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“Recently returned sailor seeking some connection. Write to Tom Bowline at Symposium”

The advertisement, which had run in a very selective paper only distributed to a small set of particular underground institutions in London, was wanting. James was certain of it. He should have made it longer, more detailed regarding exactly what sort of connection he was looking for. It had run in the paper for two and a half weeks now, and James was beginning to regret ever posting it at all.

It was not from lack of reply! Oh no, each time he visited his (quite discreet) club and inquired after the post, he was handed a respectable stack of notes, and at first he had torn into them, eager for - something. Kinship? A comrade?

(Distraction.)

Yet each time he reached the bottom of the stack he found himself sick with disappointment over the responses, which ranged from the frightfully lewd to the totally inane. (Although some of the more bawdy letters were a true testament to the imagination of their authors, and were James a younger man he might have taken the men up on their offers.) But as it was, none were right. None were what he was seeking ever since -

Well. Best not think on that now.

James bounded down the steps to Symposium two at a time, delighting in the stretch of his legs, the feeling of strength and vigor in his body after so long a period of illness. It had been months since they returned, since he had been spirited away to Brighton for his recovery, months still since the court martial, and all it had brought.

“Good evening, sir,” said the man in the foyer. James knew him only as Jay, a man so well coiffed and oiled it would take even the most observant member of Symposium a moment to notice the strength in the body underneath his perfectly pressed coat. None had claimed conquest of that particular fortress, however, though club legend had it that he and one of the patrons, a feckless, airheaded young man fond of ridiculous songs on the piano, were absolutely batty for each other. (James thought it was all nonsense. Any sort of connection between two such opposites was the stuff of dreams and fairy tales.)

“Not tonight, Jay,” said James, as the man made to take his coat. “I’m only popping in for the mail.”

“Very good sir.” He disappeared behind the curtain which led, presumably, to a perfectly organized office, and emerged moments later with a stack of letters addressed to a Tom Bowline. “An excellent response, if I might say so, sir.”

“Indeed,” said James. He chewed the inside of his lip, his mood souring at the thought of pouring through the whole pile again with nothing to show for it.

“Will that be all, sir?” Jay inquired, while James loitered about in his thoughts.

“Yes,” James' eyes snapped back to the man’s face. “Thank you.”

“Take care, sir.”

James stuffed the letters inside his coat and headed back into the brisk autumn night to his rooms. Dingy, almost bare of any sort of little luxury, they were only a temporary stop until he received a new posting. He had once hoped that he and -

But he would be returning again to his family in Brighton soon enough, would he not? The holiday season was but a few short months away now, and he amused himself for the remainder of the walk back home with imaginings of gifts he might delight his niece and nephew with upon Christmas morning. Last year he had been too ill, to sick with want and what had happened to attend the holiday, and he planned on making all the more merrier this season.

He arrived at his unpleasantly quiet building, and wished a hello to the landlady on his way up the stairs. She gave him a sour look in response, but James had grown used to such little unpleasantries and had almost reached the point in which he reveled in them. Once he reached his rooms he flung the letters on his desk and made for his bedroom, where he cast off the clothing of the day and slipped himself into his one bit of finery - his silk dressing gown. He ate the cold supper the landlady brought up, and flitted about for an hour or so, attempting to read, taking thirty minutes to select a book, deciding within five minutes of reading the same sentence that perhaps he didn’t wish to read after all, and finally contemplating an interesting shape in the cracked plaster on the ceiling in the corner of the room while the book languished on his lap. A wave, he thought. A wave rolling in the distance, as seen from the deck of a ship.

Eventually, he found his way back to the letters on his desk, and heaved an enormous sigh as he settled with them in the chair by the fire. The first was written in a shaky hand, and James was dubious as to its contents.

Tom Bowline

From one sailor to another, the urges at sea -

James cast it into the fire before reading another word, and picked up the next.

Tom -

In the interest of complete transparency, I wish to inform you that I have a scheme that could make us both thousands -

Into the fire.

Dear Tom-

I bet I could make your bow line-

That didn’t even make sense! James pressed his face into his hands and groaned.

This was ridiculous!

In a fit of pique he snatched the entire stack off his lap and tossed it into the fire. He would cancel the advertisement this week - the very next evening, in fact! Dozens of letters, and not a single gentle hand to be found, not a single tender stroke of a pen in all of them! Or perhaps he should accept each and every proposition, sleep his way through the entire city while allowing himself to be swindled out of thousands! He should cut his hair, at the very least, order a new wardrobe, demand a new posting…

James sighed again. He wasn’t going to do any of those things. What would be the point? He wished to be distracted, and how could anyone hope to distract him from -

There was a flutter at the corner of his eye, and James flicked his gaze towards the floorboards. One letter had escaped the fate of its brethren, though it was a near thing, and the corner of it was already beginning to singe. Hating his own weakness, James picked it up, opened it, and began to read.

Dear Tom Bowline,

I should start, I think, by saying I have never done this before. That’s a terrible beginning, I’m sure, but I am done with facades and vanities in their entirety. I wrote to you because you said in your advertisement that you looked for some connection. No more, no less. It was direct, and there was a loneliness in it that I think I know well. It is the loneliness of a man returned from the sea, from the only place, perhaps, that he’s belonged to for some time. I speak of the sea, yes, but also of the connections one forges during such a voyage. How often they must be broken clean upon return. Other men can settle back into their lives, with their wives and children. I have never been skilled in dissemination, and find myself adrift. What of those for whom there is no warm hearth, or warm body beside us in bed? With others gone to their parties and their operas and their plays, who should one turn to, when a man finds he has been left behind? Your advertisement reminded me of myself, I suppose, and I couldn’t help but write to you. I don’t know what in my ramblings could persuade you to reply. But if you so chose, I can be reached at The Queen’s Diamond.

Faithfully,

Jon Clark

James read the note breathlessly, then again, and the third time he failed in fighting the histrionic urge to clutch the letter to his chest. The writing was strange and hesitant, there were some spelling errors (he’d needed nearly ten seconds to salvage ‘dissemination’ from the wreckage of the man’s pen), and none of it mattered! He skidded his chair back from the fire - to think he had almost destroyed such a wonderful message! Here is what he had been hoping for all those weeks ago when he first reached out to the world in desperation! Someone with some semblance of kindness, a kindred spirit. He went to his desk at once to compose a reply.

Dearest Jon Clark,

When your letter reached me, I had quite given in to despair of my little advertisement bearing any worthwhile fruit, and happy am I that you chose to set pen to paper and reach out to me against the custom of your nature! It is as you said in your letter - I do feel a bit like flotsam that’s been broken off its usual place and is drifting aimlessly in the current. Without further appointments it has been difficult to find distraction from the melancholic moods in which I have so often found myself.

Ah but these morbid ramblings are no way to begin a new acquaintance! Tell me of yourself, as much or as little as you like, as truthful or as dishonest as you prefer. Indeed you may spin yourself a fine tale if you so wish.

As I said, I am recently returned from a posting, and do not know if or when I shall find one again. There is a great shortage, as you know, and I have reached the point in life where one wonders what should come next. Nel mezzo del cammino di nostra vita, as the Florentine once said, and the straight path I once saw before me has certainly been lost. Having always been a man of action, there is a restlessness about me now, that cannot be sated with old pursuits and old friends. So I wait here in London, where your kind words have found me, and lifted my spirits immensely. I eagerly await your reply.

With warm regards,

Tom Bowline

With a silly little flop of his heart, James sealed the letter. He would drop it in the post first thing in the morning.

If patience was a virtue, it was one that passed James by when they were being handed out. He had never been able to remain still, wait his turn. How would one gain the things he desired, if he simply sat about waiting for them? But there was no way to charm a letter into existence, and thus James was forced against his nature to simply sit and wait. He visited Symposium every other day, expecting a response, growing slightly more hysterical when each visit failed to produce the coveted note.

It was twelve days before James entered the lobby at Symposium and at last was handed a letter in that same, strange hand. Propriety, such as it was, demanded that he not break the seal and read the thing at once, as he wished to do, and he bent to the requirements of the day by forgoing all his previous engagements and rushing back to his rooms at once to greedily devour the thing.

Dear Tom Bowline,

My apologies for the delay of this letter. So convinced was I that there would be no reply I neglected to check my post at the Diamond. Rest assured I will not make the same mistake in the future. On to your request. As I’ve said, I have no talent for disassembly. I could no more invent a character for myself than I could undo my regrets. I assure you, there are many. I am a sailor, or was. I have been so for as long as I care to remember, and may not be for much longer. Forgive me for not venturing too far into specifics. Retirement, I believe, is due. I am well past the ‘Nel mezzo del cammino di nostra vita’ as your Florentine put it. It is a strange time for men such as us. With the Discovery Service disengaged, I hear many among us clamoring again for war. I saw hardly any action in my time, but I have heard tales, seen the effects of war on the body. I cannot say my hopes are in that direction, and yet I do not trust this admiralty not to conjure one into existence simply to provide their navy with employment.

I should spend my retirement in pursuit of the sciences, as acquaintances of mine have been clamoring for since before my last posting. Perhaps my future holds a monograph or two. My thoughts balk at a lecture series, though I have been told it is the best way to bring notice to one’s accomplishments, such as they are. However, I am no hand at an effective presentation.

I will admit, it was a shock to me that my letter had affected you so. It was against my usual nature to write it, and thought it would be consigned to the fire. I cannot deny that I am pleased you found something worthwhile in it - something to lift your spirits, as you said. I will confess truly that your response has done the same for me. I shall not neglect to check my post again.

Faithfully,

Jon Clark

James could not suppress a smile as he read through the letter. A reply! And such an endearing one too!

With the two letters he now had from Jon, the shape of the man was forming in his mind. A learned man, though not in the literary sphere, with his failure to recognize Dante. Unmarried, if his previous letter was to be believed, and older than James, though perhaps not more experienced. The uncertainty was still in the handwriting, and belatedly James realized that it was an effort to disguise the usual hand of its writer, as James himself had been doing.

A cautious man, then.

Jon,

I feel I should demand two letters in recompense for the wait, but fear I should scare you off for good. You cannot imagine the relief I felt to once again hold your words in my hand. I write to you now from my rooms. There is not much of a view, but if there is a good wind I can see clearly a pale patch of sky. There is such a wind today, and I am taking it as an encouraging omen of our acquaintance to come.

I have heard the same war hawking, and we are in agreement in regards to our desire for its outcome. I have seen battle, in my youth - ah, but that is who the battles are for, are they not? To tell young men that they must prove themselves to get ahead, fill their head with stories of glorious battles past, that they might eagerly lay down their lives in some lonely, foreign place. Indeed, it is one of my greatest flaws that I did not see this for what it was until it was nearly too late.

Would we have met at a gala, I would have laughed here, and declared my one flaw to be behind me. This would be a lie, and not one I would care to have intrude in this fresh correspondence. Here is the truth; that I am a grasping, clutching, covetous thing, in both my personal and professional life. It was not until recently I saw these as grave failings indeed. I hope there is yet time for improvement. The refreshing honesty of your letters does indeed compel me that a man might change his nature for the better.

Warm regards,

Tom Bowline

James bustled off to post it first thing in the morning, and spent the next two days visiting Symposium (and an increasingly irritated Jay) in hopes of a quick reply. Finally, on the third day, the desired letter arrived, and thus began a rapid fire back and forth between them.

Dear Tom,

It is my belief that a certain amount of grasping and clutching is no sin, and as for covetous, I can not blame you too much for that. I too am a man of many flaws. I fall too fast, with no regard to sense or my own wellbeing. This is why I have found myself alone, fumbling my way from one connection to the next. I am starting to learn, though, how to remove myself before the situation spirals out of reason. Let it never be said an old sea dog cannot learn.

In regards to this fantastical gala you mentioned, I would of course, tell you none of this, should we have met there. I should try to be formal and professional, but there is something in the slant of your writing that tells me I should be charmed by you quicker than I would like. I want to believe I would meet you in some quiet place, a garden, perhaps, or behind a heavy curtain. But here we come again to my own flaws, and I fear my inhibitions would again get the better of me.

Faithfully,

Jon Clark

Jon,

I daresay you have managed our connection quite well so far, and thus I pray these lessons of yours do not come to fruition in the near future. Indeed, I further pray that you do not think of our correspondence as a thing so simple as to be removed without a thought! You must know, of course, that you have become quite dear to me over these last few weeks, and though we are not long acquainted I feel I have known you many a year; my heart would ache with want of your words should they no longer find their way to my door.

You fear your own inhibitions, but perhaps in a dimly lit room of our gala, as the music flows in from the ballroom, should you find yourself with a willing partner, privacy, and time, you might be moved to lose such impediments in favor of a continuation of the honest intimacies we have shared in our writing.

Warmly,

Tom

Dear Tom,

Our correspondence continues to be a pleasant, welcome aberration. Perhaps I spoke in haste when I said an old sea dog can learn. This one, at the least.

But no, it is not you I speak of when I speak of broken connections. I will be honest, as I have tried to be throughout our letters as best I can considering the circumstances. Here is the truth. There was someone on my last voyage. I did not care for him much, until I did. Then I did not know what to do with myself, and by the time I thought I might fasten my courage, we had returned, and he was gone. He returned to his old life, in which there was no place for me. I was foolish to even consider, and am grateful only that I did not embarrass myself by pressing my suit.

It is an old story. I pray you have no experience with it, but from the tone of your letters and your initial advertisement, I fear that these prayers, like so many of mine, should be unanswered.

You paint a pretty picture of this room, Tom. I should like to see it, one day. I should like to see you overcome my inhibitions. I should like to make you blush as I do the same for you.

Faithfully,

Jon

Jon,

I despair to hear of your situation. It is a common tale among men such as ourselves, is it not? I am unhappy to report that your fears are indeed realized, as it holds a mirror to my own.

I believed mine was a great man, and he was, after a fashion. I believe I would have followed him to the ends of the earth - to the very seat of Hell and back, had he asked it of me. Sometimes I saw him looking and thought - perhaps, perhaps. But, as so closely parallels your own, it was all folly. He is lost to me. A truly extraordinary man who has returned to his rightful place among his extraordinary friends, and, if the rumors are true, is soon to be wed to an extraordinary woman, as befits his station.

If I said I was happy to watch his progress from the outside it would be a lie, and I have tried to follow your example of honesty as best I can. I can only pretend at greatness - I pull it on like a cloak when I wish people to think the best of me, but I fear that’s all it is. A glamour that one might put on and take off at one’s leisure, and I am only at leisure currently here in my letters to you.

It is strange, is it not, how all the things one could never say aloud come out on the pages between us? I cannot help but wish you to see the parts of me I have tried to keep hidden from all else for so long. The romantic in me longs to declare something about entwined souls and past lives, but the rational says it is merely the recognition of myself in you. Perhaps it is a little of both, though I would not mind knowing you in this life as well.

I have been told I blush quite prettily. I should like you to see it.

Warmly,

Tom

Tom,

I am sorry for your disappointment. It calls to mind another of mine, but that is all over now too. Let us not continue to speak of the past. It is gone, and can bring either of us nothing but unpleasantness.

I have no pleasing words for you today. I am out of sorts.

I apologize for the briefness of this note. I have not been fit for company for some days. I am displeased to know this extends to my writing as well.

Forgive me,

Jon

Jon,

I like to imagine what I would do to improve your mood, should I happen upon you so out of sorts. I can be creative, persuasive, or sweet, as the situation should require. I should love to see which produces the best effect. Perhaps similar imaginings on your part should help lead you back into your sorts?

In all practicality, if you are in such melancholy, I must recommend a good long walk, especially on these last few good days we have before the winter comes in force. The parks are especially sparse this time of year, if it is crowds you wish to avoid.

I myself have been recovering from a bout of illness brought on last year, and find that my solitary walks have done me good in both body and mind. I hope your results are similar, though regardless, I daresay no man was ever harmed by frequent excursions in the fresh air.

This too, I imagine sharing with you. I do not think I should crave the solitude of my current walks should I find you by my side.

Warmly,

Tom

A flurry of letters - some dozen or so back and forth - took James through October and well into the late days of November. It was at the end of this month that James was due at an admiralty function, a dry evening of dining and dancing at the home of a crusting admiral and his wife.

Such damning thoughts had been coming more and more, lately, as James had let a trickle of his true self show in his letters to Jon. Before the Expedition, James would have clamored for such an invite, hungered with anticipation as the evening approached, strategized with all the power and will of a general on the eve of battle how he might best use the event to his advantage.

Now?

Now he knew the itch of his skin crawling at the thought of being demanded a story, could feel the muscles in his jaw tensing in preparation for the rictus smile they would need to conjure for the duration of the party. Now he was exhausted at the thought of the politicking and bootlicking and simpering and spectacle.

There were two tiny hopes that he did kindle, as he shined his buttons and his boots. The first - ah. It would be best not to fan that flame any further. But the second? That was safe, smart, and he encouraged it into a gentle roar.

Namely, would Jon, or whatever his real name was, be in attendance?

James occupied himself with silly imaginings as he made himself ready before the mirror. He and Jon would, by some supernatural knowledge, recognize each other for who they were on sight. Jon would be older, handsome, distinguished, with light hair going silver - No. Black hair. Tall. Taller even than James. And they would find that distant room they had described to each other in their letters - there would be a chaise, and James would hold Jon close to himself and blush for him and forget all about anything and anyone else.

However, reality crushed close as he entered the well appointed home and was announced to all and sundry. He found as he made his way through the rooms that though he smiled and waved at familiar faces, engaged in small talk about the chill and damp of the world outside and charmingly batted away rumors of another bid for the passage, there was no face that stood out to him, no recognition in a stranger’s eyes. James continued to sip from the glass of champagne in his hand that never seemed to run dry, or perhaps he kept being handed new ones. His smile was fixed, he told charming stories that were not about the Expedition, his jokes made crowds of ladies and their escorts erupt into choruses of laughter, and it was all for nothing.

What had he expected? Ah, it’s you. Nonsense. I hoped I might see you here. Ridiculous. Would you walk with me a while? Foolish.

And speaking of foolish -

Francis was here.

And Francis would not look at him.

James was brought into a circle of brass standing in the library by some captain or another - he couldn't quite remember the man’s name, and there Francis was. He stood there beside Sir James, wearing a brand new uniform, looking every bit as wonderful as James had ever seen him. His complexion was clean, and though he too held a glass of champagne in one gloved hand, his eyes were unclouded and his speech was clear. James wanted to make his way over to him, press his arm at some innocuous interval, ask Francis in a low voice how he was, hear an answer he knew was false and press him to hear the truth, somewhere out of reach of prying ears and eyes, where they might finally speak for the first time in months.

But it was not to be, as James surely knew. James was called on by the man who had brought him into the library for an amusing tale, and Francis peeled off the larger group as soon as James opened his mouth, Sir James following close behind.

It didn't matter. James told his Chinese sniper story well, though the champagne in his glass sloshed over the rim and he felt his chest caving in. He made grand gestures with hands that trembled and tried to relish in the gasps and laughs of the men he had been brought there to entertain.

James wanted to scream.

Dear Jon,

I have had a most disappointing evening, I fear, and thought rather than wallow in my misery, I might unburden myself to a friend.

I was not entirely honest with you when we compared our situations a few weeks ago. And though I knew we spoke of dwelling no more on the past, I find myself choked by it.

Have you ever had another you felt you knew as one half of your whole self? It seems to me that you have. I speak of deeper feelings now, ones that go beyond the mere camaraderie men such as us might find at sea or when back on land. But a true meeting of souls - one that you might look to, and know he had undressed you with a glance down to your barest self, one who knew the ugliest of your secrets and yet still looked at you as an equal, as a man who he respected. I thought it was love? Or it might have been, one day.

I do not know where I went wrong, for on the water we understood each other - or so I thought. Was this an illusion too? But it has been quite some time, and it has all faded for him, I fear. I find myself in his presence on occasion and feel nothing of his once warm regard for me. There is a chilling formality, a yawning maw between us, and try as I might to draw him into my orbit, he falls further and further away from me.

Wishing you a kinder evening,

Tom

Dear Tom,

I do know of what you speak. It has happened to me in two instances. The first was sweet, for a very long time. I thought we would be happy to continue as we were. I was. He was not. But the second is more difficult to explain. It is the man I have spoken of in previous letters. We were never in that way. I have mentioned my inhibitions before. They kept me from speaking for some time. By the time I had worked out my own feelings, I do not think he was in a fit state to receive an overture. Now it is different. Our circles are not the same. He is different. Or he was different there.

I could calculate the gravity between him and I. I can picture the forces that bind us to this earth together, to each other. It is as you put it. One half of my whole self. But I can no more propel him to me than I could stop the sun from setting. Would that he were the Fox, I might be able to manage him! I look at him now and see nothing of what we went through, and when he looks at me I can do nothing but look away. I cannot see the glamour of cheer in his eyes. I cannot see how the look in them no longer matches my own.

Faithfully,

Jon

Jon,

I mourn for your losses. I see myself reflected in them, and I hope it is a comfort you you as it is to me to know that at least you are not alone.

You were right, I think, when you spoke of abandoning our examination of the past. I now look to the future, and the future is this: a man returning from his club, a letter burning in his coat pocket, giddy with anticipation to return home and drink in the words he will read there. I hope there is no doubt as to the identity of the man, nor to the author of the letters which inspire such strong feelings. Is it not strange to you, how close we have become, and yet never exchanged a word face to face? I would hope to change these circumstances before long.

In the meantime, I have a query. In snippets here and there, you have admitted to being a man of science. Where might one begin his own study? I am at a loss for employment, and have no desire to disgrace myself on any future voyage that might call for scientific inquiry. Though such a voyage may never come to pass, as my future is becoming increasingly uncertain, I do not see the harm in exploration of the topic, to see if any further improvement might blossom.

Yours,

Tom

Tom,

It is for the best. Mine is lost to me, and it is time I face the truth of it. He was the one I burned for, and my tragedy is that I burn for him still. But I am finding of late a new fire has been kindled, for which you have only yourself to blame. I am always pleased to receive your letters, even when I am not in the frame of mind to reply as I might wish. Those around me have noticed my easier smiles of late. These too, are your doing. I admit there are times when I wonder at my luck in answering your advertisement. Luck has not been a fair companion in the past. Surely these last few years I have known it very little. Though those same friends would say I have known it quite well indeed. Who am I to argue with them?

I do wonder, as I sit at my desk and compose each missive, when that luck concerning the two of us will run dry. I am content to risk it, if only to hear another line from you.

On to your request. You are correct in your assumption. However, I have not been known to be an effective teacher in the past. But if you are in earnest, I have made a list below of certain volumes that may be of interest to you. Do not trouble yourself if this is as far as your fascination with the topic should go. It is not a very exciting field, and you strike me as a man of action.

Faithfully,

Jon

James was indeed a man of action, and it was that same action which carried James to a certain bookshop on a sunny winter day in the first week of December. He had been there only once before, in April, to commemorate the opening, but was certain his presence would be well received by its owner.

“Captain Fitzjames!’ Peglar, standing on a dangerously high rung of a ladder as he shelved a pile of books, greeted him with a warm smile. “Just a moment, I’ll fetch -” But the man whom Peglar had been scrambling off his perch to retrieve, John Bridgens, walked through the back door of the shop at that very moment, no doubt drawn there by the commotion.

“Captain!” Bridgens face crinkled into a smile. “This is a pleasant surprise indeed!” Hands were shook, pleasantries were exchanged, and eventually they came to the matter at hand: the list of volumes which James wished to acquire.

“Yes,” Bridgens nodded as he looked over the titles. “I believe we have at least a few of these, and what we do not I’m sure can be ordered.”

As Bridgens gathered James’ books, they continued to speak idly, of the shop, of the crewmen they had seen, who was in London, who had escaped to greener pastures. Goodsir had gone to Edinburgh, where he still planned on publishing the dictionary he had worked on with Lady Silence. James told them of Dundy’s recent nuptials, but had no word from any of the officers on Terror.

“We’ve heard nothing regarding Little or Hodgson. But Jopson, it seems, has gotten himself quite a comfortable post.”

“Oh?”

“Down around the South China Sea, I believe. Nothing to do but sit about in the heat and watch the horizon, or so he says.”

“Did he write?”

“Write? Oh - no, Captain Crozier told me the last time he was here.”

“He’s been in?” James tried to feign mild interest, but he was sure the hammering of his stupid heart would give him away.

“Who?”

“Francis - the captain.

“Captain Crozier?” Bridgens’s eyes widened with understanding - he had always seen too much - and James forced himself to look away. “Yes, he has been here, several times, in fact.”

James examined his nails.

“I thought he wouldn’t have time for such things, with his wedding to prepare for.”

“Wedding, sir?”

“To Miss Sophia Cracroft. Sir John’s niece.”

“Ah. Well, he’s mentioned none of it to us sir. If there is something there, he is certainly taking his time about it.”

“Francis is a careful man,” James replied. “Especially after his previous disappointments. His caution is prudence, I’m sure.”

Bridgens smiled and shrugged.

“I’m sure you would know best, sir.”

Jon,

I have purchased several of the books you mentioned in your last letter. Though they are much denser than my usual material, I am making a concentrated effort of the study. I often wonder, when I read a particularly difficult passage, what comment you would make, how you could explain it. It has made me think back to our imaginary gala, and to the baser pursuits our words danced around.

We could remain worlds apart, writing our lovelorn letters back and forth until the ground swallows us up, but it sounds miserable, and I am done with misery. Please say you will meet me. You may name the place and time.

Yours,

Tom

Tom,

Two halves of me are at war. One wishes to burn this message, and forgo all future correspondence. The other begs me for boldness. Both have lost me the affections of those I cared for in the past. Since I cannot trust myself, I shall place my trust in you. You will find the details of the time and place in the postscript of this letter. Wear a yellow flower in your buttonhole, that I might know it is you, if you do wish to meet. I will do the same.

If you have second thoughts, I will understand.

Faithfully,

Jon

It was with no small amount of trepidation that James entered the park in what he hoped was a casual manner. He fought the urge to peer into the face of every man he saw, scanning instead for the telltale yellow flower. Which was Jon? Was it one of the gentlemen feeding ducks by the pond? No - they were too close together already. Or perhaps the man standing apart a ways off the path, eyes fixed on the birds crossing in the sky above. James took a seat on an empty bench, making sure their agreed upon signal, his yellow flower, was on prominent display.

He waited.

And waited.

And continued to wait.

He was not worried, as he checked his watch for the twentieth time. In his eagerness, he’d arrived fifteen minutes before the appointed time, and though it was now ten past, James well knew how the traffic in the street could impede one’s progress. Anything might have happened, and the day was not so cold as the one before. The sun was shining, for one, and his heart was again flitting about in his chest, and he was feeling quite at leisure to be benevolent and gregarious, even in the face of Jon’s lateness.

But a quarter past came and went, and still James sat alone, now feeling quite low, his thoughts vacillating between imagining what horrors had barred Jon from their appointment and wishing those same horrors be visited upon the man if he had intentionally abandoned James in this park and spoiled this beautiful day.

With a terrible sigh, James had just resolved that upon the half hour, he would rise from his bench, go to his club and find someone good looking and willing and not think on Jon ever again, when -

Was that Francis?

James blinked, to ensure his despondency hadn’t begun to induce hallucinations. No - there he was, his silhouette unmistakable (and quite fine) as he made his way down the path to where James sat.

What was Francis doing here? For one wild, hopeful moment, James glanced down below Francis’ chin, praying to whoever was still listening that maybe, maybe he might see a flash of yellow. But of course there was nothing, and Francis was still heading for him. Of all the times - any other moment James’ treacherous heart would have leapt up to see such a welcome vision as Francis hesitantly closing the distance between them.

Why today, of all days?

What if Jon would arrive at last, see him in conversation with another, and it scared him off for good?

“Captain Fitzjames,” Francis said as he approached, and how James hated to hear the stiff politeness in it.

“Captain Crozier,” James replied, just as cooly, watching for a flinch in Francis’ face and finding none. They shook hands mechanically, glove on glove. “What brings you here this fine afternoon?”

“I’ve been told that walking can be quite improving for my health.” Francis said this with an almost conspiratorial air. “Though I’m sure you would know all about that.”

“Best walker in the service, after all,” James said, blithely, still on the alert for any man bearing a flash of yellow.

“What about yourself?” Francis asked.

“I was meeting a friend,” James finally looked Francis full in the face. “rAlthough I’m beginning to fear he’s not coming - he was due to meet me on the hour.”

“Terribly rude of him.”

James waved a dismissive hand.

“I’m sure something called him away.”

“Or your meeting was not as important to him as it so clearly is to you.” Francis’ comment bit into James sharper than any from Francis had in a long time.

“Is there a point to this, Captain Crozier?” James was louder than he intended, and felt several onlookers turned towards them. “Or do you merely seek to reestablish our acquaintance in order to harass me?” he hissed.

“No James, I -” and how it still thrilled James to hear his given name in Francis’ brogue! “I - I apologize. I find myself in very - in a very strange mood.” In light of Francis’ uncharacteristic contriteness, James felt his anger evaporate in an instant.

“It’s alright, Francis. I am more - I’m just a bit put out by how the afternoon has gone.”

Francis opened his mouth, then closed it. Whatever words he’d been about to speak flew to the winds. He stepped away, and James again mourned the distance between them.

“Well, if your friend is so rude as to leave you here on such a fine day as this, I hope you have words with him about it.”

“I can assure you I will.” James chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. (Did he dare? What more could he lose?) “It seems I now happen to have my afternoon free, if you’d like me to walk with you a while.”

James tried to smile encouragingly, but knew the answer in Francis' widening eyes, and the minute shake of his head.

“Again I apologize, but truly I must be going. James - Sir James, that is - we’re expected this evening -”

“You do not need to explain, Captain Crozier.” James felt that familiar coolness creeping up again. He relished in the flinch that finally flashed across Francis’ features, and felt an echo of his old self - the man he’d been before they were frozen in - rise up from the depths of his soul. “I am sure you have many appointments that cannot possibly wait.” Francis stiffened, drew himself up like a midshipman at inspection.

“Captain Fitzjames,” he said with a nod, and began to walk past him.

In that singular moment it was all too much. Francis. Jon. The missed appointment, Francis again walking away from him, James allowing him.

“It was - I enjoyed seeing you, Francis,” James called after him. Francis paused, and James' heart skidded to a stop in his chest. Surely Francis would turn around, he would smile (the gap) and it would all be a - a horrible misunderstanding, all of it, since the court martial, since their return, since the walk, since the ice, since Greenhithe -

Francis did not reply. He did not turn around.

He resumed his walk down the path, away from James.

Tom,

I apologize for my actions at our appointed meeting yesterday. Circumstances beyond my control caused a significant delay, and by the time I reached the park and spotted you, you were in conversation with another man.

You were a vision, if it is still permitted for me to say such things. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined you looked the way you do.

I cannot say the same for the man you were with. I hesitate to call him your friend, for he seemed to have upset you immensely.

Yours,

Jon

Jon,

Of course I forgive you for your tardiness. However, the man you saw me speaking with was once one of my dearest friends, and you will not speak ill of him. I look forward to resuming our written correspondence, if meeting in person is not to be, but fear I am not fit for more words today.

Warm regards,

Tom

Tom,

You are unusually protective of him. From the brief moments spent witnessing your interaction, I doubt he has done anything to deserve such fierce regard.

Yours,

Jon

Jon,

It is because of him that I am here to write to you today.

He is the one whom I would follow to hell, had he asked it of me, and though we are at odds I would still. If you continue to insist on maligning the character of this man that you do not know, I suggest we end our correspondence entire.

Tom

When there was no reply for a week, James knew there would not be another.

He pushed at the wound. See how you have driven them all away. See these lonely, drab rooms. See that you will never rise higher than Captain.

Thus James passed his time, with no true companion for some days but the gulf of his melancholy.

It was in these low moments that James thought often of the court-martial. How in step he and Francis had seemed then! James saw the admirals for what they were, saw them trying to lionize Sir John and heap the blame entire upon he without whom they might still be trapped in that icy tomb. James would have none of it. 

There was a moment, during one of James’ particularly impassioned speeches on Francis’ behalf, when the man himself turned towards him with an expression that made James falter. There was a hopeless resignation in it, one that James recognized from a miserable night that reminded him of a bruised jaw, a wretched scream, the stench of whisky. I’m going to be unwell.

It had not sapped James’ resolve. If anything, it had redoubled, determined as he was to save Francis from himself as well as the vultures above them who sought to pass judgement.

It worked.

When the verdict came, such as it was, Francis was declared a hero. A knighthood was due. The errors were blamed on the weather and acts of God and not the rushed planning or the cheap supplies or the idiocy of sending over a hundred and twenty men on an expedition that should have had no more than thirty. When James walked out into the sweltering July heat, he met Francis’ eye, and believed in that moment that it would be all right.

But then James was swarmed by a gang of well wishers bustling with congratulations, and when he looked up again Francis was gone.

He sent the man a letter filled with bright musings and small talk. It went unanswered. When he arrived at the Ross’ door one dreary afternoon to inquire after Captain Crozier, he was told that Francis was indisposed. James would have to been blind to miss how the curtains in one of the second story rooms were hurriedly closed the moment he glanced up.

Was it punishment for not abandoning Francis to his desired fate at the court martial? Had he deprived Francis of the self imposed penance he sought in some attempt to assuage the guilt he often spoke of during their voyage out of perdition?

Was Francis’ friendship the price James must pay for such cruelty? Nevermind the rest. The rest was impossible - the fantasies of a foolish little boy who ought to know better. But what they could have had - sitting together and talking of old times, like what Francis and Sir James shared -

Only that, and James might have been happy.

Jon,

We spoke in anger and haste in our last letters to each other. I know you have not written, and perhaps you will not write again, and that I am to blame. But it is easy to unburden myself here, and if you do not wish to hear any more of my ramblings, you are free to consign this letter to the fire.

I have never told you this, but that was almost the fate of your first letter. I had a bundle of them, all nonsense and empty words, and I threw most of the lot into the flames without a second thought. But your letter was more clever than its brethren, and escaped with naught more than a singed edge. I had hoped it was a sign that things were about to turn for me, and for a time I believed that it was.

However, I find myself at a loss again, and I am tired of managing myself in such a state.

My usual haunts, a gathering of friends, a card party, the opera, hold no interest for me, and it is an effort to pass beyond my threshold, or indeed on some days to find the will to rise from my bed.

When I pass the looking glass, I wonder at the identity of the gentleman I see there. Surely I never had crow’s feet peeking out from my eyes, nor were the lines on my own face ever so drawn.

The books you recommended have been a comfort to me, as I find my efforts to understand them a remedy to my stupor. Although I was a fair hand at mathematics when I trained in gunnery, my investigations into distance and trajectories never touched upon the idea of invisible forces governing the laws of our planet and perhaps indeed the very universe around it, and in some of the material I confess I am at quite a loss. I wish again I could discuss the theories with you in person. Perhaps hearing myself summarize the concepts to another might jog an iota of understanding.

Warmly,

Tom

It was clumsy, and gave away far too much. But James had, throughout this correspondence, been uncharacteristically cool and slow in his approach. He had hinted instead of declared, he had painted pretty pictures that danced around what he wanted. What had he left to lose through such an overture?

To his great surprise, when Jay helped him into his coat upon leaving an unfruitful night at Symposium five days later, he handed him a letter addressed in a hand James had come to know quite well.

“You haven’t been in, sir,” Jay said, by way of explanation. “It seemed urgent, and if not for club rules I should have brought it to you directly.”

His heart galloping, James raced home to tear into perhaps his very last words from Jon, and was astonished at what he read there.

Tom,

Your troubles have not fallen upon deaf ears and a cold heart. I regret that I may be the cause of them, Perhaps in more ways than you know.

It is no fault of yours I hesitate to set a time we might meet again. It is, again, fear of my own deficiencies that has kept me from what I know must be done. But I have hesitated long enough. If you would care to meet me at the place and time I’ve written below, everything will become clear to you.

Yours,

Jon

James hummed as he put the letter down. It was rather an odd way to put it, was it not? He considered the strangeness of the wording as he noted the address, the title of the book Jon said they should use as their signal to each other - one of the books Jon had suggested he read. The date was December 23rd, tomorrow - urgent, Jay had said, and James wondered if all of his correspondence - all the correspondence of everyone at Symposium was subject to Jay’s scrutiny. He could not fault the man, not when it had given him a second chance at - at whatever this was. At whatever Jon was proposing.

When James arrived in the appointed square the next day, there seemed to be a commotion unrelated to the one of emotions in James’ chest. From the bits and pieces he could gather from slips of conversation, apparently some famous author was giving a reading in the cathedral, and the building had overflowed with patrons, who had now spilled out into the street and were clamoring for a glimpse of him.

And there, standing apart from the throng, was a man. His back was turned, but James would recognize him anywhere, had studied that form in his spyglass. It stood tall on Terror’s quarterdeck as the ship bounded through the waves, stared out at an icy wasteland, supported James on that terrible walk.

It was Francis.

James groaned. This was too much! One meeting spoiled was bad enough, but two? The coincidence beggared belief!

If James didn’t know any better he would think -

There was a book in Francis’ hand.

James might have to come to the conclusion -

The book was the same that James carried in his.

James would have to realize -

The book that he had bought from Bridgen’s shop. The book that Jon told him about.

James would finally see -

“Captain Crozier has been in several times, sir.”

Was the day suddenly very warm?

Francis turned at the very instant James decided to flee, and then there was no more choice. Francis must have seen the realization in James’ face, because he set his mouth into a grim, determined line and started towards him. James’ legs, seemingly without his consent, carried the rest of his body to meet Francis halfway. He was grateful.

If one was to face execution, one must do so with bravery.

“James-” Francis began, his face a helpless riot of contrition. This was appalling. This was beyond the pale.

“How long have you known?” James hissed. He was grateful for the throng in front of the cathedral. If he and Francis were finally to have the row that had been building since their return, at least they would be able to do so in the relative privacy offered by a noisy crowd. Francis’ eyes flicked down, lighted upon the book in James’ hand, like he needed confirmation of the absurdity of their situation.

“Not until the park,” he admitted. “I swear James, I had no idea who you were until then.” As if that made it any better! The things James had written to Jon! His hopes and fears and despairs, all the foolish notions he’d had about Francis himself! He would have realized, he would have seen the shape of the man James had so - so lovingly described and since the park Francis had been pretending, sending him notes like he wasn’t… like James wasn’t…

James took a step back, felt his heart cracking in two in his chest and was baffled that the sound hadn’t alerted everyone in a twenty foot radius.

“So then for the last several weeks this has been, what, a game? Pushing me - criticizing yourself to see how far I might go to defend you? An amusing pastime to entertain Sir James and his wife? Oh you won’t believe the ridiculous mess that Fitzjames has gotten himself into this time-”

“James!” Francis reached out to clutch at his arm to pull James towards him, and James damned the fact that such a small gesture still had the ability to affect him so. But it also had the added effect of forcing James to look Francis full in the face, and he would be lying if he said Francis looked unaffected. “James,” he said again, softer, and the sharp little exhale that James gave in response might have seemed like a sigh to someone standing close enough to hear it.

Francis had, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in the briefest hint of a smile.

“James, who on earth do you think I was describing in all those letters to Tom? To you?” James blinked.

There was someone on my last voyage. I did not care for him much, until I did, Jon had said about the man he had cared for. One half of my whole self. The one I once burned for, and the tragedy of it is how I burn for him still.

James gaped at him. But if the person Jon had been talking about, the person Francis had been talking about was James himself then -

“What?” James said, shaking his head. He did not believe it. He couldn’t believe it. Men like him didn’t get these things, they simply didn’t happen there must be some trick -

“Who else could I possibly be so heartbroken over?” Francis asked earnestly, as earnest as his letters, as earnest and clear as a blue sky over the Mediterranean Sea.

“You mean… me?”

“Ridiculous man.” Francis was smiling, and James felt a dazed mirror of the expression creep onto his own face. “I know you are not this dim.”

“I feel - I feel -” He felt as if he must sit down or have his legs crumble beneath him! Francis was at his elbow, guiding him to sit down on the steps of the cathedral that loomed above them.

“I don’t understand!” James said, once he had sufficiently recovered. “How can this be? I was certain - Miss Cracroft -”

“How many times must I tell you that there is nothing for me in that direction?” Francis asked. “Though I admit it became clear to me why you kept asking.”

“I was not jealous,” James said, but at the look in Francis’ eye he relented. “Alright. I was a little jealous. But how could I think anything else? You hadn’t spoken a word to me in months!”

“The court martial was… not what I expected,” Francis admitted. “I thought it would be like it was before. I thought that you might… agree with what they were trying to do. I was uncharitable, James, and for that I am sorry.”

“You thought I would just allow them to - to condemn you! To pin the blame on you while I walked off the shining hero?”

“Sir James and Lady Anne did try to tell me I was being very foolish,” Francis replied, weakly. “But we had hardly spoken in the months since our return. You didn’t visit. You didn’t write. When I saw you, you spoke of - parties. Your operas. Your next grand adventure.”

“I was trying to impress you,” James’ words sounded ridiculous now. “I was certain you were preparing for a successful proposal and marriage and I was trying to be flippant and glib and show you how utterly unbothered I was.”

“I certainly saw how unbothered you were, and tried to be the same.” They sat for a moment, watching the crowd before them. James wanted to take Francis hand, wanted to entwine their fingers, press him to the cold stone of the steps -

“We’ve both been perfect fools, haven’t we?” James asked.

“For years, I should think,” Francis agreed.

“You called me a vision,” James said, haltingly, after a moment of silence. He was appalled at his own shyness, after everything they’d shared. “Even after you knew it was me.” Francis chuckled, and placed his hand very close to where James’ was on the step, so that their smallest fingers were just barely touching.

“I have eyes to see, James.”

James stood abruptly.

“Come home with me,” he said, offering a hand down to Franics. “Please.” He expected that Francis would be reluctant, that James would have to coax him along with a speech about how long they had waited, but Francis was hauling himself to his feet before James had even formulated the first line.

“Lead the way,” Francis said, and they pushed through the crowd, silly grins on their faces, like children with a secret.

James took him home. They tripped through James' sitting room, laughing, shedding coats and boots along the way to James’ bedroom. Francis pushed him up against the door and James had only an instant to see the look of hunger in Franics eyes before he was being kissed. It was dizzying, James felt like a swooning debutante, like he couldn’t breathe -

“All right, there?” Francis asked, drawing back with a grin. James pulled him back by his shirt and kissed him back, drawing sounds from Francis that James had only heard before in his most sordid dreams. James grew frantic with the wanting that welled up in him, as the imaginings and yearnings he had felt for the last three years were smashed in the reality of Francis moving against him, Francis untying his cravat, Francis’ strong, calloused hands winding up his back, Francis making him shiver.

Then he felt Francis’ teeth graze his throat, and he stopped thinking of anything at all for quite some time.

Later, as they lay wrapped up together with sweat cooling on their bodies, Francis pressed a kiss to the back of James’ shoulder.

“You’re right,” he said, in a voice muffled with pleased exhaustion. “You do blush very prettily.”