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Billy has never told Cornelius that he remembers: that he remembers every time his lover’s knife has kissed his stomach– a bullet that flutters like butterflies. He doesn’t tell Cornelius that he remembers every iteration of the hell they’ve found themselves in– the rations that never seem to be enough, the sledges that forever must be pulled. He doesn’t tell him, because he isn’t sure Cornelius remembers every time.
There are four of them today: Cornelius, Tozer, Des Vouex, and himself. They always start with all of their men, all the ones that foolishly followed Hickey’s silver tongue and believed him when he said that he was their best chance. Now, each one of them time and time again meets the end of his knife, or Tozer’s rifle, or some other man’s weapon when the cycle diverges slightly.
Lt. Hodgson was the last one to be Hunted this time; his body carved like bread and wine by Des Voeux, the one he always trusts the most. Billy has seen this scene play out hundreds of times now, but he thinks it usually happens earlier.
He is the only one left pulling weight now. Tozer and Des Vouex walk on either side of the sledge with their rifles, eyeing each other like two hungry wolves, waiting for the other to pounce first. Cornelius strides in front of them all, back turned to them without a care, arms outstretched as he rants to no one about how much More he deserves.
Billy already knows how this time will go. His joints are already locking; his spine is already shattering as he heaves far more than what one man should be physically able to pull.
Cornelius will find him sprawled on his side tonight, holding back delirious tears from all the pain. He will comfort him with all the tenderness of the farmer who raises his rabbits for meat. He will kiss his cheek and betray him like in the Garden of Gethsemane.
After the Last Supper, Tozer and Des Voeux will finally bare their teeth at one another, and Cornelius will kill the survivor as a sacrifice to whatever God they’re chasing this time. At least, that’s how Billy imagines the period between his deaths and rebirths. He is never around long enough to know for sure.
The ropes are weighing on him now, tearing back his tendons as he continues to march. He feels his body shatter like a rock thrown through a church window, Jesus cut into pieces. Falling to his knees, Billy watches as his lover turns around, snapped out of his trance for only a moment. It’s from the concern in Cornelius’s eyes, the tears pricking at the corners, that Billy knows his death will come sooner than he thought.
The cycle shifts. They will die differently each time, but one constant will always remain.
Cornelius will kill Billy. So it goes.
Even when he wakes up whole again after three days, the cycle starting anew, Billy never feels well. Some times are better than others, when fatigue weighs him down and his ribs only ache but he can still speak, still think clearly about what decisions have to be made.
These are the times he survives the longest, able to match Cornelius’s wit in the way he did when he orchestrated their innocence to that anchorite lieutenant. Other times he can barely stand: his breath laboured, heart erratic, hands numb.
When his body is already collapsing in on itself, pulling weight isn’t even the worst part then. It’s when he has to bite his cheek, trying not to collapse, and gasp out that I’m Fine. Don’t worry about me. I’m Sorry. Please, Cornelius. Stop Asking. I’m Fine. (I know I’m dead if I tell you the truth, and I want to live a while longer.)
Sometimes he’s scared that his body will give out before he’s ready, because it has before. He only vaguely remembers a time, before this expedition, when he never had to think about his body every second of the day– when he was younger.
But he was still young when he joined this expedition, a fresh twenty-two, supposedly in the prime of his life. He always thought he would have more time. When he prays to escape this hell, the slow realisation creeps in that he cannot escape his own Body, though he desperately Wants to.
All of the men Want for something here. Cornelius is the most predictable; Billy has known what he Wants ever since he met the man. He Seeks for validation, for revenge against those who have pushed him down, for more than his standing, for More.
On their Forever Hunt, this manifests into Cornelius striding beyond the rest of the group, mumbling to himself about the Holy Things before them, carving symbols into the ground with his knife. In other circumstances, Billy may have laughed about how much he sounded like Lt. Irving. But the knife’s handle is carved with Hickey’s name and its blade is carved with Billy’s blood– Cornelius Hunts for Favour.
The others were a bit harder to parse, but Billy has gotten to know them better throughout the cycles– to understand why they keep walking. The Lieutenant Wants his joy again: he Wants to enjoy a feast of ham over eating his boots; he Wants to retain sensation in his fingers to play a melodic chord; but most of all, he Wants to go back, to sit in the wardroom next to his fellow lieutenants.
Tozer Wants his dignity back, his manhood; he Wants to keep his remaining friends safe the way he couldn’t for Heather, even though he never can protect them all.
This time around, Billy watches as Armitage accidentally shoots Pilkington while gunning for Des Voeux, because in this hell, Carnage always follows the Chase. He lays down in the gravel and watches as Cornelius approaches, eyes brimming with concern. So it goes.
Just as the cycle changes, so too does their terrain. None of them are seeking the Passage, so the landscape doesn’t seem to care to match their former reality.
Billy wakes up in the desert this time, and the illusion of the sun does nothing to warm the chill that’s nestled in his bones. Regardless of the void’s new dressings, his fingers will still blacken beneath his frayed wool gloves.
On very rare occasions, after hundreds of cycles of the same, they will come across another hunting party. During their stint in the jungle, Billy shared a meal with a man, not much younger than him, named Jack Fawcett, who excitedly proclaimed a city of gold was just beyond the brush.
“My father promised it’d be there,” the young man had waved his hand, completely ignoring the canned provision that was shared with him. Billy thought he’d ought to recognize the gold in front of him.
This time, there are familiar silhouettes on top of a faraway dune, wearing the same polar slops as them. Tozer points towards the other group, a wolf signaling to its pack, and then there’s a glint in Cornelius’s eyes that Billy recognizes.
A type of Hunger that has consumed them all, keeps them all tethered here. The type that wishes to climb the mount and make his sermons known.
Armitage and Des Voeux raise their rifles, but not before Hodgson sprints up the dune, nearly tripping in the sand. As the pack of them trail after him, the blurry face of Sir John comes into focus, expression as jovial and dismissive as the day he died. He scans the men with a look of confusion, until he sees the lieutenant and recognition flashes in his eyes.
“Lieutenant Hodgson! Where have you been?” The Captain laughs, as if they’re around the wardroom table again, “I don’t suppose you’ve found the Passage on your leave, have you?”
But Hodgson isn’t listening, horror creeping onto his face. Billy traces his gaze over to the men behind Sir John: the other lieutenants. The gold buttons on their overcoats are still polished, unlike Hodgson’s, yet something else shines as well.
Hodgson chokes up as he speaks, “Oh my god, Edward. What happened to your face?”
Through the veil, Billy can see what the lieutenant sees: the golden chains nipping at Lt. Little’s face like frostbite, dragging his skin even farther down than his eyebags. The man winces at every movement and touch, but it seems nobody else notices his pain– content to let the weight drag him down.
As Hodgson sobs, unable to even comfort his friend, Billy can’t help but think to himself: Is that what I look like?
Can the others see the glass in my knees, the bags under my eyes I can’t just sleep away? Can they see every time the knife pierces my back, my chest, my heart– every single place I’ve been betrayed?
Cornelius puts his hand on his shoulder, muttering something about how they found the wrong captain and they had to keep hunting. Billy just shakes his head– tries to tell him to go to hell but spits out a cough instead, blood peppering his sleeve. His lover takes his arm into his own, pressing his fingers tenderly against the stain. He looks up in concern.
So it goes.
“Where is your fiddle, Gibson? I want you to play for me.”
The Lieutenant and he are sitting on boxes away from the main table, a pseudo-wardroom in the gravel. Billy has never liked his job, but it’s never been something he disliked either– stewardship paid more and that was that.
He never has felt stunted by his station either, unlike Cornelius; Billy saw opportunities, but he did not crave them to the point of foolishness. He was practical, to a point, which perhaps was what brought the two together in the first place. But Cornelius kept sharpening the point, and could not see when he was about to cut himself.
Maybe, at one point, Billy would have sat at the table at Cornelius’s side– him on the right, and Tozer surely on the left. But the fatigue eats away at him now, nipping at his chest like a lover. He just needs a single sense of normalcy, so he sits at the officer’s side and tends to him.
“I don’t have it, sir, remember? It burned with the rest of the instruments.” Billy practically whispers to him. He knows better than to talk about the Carnivale loudly, lest Tozer aim his rifle towards him.
Hodgson just scratches his head, his memory clearly foggy of the incident. It seems, this time, he still thinks they’re on the ship. Maybe a byproduct of seeing his fellow lieutenants last time, a way of blocking that cycle out of his mind.
“Oh. Well. I have an idea then. John would love this. Would you sing that song for me? The Silver Swan? ”
Billy thinks for a moment: this isn’t something he normally does. His voice never sounds right; it’s too quiet and never hits the right notes. But Hodgson is looking at him with Joy, and Billy realizes maybe this is what the other has been searching for all along.
So he sings. He doesn’t know all the words, his voice can’t reach certain notes, but that’s okay. A few of the men over at the main table turn their heads and fall silent, watching intently.
Pilkington joins in after a moment, his voice much more melodic than Billy’s– the tune now carrying across their little camp.
Hoar sings a few words, and then Manson. Golding starts singing softly, voice cracking slightly. By the end of the tune, Billy feels a peace descend on the camp that he didn’t even remember existed, that he didn’t think was possible in a place like this.
He looks onto the rest of them, thirteen men gathered around body and blood, and realizes he forgives them. Despite everything, despite the betrayal and the Hunt and the Carnage that surrounds them, they are here together. They are all they have.
They will turn on each other time and time again but they will still come back to each other in the end. They will march to Golgotha and stain their own hands in blood, marked together in the decisions they have made.
As he finishes his song, Billy’s eyes wander to the middle of the table– notices how Cornelius looks at him. There is no concern there now; their gaze is locked in silent confrontation as Billy mouths the words: More fools than wise.
Something burns in Cornelius’s gaze– his defensive smile completely dropped now. If he were a weaker man, perhaps Billy would have shivered at the murderous intent, but he is tired now. His joints may be glass but he will use the shards to cut the red string that ties them here.
Goddammit, Cornelius. What More could you possibly Want?
There is something in the frigid air that asks him: What do You Want, Billy?
Later, he will find Hodgson stabbed outside his tent and he will sit and wait for the illusion of the sun to come up. Cornelius will enter at dawn and spin a tale of how the lieutenant was going to crawl back to Crozier and rat out their location.
Billy will just roll his eyes before a sharp pain erupts in his spine, and he can’t help but visibly wince. He will feel a hand soothingly run down along his back and the Eyes that bore into the back of his skull. He doesn’t have to turn around to imagine the tears that prick the corners. So it goes.
What do You Want, Billy?
The question dances in his head next time around, when he’s hauling the sledge by himself again and watching as Cornelius strides in front of them. He Wants, most immediately, for his body to not give out again, yearns for a time without pain and fatigue. He Wants to go home again to London– to receive another letter from his father and tell him how much he loves him and his sister Charlotte, though he Knows, by now, neither of them are probably alive.
He Wants to wrestle that knife out of Cornelius’s hand and stab him with it himself. It would be so easy, that voice tells him. If only he was the Hunter this time around, maybe he could break the cycle. Maybe they could all go free.
…
But no. He will not.
Billy halts abruptly, barely managing to stand as his legs tremor, and he begins to take off his harness. Tozer, ever the loyal hound, shouts at him to put it back on, but he does not– he waits for Cornelius to turn around.
“Now why have we stopped moving?” Cornelius starts speaking with that damned smile, expression quickly morphing to concern once he sees Billy’s shaking legs.
Yet, Billy immediately moves forward, using his height for once to stand over the smaller man. He finally asks, tone low and steady, “Do you remember?”
The other’s eyes widen slightly, before that damned smile creeps back onto his face. “Christ, Billy, you’re goin’ to have to be more specific.”
Billy inhales, silence permeating the air between the two of them just a second, though it seems quite longer. The words choke up in his throat, like some foreign power does not want them spoken, but Billy will speak.
It does not matter if he coughs blood, it does not matter if they are his last, but he will say them:
“Do you remember how you die each time? I’m never around long enough to see you get what’s coming.”
He braces himself, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the pain in Cornelius’s eyes– but the pain in his chest never comes. He slowly opens his eyes to find the other’s mouth hanging open slightly, gaze filled with shock and wonder. “You remember?”
Billy says nothing, unable to conjure up the words. The admission comes as no surprise to him; Cornelius has always dipped his hand in the bowl willingly, offered up anything for thirty pieces of silver. The Roman guard even stood behind them now, Tozer and Des Voeux’s barrels at the ready.
It’s expected, but still he cannot speak. So he nods.
There is something in the frigid air that asks him: What do you Want, Billy?
He answers: Rest.
Billy just looks at his lover– sees in his gaze everything he fell in love with in the first place: his wit and his spark and his twisted sense of justice that is now saying: I’m glad you remember. This is what we share.
He places his hand in Cornelius’s, squeezes as tight as he can muster, before he gently lets go. It’s fleeting, as is his strength, and so he lays down in the dirt on his back, facing the sky.
“Make it quick,” He says, but again, nothing comes. Cornelius stands there for a moment, before kneeling down and joining him in the dirt, shoulders brushing against each other. They both lay there silently, drowning out the increasingly loud arguing coming from a few feet away.
Cornelius speaks first with an uncharacteristic softness, his voice not carrying as usual as he whispers, “I don’t want you to suffer.”
This should be an excuse, a lie to justify his personal greed. This should be an admission of guilt.
But Billy is tired. And he knows better. He has felt each stab wound like a nail in his hand and has heard the weeping of his executioner.
So he sighs, “I know.”
Two gunshots ring out, followed by two loud thuds– and Billy realizes it’s just them now. He’s never made it this far before. He doesn’t turn to face Cornelius when he feels the other’s head turn to face him, instead looking up at the sky.
The colors are wrong; a dusty, orange haze despite their arctic terrain this time around, but he thinks it’s perfect. It’s wrong, just like them.
Cornelius’s breath is cold on his neck, a testament to the ghosts they really are. But Billy does not flinch, he does not move, he listens, as the other mumbles through a confession.
“It’s always the bear. Or it’s a wolf. It’s anything, as long as it can rip me apart,” He pauses, and Billy can feel the freezing tears drip onto his undershirt, “I don’t understand why it doesn’t want me. I’ve done everything right. I’ve fed it so much. I don’t understand why I’m cast off.”
It is silent. There is no wind here, no chirping birds– it’s all been scared away. There’s only Cornelius’s heartbeat, pumping still despite it all.
There are so many things Billy could say. He could say that he forgives him. He could say that he’s pathetic, scurrying to whatever source of power he can find and desperately trying to burrow in its corners. He could say that he wishes they could both just die right here now and never open their eyes again.
But instead, he will say the truth.
“We’re never getting out of here, Cornelius.”
His lover turns back around, facing the sky. He places his hand in Billy’s, brushing the ring that is still placed around his finger. And he sighs, “I know.”
They will not say another word to each other that night. They will watch the sun go down for the last time before the polar winter. They will lay there until the bear comes for them and the cycle begins anew. Billy will write a letter to his father in his head, and he will close his eyes to remember his face:
Dear father
You will never receive my letters again. Tell Charlotte I love her and I’m sorry for leaving you so soon. I have always wanted to make you proud and I don’t think you would be if you knew what I chose. But I love you anyway and I think you would still love me. I miss our family, and I hope to find a new one too. I’ve found a man to love anyway. He’s a liar and a thief and a rat but he’s mine. That’s good enough. Send my love to Mother and tell her not to weep for me. I am at rest, finally.
your Dutiful Son
Wiliam Gibson