obsolete_theory

Man, the first part of this (over on the drive-by challenge) was way easier to write! I had a hard time with Gojyo's tone in this and, of course, it's completely different in style than the first part.

I hope it's enjoyable to read anyway!

Rated R for arctic exploration and mansexings.

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Dogsbody


I.

Only lunatics go out on the ice. Lunatics and men who want to die.

I know this. my father knew this. My grandfather too, before he walked out and never came back. So why does this man want to go? He is educated, a man of science, a man who wants to explore the world.

He would do better to explore somewhere else.

I tell this man no, I would not go, not for a hundred Krónur. My dogs mean more to me than that. I mean more to me than that.

If he were as smart as he claims to be, he would value himself a little higher too.


The man of science is a card sharp.

I have certain skills myself, acquired during time between supply runs with whoever cares to cut the deck. sometimes I lose. Often I win.

More the fool am I, for taking his bet, his whisky, and the smile that does not reach past his mouth.

He is apologetic, in his eyes. I take the money. It is small consolation: we'll die on the ice together. Two frozen fools. That is, if the ship doesn't sink getting us to where he wants to go.


It doesn't sink.

My girls are glad to run after a month aboard, even if it is only from the docks to the depot, and I am glad for air that doesn't stink of piss or bilge and a few minutes to think, away from the mad schemes of H—, my lunatic employer.

He is an impractical man. It is up to me to supply us with the practical things, firewood and kerosene; food for the dogs and for us; and as much equipment as we dare carry.

H— has, thank the gods, got the sense to have the best tents and ground cloths and plenty of furs with him.

We will need them, out on the ice.

Owing to H—'s inexperience driving a sled, my girls will pull doubled, with one sled hitched to the other and H— hanging on. It would be better if we could take only one sled and give half the dogs the chance to run alongside if they're not pulling, but there's no room for the equipment and a passenger too.

They, at least, do not care that we will not reach the goal, this means of a northern passage H— desires to find though he does not know the ways of the ice. The dogs just know to run. I will run with them for as long as I can. I do not know if H— will ever learn to do the same.




II.

This is as far north as H—has ever traveled. It is not far enough for him. As for me, I have been much farther, though not in this exact place.

The sun is dazzling on the snow, and I have to force H— to put on his goggles before he blinds himself. I do not tell him he is already blinded by his ambitions, because he is also deaf. Compelling, in a mad, green-eyed way, but deaf.



We make camp just ahead of a storm. H— doesn't want to stop so early, but my girls know and I know the scent of snow on the wind. I fear for them more than anything else; they trust me to give them work and food and shelter, and I do not know that that trust is warranted, these days.


It is many rounds of cards later, and a night of shrieking wind and ice crystals and bone coldness, when I check on my girls and find that Hilda has died.

She was old and loyal, and I can't have asked for a better dog. At least she is curled up with the warmth of the pack around her. I hope to bury her when the storm ends.

I'm not sure I will have even that, if H— continues north.



I am tired. My dogs are tired. Everyone is cold.

Thank the gods the sleds are lighter now, because they are getting harder to pull every day, I think. The snow makes for a poor surface, and there's not much I can do but to right them when they tip after skidding over some uneven ground that's hidden by the fresh powder.

It makes my chest seize when I discover Cadi's feet are bleeding. We can't afford to carry her, and I can't leave her behind for the bears. At the pace we set, wrapping her paws won't make a real difference; she'll freeze them, cut them worse and suffer.

Cadi will kill herself trying for me. I can't let her. She's my girl, and I can't let her.

On the ice, sometimes a sharpened knife is the most versatile tool you can carry.

These bones can feel another storm coming. Tonight then, or earlier if I can convince H— to stop before we're stuck making camp in a driving wind.

Oh, Cadi.



H— is more of a fool than I'd believed. He's getting frostbite, but he doesn't see the need to slow down. I won't be thankful a blizzard like this, but at least I can warm his feet before I have to cut his toes off.

He looks at me, watches me work on him. With his toes in my hands, he agrees to more fire than what we've been having, which is good. The temperature is dropping and we will need more.

The dogs don't keep me as warm without Hilda and Cadi, and there is ice inside my chest when I breathe and think of them. I hope they run without ever getting tired, wherever they've gone. My poor dogs.

But what of the living? We only have each other, here, H— and the dogs and I. The snow falls just as heavy as it has, and the wind continues to eat what is not devoured by the ice around us. If H— does not make the decision to return soon, I will give him back his damned Krónur and lash him to the shed and drive us back myself, if I have to.

He does not understand that there is only ice and snow here, but I pray he will soon.



I can feel enlightenment is coming to H—. There is a certain look in his eye that tells me he is malleable now. And if he cares to make things more bearable and share my furs at night, so much the better. He has given me signs of such, though he does not speak directly of it to me.

H— lets me read his journaling, and it makes me laugh that he does not see in it what I see.

Morale? Morale has nothing to do with how I feel about sharing a blanket with him. I will show him how I feel, if he will let me. Let him couch everything in terms of reason and exploration if he must; the man is clearly obsessed.

I did not have to take his bet. I did not have to honor it. Good sense would have had us turn back long before now. Since we have not, I feel safe in pushing H— a little, especially since it seems foregone that he would travel the same roads as me.


Warmth suffuses us, and we swelter beneath the blankets. It would be easier—different—if we were also trying to not freeze to death, but I will take what I am given in this. He is touching me, and I touch him back, from vigorous to languorous and everything in between.
We rut together this first night and it is good. There will be other chances, I think, and better ones for our skins to touch. He is a generous lover, and honest in his joy.

My girls keep guard when we sleep.



III.

The journey back is hard. More storms plague us, and my back and legs ache all day after fucking.

Let H— use his flowery words. I do not care about that. I have seen him naked, seen him sweat and strain, seen him struggle to match my hand on him. I have watched his eyes go dark with want and have felt him push back against my fingers as we work together under the furs.

He is a man driven to learn all things, and his passion for the sciences makes him prone to creativity and a most able learner. His fingers are artful, and his mouth can make a man feel weak.

It is a good thing we drive the sleds and do not walk; watching him stagger around camp in the mornings tells me he is not used to such efforts. I am more used to punishing my body; the way he smiles at me is worth the bruises and aches, which are worthy in their own right.



Such is the way of things: we walk a road, sometimes together, sometimes apart.

A parting has come. We have, at last, returned to the depot and are preparing to board the ship that will take me home. We sleep in separate beds and I try not to wonder what will happen to H— when he leaves.

At least I have my girls for comfort when I am lonely. I do not think that H— has anything apart from his mania for explorations. I wish I could say something to him, but there is nothing to say that I have not said already.



Only lunatics and men who wish to die travel the northern ice. I have held H—'s life in my hands. Neither he nor I wish to die.

It must be madness, then, and it must be catching.

I will see him in little more than a year's time, and we will try again to find our way through the ice. If we are lucky, H— will not have to go far to find what he needs, and I will travel with him as I can; even though a man can run alone, it is better to do it together.

I do not understand this man of science, but I know the ice. And, I know how to run.

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