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The night that the ocean once again gives Gillion up is calm and quiet.
It spits him out like sour-tasting food, dumps him onto the shoreline of an island he’s not familiar with, freezing cold and shedding icicles. His hands are still curled around Gryffon, gripping him with white-knuckled strength, the very same as he had in the Black Sea. They’re both battered and bloody, and Gryffon’s eyes are firmly shut, but they’re both alive, and Gillion breathes in the sea-salted air like he’s starved of it, just for the sake of it.
Chip washes up a little while later. He’s a sight to behold, seeming far smaller than he did before they’d split with Jay, rotted flesh barely clinging to his bones, bandana gripped loosely in his hand. There’s a heaviness to him that wasn’t there before, a weight settled on his shoulders. He wades into the shallows and stares at the waves.
Gillion watches him. Chip’s looking for something — no, for someone. For Arlin to wash ashore like the rest of them.
Something twists painfully in Gillion’s chest as he remembers all at once that Drey won’t be following.
The three of them linger there for a long time. Perhaps far longer than they should, but Chip stands motionless amongst the waves, skeletal and framed by pale silver moonlight.
“Could’ve got spit up somewhere else,” Gryffon mumbles. The deepness of his voice rattles through Gillion’s ribcage. “Anywhere, really.”
Gillion is versed enough in the way all of his crew-mates talk to catch the undercurrent of judgement to Gryffon’s tone. It’s a half-step away from concern, in that way that everything always is with Gryffon, a gruffness to mask all other emotion. “Just a minute longer,” he replies, barely catching how much the desperation leaks into his own tone.
He has no connection to Arlin. Not directly, yet sometimes it feels as though he does, when Chip had spoken of him, when he’d glimpsed him strung-up in the depths of that rotten, cursed hole within the sea. It’s enough to leave Gillion where he is now, as if his heart were outside of his body and with Chip instead, knee-deep in the ocean’s waters, praying on the currents to finally bring him back. To bring him home.
Night gives way to dawn. Chip doesn’t move.
Gryffon lets out a low, grumbling little growl and rolls over in the sand to try and get some sleep.
It’s about halfway to noon when Chip finally moves. He stoops, shoves the bandana between his teeth so he doesn’t lose it amongst the waves that lap at him as he grips at something thin and pale and a little bit rotted. Gillion scrambles to his feet a second later, when he glimpses white hair and an emaciated form. He charges into the waves, ignoring the startled grunt Gryffon makes, and bundles Arlin up into his arms.
Chip doesn’t let go of him. His hand slides from Arlin’s upper arm downwards until he’s loosely gripping Arlin’s wrist, pressed into Gillion’s side as they both stumble back towards shore just to make sure he doesn’t lose contact.
“Well, shit.” Gryffon’s propped himself up on one arm, ears pricked and pointed in their direction. “He looks worse than he did in the hole.”
“We’re gonna—” Chip’s voice cracks. It’s the first he’s spoken since washing ashore. “We’re gonna get him some help. He’s gonna be fine — Gill, you can— you can healy hands, right?”
Gillion stares down at Arlin’s emaciated form. He’s skin and bones, almost a mirror image of Chip at this point, looking like death walking. Or, rather, death breathing. He’s not even conscious, twitching a little in his sleep, and Gillion’s entire being aches with the knowledge that he can’t fix this alone. Not with the way ichor clings to him, arcs through his veins to paint them a sickeningly pretty little black.
“Yeah,” he says slowly. “Yeah, I can do that. It’ll help stabilise him, but… Chip, I won’t lie to you. He doesn’t look good.”
Chip nods, all fast and tight, slipping the bandana back on with his free, shaking hand. The glamour goes up in an instant, painting him as pristine as he once was, whole and complete rather than partway dead — but not before Gillion catches sight of the heart settled between his ribs, new and fresh and pulsing golden with each and every beat.
“Do it. Then we—” And he straightens, sets his jaw.
It’s clear he’s posturing. Trying so hard to present himself as the captain he once was, as the captain he’s always wanted to be. Commanding, authoritative, imitable, confident. When he speaks again, it comes out a little clearer; carries a little more weight.
“Then we go and find Jay.”
The journey to Shadowskull Island takes a week.
Gillion rations his healing abilities for the first day, carefully splitting them between his three companions. He sinks most of it into Arlin just to keep him breathing before stitching up the worst of Gryffon’s scrapes and dripping the final leftovers into Chip, despite his insistence it should go to Arlin instead.
After that, he expends all his daily mana and then some into Arlin. It doesn’t do much other than put some colour into his cheeks and pale the ichor in his veins to a dark grey, but it’s something.
Chip charts their courses. It’s clear enough to both Gillion and Gryffon it’s to keep his mind too busy to linger on anything else for more than a few seconds. Still, he thumbs at the edge of his pant pocket, twisting over the loose threads there in an unrelenting nervous habit.
Gillion wishes he could ease the burden.
The island is eerily quiet when they arrive. They leave Gryffon to guard Arlin, who has barely stirred the entire trip, and both Chip and Gillion cautiously cross the beach.
Inches from the treeline, where they can barely catch glimpses of tents nestled amongst them, Gillion finds a dagger at his throat.
“Careful,” a familiar voice says from behind him.
“Caspian?” Gillion tries to twist in place, but the blade slides against his skin with the movement, and he quickly decides against it. “What are you—?”
“Woah, what the fuck?” Chip’s hands fly to the hilts of his swords. “What the hell— Caspian, man, let him go.”
“Be quiet,” Caspian snaps, though his voice wavers; the hand holding the dagger trembles a little. “How do I know it’s you?”
“How do I know it’s you?” Chip counters, drawing his swords. “Hot mode.”
The weapons come alive with flames, dancing and swirling in pretty, threatening little patterns. Gillion’s hand slips to his own sword, only to find an empty sheath instead. Something in him cracks all over again at the reminder.
“Prove it. Tell me something only the two of you would know.”
“I don’t want to fight you—” Chip starts, but Gillion interjects.
“Your immovable rod. That was mine, before it was yours.”
“You.” Caspian gestures loosely at Chip with the knife. “Your turn.”
“I don’t know, man. La Alma peed my pants that one time? Is that good enough for you?”
Caspian’s hand falls away; he drops the dagger, letting it sink into the sand by Gillion’s feet with a soft thud. He slumps forwards a little, presses his forehead into the cool armour on Gillion’s shoulder, unkempt hair falling forwards and down Gillion’s front as he laughs, all airy and humourless. “It’s you.”
“Where’s Jay?” Chip demands, levelling a sword at him. Or, rather, at the general direction of him, where he stands behind Gillion.
“Here. She’s here.” Caspian finally seems to pull himself together. He straightens up, slips around to Gillion’s side, and holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I apologise for the precaution.”
“Hmm.” Chip sighs and re-sheathes his swords, snuffing the flame. “Take us to her.”
“Wait, Chip.” Gillion turns to study Caspian properly. He looks exhausted, bags under his eyes and some bruising along his jaw as if he’s been punched. “Are you alright, Caspian?”
“Are you?” He chuckles, low and light. “I was told you were left in a cursed sea.”
Gillion lifts a hand. He brushes his fingertips over the bruises and expends a little more mana to heal it over, to often even a little extra energy, to do something to ease Caspian’s burden by the smallest, most infinitesimal amount.
His eyebrows raise a little. “Thank you, Gillion.”
And there’s something about it that makes Gillion suddenly all too aware of how much he’d missed Caspian. How much he’d longed to hear his voice, like he had during those nightly calls on the Callnch, before everything went wrong, before they’d descended into the hole and barely clawed their way back out.
He always says Gillion’s name in full. No shortenings, as if he’s worth the respect of speaking every last syllable. Not to say that nicknames are bad, but there’s something about Caspian that makes it carry so much more weight. It makes Gillion feel seen, in ways no one else ever seems to.
“Of course.”
His gaze lingers on Gillion for a moment longer before he leads them deeper into the island. They weave between tents, housing so many pirates from so many crews, most of them entirely unfamiliar to Gillion. When he finally gestures to one of the tents, Chip wastes no time darting inside.
“Caspian,” Gillion says, idly watching as Chip vanishes from sight. “I missed you.”
He softens visibly. “I missed you too, Gillion. It’s good to have you back.”
Gillion’s chest feels warm. He lifts his hand again, trailing it over where the bruising had been earlier on Caspian’s jaw. “You may want to get some rest.”
Caspian lays his own hand over Gillion’s, tilting his head into it for a brief moment. “And I’ll see you again?”
“I don’t think we’re going anywhere for a while.”
Caspian turns his hand to catch Gillion’s properly, pulling it so he can place a brief kiss to Gillion’s knuckles. “I think you should go see your co-captains now.”
Gillion feels a little breathless as he withdraws his hand. Caspian smiles at him, all soft and beautiful, and Gillion’s heart skips a beat. It takes all his willpower to turn and duck inside of the tent rather than linger a moment longer.
“—and we found Arlin, but he’s— Oh, shit, Gillion!”
Chip barely finishes speaking before Gillion’s pulled into a tight hug. He doesn’t hesitate to return it, hooking his arms around Jay and sinking into it easily. Chip barrels into them from the side a second later, sending them all stumbling.
“You’re here,” Jay says, all soft and quiet, and that warm feeling in Gillion grows a little stronger.
Finally, he feels like he’s home again.