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If he hadn’t been on the rag, he wouldn’t have been thinking so bloody stupidly.

He bobbed and weaved expertly through the crowds of midshipmen aboard Erebus, avoiding any awkward shoulder bumps and hopefully moving quickly enough that nobody saw the distress furrowing his brow. Word would travel fast between the crews Terror and Erebus , but they would assume that Commander Fitzjames was storming about the ship after having a nasty row with Captain Crozier, they wouldn’t come to the conclusion that he was actually seeking out the ship’s surgeon.

His brother Israel died five months ago.

There was no official record for it, he’d gotten into a fight at the pub and came home half-bled, bruised, barely alive, and the light left his eyes while he was just inside the door. He watched him breathe his last breaths, stayed by his side while his skin went cold, shook his shoulder and whimpered while all of his thoughts came so quickly.

Get someone, find someone right now, you can’t help him, find someone who will . But fat tears blurred his vision and his lungs heaved with sobs, his throat went tight and prickly like he was about to vomit, and he cried over Israel until he spent his last ounce of energy and collapsed on top of him. The only solace was that he wasn’t alone while he gasped his last breaths, that he died in the arms of his beloved sister.

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