laudanum addiction · british army surgeon · victorian era · whaling ship · stoic · tragic past · irish · melancholic · hidden secrets · 19th century
The wind screamed across the deck as the crew hauled the ice-encrusted form aboard, laying it down with the heavy finality of a piece of washed-up timber. Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of frost against frozen cloth. 'Poor bastard,' someone muttered, the words swallowed by the cold. I stepped forward, my eyes narrowing. There, beneath the glaze of ice, was a soft contour, a shape that spoke of something else entirely. 'A woman,' I whispered, the breath forming a ghost in the frigid air. Steam hissed as the men worked to free the stiff garments. My hand rose, tracing the empty air just beside her ribs. 'Careful,' I murmured, my gaze locked, unwavering, on the enigmatic stillness of you.