katabasis | [PSL] in this sense the open jaws of wild beasts will appear no less pleasing than their prototypes

[PSL] in this sense the open jaws of wild beasts will appear no less pleasing than their prototypes

The bread that is over-baked so that it cracks and bursts asunder hath not the form desired by the baker; yet none the less it hath a beauty of its own, and is most tempting to the palate. Figs bursting in their ripeness, olives near even unto decay, have yet in their broken ripeness a distinctive beauty.

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Logically, it shouldn't feel restful or anything like security. What do they know of the other men occupying the clearing except that they will take strangers into their company for some manner of payment? What other things would they be willing to do if it meant some coin in their pockets? Yet it does - feel like there's some measure of safety here. Maybe it's the simple fact of being out of the rain, or maybe he's just exhausted, or maybe it's the sound of harsh weather grasping against sail cloth. But here in the shadow of their lean to in the middle of the woods North of Spanish Florida, there is some strange measure of comfort to be found in the autonomy of their presence here. For the first time in as many days, he doesn't feel like a convict slave - escaped or otherwise. When was the last time anyone here knew any measure of liberty in conjunction with free men?

The plantation. A ship. A family who cared more about the ruin of their reputation than that of their daughter. The plantation. A ship. Some broken rebellion. The plantation. A ship. An island on which a war was buried. The plantation. A ship. A prison hospital. And on and on and on, a grim litany with a strange conclusion: a forest and a half dozen scraggly men who don't know the words to any of those stories. And so what power is left in them?

Only what they allow, he thinks with his hand in Thomas's while Richard's apology takes shape between the drumming of the rainfall. Where is Madi, he wonders, a last deflection before his mind turns finally toward John Silver.

An island, he knows. A ship, he knows. What comes before that? Does it matter? Silver asks and there on the maroon island it had been a question James couldn't fathom much less answer. Of course it should have meant something, he'd thought. How can a man deny the broken things which created him unless he is complicit in being broken to match? But here with Thomas next to him surrounded by an unknowing world beside Richard, who would trade everything for his wife whom he loves and whose face he wants to see another time, he finds himself capable of understanding. It's some siren song he hears the words to now: Just stay down, Silver begs in his dreams and on that ship from Skeleton Island when he'd been mad with the loss of every thing they (he and Silver and he and Madi and he and Vane and he and Gates and he and Eleanor and he and Miranda and he and Thomas) had built. What a terrible thing to believe, he thinks, and the grief overcomes him sudden and unexpectedly.

The emotion must show on his face though the sound of rain on canvas swallows everything else save the rigidity of his grip on Thomas's fingers. After what feels like a decade but must be only a moment - Thomas would have said something if the pause had spun out too far -, he clears his throat and fixes Richard with a singular look.

"You belong out here," he says, fierce and absolute and fundamental. "For as long as you or anyone else cares to, I will do everything in my power to see that remains true."

Maybe that's just a story. Maybe it's one meant for someone else. Maybe this is how James Flint who once was James McGraw appeared in Nassau and convinced men to vote him captain of a ship in so little time. Or maybe he means it. Or maybe all of that is true all at once.

No explanation is needed for Thomas to understand James is moved by something, stuck on somewhere with it between his ribs. He doesn't think it's Richard himself, achingly honest as the moment is, but whatever he's evoked must be important. He can't guess what wounds and losses lie in the life of Captain Flint, just like James can't know what startles Thomas awake in the night.

He is a solid presence beside him, his hand around his tight, their lifeline together. You belong out here. It is a beautiful distinction.

"We all will."

--Charlotte, from her place curled between Bettina and Frances, head on her hand against the older woman's shoulder. She's watching them with clear eyes, though her skin seems flushed even in this gloom. Bettina's hand on Thomas's forearm shifts, fingers curling. She doesn't sound placating - she sounds steady, and like she's speaking to James as much as Richard. A pinprick reminder that he shoulders nothing alone, not even them.

There is no argument in her wake, and there is some sort of covenant about it in the quiet that follows. Thomas moves his thumb across the back of James's hand, still wet with rain. No one needs to be convinced. They're already here, and they know he means it.

Richard is looking at him almost shyly, nerves apparent still even after James's confirmation, and Thomas just smiles, small and lopsided with how bruised he's feeling, but it's honest.

It's been a long time since he's changed someone's mind about anything.

"Thank you." For telling them, for being here. Every life that's made it out of the corpse of that place (even the proper criminals? maybe) is a light let back into the world again, and Richard is as important to him now as anyone else. This kind of shared experience carves a person and leaves them changed forever, can't ever be explained. No matter how well or how poorly they shift back into the sun, there are fingerprints inside each, mapping out this moment.

"Do you know any good Bible verses for the situation?" is Charlotte again, softly shooing away encroaching cobwebs of strange thought.

Thomas almost laughs. "God, no."

Richard does laugh.

He can think of a few - Thou hast searched me, and known me. Thou compassest my path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my ways. For there is not a word in my tongue, but thou knowest it altogether. Thou hast beset me behind and before, and laid thine hand upon me. That there is no division of light and darkness and that the imperfection of their substance is understood. Cut away the everything else and there is still something sacred in there: being seen. What creature can sustain itself without that? It must be awful being you, is a familiar string of words that seem now so radically misapplied.

He takes one crooked breath and gathers his frayed edges, slowly blinking back the ragged emotion as Sophie asks after Bes's leg and Frances tends quietly to arranging a place for her pistol where it won't get damp with all the care warranted a swaddled child. Next to Thomas, he can exhale out again with such shocking comfort. A broken thing is still ruined, but at least it has no place in this make-do tent. It belongs to someone else, to somewhere else, and he can find no reason except heartsickness to want to repair it.

Christ, what a day it's been.

"Will you take the watch first?" he asks Richard who answers, Of course. Anything. "Try to keep count of them. If one of them disappears for long, we should be aware of it."

But the Frenchmen stay around their fires and under the shelter of their lean to's, bundled against the rain in blankets or furs too damaged to sell or trade, for the duration of the storm.

Beneath their leaking roof and the blankets shared strategically between eight people, Thomas shifts James's hand further into his lap, so he can hold it between both of his. Half-dozing he rubs his palm, the tendons of his wrist and the back of his hand, laces their fingers, just touches him. Out here they will not be afforded the protection of tolerant authority, but Thomas doesn't mourn it. Like he refused to be grateful for slavery he will refuse to miss even the smallest piece of that place; he thinks of the dog he had to kill, its confused trembling as life slipped away, and wonders how often it was beaten and how sincerely it loved the human who did it because the same hands offered food and soothing after.

He's so sick of scripture.

The day crawls on, wet and miserable and everyone content for it anyway, and he thinks he must have nodded off for a while - he's not sure when the rain became less deafening, but it has. There are probably pink imprints on James's wrist where Thomas has been clutching at it for so long, but all he does is smooth his fingers over the skin there instead of letting go.

Across the camp, someone is whistling a cheerful tune. Thomas doesn't recognize it. He wants to ask, suddenly-- awfully-- if Miranda kept playing, if she learned anything new, what her favorite close contemporary piece was. Would James know? Children have grown up and musicians have kept producing work and books have kept on being written. And he's been--

He doesn't know how he keeps from asking. It's an insensible impulse, and so bitter, burned at every edge. The same kind of brokenness that's the foundation of this whole moment, and wildly, painfully beautiful for it at the same time. They don't have to be cleaned or healed or ready for it, they don't have to be anything; it can be bitter. He looks over at James, the damp spiky halo of his regrowing hair, the lines beneath the dirt on his face, his jaw hidden behind a red beard Thomas hadn't had an opportunity to get used to in London.

Smiling like an idiot.

He sleeps for a time with his hand in the circle of Thomas's fingers, the necessary press of bodies near enough that there's no harm in as much intimacy. Even mostly upright, the rest is deeper than he might have thought possible for longer than he could have reasonably expected. As the rain wails then patters against the sail cloth, he drifts in and out of some sharpened state of consciousness and easy, benign half-sleep. Bes dozes with her leg propped up on one of the bags. Sophie tells Richard a song, explaining that her singing voice is terrible but that the words are pretty and later he should try them if he cares to. Charlotte rebraids Bettina's long pale hair, Frances sleeps curled into a circle like a cat on a porch in summer.

It's nothing like being removed from the world, he thinks. Across the camp a man is whistling some sweet, high tune and beside him--

Thomas's smile is staggering. It strikes him like a blow in reverse: his ribs unsnap and breath finds him again. The pain draws out of his skin and James, off guard and exhausted, finds himself mirroring that incandescent look on Thomas's face. He's so brilliant there, a bright star burning in the gray of the day under the shadow of the sail cloth, that there's no option but the mirror him.

If they were alone, he might -- ask what has him smiling so (he must have at least part of the answer, but if it was just the two of them James thinks he'd like to hear Thomas say it); he might use his wrist to draw his hands close; he might do anything. But here in this company, James just regards him with his own sprawling smile and turns his hand. He touches Thomas's fingers and his palm and his wrist and there is nothing in the touch to complicate anything.

"Someone's headed this way," says Charlotte. Richard is dead asleep under the edge of a blanket, a human barricade at the lean to's mouth.

A moment later, one of the Frenchman ducks down with his hands on his knees to peer inside. He's more beard than face and his accent is mangled, fine misting raindrops clinging to the blanket his has wrapped around his shoulders like a cape.

Frances pops up like a dog hearing a whistle. "There's food."

It makes sense this way. To be at the edges of the real world, digging fingernails in under the gristle of it and pulling, like scraping away a politely retouched painting to find the true original beneath. Thomas knows how difficult it will be as they draw closer in, as they move further away from the potential of being reclaimed, he knows he will be disjointed and shaking, overwhelmed, in-adept. But how brilliantly wonderful to be able to be that way.

Richard stirs as Thomas straightens up, somehow managing not to laugh at the way Frances looks so comically interested in the unsolicited offer. It's not funny-- they're probably all some degree of almost-starving, considering how much physical work they've been doing and running on quick mouthfuls of dry things shoved in bags. (A cautionary memory, eating a meal a Quaker woman had cooked up, rustic and beautiful, and then bringing it back violently. Thomas has trouble where the others might not, thanks to the asylum.)

It is very hospitable of the trappers, and Thomas says so. The man looks like he has something else on his mind, dithering, and Thomas tells him that if it's any trouble they certainly aren't obligated to share their food. Dissent among ranks won't bode well for them.

"Not that, not that, we don't mind," he says, peering past Thomas into the little shelter for a moment, eyes narrowed. Then-- "Your lady who's hurt, she's doing well?"

"She is."

"Who's minding her? You?"

Thomas isn't sure where this is going, and apparently neither is Frances, crouched near behind him and looking over at James briefly with a puzzled expression. After a moment Thomas tells him that's so, more or less, though it sounds like there are unspoken caveats.

"Our man here, he isn't doing as well. Would you look at him?"

"Oh," Frances says, sounding a little sympathetic, and Thomas pauses again before, carefully: "I'm not a doctor," but the Frenchman shrugs it off, eager for even a non-professional opinion, apparently. He beckons, and Thomas says quietly to everyone else, "Can you all ask the universe for that man to have a sprained ankle." Really, he doesn't think he'll be able to do much for anything worse. Charlotte does the math and grunts as she moves to get up, intent on going with him. Which is more than fine.

Before he gets up, Thomas looks at James. Well.

"Accept the things to which fate binds you," is quiet, not private because it can't be-- but still personal, the first half of a quote he knows James can finish.

Edited 2017-09-30 23:30 (UTC)

It would be generous to say he catches even half of what's said - how did they think to go disappear into the French territories? The idea seems completely desperate in hindsight - but the collective talk is enough for him to parse the meaning if not the delicacy of the tone. So instead of finishing what Thomas starts, he says, "If you need help - call out," and means it however Thomas cares to understand it. An extra pair of hands. For anything.

Charlotte steps put over Richard and straightens, shielding her face from the fine misting of rain. Bettina watches from the back of the leanto, propped up on her elbow and knife sharp. She hasn't slept, James thinks. Not for long anyway.

"Stay there with Bes," he tells her. Frances is already moving to rouse Richard. Sophie stretches briefly into all the vacated space then rolls back over, burrowing against Bettina's side. "I'll bring you something."

The Frenchman leads Thomas and Charlotte across the camp, pointing Frances and her companions toward the low fire and the bedraggled circle of similarly rough hewn men around it. Trailing after the girl - made some degree of bold by a shared language she must surely have thought lost to her -, James marks the shape of the three of them making for the sick tent with enough intensity to feel like he can still see them even as his attention turns to folding himself into the company at the fire.

"He fell down from a ledge a few days ago," the Frenchman is explaining - slowly. "Hit his head and now the fever refuses to be broken."

Unfortunate, as neurogenic fever will not be identified for a few centuries and is a crap shoot even then. Charlotte puts a hand on the sick man's forehead and gives Thomas a queasy look. He doesn't feel overwhelmingly positive about it himself, thinking back on times when he struggled with illness, experience offering no real insight to elusive internal problems. Rainwater makes it easy to put a cool rag on his forehead, and Thomas speaks quietly with the man observing them, deciding they might as well try getting his temperature down.

"When he comes around see if he'll drink some water," is the best advice he can give, not knowing what a doctor might suggest. (Cutting a hole in the back of the head open and putting dried peas or wooden pebbles in, apparently. Good thing Thomas has no idea.) The man he's speaking to, who calls himself Mercier, is amiable enough, pleased to have run into them for the sake of their ill companion and happy to talk about the area. Thomas watches Charlotte as she makes her way over to James and Frances, trying to stay aware of who watches them the most in return. Their ringleader is easygoing but indifferent, perhaps used to strange events out in the wilds of the New World, but Thomas doesn't particularly trust indifference.

His slightly pessimistic reflection is interrupted when Mercier says something surprising in response to one of his questions, and, huh. They talk a little more and Thomas joins the others at the fire, standing near enough to James to speak to him lowly.

"The northward plantation we were concerned with failed eight months ago and was abandoned," he says, "I'm told it's now 'haunted' and dangerous to travel through, which I take to mean someone unpleasant is camped there." It explains why there weren't more men scouring the woods in this direction, and it's good they didn't end up veering too close to-- bandits, or whatever.

The fine mist clings theee to the shoulders of his shirt and the short scrub of his hair as James loitering at the edge of the fire, drinking more than eating the thin soup made over the fire from a battered tin cup. That too must be as borrowed as the blankets, the sail cloth, the rope, the heat. The sharp line of his shoulders is all his though - giving by only a few degrees as Thomas returns to his side.

Frances is translating some small conversations one of the Frenchman is trying to have with Richard. "No, tell him no," the younger man is saying softly, tone purposefully moderated. "Not English. Scottish."

James passes the tin cup to Thomas, the contents a watery broth spotted with shards of some boiled root. It's bland as dish water, but hot and it's amazing how much that matters. "Haunted," he huffs, a complicated version of skepticism there in his exhale. Then a pause, as he acruslly considers the ramificstions. "How widespread must the rumor be if it's reached this place?"

A hypothetical question. Wide enough, might very well be the answer. Wide enough that hooking in toward Savannah now might not be as ruinous as previously estimated. If superstition was driving people away from the place, cutting close to its periphery might not be the worst place to make their run at things.

They can't stay out here forever, shared fires or no.

"Did the man seem frightened?" He tips his head faintly toward the bearded Frenchman in question, so slight a motion as to be easily overlooked.

Good that it's hypothetical, because Thomas has no earthly idea and no metric to use to make a guess. He takes the offered cup, forgetting to consider whether or not it sharing it might count as odd-looking. (He isn't foolish, he hasn't forgotten the practiced habits he tailored a portion of his life around, but there's something about he and James, even now.)

"Not particularly," he says, of the question. Pausing to take a mouthful of broth, grateful for both heat and the blandness of it. He doesn't need to think very hard about what the Frenchman he'd been speaking to was projecting, so used to observing people closely out of necessity. "Certain, though, about the inconvenience of getting close to it."

Distantly, he wonders if telling a pirate about a potentially haunted thing was wise; perhaps there is some allure to the idea tangled up in instincts alongside blood money and the earring James has now and.. monkeys won in card games. Or is that too frivolous a thought to be having in between grounded concern about their continued safety and the brilliant, knife-sharp elation of getting to be concerned at all.

The man engaging Richard and Frances in conversation is pleased for conversation beyond his companions, even more pleased that a pretty girl is doing the translating, and while nothing about his body language says threatening, Thomas knows how fast that can change. For now everyone is content with the novelty, at least, though - no, they can't stay out here forever.

Edited 2017-10-02 09:52 (UTC)

In the back of his mind, a thought is unspooling and becoming a plan - one easily dismissed for all it's irrationality, but there nonetheless waiting should something change, should some element shift to make it suddenly not just feasible but intelligent. The ghosts of the plantation are likely only desperate men near enough the road and fringes of society to be frightening. Likely camped in the plantation itself, it might be possible to skirt near the edge of that place and use its reputation to move on unimpeded by anyone. At what other point could their turn toward civilization be made? Is it better to chart a course through known, dangerous territory or that which is completely alien?

--but the inconvenience isn't lost on him. At present, operating under what can only be a temporary promise of safety, warmth and some measure of hospitality, he can't say the idea of purposefully endangering themselves so obviously is really all that appealing. Would it be possible to enact such a plan? Certainly. But is it work the risk, given the make up of their party and Bes's leg? Unlikely.

(Or is he just letting that comfort get the better of him? Wouldn't it be easy to do nothing and then find themselves in some dark spot because of it?)

Anyway. Enough of putting the cart so far ahead of the horse.

"What's the state of their man?" Strangers dying tend to upend things for those left in the wake. If there's a tipping point to be watching for, that seems like a sensible one.

They're standing near enough that he can ask the question low in a strange language and not feel intrusive to the Frenchmen nearby. Or are they standing close enough to be strange? Seven people covered in blood with a number of women with their hair hacked short and wearing trousers stumbling out of the forest strange, or a different kind altogether? He finds himself attempting to judge the distance and utterly incapable of determining it.

Inconvenience, because what is danger out here besides something that slows business down, it seems. That's a wry thought if there ever was one, considering past dangers willfully seen instead as simple or even purely theoretical obstacles. Things to be gently navigated around but not worried about.

Haunted, full of terrors. There are more immediate potential terrors. He drinks more of the broth and hands the cup back to James with the rest left in, automatic. "Grim at best, I think," he says, low enough that even their companions who speak English would have to strain to hear. "I don't know what to do about someone who's hit their head hard enough to be in that state."

A doctor just as well might not either, his tone implies. Miles beyond Thomas's proverbial pay grade, as it were, possessed of some alright emergency medic knowledge and tales of odd remedies Annie's described to him over the years, discussing the ignorance of European medicine. Nothing applicable to this situation, and thus nothing to smooth over potentially disgruntled hosts if their usefulness not coming up better or equal to their novelty goes over poorly.

And yet even if this takes a turn, it still feels like a miracle. Whatever happens, at least they'll be rested for it.

"Fresh air and bleeding, I should think. A shallow cut there," he says, accepting the cup with one hand and touching the base of his skull with the other. But there's a note of ambivalence to it all, a verbal shrug if there ever was one. Given the abundance of clear air - forests, even one like this with the tinge of swamp at its lowest points, are hardly the grim orlop deck of a ship -, he can't imagine blood letting can really do much for the man except weaken him further. If he's so bad off, he might not survive long enough to reach the point where making up the loss might be beneficial.

He finishes the dregs of the thin soup and uses his thumb to wipe out whatever clings to the side of the tin cup, licking it clean without a second thought.

"--And what about your companions? Shouldn't I bring them something?" the Frenchman in conversation with Richard and Frances is asking, filling his own cup again from the pot over the fire. "No spoon, I'm afraid."

"No, no please," Frances insists. Her tone is even, but something in the line of the girl's shoulder must bristle because without comprehension James's attention has shifted to her as she reaches to take the cup from the man's callous blackened hands. "Let me take it. Her condition is delicate."

The hunter surrenders his cup without so much as a moment of protest and he says something that must be kind as all of Frances' bristled hackles seem to smooth themselves. The involuntary rigid quality of James beside Thomas, so instinctive that a moment ago it might have gone unnoticed, eases.

"I've never found that to do any good," is quiet, but somewhat oddly toned. Only somewhat. They're all very tired. (He knows it's the go-to for most ills, but every time, every single time, it was worse, and they tried it again and again when he wasn't ill, and calmly took notes, and Thomas remembers.)

Anything further is aborted in favor of paying attention to Frances and the hunter; Thomas doesn't turn to something ready like James does, but watches, and passes a hand over her shoulder as she walks with the borrowed cup back to their ramshackle excuse for a tent with a warm look. She was right to dissuade him-- even if this man, even if any of them, genuinely mean no harm, strange men appearing suddenly in proximity of - well, Bettina, at least - would set them on a quick path to chaos.

"Does he have her hair when it's grown out?" asks the man as he steps closer to them instead, gesturing. He has surprisingly kind eyes (or maybe it's Thomas who should be reprimanded for finding that surprising), and there's a pause before Thomas answers, taking a moment to keep from expelling an overly-fond laugh. Oh.

"Yes," and then, to James: "She gets her hair from you."

Apparently.

He goes on for a bit, about absent family, and Thomas wonders a little at what he isn't saying - everyone has their own tragedy, in this and any world. But he shifts, "How do you think he's doing? Victor?"

"Ah.." Mm. "The fever must break, I think. Otherwise whatever ails him is an injury inside. You could try bleeding, but he's so weak."

The hunter makes a thoughtful, though slightly negative, sound. "Smell might pull fuck knows what. Spirits and bears alike. You ever run from a bear through the mud?"

"I have not."

The look on Thomas's face makes him laugh.

His hand drifts automatically to the thatch of his beard, an eyebrow raised after Frances' shadow. Does that lend them more credibility? There hadn't exactly been an abundance of fathers and daughters on the plantation. --Though maybe it doesn't matter one way or another. It's completely possible, likely even, that these men know nothing of the thing that has occurred two says from here. The rain has muddied the white of Thomas's shirt enough that the blood on his sleeve could be anything.

(But optimism aside, he can think of literally no legitimate reason for them to be out in the wood in this state. Maybe they aren't escaped slaves, but they must be something unwelcome by the road.)

The rest of the exchange passes in a series of incomprehension, punctuated by the connecting words he knows and selections from a limited vocabulary - how is he and fuck, mostly. He nearly reaches to touch Thomas's elbow side to draw his attention, then thinks better of it.

"Ask if there's something else we can help with. Anything they need done."

Richard has moved to refill his borrowed cup from the pot, pointing toward the crooked sail cloth tent to indicate the rest of their party while wearing a clear question on his face. One of the Frenchmen, the man Thomas had first brokered with, waves his assent. Richard fills the cup then slips away from the fire.

"--And if they'll trade," James adds. "A gun for food or the sail cloth or anything like it." They have more than enough of the former, even if it means doing away with one of rifles.

What excuse could they give, if one of these men decides to ask them what happened? There's nothing. 'Inept rescue party' might be fractionally less damning than all of them being runaway slaves, but it's for the best if they all hope no one asks. That in mind, the longer they speak to each other the closer the question draws-- and Thomas is happy for the practical interjection. It's easier not to sound so nervous with James beside him.

Thomas relays this and there's minimal back and forth, the man offering a shrug that isn't a denial but not expressing any immediate interest, either. He calls over his shoulder at their ringleader, who is similarly very medium about the idea, but that could mean a lack of concern for their scraps being carried away as much as anything else.

"It's a maybe," he says to James. "I don't think they're hurting for anything besides a miracle for their man and drier weather."

The third man sitting on the ground says something that makes Thomas's spine go tense, and the man they're speaking to give an exasperated denial before Thomas's, "No, that's out of the question." His voice is quiet with effort to not sound-- something. But it's uncompromising. The man by the fire shrugs, and the party boss's indifference holds, offering no real reaction.

"He didn't mean anything by it, there'll be no trouble," the friendly hunter says, placating in a gruff way.

Thomas just nods. Behind them Richard is returning the tin cups, and Thomas decides that's cue enough to go back to their shelter-- waiting a few paces out to speak to James, hopefully without being overheard in either direction.

Sailors, legitimized by the world or otherwise, have a series of common concepts they can recognize regardless of the language used to reference them. The wind, weather, the preeminent moment before getting fired upon when you realize a gun is pointed in your direction, and the getting of women more of less contains the whole universal dictionary. Language barrier or no, there's no mistaking which the Frenchman is inquiring after. James feels the lines of his face go sharper; he fixes the man with an oppressive look for the entire length of the exchange that follows, then sets the tin cup in his possession on one of the stones around the fire and follows Thomas from their company.

"We should be on our way as quickly as possible," he says the very moment it seems they're outside of earshot. "Before the potential for this balance to shift realizes itself." If it were just the women or just that they are escaped slaves or just the dying man, it might be a tenable situation in which to rest for a duration until circumstance drew them in different directions. But the combination draws a line impossible to walk.

Better to not attempt it.

"Yes."

That one man is friendly and another is prioritizing their presence as access to low level medical care is not enough to outweigh the danger. They knew from the first moment it was to be a tenuous thing, as all windfalls must be, as carefully negotiated as possible. From a practical standpoint one man being crude doesn't cancel out the help they so desperately needed, but from a personal one, Thomas hopes he gets eaten by one of those bears apparently lurking out in the trees.

Bettina with her vigilance, Sophie's whispered I don't like them (and Bedlam, he doesn't, won't think)-- the world is the world is the world, and they are out in it.

His hand twitches towards James, reroutes to his neck, some absent twinge.

By the time they've reached the seam of their little island, every tense edge in Thomas has smoothed out by sheer willpower, and somehow he does not immediately say I don't want any of you to wander alone, even a few meters. Though that's coming. Instead he crouches down and quietly checks in with all. It'll be dark soon, the day wasted in water, and everyone can use more rest.

What hour is the best one to slip away in? Is it the dead of night - tonight - with the scent of rain still heavy on the air and the threat of some secondary storm enough to discourage anyone from searching them out again? Or do they wait through the night, make what trades they can broker, and be on their way in full daylight albeit better supplied? Every instinct demands the former; crouching down under the lip of the sail cloth, Bes's swollen leg and still exhausted expression refuse anything but the latter. If they're to make it to Savannah more or less intact, rest and food not eaten by dry handfuls is a requirement.

(They could chance the alternative. It would be safer for most of them to simply be done with this place. But James pretends not to think it even if the idea lingers at the edge of his thoughts: a ghost with no voice, but some kind of weapon in its coal black hand.)

When night falls and the light has whittled down to just the fire coals and the slash of moonlight casting strange twisting shadows onto the canvas over their hands, James doesn't lay beside Thomas though it's what he wants most in the world. He wants to set himself shoulder to shoulder with him. To be warm against him. To feel him breathing and to know that in the dark he could touch his skin or the back of his work worn hand and no one but them would need to be aware of it. Instead, James sits at the mouth of the tent and tells everyone that they're leaving come morning and then spends a significant part of the night studying the pitch blackness, tormented by the possibility of something dangerous in it.

"Why are you awake?" Sophie asks him once, having roused in the middle of the night from lying on the cold hard ground or from a nightmare. She is sluggish and dense from sleep. He tells her to go back to it and she does.

Bettina takes the watch after him, her pale hair glowing in the shadows and the rifle across her lap. Let this be sustainable, he thinks before sleeping. Let nothing have changed when he wakes up.

But it does.

In the morning, he wakes up because someone is speaking French. James squints against the light of morning, sweat at the back of his neck already. The weather has broken. "What did he say?" He asks without knowing who spoke in the first place.

Frances says something back to Victor, then-- "He said there's something for all of us to eat and to thank God. I think it must be Sunday."

It's not. But the man with the head injury is propped up near the fire, awake and talking (very, very slowly), so it might as well be.

Strange how the edge being taken off of exhaustion is what lets Thomas sleep; every part of him was brittle inside this morning from lack of rest but the dreamy rainstorm has pulled some of the barbs out of hyper-awareness. It could be, too, that James sitting sentry makes him feel safe enough to go soundly on the cold ground, Bes huddled beside him with her forehead against his shoulder.

He's not sure if he sleeps the whole night through solidly - he thinks he was half-awake for a while, but when he comes up from unconsciousness the memory of it becomes elusive. James's profile, but it couldn't be overnight, could it? There was light and wind, and the smell of salt, or blood. It was peaceful, if they held still.

"Richard. Never far from you."

Thomas's voice is quiet, tranquil, but the look he gives him is pointed enough that the young man understands, hurrying up to play escort. Thomas is busy cleaning out Bes's wound, Bettina sitting between them and the opening to make sure no one can see her. She looks over her shoulder at James for a silent Good morning, her gaze keen. Eager to be on their way as much as he is, cognizant that this turn of events may delay them.

"It still hurts like hellfire," Bes is saying, breathing slow and deliberate, "but inside isn't so bad? I don't know how to describe it. Yesterday it was awful from my stomach to my toes, it's just this, now."

Thomas murmurs, "That's good." With his palm over clean bandages to hold them in place while Bettina ties it off, he looks to James, blue gaze communicating--

everything.

If Bes's hair were longer still, Charlotte might brush it back now - tuck the longest strands behind her friend's ears. Insteas she squeezes her hand as Thomas begins to redress the wound, and says "I'll go with the others and fetch something back."

"Don't say much. Or let Sophie talk on," James warns her as she ducks out of the canvas' shade. Charlotte throws him a sidelong glance - does he really think she's so stupid? - then makes after Richard and the younger girls to the fire. It's been stoked up again. One of the men is laughing and another is whistling as he stirs the pot. There is a comfortable hum of conversation there; it would be easy to be drawn into it.

James turns back into the lean to's interior. To the twitching flesh of Bes's bared leg and Thomas, his hands certain and trembling all at once. "Bettina, pass me those guns."

He spent the night taking mental stock of their inventory - every weapon, every bullet, every dry grain and wrinkled apple. But a real assessment can only be done by light, so he goes through it now: checking flints and wear, the tightness of triggers and how straight the sights are set. If there is any difference in them, he means to know what he's offering in trade.

(Frances still has her pistol on her. Good.)

"It seems," he says, examining the action of one of the rifles. "That you have nothing to worry about. It seems Thomas is quite the doctor." Said low, though there's some narrow trace of humor there - a slyness secreted at his edges though his hands are busy and his attention is otherwise occupied.

"That man's timely recovery is all luck and you know it," is Thomas's slightly exasperated opinion on James's sneaky tone, encouraging Bes with a firm hand to raise her knee up and flex and bend her leg, making sure she can still move and feel her toes. What exactly are you planning over there, darling.

"Well mine fucking isn't," Bes immediately interjects through gritted teeth, "so let them call you brilliant so we can get their shit and get out of-- Ow, Bettina!"

"Alright, alright, that's plenty, thank you both."

Bettina has one hand still hovering menacingly over Bes's good leg, ready to pinch her again if she gets too chatty (no matter that it's in English, apparently). Thomas just sighs, though there's no ill humor in it, because even if they're bickering, Bes is well enough to be doing it and that's more than he could have hoped for a day ago. He'll do whatever James thinks is best-- he's out of his depth with trading and negotiating alike.

Outside, there's easy-sounding chatter, and Thomas keeps half his attention there to catch snippets of words and the tone of the girls' voices. He'll get up once they get Bes back in a pair of trousers without a hole in and half her weight in dried blood. He gives brief consideration to the merit of digging up something to change into himself, but decides against it given the muddy state of the world. No point.

James briefly diverts his study of the gun for Bettina's unapologetic pinch, but has no comment for it. He might have done the same in her position. Instead, satisfied with his examination of their weapons stock, he asks, "Let's see your map once more."

Bettina produces it from her pocket, unfolding it out over Bes's good leg ("Do I look like a table to you?") where he might take a look. The land in which they're moving is, naturally, largely featureless. There's no guessing where this haunted plantation's land ends, but if he's guessing (relying on his extremely limited knowledge of how one might lay out land for farming and growing), he can select a place on the map that seems the most natural. Is it better, he wonders, to shoot past Savannah and then beat their way back into the town from a direction in which no one will be looking? Or do they cut down back to the road and simply trust how unspeakably brazen that would be?

Or both?

There's no ticking clock here - nothing by the murmur of conversation and the progress of dressing Bes's wound and putting it into a pair of clean trousers to mark the passage of time by. But he must feel it. Some animal uneasiness. There will come a point where they can't expect to keep their number together. Simply put, eight armed men and women is far more strange than one or two strangers traveling the road. Once they leave the Frenchmen's company, some decisions will have to be made.

Eventually, he nods to Bettina and she folds the map back up, stowing it away as Sophie makes her way back to their tent. She has a steaming cup in each hand and is careful about passing them inside. "Mr Masson is asking after you, Mister Thomas. And so is Mr Leroux. That's the one who was so sick."

Edited 2017-10-07 00:37 (UTC)

The map is as mysterious as a language he doesn't know, but the shape of the land is strangely familiar - Ida had one of the whole American coast, and he'd stared at it, its notes about territory, its little dots of settlements, for what felt like hours all in all. Maybe it was. This one is closer, and he doesn't understand any of the details.

(Shouldn't it be easy? He thinks of his father and the men he'd been pushed to associate himself with as a boy, pioneers of pack hunting for foxes and deer marksmanship; he thinks of James's attempts to teach him how to use a sword; would it have really been so unbearable for him to spend time at any it? Learn to load a pistol, read a map, hold himself defensively? Where might he be now? The same place, probably, but maybe he'd be something besides-- whatever he is. You can change a bandage, and recite poetry. How useful. Fucking vital.)

"Thank you, Sophie," he says. "I'll be right there."

It takes some particular maneuvering to exit without jostling Bes's leg, anyone else, or the cups, but he manages. Hand on James's knee for leverage (and yet, lightly). And then he's away, heading over to the fire and the men and girls gathered about it. To his absolute bafflement, the Frenchmen are indeed convinced his advice had a critical role to play in Leroux's recovery. "We'd never have thought to let him breathe more," and hands wringing nervously as Thomas crouches before him and looks at his eyes and touches the side of his head, as if he has any idea of what he's doing.

"Just make sure you look after him," Thomas says. "Have you ever struck your head and felt dizzy? He may feel like that for some time."

Leroux has some trouble speaking, but is ambulatory enough, and apparently cognizant. He communicates with Thomas quicker through holding up a hand for yes or no (shaking his head is right out).

He nearly let's him go - surely there's something to be done there in the tent like redistributing the weight of their bags or taking stock of their gunpowder (pathetic) and shot; and Thomas is more than capable of speaking to these men. Or of not more than, he is at least sufficient-- But the uneasy edge of that thought has caught up to him before Thomas has strayed far. Whether it's true or not doesn't matter. James climbs to his feet and trails after him before he can get too far.

Breakfast is the same as supper - maybe even the same batch left to cool overnight then stoked hot again this morning. He swallows down some of the thin soup as Thomas performs his examination, clinging as a shadow to Frances rather than to the other man. But James watches, eagle-eyed, as Leroux and Victor wind Thomas into some halting conversation that's as much gesture as French.

"Doctor, you said you'd like to trade." This from their defacto leader - Mr Masson, his dark eyes all heavy and temperament unchanged from the evening prior. "What things do you prefer before you go? Very sorry, but they paid only for one night."

[PSL] in this sense the open jaws of wild beasts will appear no less pleasing than their prototypes

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I used 'it seems' twice in basically the same line of dialogue and I want to be dead

i thought it was deliberate for ominous impact of some kind

nope just incompetence

i forgive u

thank

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