Chapter Text
Endless white, as far as the eye could see, gleaming dully in the moonlight. Captain James Fitzjames stood on the quarterdeck, hands laced behind his back, watching. There was no movement. The only sound was the faint creaking of timber. All was still. Just ice, nothing but ice, the weight of it piling against their ships, crushing them inch by inch until eventually they would be no more than kindling.
And not just crushing the ships, James thought. Crushing their minds, their souls. There was no sun here, no warmth, nothing green or living. How was a man meant to survive in this place?
"Best not stare too long, sir," a voice came from behind him. "Gets into your head."
"Mr. Blanky," James said, without turning his head away from the ice. "How fare you?"
"Enjoying the tropical sunshine, sir," came the dry reply.
James managed a chuckle. "Were it only so," he said. He finally wrenched his gaze away from the ice that stretched into the infinite horizon. "And how fares our captain?"
It had been two weeks since he'd seen Crozier. Not for lack of trying; Crozier's boy Jopson had steel in his spine, standing before the captain's quarters and telling Fitzjames that "the captain is indisposed, sir," resolutely ignoring Fitzjames' demands. At least there was no question of where his loyalty lay, James thought.
"Past the worst of it, I believe," Blanky said. There was a long pause. "Have you—seen a man recover from such, sir?"
James had, in his youth, though he was hardly inclined to share the circumstances with Mr. Blanky. "I have," he said. "Like the influenza at first, then sweats and shakes. And if he survives, a weakness that may last some time."
Blanky nodded along with this litany. "You have the shape of it, sir," he said. "I reckon another day or two of sweats and shakes, no more."
"You have some experience with this," James noted.
"Aye," Blanky said, offering no more detail than James had.
"Well," James said, turning back to the inexorable pull of the ice, "I look forward to speaking with him when he's well. There is much to discuss."
Blanky said nothing, but he bore a certain air of skepticism in his demeanor.
"You disagree, Mr. Blanky?" James asked.
"Not as such, sir. May I speak freely?"
There was no one nearby, and so James inclined his head in the affirmative.
"Well," Blanky said, "it's just I'm surprised to hear you talk that way. Didn't think there was much love lost between you and the captain, that's all." He watched James' face carefully; as well he might, James thought. What he'd just said bordered on insubordination, although he supposed a man who had as much of the captain's trust and confidence as Blanky didn't have to worry about that.
"He is still my captain," James said, surprised at how much the statement rang true. Francis had stung him a thousand times over, with his verbal darts and barbs meant to show everyone just how much of a fraud he thought James was, just how foolish and foppish his tales of daring were. It had hurt, more than Francis likely thought him capable of being hurt.
James had tried to bring it up once to Sir John, but John would brook no discussion of Francis's faults or failings. He reminded James that someday Francis might be his captain, and that he would be Francis's second, and that he must respect him accordingly.
Which all came to pass, sooner than Sir John, or anyone else, had expected.
Francis had come to James the evening of Sir John's funeral, taken him aside privately, his breath laced with the cloying smell of rum. James had braced himself for a litany of his own failings, but instead, Francis had clapped him on the shoulder and looked him in the eye. "Fitzjames, I've not been a friend to you," he'd said, "but I pray you will give me a second chance."
James had nodded stiffly, hiding his surprise. He knew better than to trust a drunken profession such as this one; nonetheless, a tendril of hope sprouted deep within his heart.
"Of course," he'd said. "Of course, Captain Crozier."
Francis squeezed his shoulder. "Thank you," he'd said, as solemn and grave as though James had given him something precious. It had been a start of something new between them— something James had carefully tended and cultivated, right up until the moment Francis shut himself in his quarters and refused entry to all but Jopson.
"When do you think I might see him?" James asked Mr. Blanky. "Jopson is like a guard dog. He bares his teeth if I even approach." An exaggeration, although he felt the comparison was apt.
Blanky chuckled. "That boy will surprise us all," he said. "Give the captain two more nights, Commander, and then I expect he'll receive you."
"Thank you, Mr. Blanky," James said.
"Wasn't joking about that ice, sir," Blanky said, turning back to the quarterdeck. "You watch it for too long, it'll crawl right inside your head and set up camp there."
Too late, James thought. His eyes drifted to the ice, and there they remained.
Two nights later, James spent entirely too much time polishing his buttons and combing his hair before making his way to the captain's quarters. He would present himself before his captain in nothing less than impeccable form. He would give Francis no opportunity to find fault with him.
Jopson was not standing his usual watch outside the door, which was a surprise. James rapped twice, sharply.
"Yes?" The voice was weak and thready, but it was unmistakably Francis. James straightened his posture and lifted his chin.
"Captain Fitzjames, sir."
"Come," Crozier said. James opened the door and entered, bracing himself for whatever he might find.
What he found was Francis in his shirtsleeves and a stained pair of trousers, propped up in his bed with a book laid to one side. His skin bore a gray pallor, and his hair was damp with sweat. He'd lost weight in the two weeks since James had last seen him, his cheekbones more prominent, his shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders.
"Sir," James began uncertainly, "it is—it is good to see you well."
Francis barked out a laugh. "Let's not be coy with each other, hm, Fitzjames? I look like a freshly warmed-over dog's breakfast, and no mistake."
James sat carefully on the nearby chair. "You have...looked better, yes," he said. "But also, I dare say, worse."
Francis regarded him with clear eyes the color of water. James had never noticed before that Francis's eyes were blue; probably, he realized with a start, because his eyes had always before been pink with bloodshot. "Yes," Francis said, "a fair sight worse. But I think I've seen the back of it now. Now, James, what was it you needed?"
James blinked. He couldn't remember the excuse he'd thought up to come down here. Something about supplies or the watch roster. His mind was already racing ahead, putting together a plausible explanation that would be suitably important to disturb Terror's recently-indisposed captain. But at the last minute, he decided recklessly on the truth. "I suppose I just wanted to see you, Francis," he said.
Francis cocked his head curiously, fixing James with a level stare. "Oh, aye?" he asked.
"It's the truth, if you can believe it," James said with a bitter smile. "I know you think I'm hardly capable of it. But it's been—a long few weeks and I—"
He hadn't come here to spill out his guts in a confession. Hadn't meant to put his inadequacy on display in front of the man he most wanted to hide it from. His eyes burned hot, and his chest was tight.
"I've been looking at the ice, Francis," he whispered, as though that meant something. As though anything meant anything at all.
But Francis nodded in understanding. He shifted the bedclothes away, swinging his legs over the side, and he got up, taking a few unsteady steps to the table where James sat. He sat heavily down in the chair facing him, out of breath from that small exertion.
"You needn't have got up," James said, but some part of him was desperately, childishly glad to have Francis right there, near enough to touch him if he dared to do so.
But Francis moved first, reaching out to cover James's hand with his own, broad and freckled and chapped. "Tell me," he said in his lilting brogue. "Tell me everything. I know you're being honest with me, lad. I'm sorry I made you think elsewise."
It wasn't mockery; James knew mockery, had an eagle's sharp eye for it. This was something else, something he didn't recognize. He closed his eyes, because he couldn't watch Francis while he gushed out his insecurities like blood from a lanced wound. "We're not meant to be here," James said. "This is no place for men. It's barren, sterile. It doesn't want us here."
He wished he had a drink, but of course there was none to be found in the captain's quarters. Not anymore. "It wants us to die," James rasped. "I can feel it, Francis. I know it. When I look at it, I swear to god and everything holy that it's looking back."
Francis squeezed his hand.
"We have to get out of here," James said, his voice breaking. "We can't—we can't carry on like this. I can't carry on like this."
A tear, hot and shameful, leaked from his eye and trickled down his cheek. He shouldn't have come here. Shouldn't have presented himself before Francis like this, falling apart and ranting like Bedlam.
"Look at me," Francis said. James opened his eyes, meeting his captain's calm, commanding face. "I am going to get us out of here."
He'd said it as incontrovertible fact, as though it were carved into the stone of the earth. His eyes were steady on James, forcing the truth into him through sheer will.
"There will be hardships, no doubt, but we will stand together, you and I, under the bright, hot sun, and this place will be nothing but a bad memory. Do you believe me?"
James gripped Francis's hand tightly. He did not rightly recognize the feeling swelling in his chest, like a wave about to oversweep his decks. "Yes," he said. "I believe you, Francis."
Francis nodded once, his demeanor that of a lord accepting an oath of fealty. "Good," he said. "You're a good man, James. A good man and a good second."
James committed the words to memory, knowing he'd want to revisit this moment again. "Thank you, Captain," he said, proud of keeping his voice steady. Francis squeezed his hand, and for near onto a full day after, James could feel the lingering sensation of a warm, firm hand wrapped around his own.