Chapter Text
On a quiet day in January, all one hundred and twenty-nine members of the Franklin expedition lost the fight for their lives in a great fire. Her Majesty's most dutiful servant, Thomas Jopson, roused from a great slumber, spent the days that followed attempting to prove the opposite - digging through mountains made of men, for naught but the sweat on his back and the gore on his brow. An automaton such as himself was built to endure abuse of such magnitude and worse, but men were of a more fragile breed, dotted the icy landscape by the dozen, stuck together or out on their own, taunting him. You are too late, Jopson. Not even death came for you, enemy of all good, foul demon possessing the body of a man, wretched prince, heir to this barren kingdom. He spoke a prayer to each body that passed underneath his warped hand in a search for a spark of life to kindle and invented a thousand different ways to apologise to every single one of them until his path concluded at the foot of the men he had wanted to live the most. Francis Crozier looked as though he had chosen to rest against the wall their tent had been raised on and simply fallen asleep - the way he had discovered him, in the privacy of his cabin, on a hundred different occasions. It tempted him to believe that the captain was due to wake up any moment now, frustrated with his tardiness but grateful for his company, and the whole nightmare would pass him by. Crozier did not react to being touched on the neck, and the pallid artery on his wrist had neither life nor spirit enough to melt into the arms preventing him from lying face down in the snow. A scream ripped free from his lungs, guttural, more of an animalistic howl than anything else, an expression of pure grief. For one who had felt the weight of every single soul lost, it was a single glimpse of Crozier which broke him - he pushed his face into the crook of his neck and wept, prepared to find his end there.
A couple of feet from where the lover lay in despair, another was inspired to take his first breath since the fire. No speech could be produced from such a shallow breath, and no clear thought emerged from the thick haze of panic. The sound of footsteps had registered only to a very distant, primordial part of him; hope of company had followed suit in the wake of one harrowing scream, sounded somewhere nearby. Despite the dead weight on his back and the pain paralysing his body, he gathered enough strength to copy the sound he had heard. Quietly at first, then with determination, producing just enough sound to penetrate the shield wall of bodies layered on top of his own. Not even a minute after he had cried, two strong arms pulled him towards the light and baptised him in many bitter tears. It was a blessing that he struggled to see the face of the man who saved him, a curse that he was not lucid enough to thank him. As his saviour attempted to help him stand, he learnt that a simple scream had drained him enough to push him back to the brink of unconsciousness, pushing him back into that comfortable inky nothingness while Jopson dragged him to the relative safety of the terror.
Making a lazaret out of the terror proved to be difficult without the help of other men, often requiring every hour of the day that was not going towards tending to Lieutenant Irving or himself. Except for a gash on his side, he concluded that the damage only concerned the cosmetic side of things, not impairing function enough to warrant immediate repair. Some of his teeth had been lost in the great struggle, and fire had scorched the arm he had lifted to protect his face, sloughing off parts of the decorative plating to expose naked wire and melted rubber. Trying to assess the damage done to Irving proved to be more challenging, not for any resistance put forth, but because he lacked any real understanding of how the human body functioned. From what he was able to confirm with his own two eyes, or slight manipulation, he had broken two fingers on his dominant hand, but the smoke had done the most damage to his body and senses. While Irving was a grateful patient in the first couple of days after the fire, he spent what precious few hours he was able to keep awake on speaking what Jopson could only describe as utter nonsense. Most of the time it was anyone's guess what he wanted to communicate, save for when he wanted something to eat, at which point he would make his request in very broken French - leftovers from his days spent in the company of George Hodgson. In the hopes of restoring him, Jopson tried a number of different treatments, finding all of them unsatisfactory in different ways. Alcohol slurred his speech, laudanum made him too drowsy to talk, and after every other option had been exhausted, a bout of fever returned him to his speech and temper.
“Stop staring at me like that.”
Hearing him bark an order managed to startle him a little, a request he honoured by turning his gaze up at the ceiling, however nonsensical it appeared. In moments like these it was especially transparent that they were two different creatures entirely, of different origin and purpose. Men such as Irving perceived his persistent gaze as a threat; men were ashamed of their nakedness; men clung to rituals that allowed them to enjoy the presence of other men without fear. He understood that every little thing that the now-upset hominid did and said happened on account of fears and wonders that preceded Irving's birth by millennia, the bare-bone instincts that kept him alive all of these years. In the holy books that he had read to Irving at bedtime, he had learnt of the circumstances of man's birth, of men and women fashioned from clay and bone, a process of animation and life-making that was not unlike the intricate processes that had created his life. A terrible, selfish part of him hoped that similar origins led to similar ends, that reuniting with his captain was not impossible after all.
“I’m sorry. I was making sure you were well.”
“Sure you were. Turn around.”
Without wasting a second, he turned to face the wall, standing as perfectly still as he had before, hands folded in front of him. A steady supply of oil coursing through his mechanical heart ensured that he never tired, not from standing or exercise, and boredom had no hope of depressing him, having been a steadfast companion of his from conception onwards. He heard Irving make a frustrated noise somewhere behind him, followed by many fruitless attempts to move his frail body in the bed without assistance.
“Hands behind your back where I can see them, Mr.Jopson.”
He felt compelled to tell him that he had not been created in the likeness of a man in the regards of his loin - where a man might find a place to pleasure himself, he found only a basic imitation of the organ, incapable of doing anything but showing underneath his clothes at times. Jopson also knew that in his sorry state, arguing about the exact make and purpose of his genitals was not within his best interest, choosing to put his hands behind his back as requested. It drew a brief chuckle from his patient for reasons he could not quite place.
“On your knees, Mr.Jopson.”
It was frustrating to no end that these exercises seemed to serve no greater purpose, but at the very least, Irving proved that he was lucid and capable of forming proper sentences again. He tried to find some comfort in the fact that kneeling and lying down reduced the amount of fuel he burnt in order to keep running, which was preferable in his state. There had not been an opportunity to dedicate an hour to his basic maintenance and dressing of his wound, and he was at a point where he felt bothered by the warmth of the oil that seeped through the bandages on his side. With all of the ships mechanics gone to the world, the task was his burden to shoulder, and he tried not to think about what failing to repair himself meant for their future.
“You’d do just about anything I tell you to, is that right?”
There was just a hint of impish delight carried in the question that alarmed Jopson. He whipped his head back around to look at him. Locking eyes with men had always been an effective means of chasing any funny ideas they might have developed about his subservience out of their heads.
“I follow commands that come at no harm to myself or others, as well as commands I believe to be beneficial to your wellbeing.”
“You deem kneeling with your hands behind your back as being beneficial for me?”
He allowed himself a little sigh, barely capable of venting the frustration building in his system. Perhaps it was a good sign that he had the strength to talk back, but as it were, he found it intolerable. He was, for the most part, fine with being ordered around and the abuse that came with a life spent serving others. What he struggled with was the common misconception that he was a mere thrall to his master's wishes, incapable of forming his own thoughts and desires, despite the fact that "autonomous" was baked into the common name for his kind. There were a number of things he was not going to do even if requested, and there were a number of services Irving had already benefitted from without ever needing to ask for them. A simple doll might have stayed by Francis' side until its own light went out, waiting for orders that would never come, but he had taken it upon himself to bury the men, save the one who was tormenting him now.
“As it appears to play a part in not disturbing your rest, yes.”
Irving, seemingly bored of following a conversation that would not yield the results he was maybe hoping for, acknowledged that answer with a simple nod. Once Jopson returned to his position, staring at the wall like there was anything there to capture his interest, he abandoned his effort to get up in favour of going back to sleep.
By the time Irving was well enough to know of the fate the other men have suffered, two months had come and gone. His late confession very nearly drove Irving to strike him dead where he stood, at least he desired to in the moment, driven by the force of despair. Lying to him had been a matter of necessity while he recovered, given that his survival had been a fragile thing, dependent on the belief that all was well. There was no hope of stopping him as he whirled past the man, nearly knocking him over in the process, venturing outside to find hills of snow covering where his friends' bodies lay. Digging them up, with his hand in the state as it was, turned out to be a hopeless affair, injuring him more than anything else. Hot tears fell on the snow cushioned between his fingers, themselves an angry red colour from the exposure to the howling winds that dominated the range. All of this time he had waited to talk to them again, hold them in his arms, and find comfort in the collective as he always had, only to find that they had been dead while he lay peacefully sleeping in his bed. The only body he was able to catch a glimpse of in the whole miserable desert was that of Captain Crozier, at least what was left of him underneath the rags, with Jopson’s neckerchief tied around his black-and-blue neck. Jopson. Not even a moment after he had left, the fool had come back to call him back to the ship, knowing the few layers he wore were no match against the cold.
“Why didn’t you do anything!?”
All of the pain, the nights wasted in the throes of fever and madness, found their new target on Jopson's back. His anger concerned the steward, who approached with his arms raised like one would approach a frightened animal.
“Gone, because of you!”
For a sick man, he grabs Jopson’s collar with a surprising amount of strength, shaking him as though that was going to produce a satisfying answer from the frightened man. Though he never said as much, he found himself wishing they had all perished after all, the miserable waste of metal clinging to his arms included. The desire to punch him built in his gut, an instinct only overshadowed by the pain in his dominant hand. His fingers were still a long way apart from being fully healed. Through gritted teeth, Jopson hissed a reply at him.
“Don’t you think I tried? Do you know how much I wish it had been me?”
Despite the anger he felt advising against it, Jopson is placed back on his feet, pushed back by the force Irving puts into the gesture. Not enough to satisfy the call for blood, but enough to take care of his desire for violence. Jopson looked on as he knelt in the snow, wearing an expression of deep sorrow on his perfect face.
“Lieutenant Irving, I beg of you to come back inside. I have visited every hour of every day after the fire. There are no survivors. We are alone.”
Fury renewed, the face that he made at Jopson was more of an animalistic grimace than anything else. In the process of getting back up, a portion of the kicked-up snow landed on Jopson, for once too worried about bracing for a punch to wipe it off. There was no way for Irving to win, as there was no way Jopson was going to lay a single hand on the subject he devoted so much time and effort to restore. Despite everything, Jopson had become fond of the strange man in front of him.
“You don't understand it in the slightest, do you? I am alone.”
With a simple, single, devastating sentence, Irving had hurt him like nothing else had since the loss of Crozier. In all of his misery, he considered him less than a person and condemned him to an existence in the liminal space between object and animal. It stung, worse than he liked to admit, and in the seconds that passed after, he pretended to see regret smoothing Irving's features. He waited for him to take it back and accept him as the second survivor of this tragedy, his equal, and waited in vain. Irving stumbled back to the ship without speaking another word to him for the entire week that followed.