#terrorsona

Look, Solomon isn't one to judge a book off just a cover but, uh, usually the only marines stationed at Disko are your fuckups and hackjobs that still need the social standing being a marine on paper gets you or some high society hoy paloy. This Corporal were neither. His papers were too good for Disko Bay. Man came here on request. Said he'd 'missed the work'. Solomon wonders which bit he missed.

Now, Solomon wont be the one to cast the first stone when it comes to killing, but if you asked him there was one thing in shooting a gun at some equally armed shit head on the other side of the ship, that being the end of it all unfeeling like, but the way some whalers from Nantuckett or Baffin bay talk about the killing- the ways they'd pull the creature apart, get all the bits they need, as much as they could from everything- the glint that starts in their eye as they describe that slaughter... Makes you think they're tasting the blood of those chimneys firing even with the next mouthful of booze. Makes you think it's the only thing they taste, even when they're lappin' at the lower lips of their lovely ladies.

This information on the man, Solomon just doesn't know what to make of him. Oddly, it gets on his nerves. When he voices the inital unnease about the corporal to Bryant, the officer waves it off with a smile.

"Cuz his last name- Augeura." He states. Solomon stares blankly. Bryant shakes his head. "He's a bleeding froggie, and since we only fucked Napoleon off a few decades back, it's just astute British awareness when it comes to meeting a frenchmen. Double bad we're mariners- all the more suspicious bastards."

And that was the end of that conversation, shared a laugh about it, shook their heads. A foreign enemy stranded in the sacred ground of a holy place that obeys only the superstitions of men. A common sight throughout history, yet Solomon just couldn't shake the feeling there was something else- from the moment Corporal Nikolas Augera came to be known by him, alarm bells in his head started to ring.

They began to thunder in his head as he stepped onto the deck.

Solomon eyed his subordinate, analysing the limp oily hair that hung at his ears, the sharp angles of his face and set jaw; an impenetrable mask formed from years of living more fish than mammal. And, really, Christ sake, he was only a corporal. Tozer could pull rank on him whenever-

They locked eyes and the Sergeant could never place word or name on the feeling that pierced him head to toe and crawled across his skin like a hoard of flies as he gazed into that cold dead expression, 'cept that he'd never felt that before.

Every cell in his body felt like it had been thrown akimbo off the portside and into the polar sea, while the blue eyes of the frenchman bored their way into his stomach and ripped him out hollow, made him feel like he'd collapse in on himself and would any minute if not for the rifle he used to prop his body.

Solomon did not like this. Did not like watching the look in those eyes change from dead to hungry the few moments their gazes locked- no, not hungry. More so that Solomon was something to play with. That the corporal desired nothing more than to hunt him down and eat him, but only for the want of the hunt in the first place, not the need to feed.

Solomon Tozer decides then and there he will make sure he has little as possible to do with him.

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Your name is Nikolas Augerau. You are 28. This is not your first time on a ship, but it will be your first time on one as a marine ans not some ship hand on a whaler.

Your father, the drunk degenerate bastard he is, at least had a sound enough head to pick a decent spot to live after he deserted from his 'Grand Armee' when the battle of Waterloo had ended.

You don't know how Papa was let into the country- you infact know nothing at all of this man bar the fact you came out of his nuts and he worked as a wartime surgeon for many a year, and, if you chose to believe his drunk bullshit (which you don't), next to the ex emporer himself on some occasions. You've honestly never cared. The only thing you've cared about since you could first fathom it were the docks and harbours that nestled along your tiny corner of the british empire.

The smell of the sea and the cry of gulls.

Your safe harbour. An escape from Papa's wrath.

The local sea men took you in when you were left in the cold, and you learnt to climb the masts and ropes before you could crawl, had developed sea legs before you could walk. Your bedtime stories were extravagant tales brought from afar by whalers and explorers and merchants, a ragtag rotation of the ever changing faces both shipboy and helmsman and captain alike.

By the time you were 8 you had managed to stow away to sea on a whaler. By the time they found you it was too late to turn back. Your career began there, your first hunt for the mighty whale.

You grew up small and weedy, abused and neglected. Downtrodden and spat on. Before you ever had the chance to learn how to love, the ocean gave you no choice but to learn how to kill.

Soon, you came to long for the rush of the hunt, the reward of the catch. That taste of blood in your mouth, the fragrance of salting fats, the sight of pure whale oil burning in the small lamps under deck.

By the time you were 20 you were more ocean-creature/seadog-thing than you were any animal on land of God's own creation.

Then the whales started dying out. So did the need for crew on whale ships. No ship could take you. All gang planks pulled up. You felt yourself getting fretful on land. Short tempered. Ill willed. Angry. Violent. Your temper was that of what you learnt at your fathers feet while you snivelled and sobbed.

You couldn't take it. You felt it wellibg up and threatening to spill over the sides. You needed to be out to sea. You needed the thrill of the hunt. You joined the marines on a whime. You hated it first, then you met him.

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The day Terror and Erebus first docked in Disko Bay is when you see Sergeant Solomon Tozer for the first time, and no call to sea has ever been stronger than the call within yourself for him. You feel that familiar hum of adrenaline in your blood, that same old thrill of seeing spouts spray from the ocean, and then and there, he becomes your white whale.

Your treasure of the sea, the sweet sergeant; as pure a pearl as the wartorn spermwhale the old captains only spoke of in hushed whispers.

He's all wide eyed and soft haired and too well put together, and every fibre of you wants to take him apart and devour him, yearns to caress him in the only form of intimacy you know how. The loving touch of a butcher's hands.

You want to skin him of his coat and trim the blubber of his belt, remove the fat of his pants and bury yourself in the scent of him- open him up beneath you in all the wrong ways your Papa would've whipped you for if he ever knew you thought it.

You want to see if he has any scars from military combat, and in your dreams you see yourself opening them back up and sticking fingers into him where it's tender and raw and warm and good while you drink his blood, him white knuckling your arms carving crescents in your skin with nails as his eyes roll back into his head.

You let yourself go many a night into your hand at the thought of him naked and desperate, pulled to pieces by your calloused nail bitten hands until you've tasted every atom of his being both material and spiritual and then placed him back together again with the touch of your hands more loving than the very hand of the God who so blessed the ocean with your white whale.

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Young Russel Crowe as a faceclaim for my little fuckin degenerate <3 (specifically this hairstyle)