There's no question that he and Francis are of one mind on this. Not speaking to anyone. Francis, likely, isn't as worried about setting someone on fire.
Maybe worried isn't the word.
He takes Francis' forearm, so Francis has the whole sturdy line of it to lean on instead of only a hand. He presses the things inside of him flat and waits, patient, for his friend's broken body to move, and nods to his request, and leads him to where he needs to go.
Raju can still move through this place as familiarly as if he stayed here every day. He used to. It's a stranger thought than ever now, incongruous with the reality behind him, the crowd of people who would have preached forgiveness and blind mercy even if—
A flame flickers beneath his boot, and Raju's mind goes quiet, and the flame dissolves into smoke. Raju opens the door. He leads Francis through it. The snow is bright, and the cold is sharp over his skin. He'd forgotten to wrap the blanket properly over his neck and head. It doesn't matter. He only remembers it.
The more steps they take away from the building and all its flammable wood, the deeper Raju's breathing gets again. The snow begins to melt in a circle around his feet.
"We're farther from the wheelbarrow here." It needs to be said. His hand is careful on Francis' shoulder, steady on his forearm. His voice is flat, so that it won't be anything else. "Do you need me to bring it to you?"
While the goal is to slink out unnoticed, Crozier's cautious to keep himself mostly upright and moving without wincing or grimacing. He doesn't want to look any more pathetic than he already feels. Only once outside and moving down the snow-covered street does he start to slow up, breath heavy with each step, leaning on Raju more and more until most of his weight is pressed into his friend's side.
"No," he says, walking through one of the slushy puddles at his feet. "No, we'll walk. The bridge."
He can't do it yet. People will undoubtedly be going back to their homes in the town, Hickey and Gibson back to theirs somewhere near here - he won't let Hickey see how low he's sunk.
"Wait until we're past the bridge," he says again, this time warning Raju to keep himself in check. They can't set the town on fire, even if they're both angry enough to watch the whole thing burn. They can't destroy even if others seek to do precisely that.
He clenches his jaw, breathes out hard, gives a tight nod. But he can't make that promise, really — the further they get from all the watching eyes the more of Francis' weight he leans on Raju, and the more Raju's reminded of what happened in there, what needed to happen and what didn't. How much Francis needed them, and the vulnerable people who died that night, and the vulnerable people who will. Keeping anything from actively catching on fire is the most that he can do; he keeps everything in his mind as forced down as he can manage, and snow melts around him in a spreading wave, smoke rising up from it.
He can hear the sound of Francis' strained breath even better now. The wheezing is a familiar sound, one he's started to consider a reminder, and the smoke in the air stays clear of Francis' face, the heat rising from the ground is split by the progress of his feet. His skin, now that he knows to pay attention to it, is hot in a way that, even now, he registers as strange, sharp cold hitting it from the outside with something else heating it from within.
The bridge. That's what Francis has asked. It doesn't matter why. So he'll keep this up until the bridge. That's all he needs to think about now, that and guiding the slow and precious weight of Francis leaning against him. He can do all that.
He can’t offer anything to Raju in this moment, any words to help calm him were robbed of him between the injuries and the events of the town meeting. He just focuses on the walk, the slow trudge forward, the slow creep of helplessness crawling up his spine.
What does he do now? Any appeal to the group won’t be heard; he has no influence here (clearly), no power or control. There isn’t the structure for it, and bless his men who can’t seem to shake the Royal Navy, but it isn’t appropriate here.
Hickey’s been empowered. More will die.
He can feel the heat radiating off of Raju, but instead of concerning it feels almost comforting. He leans a little closer, trying to draw in a little more heat.
Francis leans closer into him and Raju grips him a little tighter, feels his breath rough and cold in his nose, feels his jaw clenched as he looks in the direction that the bridge will be. Only that. And then away from this damned place.
Once they reach the place he's tucked the wheelbarrow away he leans Francis slowly against a tree, gaze focused and darting over him to make sure he's stable there. Francis had been leaning so close, needing him, and it hurts to let him go, even for this. But he has to be patient. He has to do this right, and deliberately. He can't even let impatience outside of him now. So he grabs the wheelbarrow, moving it close to Francis and holding up its handles to tip its wheeled end to the ground, so it'll be easier for Francis to simply lay back into the blankets piled up inside it. His throat hurts, everything pressed so tightly inside him now, and the mud under the melting snow is beginning to dry and crack under the sustained heat.
"Is this alright?" he says tightly, eyes on Francis' every movement. "I can move it closer."
He hates this. Looking down at that goddamned wheelbarrow, thinking about all the indignities piled on him the last month alone, the careful maneuvering and planning it took to get him out to the town hall in the first place, only for Hickey to be told the words ‘not guilty’ makes him want to scream bloody murder.
“It’s fine,” he says instead, leaving the security of the tree and stepping onto the baked clay surrounding their feet. Raju is trying so hard right now. This forest might go up in flames tonight, but he knows he’ll at least get him home first.
Holding the side of the wheelbarrow, he sinks himself back into it and waits for Raju to tip it upright. He’ll do it slowly, so that nothing jostles, but it’ll still hurt like hell.
No matter how gentle Raju tries to be, the journey back is going to hurt Francis. Both his pride and his body. But he’d put himself through it anyway, when he shouldn’t be traveling at all, has to put himself through it now, just for—
He thinks about how important it is that he bring Francis home safely now. No one else is going to do it. The snow melts in front of their path as Raju pushes, watching the smoke part for Francis like the tip of the wheelbarrow is the bow of a ship, feeling the strain in his arms and chest to keep the wheelbarrow steady, and keeps thinking of how important it is to keep Francis safe now so that the smoke and heat are as gentle with him as Raju himself needs to be, and doesn’t think of anything else.
Once they’re at the cabin he carefully helps Francis out of it and to the door. He sees Francis seated and comfortable. He goes straight outside again, and walks as far from the cabin as he can bear to — not far, while his friend is sitting so vulnerable inside it, just far enough that the cabin won’t catch when everything else around him catches on fire.
It’s a relief to let it go. For a moment he only stands there, fists clenched as the fire grows from nothing around him, as he starts panting and his skin grows hot. He starts pacing, missing the punching bag again, missing his equipment. The flames follow him as he paces in a circle around the cabin, raising something almost like the wall of them he’d raised while Francis had been dying. He might have died, and the useless lot of them would still be sitting back there moralising and applauding all those righteous speeches about how the right and moral thing was to do nothing, absolutely nothing at all, and Francis’ murderer would still have walked just as free.
There’s nothing here that he can hit. Nothing designed for it, and nothing that would help. No one he can go after without condemnation from the very same crowd which thinks itself so righteous for ensuring a community built to keep only the fittest and most deadly of them safe. But there are plenty of trees.
He turns and throws his weight behind his fists at a sturdy one and the impact is almost satisfying so he does it again, and again, and then keeps doing it, and fire begins blooming over the wood after each successive hit. His arms are tired, his hands are sore, he remembers what would have been his friend’s last words, a friend who’d been more caring and profoundly loyal than anyone has ever been, anyone who didn’t need him. Francis doesn’t need him to be anything and never has, has always cared for him anyway, and he would have died, hurt while Raju wasn’t even there, and the town full of people he’d been counting on to be there next time in his stead has turned their back, if it happens like that again they’re going to just let it—
He screams, deep and raw and enraged, and on his next hit fire lights across the tree and through it, and with a drawn out creaking noise, it falls in a spray of snow.
Raju hears his panting breath. He watches fire eating up the length of the tree as it sits there on the ground. He listens to its crackling and realises his arms, held a little up from his body, are trembling, then realises that’s because he’s tired. Tired is good. Tired means it should be safe to go inside now. So he does, trudging to the door, making his way inside, turning slowly and pushing the door closed slowly, noticing the way his knuckles have split as he does it before his gaze catches on the fireplace. There’s fire inside it.
“I forgot to light that before I left you in here,” he realises. His voice scratches in his throat. That would be the yelling. “Or did I… It doesn’t matter. I can make you tea, you must need it after that ride back. How are you feeling?”
Raju is holding it together for his sake. He’s angrier than Crozier’s ever seen him - angrier than he would have ever been if he’d been the one who’d gotten injured. He’s angry because of him, because he had insisted on walking into town for this, even if he was only a week out from the initial attacked, only for it to have been a complete waste of time.
He’s surprised that Raju’s able to keep himself under control long enough to get him settled inside their cabin, but once he hears the roar of flames outside he knows he’s finally snapped. He frowns softly and pulls himself back up, muscles and bones all crying out in protest, and walks to the window to watch the fire and smoke rise in the air.
There’s another roar to his right, one that seemingly comes out of nowhere as the fire in the hearth suddenly comes to light. His initial fright turns into quiet endearment and worry; he wants Raju to come back unscathed, and hopes he won’t try to stay out all night.
When he does return he’s back in his chair, making sure it looks like he never left it. He raises his head to study Raju from head to toe, smelling smoking and seeing blood on his hands.
“When you wrap those,” he tells him quietly. No chastising, no chiding. Raju did what he needed to do, and he waited until he was across the bridge. No one else was hurt but himself.
Raju looks down at his knuckles, then wonders why. It isn't as if he hasn't seen them already. He nods, goes to the lavatory to rinse his hands, feels an odd sort of quiet, a still wariness with tension underneath. The tension is anger, he realises, as he comes back into the sitting room and sees the fire there again. He's keeping it lit. He thinks he recognizes it by now, the unnatural way the force inside him moves when it looks this way. That means he's still angry.
He goes over to the rags he keeps in here now, picking through the pile to see if any are the right size and shape to wrap around his knuckles. His gaze catches on Francis as he's doing it and stays there, and his searching hand slows.
Of course Raju's still angry.
How are you feels like such a pointless question, after what they've just endured. He wants to hear it, but he doesn't want to insult Francis by asking something so painful and obvious. Instead: "How's the pain? I can find snow to wrap in some of these, numb some of it a little."
He's miserable. The journey and the subsequent stressors of the trial made everything so much worse, but adrenaline kept the pain away. Now back at home, having sat and rested in front of the fire, his body feels as awful as it had the first few days after the attack.
And he can't do a damn thing about it. Nothing will really make the pain go away, not without compromising all the work that was done years ago. But God, what he wouldn't give for a sip of whiskey, to numb it all just one more time...
He shakes his head carefully. "Rebandaging would help more. They've come undone in places." Or at least feels that way, it could be that his body has unwound and the bandages have stayed in place. "Tea'll be good for your throat. Use some of that maple syrup we found to sweeten it."
Francis is trying to take care of him. Raju's surprised to feel his lips curling up just a little into a small, fond smile. He recognizes, by now, the careful way that Francis shakes his head, but he's trying to take care of Raju anyway. His friend's generous, kind nature is wasted on these people.
His smile fades and he looks down at his hands, one holding the rag in place against his middle while the other tries to tie it. This isn't long enough to do it himself. He allows himself to follow the pull toward Francis to move closer to his chair, crouching in front of it and setting his hand on the armrest next to him. "Help me tie these, then I'll rebandage your ribs. Then we'll have tea."
It's a pitiful plan, set against everything they'll need to prepare for — everything, now, that they can't count on backup or support for at all — but it's enough to get them through this moment now. His free hand takes up one end of the rag underneath his other but his gaze gets caught on Francis' face again. "We'll manage," he insists, voice forceful and low, free hand moving to Francis' knee. "We'll make do without any of them. You'll see."
Crozier absently reaches for the bandage before Raju has a chance to ask. He grimaces - grimace on top of a grimace thanks to his blackened eye - his heart sinking to hear what he’d already felt out loud.
Abandoned.
His men, the ones who see sense, they were counting on him to prevent more of the same. He recalls the argument he had with Little during the darker days of the month, accusations that he’s given up. He hadn’t then. He feels a little like he should now.
“Most of the children spoke while the adults stayed silent,” he says quietly, not wanting to inadvertently goad Raju into another firefight. “I don’t understand it, Raju. Were no trial or tribunal, just people speaking. So many took objection to just talking.”
Raju nods, free hand moving to the rag again to tie it up in concert with Francis' movements. There's something soothing about it, moving together in even that one small way, anticipating where Francis is going to wrap the thing around or pull it tight, and what he needs Raju to do in return. It's the best of what's inside him right now, the part of him that can move and think that way, and he tries to focus more on it than anything else. "They only want it to be talking. If none of them did anything wrong no one needs defending, and nothing has to change. It's more comfortable. I should have known things were going to be that way."
Scowling, he pulls his end of the rag tight a little too quickly, catching Francis' fingertip in the loop. He tugs the loop loose and holds his hand apologetically over the back of Francis' for a moment, sighing. Of course things were going to be that way. They always were. Why would any of them stand up for someone when they didn't have to? But he'd never even considered it might happen that way. He never thought he was that much of an optimist. He hasn't ever expected that kind of support before.
It feels better, touching the back of Francis' hand. But it'd be strange to keep holding onto it. He makes his hand drift away, taking up his end of the rag again.
He’s to blame, of course, for Raju’s disappointment. He was so sure of himself, wasn’t he? He was positive that he could address the community he’s helped support and that they would find him credible and see the threat in front of them. His belief in this was firm, so firm that he would have insisted on walking to Milton had Raju not found that bloody wheelbarrow.
He looks down at his now uncovered hand and silently wishes Raju would return.
“The Darkwalker isn’t going to be the threat to these people, it’s using the beast as a scapegoat that’ll be their undoing,” he muses out loud, taking up his half of the cloth once more and trying to pull it tightly. “Hold still, Raju.”
Raju huffs a soft breath, some echo of amusement carried with the sound; it isn’t the first time someone trying to help has told him to keep still like that, and it certainly won’t be the last. The amusement, such as it is, fades quickly; he holds his hands still long enough for the two of them to finish tying the one hand, and then presents the other.
Raju isn’t looking at his hand, though; Raju is looking up at him. His expression is solemn, and curious. As little as he wants to dig up memories in Francis that are going to hurt, he himself might need to know, to learn what he can, if it will help.
“That sounds like a lesson you’ve learned already,” he murmurs, as close to gentle as he can afford to be. “Is that what happened to your men? Before?”
They barely feel like memories anymore, just the same story being reread. He lifts his gaze to meet Raju’s eyes; it’s impossible to keep the pain out of his own. He can only mask so well.
“It didn’t help. The creature was vindictive in its nature. It hunted us, tore us to shreds, robbed us of our souls.” And not in a metaphorical sense. “But we were always the biggest danger to each other.”
Their hubris, the need to fulfill Barrow’s grand promise to England, those ships, their supplies, the men - all of it stacked up against them.
This time when he takes Francis' hand it's no apology for moving too quickly, it's to comfort, and so when his hand grips Francis' Raju keeps it there. For a moment he studies Francis' face. He wants Francis to name them anyway, and Francis didn't.
Raju thinks on it while he looks at him, and then Raju doesn't ask. If any of those painful lessons are things that Raju needs to know, then Francis will tell him. And if any of the failures of that time are useful in this one, Francis is the one who's going to know it. Raju needs to know everything so he can make a plan, needs to make a plan so he can keep them safe, needs to keep them safe because he's the only one who can — but Francis is a thoughtful man, and intelligent, and kind, and wise enough to temper all of that with practicality. Raju can trust his judgement, even if it feels strange to do it.
"You still care about them, don't you? Everyone back there, even now. About making sure they can make it out of this too."
He does. God help him, he does still care for them all. He doesn’t want anyone else to die.
“You think me a fool,” he says quietly, glad at least that Raju’s hand is back on his again. He holds it as tightly as he can, weak as he feels. “I cared for them too, even the mutineers. Good people are capable of terrible things in times of desperation.”
But they’re nowhere near desperate. No one believed him about that either.
“Further north nothing grows, not even moss. Game was scarce. The ice was so thick we couldn’t fish. There was nothing, Raju, and here there’s still so much plenty…”
Raju looks surprised, and then troubled; he grips Francis' hand tighter. "I don't," he insists, hating the quiet way that Francis said it, resigned to believing Raju could ever think of him that way. "I..."
He finds himself looking away, down at his hands. It's harder, he realises, to meet Francis' eyes. "It's what this place needs, even if they don't deserve it. A man who can be kind, like you. But I... don't think I can be that way. Not now. You don't feel..."
He shakes his head, searching for the word, then looks up again to frown into Francis' eyes. There's that pull to looking at them, even like this. The bruised, swollen one only makes him want to cover Francis up somehow, put himself between this man and the rest of the world. But that isn't all he wants, right now. He names it. "...angry? I'd be too angry, where you are. Or... disgusted. I don't know."
"I'm livid," he tells him, trying to turn his hand to squeeze Raju's palm against his own. "I just can't light fires over it."
His delivery may be dry, but the warmth there isn't. He ducks to try to Raju from turning away from him again. "I'm in too much pain for anything more than this right now. Maybe it's resignation as well. I hope not, but..."
Crozier frowns quietly. His head is still tilted up, but his gaze is unfocused now. He's considering how much he wants to say, whether Raju should know about these expectations. Well. Of course he should. Raju should know it all. They're in this together now, aren't they?
"Little and Irving look to me to lead," he starts, slow and with very careful pauses for his breath. "Jopson and Goodsir are more reasonable, in the end they were far more practical...but none of them can shake the 'sirs' or 'Captain', and every time I do nothing I feel as though...." He grimaces softly, putting his hand up to his chest a moment. It feels tight. "I'm killing them a second time."
Raju's eyebrows draw together, concern deepening the lines of his frown. He goes to his knees so he can lean further forward, moving one hand to the back of Francis' head, the back of his neck. "What more could you have done?" It's less a question and more of a statement, a demand. "You gave everything you could to keep anyone more from getting hurt, you nearly died for it. Look at you, even bringing yourself there and back took a toll. If anyone's killing here, it wasn't your hand that gave the weapon over. You did everything you could."
“I could have argued it differently. I could have…” Could he have kept arguing? He wants to blame himself for his failure, but he’d been too tired to keep going after he said his piece.
It’s so hard to meet Raju’s gaze now, but he can’t look anywhere else. He’s so intense, as though he can see right through him.
“I can’t do anything. I’m helpless here, helpless to stop even Hickey, of all people. Hickey, who is so obviously guilty!”
"They knew he was guilty." Raju's voice is still intent but his expression is almost confused; even as he needs Francis not to blame himself, he's thinking it through. "We thought that would matter, that surely anyone would want to stop him from doing it again— but we won't make that mistake twice. They knew everyone was guilty, they didn't care. Little was practically asking to be punished, for rules and consequence, and no one cared. There's something else they wanted more. We have to think about it differently."
His grip over Francis tightens, hopefully reassuring, and he doesn't look away from Francis' eyes. "We aren't helpless until it's done. We keep trying." Raju pauses, sighs. Smiles a little, wryly. It's odd to be in this position, the one who isn't pushing forward, who would step back and stop if someone else gave him the word to. He isn't really used to it. But these aren't his people, and anyone who might have been has made it very clear where they stand on protecting the vulnerable, forming a real community, doing what's difficult to keep everyone safe. Everyone who's his is very far from him, except the one in front of him now. "If you're sure that's what you want? To keep everyone safe here, whether they want to be or not?"
No. No, he isn’t sure. He can name a handful of people he doesn’t want to see harmed, a handful of his surviving men that he’d give his life for, and then - there’s the person who is with him here now. But that certainly doesn’t mean all.
“I’m not sure I can answer that yet,” he tells him honestly. His head slowly leans against Raju’s arm, his gaze lowering to his lips just a little absently. “Perhaps it will look different in the morning. Right now…right now I feel like wouldn’t have minded if you burnt it all down.”
Francis leans his head against Raju's arm and Raju leans a little further forward, one hand braced on the seat and the other secure where it is and ready to stay there, for as long as his friend leans that way against it. "I want to go back and do it, when I think about... all of it. The complacency. The moralising. The accusations. They knew damned well what everyone there did and spoke very well of themselves for being so generous and merciful about it. Convenient for them that doing nothing is so much easier. I suppose anyone who can't defend themselves in the next attack are worth the loss, while the rest sit around admiring one another for how clean their hands are."
He pushes a hard breath out through his nose, jaw clenched. "I should have spoken up more. Especially when that boy spoke to you that way. I thought the adults could decide their own minds regardless, but— but I should have known better. Just because this isn't home doesn't mean the people are any different. It's only colder."
He heaves a sigh, frowning, and the hand on the seat sets itself against Francis' leg, fingers curling over his calf. "I'm sorry, Francis. You did everything you could, but I could have done more. Tried harder."
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no subject
Maybe worried isn't the word.
He takes Francis' forearm, so Francis has the whole sturdy line of it to lean on instead of only a hand. He presses the things inside of him flat and waits, patient, for his friend's broken body to move, and nods to his request, and leads him to where he needs to go.
Raju can still move through this place as familiarly as if he stayed here every day. He used to. It's a stranger thought than ever now, incongruous with the reality behind him, the crowd of people who would have preached forgiveness and blind mercy even if—
A flame flickers beneath his boot, and Raju's mind goes quiet, and the flame dissolves into smoke. Raju opens the door. He leads Francis through it. The snow is bright, and the cold is sharp over his skin. He'd forgotten to wrap the blanket properly over his neck and head. It doesn't matter. He only remembers it.
The more steps they take away from the building and all its flammable wood, the deeper Raju's breathing gets again. The snow begins to melt in a circle around his feet.
"We're farther from the wheelbarrow here." It needs to be said. His hand is careful on Francis' shoulder, steady on his forearm. His voice is flat, so that it won't be anything else. "Do you need me to bring it to you?"
no subject
While the goal is to slink out unnoticed, Crozier's cautious to keep himself mostly upright and moving without wincing or grimacing. He doesn't want to look any more pathetic than he already feels. Only once outside and moving down the snow-covered street does he start to slow up, breath heavy with each step, leaning on Raju more and more until most of his weight is pressed into his friend's side.
"No," he says, walking through one of the slushy puddles at his feet. "No, we'll walk. The bridge."
He can't do it yet. People will undoubtedly be going back to their homes in the town, Hickey and Gibson back to theirs somewhere near here - he won't let Hickey see how low he's sunk.
"Wait until we're past the bridge," he says again, this time warning Raju to keep himself in check. They can't set the town on fire, even if they're both angry enough to watch the whole thing burn. They can't destroy even if others seek to do precisely that.
no subject
He can hear the sound of Francis' strained breath even better now. The wheezing is a familiar sound, one he's started to consider a reminder, and the smoke in the air stays clear of Francis' face, the heat rising from the ground is split by the progress of his feet. His skin, now that he knows to pay attention to it, is hot in a way that, even now, he registers as strange, sharp cold hitting it from the outside with something else heating it from within.
The bridge. That's what Francis has asked. It doesn't matter why. So he'll keep this up until the bridge. That's all he needs to think about now, that and guiding the slow and precious weight of Francis leaning against him. He can do all that.
no subject
He can’t offer anything to Raju in this moment, any words to help calm him were robbed of him between the injuries and the events of the town meeting. He just focuses on the walk, the slow trudge forward, the slow creep of helplessness crawling up his spine.
What does he do now? Any appeal to the group won’t be heard; he has no influence here (clearly), no power or control. There isn’t the structure for it, and bless his men who can’t seem to shake the Royal Navy, but it isn’t appropriate here.
Hickey’s been empowered. More will die.
He can feel the heat radiating off of Raju, but instead of concerning it feels almost comforting. He leans a little closer, trying to draw in a little more heat.
no subject
Once they reach the place he's tucked the wheelbarrow away he leans Francis slowly against a tree, gaze focused and darting over him to make sure he's stable there. Francis had been leaning so close, needing him, and it hurts to let him go, even for this. But he has to be patient. He has to do this right, and deliberately. He can't even let impatience outside of him now. So he grabs the wheelbarrow, moving it close to Francis and holding up its handles to tip its wheeled end to the ground, so it'll be easier for Francis to simply lay back into the blankets piled up inside it. His throat hurts, everything pressed so tightly inside him now, and the mud under the melting snow is beginning to dry and crack under the sustained heat.
"Is this alright?" he says tightly, eyes on Francis' every movement. "I can move it closer."
no subject
He hates this. Looking down at that goddamned wheelbarrow, thinking about all the indignities piled on him the last month alone, the careful maneuvering and planning it took to get him out to the town hall in the first place, only for Hickey to be told the words ‘not guilty’ makes him want to scream bloody murder.
“It’s fine,” he says instead, leaving the security of the tree and stepping onto the baked clay surrounding their feet. Raju is trying so hard right now. This forest might go up in flames tonight, but he knows he’ll at least get him home first.
Holding the side of the wheelbarrow, he sinks himself back into it and waits for Raju to tip it upright. He’ll do it slowly, so that nothing jostles, but it’ll still hurt like hell.
no subject
He thinks about how important it is that he bring Francis home safely now. No one else is going to do it. The snow melts in front of their path as Raju pushes, watching the smoke part for Francis like the tip of the wheelbarrow is the bow of a ship, feeling the strain in his arms and chest to keep the wheelbarrow steady, and keeps thinking of how important it is to keep Francis safe now so that the smoke and heat are as gentle with him as Raju himself needs to be, and doesn’t think of anything else.
Once they’re at the cabin he carefully helps Francis out of it and to the door. He sees Francis seated and comfortable. He goes straight outside again, and walks as far from the cabin as he can bear to — not far, while his friend is sitting so vulnerable inside it, just far enough that the cabin won’t catch when everything else around him catches on fire.
It’s a relief to let it go. For a moment he only stands there, fists clenched as the fire grows from nothing around him, as he starts panting and his skin grows hot. He starts pacing, missing the punching bag again, missing his equipment. The flames follow him as he paces in a circle around the cabin, raising something almost like the wall of them he’d raised while Francis had been dying. He might have died, and the useless lot of them would still be sitting back there moralising and applauding all those righteous speeches about how the right and moral thing was to do nothing, absolutely nothing at all, and Francis’ murderer would still have walked just as free.
There’s nothing here that he can hit. Nothing designed for it, and nothing that would help. No one he can go after without condemnation from the very same crowd which thinks itself so righteous for ensuring a community built to keep only the fittest and most deadly of them safe. But there are plenty of trees.
He turns and throws his weight behind his fists at a sturdy one and the impact is almost satisfying so he does it again, and again, and then keeps doing it, and fire begins blooming over the wood after each successive hit. His arms are tired, his hands are sore, he remembers what would have been his friend’s last words, a friend who’d been more caring and profoundly loyal than anyone has ever been, anyone who didn’t need him. Francis doesn’t need him to be anything and never has, has always cared for him anyway, and he would have died, hurt while Raju wasn’t even there, and the town full of people he’d been counting on to be there next time in his stead has turned their back, if it happens like that again they’re going to just let it—
He screams, deep and raw and enraged, and on his next hit fire lights across the tree and through it, and with a drawn out creaking noise, it falls in a spray of snow.
Raju hears his panting breath. He watches fire eating up the length of the tree as it sits there on the ground. He listens to its crackling and realises his arms, held a little up from his body, are trembling, then realises that’s because he’s tired. Tired is good. Tired means it should be safe to go inside now. So he does, trudging to the door, making his way inside, turning slowly and pushing the door closed slowly, noticing the way his knuckles have split as he does it before his gaze catches on the fireplace. There’s fire inside it.
“I forgot to light that before I left you in here,” he realises. His voice scratches in his throat. That would be the yelling. “Or did I… It doesn’t matter. I can make you tea, you must need it after that ride back. How are you feeling?”
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Raju is holding it together for his sake. He’s angrier than Crozier’s ever seen him - angrier than he would have ever been if he’d been the one who’d gotten injured. He’s angry because of him, because he had insisted on walking into town for this, even if he was only a week out from the initial attacked, only for it to have been a complete waste of time.
He’s surprised that Raju’s able to keep himself under control long enough to get him settled inside their cabin, but once he hears the roar of flames outside he knows he’s finally snapped. He frowns softly and pulls himself back up, muscles and bones all crying out in protest, and walks to the window to watch the fire and smoke rise in the air.
There’s another roar to his right, one that seemingly comes out of nowhere as the fire in the hearth suddenly comes to light. His initial fright turns into quiet endearment and worry; he wants Raju to come back unscathed, and hopes he won’t try to stay out all night.
When he does return he’s back in his chair, making sure it looks like he never left it. He raises his head to study Raju from head to toe, smelling smoking and seeing blood on his hands.
“When you wrap those,” he tells him quietly. No chastising, no chiding. Raju did what he needed to do, and he waited until he was across the bridge. No one else was hurt but himself.
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He goes over to the rags he keeps in here now, picking through the pile to see if any are the right size and shape to wrap around his knuckles. His gaze catches on Francis as he's doing it and stays there, and his searching hand slows.
Of course Raju's still angry.
How are you feels like such a pointless question, after what they've just endured. He wants to hear it, but he doesn't want to insult Francis by asking something so painful and obvious. Instead: "How's the pain? I can find snow to wrap in some of these, numb some of it a little."
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He's miserable. The journey and the subsequent stressors of the trial made everything so much worse, but adrenaline kept the pain away. Now back at home, having sat and rested in front of the fire, his body feels as awful as it had the first few days after the attack.
And he can't do a damn thing about it. Nothing will really make the pain go away, not without compromising all the work that was done years ago. But God, what he wouldn't give for a sip of whiskey, to numb it all just one more time...
He shakes his head carefully. "Rebandaging would help more. They've come undone in places." Or at least feels that way, it could be that his body has unwound and the bandages have stayed in place. "Tea'll be good for your throat. Use some of that maple syrup we found to sweeten it."
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His smile fades and he looks down at his hands, one holding the rag in place against his middle while the other tries to tie it. This isn't long enough to do it himself. He allows himself to follow the pull toward Francis to move closer to his chair, crouching in front of it and setting his hand on the armrest next to him. "Help me tie these, then I'll rebandage your ribs. Then we'll have tea."
It's a pitiful plan, set against everything they'll need to prepare for — everything, now, that they can't count on backup or support for at all — but it's enough to get them through this moment now. His free hand takes up one end of the rag underneath his other but his gaze gets caught on Francis' face again. "We'll manage," he insists, voice forceful and low, free hand moving to Francis' knee. "We'll make do without any of them. You'll see."
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Crozier absently reaches for the bandage before Raju has a chance to ask. He grimaces - grimace on top of a grimace thanks to his blackened eye - his heart sinking to hear what he’d already felt out loud.
Abandoned.
His men, the ones who see sense, they were counting on him to prevent more of the same. He recalls the argument he had with Little during the darker days of the month, accusations that he’s given up. He hadn’t then. He feels a little like he should now.
“Most of the children spoke while the adults stayed silent,” he says quietly, not wanting to inadvertently goad Raju into another firefight. “I don’t understand it, Raju. Were no trial or tribunal, just people speaking. So many took objection to just talking.”
They’re all going to die here.
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Scowling, he pulls his end of the rag tight a little too quickly, catching Francis' fingertip in the loop. He tugs the loop loose and holds his hand apologetically over the back of Francis' for a moment, sighing. Of course things were going to be that way. They always were. Why would any of them stand up for someone when they didn't have to? But he'd never even considered it might happen that way. He never thought he was that much of an optimist. He hasn't ever expected that kind of support before.
It feels better, touching the back of Francis' hand. But it'd be strange to keep holding onto it. He makes his hand drift away, taking up his end of the rag again.
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He’s to blame, of course, for Raju’s disappointment. He was so sure of himself, wasn’t he? He was positive that he could address the community he’s helped support and that they would find him credible and see the threat in front of them. His belief in this was firm, so firm that he would have insisted on walking to Milton had Raju not found that bloody wheelbarrow.
He looks down at his now uncovered hand and silently wishes Raju would return.
“The Darkwalker isn’t going to be the threat to these people, it’s using the beast as a scapegoat that’ll be their undoing,” he muses out loud, taking up his half of the cloth once more and trying to pull it tightly. “Hold still, Raju.”
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Raju isn’t looking at his hand, though; Raju is looking up at him. His expression is solemn, and curious. As little as he wants to dig up memories in Francis that are going to hurt, he himself might need to know, to learn what he can, if it will help.
“That sounds like a lesson you’ve learned already,” he murmurs, as close to gentle as he can afford to be. “Is that what happened to your men? Before?”
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They barely feel like memories anymore, just the same story being reread. He lifts his gaze to meet Raju’s eyes; it’s impossible to keep the pain out of his own. He can only mask so well.
“It didn’t help. The creature was vindictive in its nature. It hunted us, tore us to shreds, robbed us of our souls.” And not in a metaphorical sense. “But we were always the biggest danger to each other.”
Their hubris, the need to fulfill Barrow’s grand promise to England, those ships, their supplies, the men - all of it stacked up against them.
“The parallels are too numerous to name.”
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Raju thinks on it while he looks at him, and then Raju doesn't ask. If any of those painful lessons are things that Raju needs to know, then Francis will tell him. And if any of the failures of that time are useful in this one, Francis is the one who's going to know it. Raju needs to know everything so he can make a plan, needs to make a plan so he can keep them safe, needs to keep them safe because he's the only one who can — but Francis is a thoughtful man, and intelligent, and kind, and wise enough to temper all of that with practicality. Raju can trust his judgement, even if it feels strange to do it.
"You still care about them, don't you? Everyone back there, even now. About making sure they can make it out of this too."
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He does. God help him, he does still care for them all. He doesn’t want anyone else to die.
“You think me a fool,” he says quietly, glad at least that Raju’s hand is back on his again. He holds it as tightly as he can, weak as he feels. “I cared for them too, even the mutineers. Good people are capable of terrible things in times of desperation.”
But they’re nowhere near desperate. No one believed him about that either.
“Further north nothing grows, not even moss. Game was scarce. The ice was so thick we couldn’t fish. There was nothing, Raju, and here there’s still so much plenty…”
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He finds himself looking away, down at his hands. It's harder, he realises, to meet Francis' eyes. "It's what this place needs, even if they don't deserve it. A man who can be kind, like you. But I... don't think I can be that way. Not now. You don't feel..."
He shakes his head, searching for the word, then looks up again to frown into Francis' eyes. There's that pull to looking at them, even like this. The bruised, swollen one only makes him want to cover Francis up somehow, put himself between this man and the rest of the world. But that isn't all he wants, right now. He names it. "...angry? I'd be too angry, where you are. Or... disgusted. I don't know."
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"I'm livid," he tells him, trying to turn his hand to squeeze Raju's palm against his own. "I just can't light fires over it."
His delivery may be dry, but the warmth there isn't. He ducks to try to Raju from turning away from him again. "I'm in too much pain for anything more than this right now. Maybe it's resignation as well. I hope not, but..."
Crozier frowns quietly. His head is still tilted up, but his gaze is unfocused now. He's considering how much he wants to say, whether Raju should know about these expectations. Well. Of course he should. Raju should know it all. They're in this together now, aren't they?
"Little and Irving look to me to lead," he starts, slow and with very careful pauses for his breath. "Jopson and Goodsir are more reasonable, in the end they were far more practical...but none of them can shake the 'sirs' or 'Captain', and every time I do nothing I feel as though...." He grimaces softly, putting his hand up to his chest a moment. It feels tight. "I'm killing them a second time."
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“I could have argued it differently. I could have…” Could he have kept arguing? He wants to blame himself for his failure, but he’d been too tired to keep going after he said his piece.
It’s so hard to meet Raju’s gaze now, but he can’t look anywhere else. He’s so intense, as though he can see right through him.
“I can’t do anything. I’m helpless here, helpless to stop even Hickey, of all people. Hickey, who is so obviously guilty!”
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His grip over Francis tightens, hopefully reassuring, and he doesn't look away from Francis' eyes. "We aren't helpless until it's done. We keep trying." Raju pauses, sighs. Smiles a little, wryly. It's odd to be in this position, the one who isn't pushing forward, who would step back and stop if someone else gave him the word to. He isn't really used to it. But these aren't his people, and anyone who might have been has made it very clear where they stand on protecting the vulnerable, forming a real community, doing what's difficult to keep everyone safe. Everyone who's his is very far from him, except the one in front of him now. "If you're sure that's what you want? To keep everyone safe here, whether they want to be or not?"
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No. No, he isn’t sure. He can name a handful of people he doesn’t want to see harmed, a handful of his surviving men that he’d give his life for, and then - there’s the person who is with him here now. But that certainly doesn’t mean all.
“I’m not sure I can answer that yet,” he tells him honestly. His head slowly leans against Raju’s arm, his gaze lowering to his lips just a little absently. “Perhaps it will look different in the morning. Right now…right now I feel like wouldn’t have minded if you burnt it all down.”
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He pushes a hard breath out through his nose, jaw clenched. "I should have spoken up more. Especially when that boy spoke to you that way. I thought the adults could decide their own minds regardless, but— but I should have known better. Just because this isn't home doesn't mean the people are any different. It's only colder."
He heaves a sigh, frowning, and the hand on the seat sets itself against Francis' leg, fingers curling over his calf. "I'm sorry, Francis. You did everything you could, but I could have done more. Tried harder."
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