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Crozier sees Tom Blanky sitting on the edge of a frozen sea. His wooden boot is off - cast down the second he's able to rid himself of the damned thing - and he's smoking his last pipe as he waits. It's more sawdust than tobacco now, and it likely burns the back of his throat, but if his lungs and throat are burning then he's warm enough.
The beast's not far behind; it's been following ever since it realized the Yorkshireman was alone. He hears it behind him, smells its carrion breath, and turns with chest puffed out to greet death--
There's a play now, a pantomime. Crozier normally doesn't care for pantomimes, and this one is a fairly standard affair, the Pierrot, Columbine, and Harlequin doing their little tumbles and jests until a fourth figure steps in. Has there ever been a panto with gun-play? There's barely time to consider it before the gun goes off and the Harlequin falls to the ground, bleeding out from the hole in his stomach. The interloper is familiar -- she is the Harlequin.
Una Persson dons her costume, apologizing for shooting Pierrot's brother. No one seems surprised that the man is dying. No one really seems concerned. He will return, as they all do, time and time again.
Crozier finds himself in a lighthouse, but he senses it's not as it should be.
"Why're you all wet, baby?"
Doctor Cawley, a short, distinguished-looking man with a head balder than a newborn is sitting calmly behind a desk as a gun - it looks like a gun, anyway - is pointed to him. He's unworried. The man holding the gun looks more and more frantic. Cawley and the man, Laeddis, go back and forth and back and forth, and then there's Doctor Sheehan walking in through the door, a soft, apologetic smile on his face.
"Hey, boss."
Laeddis face falls.
Scully's face is open. He knows her name is Dana Scully. She's a brilliant woman, much like Sophia, and can see through nonsense as though she's developed a special talent for it.
Mulder trusts her. She trusts him. In the arctic - he's not sure how he knows it's the arctic, but it is - being hunted by a parasite, the others around them growing in their own suspicions and paranoia, they only have each other. Mulder allows her to check his neck, and she finds him free of the worm currently ravaging the fort.
Crozier paws at his chest in his sleep. He feels like his bedclothes are strangling him.
He realizes he's back aboard Terror. It's not ship he's known, but the ship he will know, and he recognizes the faces of Mahir Gowda and Shaun Mason. They're speaking quietly in someone's berth, close. Knees touching as they discuss something Crozier can't understand. Maybe, he thinks, it doesn't matter if he doesn't understand the topic of their conversation. He knows their tone, their hushed words, the tenderness expressed between two people who think the world of each other.
Shaun moves just a hair's breadth and his lips touch Mahir's. There's a gasp of surprise between them, mostly Mahir's, and for a second Crozier believes Mahir is going to make a dash for the door. He doesn't. He presses back, their arms link around each other, drawing the other's body close as their mouths meet again.
It hasn't happened yet. Crozier's reminded of the lash and the articles, and a deep, quiet, insistent part of him quiets his mind and shows him Bridgens. The old man brings a journal to his lips and lays his body down on the rocky ground of King William Land, dying with the last trace of his love protected from the elements by his body.
They find the journal. M'Clintock does, Bridgen's weather-worn skeleton still clutching his beloved's words. M'Clintock finds so much of them, including Jopson.
He knows the skeleton is Jopson's. The bleached bones are still wearing his dress shirt and smallclothes. M'Clintock touches the skull and Crozier wants to scream himself hoarse. Don't touch him! Don't touch him, he's not just bones, he was a man, god damn you!
He's beside the tent now, watching as Little as his party does the one thing he assured the dying he would never do. Next him are rations, poisoned mush in a little red can, and so cruelly stacked and left for the men who would never have the strength to open them in the first place. He hears Jopson call out, feels him crawling from the tent, belly and hands scratching and bleeding as he drags himself on the shale.
Crozier sees himself. He's sitting at a table, feasting and talking to some unseen party. He looks well-fed, well-groomed. Jopson imagines himself crawling over the table in desperation to get to him. He calls for him, calls for him over and over, voice breaking, body dying, believing his captain to have abandoned him for dead.
He thinks he hears Fitzjames pleading for death, but the voice isn't his. It belongs to an old woman, and she's desperately beginning for her own end. Something clings to her, choking her, and Dorian, for all of his bluster and self-assurance, is hesitant. He doesn't want to kill her. This is no way to take care of a little sister, he says. They argue back and forth, her voice deepening with her sickness, and Dorian finally - finally relents.
It's the hard crack that makes Crozier sick to his stomach, even in the dream. Dorian's face is the picture of regret and despair, but he's still holding the old woman's head in his hands, the sin he's committed hanging heavy in the room.
Crozier knows a mercy killing when he sees one, but he doesn't understand the workings of it. It's hazy and confusing, and he can't seem to read this one as well as the others. The humidity of the room is oppressive, and then it's cold.
Freezing, actually.
The ceilings rise above him like a Papist cathedral, and sounds echo around him like he imagines a castle might. He hears a little girl crying for her mother and father, her small arms trying to hold up another girl not much younger than herself. She's injured her somehow, this younger girl. She's horrified by herself, scared that she's hurt the person closest to her heart. Crozier doesn't understand how exactly, but he knows the ice has something to do with it.
He's suddenly stumbling over a frozen sea, and thinks he spies Terror in the distance. But it isn't Terror or Erebus out in the ice but an entire, unfamiliar fleet, their sails still unfurled as though they were taken by surprise by the sudden fury of the storm. There are others out there on the water with him, the wind and sleet roaring loudly and pushing them away from each other. Just as he thinks he might be blown away entirely the wind ceases, and Crozier beholds a heartbreaking scene - the same little girl, now grown, weeping over the frozen body of her sister.
Her sister, Anna, the now Queen of Arendelle, frozen in place to save her sister.
The others that had been lost in the snow congregate to watch the woman weep. A man on the ice, another standing by a reindeer, and a --
A horror. A man made out of snow, speaking and walking on its own.
As Crozier recoils he's pushed out from that place, pulled into another that is sadly far more familiar.
Jonathan Strange is in that dark apartment. He tears at delicate-looking fabric - a gown - and throws it to the ground. His distress is momentarily forgotten when he spies a small, metal box on the floor. His face contorts as he stares at it, and then he's reaching for something on his desk. It's a vial containing a mouse floating in some sort of pickling brine or alcohol. He drinks it down, grimaces, his eyes grow wide as part of himself disappears.
"Where did you come from? Show me."
Strange runs towards the mirror and Crozier braces for the man to smash right into the glass. But as quickly as he'd downed the disgusting drink he's gone, disappeared right through the mirror. All the candles left behind in the gloomy apartment are extinguished at once, but not before a final burst of bright light.
It's too bright to be candles alone. Too loud. The roar renders him deaf for a moment, and then there's horrible silence.
"Mr. Bastable, as I understand it a bomb of this type can, in theory, produce incalculable destruction. Parts of the city might be harmed."
'Parts' is a damn understatement, Crozier thinks. The city - he knows it is called Hiroshima - has been annihilated, and Una Persson was in the airship that dropped the bomb.
Crozier sits up with a start, grasping the bedclothes around him and panting.
"What in the god-damned hell?"
((Crozier will be dreaming a version of this every night for the duration of the nightmare.))
___________________________________________________________________________________________________
Has anyone else remained in possession of their own thoughts? If you have, make yourself known here and to each other. London is a large place and I haven't seen any of you since Terror changed.
I've located Mrs. Strange and conversed with her on the subject of her husband. There may be a way to track him down yet, but I haven't figured out the workings of the magic.
And yes, I'm perfectly aware of how ridiculous that sounds coming from a man like myself.
The beast's not far behind; it's been following ever since it realized the Yorkshireman was alone. He hears it behind him, smells its carrion breath, and turns with chest puffed out to greet death--
There's a play now, a pantomime. Crozier normally doesn't care for pantomimes, and this one is a fairly standard affair, the Pierrot, Columbine, and Harlequin doing their little tumbles and jests until a fourth figure steps in. Has there ever been a panto with gun-play? There's barely time to consider it before the gun goes off and the Harlequin falls to the ground, bleeding out from the hole in his stomach. The interloper is familiar -- she is the Harlequin.
Una Persson dons her costume, apologizing for shooting Pierrot's brother. No one seems surprised that the man is dying. No one really seems concerned. He will return, as they all do, time and time again.
Crozier finds himself in a lighthouse, but he senses it's not as it should be.
"Why're you all wet, baby?"
Doctor Cawley, a short, distinguished-looking man with a head balder than a newborn is sitting calmly behind a desk as a gun - it looks like a gun, anyway - is pointed to him. He's unworried. The man holding the gun looks more and more frantic. Cawley and the man, Laeddis, go back and forth and back and forth, and then there's Doctor Sheehan walking in through the door, a soft, apologetic smile on his face.
"Hey, boss."
Laeddis face falls.
Scully's face is open. He knows her name is Dana Scully. She's a brilliant woman, much like Sophia, and can see through nonsense as though she's developed a special talent for it.
Mulder trusts her. She trusts him. In the arctic - he's not sure how he knows it's the arctic, but it is - being hunted by a parasite, the others around them growing in their own suspicions and paranoia, they only have each other. Mulder allows her to check his neck, and she finds him free of the worm currently ravaging the fort.
Crozier paws at his chest in his sleep. He feels like his bedclothes are strangling him.
He realizes he's back aboard Terror. It's not ship he's known, but the ship he will know, and he recognizes the faces of Mahir Gowda and Shaun Mason. They're speaking quietly in someone's berth, close. Knees touching as they discuss something Crozier can't understand. Maybe, he thinks, it doesn't matter if he doesn't understand the topic of their conversation. He knows their tone, their hushed words, the tenderness expressed between two people who think the world of each other.
Shaun moves just a hair's breadth and his lips touch Mahir's. There's a gasp of surprise between them, mostly Mahir's, and for a second Crozier believes Mahir is going to make a dash for the door. He doesn't. He presses back, their arms link around each other, drawing the other's body close as their mouths meet again.
It hasn't happened yet. Crozier's reminded of the lash and the articles, and a deep, quiet, insistent part of him quiets his mind and shows him Bridgens. The old man brings a journal to his lips and lays his body down on the rocky ground of King William Land, dying with the last trace of his love protected from the elements by his body.
They find the journal. M'Clintock does, Bridgen's weather-worn skeleton still clutching his beloved's words. M'Clintock finds so much of them, including Jopson.
He knows the skeleton is Jopson's. The bleached bones are still wearing his dress shirt and smallclothes. M'Clintock touches the skull and Crozier wants to scream himself hoarse. Don't touch him! Don't touch him, he's not just bones, he was a man, god damn you!
He's beside the tent now, watching as Little as his party does the one thing he assured the dying he would never do. Next him are rations, poisoned mush in a little red can, and so cruelly stacked and left for the men who would never have the strength to open them in the first place. He hears Jopson call out, feels him crawling from the tent, belly and hands scratching and bleeding as he drags himself on the shale.
Crozier sees himself. He's sitting at a table, feasting and talking to some unseen party. He looks well-fed, well-groomed. Jopson imagines himself crawling over the table in desperation to get to him. He calls for him, calls for him over and over, voice breaking, body dying, believing his captain to have abandoned him for dead.
He thinks he hears Fitzjames pleading for death, but the voice isn't his. It belongs to an old woman, and she's desperately beginning for her own end. Something clings to her, choking her, and Dorian, for all of his bluster and self-assurance, is hesitant. He doesn't want to kill her. This is no way to take care of a little sister, he says. They argue back and forth, her voice deepening with her sickness, and Dorian finally - finally relents.
It's the hard crack that makes Crozier sick to his stomach, even in the dream. Dorian's face is the picture of regret and despair, but he's still holding the old woman's head in his hands, the sin he's committed hanging heavy in the room.
Crozier knows a mercy killing when he sees one, but he doesn't understand the workings of it. It's hazy and confusing, and he can't seem to read this one as well as the others. The humidity of the room is oppressive, and then it's cold.
Freezing, actually.
The ceilings rise above him like a Papist cathedral, and sounds echo around him like he imagines a castle might. He hears a little girl crying for her mother and father, her small arms trying to hold up another girl not much younger than herself. She's injured her somehow, this younger girl. She's horrified by herself, scared that she's hurt the person closest to her heart. Crozier doesn't understand how exactly, but he knows the ice has something to do with it.
He's suddenly stumbling over a frozen sea, and thinks he spies Terror in the distance. But it isn't Terror or Erebus out in the ice but an entire, unfamiliar fleet, their sails still unfurled as though they were taken by surprise by the sudden fury of the storm. There are others out there on the water with him, the wind and sleet roaring loudly and pushing them away from each other. Just as he thinks he might be blown away entirely the wind ceases, and Crozier beholds a heartbreaking scene - the same little girl, now grown, weeping over the frozen body of her sister.
Her sister, Anna, the now Queen of Arendelle, frozen in place to save her sister.
The others that had been lost in the snow congregate to watch the woman weep. A man on the ice, another standing by a reindeer, and a --
A horror. A man made out of snow, speaking and walking on its own.
As Crozier recoils he's pushed out from that place, pulled into another that is sadly far more familiar.
Jonathan Strange is in that dark apartment. He tears at delicate-looking fabric - a gown - and throws it to the ground. His distress is momentarily forgotten when he spies a small, metal box on the floor. His face contorts as he stares at it, and then he's reaching for something on his desk. It's a vial containing a mouse floating in some sort of pickling brine or alcohol. He drinks it down, grimaces, his eyes grow wide as part of himself disappears.
"Where did you come from? Show me."
Strange runs towards the mirror and Crozier braces for the man to smash right into the glass. But as quickly as he'd downed the disgusting drink he's gone, disappeared right through the mirror. All the candles left behind in the gloomy apartment are extinguished at once, but not before a final burst of bright light.
It's too bright to be candles alone. Too loud. The roar renders him deaf for a moment, and then there's horrible silence.
"Mr. Bastable, as I understand it a bomb of this type can, in theory, produce incalculable destruction. Parts of the city might be harmed."
'Parts' is a damn understatement, Crozier thinks. The city - he knows it is called Hiroshima - has been annihilated, and Una Persson was in the airship that dropped the bomb.
Crozier sits up with a start, grasping the bedclothes around him and panting.
"What in the god-damned hell?"
((Crozier will be dreaming a version of this every night for the duration of the nightmare.))
___________________________________________________________________________________________________
Has anyone else remained in possession of their own thoughts? If you have, make yourself known here and to each other. London is a large place and I haven't seen any of you since Terror changed.
I've located Mrs. Strange and conversed with her on the subject of her husband. There may be a way to track him down yet, but I haven't figured out the workings of the magic.
(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 01:41 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 02:06 am (UTC)All the while, Strange is giving Sheehan and Crozier a look of mild amusement.
"I'd advise you to keep your distance. I know the curse affects English magicians, I'm not sure if it extends to Irish and American." The bird lands on Strange's shoulder before dropping the letter in his open hand. "There are so many things about this situation that outright baffle me. So, we shall start with the easiest: how the devil do you two know John Childermass?"
(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 02:19 am (UTC)It's Mr. Strange himself, and for a second Crozier's actually quite pleased they've managed to pull it off. The curse the man speaks of must be the black wind that's trying to envelop him, and he admits that seeing it swirling about the magician certainly makes for an intimidating sight.
"Must be referring to your new friend," Crozier says to Sheehan. "Not the bird, the man." As if it wasn't obvious.
(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 02:22 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 02:36 am (UTC)"I wouldn't precisely call him a friend, but he helped me out once when I sorely needed it. And, he is a magician—as are the two of you. This is why, if I may be blunt, I'm surprised you know me and not him. Surely those in Norrell's camp would have hounded him to take up their cause by now."
(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 02:48 am (UTC)He shares a glance with Sheehan before proceeding. "You've mistaken our intent, Strange. We've summoned you for no other cause than to speak with you."
(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 02:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 02:56 am (UTC)"I shall have to gloat about this to Norrell later." Because ha ha, he's got random magicians summoning him! "Go on. Say your piece."
(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 03:04 am (UTC)"You know us, Strange. We've been concerned about you."
(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 03:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 03:18 am (UTC)"Please don't come any closer. You two are magicians," though it's said in a tone of voice more like Strange trying to convince himself of the fact instead of it actually being true. "I don't want you trapped here with me."
(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 03:23 am (UTC)"An Ulsterman summoning an English magician in the middle of London with an American. Oh yes, that makes sense," he adds in spite of himself. He shakes his head. "Strange, do you recall the Terror? The tuunbaq? Do you recall us at all?"
(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 03:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 03:50 am (UTC)He's visibly confused as he continues talking. "I must have encountered something like that in my travels," he says, knowing full well that it's a flimsy justification that can't explain why he knows that fiend.
(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 03:54 am (UTC)"You did, upon your travels to a dream," Crozier reassures him. "A shared dream, Strange, where you met myself, Mr. Sheehan, and a dozen others. We tried to stop you from pursuing the creature, but you didn't listen and were killed. I know you remember this. You didn't forget your own death."
(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 03:58 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 04:11 am (UTC)Except that neither of them mentioned the Arctic, did they. So how could he know they were there unless he was there as well? The darkness around Strange starts to grow as if reacting to his mental confusion. The sky darkens even more as constellations that did not exist in the London sky start to dot the night.
(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 11:24 am (UTC)"It's easy to tell yourself untruths, Strange," he tells him, pushing. Prodding. "Easy to fall into a lie because it's comfortable. This is not your London."
He remembers Arabella Strange's words and continues. "Think, man. Think."
(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 11:28 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 01:47 pm (UTC)"It's not a terrible lie. You have a roof over your head. Nothing's trying to kill you. And the two of you obviously have some level of magic here. But I think that just proves the Captain's point."
He gives Crozier and Sheehan an apologetic little smile.
(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 01:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 02:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 02:21 pm (UTC)There's a pause, before he adds, "And I'm sorry I caused this in the first place."
(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 02:42 pm (UTC)"I came across your wife in my search for you," he tells him gently, holding Strange's gaze. "She has a message for you, Jonathan. She misses you terribly, and she wants you to listen to the advice you once gave to her. She seems an exceptionally wise woman."
(no subject)
Date: 2020-06-02 02:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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