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Mr Hickey is always touching his rat.
Obviously, a daemon that small – and she’s a small rat, much smaller than a true brown one would have been – would be on a man’s shoulder or in his pocket or in one of the pouches designed for the men who have daemons not suitable for the temperatures outside. But Hickey’s daemon never just sits. She darts all over him, climbing onto his head, his shoulders, down his arms, onto his lap. She grooms him, nuzzles her tiny mouth against his ears, shamelessly loving him in front of everyone and he pets and cossets her back, like they are children who have never grown up and realised it isn’t just you and your daemon against the world.
“It’s obscene,” Solomon mutters to Mattie, watching as Hickey rolls a cigarette and the rat skips between his shoulder blades and inside Hickey’s collar, burrowing against his skin.
“She’s very small,” Mattie says. “He’s probably used to people’s daemons trying to grab her, mess her up a bit. I mean, think of the amount of dogs on the boat.”
“You could flick her the length of the ship,” he says and she tosses her strong head proudly. His powerful lady. There’s nothing that pisses Tozer off more than when people call her a sheep, even in fun. For one thing, she’s quite clearly not a fucking sheep. She’s a goat and that’s obvious, to any man that’s not an idiot. And she’s not just some farmyard goat either. All right, he’s not really sure what sort of goat – he’s not one of those boring men who’ve got nothing better to do than to write to papers trying to identify a part of himself. But she’s a special goat, that’s clear, a beautiful thing with a strong chest and shoulders and she can knock you through a wall if she has to, just like he can.
“You could have stuck as a lion though,” he liked to grumble at her. “Or a tiger. Or even a really big dog. But no, you went with goat.”
“I’m your soul,” Mattie would always say back. “You should have tried harder to be a lion. It’s only due to my brilliance we made it as a goat at all. Your insides are a donkey.”
And then he would wrestle with her, trying to knock her off her feet and she would gently clout him with her head and horns until they were both laughing and happy.
Happy. It seemed a long time since he’d been properly happy. Stuck on this ship, this damn ship, surrounded by ice. It had been all right at first. Just another assignment. Decent men under him and most of the men in the crew were all right. Not something he’d have picked on his own but worse things could have happened.
Now they had. Now they were stuck here, had been for what felt like forever and the decent men were dying around them and nothing he did seemed to make a difference any more. He’d never felt so fucking helpless in his life and he couldn’t talk to anyone about it.
“You’re a sergeant,” Mattie whispers to him. “You’re brave and true, one of the best. Of course you’ll get through this.”
He wants to cling to her like a child but of course, he can’t. He’s Sergeant Tozer, he’s a man, a royal marine. He’s not going to grope at his daemon like a little boy who is scared of his own shadow. Mattie knows that of course, she understands. She stands stoically at his side, head lifted at all times, brave as he is, sleeps curled up tight just beneath him at night and if sometimes, he envies the men with soft, light daemons that can snuggle close in their hammocks, that’s his secret shame that he won’t admit.
He’s nothing like Mr Hickey.
*
The first time he ever sees Hickey’s daemon still is at his flogging.
There are rules that are expected for a daemon at a punishment and Hickey’s rat follows them to the letter. She sits where she can be seen, making no move to comfort Hickey as he gasps his way through his beating. She sits completely still, her tail curled tight around her paws and she doesn’t make a sound the whole time, not even a squeak. When it is done and Hickey stands (he stands, Christ, that man has iron in his spine to manage that after thirty on the arse!), she moves, scrambling easily up his body and sitting on his shoulder, erect as anything, even though it must have hurt her too. Hickey makes no attempt to touch her. He stands and then he leaves and the rat balances perfectly on his shoulder, as though they have not suffered at all.
Solomon is conflicted. Confused. He does not like the man, not really. Not really. But such a harsh punishment, such a very harsh punishment ... and to be met with a spine like that ...
“Shame he hasn’t shown it before,” Mattie says, unusually acid for her. He looks at her, puzzled.
“Maybe he has,” he says. “Maybe we just weren’t looking.”
Mattie doesn’t answer him. She doesn’t seem pleased but Solomon doesn’t know why. There’s nothing wrong with re-evaluating your thoughts on a man, surely? They’ve all changed on the ice, they’re none of them who they were when they started. Hickey could have changed, couldn’t he? Going after that girl was brave, it was and he likes a brave man. And to stand ...
He can’t help but admire that. He just can’t.
“There’s a reason we didn’t like him!” Mattie says angrily and he doesn’t know what to say to her. He doesn’t want to fight with her. They don’t fight, they understand each other, that’s the point of them, surely?
But everything feels so changed now.
*
“I wanted to thank you for the tobacco,” Hickey says quietly.
He shrugs. Not a confession, not a denial. Hickey smiles. His rat chitters softly from his shoulder.
“How’s the pain?” he asks.
“Getting better,” Hickey says with a small shrug. “I’ve had worse from my father.”
“Liar,” he scoffs before he can help it. Hickey grins, apparently not offended and his daemon laughs.
“He’s an incorrigible liar,” she says and Solomon stares, surprised to hear her speak. Her voice is soft, gentle, not the chittering squeak he half-expected from the little creature. “He can’t help it. He gets that from his father too.”
Hickey makes to knock her off his shoulder and she jumps, quick as a flash, bounding around his neck to the other shoulder and biting his earlobe. Solomon can’t help but laugh at the bit of clownery and Hickey grins at him.
“Your daemon,” he says. “She’s a beautiful thing, isn’t she? Some special kind of goat?”
“Some kind,” he agrees, glancing at Mattie. She’s staring at Hickey, her muscles tense, shifting where she stands in a rather unseemly way. Solomon wishes she’d just relax. It doesn’t have to be this way. Hickey’s trying and he wants him to try, he wants them to talk and be friendly, he wants that. It’s better if they do, surely? Better for Hickey, better for the ship, better for ... well, everyone. Why is Mattie being this way?
“Truth be told, one of my favourite daemons to look at on this ship,” Hickey says. “A proper strong creature, not boring like so many others. Did you ever think about what she says about you?”
“Not really,” he says, slightly uncomfortable. “Do you often stare at other men’s daemons?”
“Yes,” Hickey says promptly. “You can learn a lot about a man from his daemon. Not all that rubbish people spout about predator and prey or superstitions about unlucky creatures, that’s nothing. But you look at how a man treats a part of himself or how she treats him back and you see things.”
“What do you see with me then?”
Hickey smiles. He reaches up to his rat, scratches her softly. She wriggles contentedly under his hand. Solomon feels a sudden startling wave of jealousy. Hickey feels no shame about pleasuring his daemon, about simply showing that he loves her. Solomon could never just touch Mattie that way.
“I see one of the strongest men on this ship,” Hickey says. “I see someone powerful who’ll do what has to be done, defend what should be defended.”
“Stop trying to flatter me,” he says gruffly, because he’s not stupid, of course that’s what Hickey is doing. Mattie paws the ground a little, shifts her hooves again. Hickey’s smile widens.
“I see a man who needs more than he has,” he says and then goes before Solomon can think of a suitable reply.
“He’s just trying to impress you,” Mattie mutters.
Solomon looks at her, wondering what it would be like to run his fingers through her soft wool, tickle her the way Hickey tickles his daemon without so much as a thought. To roughhouse and laugh like they used to. When did they stop? When did they become as cold as the ice around them?
He does not know. He cannot remember.
*
Carnival. It was supposed to be fun. Supposed to make everything all right, supposed to bring them some joy. He believed.
Instead, it brings death.
They try. They try so hard to save Bill. He clings and screams, he screams for mercy and Mattie beats them back as best she can; hitting men, not just their daemons, but men but it’s not enough. It’s not enough. Armitage drags him out and he struggles, he struggles but it’s not enough and Bill, Bill is gone.
Mattie stands limply beside him. She keeps her head up because she must, she knows the importance of appearances but he cannot feel it any more. He cannot feel anything except broken. Bill is dead. And the men, the men killed him swarm around them like panicked little insects and he doesn’t know what to do with them, he doesn’t know what to do with anything. He just stands there because he knows how to do that. Takes the orders he’s given and does them because that’s all he can do.
He does not know what else there is.
*
“Are you sure about this?” Mattie asks softly.
“Yes,” he says roughly, not looking at her.
“It’s ... big, Solomon.”
“It’s necessary. They’re not going to get us out, Mattie. They’re going to get us all killed, they’re going to fuck us up and I can’t ... we’ve got to get out. We’ve got to. We can do the rest later but right now, we’ve got to do.”
She doesn’t answer him. He looks at her, suddenly furious.
“Would you rather fucking stay and die and nobody even fucking care?!”
“If this is what you want, it’s what I want,” she says but she sounds so fucking sad that he can’t bear it and he has to walk away from her until the bond is a throbbing ache in his chest. It hurts but he doesn’t turn around. They can’t die here. They can’t. He can save Hickey and Gibson and Tommy and the others, he can. He can save himself and Mattie. That’s got to be what he thinks about now, even if Mattie’s looking at him like he’s letting himself down. He’s not. He’s not.
He’s doing what has to be done. That’s all. What has to be done.
*
The dog meat tastes good, better than it should. He stuffs it into his mouth, swallowing it down and Hickey eats too, holding up fragments for his rat to take from his fingers.
“Why do you do that?” he asks. “She doesn’t need it.”
“She likes it,” Hickey says with a smile. “Why shouldn’t she eat too?”
Solomon shrugs. He can’t look at Mattie. They’re not looking at each other at all right now. He wants to look at her, maybe she wants to look at him too but he doesn’t and she doesn’t. He’s finally sleeping on beds in tents where he could touch her and yet he can’t bring himself to put a hand on her. He can’t and she doesn’t ask him to.
Hickey shifts. He moves closer, looking up at Solomon’s face, head tipped slightly to one side. Then he puts his hands on Solomon’s knees, ever so light but enough to make Solomon shudder. It has been so long since he has been touched.
“What?” he says roughly.
“Why are you sitting so far apart from her, sergeant? She’s your daemon. People will notice if you don’t look like you’re close.”
“We’re close enough,” he says.
“No, that’s not true. I used to watch you with her, sergeant, you know that. I know. She always reflected you and now, she’s reflecting the turmoil you’re feeling.”
“I’m not – ”
Hickey looks at him. His eyes are so clear. His rat is perched on his shoulder, watching Solomon too. Solomon’s denials dry in his throat.
“It’s all right to have doubts,” Hickey says quietly. “But your doubts mustn’t stop you doing. You need to unite with your own self if you’re going to survive out here, sergeant. A man must know every part of himself and his being to get through.”
Solomon doesn’t say anything. He wants to look away, except that would make him seem afraid. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mattie watching them. Does she mind that Hickey’s still got his hands flat on Solomon’s legs, stroking just the tiniest bit? He ought to shove him off because that’s not a good way to go but he’s missed being touched and Hickey’s hands are nice ...
Hickey smiles at him softly, nods his head as though he’s made a decision.
“When did you last feel connected to anything? Truly connected? Comforted?”
“I’m not a child,” he says roughly. “I don’t need comfort.”
“All men need comfort from somewhere,” Hickey says. “No man is an island, isn’t that what they say? I think you need comfort, sergeant. I think if you’re going to help save us, you have to truly want to save yourself.”
His rat moves. It’s a sudden movement, too quick for Solomon to understand until it has happened. She leaves Hickey’s shoulder, runs down his arm, over his hand and onto Solomon’s leg. He stares at her, numb with shock – another man’s daemon, another man’s daemon is touching him, he can feel the weight and warmth of her on his thigh – and then she runs up him, reaching his shoulder easily. He lifts a hand and Hickey catches it, holds it tight.
“Let her,” he says, soft, commanding. “Let her.”
The rat snuffles at his throat, then his cheek. Her little paws groom his beard. She chitters softly, nuzzles his hair. Her whiskers tickle his ear and he finds himself half-laughing at the feel of it. This is wrong, it is beyond wrong, it is not done, how can Hickey be allowing it? – and yet it feels good. The soft warmth on his shoulder, the touch of paws and whiskers and a tiny, licking tongue and knowing that’s Hickey, that it is some part of Hickey that does that ...
“Doesn’t that feel better?” Hickey says softly. “Doesn’t it feel right to let yourself be touched?”
Mattie has moved closer, is staring at them with her keen dark eyes, still pawing and rocking uneasily. Hickey releases Solomon’s hand, moves towards her and Solomon feels a flicker of uncertain fear.
“N-no, no, don’t – ”
“He never would,” the rat whispers in his ear. “Don’t be scared. He’d only touch her if you both wanted it. He just wants to talk to her. Now stay still.”
She is grooming him again, little, delicate strokes that feel bizarrely pleasant. Hickey is whispering to Mattie, too quietly to be heard but she is listening and she does not seem angry now. Her jerky movements have stilled. She seems almost peaceful, more than he has remembered seeing her in a while and she nods to something that Hickey says and Solomon thinks dizzily that Hickey and his daemon are casting an enchantment over both of them, pulling them into a web and there is no escape and he doesn’t want to escape, not now because he feels good and he’s tired of cold and pain and fear and he’s tired of feeling so, so alone.
“Come here now,” Hickey murmurs and he obeys. Hickey takes his hand, gently brings it to Mattie’s side, presses it against her, taking the greatest care not to touch Mattie himself.
“Hold her,” he commands and Solomon obeys, pressing his face into Mattie’s soft flank, wrapping his arms around her as tight as they’ll go, breathing shallowly as emotions start to flood him. Oh, she is warm, she is everything he remembered to hold and she’s snuffling his ear and shoulder gently, her breath hot and it will be all right, it will because they are together and he loves her and she him, they are one being and they are not alone, they are not.
Hickey’s hand still covers his. His other hand is stroking his back lightly. His daemon still fusses delicately with Solomon’s hair. He has never felt more loved.
“There,” Hickey says. “That’s better, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Mattie says. “Yes.”
*
They see Collins die together. See his daemon frantically trying to cling to him, then worse, try to push some strange part of Collins back into him, try to catch his soul with her teeth before his body dies and she is gone as though she was never there at all.
And then they run. They run together and Solomon has never been more afraid of anything in his life, he runs and runs and would have missed the boat entirely if Hickey hadn’t stepped out, caught him in the fog.
“What’s this now?” he says. “You’re safe, Solomon.”
He clutches at him. He clutches, not caring if the other men at the boat see his terrified weakness. Mattie presses to him, tight and wary and he clutches her too, her wool a place to grip to keep her near. That will not happen to them. It will not, it cannot. They are free, they are running, Hickey will protect them, he knows what he is doing, he said, he promised and above all, he has his spirit and his soul. She is his Matilda, his warrior girl and he will never, ever let her go.
“The bear,” he whispers but he cannot explain, cannot even find the words to say what he saw.
“It is gone, now,” Hickey murmurs. “You got me guns, my clever sergeant. Now come and help us haul."
The rat leans forward, touches her nose to Solomon’s for a moment. Soft and warm, connected to him, just as she is to Hickey. A tiny voice in him, the Captain’s voice most likely whispers those awful words again: That was Mr Hickey! but he crushes them. The Captain lied, surely, did not want to look a fool and anyway, it is too late, it is too late, they have given themselves to Hickey now and this is the path they must tread no matter what.
Holding tight to Mattie’s shoulder, he moves to the boat and begins to haul.