Work Text:
Silna wakes to the dog barking outside her tent.
She sits up, blinking slowly-- she swears she layed down not an hour ago. But outside the tent, joining the barks of the dog, she hears a gathering of the men-- yelling.
She hastily pulls her blanket up around her shoulders and stumbles out of her tent, searching. She worries that there's been a fight, perhaps between the men, or perhaps with some of her people-- and she worries, then, about the humiliation she'll face when they learn she's failed to control the tuuŋŋaq.
But when she reaches the center of the camp it's just the sailors-- none of her people. She can hear Goodsir speaking-- in front of Crozier, she guesses-- and a man panting in pain. She inches closer, trying to make out what he's holding-- a rifle--
In an instant, she's back on the ice. She can feel the sharp wind blowing in her face where her hood has fallen-- the glint of iron, the weapons the men are holding-- and more than anything, the wet fur of her father's parka, soaked with his blood.
At the same time, she's in the belly of the ship, held tight as the doctor-- Goodsir-- cuts into her father.
She's hearing her father cry out in pain. She's feeling the sharp eyes of the captains on her when she begins to beg.
She's smelling the blood pouring out of her father when he dies.
Footsteps near her bring back to the shale. She's frozen, staring blankly at the scene unfolding, but next to her she can see a solider-- with another rifle.
She sways, slightly, but focuses on the incessant barking of the dog to keep her in the present. Focuses on the solider, watching as he creeps behind the captains and up into a tent.
She looks, haltingly, between the solider, the crying man, and Goodsir. She doesn't want anyone to die. She does not want any of these men to die, no matter how cruel they've been-- none of them deserve the death her father had; slow, agonizing, public.
The dog continues barking. The captains are still talking, in low voices, and all but two of the guns are lowered.
Silna takes a breath. Most of the guns are down. Nobody has to die tonight. Nobody has to--
A burst of light flashes in front of her, then another-- and she hears a soft thud.
It is happening again.
Silna was pulled out of the bottom of the ship almost immediately after her father died-- she was given a chance to weep over him, but nothing more. She was only told later that he was denied a burial and put down an ice hole; she could have wept again, but instead burst into a fit of rage at Crozier.
Now, seeing the dead man's body, she knows what she had missed. There is no life left in the man's eyes, no light-- the blood stained rocks around him shine brighter. Goodsir is kneeled next to him, frozen, until another man pulls him up and pushes him into his tent.
Silna watches as the man's body is taken away-- two men pick him up gently, wrapping him in a blankey like a child, and then carry him to another tent, where supplies are kept.
She kneels next to the blood when they're gone, staring. The blood on the rocks shines; her father's blood, on the wood of the ship, was a dull black.
She wonders what will happen to the man's soul. Her father's body is cold, frozen solid at the bottom of the men's fire hole, kept company only by Sir John. His soul, Silna hopes, has left this place for a better life. This man's soul-- the man who spilled the blood she's kneeling by-- she doesn't know. She doesn't even know if she cares.
She stands up, belatedly following Goodsir to his tent.
The inside of his tent smells like stale sweat and mildew. Everything, always, smells like the belly of the ship. She can hear him crying-- more than that, she can hear the sharp gasps of breath in between the sobs, gasps that make her think he's in pain.
Silna remembers the night after her father's death far, far more than she'd like to. She remembers the halting questions of Crozier; she remembers the unyielding watch of the two men sent into the room while she couldn't sleep. She remembers the tightness in her chest, and the relief at being able to scream for her father's death when she was alone in her iglu.
She does not know if she would call Goodsir a good man. He is naive, overeager-- but kind. Kinder to her than any of his fellow men have been. She truly believes that if she had stayed on his ship after her father's death-- he would have been good to her.
Carefully, she steps over him, then lays down behind him, feeling his back jolt against her chest. She closes her eyes, pressing her forehead to his hair, and wraps an arm around his shoulders-- comfort. Comfort of the type she was never given.
He stills, eventually, his breath matching hers; slow, deep, even. She feels him fall asleep against her, and then she stands.
There's no point in trying to sleep tonight. She knows what she'll see-- Ice, iron, and blood.