Werewolf's One

As for rarepairs I reallyyy like Graham/Edward. I used to post a lot (a little) about them but I think there's a lot of opportunity to explore the both of them being first lieutenants. Graham is the third in command on Erebus, and the fourth in command in the entire expedition. Edward's the second in command on Terror, and he's still a first lieutenant, but he's no Graham Gore. Graham's on the track to become a captain, out of a love (and submissiveness) to duty, and while all naval officers duly strive for promotion I don't think Edward's heart is truly in climbing the ranks. He's a good officer, he has to be, because he's the first lieutenant, but he's still under the captain's thumb. So I think they fit together like puzzle pieces ☝️ I also think Graham understands Edward's own submission to leadership in a way that doesn't discredit his rank---they both understand each other is what I'm getting at.

I alsoooo. think Graham/Stanley could be incredible just on the basis of observing whatever perversions they get up to. Stanley has his fixation on James and Graham is essentially James' dog. And I think the genuine warmness that Graham has for his men is only matched by how absolutely cold and detached Stephen is ... there is so much you could do !!

But ultimately my favorite rarepair (less rare than the previously listed ones) is Graham/James. I think they're incredible. I know some people talk about the rifts and jealously they must have between them re: Sir John obviously adoring Graham Gore and how Fitzjames probably yearns for that same adoration but. I dunno! I should definitely explore that possible aspect of their dynamic more but I think Graham's submission to his duty (and by extension his superiors) is so potent he doesn't flag as competition for Fitzjames. Graham strives for promotion but he is Not a usurper. And in the scenes we get between them in the show-- Graham looks to James for approval after Sir John orders him about. I think they are very close in a very, very interesting way. I think James' vanity reaches out for Graham's absolute competence too. They attract each other.

The Father God Almighty flooded all of Terra for His human children’s sins, and He cast humanity from their feet in the light of air to flukes in the heavy dark of Aqua, taking from them their fire and transforming them into monstrous half-beasts forevermore exiled from the firm dry ground of their homelands. And, lo! the merfolk were thus made into being. 

The angel cried Goodsir flew in formation beside its host of angelic siblings as the waves arose to swallow the land. It blew its silver horn to announce God’s will to the masses of folk choking and flailing and begging for ruth in the cold brine below. It wept to hear God’s most favored children drowning afraid, screaming, their flesh and bones twisting violently in their skins as they were remade. But it kept sounding its horn, its tears streaking down amid the rain to the surging quilt of frenzied seafoam like falling stars. It did not break formation. 

After seven days and nights the lamentations and rains had mostly subsided. The heavenly host quieted its horns and retreated. Goodsir alighted in Heaven with a newborn guilt to have borne witness to what felt an atrocity, but none of its siblings were so weak as to have shed tears, so it dried its eyes and numbed itself in the comforting light of the firmament that was still its home. As if nothing had happened. 

Millennia have since passed, and Goodsir still feels guilty. 

Its siblings tell it that the merfolk suffer to be alive no more than the human folk ever had. Remember that thou hast no heart for guilt, they say. Thou art an angel that hath no heart. Open thine ears again to their prayers, oversee without interference, and take consolation that we were not ordered to extirpate them. They deserved what was done. 

May I go down and heal them? Goodsir asks, for it still shamefully cherishes having worked miracles of healing for the human folk. 

When thou art once more ordered, they say. 

There have been no such orders on behalf of any of the merfolk since their inception. 

Goodsir had loved humanity. It is afraid that to love the merfolk will be for these mortal beings to end in another torturous cataclysm. It would rather simply end itself than partake in another heavenly operation of the like. But it cannot roost away from material reality forever. Not when the host has noticed Goodsir’s lassitude, its reluctance that is so dangerously close to disobedience. 

It attunes its ears beyond the encompassing orchestral frequency of Heaven and to those thready signals of mortal prayer that remain. Aqua is quieter than Terra, with far fewer faithful to worship the Almighty even after so long. But Goodsir’s guilt must sit within itself like a flaw, a fault in a crystal, a misalignment that reverberates differently. Because for the first time, it hears the prayers of those whom the Christians call pagans: the Godless, and those who pray to other gods and spirits, and those whose ways of worship an angel cannot ken. 

It hears the most beautiful woman’s voice it’s ever heard raised in song, reaching into the broken core of its being, a selfish pleasure at her individual existence blossoming within it. A song of immense gratitude for mortal life that Goodsir’s very grace yearns to reflect.