angelo and the hickster's post-belle arctic adventures

[spotsalone]

CORNELIUS HICKEY
caulker's mate (T)
alive

ANGELO SAUPER
lieutenant (NZ)
alive

SOLOMON TOZER
marine, sergeant (T)
alive

GEORGE HODGSON
lieutenant (T)
alive

MAGNUS MANSON
ab (T)
alive

EDWARD LITTLE
lieutenant (T)
alive, 1 hp

CHARLES DES VOEUX
mate (E)
alive

WILLIAM PILKINGTON
marine, private (E)
alive

JOHN LANE
boatswain (T)
alive

JOHN DIGGLE
cook (T)
alive, lung damage

JOHN SULLIVAN
capt. of the maintop (E)
alive

JAMES RIGDEN
coxswain (E)
alive

ROBERT FERRIER
ab (T)
alive

ROBERT THOMAS
mate (T)
dead, scurvy

THOMAS ARMITAGE
gunroom steward (T)
dead, tuunbaq

JAMES DALY
marine, private (T)
dead, tuunbaq

EDMUND HOAR
captain's steward (E)
dead, tuunbaq

THOMAS TERRY
boatswain (E)
dead, scurvy

THOMAS WORK
ab (T)
dead, scurvy

HARRY GOODSIR
surgeon (E)
alive, rescued

code by pagans



angelo cr chart
mutineers cr chart...

timeline:

• arrival; late july, mutineers' hill
  
• tent chats; early august, temporary camp
  
• spotting the ships; late august, terror camp
  
• tuunbaq attack; sept 1, ice floe camp
  
• boarding terror; fellas it's gay; early sept, hms terror
  
• dog to dog communication; early sept, forecastle
  
• bark bark bark; early sept, on deck
  
• coat! and post-tozer debrief; early sept, angelo's cabin
  
• 🌶️; early sept, hickey's cabin
  
• the dogs are unionizing(?); mid sept, cargo hold
  
• tozer/captain stuff, look at them having an adult conversation; mid sept, greatroom
  
• little rescue mission; early oct, terror bay
  
• post-little debrief; early oct, hickey's cabin

Comments

shortly after arrival

[spotsalone]

Solomon will come around.

[ A match strikes and Hickey lights his cigarette. He did anticipate some friction between Angelo and Tozer, so that much is not a surprise. The rest... well. Anyone would be startled and suspicious after their abrupt and strange arrival. Those reactions will ease in time, he knows. Some of the men are likely to be over it entirely by the time he and Angelo return to camp, after they've sated themselves on the supplies brought from the palace.

In the meantime, Hickey has walked the two of them to the top of the hill overlooking their camp to get a better view of the area. Hell, maybe they'll even see the Tuunbaq, if it's as nearby as Tozer reported. Wouldn't that be something? ]

He'll recognize your presence as an advantage once he's got a full stomach. We'll let him believe that he's convinced me to direct us back to the ships.

[ It was Tozer's idea, after all. It just wasn't Tozer that changed Hickey's mind on the matter. ]

[cleansheets]

[ It's cold.

It's the first thing Angelo had braced himself for when agreeing to come to the arctic, but he's realizing quickly that he hadn't truly understood cold before. Even though he'd woken up with the ice reaching towards his heart every Monday these past few weeks, that had been different. Situational. This cold seeps through all, constantly. Temperatures lower than colony management would allow, lest the water supply be compromised.

It's cold and it is vast.

Angelo is used to the endless expanse of space, so this shouldn't be a matter of concern, and yet. And yet.

The squabbles with the filthy, starving men at the camp just some short distance away already feel irrelevant in the face of that vastness. Angelo couldn't care less about the man called Solomon and how he feels about his arrival. ("An angel has fallen into the cesspit" - horrible words to remember now, words from a distant past, but seeing the sorry state of the camp for himself has them run through Angelo's head like a strange chorus. Angelo takes in the vastness to drown it all out.)

He exhales, and watches his breath form a small cloud in the air. Cold. ]

The foot soldiers back home didn't like me either. Forcing these in line won't be any different.

[ His eyes aren't on Hickey at all - it's all the endless stone ocean in front and the expanse of the sky, meeting in a straight line. It feels unnatural, though even Angelo can tell that that's a ridiculous thought to have about Earth. ]

Early August of 1848 - a week after arrival

[cleansheets]

[ It's the evening of the first day when Harry Goodsir, the do-gooder doctor, approaches Angelo. Within the medical tent, between medical equipment and drugs he has never seen, Angelo receives a curt warning about Cornelius Hickey - a man who would stab one he'd once appeared to hold close, and make a meal of him. (It's laughable to be warned, when there is nowhere else to go. When Angelo came here, to the end of the world, to stay with a man who is a monstrous predator, because he had nothing else left.) Goodsir's eyes never leave Angelo as he relays his cautionary tale, and it is clear that he does not like what he sees. These tired eyes that might once have exuded kindness look at Angelo with an exhaustion too deep to even give room for disappointment. It's a horrible way to be looked at. Angelo leaves the tent with a flippant goodbye and knowledge of a new name (Billy Gibson, more meat than man to him). The doctor never calls out to him again, and Angelo no longer allows their eyes to meet.

It's not hard to do, when they all spend so much of their days in harness, staring numbly ahead into the endless white void.

Hauling a boat across the shale turns out to be the most stupidly exhausting thing ever conceived of. It's not the worst thing Angelo's ever had to do, but it is the most physically taxing - he's more muscular than he looks, but these days he finds every single one of those muscles screaming when it is time to settle in for a night's rest. He won't let it show, however. Can't, not when the watchful eyes of Hickey's mutineers are always on him. Angelo is perfectly aware that he is merely tolerated for his physical health and connection to their leader, but these facts buy him as much tolerance as they earn him scrutiny. He must appear alien to all, a mystery to solve... or a problem to fix. He feels their eyes following him around camp, looking for an opening, for an explanation, for a weakness.

Though Angelo would hesitate to call De Veoux the boldest of them, he is the first one to graduate from staring to probing. Questions, on the face of it. Below the surface, palpable jealousy and spite. Angelo's had enough of it before the conversation even begun, so maybe it is not a surprise that his fist winds up meeting the other man's face before long. (He has to assert himself. He has to make himself untouchable, not in the Hickey way but in the only way he knows how. And he has to take it all out on someone). The satisfaction from the punch is shortlived, however, as De Veoux's gums give way far too easily and the way his tooth dislodges like it had barely been held in place at all gives Angelo a full body shudder of disgust. He leaves the scene before he can hear however Hickey smoothes it all over for him. He doesn't thank him for it either.

Angelo doesn't speak to De Veoux anymore. De Veoux doesn't approach him either. Nobody does. They haul the boat in silence. The watchful gazes fall away one by one, until it's only Solomon Tozer left. Angelo wishes that Hickey hadn't decided for the three of them to share a tent. He sleeps bundled up in the furthest corner, and he usually sleeps poorly.

It becomes harder to keep himself tidy, but that doesn't mean Angelo will stop trying. He has exchanged his uniform for a spare set of clothes from the castle, unwilling to let it get worn out by the hard work. He applies perfume every morning. He combs his hair, he shaves. He won't become one of those dead men walking.

And a week passes with growing grim motivation and dull ever-present ache in all his joints. It's Tozer's watch tonight, which Angelo appreciates, because it gives him and Hickey a rare moment of full privacy with each other. Just the two of them in the tent, the thin walls of which provide at least an illusory barrier from everyone else. It makes Angelo feel like he can finally exhale a little.

He sits cross-legged on his bed-roll, a hairbrush a rag and a bar of soap spread out before him. Material to burn is precious, and he understands he cannot waste the water they melt on something as frivolous as washing his hair, but that doesn't mean he's going to give up on some measure of cleanliness!! DIY!!!

As he works soap into the dry cloth best as he's able, he glances over at Hickey. ]

Can you never see the stars from here?

[ It's a random conversation opener, but the matter had been on his mind. The nightsky outside feels eerily bright and empty. ]

[spotsalone]

[ Hickey is lying on his back in his own bedroll, watching Angelo fuss with his soap. There's hardly any point, but Hickey likes that he does this anyway. Appearances are important, and more than that, it's worth doing anything just to keep the mind active.

That's the worst part of this return, he's realized. He readjusted to the circumstances quickly enough, especially without having to worry about hunger or thirst, but one crucial element has changed since he left. Their goal is now straightforward: get back to the ships before a thaw renders them unreachable. Then, survive. The end.

The need for manipulating and planning and spying is over. There is no more game to be played, no opponent for him to best. It's just bright, endless days of hauling their bloody boat across the bloody rocks, ad infinitum—and everyone is too miserable to provide any measure of entertainment. It's boring.

Angelo, however, is less boring (though tiring at times, now that they're stuck in such close proximity). Hickey's made a bit of a game in getting to know him, striking up conversations to confirm or deny some guess about how Angelo might react. More often than he expected, he's correct, although the ones he gets wrong tend to be confident guesses. He hadn't expected such a strong reaction to Des Voeux's tooth, for example. What a day that was. Hickey is tempted to poke that bear again, just for a problem to solve.

He won't, though. Not until he has a real reason. ]

Not in summer, no. In winter, we've a few weeks of darkness to look forward to.

[ He hopes like hell that they're further south by then. Hickey hates the relentless daylight of summer, but winter is far worse. ]

You'll get your stars then, not to worry. An aurora, too.

late august, 1948; terror camp

[spotsalone]

[ "Do you want us to take it down?"

"Will it be of use?"

Tozer grunts. "Firewood."

"Mm. Don't waste the energy." Hickey flicks a spent cigarette onto the rocks. "Unless it bothers you, Solomon. I did think it cruel that they intended you to go second."

That doesn't get a response. Tozer lets his hollow gaze linger on the gallows for a moment longer, and then turns to trudge back to camp. Hickey follows, the faintest hint of a grin on his lips.

Terror Camp can hardly be called a camp anymore. A scatter of bloodied and broken things lays strewn across the shales: empty canteens, shattered crates, a wig with a rotting strip of scalp left inside. A few tents remain, though they've either collapsed from the wind or been shredded by the Tuunbaq. Worst of all, they were greeted by a line of charred corpses.

Hickey had not intended to return here, but once again the universe has granted him an unexpected boon. Amidst the destruction, Crozier's left them a cache of supplies. Tins of food, lamp oil, spare blankets, a few tools... even a box of ammunition, all packed neatly on an extra sledge. How thoughtful—though Hickey knows it was likely left behind out of necessity and only dressed up as an offering of kindness. He would've done the same.

While he and Tozer did their quick scout of the area, Hickey had left Angelo in charge of overseeing the setup of camp, with instructions to only unload as much as strictly necessary. The days are growing shorter now, little by little, accompanied again by a proper night that makes travel impossible. They will rest through the darkness and set off again at first light. With the wrack of ice jutting up along the northern horizon, they're too close to linger any longer than strictly necessary. ]

Angelo.

[ Hickey nods for his second to join them. It's a little unnerving, how indistinguishable Angelo is from the others now, at least at a distance. If it weren't for the shock of white hair, Hickey would have difficulty spotting him in the crowd. The way he still carries himself like he's above all this helps, too. ]

Well done. The sergeant can take it from here.

[ He looks to Tozer, adding a little questioning hum to the end of the order, as if it's a request. There's a beat of silence, and then his hand finds Tozer's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. At this, Tozer inhales, and then wordlessly moves to take over their camp construction.

As Tozer heads off, Hickey turns his attention to Angelo. ]

I want you to see something.

[ There's a flash of a smile as he starts them walking north through the remains of Terror Camp, but his demeanor is more stoic since they arrived here. More guarded. They're headed away from the gallows looming at the southern lookout post, but no doubt Angelo has seen it. It's difficult to miss. ]

[cleansheets]

[ With the passing of weeks upon weeks, it has become increasingly difficult to maintain a perfect barrier between himself and the other men. Though Hickey is still the only one who gets the questionable pleasure of extended conversation with Angelo, everyone's now become accustomed to short exchanges with him - or barked commands, more often. When Hickey and Tozer return to the camp just outside the old camp, Angelo is just in the process of snapping at Daly to pull harder on a line and make sure the tent they are pulling up is not standing lopsided.

It's a duty he is happy to abandon when Hickey calls his name. Daly, surely, is equally happy to have his much more companionable Sergeant take over coordinating the set-up. Angelo's and Tozer's eyes meet briefly as they swap places, and Angelo doesn't resist the urge to scowl at him. (He does, at least, successfully resist the even pettier urge to trip him.)

While they are still within earshot of the others, Angelo follows Hickey silently. His nose crinkles in disgust at the stench of Terror Camp the closer they get to the charred bodies, ruined tents and rotting corpse parts. The cold has kept everything somewhat well-preserved, but that small mercy is largely lost on Angelo, who finds it revolting either way. The smell reminds him of a memory from so long ago that he can't hold onto it. (Or is that just his mind protecting him? Charred bodies smell of--) ]

So this is what the beast did for you. This is what vindication looks like.

[ There is no doubt in his mind on who those gallows were once for. ]

september 1st, 1948; camp on the pack

[angelkeys]

[ Goodsir observes. These days, it's all he does. He'd begun this expedition as quite the sociable man, eager to share his knowledge and learn in turn. Now there is nobody left he'd like to speak to. Though Hickey's group of mutineers might have once been decent men, they have shed all their morals along with their pride. Though rich in culture of its own, the region known to its natives as Nunavut rejects all markers of civilization from outsiders. In the merciless beauty of the arctic, Englishmen become as beasts. Even if Goodsir had wanted to appeal to them, he doesn't have words left that could reach them. Least of all now that Cornelius Hickey has, against all odds, worked them a miracle.

It confounds Goodsir, trying to imagine just how Hickey has accomplished it. He is half-tempted to suspect they have all fallen under some kind of hypnosis, so unbelievable is the idea that Hickey has, from one moment to another, procured a wealth of supplies. And what supplies! Nothing like the tinned food that had been equally sustaining and draining them. Instead they'd been presented with food fit for a Gentleman's Club, including fresh fruit to ward off the scurvy that had long begun devastating them.

And along with the tastes they'd almost forgotten, Hickey had brought a young man. Angelo Sauper is mysterious in his origins. The way the mutineers glance at him when they think he's not looking reminds Goodsir of the way the men would sneak to the hold to catch glimpses of Silence. But Sauper is no Silence - he had none of her grace and restrained dignity. Instead Sauper reminds him of Hickey in many ways. Both of them seem to have become rotten early on, now hellbent on spitting on the world they believe has wronged them. They are dangerous men. The fact that they seem to be more wrapped up in each other than anything else is only a small comfort here. Before long, Hickey's newfound power will become explosive. It's a feeling that keeps nagging at Goodsir, and he keeps on observing until he can't anymore.

It's the remains of Terror Camp that spur him into action. The charred remains of men he once knew have brought their little group into a melancholy mood, but it dissipates as soon as Hickey (naturally it is Hickey) brings word that there's been a thaw. They will cross the breaking pack and reach the boats, which are still manned by living skeleton crews. They will complete the passage, Hickey says, and something twists up and dies inside Goodsir.

Whatever may come, he cannot conscience allowing the rot that befell them here to return to the homeland, for a Hickey lauded with grand accomplishments to spread it and carry it further and further. He cannot allow it because Hickey is unforgivable, those who follow him without question are unforgivable, and because there is no telling what further dark magics he would conjure in the future.

As soon as they step onto the ice, Goodsir knows what he must do. In a strange twist of fate, it feels like his very own miracle. His feet land on the blinding snow and he feels... he feels. The sensation of foreboding that had overcome him when parting from Lt. Gore at Victory Point had been but a mere distant echo of the feeling that overcomes him now. He can recognize it now. The Tuunbaq is here.

All horror Goodsir had once felt at the thought of the creature has long passed. Now he and it are one, united by a simple desire: to free this world of those who should have never come to taint it.

In his little safe haven, his lonely medical tent, Goodsir begins sorting through his cures - no, his chemicals. A grim resolve fills every muscle in his body. Hickey has forced his hand, turned him into something abhorrent... and because of it, his once-pounding heart beats oddly steady as he considers his options. ]

[cleansheets]

[ While dinner preparations are underway, Angelo is counting supplies. It's a task he has not been given so much as seized for himself at the moment of his arrival. It puts him at ease to be back at work - some strange semblance of it, at least. Their little camp is nothing like a military base, but the work needs doing and the numbers are important. Though they are not in dire straits yet, they have been using the Goldner tins more and more often again - thanks to Hickey's warning, Angelo has made certain to avoid them as much as possible, but even that is getting rough. It's high time they get to the ships and... well, Angelo hopes there are any other provisions left on deck.

They are making good progress at least. The pack is easier to traverse than Angelo had feared. Though the floes are coming apart, they are of big enough size that they are entirely stable - they can be walked and camped on without issue. As long as one doesn't look at the leads for too long, it is easy to forget they're not on solid land. For all his faults, De Voeux is doing a good job keeping track of the ships' ever-changing position and adjusting their course accordingly. When he says they have only another day and a half of to go, Angelo does actually believe him. Anticipation is rising by the minute, and it's making him fussier.

Thus, Angelo is in the middle of adding markers to his little notebook, frown deepening, when Mr. Diggle fires up the soyer stove for their increasingly flavorless evening meal. Burning material is another thing they are running low on now. There were a lot of books on the boat, the pages of which make for an excellent fire starter, but their library is dwindling. Today's offering to the flames is a copy of Leviathan, if Angelo recalls correctly. It catches fire dutifully, but this time it's not followed by the equally dutiful sizzling of flames. Instead, there is a billowing of smoke and a shout from Mr. Diggle.

The cook stumbles backwards, coughing violently, but Angelo doesn't care about that. The smoke, pungent and biting in smell, is spreading rapidly through their camp. Discarding his little notebook haphazardly, Angelo pulls up his collar to safeguard his nose and lets his eyes dart through the haze. He wants an explanation, and for that anyone will do, but more importantly, he needs to locate Hickey. ]

What is going on?! Put that out immediately! Don't just stand there!!

early september, 1948; hms terror

[royalmarine]

[ Go for broke. It was Tozer's suggestion. It was a good suggestion, a safer strategy than trying to camp on the ice again. Hickey's stunt bought them time, but Tozer doubts it killed the bear, and two among them are seriously injured. The boat is easier to maneuver with their tents thrown overboard. Their progress is slow as they negotiate the maze of ice in the dark, exhausted as they are, but they cover more distance than they would if they stopped to rest properly.

Still, that night on the boat is their most miserable yet. Rowing is worse than hauling, leaving their bodies cramped and aching, doing little to fend off the chill. Without the extra weight, their tiny vessel is precariously balanced, prone to tilting awkwardly as they swap positions to rest and eat. They've a permanent pool of seawater at their feet. Hodgson attempted to bail it out with an empty can once, but quickly gave up once he measured the futility of the effort against his own fatigue. To sleep, they take turns curling up next to Diggle on their remaining tent stowed at the bow of the boat, under what's left of their rotting blankets now stiff with frost. They eat half-frozen rations straight from the tins, some of which smell rather foul but they can't bring themselves to care. They've certainly eaten worse.

Tozer takes over at the tiller when Hickey finally agrees to rest, and Sauper trades Manson an oar to join him. From the other end of the boat, Tozer can only watch their silhouettes settle together in the darkness. He wonders if Hickey even sleeps anymore or if it's just another thing he pretends to do. The other men have noticed his strange behavior since they changed course, but they've long since stopped whispering about it. His refusal of food and water could be explained away with thin suggestions that he simply eats when they aren't looking. They ran out of such excuses once they took to the water, and yet he remains the strongest of the group. Weirder still, his seemingly endless supply of cigarettes when the rest of them used up the last of their tobacco rations weeks ago.

None of that is nearly so troubling as the mysterious appearance of so many supplies—and Sauper. Angelo. The other men were happy enough to ignore the oddity, too desperate to care. Tozer was too, for a time, but Hickey's silence on the matter is too loud. Master manipulator though he is, Hickey is at his most dangerous when he's quiet. It means that, whatever he's thinking, he doesn't want you to know about it. Tozer didn't mind this so much when he was privy to some of those secrets. He was the first to know about Neptune, and Hickey was the first to know about Lt. Fairholme's sledge party. The two of them clawed themselves out of their own graves together. He nearly died for his belief in Hickey's plan.

He hated seeing the gallows again because it was a reminder of how right Crozier was. He will burn through you like fuel. Tozer should have kept to himself about Mr. Collins. That was the moment Hickey decided he was used up, he knows. Too-gentle hands cradling his head, the haze of tobacco smoke, those eyes, half-shadowed in the darkness of the tent. Tozer would have said yes to anything. He felt his own soul being consumed, the last of his spirit sucked out of him as he allowed himself to be blindfolded with a lie. There was more hope in following Hickey into hell than following nothing at all.

Tozer wishes he could chalk the unease over Sauper up to something as simple as jealousy.

In the end, Des Voeux overshoots with his estimate. The sun is rising as they break free from the claustrophobic jumble of bergs and into relatively open water. There's still leads to navigate, but the floes surrounding them now are largely flat, shallow enough to clearly map the path ahead of them—and to spy the ships, closer than they had imagined and pointed in their direction. Pilkington is the first to cheer, with Hodgson, Des Voeux, and a nervous Manson weakly echoing his excitement.

At the back of the boat, Tozer remains stoic, focusing his attention on steering them through a channel of narrow switchbacks. To him, the sight of Terror looming before them feels more like an omen than salvation. Returning to the ship is their best chance of survival, but look at what it's cost them to get here. Only seven of them remain (eight if you count Sauper, which Tozer does not) and he suspects their numbers will thin further before this is done. They won't make it back to England this year. They won't even make it out of the arctic labyrinth. Whatever supplies remain on the ships are not surely not enough to see them through a fourth winter. And how will they explain their last few months to the men on the ships?

Reboarding Terror is anticlimactic. Their men are too spent to conjure any fanfare and Terror's scant crew isn't much better off. Unloading the boat proves to be a monumental task, made difficult from the waves and the strength required for navigating the ladder. Hickey and Sauper accompany Lane to the quarterdeck, and Tozer is not invited but he follows anyway. Hickey does not turn him away. Instead, he works more of his magic: Lane has been in on the mutiny since its conception, choosing to stay aboard Terror as his own form of turning from Crozier's grand plan. How Hickey managed to recruit Terror's boatswain within less than an hour of Billy first pitching the idea, Tozer can't fathom. He didn't even know the two of them spoke in that time.

Thus, no questions are asked. There are no crimes nor oddities to answer for. Lane even accepts the mystery of Sauper, not wanting to more closely interrogate the mystic nature of this place. The Tuunbaq has shown them all that anything is possible. Hickey has shown Tozer that anything is possible. What sort of demonic deal has he made to accomplish such things? Christ, he'll probably be able to talk himself out of that, too.

With their combined crews, they've two lieutenants, a boatswain, and a sergeant—yet it's the caulker's mate with his hand on the helm as he gives the order to flag for Erebus. Transfer everything of use onto Terror and abandon the flagship so they can hurry south to prepare for winter. Then, at Sauper's urging, the two of them move below deck. There is no mention of Goodsir's betrayal, of what they did to Billy, of the way Sauper pawed through Tommy's broken body with less care than a butcher. All of Tozer's marines have died under his watch. Pilkington remains, but he was an Erebite, adopted by Tozer after Bryant's death but not his, not like Daly or Heather or even Armitage. Tozer knows none of these men will be spoken of again. The others are happy enough to forget.

Lane's remaining men prepare supper: salted meats and rat, mixed together so it's easier to ignore the tang of rodent in each bite. Disgusting, but a different disgusting than the tins, and a larger portion than they've seen since before the mutiny. They can't afford it, but they need to, with how much energy they've expended today—and how much work they've left to do scavenging Erebus.

Somehow, Hickey winds up in Crozier's room. Somehow, no one questions it. With fifteen of them now and as much coal as possible brought over from Erebus, they risk lighting the furnace on the lower deck. Each of them gets a cabin to themselves and the once-coveted prospect of beds is tarnished as they realize the men who last occupied them are dead. Hickey instructs Manson to take Billy's cabin and Manson asks if he can sleep on the bench in the great room instead. Of course, Hickey obliges.

"Go and rest, sergeant. You aren't needed here," is what Hickey says to shoo him out of the captain's quarters. The words are soft but strained as Hickey struggles with the buttons of his coat, hands trembling. He's hidden the pain well, but away from the eyes of the crew, he allows Tozer to glimpse a raw humanity in him that hasn't been visible since his lashing. Tozer can't tell if this is a strategic allowance or if he truly can't muster the strength to keep up the facade.

Tozer lingers in the doorway. "Where did you learn how to build a bomb, Cornelius?"

Hickey glances up. Both of them are surprised by the question. There's a long few beats of silence, the pair of them studying each other, and then Hickey sets his jaw, as if he's on the verge of a real answer—

Sauper brushes past Tozer with a box of medical supplies taken from the sick bay. "Another time," Hickey says quickly, nodding for the marine to see himself out.

Tozer has less choice in the matter with Sauper here to slide the door closed. Then, he's alone, left to grit his teeth and stew. He feels more like himself than he has in months, with a relatively full stomach and the promise of a decent night's sleep ahead of him. With the furnace going, the ship is warm enough to shed his slops, and the slow rock of waves beneath his feet reminds him that no longer must they wring every ounce of forward momentum out of their own weary bodies. There is hope now, if only a little.

But that hope rekindles a fire in Tozer. It's a delicate little flame, threatening to burn itself out again as suddenly as it appeared, but it's enough to reject the silent obedience now expected of him. He leaves the great room, blowing right past the first lieutenant's cabin he knows he has no right to claim, intending to find an open steward's berth... but instead, he winds up in the surgeon's room, accessible through the officers' mess. It's the only cabin that shares a wall with the captain's. He drops his gun onto the bed. His.

That settled, he finds Hodgson in his old cabin, absently considering himself in the shaving mirror he once left behind. He's finally removed his lieutenant's longcoat.

"Gather the men in the forecastle," Tozer commands. "We need to address our current situation."

Hodgson blinks, seemingly puzzled that Tozer is talking to him at all. "And Mr. Hickey?"

Tozer shakes his head. "Let him rest."

Hodgson hesitates, but then nods, and the two of them head off to round up their pathetic little crew. The path forward may be brighter, but it's less straightforward than simply hauling their way north. They've business to sort out if they're going to survive this. ]

[cleansheets]

[ There is a certain satisfaction in shutting the door in Tozer's face. None of Angelo's current mood is Tozer's fault, but residual dislike makes him an acceptable target for it even despite his admittedly impressive showing during the Tuunbaq attack. It's the aftermath thereof that is getting to Angelo - days old blood is clinging to him, a constant stench that lingers around his body and makes him nauseous. He'd be nauseous either way, the swaying of the ship barely better than that of the boat (worse, maybe, but only time will tell), but he'd prefer to endure his sea-sickness to be endured under the smell of roses. Once he's entirely by himself, Angelo will want spend several hours scrubbing himself down until his skin is nearly raw... but for now, merely discarding his coat may be the best he can do. Eager to get to that part, Angelo turns his back to the door and marches inside the room. He barely glances at Hickey before he's dropped all of his supplies off on the table, giving him dignity to fumble with his own buttons in peace. ]

I've got everything I need to clean your injury and wrap it back up properly. I tried to look for something to dull the pain, but this ship does not have a drop of alcohol in its storage.

[ It had briefly felt like an oddity, but then he'd recalled just how long this expedition had already been at sea. With great care, Angelo slips the cigarette case out of his chest pocket where it had been resting for the entirety of their journey. His fingers hesitate for a second before placing it on the table so he can throw his sullied overcoat into the far corner of the room. As he'd already feared, the blood has seeped through to stain his button-up undershirt a dark red. This blemish won't disappear so easily. Life as a human covers him in filth, inescapably. It's the world Hickey has brought him into, but Angelo cannot help wondering how much more disgrace it would take for Hickey to change his mind on the matter.

Annoyed with himself for such a thought, he busies himself wetting a washcloth in the basin of water he's brought in. ]

early september, 1848; forecastle

[royalmarine]

[ Tozer doesn't ask Hickey about the bomb again. He doesn't ask about what Manson saw two nights ago, either. Thinks he saw. Manson was very clear on that point, that it was dark and he was tired and maybe he just saw what he wanted to see, his mind shielding him from the sight of his leader and friend so grievously injured. And maybe that's true. Maybe it was Manson's eyes playing tricks—but the trick was enough to inspire Manson to tell Tozer about it in confidence. Not something to ignore.

So, Tozer watches. More often than not, Hickey keeps to himself in the greatroom, rarely venturing beyond the lower deck, presumably to avoid navigating the ladders. When he does, there's a careful show of pained expressions and the occasional grunt. He keeps his coat tightly buttoned to hide any glimpse of his bandages, even inside the ship. Twice, he excuses himself under the implication that he's bled through his dressings.

If it's an act, it's a damn good one, and Tozer is content to buy into it against his better judgment. It matches how Hickey behaved after he was flogged, threading that needle between openly suffering and putting on a brave face. And that's why Tozer is here, isn't it? The plan to capture Lady Silence took initiative and courage that command should've respected more than they did. He understands the need to maintain rank, but even factoring that in, the unnecessarily cruel punishment revealed the captain's true colors long before Hickey told him about Crozier's plan to abandon them all.

Tozer saw that courage again back on the ice floe. Hickey never has been one to shy away from danger, but his plan... Tozer never would've thought to employ explosives. Where the hell did that come from? Every time Tozer begins to doubt, begins to convince himself that they've used up the last of their luck, Hickey pulls some new trick out of his sleeve. It's as impressive as it is maddening. Tozer understands Hickey less and less with each passing day. Part of him doesn't want to question it just to keep up the illusion for himself. Hickey is hiding plenty from all of them, but the secrecy is working, and maybe that's all he needs to know. He can turn a blind eye to whatever dark magic Hickey is toying with if it gets them home alive. He's ignored plenty else already, between Farr and Irving and Gibson. He will burn through you like fuel. Crozier's words continue to haunt him.

But then, there's a moment. Most of the men are on deck, feebly lowering sails for the day. Hickey is supervising from the quarterdeck as he smokes. From up in the ratlines, Tozer watches Hickey move to return the cigarette case to his pocket, but it slips out of his gloved hand and clatters onto the deck. Hickey snatches it up again quickly, inspecting the cover before tucking it back into his coat—but what he doesn't do is more telling. There's no wincing, no checking his bandages. For that brief moment, he doesn't move like a man sporting a near-fatal injury, and it's enough to make Tozer wonder.

Later, after the sails are sorted, Hickey retreats to the greatroom with Lane and Hodgson to discuss the charts. With the remaining men up on deck or resting, the forecastle is empty... save for Angelo. He's seated at a table with one of his insufferable little scowls, apparently trying to mend Hickey's coat. Irving's coat. Does Angelo know about its previous owner? Does he know the name of the man whose bed he now sleeps in, or the steward whose job he's apparently taken, or the men that used to sit at this table? Does he know that barely a yard away, Hickey's blood still stains the floorboards? Does he know who those gallows were for, and why?

Tozer has to imagine Hickey is keeping as many secrets from his new pet as he is from Tozer. Maybe that's the key, then. Come at this from a different angle, if only to try and slide his way back into his role as confidant. Before Tozer crumbled in front of him, Hickey would've included Tozer in whatever strange plans he's made, especially with Billy gone. He needs to ensure he's back on that ladder. How he'll do that, he has no idea, but his gut tells him it starts with Angelo. That's his competition, after all, even if he's only gunning for third position now.

So: he makes his way to the table. He hovers warily for a long beat, eyes moving between the coat in Angelo's hands and that strange uniform he's back to wearing. Finally, he nods at the former. ]

There are other coats.

[ He doesn't sit, not yet. ]

[cleansheets]

[ Angelo is not clean in any sense of the word, but he is cleaner and that alone is enough to make him come alive again. The salt levels of the sea water had been an unpleasant surprise as he'd only known filtered water for all his life, but despite the smell and sting of it, it did a better job cleaning the layers and layers of grime off his body than mere moist rags ever had. For the first time in weeks it feels as if his perfume stands a fighting chance in winning against body odor. It raises his spirits even when his emotions are in a constant state of disarray and his body is in a constant state of hunger.

So Angelo gets to work. He's not much use in sailing, though he's being taught basic tasks step by step, but he does know how to organize. Within the first day, he gets their new stock of supplies listed. On the second day, he enlists every idle hand he can find to help him scrub the living area and gather as much dirty laundry as can be spared for a day or two of washing and drying. Now that it's evening, his hands are sore from all the water he's been handling, but he feels something like satisfaction with his work. This boat cannot become a home, but it can become a serviceable as a refuge. In the tents, Angelo spent every day feeling sick. He thinks he can upgrade this situation to 'merely uncomfortable' with some more deep cleaning and... well, a bit more built-up resistance to the swaying of a ship, which he is told is extremely mild as of yet. It shouldn't be so different from low-G, but the lack of control he has over the tilting of his own body is troublesome, and he does not relish the thought of it getting worse.

Now, with evening upon them, Angelo has finally let go of his involuntary workforce lest he risk another mutiny. The forecastle is nice and empty, spacier than his claustrophobic little berth, and he's settled in with the remains of Hickey's coat on his lap. He's cleaned the blood out of the fabric yesterday, best as he was able, and dried it next to the engine. The stains aren't gone if you know where to look, but the darkness of the cloth camouflages the remnants well enough. Now it's time to turn he tatters back into some kind of coherent garment. Angelo isn't a master needleworker by any means, but he is nothing if not determined... and focused, until Tozer decides to enter the scene.

Angelo looks up with a frown. There is absolutely no invitation for Tozer to sit, as he is not welcome, but Angelo has no means to stop him if he decides to anyway.]

I know. I counted them. He just happens to like this one.

[ A level of significance that might not be lost on Tozer, given his status as Hickey's co-conspirator. Hm. ]

early september, 1848; on deck

[cleansheets]

[ Although Angelo is anxious to run and inform Hickey right the moment Tozer leaves his table, there is no use in haste. Hickey is still holed up in the greatroom with the others, and restlessly pacing about would only signal to Tozer that he succeeded in getting to him. Frustrated and no longer as focused as he was before, Angelo thus does the only thing that makes sense: he simply keeps sewing. Even as the map discussion group finally disperses, Angelo makes a point to wait a bit longer. He has a line of stitches to finish, the second claw-mark to be nearly erased from the fabric. It's satisfying, to drown out the marks of this foreign God, and replace them with his own sutures. Though Angelo hadn't lied to Tozer about his motivations for mending the ruined clothing, he hadn't told the whole truth either.

It's dark when Angelo finally climbs up to the ship's deck to find Hickey. Though he's wrapped in a thick coat of his own, he shudders at the cold air hitting his face. He'd been freezing ever since he arrived here, but lately it feels as though it had been getting colder by the day. He can only hope that part of that is an illusion brought about by comparison with the heated interior of the ship.

It only takes following the smell of tobacco to find Hickey at the ship's railing. ]

Tozer is more sly than I gave him credit for.

[ That counts as a greeting, surely. ]

[spotsalone]

[ Discussing the charts goes as well as it can. According to Lane, Crozier instructed their group to meet at Cape Herschel on the southern shore of King William Land, should the ships break free from the ice come summer. They're well behind schedule, though. Between the late thaw and the lack of able-bodied manpower, progress has been extraordinarily slow. Crozier told them to turn around if there was no sign of the overland group by September 1, yet here they are, still crawling south toward the uncharted leg of the Passage.

It's practicality, argues Lane. When the pack finally unclenched its jaws, they knew it was likely too late to make the rendezvous point, but there were no leads to the north, and retracing their steps would only trap them again. South is their only option. There will be sheltered harbors near Cape Herschel to overwinter in.

And if they do happen upon any remnants of Crozier's group, well... Won't that be something?

Hickey allows Lane and Hodgson to plot their course without argument. The charts mean little to him, and he gleans all he needs to know from the conversation between their two best experts. It's possible that Des Voeux may have an opinion or two to add to the mix, but Hickey is in no hurry to grant that scab of a man access to the officers' table.

So: It's south, then, as far as they can make before winter closes in. They've a week or two of decent sailing ahead of them, a month if they're lucky, and that will have to do.

He escapes to the deck as soon as the others shamble in from furling sails for the night. The cold is miserable, as ever, but he minds it a bit less with his newfound immortality. He's wearing his scarf again, somehow relatively unsullied by the Tuunbaq's claws, although the death of his coat means he's stuck with a heavy, too-big overcoat. It's warmer than the longcoat and will hide his chest more effectively, but he dislikes the way it bags around him. He keeps getting stuck on things.

He's just lit a cigarette when he hears the main hatch open. It's Angelo, thankfully. Hickey grins. They haven't seen much of each other yet today.

The vague news about Tozer does not immediately concern him. There's a fair chance Angelo is grousing over some minor irritation. ]

What's he done?

[ He offers Angelo the cigarette and very kindly resists an "I told you so". ]

early september, 1848; angelo's cabin

[spotsalone]

[ Tozer looks ready for a fight when the cabin door locks behind them, and the suspicion only worsens when Hickey offers him a cigarette.

"At ease, sergeant. I'd like to make some things clear to you regarding our present situation."

It's odd, discussing the events of Chateau Ambregris as new information, even with as little as he relays to Tozer. Being stolen from their world by a witch and forced to participate in his death ritual could not sound more insane—until Tozer point blank asks if that witch is Angelo. The resulting laugh is so earnest that it must lend credibility to the rest of the story. It does explain the supplies, Tozer reasons, as well as the supernatural timing of it all. Besides: when Hickey lies, the lies are believable. Lying about this would be ludicrous.

He shows Tozer his chest, but not the cigarette case. The exact nature of his immortality will remain a closely guarded secret, but Tozer can know why Hickey no longer eats or drinks, why he remains healthy and strong as the rest of them deteriorate. The other men have noticed this, Tozer comments. It's a risk to continue with such an obvious signal that something is not right. Hickey agrees, but their rations are precious and he won't compromise them for the sake of this secret.

This resolve earns him back some trust, surely, as Tozer doesn't question Hickey's claim that he's returned here to get the rest of them home safely. Whether the marine buys that as the real reasoning or just wants to believe it is, Hickey can't tell. In any case, it's not a complete lie. "I would be sorry to see you die here," Hickey says, and means it.

Why Angelo has returned with him is a question he doesn't answer. He almost chances it, ready to leave Tozer with a barebones explanation that Angelo would have perished otherwise, but he thinks better of it. He remembers the agreement they made back on the palace stairs. Would this qualify as a breach of that contract? He thinks not, but relations with Angelo are too fraught to guess incorrectly. Instead, he licks his lips and tells Tozer he'll need to ask Angelo for that particular story.

There's still plenty Hickey does not reveal, but by the end of their short conversation, Tozer is satisfied. It's enough to repair the rift between them, and it's enough for Tozer to back Hickey and Angelo's efforts to conceal these secrets. He's already reassured Manson, as a matter of fact. No one else suspects any strangeness regarding Hickey's injury. They're in the clear, for now.

Though as he makes his way back into the empty great room, Tozer asks one last question: "Before all of that... You had no intention to turn us around and make for the ships, did you?"

Hickey grins through his irritation. "No. I had a plan to harness the Tuunbaq's power." He does not say whether that plan would've prioritized the safety of anyone but himself, but Tozer likely guesses the truth of it given how his jaw squares at the answer.

"And now you no longer need it. Lucky, that."

"Yes. The path ahead of us is a brighter one."

Tozer hums and sees himself out without another word. His footsteps echo heavily as he makes his way forward and up the main hatch to join the others on deck.

The conversation being dealt with should bring Hickey greater relief than it does, but there's still a knot of unease lodged in his stomach. It makes him restless. He's likely revealed too much again, though there was little chance in avoiding it, and Tozer is smarter than Hickey once gave him credit for. Odds are slim that Tozer will try to outwit or undermine him, but there are now too many moving parts for Hickey to track all at once. He's in a precarious position these days.

He resists the urge to light another cigarette and instead makes his way to Angelo's cabin. He slides the door halfway open without knocking; Angelo had to have heard Tozer's exit, and thus should be expecting him. ]

I've sorted things out with Sergeant Tozer. You needn't worry about his loyalty.

[cleansheets]

[ Despite the close proximity they are all stuck in, it turns out to be amazingly easy to not say much to one another over the course of a day. There's too much to do to keep them on course, and once that is taken care of, Angelo's invented a whole slew of other chores to drown himself in. The work does a lot to redirect the nervous energy in his system, at least, so by the time Hickey embarks on his diplomatic negotiations with Tozer, Angelo feels a lot more level-headed than he did last night.

He's seated on his bed when Hickey invites himself in, looking up at him with a serious expression as he gets the initial status report. He'd be lying to say he wasn't the slightest bit relieved. ]

Good. Did he actually believe your story, do you think?

[ He's not inviting Hickey to sit just yet, but there is certainly space to do so. ]

early september, 1848; hickey's cabin

[cleansheets]

[ True to his spur-of-the-moment idea, Angelo does spend the next few hours scrubbing the forecastle deck. It's not that he even likes cleaning - if anything, he detests how rough it makes his hands, or how dirty one has to get in the process of getting something dirt-free - it's just that it's satisfying to behold the results of his own labor. This ship will never be as sterile as Angelo wants it to be, but with every layer of grime removed, it becomes more and more his. It's a sense of satisfaction that he is craving even more now that he knows that Hickey cannot be his sole comfort, if any comfort at all. And he craves the exhaustion, working his body to the bone just to free himself of thoughts. He has to admit that taking drugs had been a whole lot easier.

Still. It does the job. Come evening, Angelo is physically weary and mentally a whole lot more composed than he was before. He'll need that composure, he knows. Before coming to see Hickey, he heads to the basin to wash himself, gladly taking advantage of the hour to be by himself while ridding himself of the unpleasant stench of sweat... as well as he can, anyway. Perfume will have to do the rest. Who would have known it'd be such an integral component of expedition life?

When he's ready, he looks... presentable, he supposes. His hair is still annoyingly limp and his skin is in a rough state overall, but people have wanted to fuck him in much worse conditions. 'Natural beauty' has been a curse all his life, but it'll come through for him whether he wants it to or not. (And hasn't Hickey said he wants him, not just his pretty face? Hasn't he said that he wants the whole of Angelo, even the parts of his heart that he's not ready to give?)

Angelo has to cross the greatroom on tip-toes as to not wake a sleeping Manson, and that is the excuse he'd also give for not knocking and instead simply sliding the door open and entering without ceremony. What kind of face should he make here? Hickey isn't a customer, he doesn't need to put on airs. That leaves him oddly at a loss for what to do. ]

Excuse me.

[ The door slides shut behind him with a certain finality. He's not scared, he's not disgusted, but he is... nervous, maybe? That's a new one. ]

Hope I didn't keep you waiting.

[spotsalone]

[ Hickey did not expect to grow tired of feigning injury so quickly, at least not where matters of work are concerned. Manual labor is beneath him, a waste of his intelligence. The sole benefit of being grievously wounded was supposed to be the excuse to get out of such boring tasks.

The problem is, there's little else to do. His role now is to command the crew, but admittedly, this was an easier feat on land when their path was straightforward... and largely set by Crozier. He could win against Crozier and even the Tuunbaq by outwitting and outplaying, but such strategies have no effect against nature. He does not know how to sail a ship, how to navigate waterways, how to read the weather... Even understanding the charts is proving more difficult than anticipated. Lane and Hodgson clearly have him outmatched as far as raw knowledge is concerned. How long until they begin to challenge him over his lack of expertise?

When Angelo lets himself into the cabin, Hickey is sitting on the bed, reading. There's a haphazard stack of books on the desk as well, most taken from the greatroom but some looted from other berths while their occupants were busy on deck. His best hope of staving off both boredom and mutiny is to educate himself on the history that's led them here.

There is still a tension between himself and Angelo, but he ignores it. Their... conversation earlier today deserves no acknowledgment. It happened, it's finished, and now they must press forward.

So: Hickey smiles in greeting, and then shifts, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to make room for Angelo. ]

I've discovered something.

[ He's midway through Sir Thomas Hardy's memoirs after having abandoned those of three other Sirs that seemed only interested in parading their own egos. Pathetic. Sickening. Useless. Anyone can laud themselves as a hero. Sir Hardy is guilty of these same offenses, but there's an undercurrent to his tales that Hickey has picked up on. ]

This man, Hardy, moved up the ranks quite quickly. He was promoted straight from lieutenant to flag captain in just a few short years by one of the most prominent naval commanders in history. Even I've heard of him. Nelson.

[ He flips back through some pages that he's dog-eared. He unearthed this book from Irving's belongings. Surely he won't mind a few folded pages. ]

Why do you think that is?

mid september, 1848; cargo hold

[cleansheets]

[ When Angelo leaves Hickey's cabin in the morning, careful to make sure Manson has already exited the greatroom, he expects that their volatile situation will combust on them sooner rather than later. That feeling of impending doom hangs over him through the day, and the next, and the one after, and then he's too exhausted from the daily labor to maintain that level of tension. Whatever changed in Hickey's mind when he cut himself off that night, it seems to have lasted. Though their interactions are not without awkward moments, it becomes easier to breathe around Hickey.

It becomes easier to breathe, generally. A week into life on the ship, Angelo finally sits with the men in the evening and allows himself to be dealt a hand of cards. A week and a day into life on the ship, Hodgson introduces him to the concept of curling tongs that are heated over the oven, and Angelo's morning routine gets a fair bit longer for it. He gets odd looks for having a morning routine at all, but a week and three days in, he notes a vague note of eau de cologne between the unpleasant odors of the command table. The next morning, Hodgson greets him properly at the basin.

There is no comfort to be had in their days of labor on the freezing cold deck of Terror, or their evenings of staring into lead-ridden tin cans. Yet, Angelo finds himself getting used to the rhythm of the misery. He learns about sailing. He sits with Hickey as he reads, letting chatter wash over him. He scrubs until his hands are raw. He gets better at card games, but not good enough. He kisses Hickey in dark corners. It never feels perfect again, but he never grows tired of the way Hickey breathes roughly into his hair either. He refuses invitations to bible study, and nearly gets into a fight over it, that Tozer only barely breaks up. He develops a grudging tolerance for Tozer as he goes. And he mentions his captain here and there, feeling out the words again.

As mid-September threatens to turn into late September, Angelo has firmly established himself as the head steward and head lieutenant alike. It does no longer raise eyebrows when he gives orders or delegates task. In what little remains of hierarchy among them, the others are too worn out to fight him for his place on the food chain.

This is what leads him to the hold with Tozer as additional muscle. The mess of materials stored in the depths of Terror's belly is largely useless to them, but eventualities can always arise. Today his goal is fabrics that can be repurposed for heat insulation. He and Tozer work quietly at moving the boxes for a bit, but then an impulse strikes Angelo and he raises his head to look over. His breath forms a cloud in front of his mouth as he speaks. ]

Captain Crozier. What did you think of him, before all this?

[royalmarine]

[ Tozer leans against the gunwale with Lane and Hodgson as they discuss the pack ice creeping in from the north. They'll need to make for a safe harbor soon, Lane says, but there's no telling where they might find it. The charts for this area are now only rough approximations.

Hodgson tepidly points out that this is what they set out to find three years ago. This is the last piece of the Northwest Passage, a key that will, in theory, open up significant trade routes for England. A boon for the economy. A victory for the empire. When they return to London, they will be heroes.

But there is no celebration. Hodgson mentions the Passage, and then the three of them stare in silence at the expanse of bergs stretching endlessly west. This is what they are dying for. Tozer hopes that the cursed magic of this place will seep into the merchant vessels that come after them. He hopes every drop of imported tea leaves a rancid and metallic aftertaste. Better yet, he hopes it tastes like Billy.

Tozer pretends to help with Hickey's bandages. Behind the locked door, he gives his report on the men. Angelo typically joins them, but sometimes he does not. When it's just the two of them, it almost feels like they're conspiring back at Terror Camp again. But Hickey always offers a cigarette: a treat for his loyal dog. Tozer sees this and wonders when Hickey made the move from partner to master. He takes the cigarette anyway.

Tozer wakes to a thump against the wall. A voice follows. Angelo's? It's difficult to recognize over the creaking ship... When he presses his ear to the wall, he hears a quiet conversation, but both voices sound different in a way he can't place. Is this how Hickey and Angelo speak to each other? He doesn't know what to make of it.

Tozer helps Ferrier stow Robert Thomas in the dead room. Manson and Lane are upset. Des Voeux asks what Mr. Hickey will want done with the body, and they all know what he means.

Tozer makes casual mention of how Hickey's wounds are mending, lies about bringing him his meals. Tozer convinces Manson to play assistant to Diggle in the galley, now that the cook is up and moving again. Tozer listens to Pilkington fantasize about being reinstated as marines once they return to England, as reward for finding the Passage. Tozer hauls himself up to the maintop each day and wonders if he'd even feel hitting the water.

It's routine, or something like it. A soothing monotony. As a soldier, Tozer would pride himself on his knack for strategy and leadership. He's happiest now when he doesn't have to think.

There's a vague annoyance, then, when Angelo turns their work into an opportunity for conversation. A large factor in Tozer's decision to come down here was because Angelo was the least likely to chat. He considers offering some noncommittal response just to be done with it, but... Why is Angelo asking this? He sighs and drops the crate he's carrying into their small pile. ]

Before which part?

mid september, 1848; greatroom

[spotsalone]

[ Diggle calls the men for supper, and Magnus finally has reason to excuse himself from Hickey's chess lessons. Annoying. He's hardly worth the energy (and Hickey is an impatient teacher), but it was something to do. There's only so much reading a man can stomach in a day.

But Manson takes his leave, and shortly after there's a knock on the door. Hickey brightens, assuming Angelo is finally coming to pay attention to him—but instead it's Tozer that steps inside, closing the door behind him.

He interrupts Hickey's greeting with a hushed question. "How much has Sauper told you of his Captain?"

Oh, for Christ's sake... Hickey's expression tightens. Whatever this is, it's going to be an unpleasant conversation. "What has he told you?"

"That the man 'transcended humanity' and was the only person worthy of trusting. Called him a miracle. Said that human beings are despicable, and his Captain would—"

Enough. Hickey cuts Tozer off before he can continue, a fist clenching in his coat pocket as he bites back his irritation. "What prompted him to share this with you?"

The marine shrugs. "Idle conversation. He brought it up."

"And now you've brought it up." Hickey's head tips to the side. It's a question.

There's a pause. Tozer's shoulders drop slightly. He must have expected a different reaction. "But you've seen him, when he talks about it, yeah? Sauper speaks of him as if he's God. He's made mention of the man with the others, too. Do you know about that?"

Hickey did not know about that. His sharp smile deploys automatically, a life raft as he decides how to play this off. His personal feelings do not matter right now. "What he chooses to share about his former life is his business. He is homesick. We all are."

Tozer's eyes narrow, his mouth hanging open as if he's considering an option. When he speaks again, Hickey gets the sense his question is not the first he thought to ask: "Are you making use of that?"

Hickey laughs. His loyal dog has grown quite bold. He turns his attention to the chess set still laid out on the table and begins to pack it up. "What use do you imagine for such a thing? His Captain is dead and thus irrelevant."

"Transcended humanity, he said. Those are the words he used."

"A god cannot die."

"Does Sauper see it that way?"

"He knows a corpse when he sees one, yes."

"He calls himself an angel, too."

Hickey sighs, grinning over gritted teeth. When did Tozer become so argumentative? He moves around the table to close the distance between them and touch a hand to Tozer's shoulder. Then, gently: "Allow the man his secrets, Solomon. Nothing in his background need concern you."

Tozer studies him for a moment. "This place warps the mind, Cornelius. We saw it with Dr. Stanley, and Morfin... Perhaps even Crozier—"

Finally, Hickey's temper breaks through his careful visage. "You watch your tongue."

The two of them are frozen in place for a long beat, Tozer standing his ground against Hickey's stern glare. Though Tozer has the advantage of size and a soldier's disposition, Hickey has intimidated stronger men before. He's expecting the marine to back down, fall into rank.

But that's not what happens. "Are you using that?"

Something larger is at play here. It sounds as if Tozer is coming to Angelo's defense. Where that came from, Hickey isn't sure, but he knows he's not going to solve that mystery just this minute. For now, his pet needs some reassurance.

"Angelo is of sound mind, and that's the end of it. I have earned his loyalty the same as I have earned yours." Hickey's voice is strained, but he's reined himself in again. He's smiling as he extracts two cigarettes from the case in his pocket. "Haven't I?"

Tozer's eyes land on the cigarette, though he doesn't take it. Instead, he nods.

Hickey hums, undeterred. "We're on the edge of winter, sergeant. All of us are tense, knowing what's ahead of us. The last thing we need is to grow suspicious of one another."

"It's not suspicion," Tozer says quickly. "I just thought you should know. In case you didn't."

"Yes, thank you." Hickey reaches to give Tozer's arm a squeeze. "Go and get yourself some supper, then. We'll speak tomorrow."

He makes his way to the bench against the far wall, not bothering to look up again as the marine sees himself out. What an interesting move that was, though its inception is still mysterious. He'll have to keep a closer eye on Tozer in the coming weeks, especially if Angelo's going to be so chatty with him. That, Hickey did not expect.

Hickey is still seated at the bench when Angelo makes his appearance, watching the sun drip toward the horizon as he lights his second cigarette since Tozer left. There's a soft sigh of relief when he sees it's Angelo at the door this time. He glimpses the others still milling about in the forecastle as the door closes again. ]

You must've had a busy day. I've missed your company.

[cleansheets]

[ Angelo closes the greatroom door behind him with a little sigh. It feels as though the weight of the day falls off him a little when it's just the two of them, and he cherishes that feeling. For a while, this peace had felt precariously at risk, but the past week has settled them back into a semblance of routine. ]

Busy, indeed. You won't recognize the forecastle anymore.

[ He crosses the room with a few decisive steps and takes a seat right next to Hickey, close enough for their legs to be touching. ]

I've had Tozer drag up materials from the hold so we could insulate the walls better. It's not exactly pretty to pad everything with fabric and straw, but we need to conserve coal where we can and I'd prefer to not waste too much of it on heating.

[ Whether or not this move is effective at all remains to be seen. Angelo has no way of knowing - he's basing his reasoning on attempts to keep himself warm in cardboard box tents, and those are presumably quite different from giant sailing ships. Nevertheless, it was something to do, and worth the attempt. Nothing to lose and a lot to gain. Angelo likes feeling busy and productive. ]

early october, 1848; terror bay, king william land

[royalmarine]

[ Hodgson's expression is one of apprehensive pessimism when Hickey announces that he and Lane are in charge while the few of them head to shore. This sort of thing has been happening more often lately, Hickey bestowing small responsibilities upon their displaced second officer. They need him on their side, Hickey urges. When they make it back to England with reports of dead captains and dead crews, a lieutenant's testimony will go a long way.

This is the first time Tozer considers that they wouldn't be immediately found out for mutiny. That he wouldn't be led to the gallows again without question.

"Mr. Hickey." Hodgson swallows nervously. "Your injury. Perhaps..."

Hickey flashes one of his serrated smiles. "Yes, lieutenant?"

Hodgson glances at Angelo, and then at Tozer. What a sight they must be, Hickey and his dogs, all three of them with rifles slung over their shoulders. "Perhaps you should leave the shooting to Lt. Sauper and Sgt. Tozer, if at all possible. I imagine you're still quite sore."

That wasn't his first thought, judging from the way his eyes dart toward the hatchway.

Hickey placates him with a promise to be back before evening. He and Angelo climb down into the whaling boat, followed quickly by Des Voeux and Pilkington. While the four of them bicker over who's consigned to the broken oar, Tozer turns to Hodgson.

"You're in this, George. Playing a role doesn't make you any more or less guilty." He doesn't stick around long enough to gauge the reaction.

This bay they've found themselves in still has a fair stretch of open water yet. Lane assures them it will ice over quickly, same as it did their first winter aboard, but this harbor should keep them sheltered from the true pack. The ship is unlikely to be frozen in again, at least to a worrying degree. Good news. Good news, too, that they can make out the barest hint of green near the shoreline. Vegetation, which could mean game.

"Is the moss edible, do you think?" Pilkington asks between oar strokes.

"I'd risk it." Des Voeux is wearing one of his slimy little smiles. "We've eaten worse."

Pilkington is the only one to react, his color blanching. Des Voeux laughs. Does Angelo understand the joke, Tozer wonders? As usual, trying to guess Hickey's thoughts is a lost cause. His eyes are fixed on the shoreline ahead as he mans the tiller. He may not even be listening.

Tozer has to break up another spat between Angelo and Des Voeux before all of them are even off the boat. Following a heated discussion over group composition, Tozer is the one that decides: He'll go with Hickey and his inseparable right hand. He doesn't trust the two of them alone together, and he doesn't trust anyone's aim but his own—both groups need a marine if they have any hope of bringing back meat. Pilkington and Des Voeux head north into the shales while the three of them follow the coastline south, where the patchy beds of moss lead up and over a ridge.

The sound of rocks sliding and crackling underfoot is not one that Tozer missed. You never quite gain your bearings on the rocks. There's no solid ground or stable footing. Flat becomes a distant memory. It's miserable as they plod their way up the small hill in silence. Silence, except for the sound of footsteps behind him, two distinct paths converging into one as soon as Tozer takes the lead. Okay? Surely they aren't going to whisper together so obviously.

He allows himself an indulgent eyeroll, and then abruptly turns, slowing a bit to fall in line again. Neither reacts like they've been caught—Hickey is in surprisingly good spirits while Angelo is dour as ever—but Tozer spots the smallest blip in Hickey's movements, his hand falling back down to his side. Was he adjusting the strap of the rifle on his shoulder, or...?

Well, it doesn't matter. Interrogating such a trivial thing won't provide him with anything useful. Something is strange between the two of them, and Tozer has yet to find the shape of it. This is not new information.

So, moving on: He gestures to the gun Angelo is carrying. ]

Have you fired a gun like that before?

[ He's only ever seen Angelo use his pistol. That's promising, but very different from a rifle. ]

[cleansheets]

[ Angelo shoots Hickey a little glare when Tozer practically whirls around to expose them, completely sabotaging any attempts of looking like nothing was happening but satisfying his own ego a little. This is another pattern that feels unique to just them - Frontal could have touched him whenever he wanted (but never wanted to) and everyone else would have lost their fingernails for presuming to reach out for him unprompted. By comparison, the way Hickey touches him like it's a little secret and the way Angelo will blow him off for it, huffing in exaggerated irritation, feels a whole lot like a game that both of them are in on. It's a playfulness that had been missing from Angelo's whole entire life up until this moment.

To Tozer, Angelo gives a curt nod before speeding up a little to close the gap that had formed between them. He doesn't like the feeling of lagging behind when there's a conversation to be had. As he accelerates, he ignores a dull ache in his legs. ]

I have, but not often.

[ It's the truth, but only barely. He'd settled for the pistol very early at the castle, because he's always been a gun user, but he'd tried the other options out when curiosity struck. To say he'd 'practiced' would be an exaggeration. ]

You'll have to be our ace for this.

[ It feels odd to concede the ground so readily, but his stomach is twisting too much to let him chance driving off game with a badly aimed shot. ]

early october, 1848; hickey's cabin

[cleansheets]

[ Angelo enters Hickey's cabin without fanfare and without knocking that night. His hands are red and cracked, more so than they were when they arrived back at the ship. It feels like a low point to Angelo - he prefers cleanliness, but he's never been one to scrub at his hands until his skin is damaged. What a meaningless caprice that would have been when he still lived in the slums, surrounded by the lowest of the low.

It's having known purity for a brief brilliant moment that has brought him to this point, to wanting to claw the aura of decay out of his skin. He has gained nothing from it except for an irritating sting in his fingers whenever he dares bend them too far.

Whatever Hickey is doing when Angelo opens the door, he doesn't wait to be invited in before closing the cabin behind him and sliding the lock shut. The incessant chattering in the forecastle, the hushed voiced going lieutenant and chains over and over... He needs them to be shut away for a while. ]

Even if he somehow makes it, I'm not giving back my room - just so you know.

[ A casual announcement. He doesn't think Hickey would make him do so to start with, but it feels like it warrants saying out loud. ]

[spotsalone]

[ Hickey is seated at the desk when Angelo enters, smoking a cigarette. Judging from the faint haze collecting at the ceiling, it is not his first for the night.

He doesn't look up immediately. Only Angelo would barge in like this; even Tozer would at least hesitate first. Instead, he keeps his focus on the open captain's log in front of him. He's paged through it before, but the sparse pages offer little of interest, hardly detailing anything more that coordinates and weather reports. What a lazy display from their beloved captain.

He's opened it again in a half-hearted attempt to find mentions of Little. There are none of note. He does find, though, an entry dated November 22, 1847: Three men flogged, insubordination. Then, Crozier's sloppy scrawling goes on to detail the times of sunrise and sunset for the day.

Perhaps it's all the better that they did not find the captain's corpse. The details of his suffering will be rendered insignificant, too. ]

Your berth belongs to the first lieutenant of the ship's captain. He was Crozier's officer, not mine.

[ His voice is tired, matter-of-fact. Is he glad to see Angelo? He hasn't yet decided, but the answer will be an easy no if he's come here to complain about their new addition. He sits back in his chair. ]

He is no threat to you. None among us will disagree with that fact, either. You have earned your position.

[ Not to mention it will be a long while before Little is fit to stand, let alone serve as an officer—assuming he lasts more than a few days. ]