Chapter Text
"When I saw the daguerreotype of your— Mr. Peglar, at first I thought it was— our late Lieutenant Irving." William gave a halfhearted laugh and shook his head to avoid falling into the knowing sympathy in Bridgens' eyes.
"I know—" he started, and only shook his head again. Bridgens opened his arms, and the man who had an hour ago been a stranger fell messily into them, glad of the comfort in the face of his world's overturning.
"Shall I tell you a story?" the lending library offered. Malcolm nodded, not trusting his voice.
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"When my— when Mr. Peglar was close to succumbing to his... to his circumstances, he still recalled conversations I have had with him. He asked about books I read, and thoughts I had mentioned offhandedly in the past. It was a comfort, and yet it tore—you must understand, it tore at my heart, quite badly. And yet to know, even when delirium overtook him, he was comforted by the fact that I had been his—his friend, I shall say, yes? Do you follow, Mr. Malcolm?"
Malcolm nodded against Bridgens' chest, silent tears tracking down his cheeks.
"And so when Lieutenant Irving passed, I am sure, despite the distress, he was thinking of your letters, and of your words. The times you spent together, and apart, but mostly the ones together. Yes?"
Eyes glazed over, Malcolm nodded once more, turning up his head just slightly.
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John Bridgens did not continue for a moment. Malcolm sensed the man was collecting himself. He waited. The difficulty of a soul both reserved yet well-deep with gentleness was the instinct to keep oneself stoppered despite the nature of feeling to be in overflow.
"Some say all men die alone," Bridgens said at last. "I think it is rather the opposite. All of us die with our memories beside us."