#every time i fill one of these prompts i'm blindfolded throwing darts at random buzzwords and hoping things stick

[nedlittle]

oh oops I meant to ask for 'the summer day' for Little/Tozer, if that's alright? :)

i am…sorry for this

(cw for canon-typical violence, mention of suicide, mention of euthanasia)

the summer day: what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

 ***

As of today, June 30, 1848, Solomon has died 77 times. He is, at the moment, considering making it 78 so he does not have to bury Armitage. Though, he is unsure of the rules, whether the loop will close only when they return to England, or if he’d die for good. And, even then, despite how much he wishes one of his deaths stuck, he’s tried so hard to keep the crew alive. It would be a shame for him to take it back now. Besides, with 77 deaths, he’s buried every one of his friends by now.

The first time he came back, he thought it was a dream; some panicked dying vision. After three days shipbound (not being slowly crushed, not reeking of death), after Heather sitting next to him in the mess, the way his clothes fit rather than hanging slack, it became clear that it wasn’t. He wasn’t sure why him. There had to be better choices, better leaders. But maybe this is some twisted idea of absolution.

If he did anything wrong, any violation of the articles, it was to keep his men safe. Maybe that’s why he keeps coming back.

***

The second time, he swears he won’t make the same mistake twice. He won’t fall for Hickey’s plans, won’t meet his end with a roar and the glint of teeth. That lasts until the lashing. He knows the kind of man Hickey is. Hell, he knew the first time. But, there’s something about the way his body contorts around the lash that fools him into believing it could be different. His death is much the same.

The third time, he watches Hickey wrench a ring from David Young’s cold hand and remembers the faint glint of silver on Billy Gibson’s pinky during the Long Night. That kills any impending mutiny plans for good.

***

Preventing the ships from leaving port isn’t an option either. Whenever he wakes up, they’ve already been at sea a week. And trying to convince command to turn back with no logical reason is beyond foolish. He still tries though, even if he doesn’t think it would work. After seven times waking up flailing in his hammock—the latest after he was hanged for sedition. He couldn’t tell the Captains why they needed to leave and this was the next-best solution he could think of—he decides that he may as well try to figure out why they get trapped in the ice for so long. If there’s no avoiding it, he ought to determine why they’re in this mess to begin with. He spends nights in the rigging with Blanky who looks at him like he somehow has an inkling of what’s going on, shares a pinch of his tobacco every now and then, and does not call any of his questions stupid even when they are. Unfortunately, even Blanky doesn’t know why the ice hasn’t melted. Blanky in any of their loops can’t figure out why the ice won’t melt, only that it should.

In fate’s cruellest twist yet, the ice thaws in loop 15, but it takes him and the rest of Terror’s marines under with it.

***

By loop 20, he’s desperate enough that he considers killing Sir John while there’s still a chance to turn back. There’s no way their Captain will sacrifice progress for safety. He gets as far as considering poisons, how he could pull something from the sickbay and sneak it into his food or drink, before he finds he does not have it in him to murder Sir John. As fortune would have it, Sir John does die before that ill-fated hunting blind. But instead of being carried off by that Thing, he succumbs to two gruelling weeks of pneumonia. After they lay him to rest, command is so devastated by this loss that it almost isn’t worth it trying to get them to walk out.

Sol tries anyway, but can’t convince anyone to budge. This time they freeze, the entire expedition crowded in Terror when the ice pierces her hull. She’s halfway crushed before they begin to sink in earnest.

***

He thinks he’s got it sorted when he replaces Bryant on Gore’s sledge party. Nobody to shoot the shaman, no reason for the Creature to set its sights on them. The solution should be simple. It’s Des Voeux’s finger on the trigger that time and the shaman bleeds out before they can load him onto the sledge. The Creature makes quick work of the rest of them.

He tries for the same tactic the next three loops. In the first, he’s hit by a hailstone twice the size of his fist during the storm and does not wake. In the second, the bullet hits not the shaman but Lady Silence, and the Creature provides no mercy.  In the third loop, they return with no casualties and no Creature on their tail and may well survive. They die anyway.

***

There is one loop where he manages to save Heather from that Thing, and another where he pulls Heather from the flames at Carnivale. There are two loops where Heather wakes: one right before they walk out—and his eyes close for good only scant hours after they reopen—and one where he wakes alone, unable to open his eyes. Dr. Peddie says it is the fear that does him in, same as it did David Young.  The worst loop is when he survives all the way until they’re about to walk. Heather is alive but not living and there is no way they can haul a comatose man without killing him.  Solomon waits until the sickbay is empty, places a pillow over Heather’s face, and holds it there. This action meets no resistance. Sol remains at his bedside until his next watch, hugging. Wilkes finds him there in the early morning (or night, time has become quite the elastic thing to him) with dampened eyelashes and the pillow clutched to his chest. Then, of course, there is the loop in which he throws himself between Heather and the Creature’s claws. There is a moment when he feels his blood darken the deck and the odd sensation of wind against his brain before everything goes blank.

Sometimes death is whiteness, like the snow and ice they’ve come to think of as halfway between home and hell. An endless cocoon of nothing so cold it almost burns. Other times it is a growing black inkblot over his vision, devouring up any last shreds of survival. And sometimes, there’s nothing at all. Out like a candle. But never does it get easier. He doesn’t want it to get easier. If that happens then what’s there keeping him from giving up entirely?

***

What interests him the most is that the Creature has no bearing on whether they live or die. If it doesn’t pursue them, nature does its part. Sometimes he almost wishes the Creature would take them instead. Being picked off one by one, having his soul wrenched from the remnants of his body, it would be preferable to watching his fellows become shadows of themselves. He tries to ask Lady Silence one of the times they bring her aboard. Tries being the operative word here. There are rather a lot of gestures and rudimentary drawings since he has no words in her language or his to fully explain what’s going on. And it isn’t as though he can ask someone to translate without seeming completely mad. Maybe he is going mad, this is all the fevered ravings of a man dragging himself to death. But Lady Silence seems to understand him, or, maybe she pities him. Though she seems to comprehend what he’s trying to tell her, she can provide no explanation for why this is happening.

There’s something with magnetism and the poles, right? He’s had time enough to read through Terror and Erebus’ libraries, trying to wrap his head around potential explanations. Their compasses don’t work properly this far north, and time trips them up with days of sunlight after nothing but night for months. Perhaps there’s a scientific explanation for why this is happening. Time being stretched thin over the pole. More likely, he’ll never have the words to name his situation.

***

The shortest loop is #65. Sol wakes long before anyone else. The question that’s been troubling him, more than how this is possible, more than why the ice refuses to melt, is why him? One of the Captains would make a difference, even a lesser officer would be more helpful than him. This whole scene feels like a joke. He wasn’t even able to keep his marines alive. How on earth is he supposed to be responsible for two ships’ worth of men? This isn’t ever going to stop. They will keep dying and he’ll keep coming back and there isn’t anything he can do about it. He has squandered each of his 65 chances of survival. It only stops when he dies.

Solomon rises from his hammock and takes the steps down to the hold with care. All he wants is for this to stop. This won’t save the men, what he’s about to do, but it will put an end to all this. He finds a shattered glass of spirits and, before anyone can note his absence, slices into his veins.

***

His dying never broke the loop before; why should it make a difference if it’s by his own hand?

***

By loop 70, he has a formula. He complains early about the tins, collects the bits of lead from between his teeth and takes them to the sickbay when he complains of searing headaches and a wicked fire in his joints. It’s a truth and a lie. The symptoms never start this early but, after dying so many times, he never feels whole. Crozier’s dried out earlier these past few loops. That isn’t his doing, though. He doesn’t stop to consider the logistics, only knows that it means less work for him. The sooner the Captain sobers up, the sooner they can leave the ships, the better chance they have of making it out. His station gives him some leeway with convincing the wardroom that walking out would be their best option, but it’s the rest of the crew who are hesitant to agree. If we’re going to die here, Strong argues, we should die like sailors on our ship. Not crawling home like dogs. He keeps Irving away from Hickey, too. There isn’t much he can do about Hickey short of strangling him, so he’s been trying to keep him away from trouble.

Lately, they haven’t been bothering with Carnivale, which spares him the stress of preventing the fire, but it means they start walking while it’s still dark. The worst of it isn’t the heart-killing cold or the knowledge that their eyes will burn when they see the sun again, it’s that they lose men in the night. Some wander off to relieve themselves and never find their way back. In the early days, they carry lanterns only at the front of the pack and it is easy for the men at the back to lose sight of the crew. It makes burials more difficult as well.

Sol’s put bodies to rest since about the 30th loop. After all, he’s the reason why they’ve been dying over and over again. It’s the least he can do, making them comfortable despite knowing that they will not rest.

***

Over the course of 9 separate loops, he and Little fall into bed together. Sometimes it lasts, sometimes it doesn’t. He half-wishes it would stop happening because he doesn’t need the distraction from his task. But, wishing something would stop doesn’t mean anything as he knows all too well.

At the very least, it goes better than the first time. Nobody gets concussed. As the loops continue, the relationship feels natural. More than a way to get closer to the Captain, more than an outlet for the restless energy he feels radiating off of him, all his nerves about whether they’ll survive. If he’s to trapped here for the near and distant future, he may as well make the most of it.

This is why it’s all the more embarrassing when Little is the one to find him hunched over himself in his tent. He’s learned to cry without making a sound, but cannot yet master the art of sorrow without the release of tears. To his credit, Little doesn’t say a word. He unslings his rifle and removes his hat, settling down beside Sol. Wind-burned fingers come to rest in the space between his shoulder blades.

Once he can breathe without feeling like his throat will close, Sol considers a very stupid idea. More stupid than murdering Sir John. More stupid than loop #11 when he thought his greatsword could do more damage to the Creature than a gun. What is it going to matter whether he tells one person about his…condition? Little won’t believe him and, even if he does, it won’t make a difference. They’re both going to die, maybe tomorrow or two months from now. Then, it will start all over again and maybe they’ll sleep together in the next loop too, or, maybe, Sol won’t even spare him a second glance.

“I’ve something important to tell you,” he begins, close to laughter at the sheer incredulity of it. “And you mustn’t say anything until I’m finished.”

“Alright then.”

***

His final loop begins with a miracle. A day before they reach the Whalefish Islands, John Torrington begins to cough so hard his body nearly caves under the strain of it. He’s sent home without further question. John Hartnell too boards the Barretto Jr. after much persuading by Mr. Goodsir. Braine stays with them, dying a few days into April as he always does. But, at least seven men will see their families once more.

He brings up the lead at the earliest convenience, telling MacDonald who promises to tell Sir John, who in turn says that he noticed it but does not think it to be a problem. He is conscious, in informing MacDonald, that he is audible from the hall. Word spreads within the week that they are being poisoned, though nobody uses that word yet. Another rumour posits that the ice will not melt and they will spend another year frozen solid. He’s careful not to be seen spreading such gossip, he learned that lesson early on. Before Sir John is even cold in the grave, there are whispers of unease among the ships. The Passage isn’t worth being trapped like this. Sir John maintained unflappable faith in the Navy, God, and himself which clouded his vision but Sir John is dead. The only thing stopping them from walking is a squabble between the Captains. Though, that seems unlikely. As Crozier’s sobriety becomes more reliable, so do relations with Erebus.

Sol knocks on Crozier’s door, his speech prepared three loops ago. He doesn’t wait for an invitation inside, nor for permission to speak. He doesn’t even take in his surroundings before barreling on. “Captain, I’ve been consulting Mr. Blanky and he does not believe that the ice will melt this year. He also believes, from experience, that if we are to walk in search of help, it should be sooner rather than later. The men, too, consider it to be our best chance at survival. There have been murmurs in the galley for weeks and—”  when he cuts himself off to breathe, he spies something odd.

Crozier is not surprised by the tumble of words from his mouth, and his cabin is stark. Crates occupy most of the table and all the chairs, save for those occupied by Crozier and Little. Little does not look at him, keeps his eyes focused on the spread of paper in front of him.

They’ve already started packing.

“You’ve got a keen ear, Sergeant,” Crozier says, something that could be a smile or a grimace pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Captain Fitzjames and I intend on making that announcement tonight. We will likely start the journey in a week’s time.”

One week’s time. That puts them at a month before they normally start walking. The sun will be rising for their first few days. One month early with no Creature pursuing them, the putrid tins disposed of, and no mutinous stirrings (to his knowledge). If he were a betting man, he’d bet that this loop could be his last.

***

Solomon admires the wooden gravemarker with ‘T. Armitage, 1805-1848’ carved into it with a dull knife. Then, below it, ‘Ecclesiastes 12:7: and the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God, Who gave it’. Armitage wasn’t a particularly devout man, neither is Solomon, at least not in the way he ought to be, but it felt wrong not to include an epigraph. Then, he crouches low enough to fill his palm with stones and sets to work piling them in front of it. He doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him. A second pair of hands appears and begins crafting a miniature cairn on the other side of the grave. They work in silence for a few minutes, moving across the row to decorate the other graves, those of Wentzall, Strickland, and Wall. Little hands him the stones and Solomon stacks them, he’s had enough practice for several lifetimes. When it’s over, they turn back to Armitage.

They were days from Fort Resolution when Armitage collapsed. Not dead, it took until they’d gotten good and settled at the Fort for him to die in peace. And it wasn’t the scurvy or the lead that did him in, he collapsed because his legs could support him no longer. There was no room in the sledges, already filled with the sick, the resting, the dying who they did not want to stop to bury because that was time they couldn’t afford to lose, not when they were so close. They hauled in four-hour shifts, same as the ships, or until they could not bear it anymore. For two days, Sol traded the weight of a harness across his middle for Armitage’s thinned form slung over his shoulders, steady breathing in his ear. Sol doesn’t remember anything from when he fainted—10 miles from the Fort, 4 from a group of trappers looking for game—until he woke up four days later to the news that Armitage had passed in his sleep, only 30 minutes before.

“He was a good man,” Little says in a genuine sort of way, though he did not know Armitage particularly well, “and a crack shot.”

Funny, that’s the exact wording Sol used the first time around. Only he was using it as leverage to get more guns. How stupid that plan seems now, how hollow the words ring when used as a bargaining chip and not a eulogy. He concedes with a nod, a grunt that’s more of a sigh than an affirmation. If he speaks, he’s worried his voice will crack. It’s a miracle he can still cry after all these deaths, that he finds cause to feel sorrow rather than emptiness.

There is silence again, and a long one at that, before Little turns to look at him. There is a worried look in his eye, a tiredness Sol has come to welcome in his own body. He fits the words carefully in his mouth like he’s had years to practice what he’s about to say.

“You told me something extraordinary once, I’m hoping to repay the favour.”