction—and that will be enough, and moreso.

In that moment, despite his torment, Jopson thinks only of Captain Crozier—a Captain Crozier that is fit, well fed, well clothed, and at his tip-top best—because even in the end, that is all Jopson ever wanted. Ever needed.

To see his Captain as he deserved to be.

But then the wishful thinking ends, evaporates; some matchbox fantasy blown to death by the cold. A candle reduced to a stub.

Flame quieted to ember.

Life dwindled to dust.

.

.

.

So Jopson dies—in the cold, on his birthday, alone.

So Jopson dies—in rags, dragging his wasted body across sharp stone, filled with hatred, despair; innumerable pieces of broken heart.

So Jopson dies—presuming he has been betrayed, presuming he is unwanted, presuming he is uncared for.

So Jopson dies—concluding he is unloved.

In those final seconds, he believes that his Captain has left him behind, completely and utterly alone in the middle of nowhere—cast off like flotsam, like waste: the debris of Terror, and the wreck of a land which betrayed them entirely.

Him most of all.

And with this as his last breath, Thomas Jopson is released from life, utterly deceived by a lie.

The truth just out of his reach for all eternity.