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Drey is freezing.
Rephrase: Drey is frozen. He’s lodged on the shore of some island he doesn’t recognise, unable to move, the sun beating down on him as the waves lap at his iced-over feet. He aches, in that bone-deep sort of way, and he’s a little glad he lost all feeling in his arms long ago with the way they seem to be crushed against his body, the sling that holds them somewhat torn.
He’s alone.
He doesn’t remember much. A fight, one he was ill-equipped for, and then nothingness. Pain, ocean waves, cold.
Now, he thaws slow. Warmth slowly seeps into him until the sand presses into his cheek, until the water finally sinks into his boots, until his clothes bake dry and glisten with salt. He lies there longer than he should, eyes closed against the glare of the light, violently aware of how alive everything is.
Eventually, he staggers his way upright. It’s not pretty, nor graceful; he presses his forehead into the ground and leverages himself upright. One of his arms falls from the sling and hangs limply at his side. He pays it no mind, tilting his head up a little to peer out over the ocean. The blue ocean, sea so rich in colour and shining in the sunlight, glittering like the most beautiful of treasures.
Drey breathes in slowly.
The air tastes richer. He’d gotten so used to the Black Sea, to the way corruption leeched into every aspect of it, that he feels almost overwhelmed by just how much he can feel. Sun, sand, sea. All of it teeming with life and colour in ways he’d almost forgotten the world could.
In way he’d almost forgotten he could.
So he just exists for a little while. Not as Drey Ferin, not as a Riptide Pirate, but just as a thing. A man, alone on the shore, in the bright light of the sun, scarcely believing he’d been allowed to live.
When he breathes in, the world seems to breathe with him.
It takes over two weeks for Drey to find his way to Canella.
The island he’d washed up on was not entirely uninhabited, by some sheer miracle. Tiny, yes, but enough for a handful of people to call it home.
What it did lack was a healer. He’d recovered as best he could, but after three nights, he’d grown restless. The people gave him a boat — a small thing, held together with a few nails and prayers — and he’d accepted it gratefully before casting himself adrift.
He couldn’t exactly steer, nor would he have had any idea where to go if he could, but he managed well enough. Let the currents carry him until he hit a far larger island, hitched a ride aboard a ship bound for All-Port, then another and another until he lost track, until all that mattered was finding the next one, and the next, drawing closer day by day.
Now, he steps off onto the docks, blinking against the glare of the sun, battered and still a little bloody in places, the sling barely holding his arms in place, and all he can feel anymore is tired. He’s not old, not by any standards across the entirety of Mana, but he almost feels it. Everything aches, everything drags.
Drey may not be home, exactly, but it feels the same anyway. The knowledge that some of the crew should be here still is enough. That Finn should be here still.
He doesn’t know if Chip, Gillion and Gryffon got out. He doesn’t know if anything survived that, doesn’t know if Arlin’s body is rotting at the bottom of the hole in the sea, doesn’t know if he’s the last one to see it all and have lived. He doesn’t even know where Jay might be now, whether the war has begun or already ended.
It’s so many things he needs to care about all at once that in the end he finds he cares about none of them. All that drives Drey forwards, one foot after the other, is the thought of seeing Finn again.
He’s determined to not let them part again. Not unless death herself claims one of them — and even then, Drey would claw his way through the hells and into whatever afterlife exists to find Finn.
“… Drey?”
The voice is familiar. He turns, trying to place it, and through the crowd he spots Ensa. Her eyes are wide.
“Hey, Ensa,” he manages, with a small, thin-lipped smile. “Is Finn here?”
“Yeah,” she says, sounding as if she can scarcely believe she’s talking to him, “He’s, uh— The card—”
“Take me to him,” Drey interrupts. “Please.”
Ensa does as she’s asked, leading him deeper into Canella. Drey just breathes, following behind her. The sun is warm on his skin.
Stepping into the library is strange. Magical spaces in the Black Sea had felt nothing but deeply, deeply malicious; in contrast, the library feels gentle and comforting. Drey relaxes into the feel of it, letting his gaze drift over the shelving until it settles on the figure in the far corner.
Finn looks somehow so much older than he did before they parted. Smaller, frailer, aged right down to his bones, gaze distant and unseeing.
For a moment, Drey freezes, remembering how, last he’d seen, Finn’s mind had been failing him. Would Finn have remembered him, if he were gone? If he didn’t return?
But then Finn’s expression both softens and brightens, those same gentle hands Drey had once been able to cling to reaching for him. Even without words, it’s clear as day; I’d recognise you anywhere, young Ferin.
“Hey, old man,” Drey says softly. “Did you miss me?”
And Finn laughs, soft and bright and beautiful, stepping forwards to draw Drey into a tight hug. It’s one he cannot return, not properly, so he loosely hooks his leg around Finn’s calf in an attempt at reciprocity and tucks his chin into Finn’s shoulder.
Finally, it feels like he’s home.