Chapter Text
(128 souls onboard, 1 missing)
There’s an empty chair at the officers’ table.
At the right hand of Sir John, there’s an empty seat that looms over them all. An absence that won’t be acknowledged, but refuses to be ignored. When he first set up these regular shared meals, Sir John claimed that Francis would soon join them, of that he had no doubt, and that they would keep a seat open for him at their table until he did.
James stares at the empty chair across from him, and prays to whoever is listening it stays that way forever.
He eats his dinner in silence, as polite conversation flies around him. The ships are in good condition, the waters are calm and clear, and the ice around them poses no threat. The stores are plentiful, as always, and the men are in good spirits.
A perfect voyage so far.
“Soon”, says Sir John, “soon we’ll be in sight of our destination. God is watching over us, gentlemen, and He’ll grant us our just reward.”
Around the table, voices echo in agreement, but James stays silent. He looks down at his food, his hair falling around his face in strong, gentle waves. It hides him from this world, and for a second he can almost believe it has all but disappeared. Believe that if he looks up, he’ll meet angry, glazed-over eyes that can’t, won’t focus on him. He’ll be back at the start of it all, before… Before…
James frowns over his meal. The fog in his mind keeps his thoughts fleeting and unsure. He’s getting upset, he knows, but he can’t find it in himself to care.
He used to care so much, before.
Next to him, Dundy discreetly brushes his knee, trying to catch James’ attention. Sir John must have expressed some displeasure with his behaviour, one way or another. Is he frowning, did he sigh, has he called James’ name in vain?
When did it stop being important?
“Is there something on your mind, James?” Sir John’s voice booms inside the room, commending attention James can’t give him. “It’s been some time since you shared one of your stories with us.”
James can barely keep his bitterness in. His plate is full of impossibly fresh, unbearably tasteful food, and he wants to scream.
“Are you feeling well, my dear man?”
James smiles in response, it’s a carving on his lips, splitting him open and sore.
“Never better, Sir John.” He coughs, his breath is short. “I have nothing much to add to the conversation, I’m afraid.”
Dundy has given up trying to catch James' attention, and the other lieutenants do their best to ignore him. The cloud of melancholia that surrounds him unsettle them, he knows, and James relishes it. He doesn’t blame them for keeping up the charade, but that doesn’t mean he’ll play along.
Sir John, however, doesn’t seem to catch on his mood. No matter what happens between them, he only ever sees James as who he used to be, and that man would have done anything to please him.
“Nonsense, James! Please, the floor is yours.”
He grins in response, and the sight makes Lieutenant Little wince. James sits back, crossing his legs with flourish, his bones grinding under the strain, but as he breathes in, his eyes catch on Francis’ empty seat. And what comes out of his mouth is no story at all.
“I already told you, multiple times in fact, of the Chinese sniper and their bullet that pierced me... But the ending of that tale has to be amended. I didn’t realize at the time that it would take it six years to end me.”
As he talks, he can feel his condition worsen. His side, his arm, the scar tissue is opening anew, flesh rotting instantly, warm blood sweeping into his clothes. The excruciating pain is almost a relief.
“It required the help, in no small part, of the poorly-sealed, lead-infested cans the Admiralty provided us with. Had we found game on our march, maybe this story would have had a different conclusion still. For all of us.”
He turns to stare at Little, then. Stares as his face turns a nauseated green, as the skin of his cheeks sags under an invisible weight that his beard rapidly covers. It has happened before, and there’s no enjoyment in seeing it happen again. Just a desperate need to see someone, anyone, affected like he is.
“But as it were,” James resumes, turning the attention to himself once again, “the marks of my past exploits became putrefied holes from which I bled out until there was nothing left to give. Oh, I tried to hide it, Sir John, of course, but it wasn’t long before the fever claimed what little discernment I had, and– ”
A cough stops him, a violent cough that rakes the walls of his lungs as his whole body contorts over the pain. All of his muscles lock at once, his articulations scream at the forced movement, the shallow breaths he takes overwhelm him with the smell of rot coming from his own body. He feels something come loose in his mouth, and concentrates his efforts on spitting it before he chokes on it. The tooth hits the corner of his own plate and ends on the empty one opposite him.
He focuses on his breathing, trying not to gag or cough, anything that would rattle him even further. The room is silent around him, not a sound but for the echo of the sea outside. Each breath comes a little easier, expanding his lungs a little more each time, as his mind remembers where he is. That all of these sensations are only memories.
When he opens his eyes again, half-blind now, his gaze meets Graham’s. He stares at James with overwhelming pity, and he has to look away. He wonders what Graham must think of them, who suffered for months more than he did, with nothing to show for it. Is he thankful that he met an early end, compared to the rest of them? Do those who marched wish they had escaped to this place before they saw more of the horror and despair of their last days?
James wouldn’t trade those last weeks of suffering for the world. He’s thankful to have died as the man he had become.
He manages to take a full breath, and another, as he feels his flesh heal slowly, evacuating the dead tissue as scars reform themselves. The trickling of blood slowly comes to an end, and any evidence of it disappears from his pristine uniform. His missing tooth reforms in his mouth in an instant, no trace of it left on the table.
“James.”
Sir John’s voice is like ice in his veins. He doesn’t know how to respond to it. James tries to sit up, to regain as much posture as he can, but in that moment it is useless.
At least Edward is looking more like he remembers him. A small mercy.
“I’m beginning to wonder if I haven’t made a mistake,” Sir John continues, “allowing you to reassign some members of Erebus to Terror.”
Dundy looks up instantly, failing to hide the panic in his eyes. James turns to him, to try and focus his attention lest his mind starts wandering too. With his display and Edward’s, which he caused, he doesn’t know if the situation can be salvaged. Dundy losing himself would doom them.
But James can’t stay with him for too long. Sir John’s words require an answer. He must appeal to him, whatever it takes.
“I was out of line, Sir John, I apologize– ”
“No, James, I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.” He looks at the whole table in one sweeping glance. “I should apologize to all of you. Reassigning the men according to their… circumstances, was a mistake. A well-intentioned one, no doubt, but a mistake all the same.”
This is bad. Clearly Sir John had already made up his mind, and what happened was just the right opportunity for him to breach the subject and make it seem like the most reasonable solution.
Edward sits up and clears his throat lightly.
“Sir John, if I may– ”
Sir John raises his hand and Edward crumbles instantly.
“Discipline must be maintained, at all costs. This is the only way we will reach our ultimate destination. We cannot allow for anyone to stray from their intended path. Order will help everyone, I’m sure, to put those dreadful events behind us.”
Fear grips James’ heart. Just how much order does Sir John want to restore? Surely he wouldn’t let Terror without an acting captain, and he’s the only one suitable for the role...
But Sir John doesn’t consider him suitable any more. He’s defective now. A liability.
He must stay on Terror. He must.
“Sir John, if you would just– ”
“Lieutenant Fairholme saw the fire on Terror, James.”
James’ words are cut short. He has nothing to respond to that. Fairholme can’t hide his embarrassment fast enough, but James doesn’t blame him. He wasn’t there, he doesn’t remember. For him, a fire is just a fire.
Under the table, hidden from view, Dundy slowly grabs James’ hand and holds it tight. He’s trying to ground himself, to not lose himself to the panic James can feel rushing through his skin. His own grip is just as strong.
“Bringing Dr Stanley back to Erebus wouldn’t change a thing, Sir John.”
Sir John sits back in his chair, eyes towards the sky, for all accounts deep in thought. But James knows it’s only posture. It’s cruel, and useless, but James wishes he could look down at Sir John’ leg and see only mangled flesh in a pool of blood. To see him brought down to their level.
But Sir John remains as he is, full to the brim with the certitude that in this, as in many other things, he stands above them. He looks down at James, and the righteousness of his gaze brings a shiver to his spine. James hides it, like he should all things. He thinks back to the start of dinner, and regrets his own childish foolishness.
“How so, James?”
He releases Dundy’s hand, and turns his whole body towards Sir John, grabbing his attention, hiding the others from his sight. He has to fix this situation, somehow. Channel the orator he used to be, if only for a moment.
Someone knocks on the door before he can start.
“Enter.” Sir John’s eyes remain on James.
But the door stay closed. The muffed voice of Gibson can barely be heard from the other side.
“Message from Terror, Captain.”
Sir John turns his head, trying to hide the extent of his displeasure, yet sighting loudly to make it understood. Someone quickly stands up, and James sees it is Irving who took the initiative to go to the door. A kindness from him, yet another one. At the table, James catches Hodgson with his hands on his ears, like a child in a storm.
Irving keeps the door only half-opened, hiding the room from view. “Is it an emergency, Mr Gibson?”
“No sir, but Captain Fitzjames’ presence is required. The message doesn’t say more.”
James’ heart skips a beat, his breath stuck in his throat once again, but for a whole different reason. His gaze turns to the empty chair in front of him. There are few reasons Terror would call him back without disclosing why.
“I see. Thank you.” He hears Gibson leaving before Irving even completes his sentence. Little tries to discretely signal Hodgson, but he is shut out completely.
James stands up loudly, commanding the attention of the whole room as he steps behind his chair. Every lieutenant raises in response, which brings Hodgson back to them, scrambling to catch up. But Sir John still hasn’t moved.
“I’m sorry we have to adjourn this meal, Sir John, but we better go back to Terror at once.”
The lieutenants agree in unison, those assigned to Terror almost running out of the room, while those from Erebus follow, a step behind. Soon, it’s only him and Sir John left in the mess room. He know he should have a parting word, some well-placed sentiment that would erase the recent events from Sir John’s mind. But he’s barely hanging on as it is, and just as desperate to return to Terror.
“Commander Fitzjames.”
Sir John’s voice is low, but the words might as well have bounced off the walls. James stands at attention, like a simple subordinate new to Arctic waters, as if the last two years of his life had never happened.
“Sir John?”
He doesn’t answer, and James has to wait while he dabs at his month with his napkin, carefully folding it again once he’s done. He sets the cutlery back in its proper place around his plate, peruses his work, and then, finally, decides the pause has been long enough to make his point clear.
“Don’t believe this matter has been settled, James.” He stands up, limbs heavy, as if the very act had to be consciously decided and directed.
“Of course, Sir John.”
James waits until he hears the door to the Captain’s Cabin close behind Sir John before running out to join his Lieutenants.