Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ever since Gillion can remember, there’s been a bandage wrapped around his right hip. It’s always slightly too tight, no matter who helps him change it every few days, but that’s intentional. His parents, and the Elders, have told him a million times over by now that the circumstances of his birth, unnatural as they were, left him with hip issues. Gillion’s never been told exactly what those issues are, but he trusts the bandage helps it. The gods know he hasn’t ever felt pain in his hip apart from when the bandages are removed, so surely it has to be doing something. 

Another thing that’s always been is his lack of a soulmark. Everyone in the Undersea- and possibly the Oversea, though Gillion only knows of it in books, so he can’t be certain- has one, denoting the person they are to spend their life with. He’s grown to accept being the Chosen One means his life is devoted to his people, and that’s why he lacks one. His entire life is a sacrifice, a big buildup to the prophecy he’s trained for years to fulfil; something as petty and insignificant as romance cannot distract him from that.

Until he’s banished. He’s left with nowhere to go, with nothing but the clothes on his back, a whalebone sword and a frogtopus his sister gave to him years ago. The undercurrents whip him away from his home fast, from the basaltic ocean floor and biting cold of such deep sea. He sees the Surface for the first time in his life, under a sky so inky black it seems like another ocean entirely.

And then a human- a real, live one, who looks nothing like the prestigious nobles he’s read of in books or the navy officer who he’d attacked days before- is reaching out a hand and pulling him aboard a ship. Suddenly, Gillion is on the Oversea, and it’s not at all what he imagined, nothing like the flowery prose of books had led him to believe, and he feels so terribly, horribly alone.

He clutches to his prophecy like a lifeline. He keeps up his training, ignoring why his new companions, by the names of Chip and Jay Ferin, seem a little concerned by this. The first problem arises almost five days after Chip had pulled him from the waves, in the form of a bandage around his hip, and how loose it’s grown. 

“Chip,” Gillion says, as the sun is setting, “Would you help me change my bandage?”

“Your what? ” Chip splutters, and though they barely know each other, the man still looks like the physical embodiment of panic and concern.

“Due to my birth, I have problems with my right hip. The bandage helps.”

Chip relaxes almost instantly. “Oh. Yeah, no worries, Gill.”

It’s the first time, since Gillion left the Undersea, that he’s been called that. It makes him think of Edyn, and emotions swirl in his chest, making him feel like he’s sinking beneath violent, turbulent waves. He simply ignores those feelings, lets the nickname slide, and unbuckles his armour. Chip holds out a hand, and Gillion hands him, piece by piece, his armour, noting each dent and crack in it, resolving to repair it later.

Chip sets it all aside carefully, in a neatly messy pile. It’s a level of care Gillion isn’t used to receiving from anyone, least of all a person he barely knows. This he shoves aside too, crushes down into the deep recesses of his mind, and focuses on the task at hand, pulling his undershirt off with one easy, practised movement. By this point, the bandage is visible where it wraps up around his torso; once around his thigh, hidden beneath his pants; twice around his hip for stability; once up around his stomach. It’s all pinned neatly in place, though it’s far looser than usual.

Chip stares at the bandages like they’re some kind of magical phenomenon he’s never seen before. “ That helps your faulty hip?”

Gillion nods, confused as to why the question was raised at all. “Yes. It is wrapped in such a way that it gives support and pressure, thus relieving the pain.”

Chip pokes the bandage with a finger. “What’s it made of?”

“What?”

“The bandage. Is it, like, magical kelp or something?”

“No,” Gillion replies, far more confused now than he was before, “It’s made from a mixture of animal hide and cloth. Most of it is material that got caught in the undercurrents and finds its way to our home, and we hunt down the rest.”

“Huh.” Chip unclips the pin holding the bandage in place, and rubs the material of it between two fingers. “Interesting.”

Chip then slowly and carefully begins to unwrap the bandage. Indents in Gillion’s skin show where it regularly sits, tight and snug. There’s some mild irritation there, too, if you look close enough; Chip has the decency not to mention it.

“You got more of these?” he asks as he starts to tug the first layer around Gillion’s hip free. “Or do you want some of ours?”

“Any bandages you have should work perfectly well.”

“Don’t move,” Chip says, and drops the bandage, leaving it dangling still somewhat wrapped around Gillion’s hip, and dives across the ship to rummage through one of the barrels on the deck. He lets out a triumphant yell after a few moments and holds up a rolled-up bandage like it’s the most prized possession he has, then dives back across the ship in the same fashion he had before, almost bowling Gillion over in the process.

He doesn’t offer any apology, simply reaches back up and unwraps the last of the bandage in a few swift movements of his hands. He tosses the old bandage aside carelessly, earning a yell of protest from Jay- something like “Pick that up!!!” - and starts to unroll the new one.

“So, how do I-” Chip cuts himself off, staring at Gillion’s hip. “Holy shit.”

“Is something wrong?” Gillion asks, peering down at him.

“That.” Chip pokes a finger into Gillion’s hip. Hard. “I’ve never seen one that bright.”

Gillion finally, for the first time in his life, glances down at his right hip, entirely unbandaged, and what he sees there makes him freeze. It is bright, practically glowing in colour, beyond any Gillion has ever seen; a soulmark, plain and simple. A coral crown in soft pastel colours.

Gillion feels quite faint.

“You know this was here?” Chip pokes the mark again.

“No,” Gillion says, wincing. “No, I did not.”

“Riiiight.” Chip falls silent for a moment. “So, wrapping it back up, right?”

“Yes. Wrapping it back up.”

That marks the end of conversation (aside from Gillion directing Chip on how to wrap his hip properly ), but not forever; and it certainly doesn’t stop the thoughts swirling in Gillion’s mind. One echoes back to him over and over in the tone of a thousand voices, almost driving him mad. I, Gillion Tidestrider, the Chosen One, have a soulmark.

**************************

Over the next month or so, he and Chip fall into an easy routine of bandage changes every few days. Each time, Gillion takes a moment to stare down at the soulmark there; then Chip wraps it back up, and neither of them speak of it. Gillion doesn’t dare let himself think about why he was never told of the mark on his hip.

Of course, a mark alone did not mean one had a soulmate. Gillion knew far too many in the Undersea who had learned of their match’s passing, or had scoured every record and exhausted every option and turned up no results. But a mark was more than he had before, and that spoke volumes about those who raised him.

He wonders why the Elders- and his parents, too- kept this from him. Perhaps to focus him more on his training and purpose? Or, he thinks with a small shudder, to keep him under control.

These kinds of thoughts make his head hurt, though, so he shoves them aside. He focuses first on Loffinlot, throws his all into saving the people there; then on the Isle of Desire, and all those turned into stone. It’s only when they enter the Paramount Championship that Gillion properly thinks of it again- or rather, when he lays eyes on a water genasi who he should view as a competitor, and instead sees someone who intrigues him, the mark on his hip itches.

When they get the chance to talk later, mostly business, but Gillion can’t seem to keep his eyes off him. Caspian, that’s his name, and it tastes sweet on his tongue like fresh honey. He’s suave, well-poised and far too composed given the events of the previous day, but Gillion somehow likes that about him.

When they leave, headed back towards the tavern they’re all staying in, Chip sidles up to Gillion with a twisted grin and a look that only speaks of trouble. “So, Gill, what’d you think of Caspian?”

“He was rather impressive,” Gillion replies, keeping his tone neutral. He’d never considered before how difficult it was to tell a half-truth. “He fought well.”

“ Rather impressive, ” Chip echoes in a mocking tone, and the air quotes accompanying it make Gillion’s ears flatten back against his head. “God, Gill, just say you like him.”

Gillion blanches. “ What? Chip, I can simply admire a worthy opponent-”

“You liiiiiiiike him,” Chip says loudly, drowning out Gillion’s words, and starts, of all things, skipping. “Gillion and Caspian, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-”

Gillion draws his sword and settles it directly under Chip’s chin, who shuts his mouth with a loud clack. There’s a moment of tense silence as Gillion holds Chip’s gaze, an unspoken threat passing between them.

“Alright, alright,” Chip backs up, “I’ll drop it.”

“Jay,” Gillion says pleasantly, pulling his sword away and sheathing it in a fluid, practised motion, “What did you think of the tournament?”

“The tournament?” She turns to Gillion with slight surprise. “It was fun, I guess. Oh! Speaking of crushes-”

Gillion’s hand flies to the hilt of his sword again.

“-Gill, how’s your hip holding up?”

Gillion retracts his hand slowly. “It’s fine. You brought it up because of the mark there, yes?”

Jay nods in confirmation. “Yeah. I just figured all the fighting might’ve made it flare up or something. It’s good to know I was wrong.”

“The bandages have done their job,” Gillion informs her. Chip shoves open the front door of the tavern like he owns the place, and nearly hits a half-orc square in the face. He yelps and dives behind Gillion, but it doesn’t disrupt his flow of conversation. “Though it will likely need replacing sooner than usual.”

Jay nods her agreement. She looks like she’s going to say something, but Chip ducks out of hiding again as the half-orc turns their focus elsewhere.

“C’mon, Gill, drinks on me tonight!”

Jay shoots him a scathing look. “You’re flat broke.”

“Exactly,” Chip replies with a grin, and, in a swift movement, snatches Jay’s coin pouch from her hip. “And now I’m not.”

“Hey!” Jay makes an attempt to snatch it back. Key word: attempt. Gillion idly follows them with his gaze; he knows they’ll be collapsing into seats at the bar soon, and probably drinking long into the night. He’s not in the mood to celebrate with such means, though. 

Chip slides under a table and swiftly springs back up on the other side of it. “Give it up, Jay, you can’t catch me!”

It doesn’t look like they’re going to kill each other; not to Gillion anyway, as he watches Jay slump resignedly, so he begins to move towards the stairs at the back of the tavern that lead up to the rooms. Perhaps he’ll take a bath. He can check on the bandage around his hip, then, and monitor any injuries he sustained over the course of the tournament. Yes, that sounds like a wonderful idea.

He can hear Jay follow behind him, her footfalls distinctive against the tavern flooring. “Turning in for the night?”

Gillion doesn’t spare Jay a glance. “Yes.”

Silence falls between them again. Gillion can feel the weight of it; like a question nags at Jay and wants to be asked, but she can’t find the words. He does not attempt to press her for it. If she wishes to speak, she will.

Gillion stops in front of the door to his room, and fishes the small copper key from his pocket. He slides it into the lock- an old rusted iron thing- and turns it with a click . He pushes the door open, catching sight of the early evening sunset filtering in through the window. I will have to draw the curtains across it before sleeping , he notes absently.

“Gill.” Jay catches him by the shoulder before he can step into his room. “In the morning, there’s something I want to do.”

“What is it, Jay?”

“I think we should take you to a doctor. I mean, it shouldn’t be hard to find one, and if you do have hip issues,” her eyes linger on his hip, the one he knows is currently wrapped in bandages, “They might be able to do more than tell you to wrap it with a bandage.”

“Oh.” Gillion shifts under her gaze, feeling a little scrutinised. “If you believe it could be helpful, then I will go.”

Jay nods, seeming satisfied with this answer. “Sleep well, Gill.”

“You too, Jay,” he replies, knowing it will likely be hours before she retires to her chambers, then steps into his room, shutting the door with a soft click behind him. He sits down on his bed with a heavy sigh, hearing the bed frame creak under his weight and stares down at his hip, imagining the layered bandages under his clothing, and the soulmark beneath that. Perhaps, he lets himself think traitorously, if the Elders lied about that, then they may have lied about other things.

Then he shakes his head to rattle the thought loose, and begins preparing for bed.

***********************

The doctor, a rather stout man by the name of Judith, peers at Gillion’s hip over round, small, thin-rim glasses. The bandages that were once wrapped so tightly and carefully around Gillion’s hip sit in a neat pile to the side of him.

“Hmm.” Judith sits back, and meets Gillion’s gaze. “I do have a theory. We will need to run some tests, but it’s incredibly likely any pain you feel now is due to those bandages. You said you have worn them your whole life, correct?”

Gillion nods, reeling from Judith’s words. It was hard to hear something that shook his entire worldview and rattled it down to its core. 

“Well, it is likely that your hip is so used to being supported, it feels foreign to you that it is not- translating into a feeling that can be misinterpreted as pain.”

“What would these tests entail?” Jay asks. Gillion feels like he’s drowning, with water raging in his ears.

“Blood samples, for starters,” Judith says. “Those would take a few weeks to get results back to you.”

“We can’t stay here for weeks.”

Judith rolls his eyes and mutters something that sounds like “Fuckin’ adventurers.” Then he composes himself in an instant and says, “Well, you could attempt leaving the bandages off for a few days. If the pain persists after that, then rewrap it and get some tests done. Whatever is going on, you don’t want it to get worse.”

“Alright,” Jay says, and passes the doctor a small bag of gold pieces that clink softly as she does so. “Thank you so much.”

Most everyone Gillion has ever met perks up when given coin. Judith just passes a final concerned glance over them both, then sighs. “Stay safe,” he says, and stands up to hold open the door.

Gillion hurriedly pulls his shirt back on, and snatches up the bandages. When he stands, his hip protests, and he ignores it, gritting his teeth and bearing it as he half-limps out the door. Jay offers out an arm, but he ignores that too; if he was too stupid and blind to see the Elders’ lies sooner, then he would take the pain left in that stupidity’s wake.

They still have some of the Tournament left, but Gillion will push through it anyway. And they will win . He’s going to make sure of it, even if it kills him.

“Gill,” Jay says, as they step back out onto the street, “If you want, I can wrap it again, just for the rest of the tournament.”

He shakes his head violently at the suggestion. “I will manage.”

“You’re sure?” 

“Certain. The pain has already grown more bearable.” It had not. Looking at Jay, Gillion knows she sees right through the lie. 

“Alright.” Jay reaches out a hand. “I’ll take the bandage. Just… Keep a check on the pain levels, yeah? If it gets too much, tell me.”

Pain spikes in Gillion’s hip, sharp and stabbing. He grits his teeth, hands Jay the bandage, and says, “Of course.”

Jay stashes the bandage in the small bag tied to her hip. It stays there the entire tournament, which they almost lose on multiple occasions.

The pain in Gillion’s hip slowly fades over the days and dissolves into nothingness. By the time they leave Joaldo, narrowly slipping away from the Navy’s forces, Gillion doesn't even think about bandaging it anymore.

Chapter Text

Gillion rather likes travelling with the Grandberry Pirates. Yes, there is the slight issue of the violently ill people he has to heal each day, and the inconvenience of how their ships are tied together, but for the most part, it’s nice . Gillion will take nice.

Between healing the sick and worrying about Ollie, who has inexplicably become an adult man thanks to the compass, Gillion draws. He draws a lot; sketches of fish he sees in the water over the boat’s edge, sketches of Pretzel, sketches of Apple.

Caspian sits with him at some point in silence under the dying light of sunset. Caspian scribbles in a notebook he had told Gillion was “full of poetic bullshittery and other such things.” Under Gillion’s pencil forms a sketchy, crude imitation of Caspian’s likeness.

Gillion is not a wondrous artist by any means. It’s a simple hobby he picked up years ago, to destress and unwind between training bouts. Something he could start, put down, and then pick up again later. All that is to say, he was okay with not honing or improving his skills.

Until, of course, Caspian asks to see his art.

“I’m not very skilled,” Gillion warns him. “It’s just a hobby.”

“I’m sure they are still wonderful.”

Gillion exhales and hands Caspian the sketchbook. Tense silence falls between them, broken only by the lapping of waves against the hulls of the two ships. Was the ocean usually this silent, this serene, this calm? Gillion was used to the deafening roar of the undercurrents and the occasional earthquake. 

“Gillion,” Caspian says, barely audible, in the same tone as a prayer. “These are beautiful. ”

Gillion has the courage to glance at the pages Caspian is staring at. He sees sketches of fish, scrawled notes on their anatomy ( longer fin- moves faster? thinner, probably harder to spot by seabirds ) and, under it all, the small, imperfect sketch of Caspian. Nothing special, really, but Caspian is looking at them like they belong in an art gallery. 

“I’m glad you like them, Caspian, but they are imperfect,” Gillion replies honestly. Caspian frowns at him (Gillion is struck by how odd it looks on him; the overwhelming desire to somehow wipe it from his face hits him all at once).

“Imperfection is not always equal to failure or being bad.” Caspian gently closes the sketchbook and sets it down on the deck, then casts a glance over the side of the ship. “Look.”

With an expert motion of his hand, he pulls a stream of water up and over the ship in an arc. It’s large enough that several fish still swim through it; Gillion watches them pass by.

There’s a clown fish, and then a small octopus that’s missing a tentacle. They’re followed by some more clown fish, a few of which sport scars. There’s a pufferfish missing a chunk from its side, neatly scarred over by now.

“Everything in nature is far from perfect,” Caspian muses as a fish swims by with a ragged, torn-up fin. “Imperfection yields beauty, though; to see glimpses of a life one would otherwise know nothing of in the scars left by the past. Such as these fish.”

Gillion becomes aware of four things at once. 

First is this; Caspian wants to show him the world. That much was evident the second he decided to pull water right from the sea just to show him the imperfections and mutations in the fish down below the waves. He sees the beauty in all that’s around them, and his first thought is to share that with Gillion.

The second; that idea makes Gillion’s chest feel warm and gooey and fuzzy and all other manner of things the Chosen One should not be feeling. That Caspian, somehow and inexplicably, wants to share it all with him. That maybe he’s more than the sacrifice he can make for his people, more than what the prophecy has made him.

Third is this; when he looks at Caspian, he gets caught on the things he shouldn’t. Gillion finds himself noticing how the sunlight glints off of his eyes, or the way his smile twists so gently and naturally across his face like he was born to wear it. He seems to revel in every aspect of life, from how fluidly and easily he fought in the Paramount Tournament, to this moment, here, where he effortlessly holds his shape water in a way Gillion desperately wishes he himself could.

And finally, fourthly; Caspian wants to show him the world, but all Gillion wants to look at is him. The world may be full of captivating wonders, of breathtaking sights and jaw-droppingly gorgeous places, but all Gillion cares for is Caspian. He wants to watch him until his eyes won’t work anymore, wants to map the subtle curves of his shoulders and count every scar that sullies his form like the wear of age on a canvas painted decades prior. 

Caspian has his world, all around him, breathing and tangible and beautiful. Gillion’s world always seems to blur out of focus until all he can see is pale blue skin, pure white hair and a blindingly perfect smile. For all the wonders of the world, Gillion finds Caspian doubly as breathtaking, with sunlight casting a gentle, angelic glow over him and sea salt tangled in his hair.

Just like artwork wears with age, layers of paint chipping free if one isn’t careful, Caspian shows signs of his life in the definition of his upper body, in the golden tooth where a real one should be, in the scar slashed through his right eyebrow. Gillion is rather of the opinion that the ageing of an artwork adds to its beauty.

“Gillion?” Caspian’s voice snaps him from these musings in time to see a small, not yet fully matured shark of some kind swim through the water arc, with very little grace.

“It's beautiful,” he agrees. You’re beautiful, his mind echoes. It’s a thought he will not voice aloud.

“And so are these.” Caspian taps Gillion’s sketchbook cover. “They do not need to be perfect to hold beauty.”

Caspian’s eyes are trained on Gillion. Not a single glance down at the book under his hand. Gillion swallows harshly, and turns his gaze back to the fish.

Caspian holds the shape water for a while longer. The two sit in silence that is mostly comfortable, though something in their dynamic has shifted. Gillion suspects it has to do with the tingles that shoot down his spine when Caspian meets his gaze and smiles slightly before gently tapering off the water and sending the fish back to the ocean.

“Those fish,” Gillion asks, breaking the momentary silence. “Do they suffer?”

“Every living thing does.” Caspian leans over the edge of the ship, watching the dolphins ride in its wake. “Suffering is as imperfection; it yields beauty. It yields joy.”

Gillion’s head hurts trying to wrap it around that concept. “I do not think they should have to.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps not.”

Silence falls between them for a moment; a thick, heavy thing that weighs over Gillion like an avalanche of snow. He has so many things he wishes he could say. Do you often think of death? he wonders internally. Of suffering? Of imperfections in the world? Do you see those reflected in me? Is there any beauty there, or just an ugly, crooked scar, left by a world too broken to care?

Instead, he says, “Do you suffer, Caspian?”

“Less by each passing moment.”

A heavy question. An answer that is somehow both soft and weighted. The breath feels driven from Gillion’s lungs.

“Do you?” Caspian asks, after a moment.

Gillion swallows. He thinks of the mark on his hip. He thinks of his destiny, inescapable and all-encompassing. He thinks of the warmth in his cheeks and tingles down his spine when Caspian looks at him the way he is now, with such focus and dedication.

“Every day.”

Caspian lays a hand over Gillion’s own. Soft, comforting, warm. It’s almost too much to bear.

“I do hope that ends for you sometime soon,” he says, so sincere that Gillion feels a physical pain in his chest. “And that when you look back on it, there is something beautiful that came from it.”

You, Gillion thinks. You are my suffering, in this moment. And you are beautiful.

“I hope so too,” he says aloud. He prays that his thoughts are not betrayed in his expression.

Caspian picks up Gillion’s sketchbook again and holds it out to him. “There’s beauty in these pages. Try to remember that for me, alright?”

“I will not forget,” Gillion says and takes the sketchbook. Caspian laughs softly, but Gillion had meant it. If Caspian thought his sketches, loose and rough and messy, held value, then he would too. Those drawings, half pencil smears and granite pressed into pages tattered with age; nothing special, yet somehow, Caspian liked them. 

Gillion makes a silent promise to keep the sketchbook in a safer place on the ship than he has been, rather like the valuables Chip and Jay hid from him as best they could (Gillion did not understand why they were so averse to paying their taxes). Caspian flicks through the pages of his notebook to find his place again, and carefully produces his pen. A balled up piece of paper hits Gillion square in the forehead a second later; he raises his head to squint across the ship, then glares at Chip, who simply grins and ducks away.

Unrolling the paper, Gillion sees, in scratchy, hasty handwriting, Have fun with your boyfriend!!! He stares at it for a few seconds, then stretches out a hand to pull water out of the ocean in a small bubble. He slips the note into the bubble of water, and watches it disintegrate with morbid glee.

He makes another silent promise to create another ice arena come morning, then reopens his sketchbook, and begins refining the Caspian sketch from earlier.

*******************************

Their arrival at Edison Kingdom marks the end of their travels with the Grandberry Pirates. Gillion can’t help the pang in his chest as they untie their boats and say their goodbyes. He tries to memorise Caspian’s face, his smile, his voice, the smell of the seasalt and ocean breeze trapped in his hair, but an hour later, when they’re further into the island and set on helping the people there, he can already feel the details slipping away.

When they leave again, minus Chip’s right pinky finger, Gillion stares at his own sketch of Caspian’s face, but it doesn’t help. He feels the absence of the Grandberry Pirates like a hole in his chest. He would take the suffering of Caspian’s presence, the softness of his smile and gentleness of his words, over this heartache, this deep longing that won’t seem to loosen its grip, like claws digging into his chest.

He misses John, too, and Lizzie, with her whip-smart humour and a crooked grin that almost perfectly matches Chip’s, like a long-forgotten twin. He misses the gentle creak of wood each time their ships would brush against one another. He misses pressing a hand to the deck and feeling the extra pull and resistance as the two ships crashed through waves and open ocean.

It’s all too quiet now. Sure, there’s the birdsong, and the waves as they break against the Albatross’ hull, but that’s still too quiet . So Gillion does the only thing he can; he trains.

He hauls spare, unused barrels from far below deck, brushing off dust and cobwebs (and apologises profusely to the small spiders they belong to) and spreads them out over the ship’s upper deck. He uses chalk to mark clumsy targets on them, draws water from the ocean to fill them and weigh them down, and draws his whalebone sword.

“Captain,” comes Alphonze’s voice, newly Texan and surprisingly comforting, despite being robotic and foreign, “I advise against using seawater as a weight. It will flood the upper deck once the barrels are broken.”

“I can clear it up, Alphonze,” Gillion assures him while adjusting his own breastplate. “Don’t worry.”

“As you wish, Captain.”

Gillion spins his sword in his grip effortlessly, feeling the familiar weight of it. It’s not the most evenly balanced of swords, made heavy by the material it’s created from, but it’s what he’s used to, so Gillion doesn’t particularly care. Besides, baleen is tough, even more so when carefully crafted in the ways of the Undersea blacksmiths and packs a rather deadly blow.

He spins it again, flexes his grip, and swings. The blade slices cleanly through the hastily scrawled target on the barrel closest to him, sending water gushing over the deck. Gillion pivots, and slices the next barrel open without breaking stride.

Wood splinters and water sprays as Gillion moves through his setup, making quick work of all twelve barrels he’d brought up only a few minutes earlier. He stands amidst broken wood and the scent of sea salt as water sloshes over his feet, his gaze locked dead ahead as he regains his breath. In a swift movement, he sheathes his sword, feeling its familiar weight at his hip and finding comfort in it.

“Captain, the upper deck appears to be flooded.”

“Only temporarily!” Gillion replies, all too cheerily. He stretches out his hands and the water begins to spiral upwards into a single, far more manageable bubble. The smell of sea salt hits him full force then; Gillion remembers white hair tangled with the ocean’s breeze, and falters. Would Caspian have any pointers on his techniques, his footwork, the grip of his sword? Maybe Gillion should call him.

Then he tosses the water unceremoniously over the side of the ship, and the notion of contacting Caspian goes with it. They’ve spent plenty of time without the Grandberry Pirates before. There’s no reason he can’t do it again.

Gillion’s strong. He’s a fighter. He’s-

caught up in the way a water genasi smiles with all his teeth, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the sun’s rays reflecting off the glint of gold nestled among sharpened teeth-

the Chosen One. He can be alone. He’s done it before, swam through the undercurrents and deep ocean, felt the biting cold of the icier parts of Mana’s seas, healed his own wounds and clumsily kept the same bandage tight around his hip with no real way to change it. Though that bandage around his hip is gone, Gillion still knows how to dress his injuries, and how to follow the currents. He knows how to survive .

“We probably could have done with those barrels un smashed.”

Gillion’s head jerks up. He spots Jay, just beside the doorway to the lower decks, leaned against the wood. “We can purchase more if we need them. These were gathering dust and spiders in the lowest storage area.”

She tilts her head slightly, then draws her gun from its holster, spinning it on one finger. “Care for a friendly match?”

Gillion’s hand comes to rest on the hilt of his sword. “If you are offering, I accept.”

Jay smiles, sweet and pretty, then shoots Gillion square in the shoulder. The force of it sends him stumbling back, but in the process he manages to draw his sword. Jay shoots again, and Gillion barely manages to dodge it, scrambling to the side and then rushing forwards to get on the offensive.

Jay tries to shift her aim, but Gillion’s light on his feet and he’s goddamn quick ; with a slash of his sword, blood is pooling from Jay’s upper arm. She curses and turns, shooting again, this time grazing Gillion’s thigh. The bullet embeds in the wood of the deck, splintering around it.

“Hey, hey, what the fuck’s going on?” Chip’s voice, pitched up an octave with panic, echoes across the ship as he pushes open the door and bursts out from the lower deck. He barely ducks in time to avoid a bullet between the eyes.

“Just a friendly duel!” Jay yells at the same as Gillion calls, “Training, Chip! We fight to kill!”

“You fight to what ?” Chip yelps. Gillion promptly runs Jay through on his sword; she spits blood, grins, and shoots him in the chest.

“Draw,” she says, coughing. “It’s a draw.”

“Well fought,” Gillion says, pulling his sword free and letting it clatter to the ground before placing a hand on her arm, expending some magic to help seal over the worst of her wounds. He then presses his other palm to his own chest, and his more serious injuries mend themselves too.

Chip promptly steps between them and snatches Jay’s gun away from her. His hands are shaking. “Never do that shit again.”

“No promises,” Jay says with a slight grin. Gillion meets Chip’s gaze carefully.

“I assure you, I would not allow either of us to be too heavily injured.”

“Oh.” Chip seems to relax in an instant, and carelessly tosses Jay’s gun aside. She scrambles to catch it, glaring absolute daggers at him. Gillion would not at all be surprised if he heard a gunshot later that night.

“Come on, Gill, let’s get some bandages,” Jay says, holstering her gun and stepping through the doorway to the ship’s lower levels. Gillion moves to follow, then pauses, laying a hand on Chip’s shoulder.

“Just training, yeah?” Chip’s voice is shaky despite the bravado of his smile. Gillion suddenly remembers ice walls and the clash of metal on metal. He feels ill at the memory.

“Just training,” he confirms. Chip exhales audibly and follows the two below deck.

The silence between the three of them is comfortable. It feels like home; it feels like family. Never has Gillion felt more sure of destiny, of fate, of the way of the gods and the world. Whatever current and crash of the waves that led him to Chip on that fateful day, and that for whatever reason, Chip extended out his hand. Gillion doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that moment.

Calloused hands, one warmer, one colder, clasped together for the first time. The current tugs at the legs of the triton, inviting and cool and familiar, beckoning him back downward. His eyes, bright blue like the sea itself, lock with the brown ones of the human and their grips tighten simultaneously.

The human’s muscles strain as he begins to pull; the triton helps as best he can with untrained magical control over the water. They somehow manage it, and the human collapses back onto the ship’s deck, chest rising and falling visibly as he catches his breath.

“Jesus, man, you’re heavy ,” he huffs, gaze slanted and strained to focus on the triton. “Or maybe it’s just your armour.”

He sits up, still breathing heavily, and gives the triton an overly-charming grin that speaks of trouble and poorly-concealed danger. “I’m Chip.”

“Gillion Tidestrider,” the triton offers. “Champion of the Undersea, Hero of the Deep.”

“Shit, that’s a mouthful,” Chip says. “How about I just call you Gillion?”

“Here,” Jay says, snapping him out of the memory in an instant to pass him a roll of bandages. Gillion takes it, casting his gaze over his own torso to map his wounds. There’s not too many after he’d healed himself; the graze on his thigh, and a small wound left where he’d been shot in the chest. 

He begins to pull his armour off in a methodical, familiar way, like he’s done his whole life. Chip darts over to neatly put it into a pile like he did the first time- and every other time, for that matter- he changed the bandage on Gillion’s hip. A force of habit, maybe, or just a friend doing something for a friend; the gesture makes Gillion’s heart warm a little regardless.

Gillion makes quick work of his shirt after that, and wraps the injury on his chest quickly and neatly. Thankfully, blood doesn’t seep through, and Gillion mentally marks the injury down as something that should be healed within a few days.

“So, Gill,” Chip says, in an overly nonchalant way that speaks of trouble, “Since you’re so obviously in love with Caspian, when are you going to call him up and ask him out?”

Gillion’s face grows hot in an instant. He wishes, right now, that he had his sword, to threaten Chip with, but alas, it still laid out on the deck where he and Jay had been training earlier. The graze on his thigh burns.

“Chip, shut the fuck up.” Jay pauses midway through shucking off her jacket, then leans in closer to Chip, and, in a quieter tone, says, “Don’t think I didn’t see how you looked at La Alma.”

Chip turns redder than should be humanly possible. “I did not look at him, in any way, shape, or form! I don’t even know what he looks like. I’m going to bed!”

“Chip, it is midday,” Gillion chimes in after a second.

“Yeah, and I’m tired . Heard of being tired, Gill?” Chip pulls the cabin door shut behind him with a heavy thud. Jay, for her credit, manages to stay silent for a solid five seconds before she bursts out laughing.

“Oh my god , he has it bad for that cat.”

Gillion cannot muster up a response. Jay’s smile slowly drops, her laughter quelled, and she reaches out for him, settling a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

“I miss them, Jay,” Gillion says, plainly. “I miss their company and conversation and their ship beside ours.”

“I miss them too, Gill.” Jay struggles to wrap the bandage around her midriff. Gillion wordlessly reaches over to help her. “Thanks. We’ll see them again, you know? And you’ve got us.”

Gillion breathes out slowly and ties off the bandage neatly. “I do. You and Chip… You mean the world to me.”

Jay smiles at him. She looks like she’s going to cry. “But not in the way Caspian does.”

Gillion says nothing. Jay’s expression shows that the silence speaks for him.

“You mean the world to us too, Gill. Chip’s got a bit of a funny way of showing it-” she casts a glance at the now shut door to his cabin, “-But he cares. So does the rest of the crew.”

“I know they do.” Gillion stares at the neat yet messy pile of armour at his side. “I don’t think I ever thanked Chip for pulling me from the sea.”

“In a few hours, no doubt, he’ll be out of his room, so you can thank him then.”

“I should thank him for more than that.” Gillion meets Jay’s gaze carefully and steadily. “I should also thank him for getting you onto his crew.”

Jay unceremoniously bursts into tears, and flings herself at Gillion to catch him in a tight hug. He returns the embrace quickly and easily, not minding that her hold tugs at old and new  wounds alike. Hinges creak behind them.

“Losers,” Chip says, walking past them and definitely not crying like he’d overheard their entire conversation. Jay pulls back from Gillion with a sniffle and something akin to a laugh that turns into a poorly-veiled sob.

Gillion reaches out in time to catch Chip by the arm and tug him in. He all but falls into Gillion, who instantly wraps an arm around him in the tightest hold he can without strangling him.

“Hey!” Chip wriggles and struggles, kicking out with his feet to no avail. “Gill! Let me go!”

“Accept your fate, Chip,” Jay says, voice muffled from where she’s pressed her face into his shoulder again. “It’s kind of nice.”

“Never!!!” Chip yells like a battle cry, and it would have its intended effect if he didn’t stop thrashing in the same breath and relax against Gillion’s chest. Jay lifts an arm to rest over Chip’s shoulders, and exhales slowly.

“The fuck are you all doing?” Old Man Earl’s wheezing voice echoes through the lower deck of the ship.

“Bonding,” Jay replies, while Chip starts thrashing again like he’s on fire and yells, “Nothing!!! Nothing at all!!!”

Old Man Earl steps into view and casts them the most disdainful look an old man can muster, which is far beyond scathing. “Kids these days,” he mutters. “Always fuckin’ hugging and shit.”

Then he turns tail and leaves the room, still muttering. The second he’s out of sight again, Chip relaxes.

“You’re right, Jay,” he says after a moment, closing his eyes. “This is nice.”

Not even Gillion can suppress a laugh.

Chapter Text

The B.L.O.C.K. takes a toll on them all. Gillion finds it hard to meet Jay’s gaze. All he can see is the tears in her eyes and the arrow levelled at his chest. Chip’s hard to look at, too; Gillion hears insults ringing in his ears, in the voice of his friend, spilled from a mouth that’s not his own.

Drey and Marshall John are easier on the eyes. John spends a fair amount of time resting, so Gillion takes to training more than usual on the upper deck, and Drey takes to offering him advice and pointers. Some of it is less helpful than the rest, but Gillion takes it in stride.

“Elbows up!” Drey yells across the deck. “You’re letting the sword get too low!”

Gillion huffs out a breath, angered by his own sloppiness. He tries the move again- a simple spin and backhanded swing at a target nailed to the mast- and hears Drey tut at him.

“Too low!” he repeats. “Adjust your grip!”

Gillion drops the sword. It’s not his sword; it’s iron, slightly rusted and perfectly balanced. There’s no baleen, no ornate handle carving, no familiar offset weight.

“Well, that’s not gonna help,” Drey says, staring at the sword, then lifts his gaze to meet Gillion’s. “Take a break. Losing a weapon… It’s not too far off from losing a limb.”

Gillion’s gaze drifts to Drey’s arms, bruised and swollen and purple. They lay limp by his sides, far beyond repair (and he’s tried, but while other bruising and even small scars across Drey’s body healed over without a trace, his arms stayed the same). Gillion thinks he’s about the only person with the authority to speak on the topic.

“Do you think,” he asks, after a moment, “That my grandfather is out there, too? And Arlin?”

Drey lifts a foot to scratch at his own chin, not unlike a dog. “Anything’s possible. I’m alive, aren’t I?”

Gillion sighs. “I can only hope.”

Drey grins up at him, crooked and with missing teeth. “Attaboy.”

Gillion casts his gaze down at his hip, imagining the soulmark that nestles there. “Perhaps when this is all over, I can find them.”

“Find who?” 

“My soulmate.”

“Ah.” Drey spits onto the deck with an awful, wretched sound. “Soulmates. Horrid things, if you ask me.”

“Your soulmate wasn’t very nice?”

“Hah. Nah, she was the loveliest thing around. Only knew her for a few months before she went and got herself killed. There ain’t heartbreak like that of losing a soulmate.”

Gillion falls silent. He thinks of the mark on his hip; he thinks of Caspian; he thinks of losing someone who is supposed to complete you. The empty feeling he has when swinging a sword that is so decisively not his own is perhaps the closest feeling he can imagine, though he’s certain that’s the least of the pain.

Drey gets to his feet with some effort. “Look, you’ve got some good people around you. Don’t throw that away chasing someone you’ve never met.”

Gillion inclines his head. “Chip and Jay… They’re like family to me. I’m not leaving them.”

Drey grunts in approval. “Good. Make sure you tell them that.”

Gillion lies on the deck of a ship. The wood feels unfamiliar under his back, splintered and slightly rotting. By all means, it’s a vessel long overdue for repairs and upgrades, but it gets the job done.

“Hey.” A feminine voice- Jay, he recalls her introducing herself as- comes from beside him. “Can’t sleep?”

Gillion’s gaze stays firmly locked skyward, on the tiny twinkling things just out of reach. “I am used to it being colder. And I have not seen these before.”

Jay tracks his gaze upwards. “Stars? You haven’t seen stars?”

“Where I come from, it’s dark. Most of us never saw the Surface, let alone the Oversea.”

“Oh. How did you guys… talk, then?”

“We have a lot of patterning,” Gillion explains slowly. “It lights up at will.”

He flashes a marking on his right wrist, a bright orange glow emitting from it. “This means undercurrent . Other markings and combinations mean other things. It is how we communicate under the water.”

Jay rolls onto her side. “Hey, can you teach me?”

“I will,” Gillion promises. Drey grins again, then moves across the deck towards the discarded sword.

“This thing,” he says, picking it up with his foot in an expertly practised gesture, “Is no good for you. Too different. See what else they’ve got onboard.”

Gillion nods, and ducks below deck.

***************************

They run into the Grandberry Pirates again in All-Port. It’s a little concerning how damaged their boat is, but Caspian’s holding it together with shape water in an impressive show of magical skill. They reunite, somewhat clumsily, and catch up as best they can.

At some point, Chip nudges Gillion and mumbles something about his magical cool boyfriend. Gillion elects to ignore it and orders him another round of drinks to shut him up. Eventually, they all disperse across All-Port, and Gillion finds himself alone with Caspian late at night, wandering the boardwalks and levels at the centre of the seas. 

The hull of the world, as it’s often known, doesn’t really hold his attention. Maybe he should be focused on such a historical place, rich with all that makes the Oversea what it is. All Gillion can do, though, is focus on the water genasi beside him.

“There is a museum here,” Caspian is saying, “It houses model ships and many weapons that have since gone out of commission. I believe there is an art gallery here, too.”

“Do they have anything from the Undersea?” Gillion asks, though his heart isn’t really in the topic. He’s too busy watching how Caspian’s face lights up as he talks, the subtle shifts in expression as he thinks of something new to share with Gillion. The Oversea (and All-Port, by extension) is Caspian’s entire world, and he seems eager to share that with Gillion. It’s endearing, to say the least, and Gillion is a little enthralled by it all.

“Oh, yes!” Caspian turns to him with a large, bright grin. “A whole section in the museum, at least- and I am certain they would have art from the Undersea as well.”

Gillion cannot help but grin back, all sharp teeth and bleeding emotion. “Then you’ll have to take me to the museum.”

“My friend,” Caspian says, and it somehow stings beyond belief while also making a home in his chest, “It is the first place I thought to take you when I saw you again.”

Gillion feels warm. Flushed. Almost feverish. “Jay and Chip may like to see some of my culture too.”

Caspian’s expression wavers a little. “Of course. They would be welcome to join us.”

Something tells Gillion that Caspian would rather they went alone. He can’t quite place why- surely not for the same reasons Gillion missed him so fiercely when the Grandberry Pirates were gone?

“We could go first, though,” Gillion offers without a second thought. “See what they have there. Before taking the others.”

Caspian brightens again. “That sounds like a wonderful idea, Gillion. It’s not too far from here- and it’s only a few gold for entry.”

Gillion casts his gaze over the boardwalks and cobbled-together nature of buildings, the moss and mildew overtaking them slowly but surely. Sea-soaked wind whips across the structures and carries the scent of distant shores to him like a poem he can barely remember reading. Caspian starts down a rickety, half-rotted wooden staircase that curls around a stone tower like a hug, and Gillion follows him, taking note of the worn sign that says Sorceress and Potions. 

Everything in All-Port, when he truly takes the time to look at it all, has the charm of something handmade. Small businesses precariously expanded by inexperienced hands to save money and make it bigger, moss and vines claiming cobbled walls and wooden walkways, birds taking nest in rafters and lampposts and other small nooks. It’s made by the hands of sentient creatures and situated at the centre of the sea, a bustling, lively port. Gillion thinks it’s his favourite place they’ve been to yet.

“Just down there,” Caspian says, pointing, and Gillion follows his gesture to spy an even older, more rickety building. M se m , says the sign, old and worn and missing letters. A centaur with a greying beard and an expression that does not match the joyful colourings of his work uniform stands behind a ticket booth. Caspian approaches him with a charming grin and passes over a handful of coins in exchange for two tickets. 

Gillion’s gaze wanders over the massive arched entrance, adorned with gold-coated seashells and ornate carvings of seas, ships, guns and weaponry. It’s nothing like anything he knew in the Undersea, and it’s beautiful . All he’s known is rigid basaltic structures, calcite columns and the occasional carving of quartz. Sometimes, if they got lucky, they’d stumble across obsidian, but that all went into spearheads and axes, so warriors of the blade like himself got stuck with baleen.

Still, it was his home, and it was what he knew. Even if sights like this, of ores and stone and material he’s never seen outside of the abysmal amounts they managed to trade for, were breathtaking, he missed it. He missed the ocean’s embrace, like a man longed for the days where he was still a boy; where he could still hold his mother close and be engulfed in her affections.

“Come on.” Caspian gently bumps Gillion’s shoulder with his own. “It’s even more impressive inside.”

Gillion follows him through the doorway. The foyer beyond displays a few things in pristine glass cases; taxidermied fish, a display of weapons that ranges from the first primitive weapons made by the earliest known blacksmiths to the most modern, the head of a lion. The ceiling stretches upwards, painted a deep blue with depictions of stars and constellations scrawled across it in dazzling enchanted golden ink. It’s all so dazzlingly well-kempt that it makes Gillion’s head spin.

“This way.”

“To the Undersea section?”

Caspian smiles, all charm and sincerity. “Yes. You’ll be surprised by what they’ve managed to get their hands on.”

The hall Caspian leads him into is darker in colour. It’s narrower hallways and lower ceilings feel more claustrophobic, and the lighting is dimmer. Waves are painted on the walls like a mural, and sounds of seabirds and crashing waves mix with the soft music echoing out of nearby speakers. 

Greeting them the second they step inside are skeletons of a triton and a water genasi, standing side by side, fully labelled. Maybe it’s morbid, but Gillion finds himself stepping closer, staring at the skull, tracing the lines of bones down to a hand, scarily human in nature, clasped around a decrepit spear with an obsidian spearhead. Is that me, under all this skin and muscle? Just a collection of bones, a relic of time?

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Caspian has a hand on the glass, staring at the water genasi with a strange reverence most would reserve for gods and holy places. “That under it all, we share more similarities than differences.”

“All just bone,” Gillion agrees quietly. All just creatures. Even those with a destiny.

“And yet, so much more.” Caspian reaches over and grabs Gillion by the hand. His touch sears like a brand, yet Gillion doesn’t want him to let go. “Come, this way. They’ve got all kinds of relics.”

“You’ve been here before.”

“Many times! It is a calming place to think.”

“And a reminder of home?”

“Mhm,” Caspian agrees. “Sometimes, it’s almost like…”

He trails off, reaching out a hand before shaking his head, a gesture of forget it . Gillion surely would drop the topic, if it weren’t for the expression on Caspian’s face, a mix of deep longing and pain.

“Like you can touch it,” Gillion supplies softly. “Like you can feel the tug of the currents and tides.”

Caspian sighs heavily, and moves to stare down at a display, depicting different levels of the ocean and the rocks found in those areas. “Like I can feel the sand between my toes,” he admits, “And like the seabirds circle overhead.”

“In my home, we couldn’t see the birds.” Gillion leans over a display of an assortment of different shells and pearls. “Nor the sky. The water was always cold. Below freezing. But… The bioluminescent creatures we would see, and the thrill of exploring underwater volcanoes, just for a scrap of supplies…”

“It sounds wonderful.” Caspian looks over at him and smiles, a sadness to it. “And now we’re caught up in bloodshed and war.”

“We had our share of bloodshed in the Undersea,” Gillion says. “Many hunters lost to sharks and other sea predators. And we had our share of war, too.”

“Undersea, Oversea,” Caspian casts a scornful gaze around the exhibit, “Neither a paradise. Neither unsullied by the greed of others. But I love them both.”

Gillion thinks about his time in the Undersea. He thinks of his parents, his sister, his training, the currents adding power to his fins. He thinks of basaltic sea floors and obsidian spearheads.

Then he thinks about his time in the Oversea. He thinks of Chip’s crooked grin, Jay’s thoughtfulness, Drey’s training tips, Alphonze’s navigation, Ollie’s enthusiasm and cheer. He thinks of Caspian, and of the Grandberry Pirates.

“I think,” he says slowly, “I prefer the Oversea.”

“Oh?” Caspian quirks an eyebrow. “Why is that?”

“I met Chip and Jay on the Oversea. The rest of the crew too. But…” Gillion pauses, breathing out a little, “… It also brought me to you.”

Caspian’s breath catches audibly. “I suppose it did.”

“Caspian,” Gillion says, with no idea of what to say next. The water genasi in question leans in a little closer.

“Yes?”

Gillion’s aware of Caspian’s hand on his. He’s aware of how little space there is between them. His throat feels like it’s closing over as an internal chant of not now, not now, not now drones through his head.

“What if I never see you again?” he blurts.

“Gillion,” Caspian says, and it makes him feel seen . He loves Chip and Jay to absolute death; he’d move mountains and raise hell to defend them, but there’s something to be said about hearing one’s full name fall from another’s lips. It is knowing and to be known. “We will meet again. I am sure of it.”

Gillion considers his words, turning them over slowly in his mind. “And if, by some force of the gods, we don’t?”

Caspian’s expression is unreadable. He draws back a little, pulling his hand away with it (Gillion misses its warmth instantly).  “Then we must enjoy our time here while it lasts. For now, however, let us see the rest of this museum.”

Chapter Text

The sun beats down on Gillion as helps the Grandberry Pirates bring the last of their supplies aboard. Their stay in All-Port had been a brief respite from life on the seas, and now that supply needs were met, they were leaving- and so were Gillion’s own crew.

“Shit,” Chip curses, trying and failing to lift a barrel. “What did you guys buy?”

“That,” Lizzie says pleasantly, tapping it with a finger, “Is ale.”

Chip rolls his eyes and grumbles something like fuckin’ ale for fuckin’ pirates , but tries again. Gillion pretends he doesn’t see how much Chip is sweating, or how often he stops for breaks.

“Gillion!” Caspian leans over the side of the Crescent Moon and waves an arm to gain his attention. “Come help me with the mast, will you?”

Gillion sets down his barrel, loaded with gunpowder, and takes off at a sprint. It’s overkill for certain, but the extra momentum lets him run part way up the gangplank then vault off of it and over the ship’s railing onto the deck.

“Impressive,” Caspian comments, then tosses him a rope. Gillion catches it neatly in one hand. “How long do you think it’s going to take Chip to get a single barrel up here?”

Gillion glances over the ship’s side before kneeling down to secure the rope. “Half an hour. Maybe longer.”

Caspian laughs, and uses his teeth to pull his own rope tight. Gillion does not think about how attractive that is. “Poor fellow. He should’ve picked something lighter.”

“Ah, you know Chip,” Gillion says, affection in his tone. “He always takes on the biggest task he can find.”

“You’re fond of him.” An accusation. Jealousy twinged in his tone. 

“He’s my best friend. Jay, too.”

Caspian studies him with a scrutinising gaze, then tosses him another rope. “Tie that one down, and we’ll be good.”

Gillion does as he’s told. Caspian and jealousy , he thinks, as he ties an increasingly intricate knot. Jealous of who? Chip? What does Chip have that could possibly make Caspian jealous of him?

“Done,” he proclaims a moment later, the thoughts still swirling in his head. “Is there anything else you need help with?”

“No, that’s all.” Caspian leans over the side of the boat to holler down to Lizzie. “The mast is secure!”

“Are you jealous of Chip?” Gillion asks, the second Caspian turns back around. The water genasi somehow holds his composure.

“Of course not.”

“You seemed like you were.” Gillion studies Caspian carefully. “He’s seen my soulmark. If we matched, he’d have told me.”

Caspian sputters, seeming to scramble for a reply. “Gillion-”

“You have nothing to be jealous about, Caspian.”

Caspian breathes in, and begins to pace. He’s muttering to himself under his breath, like he’s rationalising a decision. Gillion tracks him with his gaze, up and down and up and down the ship.

“Alright,” Caspian says, coming to a halt. “Let me show you my mark.”

Gillion’s world seems to come crashing down around him. He’d avoided thinking about it until now, crossed the idea out in his mind. 

“Caspian, you do not h-”

“I want to.”

Gillion hates the way his hopes rise. He hates the way he’s praying it may match. He hates the way Caspian is looking at him like this moment might change their lives forever.

“Alright. Show me.”

The Chosen One does not have a soulmate, Gillion reminds himself. The Chosen One does not have a soulmate. The Chosen One-

Caspian, now shirtless, turns so Gillion can see his back- or rather, the small, perfect coral crown nestled between his shoulders. Delicate black ink lines artwork in soft pastels, a soulmark so unmistakable that even Gillion’s internal chant dies upon seeing it. The matching one on his right hip seems to itch.

“Caspian,” he says, in a strangled voice. The genasi in question turns his head to peer over his shoulder, concern etched into his features.

“Gillion?” he turns properly back around, and, in a way that seems incredibly absent minded, reaches out to cup the triton’s face in his palms. “Are you alright?”

Gillion can feel the way Caspian looks at him, even without seeing it. The pure adoration and softness to his expression; the way he so gently, so softly, slides a hand up to press it to Gillion’s forehead, checking for a temperature, because while it’s improbable Gillion fell ill within the five seconds since Caspian turned around, it’s still crossed his mind anyway.

“Your mark,” Gillion says slowly, “It- It matches.”

“Matches?” Caspian tilts his head slightly, and oh, if that doesn’t make Gillion’s heart falter. He’s never been quite so aware of how absolutely head-over-heels he is for Caspian until this very moment.

“Matches,” he confirms with a stupid nod of his head, like repeating the word explains anything. “Matches mine .”

Caspian breaks out into the biggest, most beautiful smile Gillion has ever seen. Guilt settles heavy and hard into Gillion’s stomach as the reality of it all sets in.

“But… I can’t.”

The smile drops from Caspian’s face in an instant. Gillion wishes he could bring it back. 

“I have to fulfil the prophecy,” he continues. “I cannot- I cannot allow for such distractions from it.”

Caspian sucks in a breath. It’s so sharp you can hear the inhale without even really trying to. “And when your prophecy has been fulfilled?”

“I don’t know,” Gillion admits. “But as it stands, it must be this way.”

Caspian rubs a hand up over his own still-bare shoulder; his fingertips graze the mark between his shoulder blades. “Then I will be here, on this ship. Waiting.”

Somehow, it makes Gillion’s heart ache more to hear that Caspian will wait for him. It’s as though he is weighing the genasi down, robbing him of the chances at life that he so deserves. But Caspian’s jaw is set, and his eyes are like ice, and Gillion knows this decision is final.

“I will see you again,” Gillion says. It’s a vow all of its own, and one Gillion isn’t sure he can keep. He’ll try regardless.

Because it all makes sense now, doesn’t it? The way Caspian tries to share the beauty and wonder of the world with him; the way he looked at Gillion’s sketchbook like the messy scrawls contained within the pages were worthy of the most prestigious gallery in the entirety of Mana; the way Caspian would always have his attention settled gently on Gillion unless something else were to snatch it away. 

Caspian loves him, is in love with him, so deeply and tragically it’s utterly pathetic. He’s willing to give up everything, every chance at an earth-shattering, world-stopping romance, just for him. Gillion knows he can’t ever be that for Caspian. He won’t even come close.

But Caspian’s still looking at him like that, with stubborn determination and enough love to flatten mountains if they stood in his way. It feels like devotion; it feels like worship. Soulmark or not, Caspian is choosing him.

Gillion fights the urge to throw up at that notion. 

“Go.” Caspian’s gaze doesn’t shift from him. “We will be leaving in a matter of hours; I’m sure your crew and your ship has use of you.”

“Yes,” Gillion nods. His throat feels tight. He doesn’t want to leave this moment (or maybe, and it is traitorous and sinful and all other manner of things bad in the world of him to even consider this, he does not want to leave Caspian, does not want the Grandberry Pirates to leave, does not want to have oceans between them).

“Hey, Gill!” 

Jay’s voice. His saving grace. A call he can’t refuse (he desperately wants to). 

“Go on. Lest you be stuck here talking to me for another hour.”

Gillion contemplates his words for just a moment, then lunges forwards, catching Caspian in a tight, fierce hug. “I’ll miss you.”

Caspian chuckles, low and soft, right in his ear as he brings his arms up to return the embrace. “Not too much, I hope.”

Gillion’s heart aches as they break apart. Love is not for the Chosen One, he reminds himself as he turns away. Love is not for me.

He’s always been a bad liar. Even in his own head.

“Gill!” Jay’s voice comes again. “We need all hands on deck!”

Gillion cups his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound as he calls back. “Coming, Jay!”

Chip finally staggers onto the deck of the Crescent Moon and sets down his barrel triumphantly. “Hey guys! Gill, Jay’s calling you.” Gillion internally notes that this information is rather unhelpful, and Chip adds, “So, what’d I miss?”

Chapter Text

Sea-swept wind whips sand up into Caspian’s face as he sets foot on foreign shores. The crate tucked under his left arm- filled with odd jewellery, tea leaves and spices from a wide variety of islands- digs into his side and splinters around hastily-hammered-in nails. 

“Alright,” he says, turning his gaze to Lizzie and John, who are accompanying him into the town, “I will have to go to the blacksmith, for a new sword. It is probably best if I let the both of you take what we have to sell.”

“Who died and made you captain?” Lizzie asks, taking the crate from Caspian as she laughs at her own joke.

“Very funny,” Caspian says dryly. “I’ll be back before sunset.”

He turns on his heel and crosses the beach in a few large strides. He hears Lizzie yell something to him, possibly “Don’t die, idiot!” , and then he’s stepping onto the cobbled pathways of a small, two-port town. The harbour he’s left behind him, large yet still without enough docks for all the trade ships anchoring there, is bustling with activity; just past the mountain range to his left is a second harbour, only visible thanks to the airships departing for the sky.

The storefronts lining the pathways are run down and wooden with some embellishments of rusting steel. Caspian thinks that, somehow, it adds to the charm of the town. He sidesteps a man balancing far too many crates in his arms and gives a slight bow to a woman he passes, who is knitting just outside of a store that seems to sell yarn and rope, and she giggles at him, a little flushed.

Caspian steps out into the town square and is forced to lift a hand to shield his gaze from the sun. More storefronts, more vendors; it all becomes a blur of trade and bustling creatures as he scans the place for a blacksmith. His gaze catches on the statue in the centre of the town, and he freezes in place.

Basalt . A simple statue, of a dragonborn, most likely the town’s founder, rising tall above the buildings, chiselled out of the stone. Caspian finds himself unable to breathe all the same.

But he’s here for one thing, to-

get lost in the memory of himself and a triton, in a museum at the centre of the world, remembering a home neither can return to, and it somehow feels like a date when it shouldn’t-

find himself a new sword, given that he gave the Golden Lotus to Gillion.

“Well,” Caspian says to himself, stretching out his arms and bouncing on his heels to distract himself from the memories racing through his mind like a stage play, “Lovely town, where’s your blacksmith?”

There’s no answer, of course, because the town is just that, a town . What Caspian needs is a map. Or to ask for directions.

His gaze falls on a nearby bakery, on the brown tabby tabaxi girl behind the counter, and he crosses the street in an instant. She’s young, like himself, early twenties, and probably knows the fastest route to the town’s blacksmiths, or whichever trader offers swords. As he steps into the store, he catches sight of her name badge- Liliana, it reads- and casts a sideways glance at the display cases to hastily decide on a simple lemon tart.

“Hi, what can I get for you?” Liliana leans across the counter with a smile. Caspian returns it all too easily.

“A lemon tart, thank you. Do you happen to know where the nearest blacksmith is? Or another place one might purchase a weapon?”

She carefully picks up his tart with a pair of tongs and slides it into a pristine brown paper bag. “There’s the blacksmith just off the centre of town,” she says pleasantly, setting the bag down on the counter. “Right down the path from here.” 

Caspian tracks the motion she makes with her hand with his gaze. “Thank you. How much for the tart?”

“5 silver pieces.” Liliana holds out a hand. Caspian places the coins delicately in her palm; eight silver pieces exactly. She glances down at them, then back up at him. “This is-”

“Shhh.” Caspian holds a finger up over his own lips and winks at her. “Our secret. Do you know how much the blacksmith sells swords for?”

“Usually around fifty gold,” she says. 

“Haggling?” 

“You might be able to get him down to about forty. Don’t tell him I told you.”

“Course not, darling,” Caspian says, dropping his voice an octave or two without thinking too much about it. Liliana’s fur puffs out for a second, the equivalent of a humanoid’s cheeks flushing, and she picks up the paper bag his tart is in, pressing it into his hands gently.

“I don’t suppose you have a shell?”

“Afraid not,” Caspian lies. “If I did, I would ensure you were the first to be attuned to it.”

Liliana smiles, in the way all of those who are caught in his charms do. “That’s too bad. Well, take care, Mr…?”

“Caspian,” he says, with a charming grin. “You can call me Caspian.”

“Take care, then, Caspian.”

“You too, Liliana.” He turns and exits the bakery swiftly, the bag with the tart inside clasped between his hands. Such a nice girl, comes the voice of regret in the back of his mind. You shouldn’t have lied to her.

“Oh, shut it,” Caspian mutters under his breath. “She was lovely, but she is not the one I’ve chosen.”

A pang of longing, tinged with loss, sears through his chest. Gillion had left him standing there, on the deck of the Crescent Moon, with nothing but a promise to return to him. If one even counted what was said as a promise; Caspian certainly does, when he thinks of the intensity in Gillion’s expression and the sincerity of the words he uttered ( “I will see you again” never felt like such a religious vow until now).

Despite it all, Caspian would still choose him. Even if Gillion’s destiny drives him across the sea and away. Even if Gillion would not choose him in return.

Sometimes, Caspian worries he has built up too much of a fantasy in his mind of who Gillion is. That he’s dreamed too many times of how it would feel to kiss him, to hold him, of what his love in its entirety would be like. Where does that end, the paradise he’s built in his mind, and where does Gillion (the real Gillion, with all his flaws and faults and beautiful imperfections) begin?

The cobbled pathway turns to gravel beneath Caspian’s boots, crunching as he walks. The blacksmith looms into view, and Caspian carefully unveils the tart from the paper bag as he walks and takes a bite of it. Its sweet, citrusy taste fills his mouth and brings him out of his head, if only for a moment.  Definitely worth more than five silver , he thinks to himself.

He balls up the paper bag and shoves it into his pocket, resolving to discard it later. Finishing the tart in a final, neat bite, he takes in a breath and steps up to the blacksmith.

The man behind the counter, all bulging muscles and crooked teeth, gives him a wide grin. “What can I get ya?”

“I am looking for a new sword,” Caspian says. “The lovely young lady at the bakery- Liliana, I believe her name was- directed me here.”

“Ah, a sword I can do for ya,” the man says, turning to pull one off the display of weapons on the wall behind him, then back around to set it on the counter. “That’ll set ya back fifty gold.”

“Oh.” Caspian makes a show of checking his coin pouch. “Could you do thirty?”

The man shakes his head. “Forty-five, minimum.”

“Thirty-five?” Caspian presses.

“Forty. Final offer.”

Caspian sighs, glances back into his coin pouch, and nods. “Forty it is.”

He passes over the gold. The blacksmith takes it, and slides the sword across the counter. Caspian thanks him, takes the sword, and walks away with a smile. Thank you, Liliana, he says internally.

Setting back down the pathways he’d walked just moments before, Caspian realises he’s made incredibly good time. So much so that it’s surely going to be some time before Lizzie and John are done. As he passes back by the bakery, he chances a glance back in, to Liliana, and almost contemplates going back in to speak to her more, pass the time with some company, but he dismisses the thought before it can even form in his mind.

Caspian’s chosen his person. Liliana deserves the chance to meet, and choose, hers, not pin her hopes on someone whose heart belongs to another. 

So, he continues back to the beach. The gravel path becomes cobbled, then the cobbled pathway turns to the sand of the beach. Storefronts blur together into a mess of colour and townsfolk.

Maybe, if he wasn’t a pirate, Caspian would settle in a place like this. Start a small business, get to know the townsfolk, settle down. But he is a pirate, and so that stays as nothing but a simple thought.

Caspian stares across the beach, mind racing, his new shining sword in hand. The sun won’t be setting for a few hours yet, and no doubt Lizzie and John have decided on an impromptu shopping trip, or to pay the local taverns a visit, so he sits down in the warm sand. His gaze drifts out to the ocean, and one thought pierces his mind: Gillion is out there.

As if on cue, his Callnch begins to buzz.

Chapter Text

“You and Caspian match?” Chip’s voice is high-pitched with disbelief. Jay slaps him across the back of the head.

“That’s what he said, idiot.”

“So… Are you two, like, a thing?” Chip interlocks his fingers in the most ridiculous charade Gillion has ever seen.

“No,” he answers truthfully.

“I thought…” Jay pauses. “Well, it just seemed so obvious that you… liked each other.”

“I’m the Chosen One,” Gillion states, like they may have magically forgotten, “I can’t let such a distraction get in my way.”

“That’s all he is to you? A distraction?” Chip’s expression is unreadable, until the facade cracks and he adds, “Then what does that make us?”

“Chip, that’s not-”

There’s a fiery quality to Chip’s gaze when their eyes meet. It’s, admittedly, a little scary; a look Gillion is accustomed to seeing on Jay, or perhaps Old Man Earl, but not Chip, never Chip.

“Tell me,” Chip says, voice dropping low like he’s struggling to hold back anger, “Fucking tell me that I’m not a distraction from your fucking destiny.”

“You’re not a distraction,” Gillion says.

“ Liar ,” Chip spits. Gillion’s sure he hears a sizzle in those words, like fire catching to wood. 

“I will not and do not lie to you, Chip. You are not a distraction. You never have been.”

Chip’s expression hardens into an anger Gillion recognises, from a time encased with walls of ice and with weapons drawn. “Really? What’s the fucking difference between us and Caspian, huh? We’re people , Gill, not goddamn liabilities.”

“The difference between you and Caspian?” Gillion lets out a laugh, dry and humourless. “I’m not in love with you.”

It’s not like in stories, where all the fight would drain from Chip in an instant and he’d hug Gillion and tell him it’ll pass. The fire in his eyes does falter a little, and the stoniness of his expression softens around the corners, but that’s all.

“Gill,” Jay says softly. She reaches out and takes his hand, maybe as a means of offering comfort. It gives Gillion none.

“The Elders hid my mark from me for a reason. I have a destiny- one that doesn’t include love. The gods decreed it so, long before I existed.”

“They sound like cruel fucking gods, Gill,” Chip says. “And you’re being cruel to Caspian.”

He turns on his heel and leaves, rapidly vanishing below deck. Gillion stares helplessly after him. He knows this story all too well, knows the anger that twisted Chip’s face, knows the escape he seeks below decks. He can only think of thunder, of bright, blinding lightning, of Chip’s blood, staining Gillion’s sword, his hands, his face. 

Jay lays a hand on his shoulder. “Give him some time.”

Gillion’s hands shake. “I can’t duel him again, Jay.”

“You won’t have to. Just give him space.”

Blood, seeping into the deck. A white shirt, tattered and lightning-scorched. 

Chip coughs. Spits blood, stares up at Gillion with fire in his eyes and an expression that betrays nothing but pure rage.

“You know what, Gill? Fuck your traditions! You wanna win it?”

Chip’s hand flies to wrap around Gillion’s wrist, squeezing bruisingly tight. In an instant, he’s pulled Gillion’s hand closer and the whalebone sword is at his throat. A small pinprick of blood is born from the place where it kisses his skin.

“Go ahead.”

Gillion fights the urge to shake his head, like a physical movement to clear it. His hands won’t stop shaking. “I didn’t mean to imply you were a distraction. Or that any of the crew was.”

“I know.”

“Is Chip right?” Gillion turns his gaze on Jay. “Am I being cruel?”

Jay drops her gaze. “It’s how you were raised.”

So you think I’m cruel, too. Gillion doesn’t voice it aloud. He thinks of the ice arena, of his sword pressed to Chip’s neck, of the brief, split-second moment where he considered it, where he could hear the Elders telling him of his impending victory. Part of him wishes he did now; maybe then he’d have been abandoned on some far-off island, and would be fulfilling his destiny the way the prophecy intended. Maybe then Chip wouldn’t have looked at him like that , with so much anger it threatened to burn Gillion alive.

There’s a monster in his chest. In his stomach. It grows like a pit, consuming him, making him ache with the weight of it all. He messed up with Caspian; he’s messed up again with Chip. The prophecy brings him nothing but pain, nothing but more hurdles, but what is he without it?

Gillion’s the Chosen One. He always has been. Who is he without that? Without his destiny, without fate pulling him along, he’s just another triton who happened upon the Oversea. 

“The prophecy,” Gillion says quietly, “Tells me to be one thing. And everyone else says I am another. Who am I?”

Jay pats his arm. It’s a pitiful display of comfort, and does nothing to ease Gillion’s racing thoughts. “Only you can decide that, Gill.”

Gillion sighs deeply. “I just know… That I’m his friend. And that he needs space, and time.”

Jay nods. “He’ll come around. I’m sure of it.”

*************************

Gillion stands alone, on the deck of a ship ravaged by ice. It tears through the wood like the breath of a white dragon and its wrath. In his hand he loosely grips a sword; when he glances down at it, he’s surprised to find it’s not baleen and pale, instead bright blue and glowing with magical energy.

“Jay?” Gillion turns in a slow circle, scanning the landscape around him. “Chip? Ollie? Drey?”

There’s no answer. His voice bounces back at him off of spiked ice and splintered wood. Gillion adjusts his grip on his sword, brows furrowing. He takes a step forwards across the deck, hearing the creak of wood, and then his foot hits something soft and warm. He looks down.

Blood, so heavily smeared across the wood it’s almost like someone was trying to stain it permanently red. Static electricity spikes brown hair that Gillion is all too used to seeing lay flat, and glazed over brown eyes stare up at him, somehow clinging to hatred even in death.

“Chip,” Gillion whispers, feeling like he can’t catch his breath as he drops to his knees. Setting his sword less than gently down on the deck, he spreads his fingers wide and settles his palms over Chip’s back, ignoring the way they sink into his flesh where it’s sliced open (clean through the spiked black crown that comprises the majority of his soulmark), the sticky ooze of blood and flesh clasping to his skin like a leech. Gillion breathes out, and draws on the power of Lay on Hands.

Nothing happens. Well, that’s a lie- what happens is this: Chip’s eye, the only one visible from where his face is pressed into the deck, rolls back in his head until all that’s visible is white. His back tears open impossibly further, like Gillion has run a sword or knife through it, and his flesh squelches horribly as it pops free of his skin like chunks of raw beef.

When Gillion breathes in, the smell of copper and fresh meat comes with it. Blood seems to sink into his skin, like water from his barrel does each night. 

“Gillion.”

The triton in question stares down at Chip’s corpse, at the source of the sound, and blinks. “Chip?”

Chip’s eye rolls back to stare at him once again. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are,” Gillion says, desperately. “Best friends.”

“Then why-” Chip coughs blood. It splatters across the deck like it’s been projectile vomited, and Chip spasms, more blood and flesh spewing from his back as he coughs again. The deck grows ever redder; blood mixes with melting ice and coats splintered wood.

“Chip!” Gillion reaches for him, but the man liquifies before his eyes, spilling across the deck in a sea of red. What was Chip gushes over Gillion’s feet, up his calves, in waves that soak his lower legs. Gillion feels something work its way up his throat, slimy and unnatural.

He opens his mouth, coughing and doubling over in pain, and flesh-chunked blood spews from his lips. He can’t breathe, his airways clogged, throat burning.

And then Gillion wakes up.

Chapter Text

It takes three days before Gillion stops reliving different variations of the duel in his dreams, waking up thrashing in the water of his barrel with the fading feeling of blood soaking into his skin. It takes five before Chip speaks to him again.

“Jay said you’ve been having nightmares.”

Gillion doesn’t look at Chip. He knows Chip isn’t looking at him, either. “They’ve passed.”

“That’s good.”

Gillion turns the page of his sketchbook. He starts a small, intricate sketch of Apple, casting the occasional glance across the deck to her. 

“Look, man,” Chip says, after a few minutes pass in silence, “I don’t want to be… Like this.”

He gestures so violently that Gillion has to stop drawing for fear of Chip hitting his pencil. “Angry with each other?” he offers.

“Yeah.” Chip turns to look at him properly, and Gillion does the same. Their eyes meet, and Gillion is startled to see how red Chip’s look. Like he’s been crying, maybe for days; and Chip never cries. “Gill, we’re friends. Sometimes I worry you take that more lightly than I do.”

“Chip.” Gillion reaches out, settles a hand in the place where Chip’s neck and shoulder meet, runs a thumb carefully over his skin. “Your friendship means the world to me.”

Chip lifts a hand to settle over Gillion’s. “I missed you.”

“I didn’t go anywhere.”

“I know.” Chip breathes out, and it’s shaky. “But when you said that you couldn’t let a distraction get in the way of-of…”

“I did not intend for it to sound that way, Chip, and I sincerely apologise.” Gillion turns his hand over, curls his fingers over Chip’s own, and gently tugs it towards himself. He presses Chip’s hand, still linked with his, to his chest. “If you require, you may reclaim your honour in any way you wish; I will not object.”

“I’m not going to fight you, Gill,” Chip says. “I just wanted an apology. Not another duel.”

Relief floods Gillion so fast he almost collapses. “I was afraid you would want to.”

“I’d rather not get my ass kicked.” Chip smiles at him, lopsided and familiar. “I just wanted my friend back. We’re cool now, yeah?’

Gillion laughs a little, almost deliriously so. “We’re cool now,” he confirms.

Chip squeezes Gillion’s hand. “You should work things out with Caspian. I mean, I’m shit at advice for this kind of thing, but you should.”

Gillion nods. “You’re right.”

“Woah.” Chip blinks dramatically. “I don’t think I heard you, can you repeat that?”

“Don’t listen to him, Gill,” Jay yells, from across the deck. “He heard you the first time!”

Chip slumps where he sits. “Damnit.”

“Jay,” Gillion says, letting go of Chip’s hand and getting to his feet, “Do you have the Callnch?”

“Catch,” is her reply, and Gillion barely manages to reach out a hand in time to snatch the Callnch out of the air. He runs a hand over it, feeling the ridges, the bumps and imperfections of nature, the scrapes and scratches from use, the magical energy pulsating from it.

“I’m going to call Caspian,” he declares, and begins to move towards the entrance to the lower deck. 

“Hey, Gill,” Chip says, and Gillion turns. “Don’t fuck it up.”

Gillion smiles and nods, ducking below decks as Jay begins to yell at Chip (“ Wow, what a vote of confidence! Can’t you be nice for once? ”). The door swings slowly shut behind Gillion, just in time to cut off Chip’s indignant retort that he was , in fact, just incredibly nice, and the triton breathes out, staring at the Callnch for a moment before finally calling Caspian.

The way it works is deceptively simple. Hold the Callnch in your hand, and clearly and loudly think, Call Caspian. It takes all too much for Gillion to calm his mind enough to do it.

“ Hello? ” Caspian’s voice, beautifully smooth and soft as always.

“Caspian,” Gillion chokes out, unable to say anything more.

“ Gillion,” he says, in recognition, and then, a mere second later, “ Are you alright? ”

“I made a mistake,” Gillion says, his voice still strained. “You deserve better than what I’ve given you.”

“ Gillion ,” Caspian says, his voice so soft and fond that it causes a physical pain in the triton’s chest, “ You’ve given me more than I could have asked for. ”

Gillion feels breathless. It’s like the stars have been falling all around him, crashing down into the earth of Mana, and now they’re righting themselves, ascending back into the sky. “You deserve someone to love you. To hold you, to be your match, in ways I cannot.”

“ You already love me. Is that not enough?”

“Not for you. You deserve the best of us.”

“ I don’t want the best, or the strongest, or the sweetest.” Caspian pauses for a moment, the silence feeling crushing to Gillion. “ I just want you.”

“Caspian.” Gillion’s voice seems to stick in his throat. “I wish you could have me.”

“ I know. ”

“I promise you now, once I’ve fulfilled the prophecy, I will find my way back to you.”

“ Do not make me promises, Gillion. Do not raise my hopes. Just stay alive, and keep calling me when you can.”

“I will,” Gillion says. It sounds like a vow; it's intended like an oath.

“ I’ll hear from you tomorrow. Be safe.”

The call cuts. Gillion feels as if there’s something Caspian wanted to say, but didn’t. A simple pet name caught on his teeth, or an admission of love stuck in his throat.

Gillion can’t say he isn’t guilty of that himself. Of feelings swirling in his gut and of romance trapped in his lungs. He sighs, and sinks down against the ship’s wall, the Callnch clutched firmly in one hand.

After my destiny, he repeats like a prayer. After my destiny.

******************************

Gillion sits below decks, Chip’s head resting on his lap. “You need sleep.”

“I’m fine,” Chip says, beyond delirious. The bags under his eyes are evidence against him, and the slashes square across his chest ooze with infection.

“You are not,” Gillion declares. “Sleep, Chip. I will not let anything bad happen to you.”

Chip reaches up to grab at Gillion’s face frantically. “You can’t stop the bad things, Gill. They happen in here .”

He taps the side of his own temple, eyes wide and crazed. Gillion gently removes Chip’s hand from his face, prying free the fingers now digging into the soft flesh of his cheek. 

“Perhaps I could try magic?” he offers. Chip shakes his head violently.

“No magic. Magic did this to me. You can’t cure it, can you? No magic.”

Gillion stares down at him helplessly. It hurts to see his friend like this, caught between pain and nightmares, reality and dreams. He wishes he were more powerful, had more grandiose magic. What good is the Chosen One if he cannot heal a friend?

There’s sweat on Chip’s brow. He’s running a fever. The slashes across his chest, deep and ugly, won’t heal. Gillion feels like a failure.

They don’t even know when they’ll reach their destination. Will Chip survive the journey? He’s still talking now, babbling about monsters and horrors that he sees in his sleep, but Gillion knows all too well how swiftly death itself can claim someone as mortal as the man whose head rests in his lap now.

“-Teeth, bigger than daggers, Gill,” Chip is saying, “And claws longer than butcher’s knives. They’re after me. They’re after me.”

“Such creatures don’t exist, Chip,” Gillion soothes, without knowing if his words are true or not. He’s seen too many things to rule it out of the realm of possibility, but that’s not what Chip needs to hear at this moment. “You’re safe. If they did exist, I would slay them where they stand.”

Chip blinks up at him, with wide, bloodshot eyes. “You’d do that for me?”

“I’d do anything for you.”

Chip stares at him for five solid seconds before bursting into tears. Gillion decides to blame it on sleep-induced delirium.

“You’re so nice to me,” Chip manages between sobs. “Why are you so nice to me?”

Gillion thinks of their argument, only a week or so prior. He thinks of how Chip ignored him, the anger in his expression, the hurt radiating from him so strongly Gillion could feel it.

“You’re my best friend,” he says simply. Chip smooshes his face against the plated armour that covers Gillion’s stomach.

“You’re my best friend too,” he mumbles, barely loud enough to be heard.

“Captain Gillion,” comes the voice of Alphonze, from just beside him. “I’ve soaked some spare cloth in cool water. To help with Captain Chip’s fever.”

Gillion reaches out and takes the rag, soaked and dripping with water, from the robot. “Thank you, Alphonze.”

“Not a problem, Captain.”

Gillion gently lays the rag across Chip’s forehead. Chip pokes a finger at it.

“Wet,” he muses insightfully.

“It should help cool you down,” Gillion says, running webbed fingers through Chip’s hair in an attempt at soothing him. Chip grabs onto his hand and presses his face against it.

“You’re cool,” he mumbles. Gillion watches as he struggles to fight off exhaustion, eyes slipping closed for a few moments before they snap back open.

“Get some rest.”

“No,” Chip slurs, dragging his eyes open again and digging his nails into Gillion’s wrist. “No sleep. Don’t let me sleep.”

Jay peers around the doorframe. “We’re about a day out!”

Gillion lays a hand over Chip’s chest and expends a small amount of magic to clear out his wounds of the slight onset of infection. “Hear that, Chip? About a day away.”

“Mhm,” Chip twists in place. Gillion barely manages to catch the cloth in time before it can fall, cups in his palm and turns his wrist awkwardly to press it back against Chip’s forehead. “One day.”

Jay leans against the doorframe. “Awww. Almost makes you wonder if we’re better off with him like this.”

“Jay, he could die.”

“I know, but he’s so cute like this. And not a bastard.”

“ You’re a bastard,” Chip interjects sleepily. Gillion’s gaze slides back down to him just in time to watch Chip’s eyes finally slide shut as sleep overcomes him.

“Hopefully he gets a good amount of sleep,” Gillion murmurs. “He needs it.”

“If he doesn’t,” Jay says, more seriously, “Then we’ll be at Noctis by dawn, and you’re keeping an eye on him anyway.”

“I can’t shield him from his own mind, but I can keep his wounds cleaned.”

“That’s all I ask.” Jay looks down at Chip, and smiles faintly. “That's all he’d ask, too.”

“I wish I could do more.”

“You’re doing all you can, Gill.”

“It’s not enough.” Gillion trains his gaze on Chip, on the sweat beading on his forehead that Gillion then gently wipes away with the cloth. “What good am I if I cannot heal him?”

“Hey.” Jay’s voice is gentle, but firm. “We’ve all got our limits. Besides, you sound like my dad.”

Gillion shudders at the thought. “I just want him to be okay.”

“He will be.” Jay turns, shielding her gaze as she looks back onto the top deck of the ship. “Just keep an eye on him. I’ll worry about getting us to Noctis, and we can go from there.”

She vanishes above deck in an instant. Gillion sighs, and curls an arm around Chip protectively. Dream of nothing, Chip, he thinks silently, like a prayer. Dream of nothing, and sleep through the night.

Chapter Text

Noctis is, to be quite frank, a hellhole. Everything smells of evil, the forest somehow expands out forever, and they had to be rescued by a bounty hunter who looked less than pleased by their presence. The murder mystery party they attend is rather unsettling, too, and then downright terrifying, but they make it out alive. They win , and their prize is a single wish.

Chip, like an idiot, chooses to revive all those slain in the party. And so they’re back to square one.

“It’s not so bad,” Chip’s saying, as they untie the ship from the docks. “Just some shitty dreams.”

“Chip,” Jay says with a scowl, “You didn’t sleep for four days.”

“Eh, whatever.”

The aforementioned bounty hunter- Gryffon, his name is- huffs out a breath. “You’re all idiots. How the hell did you get this far?”

“Sheer dumb luck,” Jay says before either Chip or Gillion can speak. Gryffon nods, taking this as an answer, and swiftly steps onto the Albatross. Jay follows him a moment later, while Gillion gets his section of the ropes untied.

He casts his gaze over to Chip, and doesn’t fail to notice the way he fumbles with the knots, his coordination sloppier than usual. There’s bags under his eyes still, and a pale sickly tone to his skin. 

“Need help?”

“Nah, Gill, I got it,” Chip says, fingers sliding and fumbling over the rope until he finally pries the knot free. He straightens up, and stumbles almost instantly; Gillion catches him by the arm before he can fall.

“You still need more rest,” Gillion says. “You’re not well. And those wounds still aren’t healing.”

“I’m fine.” Chip yanks his arm from Gillion’s grasp. “Look, I know you’ve been trying to help this past week, but I can handle a little missing sleep and some nightmares.”

“At least let me continue to clean your injuries. It should stave off infection and fever.”

Chip’s gaze slides over his face, seemingly studying him. “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Let’s just get going.”

Gillion takes an easy leap from the docks to the deck of the Albatross. Chip sizes the gap up, then jumps too; he makes it easily, but Gillion reaches to catch him anyway. Chip scowls, batting his hands away.

“I’m fine ,” he hisses. Gillion catches the frustration distorting his face, the fringes of anger creeping in, and decides it's better to leave him be for the moment. It’s not like Gillion hasn’t noticed the way Chip holds himself, the way he acts like he needs no one but himself, the way he hates asking for help.

So Gillion turns his thoughts away from Chip for the moment, as their ship coasts back out onto the waves, and to Caspian. He’s somewhere out there, across the ocean, and Gillion’s hit with a wave of longing so fierce it feels like a riptide tugging him out to sea. He misses Caspian, so intensely and deeply that it hurts.

Maybe Caspian would know how to heal Chip. Maybe he’d settle hands over Chip’s chest and in an instant the wounds would close over and his nightmares would stop and-

No. Gillion can’t lie to himself and believe Caspian could do anything more than offer support. Chip’s curse, the nightmares plaguing him every moment he closes his eyes, is not something that can be so easily fixed. Chosen One or not, Gillion is caught in the cruel sharpened talons of mortality and fate.

He’s not strong enough, not powerful enough. Like any man before him or to come after him, Gillion has his limits. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t infuriate him.

“Gods,” Gillion mumbles, turning his gaze skyward, “What do we do now?”

There’s no answer. Gillion didn’t really expect one. No matter how often he prays, with such devotion and dedication it’s beyond what one could ever practise, he never gets a response. 

Sometimes Gillion hates the gods for it. Why, he wants to yell, why won’t you help? The gods are what they are; immortal, all powerful beings, who don’t bend to the whims of the mortals below them, no matter how important they are.

But Chip deserves for them to bend to his whims, to help him out. Chip deserves the attention of the gods, their healing touch and all good things they can offer. Maybe if Gillion prays harder, if he shows more devotion, the gods will have mercy.

“Gillion.” A hand lands on his shoulder, rough and calloused. It’s oversized, clawed, fluffy- Gryffon. “We could use your help on deck.”

Gillion nods mutely, tearing his gaze away from the heavens. Gryffon’s face, gruff and serious as ever, is there to greet him as he turns.

“Seemed like you were lost in your own head,” he says. “Can’t fuckin’ believe you’ve survived like that. You gotta be in the moment.”

“Is that how you live your life?” Gillion asks, genuinely curious. Gryffon squints at him suspiciously.

“It’s how life goes. Take this ship.” Gryffon crouches and runs his hand (paw? Gillion never knows which is right) over the wooden planking of the deck almost reverently. “Beautiful. But she’s gonna fuckin’ sink if all you do is stare at the damn sky.”

Gillion has the sense to feel at least a little embarrassed. “Where am I needed?”

“Well,” Gryffon says, stretching both his arms- if his gun arm can be really considered under the same category as his flesh one- up over his head, “Jay’s navigating, and Chip said something about leaks below decks-”

“Freezing over holes,” Gillion interjects. “Got it.”

Then he brushes past Gryffon in a swift moment, effectively avoiding further conversation and delves below decks to do his ship duties. 

********************************

Chip’s curse is removed in Liquidus. Suddenly Gillion feels like he can breathe again and not look over his shoulder to check if Chip needs help every second of the day. They visit the temple of the moon goddess.

It seems likely there’s another Chosen One. It’s a startling discovery. Gillion doesn’t like how much it shakes up his worldview.

He also was not expecting, after all his ventures, to be bested by a simple card, in a slightly (see: very ) magical deck. The small space it trapped him forced him to confront things he wishes he could forget, with no way to escape it all. Then there was a flash, bright blinding red, a lightning strike of the holiest power, and he was gasping awake in water, and Chip was unconscious , and all he could do was save his best friend.

It wasn’t until many hours later that he even thinks to call Caspian, after they had doused Apple in the contents of the vial and found her- well, him, Gillion supposes, knowing what he does- to be Finn Tidestrider. Gillion’s grandfather.

Suddenly, in the quiet beside the bathtub Finn lies unconscious in, Gillion remembers the Callnch. He remembers that, here, on the Material Plane, it has been about two weeks since he and Caspian last spoke. So, he calls Caspian.

“ Gillion! ” Caspian sounds frantic. “ Are you- ”

“I’m here.”

“ You did not call for two weeks .” His voice is strained through the Callnch. “ I was worried that, perhaps, you had- ” 

“I’m fine, Caspian. I swear it.”

“ Where did you go? ” His voice sounds small. 

“The Feywild, I believe it is called! I knew little of it before we ventured there. Then I drew some sort of card, and it trapped me in this bubble, and then Chip and Jay freed me.” Gillion suddenly realises how insane his words sound, and backtracks. “But it was completely fine. It only felt like a few minutes for me, and not even a full day for them!”

“ Shit ,” Caspian mutters. “ You’re… You’re sure you are alright? I can tell Lizzie to-”

“I’m alright, Caspian,” Gillion interrupts. “I will see you in a few months anyway, if all goes to plan.”

Silence echoes through the Callnch, louder than anything Gillion has ever heard.

“ The plan is war, Gillion .”

“Oh, I know.”

“ It’s not exactly the kind of reunion I would like. ”

Gillion breathes out. “Do we have any other choice?”

“ ... No, we do not. ”

“Then we will see each other then.” 

“ When did you get back?”

“Last night,” Gillion says slowly. “Oh! We also found out who Apple is!”

“ The… The bird, correct? ”

“Yes. It turns out my grand peepaw Finn Tidestrider turned himself into a bird.”

“ Your grandfather was a bird? ” Caspian’s tone is high-pitched and incredulous. “ How… How is he holding up, after such a long transmutation? ”

“Oh, he’s currently passed out in the bathtub.” Gillion pauses. “I’m sure he’s fine, though.”

“ He’s what?” 

Gillion decidedly does not answer. “Chip has spellcasting abilities now! Fire, kind of like Jay’s.”

“ Hold on, Gillion, can we not gloss over the fact- ”

“He is rather adept at it, for a new caster.”

Caspian sighs heavily through the call. “ It is good to hear he is adjusting well to such newfound abilities. I suspect you have been training him? ”

“Of course!” Gillion pauses. “I miss you, Caspian.”

There’s silence, long and drawn out. 

“ Gillion, ” Caspian says, a shaky anger to his tone, “ You cannot say that. You do not get to say that to me.”

Gillion swallows harshly. “I’m sorry.”

The lack of reply makes Gillion glance down at the Callnch in his hands; in an instant, he realises it’s no longer connected to call. He was well within the time constraint for the day, which means…

Which means Caspian hung up on him.

The Callnch feels all too heavy in his palms. Like a sword made of baleen he once used to wield, or the weight of a friendship ending, where one still knows too much about someone to consider them a stranger. Gillion doesn’t dare consider the possibility that this has strained things with Caspian beyond repair; that for a man as gentle and kind as he is, he has limits, and Gillion may have shoved and clawed his way right past them, like he does with everything.

His fingers, with nails like talons as a monster should have, tighten around the shell. He feels it give a little under his grasp; could he break it, if he truly tried? Gillion thinks he could. He doesn’t, though, easing off the pressure and placing it haphazardly on one of the lower deck storage shelves.

“Gill?” Jay’s boots send the stairs, rickety and old, that connect the upper and lower deck creaking and trembling. 

“Yes, Jay?” His voice is strained, even to his own ears. 

Jay lingers on the threshold at the bottom of the stairs, her nails digging into the wooden railing like she’s trying to choke the ship from the inside out. “Are you… Doing okay? After everything?”

Gillion casts a glance at the Callnch, where it lies dormant on the storage shelf. “I keep fucking things up, Jay. At every turn.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? I fought with you and Chip, I couldn’t heal his curse, and then I got myself- got myself trapped when you needed me. Now Caspian…” He trails off, voice sticking in his throat.

“Okay, so maybe it is true,” Jay says suddenly, her tone firm and clear. “But you’ve gone through worse. So what’re you going to do about it?”

Gillion exhales. “I don’t know.”

“Then figure it out.”

He reaches a webbed hand out toward the Callnch, then balls up his hand into a fist before he can. “First, we go back to All-Port,” he says. “Then get Ollie home. After that, I want to see them again.”

A small smile stretches across Jay’s face. “That’s more like it. I can send mail to Lizzie to coordinate our meeting.”

Gillion doesn’t suggest using the Callnch instead. Jay doesn’t ask. 

“We’re most of the way to All-Port,” Jay says after a moment. “Come see us in to port.”

Gillion barely gets to his feet before it happens. A crescendo, a crash; it’s like the ocean has opened up to swallow them.

An impact, and their ship rocks with it. He and Jay share a look and draw their weapons before racing back above deck, to face the unknown.

Chapter Text

Gillion is rather exhausted of humans. They race above deck to find that the Undersea is demanding a fellow ship pay their taxes, and Gillion is quick to explain it all to them. That other pirate crew then robs them blind and attempts to flee, and a second battle breaks out, and Gillion really just wants to take a nap. Or three.

The Jazz Pirates, as they quickly learn they are called, are quite the shady bunch, but not entirely unfriendly. They sell them some magical bracelets, for what Gillion assumes is a rather fair price.

They aren’t headed to All-Port, unlike the Riptide Pirates, but they’re headed in a similar direction, so their ships cruise side by side for the time being. The Jazz Pirates’ boat is similar to the Albatross, slicing through the waves easily and carving a path across the sea. 

“All-Port’s just up ahead,” Jay calls from where she’s clambered up into the crow’s nest. Captain Jazz spares her but a glance before he’s focusing his attention back on Chip again, like he’s been doing the entire journey.

“This is where we say goodbye, then,” Chip says, sounding entirely too thrilled by the prospect. “We’ll see you around, Jazz.”

“Ah, but… Perhaps you need my protection?” says Captain Jazz with all the bravado of a con-man or perhaps a lying snake, and tips his hat to Chip. Gillion’s a little concerned with the rather violent shade of red Chip has turned.

“We’ll be fine.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Chip,” Jay starts in a drawling, teasing tone. Chip shoots her a glare full of fiery anger that does nothing to deter her. “We might need the help…”

“I assure you, we can hold our own in a fight,” Captain Jazz adds. It’s oddly like he’s trying to sell them something, but instead it’s his crew accompanying them, rather than a physical object.

“No,” Chip snaps. “We’re fine, thank you. You can go to… Whatever island you said you were going to.”

Jay muffles a laugh by shoving her face into her elbow. Gillion very much feels like there’s a joke here that he’s missing.

“Very well,” Captain Jazz concedes. “Hopefully we’ll cross paths again.”

Chip’s face screws up, a contorted, twisted, scoffing look that says, yeah, no thanks clearer than his own voice could. If the Jazz Pirates notice, none of them say anything.

“Take care,” Jay says. It’s about the most sincere Gillion’s ever seen her get with someone who isn’t the crew, which is not exceedingly much, but it’s a nice enough gesture that Captain Jazz smiles easily and broadly.

“Look after yourselves,” he says, then takes Chip’s hand and raises it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it. Chip seems to decide the deck of the Albatross is far more interesting than anything else in existence- or maybe he’s trying to will himself out of being alive. “Keep out of trouble.”

Chip snatches his hand away from Captain Jazz like he’s been burned. Jay poorly conceals a laugh as a cough. Gillion is now certain there’s some joke he’s missing, but he ignores that feeling for the time being to bid their newfound allies(?) safe travels.

“Farewell, Captain Jazz!” Gillion calls as the Jazz Pirates scatter back across the deck of their own ship. Captain Jazz gives him a salute and presses a foot against the side of the Albatross and kicks off it. The action does nothing, in reality; it’s all currents and sails and catching the wind in the right ways, but it looks as cool as Captain Jazz had intended when their ships veer apart right as he does so.

“Cool guy,” Gillion comments.

“I hate him,” Chip declares, face redder than a tomato. “So, so much.”

“This is another La Alma,” Jay says with a sigh.

“No, no, it’s not , because there never was anything with La Alma-”

“You keep telling yourself that.” Jay looks smug, like the cat that got the cream (or so Gillion hears the expression goes on the Oversea). 

“-And there is nothing ,” Chip powers on, glaring at Jay, “with Jazz. At all! Not one bit! It’s all in his fuckin’ big stupid head!”

“Uh huh.”

“ He’s the one who’s in love with me !”

The pieces finally click together in Gillion’s head. “Chip, I did not know you were courting Captain Jazz.”

“That’s cause I’m fucking not, Gill!”

“Leave him alone,” comes Gryffon’s gruff tone. “He can be in denial if he wants.”

Chip yells, a deep, guttural sound of utter frustration, and throws his hands up in a mix of anger and defeat. He spins around on his heel and stomps loudly across the deck to disappear below; Gillion feels at least a little bit bad in response to it. 

“He’ll be back,” Jay says. “Give it about an hour or two.”

Gillion tilts his head at her. “I don’t understand. Is Chip embarrassed to be courting Captain Jazz?”

At his words, Jay breaks down into laughter.

***********************

Gillion sits alone on the deck of the Albatross under the soft rays of moonlight. It’s well past the time he should have called Caspian, and that knowledge weighs heavy on his mind. He made a choice just hours earlier, in the waters below All-Port, that took away the ability to call Caspian ever again.

A piece of parchment lies just in front of him, and he holds a pencil in his hand. The words Dear Caspian are scrawled at the top, but nothing more; Gillion sits frozen in place by indecision. How could he possibly explain this in a way that didn’t sound absolutely insane? ‘Dear Caspian, I smashed the Callnch in a rage, now we have to communicate via letters, sorry’ just didn’t seem to cut it.

Last he spoke to Caspian, the genasi hadn’t seemed the happiest with him. Really, Gillion can’t blame him for that, given that he’d learned they matched and all but scoffed in his face. It’s one thing to have a soulmate die, or no soulmate at all. It’s another entirely to have your soulmate reject you (even if Gillion has his reasons and the world is breaking more and more around them as time goes on).

Delivering the news that he broke their main means of communication… Gillion didn’t consider how scary this moment would be when he smashed the Callnch. Caspian isn’t one to get angry or violent, but that isn’t what Gillion fears. What scares him more deeply than anything else is sending the letter and Caspian not replying. That this marks the end of their communication, of any kind of connection between them, platonic or not.

He sighs heavily, leaning forward with the pencil poised over the parchment. Dear Caspian, he recites in his mind, like it’ll somehow magically make the rest of the words come to him.

Dear Caspian,

Dear Caspian,

Dear Caspian,

Gillion exhales. The perfect words don’t come to him. Maybe they never will. 

Dear Caspian,

I’ve been trying to think of the right way to write this for hours now. From sunset to midnight I’ve been staring down at blank parchment trying to decide what words won’t make you hate me, or upset you, but there aren’t any, so here it is, plain and simple:

I broke it. I broke the Callnch.

Maybe it was a stupid decision. But I knew with it in tact, I'd keep trying to call my sister. And she doesn’t want to be found.

Letters aren’t the most ideal way to contact each other, I know, but it’s all we have. I’m sorry. You deserve better than this. The world might be better off if I didn’t ever find out I had a mark.

I hope you can forgive me.

Yours,

Gillion.

The wording of the letter is inadequate. It doesn’t convey all he wishes it could. There’s so much more he can’t put into words about the situation; the fear for his sister, and the clusterfuck of emotions he feels for Caspian.

Everything seems to tangle tightly in his chest like it’s trying to weave into something else. Caspian makes Gillion feel so deeply , but for the life of him, he can’t put names to those feelings.

He loves Caspian. He’s known this for a long time. Life complicates, though, as life always does.

There’s so many things going on that Gillion can’t pause to separate them in his head. It’s why, inevitably, he keeps letting Caspian down, keeps shoving him aside like he’s worth nothing. When Gillion says Caspian deserves better, he means that he deserves someone who can slow down, and take him in fully. Not someone so wrapped up in the world and tied to it by fate that he’s left chasing after them for even a shred of the love and devotion he should be given.

You deserve better than this .

His own penciled words echo back at him like a mockery. Caspian deserves so, so much better than he can ever give. A part of him hopes this does sever their friendship for good, makes Caspian cut all contact and move on with his life. Another part of him knows that won’t happen.

Gillion sighs, and sets down his pencil, then carefully rolls the parchment up. Somewhere below deck are the watertight tubes for the dolphin postal service, and he’ll have to go find them, but for the moment he doesn’t move. 

“Maybe,” he mutters aloud, to no-one but himself, “If I sit in the moonlight a little longer, everything will fix itself.”

But Gillion always was a bad liar. Even to himself.

Chapter Text

There’s something to be said about the rush of the freefall when one is over three hundred feet in the air. The wind whipping past you as you plummet back towards the ground at blinding speeds; the thump of your heart against your chest.

There is also something to be said about the absolutely abhorrent texture and smell of rakshasa saliva mixed with triton blood. Gillion’s neck and left shoulder is coated in the horrible mixture, sharpened teeth sunk deep into his flesh like a hungry wild animal devouring prey. 

Kuba Kenta seems to have no reservations about their predicament. He laughs around a mouthful of certified Chosen One flesh, seeming to revel in the brutish nature of the bloodshed. Gillion’s willing to bet that Kuba Kenta finds the thrill of their very clearly imminent demise more exciting than anything else.

And so they plummet downwards at impossible speeds. Somewhere below, Chip and Jay are caught up in their own battles, but Gillion can’t focus on that. There’s a jaw clamped into the place where his shoulder and neck meet, and he’s pretty sure his right arm is bent around entirely the wrong way, and surely that much blood outside of his body isn’t good?

But they just keep falling, and Gillion feels the impact of it before it drives him unconscious; the snap of his and Kuba Kenta’s bones breaking under the force of it, the way the teeth embedded in his neck dig in impossibly deeper. The entire port cracks apart, disintegrates in an instant like it was never there and they plummet through the boardwalks like it’s made of a thin paper into the rolling waves below.

He’s not sure how long he’s out for; maybe a few seconds, maybe minutes, but he wakes again to a potion bottle shoved halfway down his gullet and the warm pulse of healing magic through him, knitting his bones back together. He spits the still-corked bottle out, ignoring the look of mixed dismay and frustration on Chip’s face, and tears himself free of Kuba Kenta’s jaws. 

A singular tooth lodges in Gillion’s skin, perfectly plunged into his flesh. He decides that he can worry about that later, and swims down with Jay (and a flailing, less smooth swimmer Chip) towards Kuba Kenta. He flashes a simple pattern at Jay, one he’d taught her long ago. Grab him. I grab object.

It’s not the most eloquent phrasing. If Jay were a triton, raised in the depths of the Undersea and fluent in language Gillion has always only seen referred to with a flash of a facial marking and one on the back of his hand ( our speak or our voice , as it roughly translates to in Common), he would surely have worded it far better.

But Jay isn’t a triton, and it does the trick anyway. She reaches out and catches Kuba Kenta’s lifeless form by the arm, and Gillion reaches out, gripping the anchor with one hand, and says, “Lightweight.” Though his words are lost to a meaningless garble of noise and bubbles, it works, and he’s able to snatch the anchor back and stow it safely on his person. 

Chip catches on to what’s happening at this point, and grabs Kuba Kenta’s other arm, struggling upwards with the deadweight. Gillion stretches down to grip the folds of Kuba Kenta’s clothing, helping to pull him up towards the surface. The rakshasa is very obviously dead, but when has that ever stopped someone from being useful? Gillion’s died plenty of times (and is certain he did again just moments ago), and he’s still managing to be a pain in the Navy’s ass.

Besides, Gillion’s well-versed in war tactics. A vice-admiral, even if now just a corpse, still holds leverage. He’s certain Jay knows that, too. She most likely would have ignored what he had flashed at her if that statement weren’t true.

They resurface a few moments later, Kuba Kenta’s very limp form awkwardly held between them, so waterlogged it’s an effort to hold him. About four dozen guns turn in their direction, and cock in unison. 

“Well fuck,” Gillion says eloquently.

*********************

They get out of All-Port fast after Kira and the rest of the soldiers take Kuba Kenta’s corpse. Roofus helps out around the ship as best he can, but it’s clear his hands are made for the more delicate intricacies of weaving magic into items. Gillion actually compares them, when he gets the chance between chores, and it’s painfully obvious the different lives they lead.

Roofus’ hands have scars like Gillion’s. Roofus’ hands are calloused like Gillion’s. Roofus’ hands are clawed like Gillion’s.

The similarities end when you take a proper look, though. The scars on Roofus’ hands are small and dainty; pinpricks from needles or a small cut from a poorly handled dagger, while Gillion’s are much more clearly battle scars. Gillion’s calluses are from a tight grip around a sword; Roofus’ are from handling objects of all shapes and sizes (and a telltale writer’s callus on his left hand). 

“You file them,” Gillion observes quietly.

“Yeah.” Roofus turns his hand over, admiring the blunted claws. “Makes work easier.”

Gillion stares at his own claws. They’re as sharp as ever, and more than once have helped him get out of a tight spot with a well-timed scratch. “That’s the same reason I keep mine sharp.”

Maybe it’s the reason I keep hurting everyone.

“I can imagine,” Roofus says. “You lead a far more dangerous life than I do.”

Gillion makes a noise of agreement, and casts his gaze across the waves. It marks the end of their very short conversation, but Roofus seems content to stand by his side and look to the horizon line. The sea rolls with the force of the tides, and by the gods, does Gillion think that she dances .

His heart suddenly aches as he looks over the beauty that is all that she is, an expanse of water stretched so far and wide that no sign of land indicates an end. The ocean is a sort of mother to all of his kind, and Gillion misses her embrace. He thinks back to the museum with Caspian; does the genasi have this same longing, deep and primal, to plunge back into the waves? Is that why he lingers in places full of artifacts and skeletons, just to pretend he’s somewhere close to their watery home?

Caspian seemed like he longed for the sea in the museum, but Caspian had also seemed forgiving when Gillion had so harshly rejected him back on the ship, and then had been angry during what Gillion now knew to be their final call through the Callnch. All Gillion knows for certain is that sometimes, it feels like his own veins are filled with salted water and turbulent currents. 

He thinks of how different his hands are to Roofus’, yet similar in the same breath. Caspian’s teeth are not sharp like Gillion’s; his arms are devoid of fins; his ears are a different shape. But they both hail from the sea, and they are both pirates, and they are both casters.

So maybe it’s not without merit for Gillion to believe Caspian misses the Undersea. Maybe it’s not contradictory for Caspian to be so angry with Gillion that he ended the call, yet still hold some amount of love for him (maybe even to be in love with him, if Gillion dares to let himself think that).

The Albatross rolls with the waves. Gillion takes comfort in being able to feel the ocean even through the wood of the ship. He breathes in slowly as her tides and currents help draw them further out and across the sea. Gillion thinks of-

another pirate crew, across the waves, and a white-haired water genasi receiving a letter explaining why his soulmate hasn’t called him in five days-

his sister. Of the times he spent with her far below the waves. Of times he wishes he could get back, no matter how much he now realises the Elders warped his views and ruined his childhood.

Gillion likes sailing atop the ocean. But he misses swimming in its depths more.

With that thought, he clambers up the ship’s railing, and dives overboard.

Chapter Text

Chip is so incredibly sick of Gillion Tidestrider’s bullshit.

He loves him to death, like all good friends should, but honestly, if that man doesn’t clean up his act, Chip is going to launch him into orbit. Then again, he supposes that Gill is wallowing so deeply in self-loathing and wrapped up in his “destiny” to consider that anything but another step along the way, or something he somehow deserves- and not in the way Chip intends it.

See, Chip isn’t the most… proficient in the romance department (yes, he can admit his faults and where he’s lacking, thank you very much, he is a grown man and not at all insecure about this reality). It drives him up the wall to see Gill so clearly have someone who cares for him deeply, and even fucking matches , and he keeps pushing it away .

Besides Roofus and Amber, Chip hasn’t ever seen another matched pair before; at least, not that he’s aware of. His own mark is something he’s given up on finding the match to, he’s never seen Jay’s, and he’s heard Drey’s tale of woe about fifty times over. It doesn’t change the fact that Caspian looks at Gill like he holds the world in his hands.

Gods above , Chip is going to strangle that triton. Who gives up that kind of love? Gill’s a complicated man, Chip knows this, but he’s not stupid . What has made him this blind?

“You’re gonna wake the whole crew with that kind of pacing,” comes Gryffon’s gruff voice across the deck. Chip pauses in place, suddenly aware that he had, in fact, not contemplated his anger quietly in a corner, instead stomping up and down the length of the ship with enough force to rattle the mast.

Early dawn filters a soft light across everything within sight. Drey’s slumped in a far corner, just barely propped up against the railing on the side of the deck, snoring loudly. Alphonze stands at the helm, as per always, and Gryffon is the only other member of their crew who is actually awake. Gill’s ahead scouting out the harbour; the benefits of having a triton among their crew, Chip muses.

“It helps me think,” he retorts at Gryffon, maybe a second too late. The ex-bounty hunter grunts at him, a sound that is disbelieving and dismissive at the same time.

“What? It does!”

“Then think once the rest of them are up.”

Chip’s face screws up in anger. “Hey! I can’t just turn my brain off!”

Gryffon slaps a paw over his mouth. “Then at least stop fuckin’ talking .”

Chip’s expression furrows further, and he bites into Gryffon’s palm. The panda man simply raises an eyebrow at him, unflinching. Chip doesn’t have the sense to look ashamed, just digs his teeth in deeper and tastes blood.

“I’ll let go if you’ll keep your trap shut.”

Chip carefully pries his teeth free of Gryffon’s palm, struggling to spit out stray bits of fur as he goes. The ex-bounty hunter withdraws his paw slowly, and Chip says nothing, instead sputtering and spitting to expel hairs from his mouth.

“We’re almost there.”

Chip pauses at Gryffon’s words, dread coiling in his gut like a snake. His breath shakes as he draws it in, and he realises his train of thought moments ago was a bad attempt at ignoring what was about to come. “Zero?”

“Zero,” Gryffon confirms. Ollie’s home goes unsaid.

“Think he’ll miss us?”

“I think,” the pandafolk says, eyes narrowing, “That you agreed not to talk.”

Chip shuts his mouth with an audible clack. Gryffon’s message is loud and clear. If he wants sympathy or to voice his fears, he’d better go talk to someone else.

“Hey, Chip!” Ollie bounds across the ship with all the life and energy of someone who’s yet to hit their teenage years. Chip’s heart aches already as he turns to look at him with a beaming smile that’s become a habit.

“Ollie, you’re up!” He ignores Gryffon’s glare. “We’re almost back to Zero. We’re gonna see your mom!”

Ollie’s bright smile turns to a shakier one in an instant. “Do you think she’ll be mad at me?”

“Oh, she’s going to be furious ,” Chip says, then softens his tone to add, “But it’s because she loves you. Gods, she’s going to be so happy, Ollie. So, so happy. I’m sure she’s missed you terribly.”

“I’m gonna miss you guys so much,” Ollie says, eyes watering a little as he looks up at Chip. “I don’t… I don’t wanna go.”

Chip sweeps him into an easy hug, with enough pressure that it’s safe and reassuring. “We’re all gonna miss you a lot more than you could ever miss us. But your mom needs you more than we do.”

Ollie doesn’t say anything. He just tucks his head into Chip’s chest, and it reminds Chip of just how young Ollie is. He’s a child, a scared child who’s barely started to figure out who he is, or who he wants to be. Chip almost feels a little ashamed that he holds the hope that one day, many years in the future, Ollie will find his way back to their crew.

It’s at this point that the very fish man whose bullshit Chip is entirely done with launches out of the ocean like ammunition from a cannon. He lands so heavily on the deck of the Albatross that the entire ship rocks with the force of it, and Gryffon slides across the deck with an angry grunting noise that Chip struggles not to laugh at.

“Everything appears clear,” Gill reports loudly. “I checked the entire harbour. No Navy in sight.”

“Good.” Chip carefully pries himself free of Ollie, with silent reassurances that the boy is okay before taking the few paces over to Gill. “Go get Jay up, yeah? We’ll need her eyes for heading into port.”

Gill beams at him. “Of course, Chip!”

The triton turns to stomp his way towards the lower decks. Gryffon glares daggers at him, but says nothing. 

Chip suddenly realises how startling it is that he’s settled into the role of a captain more easily than he ever thought he could. Making decisions isn’t easy, and the gods know it would be worse if he didn’t share the responsibility with Jay and Gill, but he’s gotten used to the crew relying on him and to issuing orders. It’s really not as terrifying a thought as he’d first imagined to be a captain of a ship for as much of his future as he can possibly think about.

To be sailing directly toward one of the first places they’d all braved together, a place that once was crawling with Navy, a place where they had caused explosions -

It’s an interesting show of how much he’s changed, Chip supposes. Of how they’ve all changed. 

Ollie scrambles across the deck at breakneck speed to the bow of the ship, his eyes widening the second he spots the shadow of Zero looming on the horizon line. Chip takes it slower, but makes his way over, too. It’s oddly reminiscent of a time when Chip was far younger, and he’d be the one sprinting to the front of the ship to spy the new islands, while Arlin would lumber after him with a smile.

“We’re really almost there.”

Chip smiles wider, and ruffles Ollie’s hair. “Almost home.”

He pretends that notion doesn’t pierce his heart like a dagger.

**********************

Chip sets foot on the rickety docks of Zero, the wood almost old enough to warrant replacing, and breathes out slowly. This is it. This is the moment where Chip chooses to stand face to face with Ollie’s mother, where he fixes earlier mistakes by taking a child home.

It’s selfish of him to even entertain the thought of detouring for a moment to stock up on supplies or grab some food. It’s traitorous of his mind to whisper, Now or in an hour, what difference does it make? He’s not stupid, and he’s not about to try and delay the inevitable.

“So,” Chip says, turning back to those who are with him, “Where do we go from here, Ollie?”

“My home’s that way!” He points at one of the many winding cobbled pathways. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jay cast a worried glance up at it, then around them. Chip supposes they do have grounds to be cautious; like lambs stepping into a den of lions, pirates on an island run by Navy wasn’t the smartest choice.

“Lead the way,” Chip says. His left hand settles lightly on the hilt of one of his twin blades, not quite gripping it, but taking reassurance in the smooth, tightly-wrapped leather against his palm. Ollie sets off down the path with wide steps and his regular energy; Chip hurries after him. With their previous experiences on Zero, he’s reluctant to let Ollie wander too far ahead.

“Chip,” Jay says softly, from a few paces behind him, “I don’t like how exposed we are.”

Taking in her words, his gaze runs over the area. Buildings flank each side of the street, rising just tall enough to provide vantage points for those with long-range weaponry, and there’s no real cover. Chip thinks-

of Navy guns, pointed at him and his crew while they tread water, barely holding the body of a vice-admiral between the three of them, and the enemy are on their ship , and he’s staring directly down the barrel of a gun-

that the situation is bad. 

“Neither do I,” he mumbles back, unsure if Jay hears him or not. By the telltale sound of her sliding her gun from its holster, Chip thinks she does.

Pressing forward, the street is quiet. Not devoid of life; various creatures are visible in the distance making their way from place to place. Chip has the sense to move his hand away from his sword, and to pull his coat over it instead. He doesn’t check to see if Jay has followed suit, for she certainly would have, perhaps even before him, and Gill… Well, he’s Gill. He doesn’t blend in, not in the slightest, but Chip figures (see: hopes) at first glance he can be mistaken for some sort of priest or holy man.

Ollie withdraws slowly over time. The longer they walk, the more the bounce in his step fades, the more he hunches in on himself. It’s like the excitement he had about showing the crew to his home is vanishing as it hits him that this is the moment they all say goodbye. 

All in all, it takes them about fifteen minutes following the winding road deeper into Zero’s heart. Ollie leads them to a painfully plain house, all ramshackle wood and mud-slathered cobble bricks, held together by a prayer and hope. Chip breathes out, and raises his hand, curling it into a fist to rap on the door. A Greek tragedy in motion, slowed down for the perfect emotional impact- or perhaps just to be cruel.

The moment holds for a moment, hangs there like it’s supported purely by the speed of Chip’s heart rate and the finality of it all. Ollie’s going home, Chip thinks, and he can’t breathe, and the world doesn’t feel real-

And Chip knocks on the door.

There’s silence. It stretches, long and thin, like a rubber band that’s overdue to snap. Finally, the door opens, revealing a woman who looks like she's aged beyond her years, with white streaks through brown hair and an expression devoid of emotion.

Chip smiles at the woman like she’s an old friend. “Captain Chip, of the Riptide Pirates. I believe this one belongs to you.”

He waves Ollie forward. Chip prays that the others don’t see the shininess of his eyes, or the way his hand shakes. 

“Oliver?”

“Mom,” Ollie chokes out, and the two rush together in a tight embrace. Chip’s smile wavers.

Ollie’s mother lifts her head to gaze up at the three of them. “How did you- where did he-”

“It’s a lot,” Jay says gently. “We’re happy to explain.”

In as much detail as you need , Chip adds silently. He doesn’t think about how that sounds like a poor excuse just to spend more time with Ollie, even to his own mind.

Ollie’s mother reluctantly lets go of her son, getting back to her feet. “Come in. Please, you can tell me everything over tea.”

Chip nods. “Of course.”

He doesn’t stop to wonder how she feels about her son having been travelling with pirates. He also doesn’t think about how this might be the last time he ever sees Ollie.

He just takes a breath, steals himself, and follows her over the threshold, into a place he knows he won’t want to leave.

Chapter Text

Night is falling when they finally leave the home of Ollie and his mother. Gillion’s chest feels tight and Chip’s gaze is so firmly fixed ahead that it’s clear he’s fighting off a million emotions at once. Zero feels colder than ever, like ice itself has been stored inside the cobbled streets and brickwork houses. 

The silence between the three of them is almost unbearable. Jay’s eyes meet his for a second, and she jerks her head towards Chip. A simple gesture of talk to him.

Gillion isn’t sure why she thinks he’s the one for the job, and flashes back just as much with his markings. Jay’s expression furrows at him with a certain stubborn air about it, and Gillion decides that there’s no use trying to have some kind of silent conversation with her. After all, Jay doesn’t have the markings he does.

He breathes out slowly and speeds up to fall in step beside Chip. Any conversation starter dies on his lips instantly. Ashes on his tongue of comforting words he could speak, but doesn’t have the breath to. He does what he can.

Chip doesn’t protest when Gillion takes his hand in a show of support. There’s a deep sadness to him, like he’s left a piece of his soul in the small house on the corner of that cobbled street. Like losing family , Gillion thinks, because what is Ollie if not family to them?

“We’ll visit him,” Gillion promises, squeezing Chip’s hand.

“I’m still gonna miss him.” Chip’s voice is so shaky and small, uncharacteristically so, and he grips Gillion’s hand so tightly it’s sure to leave marks.

Words fail Gillion. How can he say anything that will provide Chip any comfort? Their crew is family, and leaving Ollie here- even if it is with his own flesh and blood- feels so deeply wrong that Gillion’s flesh seems to crawl. He absolutely aches with the weight of it all, with the way the world rests on his shoulders and crushes him down into the ground.

Destiny never spoke of this. Fate never talked about loss and love. Gillion doesn’t know how he’s supposed to be strong through this.

“Letters?” is the only thing he manages to say. Chip shakes his head.

“Too dangerous. Gill, if they knew-” Chip’s voice breaks, and there’s a moment as he struggles to catch his breath (or finish his sentence- Gillion isn’t sure which) where all they can hear is the rolling of the ocean waves. “They could kill him . Or-or just torture him, or something , and he’s just a damn kid- ”

Gillion squeezes Chip’s hand. Chip looks at him with watery eyes and such soul-shattering anguish that Gillion can barely take it.

“We’re back,” Jay says quietly, with a gesture to the Albatross as it looms in front of them. Gillion can’t help but notice how quiet and empty everything feels without Ollie sprinting across the deck to yell them a greeting. Chip tears free from Gillion’s grip to climb aboard the ship without a word. 

Gillion stares at the ship for a moment, all silent wood and sailcloth. A ship doesn’t get sentimental, or miss a crew that once sailed on her. She is not a creature of attachment; she is not a creature at all. It crosses his mind to wonder if the sea is the same, if he misses her more than she will ever miss him.

Ollie surely will miss the Albatross. For the first time, Gillion has the heart to wish the ship was able to miss him in return.

“Gillion,” Jay says. 

“He’s gone.”

“He’s home. Not dead.” She fixes him with a fierce stare. Gillion isn’t a fool; he sees the way her lip trembles like she’s fighting not to cry. “We’ve got a ship to sail. The gods know Chip won’t.”

Gillion nods, and with it, he grips the tangle of grief in his chest and shoves it deep inside himself, in a place where it no longer touches him. It’s akin to the feeling of sinking beneath the ocean waves, with the overwhelming calmness and dulling of the world. Like the muting of colour that occurs in the deeper cities of the Undersea, Gillion’s expression smooths out into something more neutral.

He climbs aboard the ship in one swift, practised movement. His mind stays blissfully clear of any thoughts about the fact that they are about to begin sailing towards the enemy and into war.

They cast off from Zero. Gillion doesn’t look back.

*************************

Gillion grips the downhaul and pulls to bring the mainsail tumbling back down in time to catch the wind and send the ship crashing through waves as it speeds along. It’s barely early morning, and around a time Gillion would usually be training. Their crew has shrunk, though, both physically and spiritually.

Alphonze is forever at the helm, after all, and Jay has been running around tying off ropes but now perches up in the crow’s nest with a nautical telescope trained on the horizon line. Drey does little around the ship, and Ollie’s gone. So, Gillion ties off the downhaul with an incredibly sloppy knot that barely seems like it will hold and straightens up, gaze running over the ship.

For the moment, they seem to be on course. His eyes wander to the door that leads below decks, and knows somewhere, under the sturdy wood of the deck and railings that line the edges of the Albatross, Chip is alone. Gillion has tried to coax him out over the three days it’s been since they left Zero, but all it’s gotten him is an armful of snotty, teary-eyed man, or a blast of fire aimed at his head.

It seems like, for the foreseeable future, there’s only two captains of the Riptide Pirates (though Gillion feels less and less like a captain as each day passes and Jay issues orders and passes odd jobs over to him, and Chip stays holed up below decks grieving Ollie like he’s died).

Things were simpler when Gillion belonged to the sea. Messy emotions didn’t smear across the deck of a ship like grease; those around him didn’t shut the world out in their grief; the currents didn’t change. But Gillion doesn’t live below the waves, and the world isn’t stopping to let them catch up.

War brews on the horizon. Gillion can’t focus on anything else with that knowledge at the forefront of his mind. He has to keep himself alive, and those he’s come to feel so at home with.

A barrel falls onto its side with a loud thunk , tugging Gillion from his thoughts. As his eyes fall upon it, there’s a second noise. Then a third, like someone is kicking the lid from inside.

Gillion’s eyes widen with the revelation, then quickly narrow with suspicion and he draws his sword. He takes a slow, careful step across the deck, like a predator stalking prey. He doesn’t get to take a second step; the barrel bursts open, and a small figure tumbles out of it.

A very familiar small figure.

“Chip,” Gillion calls shakily, “You need to see this.”

For a moment, he fears Chip won’t answer. That the door to the lower decks will stay firmly shut and Gillion will have to drag him from the belly of the ship himself. But then the door swings open violently, and Chip glares at him with bloodshot eyes.

“ What? ” he snaps. Gillion manages not to flinch at how short his tone is, and simply gestures across the deck. 

Chip tracks the motion of Gillion’s hand with his gaze, and then stares slack-jawed. “You were meant to stay! That’s the whole goddamn reason we took you home!”

“I want to fight!” Ollie says, with the same fire in his eyes Gillion has seen when duelling Chip, as he gets to his feet. “I want to help ! I’m a pirate, and I’m not leaving you!”

“Ollie,” Gillion says gently. He settles a hand on the young boy’s shoulder carefully. “What about your mother?”

“I left her a note,” Ollie says sheepishly. 

“A note ?” Chip explodes. “I didn’t fuckin’ take you all the way across the damn ocean for you to-”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales. “Fucking fuck. Nothing we can do about it now. Ollie, you are not participating in a war . You will stay on the ship and let us do the fighting when the time comes.”

Ollie stares up at him, and it’s clear the anger in Chip’s voice rattles him. His wide eyes betray the slightest hint of fear, like a scolded child (though, Gillion supposes that is exactly what Ollie is), and he nods rapidly without argument. 

“Did you know?” Chip asks. 

“No. It startled me just as much as it did you. I almost thought I was going to have to fend off an enemy.”

“Gods.” Chip drops his head into his hands and groans, long and drawn out. “We’re taking a kid to war.”

“We’re taking a lot of people to war, Chip,” Gillion says softly. “A lot of good people.”

“Ollie shouldn’t be one of them.”

Gillion agrees with that sentiment, though he doesn’t say it aloud. He watches silently as Chip’s gaze settles back on the boy in question, and the harshness fades from his expression for a moment, like Ollie holds all his joy inside him. He mutters something that might be “ fuck it ” and sweeps Ollie into a hug.

There’s going to be more conversations after this. One with Jay, surely, and then the rest of the crew. Contingency plans for their contingency plans, fortifications for their ship and a dozen hiding places for Ollie. Ways to keep him out of the battle.

For now, Gillion focuses on the way the hard knot of grief and anxiety in his chest loosens. It doesn’t vanish, not entirely; after all, Ollie has given them all reason to worry just with his presence. But it eases, and that’s good enough for Gillion.

Then he remembers he was supposed to release the headsail, too, and drops his sword to dart across the deck at lightning speeds, any further trail of thought abandoned for the moment.

******************************************

There’s a letter set beside him, signed with his sister’s name. Gillion’s breath comes in heavy and panicked; why can’t he calm down? The water around him seems all too still.

A shell sits in his hands, barely emanating magical energy. It’s familiar, but no longer comforting in the way it used to be. It feels like a deadweight, too heavy for him to hold.

Why can’t he breathe like normal? Why do his lungs hurt? Why does it feel like drawing deeper breaths is not helping at all?

Gillion turns the Callnch over in his hands; such a fragile thing to be given such a useful enchantment. His gaze slides to the letter, catches on the line please know I am safe and his hand fists tight around the Callnch. At first, there’s resistance, as there is with all magical things, and then it shatters as easily as a sledgehammer shatters glass. The broken pieces of shell dig into Gillion’s skin, and finally he feels like he can breathe.

His blood runs a violent purple instead of red. It pools in his palms, around the chipped shell bits and lines of his skin. The more he stares at it, the more Gillion wants to lean down and taste it, lap from it like the fountains of life spoken of only in tales of grandeur and fantasy.

It’s my own blood , he tells himself as he cups his hands together carefully.

It’s my own blood , he repeats as he raises them to parched lips. The purple liquid slips into his mouth and down his gullet, burning like hellfire and acid and all things unholy. He tries to spit it out, to vomit up what he was not meant to consume, but it won’t go.

His mouth blazes with the taste of copper, scorches and sears off the flesh inside. He can feel it flaking away, feel the odd purple blood coat everything and eat into it like acid. He retches, heaves, body rolling with the movement.

The pieces of the Callnch shell slice into his palms. His mouth burns. His blood runs purple.

You should not have broken it.

You should not have broken it.

You should not have-

And Gillion jolts awake, to blood-stained water and sliced up hands, and the taste of copper on his tongue. His mouth still burns. He punches a hand upwards, sending the lid of his barrel clattering off and onto the floor.

He stands up and clambers out of the barrel, wincing as the skin on his hands is tugged at and the cuts there ooze more blood. He doesn’t know if the nightmare is from his own subconscious, or from the unhealing claw marks across his chest. Gillion casts a glance around the cabin, at the sleeping forms of the rest of the crew, and breathes out slowly.

He needs a glass of water.

*******************************

Across the sea, a water genasi sets a quill back down on his desk and smiles a little sadly at the parchment unrolled before him. The ink slowly dries from where he finally signed it off, hours after first writing it in response to the letter he’d received earlier that morning.

With love, Caspian.

Chapter Text

The familiar clicking and squeaking of the dolphins as Gillion hangs off the side of the ship to collect the mail fills his ears. There’s the newspaper, as always; he catches sight of the headline, which reads Mother loses child to villainous pirates with a distinctive sketch of Ollie’s mother, and he tosses it up onto the deck carelessly, not wanting to look at it any longer. There’s a variety of letters, too, that he neatly tucks under one arm as he hauls himself back up over the railing. Once, Jay had yelled something about the possibility of him accidentally dropping their mail into the sea; now, Gillion collecting it this way was the norm.

The wood creaks underfoot as he stoops to sweep the newspaper back up into his arms again. He pauses in place to check who each letter is for; there’s one addressed to Jay in plain black ink, scratchy handwriting with a shaky heart in place of the a in Jay’s name that he can only place as Lizzie’s. The other two are a less familiar sight, addressed to Chip and… himself.

Gillion swallows, deciding it best not to focus on that for the moment. The letter for Chip has looping, extra-fancy handwriting in a deep, royal red ink. A glance at the wax seal on the back reveals a golden C J , also looped fancily together, and Gillion supposes its correspondence from the Jazz Pirates.

“Chip, Jay,” he calls, “I’ve got your mail.”

It’s like summoning demons- or maybe seagulls. Jay vaults over the railing of the quarterdeck, sprinting across the ship to eagerly reach for her letter. She skids to a halt just in front of Gillion to take it from him gently.

“Thank you,” she says, and then she’s away again, back off across the deck. Chip seems to materialise a second later, charging across the deck and right past Gillion. He slides across the deck as he tries to dig in his heels and stop, barely catching himself before he can go plunging overboard. 

Chip holds position for a moment, steadying himself, eyes wide. Then he straightens, smooths back his hair and takes broad steps across the deck back to Gillion.

“Thanks,” he says nonchalantly, snatching his letter from Gillion’s hands. “Oh, you got one too?”

Gillion doesn’t reply, just turns his own letter over in his hands to properly stare at the writing. Neat cursive in deep, sea-blue ink that catches the sunlight in all the right ways. Gillion Tidestrider, it reads. Nothing more.

“From Caspian, huh?” Chip asks, peering at the writing. “Well, good luck.”

He claps Gillion on the shoulder, then leans in close to whisper into his ear. “You’re gonna need it.”

The dread curling in Gillion’s gut seems to explode upwards into his chest, wrapping tightly around his lungs. Chip, blissfully unaware of the state Gillion is in, makes his way below deck. The letter clasped in Gillion’s hands feels heavier than the anchor he’d crashed through All-Port with, and the blue ink spelling his name makes him think a little too much of the meat of fish in the deeper parts of the seas.

The Callnch shell, shattered to pieces in his hands, slicing into his skin-

It’s a letter. A simple letter. One that could contain Caspian’s utter disdain for him, for the loss of the Callnch.

Gillion breathes in, then out, and opens it.

My dear Gillion,

I am not angry with you. Upset? A little, but not with you, never with you. It just pains me to know I can’t hear your voice until I see you again.

I have not forgiven you, for there is nothing to forgive. No matter my own feelings on any of your choices, you have always done what you believe to be right. Your heart is good, Gillion, and it cares so deeply about the world that sometimes I fear you will lose your own life trying to fix it all.

Breaking the Callnch was what you had to do in that moment. I will not hold that against you. 

I do not hold it against you, either, that you chose the world over me. That your destiny weighs so heavily on you that you felt that was your only path forward. As I said, your heart is good, and it is one of the reasons I love you so deeply that I could not possibly express it even in a thousand letters like this one.

Please, write to me. I will always return your letters.

With love,

Caspian.

Gillion stares at it. Like with Edyn’s letter, his eyes catch on one line, but this time around, it reads I have not forgiven you, for there is nothing to forgive. It causes an odd tangle of feelings in his chest, something between a comforting warmth, and painful self-loathing. Caspian’s words should be soothing, nothing more; so why does Gillion feel so conflicted?

Gillion thinks of the fish, with all their imperfections, that Caspian had shown to him so long ago. He thinks of the museum; he thinks of the way Caspian smiles at him and the corners of his eyes crinkle and it’s all fondness. He thinks of how warm it all makes him feel inside.

I want to choose him, Gillion realises with some amount of alarm. But I’m scared of what that means.

So he does the only thing he can think of. He sets the letter aside and hastily unclasps his sketchbook from its leather belt holster at his hip, flicks through the pages of drawings and late-night ramblings until he lands on an empty page and then flounders for a pencil. 

Caspian, he writes, like it's a letter. It’s not. Gillion doesn’t care.

You sent me a letter. You didn’t hate me. You might be the first creature I’ve met besides my sister that puts up with-

Gillion pauses. Even if it’s for his own eyes only, the wording matters. It matters to him, and so he pauses, just for a moment, to think.

the all-encompassing everything that is me, he finishes. Gods, I don’t even know if I can describe it in that sense. It seems like rather than grudgingly bearing it- that being me and all my glaring, unending mistakes- like everyone else, you seem entirely unbothered. Like maybe, somehow, those flaws aren’t there.

But I know they are. I’ve always been a failure, a liability. I’m not good enough. For anyone.

So why do you act like I am? Why, back in the museum, did you look at me like that ? Like you wanted me. 

Why, when I realised we matched, were you so happy about it? You knew what I was from the beginning. I’m spoken for; I’m clasped firmly between fate’s hands. But you still looked at me like that.

And I can’t help but love you. Gods, can I not escape my love for you. Sometimes it feels like I had no choice and was as much destined to fall in love with you as I am to fulfil the prophecy. But what about me has drawn you to feel the same, in any capacity?

I’ve told you that you deserve better, and you just don’t care. You choose me. I want to choose you, too. I want to choose you so badly, but I’m so, so scared. Who am I without my destiny?

Without my destiny, what will happen to the world? But… without you, what will happen to me? I feel so torn in two.

The Elders did not care about me. They cared about what I could do for them. It does not make my destiny less real. But maybe it does make my choices matter more.

Maybe… Maybe I don’t want to be-

Gillion freezes, stills his traitorous hand, and tries to shake the thought. The pencil drops from his grasp, clattering across the desk, but it doesn’t clear his mind of the single, persistent phrase. Ten words, by all means a sentence that is so short and inconsequential in the face of the universe, but to Gillion, they are so traitorous and wrong it’s sickening.

Maybe I don’t want to be the Chosen One anymore.

He swallows hard and harshly, trying to force down the bile rising in his throat. How could he think something so horribly selfish ? Like… Like the lives of the entire world mattered less than his wants and needs.

But the more he thinks about it, the more he resents it. This life he’s been forced into, by a prophecy spoken years before he was even a footnote in the lifeplan of his parents. The more he wants to choose Caspian over fate, over destiny, over the inevitable.

He snatches his pencil back up again, and crosses out the incomplete line of writing. Gillion breathes out slowly.

Maybe I want to choose you. Maybe I will choose you. If we both make it back to All-Port, for the war Lizzie plans to launch…

Then we have to survive that, too. But if we do, I’m not certain I’ll stop myself anymore. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe I can let myself look at you the way you look at me.

-Gillion

He sniffs, watery and slightly congested with emotion. He’s not sure when he started crying, exactly, but there’s tear stains on the page of his sketchbook that thankfully, due to the waterproof paper and pencil, haven’t caused anything to bleed. Gillion’s almost certain he’s been fit to burst like this for a long time now, and the writing on the page before him is his catharsis, a way of releasing it all without hurting others in the process.

That was certainly something new for him. A tentative thread in the tumultuous narrative that is his life. An idea that’s barely sprung to life, the foolish yet persistent thought that maybe, somehow, he can learn to do this. To stop hurting others.

And it starts with Caspian.

Gillion shuts his sketchbook with a heavy thud and shoves it aside. He stretches up to the narrow shelving above the desk to snag a piece of parchment on his claws (he always does it this way, simply stabbing into it and hauling it down then tearing off the little area that’s damaged, even if Jay berates him for it). He smooths it across the desk and raises his pencil like it is his sword, ready to aid him in some mighty battle.

Dear Caspian, he writes, and this time, it is a real letter.

Chapter Text

It’s another two weeks before they dock at All-Port, with a meeting with the Grandberry Pirates scheduled via the letters Jay and Lizzie had begun exchanging shortly after Gillion sent his first letter to Caspian. Their ship is visible as Gillion casts his gaze across the harbour, and the mix of emotions swirling through him makes him want to retreat below decks. He knows Caspian doesn’t harbour any resentment towards him; in fact, they’ve been exchanging letters over the past two weeks, and yes, it’s not as convenient or fast, but it works.

Gillion’s concerns honestly don’t stem from that. What worries him is how long it’s been since they’ve seen the Grandberry Pirates, and how much his own crew has changed. The way that he used to talk to Caspian, to hug him, to even just look at him; how much of that will be different, too? 

He doesn’t have time to dwell on that. Chip’s already launched himself over the side of the ship and lands with a thud on the docks beside it; Gillion takes in a breath and follows him, like always. He’s not about to let anyone realise his hesitations, least of all Jay or Chip, who’d likely try and tug him aside to talk about it. This is one fear Gillion has that he’s certain he needs to face head-on.

“You ready?” Jay asks, seconds after dropping down beside him. 

“Of course.” 

Jay casts her gaze over him, a little sceptical, but nods anyway. “Then let’s go.”

Chip’s already heading the charge onto the harbour-side streets of All-Port that circle around the overwhelmingly full docks; Gillion spots ships flying pirate flags he’s never seen before, and they pass the Jazz Pirates who wave and shout a greeting (Captain Jazz blows a kiss in their general direction and Chip’s face screws up into a mix of anger and embarrassment, and flushes a violently dark red).

The Crescent Moon looms over them as they draw near, nested elegantly atop the waves like she was built to sit there. Gillion wishes the churning nausea in his gut would cease for a moment so he can take in the beauty of it all, of so many pirate crews all docked in the same harbour. It’d be nice, at least, to appreciate it before they launch themselves into a war.

“Jay!” Lizzie’s voice echoes across the landscape, and Gillion tracks the sound to its source, where she hangs off the mast of the Crescent Moon with one hand and waves with the other, leaned over the side of the crow’s nest in a very dangerous manner. “Chip! Gillion! You made it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it!” Chip yells back with a beaming grin. They shout back and forth as Lizzie begins to clamber down, but Gillion takes none of it in as he spots a familiar water genasi standing on the docks. His hair is longer than when they last saw each other, and there’s a hint of metal peering out from beneath his left pant leg (a prosthetic of sorts? Either way, Gillion’s certain Caspian is at least missing his foot).

But then their eyes lock, and Caspian smiles, that beautiful, bright smile Gillion fell in love with back when their two crews left Joaldo, and his fears melt to nothingness in an instant.

“Gillion!” Caspian calls, at just the right volume to span the physical distance between them, and he feels so seen . Caspian’s there, and he’s looking right at Gillion, gaze not wavering for an instant and-

“Caspian,” tears itself from Gillion’s throat. It’s uncharacteristically soft. It surely doesn’t carry across the fierce seaside wind. It doesn’t matter.

They both move towards each other at the same time. Caspian’s metallic, prosthetic foot clacks against the boardwalk; it’s an odd thing to hear, when Gillion is not at all used to it, but he can’t care enough to dwell on it. They crash together in a tight embrace, and Caspian laughs, soft and sweet, and Gillion finally breathes .

“Gillion, Gillion, Gillion,” Caspian repeats, over and over like saying his name will somehow make him more real. 

“ Caspian ,” Gillion says breathlessly. Caspian’s face presses into the place where Gillion’s shoulder and neck meet, his nose brushing against Gillion’s neck, and he laughs again, something caught between the absurdity of it all and absolutely lovestruck.

They don’t say anything else. For the moment, there’s no need to. Just the feeling of holding each other, close and tight, after so much time apart. To Gillion, it feels like coming home.

Caspian begins to draw back, and he’s still smiling, so bright and wide and beautiful. It makes Gillion’s head spin, to be looked at like that, with such joy and pure adoration. It’s almost unfathomable to him.

Gillion catches himself halfway out of the embrace. “Caspian, I-”

An explosion from across the island cuts off his sentence. Lizzie swears under her breath (Gillion had barely noticed she’d joined them on the docks).

“What was that?” Chip yelps.

“That,” Jay says grimly, “Was the sound of a war starting.”

Gillion turns his gaze to the source of the sound and watches as buildings tumble back into dust. He can hear rather than see the way the ocean's waves roll with the force of stone and wood plummeting into the dark, cold depths. All-Port bleeds fear and turmoil, and those who stand by his side now (friends, family, people he loves so deeply it hurts ) know that they will soon bleed with it.

Thunder rolls overhead like an omen. Gillion smells death on the wind as it picks up, whipping debris and seawater into his face. For a place filled with screams, everything seems deathly silent as the reality of the moment sinks in.

The slide of metal on metal slices through the air like a war cry as Chip silently draws his swords. Gillion struggles to keep the fear from his expression as he pulls Destiny’s Blade from its sheath in silent agreement.

Is this the end? he thinks to himself, as the others follow suit, pulling their own weapons of choice from the chinks in their armour and the folds in their clothes. Is this where I watch my friends die? Will Chip be sliced open like he was in my nightmares? Will Jay be shot down where she stands?

The scariest part of all isn’t those thoughts, or the possibility of them. It’s that Gillion doesn’t know the answer.

They all lock eyes in silent agreement. The beginning of the end. 

Will I bleed purple, like in my darkest dreams? Gillion barely thinks to wonder, as they begin to move towards the explosion, boardwalks and rotting wooden planks creaking underfoot. Or will the blood that stains my corpse be painfully, inexplicably human; a beautiful, tragic red?

*****************

War. Gillion stands in the thick of it, blood splattered across his armour, his face; he tastes death and desolation on his tongue. Everyone is made up of tiny, infinitesimal fragments of stardust- or so Gillion’s been told. Pieces of the cosmos themselves, fashioned into something new and uniquely beautiful in its own right. Spitting blood and raising his sword, Gillion feels like he’s sullying that idea.

Blood, bruises, fights. There’s nothing cosmic about that, just plain old animalistic instincts and rage. He doesn’t know when he stopped believing in the proof that they’re all stardust, that there’s foreign planets and worlds far stronger and magical than the one he calls home. 

They’re animals. Nothing more. Animals who’ve learned to make things sharper and more deadly than teeth; animals who squabble over territory and shiny bits of metal pressed into meaningless shapes; animals who will kill to get what they want.

With that thought, Gillion pivots, and runs a man through on his blade. The man, of rather unremarkable features and average stature, gasps. He coughs up blood, and his eyes, golden in colour, are wide; that’s the only information Gillion takes in before yanking his sword free and pressing on to the next enemy.

Destiny’s Blade is beyond blood soaked. The docks are littered with corpses. Gillion’s not sure when he stopped caring for those he fought, for those he felled. War makes monsters of us all, and the Chosen One is no exception.

Chip stumbles backwards to fall into step beside Gillion as their enemies press in on them from all sides. “They’re getting kinda close to the ships!”

Gillion catches the frantic note to Chip’s voice, and knows he is thinking of Ollie.. “We will have to force them back,” he says, slashing at an approaching Navy soldier with his sword and earning a yell of pain in return. “You still got some juice?”

Chip catches his drift almost immediately and grins. “Oh, I’ve got plenty. ”

He lurches forwards, pressing his hands to whatever flesh he can reach. Gillion’s got the sense to turn his focus to other enemies, but he can still smell it, can still hear the sizzle and the screams (if he thinks too much on it, he can taste the cooking flesh on his tongue). 

The world once seemed so vast. Now it’s narrowed down to this part of All-Port, the harbour and ships towering behind him as Navy press in from all sides. There’s pirates he’s never met before fighting at his sides. He lost sight of Jay, Gryffon and Alphonze shortly after the battle had begun, and now he can only hope they’re holding their own.

A Navy soldier shoots at Gillion through the crowd, and he barely ducks out of the way. A second soldier, closer to him, slashes at Chip. The pirate in question has locked blades with another soldier, unaware of the impending danger. Gillion lunges forward to try and block the blow, but he’s not quick enough.

Time seems to slow as the sword blade arcs towards Chip. Moments before it can slice into him, though, there’s a blur of motion, so fast it gives Gillion whiplash.

“I’ve got him!” calls a familiar voice, and Gillion clashes blades with Chip’s attacker. He twists his head as he parries another attack, in time to see Captain Jazz lean in, a ship rope gripped in one hand that he undoubtedly used to swing in on, and kiss Chip so quickly he has no chance of reacting, then draw back with some quiet words Gillion doesn’t hear.

“Thank you, Captain Jazz!” he bellows, not bothering to take in the weirdness of the situation, and turns his attention back on the fight. The enemy forces press in closer; a couple vault themselves overhead onto the ships behind them. Gillion curses under his breath, and runs a man through on his blade.

“Captain Jazz, Chip,” he calls (if this wasn’t such a dire scenario, he is certain Chip would demand his captain title as well), “Are you alright to hold your own here?”

“Yeah,” Chip calls back, at the same time Captain Jazz says, “Why, where are you going?”

Gillion shoves Destiny’s Blade between his own teeth, biting down just enough to hold it there without chipping it. He crouches, then breaks into a sprint; he leaps into the air seconds before he would go splashing into the waves of the ocean, and catches one of the low hanging ship ropes, and shimmies his way up. All in all, it’s a rather impressive display of athletics- not that anyone amidst the bloodshed can appreciate it.

There’s six Navy soldiers that Gillion can spot the moment he gets onto the deck. He ducks under a blade almost instantly while swinging his own at an enemy. By all means, these odds should scare him. They don’t.

He slashes at another enemy and doesn’t slow to watch them go down. He simply charges directly towards another, running them through on his blade. Seconds later he becomes aware of pirates at his sides crossing blades with the soldiers on the ship; the presence of allies imbues him with confidence, and he presses onward.

The ship itself sways with the movement of so many creatures locked in combat. Gillion hasn’t seen any Navy go below deck, and he hears nothing of it either, and deems Ollie safe for the time being. Another soldier rushes him, and Gillion disarms them with an easy practised gesture.

It earns him a fist to the face and costs him a tooth. He spits blood and slashes the soldier open, then shoves them aside, surveying the situation. It’s an all-out brawl, blood spilling across the ship and staining it red. He’s not sure where to look next.

Then, amidst the fray, Gillion spots a single woman in a General’s coat. She breathes like a panting dog, heavy and hard, and flicks blood from her sword with a simple movement of her wrist. Gillion breathes in deeply, and his pupils dilate.

The blood is tinged with the scent of seasalt and tastes like honey on his tongue. Gillion knows Undersea blood when he smells it, and this is no exception.

His gaze slides past her, and his fears are confirmed in an instant. Slumped lifeless, just barely visible where he’s splayed across the deck and coated in blood; Caspian .

Rage and grief tangle together so quickly in Gillion’s chest that he almost can’t process it, and that feeling spreads through his limbs and sinks into his gut. The woman turns slightly and catches his eye, and all he knows anymore is pure unfiltered hatred . She has taken what is his , carved Caspian’s flesh with a blade unworthy of knowing the taste of him. Gillion cannot let that evil go unchecked.

He rushes at her before she can react, sword raised, and he swings . The force behind it is violent and strong, and it slices from the back of her left shoulder down and across her side, tearing through material and skin. The General whips around and her mouth twists into something that is half-smile, half-snarl.

There’s blood on her teeth. It smells of copper and earth, it smells of seasalt and honey; Oversea and Undersea blood mingled together in her mouth. Caspian’s blood , Gillion thinks, without pausing to wonder if it’s true. Caspian’s blood is in her mouth .

“The one from the posters,” the General says, eyes ablaze with the fire of someone who relishes in a good fight. “ Gillion Tidestrider. Is this your ship, or are you just passing through?”

Gillion growls at her. The horrid grin of hers widens.

“Your ship, then. And is that one-” she gestures to Caspian’s limp form, “-a friend of yours?”

Gillion answers with the clash of metal on metal as the two cross blades. The General laughs, loud and delighted. It reminds Gillion of another time, locked in battle with a vice-admiral on the port at the centre of the world.

But he won then. And he’ll win again now.

Gillion launches a flurry of attacks. His sword slices through the air easily and the General’s movements falter as she begins to take the fight more seriously. With an expert flick of his wrist, Gillion relieves her of her sword, sending it clattering across the deck and into the waves below.

She downright snarls at him, her hand flying forward to grip his wrist and twist painfully. Gillion drops his own sword with a yelp. In an impressive display of strength, she yanks him across the deck, out of reach of his weapon.

The General grins with all her teeth; Gillion’s shocked to see they’re artificially sharpened into deadly points that resemble his own. “Just us now, Chosen One .”

She spits the last two words like they’re poison. Gillion’s eyes narrow into cat-like slits and he launches himself at her, scratching and biting. She punches him square in the jaw, but Gillion ignores the audible crunch and the way his teeth jar together painfully. 

He sinks his teeth into her shoulder. She cries out in pain and claws at him; her fingers catch on the belts holding his armour in place and tug. Harsh metal digs into Gillion’s skin painfully.

Gillion can taste her blood. It’s tainted, edged with a foulness nothing can shake. The General tastes evil , and it makes Gillion clamp down harder. She shrieks and wrenches herself away.

Blood splatters as a chunk of her shoulder is left in Gillion’s jaws, clamped between shark-like teeth. Her eyes lock with his and he spits it out. The hunk of meat thumps wetly on the deck, and Gillion makes a show of running his tongue over his teeth like he relishes the taste.

Some parts of the Undersea ate humans, after all. The General has no way of knowing that isn’t where he’s from, and by the look in her eyes, it seems she thinks exactly that.

“Come on,” Gillion growls, low and dangerous. “ General .”

She looks him up and down, partly in shock, partly with fear. Then she grins, and wipes blood from her nose onto her sleeve (when did her nose start bleeding?). 

“Oh, this is fun ,” she remarks, and charges forward again. Gillion braces himself for a punch, and instead the General slams full force into him, wrapping an arm around his midriff to take him across the deck with her. They crash into the railing, knocking the wind from him.

Gillion squirms, animal instinct kicking in as he slashes at her blindly. His claws catch the skin of her face and carve it open. She grits her teeth. Gillion can see them through the hole in her cheek.

“No goddesses to save you,” she crows gleefully, spittle and blood splattering across his face with her words. “It’s a shame you’re with them .”

“You’re evil,” Gillion snarls. 

“Am I?” The General asks and yanks on the belts again. His armour presses into his ribs hard enough to bruise (and Gillion’s been bruised often enough to know).

“I can taste it.”

To punctuate his point, he twists his head and bites her arm. His teeth rip through flesh with the sickening sound of tearing through meat. She yells, grip failing for a second, and a second is all Gillion needs.

He’s on the General in a flash, punching and clawing. She squirms under him, tries to fight back, but it’s fruitless. Gillion’s a powerhouse of anger, of pent-up rage from years of training and lies. He can smell Caspian’s blood on her clothes, and the way it mixes with his own.

“Please,” the General pleads the second she gets enough space and oxygen to do so, any semblance of confidence gone. Gillion pauses only for an instant before growling like a feral animal and ripping into her with sharp teeth and claw-like nails. Flesh is flayed beneath those traits that make him inhuman; for a moment, he is nothing more than a simple minded beast fighting for what is his .

The General convulses under him, claws at him and tries to squirm away until she can’t anymore. Gillion’s hands dig into the meat of her chest like he’s trying to gut a fish. He pries her open, leans down, and pulls her heart free with his teeth, biting down on it viciously as it beats its last.

There’s a moment of silence before he regains his senses. Stumbles back, tearing flesh as he goes, teeth stained red; he reaches blindly for his sword for comfort. It provides none.

Gillion grips Destiny’s Blade loosely in one hand, breath coming in heavy as he spits blood. The body at his feet is torn to shreds, tattered beyond recognition, bloodied and bruised. Gillion’s a murderer, and he can’t even bring himself to care. He wipes blood from his cheek, smearing red across clawed hands, and his gaze shifts sideways to settle on Caspian, who is scarily limp, sprawled across the deck in a similar fashion to the body at Gillion’s feet.

Destiny’s Blade clatters to the deck in an instant with a loud clang. Gillion practically knee-slides across the ship with how rapidly he moves and how quickly he drops down to frantically examine Caspian. His fingertips find no pulse; blood stains his usually perfect garments, and panic settles over Gillion like a suffocating, heavy blanket. He remembers Drey’s words, and wonders if that’s why he feels like he too is dying.

His hands, shaking so violently and harshly it’s a wonder he can control movement of them at all, settle over Caspian’s chest. “Come on, Caspian,” he mutters like a prayer, and feels the magic of his Lay On Hands flow through and into Caspian.

Caspian still lies still. Gillion resolves, as tears are already pooling in his eyes, that he will not cry over this. “Come on, ” he hisses, wishing he could send more magic into the genasi, but those were his last dregs. He’d have to take a rest, try again in the morning, and that’s time that Caspian doesn’t have. The wounds Caspian has sustained are slowly knitting back together and fading like they never existed, with only the blood staining his clothes as proof he was ever injured, but Gillion doesn’t care about that. He cares about the fact that Caspian still. isn’t. breathing.

“Please.” Gillion casts his gaze skyward, and does something he hasn’t in a very, very long time; he prays. “Please, just let him live.”

Maybe the gods hear him. Maybe they don’t. All Gillion knows is the final word falls from his lips, and Caspian sucks in a loud, gasping breath.

“Caspian,” Gillion breathes, then repeats, louder, “ Caspian .”

“Gillion.” His voice is raspy, broken. He coughs, and blood comes with it. Gillion shifts to so carefully help him sit up, one hand resting between Caspian’s shoulder blades, the other hovering in front of his chest, ready to catch him if he slumps forward.

“I thought I lost you.”

Caspian grins at him. There’s blood on his teeth. “I won’t be taken down quite that easily.”

Gillion stares at him for a moment. Breathing. Alive. Then he lunges forward, and kisses Caspian.

The taste of copper permeates it, whether from Caspian or Gillion it doesn’t matter; Caspian tastes like blood and wine and burns like holy fire. He is retribution and he is sinful, and Gillion can’t find the energy to care anymore.

The Chosen One does not sin. The Chosen One does not love. The Chosen One does not kiss another man like he’ll die if he doesn’t.

Maybe Gillion doesn’t want to be the Chosen One anymore.

They break apart to bloodstained lips, to heavy breath over calm air, and Caspian’s still grinning. “Maybe I should die more often,” he jokes. 

Gillion can’t help but let out a laugh, the tears that had formed in his eyes earlier finally falling. Relief, palpable and tangible, washes over him in waves. Caspian frowns slightly, in the way he always does when he’s concerned, and leans forwards a little, lifting a hand to Gillion’s cheek.

“Hey.” His voice is gentle. Calming, even. “I’m here. I’m alright.”

“I know,” Gillion says, and he means it. He slides a hand up to rest over Caspian’s. “I’m just relieved that I did not lose you.”

Caspian’s expression softens into a look of pure adoration. “And you will not lose me.”

It sounds like a promise. Maybe some sort of vow. The mark on Gillion’s hip itches. He tugs Caspian in again, and kisses him like he’s a dying man, and Caspian is his oxygen.

Caspian all too gladly presses back in again. This time, while the taste of blood still lingers, it’s far more saccharine. That same taste of wild, fresh honey seems to flood Gillion’s senses, like those times he first spoke Caspian’s name and let it roll over his tongue. Gillion’s almost certain one of his teeth catches on Caspian’s lip as the taste of copper floods back in, but neither of them care.

“Gillion,” Caspian says, finally drawing back, “Are you certain you want this? And now ?”

Gillion nods. “I am sick of following my destiny around and chasing it like some sort of… sort of animal . I have a piece of fate right here ,” he taps his hip with a hand, “And I will not keep ignoring it.”

“That’s a wonderful sentiment, Gillion,” Caspian says slowly, “But we are still in the middle of a war.”

Gillion suddenly becomes aware of the clash of swords from the shoreline, the yells and screams. He snatches his sword back up and gets to his feet at blinding speeds, scanning the battlefront for their allies; he spots Lizzie toe-to-toe with a Navy general, and some distance away Chip sends a firebolt arching through the opposing forces. 

“Stay here,” Gillion says, looking over his shoulder to Caspian. “Stay safe. I’ll be back.”

Caspian smiles, small and sly and so him that it makes Gillion’s chest feel all warm and gooey. “You better be.”

Gillion holds Caspian’s gaze for a moment longer, then takes off running along the deck. When he vaults overboard, sword in hand and eyes fixed on the bloodbath below him, he knows he’s fighting for something; for his friends, for the world, and, most of all, for love.