to your health.

T H E   G O V E R N O R.

written by adrian (he&him)

the britannia is a place that is always packed with all sorts of figures; rival merchants and sailors alongside patrons who simply enjoy one too many glasses of beer. it tends to get busy quickly, a fact that has led nasira to frequent it more as of late. there is always, inevitably, some kind of fight, some kind of long, drawn out complication and while she’d like to do more with her day than just sit around and wait for them to work out their personal grievances, it usually leaves her with the opportunity of keeping her finger on the pulse of the city.

a grandfather clock chimes nearby, making her acutely aware of the hour, as she plasters on a smile once more. jacob posner is a fixture in the east end in much the same manner that the moss on the cobblestones is. there’s beauty in predictability and for a journalist like herself, there’s nothing more exhilarating than to come across someone of substantial interest to her.

“well, whoever helped you pick has a good eye for details,” she says with an appraising look at his costume, a nod of her head confirming her words soon after. there’s a vague suspicion it could have been ellie—she’s altogether too trusting, that woman—and while jacob’s shyer nature is hardly unknown around town, it’s simply another source of curiosity for nasira.

it piqued her interest since she first came to this town; although perhaps for more nefarious reasons than she’s letting on. she has eyes in her head, after all.

“there’s a first time for everything, mister posner. would you believe me if i told you that this is my first time attending a ball as well?”

she’s lying through her teeth whilst wearing a smile, but her expression is open and honest—courtesy of hours of training before a mirror—while she peers at him, features softening. “just imagine that this is the britannia and you’re chatting to your patrons. it’s the easiest way to familiarize yourself with an unfamiliar situation.”

nasira isn’t sure where this advice is coming from, and whether or not it’ll be helpful to him, but she ought to at least try and gain his trust somehow. her expression smooths into one of delight when he broaches the subject of her costume, and she can’t quite manage to fight off the hint of pride that’s shadowing her features. “i have come as the priestess of an ancient moon god. it’s admittedly a bit over the top, but i’m inexplicably fond of the costume.”

All this time and Jacob still doesn’t exactly know how to handle himself in Nasira’s company; through their common link of Ellie, they’ve been somewhat forced to be around each other here and there and then on top of that, the journalist has been slowly becoming a semi-permanent fixture of his pub; like a piece of furniture someone puts into your house against your will that you begrudgingly have to get used to. When it comes down to it, Jacob doesn’t really have much against her personally, it’s rather her work that he takes offense to, the amount of prodding questions she asks, both his customers and Jacob himself. Most of the time the patrons seem not to care, especially once they’ve had a few drinks; sometimes they let her down gently, other times a little more harshly. Jacob usually tries to stick to somewhere between vague answers and complete silence; he never likes being outwardly rude but he has trouble avoiding Nasira’s interviews in a way that’s still considered polite. So half-answer it is, carefully curated chains of words just so he can talk plenty but not say much of worth. 

“They sure do,” Jacob nods; surprisingly enough, it was not Ellie who helped him with it, which is probably what Nasira assumes. Polly’s help came as a surprise, especially after months of them doing their best to keep at a distance from him. Jacob does the same, for the comfort of both of them, but lately he’s been trying to see if there’s potential for something—friendship, maybe. Offers of help, gentle conversations here and there. Jacob has to try twice as hard to ignore the voice of his sister in his head ridiculing him for his efforts; telling him that it’s too late to fix some things. He tries regardless, hoping that his actions have the power to deafen the attacks.

He tilts his head and furrows his brow. “I really wouldn’t. I would’ve assumed that this is...your type of thing,” he replies. Perhaps it’s a testament to how little Jake actually knows about her; he wonders if it’s reflective of how much Nasira knows about him. “Well—I suppose you’re right. But it’s difficult to imagine being at the pub when we’re in this place. It’s just…I don’t even know how to describe it. Too grand. Not shabby enough,” he says, letting the corner of his mouth curl up for a second. As run-down and questionable of a place The Britannia is, it’s still home. “I feel very out of place. Always am around—money, I guess.” This is probably the first time in Jacob’s life encountering this kind of wealth. There’s something off about this place, something he can’t put his finger on, and it makes the whole experience even worse. 

“I’m no expert but I suppose a fancy dress party is where you should be over the top and enjoy it,” Jacob says with a shrug; he’s taken off whatever he could already, the helmet, the coat, anything that would make him look less outrageous; there’s probably plenty of people whose costumes are more excessive than his own but Jacob’s position on the divide between acceptable and extravagant falls into a rather conservative place. At the same time, he’s probably a little jealous of those who can wear a costume and thrive in it. “How are you finding the party anyway? Quite…peculiar, isn’t it.”

In the wake of Jacob’s fervent protest, Magdalena’s self-deprecation was quick to simmer down and slink into the back of her mind as another equally familiar yet far less disarming sentiment barreled forth: curiosity. It lit up her eyes as she watched Jacob with a patient, indulgent air, leaving him room to gather his thoughts and string his words; as there seemed to be more that he wished to say.

Although she had been quick to glimpse the kindness and vulnerability that bled in an outpour beyond Jacob’s misleading stoicism and sparse words, Magdalena had admittedly bought into the unapproachable impression she had had of the man prior to their acquaintance. Not enough to keep away from him or treat him dubiously, but enough to exercise a fair degree of detachment throughout their early interactions. From what she had seen of him around the Britannia before they had come into contact, he had seemed to carry himself like a man prowling what was both his castle and his cage – there had clearly been more to him than meets the eye, but for some reason, Magdalena had found herself bare of any desire to puzzle it out.

Yet it had only taken a simple chance encounter for her perspective to change. One night, Jacob had happened to, from what it had seemed, mindlessly seize the seat beside her at the bar. An exchange of small-talk, several swigs of drink, and all of a sudden, Jacob’s face and facade alike had been crumbling before her – and since that night, he had gone on to stoke her intrigue, along with her sympathy and care, every time the thought of him flitted across her mind or their paths happened to cross. It was the same now; her eyes glimmering and her mouth brightening with a grateful, touched smile as he expressed that he was glad she had been at the seance. Looking down between them, she shook her head with subtle awe, not having expected that he would say such a thing. “I’m glad I was there, too. I mean, I hated seeing you struggle the way you did; felt like something that wasn’t meant for my eyes… and I hated seeing you get hurt,” She looked up at him to impress the sincerity of her words, her gaze dimmed by sadness. “But in a way, I still got to share what happened with you. We all did. So you don’t have to carry it alone, and I can only be glad about that.”

“You’re welcome, Jacob.” She softly returned, squeezing his hand fleetingly before letting it go so as to not enforce the contact in case it was discomfiting for him. Brows furrowed with concern, she listened attentively as he stumbled through an explanation of his state of mind, occasionally tipping her head in a nod of understanding. “Yeah. Makes sense that the pain would be the last thing on your mind… ” Clearly, pain wasn’t what the assault on Jacob had been about; the roiling emotions that had emanated from the presence could only indicate that it had been lashing out, compelled by a visceral, all-consuming hatred towards him. Unable to comprehend the notion of baring the brunt of such malice, Magdalena sighed with a regretful shake of her head. “I’m so sorry, Jacob. I – I’m so sorry.” Silence stretched for a bit, then she looked up at him spiritedly. “Maybe some good can still come from what happened. I think I might be able to help you. I haven’t told you this, but I’m a spiritualist,“ She hesitated, unsure how he would receive that information, especially considered the regret he had just expressed – but she pushed on. “I don’t do what Muiris does, though. I… don’t have the gift for it. But I think that might just be to your advantage.”

When faced with Jacob’s following question, Magdalena took a moment to consider it. The look on Jacob’s face was both expectant and apprehensive, and she had no idea what that meant or what exactly he wished to glean from her answer. So she played it safe – or as safe as she could with so muddled a response. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. I’m scared for you, though.”

That’s the thing though—Jacob’s used to carrying everything alone; everything that’s ever happened in his life, good or bad, he kept to himself. Sometimes, a friend would be allowed a glimpse into his most private affairs but they’d never be allowed to see the whole picture. It’s always been like this. And then the hauntings began; Sara following him like a shadow, pressuring him into revealing his true nature. She’s been succeeding; first, the séance, with so many pairs of eyes and ears to witness things that Jacob was ready to take to the grave. It drove him to the edge, she did so then when Gilly asked later that night, he didn’t have it in him to fight it, to hide it. And now this—the wall he’d built around himself is crumbling; loose stones coming apart with every kind word he receives. Usually, he knows better—to keep to himself, to never say too much, never get too close. But with every bit of kindness, Jacob’s convictions fade away more and more. “I’m not sure whether I’m glad about that, though,” he says, struggles to find the right words. “This isn’t something I wanted anyone to see or know about.” But there’s no going back now. It happened and rather than regretting it, he ought to focus on what he’s going to tell people, should they ask.

The touch brings him comfort and he’s almost disappointed with the brevity of it. He doesn’t let it show, if anything, the way he straightens up and folds his hands behind his back could suggest otherwise. He wishes it weren’t so difficult for him—showing and receiving affection. Jacob’s noticed the way people always seems so scared to touch him, as if he were going to get annoyed by it or react in an undesirable way. Most of the time, he feels the need to run away from it. Jacob feels undeserving of this kind of comfort, no matter whom it comes from. His skin is not meant for gentle touches anymore; the imprints of love and friendship on his skin burn unpleasantly. But so many things have changed, perhaps this has also? He doesn’t flinch anymore—maybe he’ll learn how to welcome kindness soon enough. 

“What do you mean?” Jacob asks, unable to hide the hopefulness in his voice; at this point, he’s willing to try everything, anything that will help him solve this thing. He’s not sure how much longer he can cope for like this. “Could you—I mean, can you communicate with them, with the spirits?” If you asked him a few months ago, Jacob would tell you that a sentence like this could never leave his mouth, let alone laced with so much faith. But right now, Magdalena is probably his best shot at dealing with what’s haunting him. 

She surprises him—what Jacob expected to hear was that she’s scared of him, not for him. That’s what he’d expect after what happened at the séance, what they heard and yet Magda expresses concern, not fear. It doesn’t make sense to Jacob, it doesn’t feel right. 

“Why thank you.” Cheria looks down upon her costume, a smug look on her face when she looks back to Jacob, “Don’t worry, all you need to know is that I’m a blasphemous saint.” Very on brand for her. “And you are enough fun for me. It doesn’t take much to please me.” A lie, Sherry had probably inherited the horrid gene of materialism and greed from her mother. Which was perhaps, not her best trait. But it was true, she didn’t need much from Jacob, in particular. She was too aware of his character and his…troubles to demand anything more. Him showing up was enough to her. Besides, she wouldn’t ask for more out of someone when she wasn’t willing to give it back. Cheria was not unfair. 

“That is quite odd.” A mischievous grin gathers on her lips, “You reckon they’re trying to keep us here?” It was meant to be a joke. No matter the fact that she didn’t quite like the way they had been driven over here, dropped off, with no real context to the meaning of it all. Still, she was here. And the unfamiliarity would have to reveal itself at some point. She wouldn’t dwell on it for long though, there were more important things to keep her attention on. “Now wouldn’t that be fun.”

“No, are you going to tell me what you’ve been doing in here all alone? Hm?” The smile she has now is one meant to ease his nerves. She knows he doesn’t like the spotlight all on him. The attention. And yet, he had made the mistake of befriending her. The one person who wouldn’t ever stop watching you. And Sherry had come to know Jacob, at this point. She could probably guess what it was that was making him so uncomfortable. But she preferred to hear it from his mouth instead. 

It let her know he trusted her. 

She couldn’t find it in her to tell him that he probably shouldn’t.

.

“The best kind of saint, isn’t it,” Jacob jokes and attempts a slight smile. When it comes to his own costume, he’s already abandoned the heavy coat and the helmet that came with it—they lay forgotten on the chair in the corner of the room, ready for Jacob to just pick them back up when it’s time to leave. The longer the nights goes on, the worse he seems to be feeling; he can’t rid himself of the discomfort that’s overpowered his body the second he got here. A part of him knows that finding his friends and spending this time with people he knows and trusts would probably bring him ease but there’s something stronger than this within him, something that holds him back. But the truth is that he can’t—shouldn’t—be thinking about what it is or else he’ll fall apart completely. 

Right now, the only thing keeping him together is the knowledge that in a couple hours all of this will be over and he’ll be able to retreat into the familiar and comfortable space of his home with the dog and darkness as his only companions. The way it always should be.

“Keep us here? For what do you think?” he keeps his tone lighter rather than serious, in an attempt to convince himself that none of what they’re saying holds weight. The whole thing is suspicious, there’s no doubt about that, but the naïve part of Jacob still wants to believe that just because it’s suspicious does not mean it’s also malicious. He tries to convince himself that Mr. Ashton’s eccentricity is to blame and nothing else. “Fun? This is your idea of fun?”

Jacob shrugs at the question, finds it difficult to answer it any other way. “Just—not in the mood for anything like this, I suppose.” He never is. Jacob’s only ever in the mood for standing behind the bar and having people to come for their fun at the Britannia. This is way out of his comfort zone and it shows. “I don’t think I’m enjoying myself very much. I’d rather be at home with Daisy than here. She’s doing well, by the way.” The mention of the dog Cheria gifted him with successfully get a proper smile out of him. “I think she’s really settling in.”

So engrossed in their task is Polly that when Jacob approaches, they almost jump out of their skin. Their recent interactions should soothe them, rid them of whatever fears they have of the man - but still, their nerves persist. It’s loathsome in a lot of ways, and has them feeling both on edge around him, and utterly guilty for thinking such terrible thing, but they cannot stop themself. 

“No, thank you. It’s kind enough of you to let me do this here.” They were sure they would both rather they worked at home, but their last candle had burned out, and it was too late to run out to purchase another one. And so, here they were, thankful that it was a quiet night, table spread with material and thread and dozens of silk flowers. 

“All of it, actually,” they hold out the flower they had been working on to him, a pale pink rose. “My dress is going to be white, but covered in all of these flowers. I have… an idea. I just hope I can pull it off how it looks in my head.” 

.

“It’s no bother, really,” he replies truthfully; he wasn’t going to close anytime soon, even despite the late hour. There’s a handful of people at the pub still, regulars that come in because they either don’t want to be alone or simply just don’t have anywhere else to go. Jacob understands what it is like to be in both of these positions and so he decides to keep the lights on until the pub empties out on its own. 

The corner of Jacob’s lips curls upwards for a quick second as he reaches out and takes the flower from them; he twists it around in between his fingers and works hard at distracting his thoughts—do not think about her, not now. Delicate things always seem to make him think of his sister, even though she was anything but. Perhaps it’s because ever since her death, Jacob’s been softening her edges in his memory. He used to do the opposite to help with his guilt—if he remembers her being as bad as him then maybe he won’t feel so horrible about how they treated each other? But it never worked and the more time passed, the softer Sara became in his mind. It paralyzes him, to think of her now. 

And he shouldn’t be thinking about her now. It’ll only make things worse. Jacob hopes he can keep the bleeding memories at an arms length for the night—he’s exhausted. He can’t risk another night of trading sleep for endless guilt trips. “Well—you look like you know what you’re doing so I’m sure it’ll come together the way you want it,” he says as he sets the flower down on the table with the rest of them. 

The offer is appreciated even though he is not quite inclined to take it. Not tonight, at least. While he has prided himself on the range of his emotional threshold, coaxing the truth out of himself now is an impossible task, not when he is still serving as Jacob’s anchor. “Another time, perhaps.” The words taken by themselves are a dismissal, though Gilly’s gesture speaks another language. His smile is soft and reassuring, the corners of his lips lifting upward to tease a promise. “We’ve got time.” After the seance, he’s come to realize he has more things to figure out, more memories to sift through. If forgetting is its own kind of murder, then he has sent Rose and her family to their deaths a second time. 

In any case, that night Jacob is eager to tell him something, everything. It takes a conscious effort for Gilly maintain his reflective dignity, keenly aware that any bold gesture on his part may derail the truth he is now prepared to speak out in full. 

Always, it comes back to his sister. Jacob’s guilt is as heavy is his grief—yet Gilly cannot help but find that guilt misplaced, or even misguided. Surely, his friend should not bear the brunt of responsibility, but it is an opinion he keeps to himself now. Even with the fragments of truth, the full situation is still not becoming clear to him. He wonders whether the apt metaphor is not mounting maps on sheets of hardwood together as if a cartographer, than it is picking up a thousand glass shards and praying they can still form a mirror. Less to form something, as it is to make sense the broken pieces. 

“Can you tell me why? What—what did you do?” It’s a simple enough question, he surmises, though he knows that sometimes the simplest answers are the most revealing, the ones that demanded to be picked apart. “How does she factor into this? And how do you think your actions made you culpable in her death, somehow?” The tone of his voice is tentative and probing, though careful not to sound accusatory. The last thing he wishes to do is invalidate the feelings that weigh on Jacob’s shoulders. What he means to say, though, is this: help me understand. 

That quiet contemplation is is interrupted by another truth—one that admittedly confuses him, until Jacob continues on.

Girls in my nightmares. I hurt them. “Jake…” His grip on Jacob’s hand becomes tighter, but the gesture is selfish. Not quite to bring his friend comfort, but to hold himself steady, to cut his own treacherous train of thought off before it arrives at a bitter destination. 

I can never tell when I’m dreaming or not. 

“No.” He shakes his head, fervently, the tension coiled around him beginning to unravel. “No, it isn’t you.” He isn’t sure how much of his words are meant to reassure Jacob, or himself. He figures it’s a little of both. “It doesn’t make sense. The letters. Everything is planned, so well thought-out. Even Ayda can’t figure it out.” There is a a harsh chuckle that leaves his lips that is bereft of any humor. “No, no, it can’t be you. It doesn’t—it doesn’t make sense.” 

He is aware of sheer tenacity in his voice, his conviction heavy in the air—but he cannot quite muster the ability to meet Jacob in the eyes. He has been wrong in the past; he does not hope to be so now. 

“If you’re trying to be good, then you are, alright?” His grip remains firm, but reverts back to its original purpose of comfort. “That’s all any of us can hope of doing.”

Do we really? is what Jacob wants to say. Time’s been slipping through his fingers lately, it either passes too fast or too slow and he can never fully control what happens with him throughout his days. And then he’s been feeling like he’s running out of time, especially lately; like something—he doesn’t even know what—is going to happen soon and take him by surprise. No matter what, Jacob can’t shake the anxiety that comes with it.

The bigger truth is that Jacob’s convinced he’s been living on borrowed time for a years now. He’s always so surprised when he wakes up alive, the aching of his limbs as proof that his body’s still working. This conviction of his, that he does not deserve it, will probably never leave him alone.

The battle of needing to tell someone and having to keep the truth a secret almost always amplifies itself when Jacob’s with Gilly. They’ve shared many conversations where they dared to get more personal and Jacob came close to spilling his guts almost every single time. There isn’t anyone in the world he trusts more—the truth would be in good hands if he were to share it, Jacob knows that. But even with this knowledge, he can’t disregard the shame he feels about his actions, the guilt of it all. He’s always been too afraid that it would change things—that if people, if Gilly, were to know the truth then they would know how rotten he actually is. And he isn’t sure if he can handle any more people leaving him.

But something cracked now, there’s an opening and the truth is spilling faster than he can mend the gaps. Maybe this won’t change things, Jacob tries to convince himself as his hands start trembling with the weight of his confessions.

“You...you remember her husband, right? Fred? The one I bought the pub with?” Jacob can’t even remember when was the last time he’s brought him up in a conversation, with anyone. “We—” he starts off but it’s a lot harder to actually say it than he anticipated. He can’t even bring himself to look at Gilly anymore, his gaze cast downwards. “He was with me first. He was mine first.” Saying that makes him feel so many things—none of them good. “We fought about him, she and I. She was jealous. And then I was jealous. But in the end she married him and I was left alone.”

“I thought I could win him back.” Jacob’s voice trembles even though this is the part of the story he always feels detached from the most. “And I did something stupid and—so awful. I—” he abruptly stops. I can’t. I can’t say it.

And he doesn’t. The shame still blooms too strong within him. He can feel tears trailing down his face and the only thing he can’t think of is that one dream he had with her the other day. What are you crying for? she said. I should be the one weeping. “I ruined her marriage. I ruined her. I made sure to hit where it would hurt the most but I never thought she’d...”

Jacob wonders how much Gilly can put together from his unfinished thoughts and broken sentences. Everything, he hopes.

“So many things haven’t been making sense and yet they’re true. So what if—” Jacob trails off again, scared to tell what he believes to be true. It’s all him. He wants to believe Gilly; what he says makes sense, that it’s something too complicated for a man who’s barely conscious half the time to achieve. But in Jacob’s head there’s always a possibility. It’s all him.

Rarely do moments of equal concern and suspicion cross his path. The scale tips toward one or the other. The foundation for either rests in the desire to protect the people under East End’s torment, and the drive to remove those who would only prolong the suffering. And right now, Toshiro is unsure which category Jacob belongs

All that remains is blood on the man’s hands, and the burning question of whether it’s his own.

But Toshiro doesn’t inquire. Not yet. He keeps a careful eye on Jacob’s movements; the tremor in his hand, the instinct to cover his face. A different morning, a different place, and Toshiro would avert his gaze and grant a moment of privacy. But they aren’t in the Britannia, and this is no ordinary morning.

And yet — and yet.

The nights at the Britannia trading stories with Jacob were never unwelcome. Their relationship falls under acquaintanceship, but it isn’t unwelcome. As Jacob’s panic bleeds between them, Toshiro bites the inside of his lip. Ever so slightly, the scale tips.

“Yes, I’ll help you. I can get you home”

Slowly, he inches closer, raising a hand. A feather-light touch rests on Jacob’s knee. “I’m going to need to lift you up, okay? Are you experiencing pain anywhere, places where I need to be mindful?”

The flinch of Jacob’s body is obvious when Toshiro touches him. It’s something he can’t really control right now, not with all the stress he feels. He can’t even speak and he isn’t exactly sure why; whether it’s because his throat feels shut tight or whether he just doesn’t know the answer to the other man’s question. Because he doesn’t—Jacob can’t feel any pain but he wouldn’t be surprised if that is because of the shock. He looks down, sees his shirt stained red but it doesn’t answer the question, he really can’t tell whether it’s his own blood or—he can’t even think about it. What if it is somebody else’s? What then?

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Jacob replies truthfully. He’s about to find out, he reckons. With Toshiro’s help, it’s finally possible for Jacob to stand upright. He tries to focus to get through the fog od the anxiety and aftershock. There’s no sudden jolts of pain, he’s not wincing, the discomfort he feels is of the usual kind; tired muscles, the ache just slightly amplified by what’s happening. But no wounds. Which only means the thing he’s been afraid of. 

He tries not to crumble again, at least not until he’s back home. Jacob’s slowly regaining more consciousness; he’s finally properly aware of his surroundings. He’s glad he didn’t wander off too far from the pub. It shouldn’t take too long to get back. All Jacob wants to do now is lock himself in his bedroom, wash the blood off, then have a drink and take something, something strong enough to put him to a sleep so deep he won’t even move an inch.

“I think I’m fine,” he tells Toshiro and wonders what he must be thinking. Jacob still can’t believe that somebody’s even seeing him like this. Vulnerable. Helpless.

The back door to the Britannia is unlocked and the silence of the empty pub is defeaning. Jacob tries his best to block out the journey back, just so thinking about all the people they’re passing doesn’t amplify his anxiety. Once the door closes behind them, Jacob finally feels like he can breathe again. 

There’s water in the washbasin on the dresser in his bedroom but Jacob can’t bring himself to use it. First thing he does is pick the eyepatch from the bedside table and secure it on his head in its rightful place. All this time he avoids looking at Toshiro and only dreads to think about all the questions he must have. And how Jacob probably won’t be able to answer them himself since he can’t remember a thing.

“I—thank you,” Jacob says; it’s the only thing he can think of right now. He sits down on the bed and looks down at his hands, hoping that the blood wouldn’t be there after all. Hoping that all of what’s just happened was a bad dream and he’s just woken up. But they’re still stained with blood he can’t even identify.