Chapter Text
The first time Collins catches sight of the aurora borealis during the expedition, back in 1845, he tells himself that whatever hardships they may endure on this voyage, whatever lies ahead still, will be worth it. This is a cold world, and the coldness spreads like contagion – although, inside the ship, there is heating, something is lacking in that warmth, some other, indecipherable thing. Everything is sharp in the Arctic, too – the air, the ice, the wind, the commands shouted out. Even the water stings like were it made of blades.
When he goes beneath the surface of the sea and sees it, sees him, something changes. It is difficult to imagine that anything can live in these waters, but the opposite of that should simply be a vast emptiness, not death. Afterwards, when the men have pulled him back up again, up from that desolate place, that deep darkness below, he sits on his bed, head leaned back against the rough wooden planks, and lets his ration of rum burn his tongue. It is a special kind of sensation that the liquor evokes – it is difficult to discern whether it numbs or pains him, where he holds it in his mouth for too long. After a good while, he swallows the liquid. And he does feel numbed, then, little after little – every noise around him sounds like it comes from miles away, as if muddled by water, as if from some other-world entirely.
The soft knock on his door draws him back in, back to this world, this ship, now.
“Yes?”
The door slides open, casting a golden light into the cabin, and Goodsir's face appears.
“I just...goodness – you sit in the dark, Mr Collins?”
“I...” he feels instantly ashamed, as if he has done some horrible, unspeakable thing. “I'm just tired.”
“Oh.”
He lights the lamp – whale oil, of all things – and Goodsir seems to take that as a sign to enter the cabin. An awfully polite man, is he – not quite quiet, but thoughtful and respectful, rather. Proper. He looks almost shy, now, as he stands in front of Collins, hands clasped in front of him.
“I- I just wanted to see if everything was alright. I couldn't be there for the dive, I'm afraid – Dr Stanley wanted me to...well... Never mind. I just wanted to ensure...?”
Younger than his years, Collins thinks. There is a curious innocence there, in the surgeon. Collins nods, looking at the man's hands – slender, delicate almost, but there is power there, too, a different kind of power, different to that which most of the men aboard the ship possess. But no less impressive.
“I'm fine, Dr Goodsir” he says, finally, and it sounds as hollow as it is. He cannot meet Goodsir's eyes as he says it, watching instead how the man shifts his weight on his feet.
“Will you tell me about it?”
“Why?”
They have spoken here and there. It has already been a long voyage after all. But they do not know each other, not really. He has his own job to tend to, so has Goodsir. They are officers, and friendship has always come easier to the seamen, Collins supposes. Sure, they have shared experiences along the way, talked about this or that, but they come from different backgrounds – common subjects for longer conversations are difficult to come upon.
They are two very different men, Collins thinks, sharing the same space for the sake of...work, he supposes.
But he does like the other man, though, likes his company and whatever little he knows of him.
One morning on deck, they caught first sight of porpoises where the animals broke the surface of the water, maybe twenty yards away. It had been early on in the voyage, and he had wondered if the other man had ever seen porpoises before, from the way his face seemed to glow with enjoyment at the sight. Goodsir had watched the animals carefully, as if he was studying them, as if something from one of his books had finally been conjured up, come alive in the real world.
After a while, he had turned to Collins and smiled, then said, “What a beautiful sight!”
Collins had nodded, quickly, then turned his head away, back to the sea. Then he had felt it, too, this excitement of observing the animals, almost as if it had been his first time at sea also.
“The waters are so alive,” Goodsir had said, “There is a whole world of unknown beauty down there.”
“It fascinates me,” Goodsir says now. He moves to sit down on the bed, next to Collins. “Look, I... I... I didn't just sign up for this to act the surgeon part. I have this hope, and maybe it is folly, but I have this hope that I could lay my eyes on new things, and...and – not just new land, I mean...but new creatures, vegetation. All that life. I am certain that there is so much yet to discover and know. And I want that – to discover, and to know.”
He looks hopeful, but there is a hesitancy there, too, as if he expects to be let down, as if that is in line with what usually happens, when he speaks his mind.
Collins has overheard how some of the men aboard speak of Goodsir, when the surgeon is not there to hear.
“There was nothing, Dr Goodsir.”
“N-nothing?”
Collins shakes his head. “It was just gradients of darkness and me sinking deeper into it.”
“You must have seen something? Any sign of life?”
He stands up quickly, suddenly short of breath, as if he were still wearing his heavy helmet.
“I... I...”
And he wants to tell him, he thinks, but how can he, and what difference will it make, other than to perhaps unduly cause concern to Goodsir as well. He wants to tell him, and he almost does, but he cannot breathe – it feels as if the air-supply of his diving helmet has been cut off, or perhaps the tube is bent somehow, he feels himself start to panic again, feels the chill of the water, the sharpness of the ice, the claustrophobia of being lost in the depths of the sea – sinking, sinking, sinking into deep darkness, into nothingness.
His eyes tightly shut, he feels Goodsir's hands on him rather that sees the motion of the other man – a warmth on either shoulder, turning him, pressing him to sit down on his bed once again, the thin mattress soft beneath him. When he opens his eyes, dizzy, Goodsir's face is there, clear among all the shadows, inches from his own, whispering something indiscernible, as he kneels on the floor in front of Collins.
It is only later, when his breathing has returned to normal, that he realises how tight he is clutching Goodsir's arms. He lets go abruptly, as if burned from a sudden heat, and leans back against the wall, closing his eyes.
For a moment, they both simply sit there, in the quiet of the cabin. Voices can be heard from somewhere outside as men prepare for the night, but the sounds from the other side of the walls are not quite loud enough to drown out the sound of their breaths. Collins wonders if anyone has heard them, him, but he is too drained of energy to really care. He cannot even bring himself to be properly embarrassed that Goodsir watched his fit of terror.
He feels tentative fingers on his knee, then an entire hand. Although it is a light touch, it weighs heavy, seeps beneath the surface of his clothes, of his skin, into his bones, and somewhere deeper. It settles there.
He always thought of a surgeon's hands much like a butcher's – but he is beginning, perhaps, to understand the difference.
There is a healing power to Goodsir's hands.
“When I was tending to David Young,” Goodsir begins, hand still in place, “There was something...odd at play. Something transpired as – as he passed.”
Collins leans forward, once again, attempting to signal for the other man to continue, to show that he is in fact listening. But he cannot yet bring himself to meet Goodsir's eyes.
“He was seeing something that I could not see. I do not mean a delirium, from fever or other kinds of maladies, which can happen – but something else entire. I was trying to get him to calm down, but he would not listen to me – whatever it was that he saw, or felt, it was stronger in its presence than I. I... I do not think that he was aware of my being there at that point, even. He passed, like that, a-alone and afraid, with whatever was in the room, which was not me. I have rarely felt so hopeless. And then Dr Stanley had me...cut him open.”
He is a small man, is Goodsir, and he looks even smaller now, still kneeling on the floor, fingers on Collins' knee slightly trembling as if it is the surgeon himself, and not Collins, who needs calming down.
He is uncertain why he does it, but he does reach out, then, covering Goodsir's hand with his own.
And he wonders if this is what it feels like to reassure someone – not quite giving something of oneself away, but rather sharing a part of oneself freely with another person, and wanting to.
“I saw Billy Orren down there. Frozen like...if he were still reaching out for me to save him, suspended in that dark there, trapped. I have never known fear like that. I couldn't take it. And so I pulled on the rope and I...left him there.”
“What else could you have done?”
“I could have-”
“There was nothing else you could have done.”
“He was so alone... I abandoned him, in that desolate darkness.”
He watches Goodsir's eyes for judgement, but there is none. Instead, tears seem to have formed, but are not yet spilling.
“Oh... Now I have made you miserable, too.”
“Do not ever think that.”
“I... I do not usually break like this. I am not...”
“I know.”
Goodsir looks sincere, wiping his eyes with the back of his free hand.
“I always thought you were a brave man, for donning that diving suit. It takes courage, I imagine. Power.”
“There are many types of power.”
He takes Goodsir's hand in both of his, examining it. Goodsir lets him. It is different from his own, no calluses, the skin softer, no scars. He knows the kind of tools a surgeon uses, has seen them, heard them put to use even, and he has always thought them brutal. He has always thought the same of the hands yielding them. But this... A surgeon needs steady hands, careful, able. Caring.
“Many types of courage too, I imagine,” Goodsir adds, and it hangs in the air of the cabin for a while as they look at one another.
“You're not alone, in any of this, Mr Collins. I promise you.”
It is strange, Collins later muses, how secluded they had felt, at that time, as if nothing but them existed.
A loud knock on the cabin door brings them out of whatever place they seem to have gone, however, back to the ship, this cabin, in which they have been for far too long.
“Just a minute,” Collins says, as they both stand up hurriedly, stepping apart in the small cabin.
Judging by the sounds from outside, whoever is out there does not walk away, only steps back slightly. It feels strange, to be in a sort of panic over nothing, but he can read it in Goodsir's face too – that something, rather than nothing, had been interrupted. Unsure of whether it will make the situation worse or better, he decides to snuff out the light, effectively casting the small cabin in darkness again. There is a slight shuffle, in which Goodsir steps aside, away from the direct line of sight from the door, and Collins steps in front of it.
As he slides the door halfway open, he comes face to face with Dr Stanley.
“Yes, sir?”
The man regards him with a closed-off expression, impossible to read.
“I need Mr Goodsir to take over in the sick bay.”
“Pardon, Dr Stanley, I don't-”
“Oh, spare me.”
Dr Stanley walks off, then, towards his own cabin, and Collins slides the door closed again. He can barely see Goodsir.
“There is not even anybody there – in the sick bay, I mean.”
“I could... I could join you.”
“You have had quite a day – you need sleep, rather. Do you think you will be able to?”
“Yes.”
He does feel the tiredness overcome him, now that they speak of it. Exhaustion, almost. But it is mixed in with something else, something which he cannot recognise or determine, but it seems to pull him in the other direction, away from sleep.
“Good. Look-”
“I went into the Channel once, when I trained the diving.”
“P-pardon?”
“I could tell you about it, sometime, is all, if you'd like.”
In the lack of light, he cannot see that Goodsir is smiling, but he can hear it clearly in his voice.
“I would like that very much.”
“Good.”
“Goodnight, Mr Collins.”
He steps aside to let Goodsir out of the cabin. Most of the men have settled in their cabins or quarters by now, the ship quiet.
Goodsir turns around to look at him and his features are warm, bathed in the low light outside the row of cabins. Soft, Collins realises, as he watches the other man walk towards the sick bay – Goodsir's features are soft, in this world that is anything but.
He falls asleep the moment he lays his head on the pillow.