#brassandblue : goodsir

[wantsusdead]

terror christmas icons!

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[herstoriies]

If I had a nickel for everytime Priscilla gets married to a dashing gent with full sideburns, I’d end up with two nickels, which isn't a lot but it's amusing that it happened twice!

[imprvdente]

@brassandblue​ . 𝐒𝐄𝐌𝐈 𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑

Fish avoided doctors like the plague. It was a bad habit for someone as dangerously reckless as her, but it was a necessary one too, learned after years spent hiding her true identity. And now that she was in the middle of this icy hell, stuck, she particularly disliked the possibility of a doctor figuring out that she had been lying. And the fact that Goodsir was a surgeon didn’t make it any better! Doctors, surgeons, the problem was the same! What if he asked her to lift up her shirt? How would she explain then, the bandages all over her torso?

And yet here she was, sitting down and nervously biting down her nails. She looked like a trapped animal more than a willing patient, but after a bad fall earlier that day, she had been forced there by some of the other mates.

“I’m sure it’s nothin’ sir,” she still muttered in the hope that it would speed up this whole process, “doesn’t even hurt that much.” A bold lie, but she’d rather be in pain than discovered!

[honorhearted]

@brassandblue | continued from (x)

The flames from their shared campfire flickered and danced across Ben’s features, though he didn’t dare mirror Goodsir’s warm smile. The man was absurdly kind -- God, how had war made him kind, Ben wondered? In a world full of pain and adversity and brutality and ugliness, he couldn’t quite fathom it; not when he, himself, struggled to find a modicum of compassion in the channels of his heart. If the other side were to beg on behalf of their friends and family, Ben would be quick to remind them that his own men suffered precisely the same. 

No one was special in war. No one was absolved, and though he assuredly felt pity and guilt, he was always quick to tamp down such emotions, lest he be swallowed whole and drown.

Realizing that the man was undoubtedly awaiting an answer, Ben slowly set aside his wooden bowl and squared his jaw, his eyes remaining on the flames as he said, “With all due respect, sir, how do you know leaving me to die would ‘serve nothing?’ Perhaps it was God’s great purpose for me to breathe my last, just as it was Joseph Schurr’s, Jacob Timmons’ and Charles O’Hara’s last week.” His gaze hardened as he recited three of the names of men -- nay, boys -- he’d been forced to bury in nameless, shallow graves. Although he, himself did not dig them, their faces were forever entrenched within his soul, much as if he had been the one to take a shovel to the earth.

With a bitter smile, Ben finally allowed himself a hint of eye contact. “I’m afraid my objective is far more selfish than yours, sir. I no longer fight for everyone, nor the freedom of mankind -- no, I fight for the voiceless...for my friends, my father, my...” brother. My best friend. Both of whom were treated like dogs by your so-called side of compassion.

But rather than speak such vitriol aloud, Ben offered, “I truly hope you can maintain your heart, Goodsir, because the test of war is the most trying of them all. To some, I daresay I’m unrecognizable...and maybe that’s for the best. I see now how frivolous my past concerns once were.”

[majorxmaggiexboy]

@brassandblue I need you to know I had a dream about goodsir showing up at Terror interrupting some sort of really tense moment to deliver some bagels he'd made from scratch. He said that if they were well received he'd make more XD

He was so excited to show them off too 😭

[musclesandspells]

Closed starter for @brassandblue : Silna : Goodsir

Sometimes, she still struggled to look at his hands. It was too easy for her to remember what they looked like, covered in her father's blood. She had not understood anything he was saying to her at the time, but she had recognized the strain in his voice. The compassion. He tried, to help. Others around him only stood and watched, oblivious to what they were doing as her father died within the confines of their ship.

Ship. She knew that word now, knew what to call the hulking thing in their own language. She didn't have a word for it in her own. It was different than an oomiak, even larger. Made to hold many more people. Made out of an entire forest and twisted metal dug up from the earth. A ship couldn't be taken apart and carried over the land.

Maybe it was their attachment to their ship that kept them there, stuck in the ice and waiting eventuality. If they could take it with them, pull it apart in its individual pieces... maybe they would be more inclined to leave this place. But it wasn't just the ship. It was everything inside of it.

She breathed out through her nose and turned her mind back to Goodsir, looking up into his face instead of at his hands and the drawings on paper that he was trying to show her. Her eyes searched his face, watching him speak.

[herstoriies]

@brassandblue

Red’s 1.3K FOLLOWERS CELEBRATION @waltzingtostars requested: Henry Goodsir from The Terror (2018)

[bertievi]

@brassandblue continued from X

“I did tell you, Sir,” was Harry’s first response–quiet, gentle, in his usual way, where any chiding was subtle. His brow was knit with concern as his eyes took in the view before him.

Still, to avoid adding insult to injury to the recovering King, he added: “I’m prepared to bar the door from anyone who might keep you from recovering. May I come in?”

It was not a false promise he’d just made. The narrow-shouldered Scotsman had learned during the war that one must stand one’s ground against incompetency from one’s allies as much as one would one’s own enemies. He had already proven the ability to bravely and politely hold his own with officials or older staff who might have otherwise ignored him–his stature and generally soft-spoken nature were disarming and he, albeit reluctantly, used that to his advantage. If anyone could help give the King the rest he so badly needed, it was Harry.

Albert had to resist allowing himself a chuckle at Goodsir’s offer to bar the door, he was quite tempted to allow him to do so in all truth, but as ever with the King duty won out. “-Come in.” He gave as permission and adjusted his position in order to reach his work with a slight squeak of complaint and a wince but little else. 

“I -did not realise how --tiring the work -can be.” He explained as he used one hand to stuff the documents back into a folder, he trusted Harry not to look but at the same time he would be remiss in his role if he were even to allow the opportunity of temptation. So once the documents were haphazardly back in their folder they were tossed a little carelessly inside the opened Red Box sat on his bedside, more for lack of reach than any disregard. Then he was sure to smile at the Doctor in some attempt to avoid too much of a telling off. “I must be exhausting as a --patient.” He meant it as a joke in comparison to his paperwork but Albert worried if he would ever not find it tiring again. 

Goodsir was a kind man though, his demeanour screamed of being worthy of trust and the respect to be listened to. “I never --gave it much thought before, but apparently -two lungs makes -paperwork less exhausting.” Right off from that though the King fixed his attention on Goodsir, “And -how are you faring?” There was a certain amount of pressure in being the Sovereign's physician after all, one wrong move could take away the head of state for a multitude of nations at the same time.  

[herstoriies]

"everything will be just fine once i finish this up." Kimblesir! >3>

"LET ME HELP YOU" PROMPTS [accepting!]

"Right... it could've been much worse, aye?"

Priscilla winced after the sterilizer had been applied to her wound, fists balling to muster her bravery as a soldier not utter a sound. Still, at Goodsir's touch, which was oh so gentle, as the pain subsided to bearable she slumped leaning towards him. Easy to say she was glad not to be in Dr. Stanley's company, but something swelled in her chest hearing Harry's words and coming from him she could believe him that everything would be alright. Discreetly her fingertips reached for something of him, even the edge of his jacket, to hold on to without drawing too much attention.

"Thank you, Doctor." a ghost of a tender grin despite a gaze distracted in thoughts, "With you, I know I'm in good hands."

Indeed, however, it could have been far, far worse. Adrenaline waning that terror of ice and snow lingered in her mind. Lieutenant Graham would be found... right?

This is what we signed up for, an adventure of a lifetime.

Perhaps more than only one lifetime, just what was that... that bear?

@brassandblue

[griefprofiled]

@brassandblue (x)

Never one to interfere in the escapades of witches when it didn't directly involve him, fortunately the rather displeased guardian bear had the grace to recoil somewhat in wary distrust rather than be a victim of hubris. Oh it lingered, but at a distance, and with a kind of vaguely annoyed sulk in its every step.

He was a Bigger Fish in this particular pond, and they both knew it.

"Take a moment." His hand had been forced, and giving the man blood had become a necessity. Any longer and he doubted there would have been any waking happening. Now, though, he would be tasked with keeping him alive for at least a day. "You will be quite recovered in a few minutes, I expect."

[herstoriies]

What a pleasant surprise this was not Dr. Stanley.

Mr. Martin. Right. That's still taking some getting used to. -- Wait. Blast! Didn't you sign aboard as William Mark?

"How wonderful to meet you, too, Dr. Goodsir! -- Please. Call me William." Priscilla added grinning back, hoping it would distract from the folly. Martin was close enough to Mark. Right? She couldn't have been seen through already? Haberdashery! Act natural. She gladly accepted Goodsir's handshake firmly, no need to suddenly feel self-conscious now how small her hand was in comparison to his.

“Ah, yes. Perhaps. In Greenhithe?” They did meet before. A vague hint to that Spring day the daguerreotypes were taken for the Expedition, thanks to Lady Franklin. That day indeed, Priscilla looked very different with her blonde ringlets, bonnet and parasol, and favourite periwinkle dress.

"Suppose we'll be seeing one another more often then! I'll be joining as a medical assistant's mate." or was it assistant surgeon's mate? "Though I've yet to officially meet Dr. Stanley. --" she adds, trying to clear the air, "It's all very exciting."

❝ i’m supposed to meet Dr. Stanley here. any chance that’s you? ❞ - either Priscilla or "William Martin" be this their first intro or second, your call!

Harry, who had already arrived and was setting up his work area in preparation for the expedition, briefly paused at the approach of a young lad—a familiar one, truth be told, and it took him a moment to fully grasp the novelty of what he was seeing before him. He blinked several times and gave a gentle smile at the newcomer.

“Dr. Stanley? Oh, Heavens no,” he greeted warmly, “I am an assistant surgeon, Henry Goodsir. It’s a pleasure, Mr. Martin.” Harry offered a handshake as he studied “Martin’s” features, quite certain they were those of a young woman.

“Though I believe we’ve surely met once before,” he added, keen eyes still friendly but no less sharply observant. There was a soft but pointed feeling left hanging in the air between them; neither aggressive nor unkind, but mildly incredulous.

[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

[majorxmaggiexboy]

@brassandblue​ okay but

au where Crozier + The Muttongoose Polycule + Little, all survive and make it to the Netsilik village and are allowed to stay there for a recovery period until they can figure out their next move. Obviouly they all have like, Emotions and Logistics going on but THAT’S NOT IMPORTANT

bc ever since they met back up Crozier’s been kind of squinting at Goodsir, Jopson, and Collins (who haven’t even officially called it yet like they don’t what the hell is going on either they’ve just huddled for warmth and had emotionally devastating subtext-laden conversations a few times) like

and Little is like *shrugs* “I’m as lost as you are, chief. It all happened entirely offscreen”

and Crozier and Little being So Confused but also just kind of cool with it is a neat background event and all but tHAT’S NOT IMPORTANT EITHER BECAUSE

Goodsir strollin into the group tent one day and before he can even look round he hears “It’s alright, Doctor, he fell asleep” which

a) One of Goodsir’s souvenirs from this venture is if he sees someone being very still he just kind of assumes they’re dead so the head-up is nice b) Henry and Harry address each other as such and they’ve both gone all in on calling Jopson Thomas but Jop hasn’t let go of being weird about it yet he’s on the same deeply intimate last-name basis he is with Crozier BUT THAT ISN”T IMPORTANT BECAUSE GOODSIR THEN HAS TO BE LIKE 

“Good lord, Tom...you’re quite pinned.”

BECAUSE COLLINS IS CURRENTLY BEING A WEIGHTED BLANKET LIKE THAT MAN IS GONE ASLEEP JUST DEAD SPRAWLED AND JOP’S BEEN LYING THERE FOR GOD KNOWS HOW LONG JUST BEING LIKE “this is fine”

AND GOODSIR’S LIKE LITERALLY CAN YOU EVEN BREATHE ARE YOU BEING KILLED RIGHT NOW

AND JOPSON’S LIKE I Could Get Away If I Wanted To 

AND GOODSIR’S LIKE MAYBE IF YOU WEREN’T STILL RECOVERING FROM LEAD-POISONING SCURVY AND STARVATION THAT MAN IS A DEAD-WEIGHT RN HOW ARE YOU RIBS NOT INSIDE YOUR LUNGS AT THIS POINT

AND COLLINS WAKES UP BC OF THE TALKING AND HE’S SO SLEEPY STILL HE’S JUST SHUSHING JOP AND TRYING TO BURROW BACK TO SLEEP AND JOP ACTUALLY FREAKIN LAUGHS FOR ONCE BECAUSE WHEN SOMEONE IS RUBBING THEIR FLUFFY MAGNIFICENT WHISKERS ALL OVER YOUR FACE AND NECK IT FEELS SO WEIRD  AND GOODSIR’S HAVING A STROKE LIKE, HE NEEDS A MINUTE. HE NEEDS SEVERAL MINUTES.

but then Jopson tells Collins that Goodsir really thinks Jop couldn’t wriggle out from under Collins if he wanted to and Collins is like lmaoooooo not unless i let you and Jopson’s like aight bet and collins totally lets him although it is a battle of wills for sure but i mean Collins still has an arm around Jopson like he’s a squishmallow so who’s the real winner but 

LONG STORY SHORT GOODSIR WINDS UP UNDER THE OTHER ARM BC WOW THAT LOOKS PRETTY WARM AND INVITING AND I���MMMMMMM

[musclesandspells]

yet another closed starter for @brassandblue

Wind ruffled his dark curls and she had to pause in her gruesome chore to look away. He didn't smell. Rot was almost a complete unknown in a land so desolate and cold, replaced instead by frozen desiccation.

Animals hadn't touched him yet. The marks of consumption that marred his pale flesh were made by knives. Greedy, sharp, knives that had worked their way down to the bone.

Silna smoothed her mitt covered hand over his ruffled curls and took a steadying breath. Goodsir had been kind. He had looked at the world around him and had seen the beauty that so many of his compatriots failed to see. The fact that they had done this to him... well, it was in line with the nature of these strangers. Brute and base, consumption to a fault.

Men ate each other when they'd consumed everything else, chased away birds and beasts and left themselves to ruin.

She double checked the position of her qamutit and slipped her arms beneath him to roll him from the crude table that held his body. She winced slightly at the rough sound of his body making contact with the furs, and hurried to cover him with a sleek seal skin. Death did not mean that he didn't deserve the dignity of being covered, protected from the biting cold that had preserved his flesh in the days since he'd passed.

There was little that she could do to rectify the situation, or to show him the kindness that he deserved in his passing -- and there was likely less she could do to keep his spirit from becoming restless and hungry itself.

It felt like a duty, now that she was on her own. Now that she had lost Tuurngaq. Most of what she had done for the bodies of the strangers had involved pulling them out to where they would eventually enter the water, where they could feed scavenging animals and the land beneath them. Some only deserved the open sky and the eternity of ice. She left them where they were.

She started to pull her qamutit with Goodsir's weight cradled on it, taking him away from the place of his death. If she could return him to his family, she would. She'd listened to him talk about his land, about Edinburough. It was too far away for her to even really conceive of. And besides... his family shouldn't have to see what had been done to him. How the world had literally consumed him.

Pulling became mind numbing. One foot in front of the other, the weight of the burdened qamutit trailing behind her. When it came time to rest, her shoulders ached and burned long after she stretched them into a more normal resting position. They continued to burn and ache as she pulled a blade from beneath Goodsir and beneath the furs on her qumutit to begin making a temporary shelter for herself.

She slipped the blade back in place when she was done, feeling the sweat from the hard work cooling her back inside her furs. Goodsir... couldn't come inside with her. She wouldn't bring the dead through a door she intended to use to come and go.

Silna looked at him in silence for a long moment, then gently pulled the seal fur up to cover his face.

In her dreams, she heard him whispering against the base of her skull. She heard the stones whistling, and felt hunger in the frost beneath them. He was going to be restless. He was never going to find his way home. The nature of his death, the way that his spirit still clung on to his flesh... it was beyond what she knew, to free him from the cycle he was destined to.

The stones were still whistling when she woke in the morning. She stood outside of her shelter and listened to them, tapping her teeth together in thought. Then... she started to work.

Her singing was distorted, slurred and rough, by the absence of her tongue. But she sang. She sang, making a bed for the man who would keep walking. She sang, washing his body and packing the hunger-wounds that littered him. She sang, pulling his weight against her chest and dragging him backwards through the door that was meant for the living. She sang as she laid him down in the bed and covered him again with furs.

She walked backwards through the door herself, looking away from him. She counted in her head as she paced backwards, until she was far enough away that she could turn her back on the dead-house. There was nothing to tell her how to do this work. No rituals. No spells. She was operating purely on the intuition in her gut, the pulls and strains inside of her that hoped that whatever it was she was doing would ensure that the man didn't walk the ice as something that might cause harm to her people. She already knew she could do nothing to assuage his hunger.

Having her back to the dead-house made her anxious. She hurried to her qamutit and busied herself with preparing it to pull. She would have to come back, of course. She would have to face whatever it was her intuition had led her to do.

She would have to feed him.

[therapardalis]

brassandblue​:

-

Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other and regarded Thera silently for a moment. His eyes followed her gaze to the compass on his mantle, and a restless sort of melancholy stirred in his chest.

“They deserve closure,” he toned gently. “And this expedition will not be exploitive.” Not like the last one. Which was for money. And glory. Though there had been nothing glorious about it once they’d reached Baffin Bay.

“If I can do something for them, one last thing, I have to try.”

They deserve closure ...

Thera’s eyes dropped, lashes lowered, focused on the dance of flames in the fireplace below. To herself, she suspected it was Harry who needed that closure, more than whatever spirits lingered around the ships or out on the ice where their bodies fell. He needed to go there one last time, to stand where they stood, to let them know, and finally feel in his heart, that he hadn’t abandoned them.

She held her tongue on his reassurances, that she believed Harry and hoped the same of the others. That would fall where it would. And she ... she had someone she wasn’t about to abandon either.

“If for some reason they can’t take you there, I will.”

[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.