So many brilliant prompts, but could I request Hartving and prompt number 10 please? Thank you kindly
Thanks for the prompt!
#10:Â When you touch me, my mind is gone. Â The only words I know are lost inside your body. (right in there.)
The first time John dreamt of Thomas Hartnell, he did not in fact know Hartnell was there.
Johnâs mind teleported him to long-gone memories of dry Australia plains â a time he had tried to bury. The lurid landscape cruelly dredged up every feeling of failure that John had suffered. As though mocking that very incompetence, several sheep escaped their pens, and as anguish is the most suitable emotion for a distressing dream, John suffered prodigiously while he tried to wrangle them. They evaded him for hours. The harder John ran and the more his lungs burned, the quicker the sheep became. John was exhausted, and when he could run no more, his legs crumpled beneath him as easily as paper. He fell gasping onto the ground, wishing more than anything that he would wake up. As he lay there, nearly moved to tears, a shadow blocked the sunlight from his face. The man said something to him, words John could not remember but that filled him with something like relief. The manâs hand was cool to touch as he helped John to his feet, and John woke with the sensation that a weight had been lifted from his chest.
*
The second time he dreamt of Thomas Hartnell, they were attending a funeral.
An odd selection of both Terrors and Erebites gathered around a grave, a seemingly vast hole they had labored to dig in the frozen ground. Each man around John was faceless except for Mr Hartnell and Capt Crozier, whose lips moved in a silent eulogy. Vaguely, without seeing coffin or corpse, John knew that they were burying one of their men. The gaping, black maw of the pit urged him forward as strongly as a magnet. He felt himself sliding toward it, his head bowing nearer and nearer, unable to resist the draw of that endless abyss. Hartnell cried his name and grabbed Johnâs forearm to keep him from falling. John woke in a sweat and rubbed his arm, unable to shake the sensation that his skin had been branded.
*
The third time he dreamt of Thomas Hartnell, it was on the ship.
Mr Hartnell was stripped bare and his hands tied overhead. Cuts littered the pale skin of his back. The blood was thick enough that it looked black under the dim lamplight. John stood at attention, transfixed by the random pattern on the seamanâs back. A disembodied voice called out the number of lashes, and it was only when the whip landed again that John realized the cat was in his hand. The shock of it jarred him awake, his heart beating harshly against his chest. For the remainder of the day, he feigned illness and kept himself hidden in his cabin; exhausted but unable to sleep for fear that he would return to the same dream.
*
The fourth time he dreamt of Thomas Hartnell, it was on the ship.
Gone, however, was the ice and the chill. Terror skimmed across a bright, cerulean sea under gentle skies, with clouds large enough that a sailor might imagine reaching up and plucking one from the heavens. John did not know the shipâs destination, but their opportunities felt boundless. A childish excitement buzzed through him. The others on deck joined him in his happiness, laughing and singing and crying with no shame. He raced the others up the rigging, the sun warm on his shoulders and the salt wind sharp against his cheeks. He reached the crowâs nest second, and when he congratulated the winner, he reached for the manâs hand to shake. It was then that Mr Hartnellâs face came into focus, and John forgot what he was going to say. Hartnell seemed to understand anyway. His smile was wide, and he switched his grip on his hand, bringing Johnâs knuckles to his lips. John woke shortly afterward, the dream slipping from his mind like sand, but the warmth lingered.
 *
(Most of the dreams did not stay with him, as he observed his daily duties in the cold, damp body of the ship. He indulged drink, more often than he needed. He forewent his studies, more often than he wanted. He avoided Mr Hartnell when he could, but it was not uncommon to find himself pacing the decks in a mindless stupor and wake only when he realized he had been drawn to the forecastle while Hartnell was seated at a table, or that he dressed in his slops and greatcoat under the pretense to check on the watch and had strayed too close to where Hartnell stood on alert. On the few occasions that Hartnell noticed the frequent presence of the lieutenant, John was quick to flee, his mind too addled to fashion an excuse for his behavior.)
*
The fifth and final time he dreamt of Thomas Hartnell, he was dying.
He both knew and did not know this. The pain disappeared as suddenly as it had bloomed in his chest, and when he closed his eyes, he opened them to a bright room. He did not recognize the house, though the sight of the large windows and the worn furniture filled John with comfort. He saw Mr Hartnell seated at a table. Two cups stood steaming before him, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world for John to join him. Hartnell smiled at him, and his hand covered Johnâs.
His surroundings felt solid, the chair beneath his body, the floor beneath his feet. He wanted to speak but struggled to find the words, staring at the cup of tea instead.
âI wanted to tell you something. But I donât remember the words.â
âI know.â
Hartnell kissed his hand and then he kissed his cheek. John tried to speak again, but Hartnell breathed I know against his lips and kissed him there.
John did not wake up.
[âA Softer Worldâ Prompts]
