Chapter Text
Dawn had barely broken when Grian was shaken awake.
Skizz practically pulled him upright, patting his arms in apology. “All hands on deck, Gri, even if it's an Itty-bitty one. The deck, not the hands!” he laughed, but it was terse.
Grian didn't need to ask why. The western sky glowed crimson, heavy with the promise of an incoming storm. Grian cursed under his breath.
They all moved in silence, prepping the anchors, distributing freight, assigning tasks. Grian was given a flare should rescue be spotted anywhere nearby.
“And you'll keep an eye on Scar?” Bdubs asked him, headband damp with sweat.
Grian scowled at him. He'd had an eye on Scar all day. Had watched the worried tension in his shoulders worsen, and had seen the way he rubbed at his legs, the left more than the right.
Bdubs put his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I'm just worried about ‘im!” He said, backing up and returning to his duties.
They were all worried, all abuzz with useless energy, destined to wait for a storm that might just kill them. The air was static and dense, morale so low that crewmates were snapping at each other.
Grian finally broke away from the frantic work to prepare the ship, and made his way to check on Scar properly. He brought him jerky and hard bread with a cup of water to soften it. Scar took it without fuss, gazing at Grian with a resignation that made him ache.
“Always knew the sea would kill me. But I did kinda hope it'd take a little longer.” Scar said with a sardonic smile.
Grian opened his mouth to argue, but there was a shout, then many voices rising.
“Ship! Ship!”
Grian moved to the bow, flare at the ready. There were sails at the horizon. Something big. Something slow.
Still, it was something.
The ship was far, but they moved to oars, paddling against a sea that grew more irritable with each passing minute. Xisuma ordered the flares lit, and Grian took his in hand, waving it wildly from the bow.
The sea was growing rougher, the wind stronger. Grian nearly lost his footing as a wave smacked high enough on the bow to soak his face and shoulders. But the flare stayed lit. He waved it so hard his arm was hurting.
There was a flash of something from the ship. A signal. The crew seemed to hold their breath for several unbearable minutes.
The ship was starting to turn.
The crew cheered in celebration, the lifeboat rocking from the force of their movements moreso than the motion of the waves. Xisuma directed them back to work.
“It could take an hour or more for them to reach us. We’re not out of this yet.” he warned.
They took up their stations, sitting windward if not at oars, bracing cargo and sloshing water out as quickly as it came in.
Grian chanced a glance to stern, wiping sweat from his brow with his filthy shirt.
Scar had moved - or had been moved - to a crate pushed between benches at stern. He wore a tarp like a cloak. At the end of one bench, Etho had him braced with his shoulder, hands at the oar. Bdubs held him in place on the bench opposite.
Grian must have looked a little too long, because Etho gave him a thumbs up, nodding. Grian returned his gaze to the approaching ship.
He wasn't sure how long they waited for the ship to reach them. The wind heaved their lifeboats to and fro, frothy water soaking their feet and legs, until they were a shivering and wretched mess.
When the ship finally came close, it was downwind and did nothing to block the torment. But it was here, and they would hopefully soon be on it.
It was a merchant guild ship, one of their largest, likely headed to Boatem for summer market. Brand new and absurdly large, it made The Hermit (may she rest in peace) look like a child's toy.
From the railing, two dozen curious faces peered - clean-shaven guild men in work clothes finer than their Captain’s formalwear. They shouted and laughed at them, pointing, seemingly quite amused by their predicament.
They hushed as a commanding voice cut through the chatter. An officer appeared, gesturing here and there, fastening a rope around himself and easily climbing overboard to hop his way within earshot, maneuvering smoothly despite the rough sea.
Xisuma was brought close, and the two of them spoke, the crew watching with bated breath.
Tense minutes went by with no action from anyone except the Captain and officer. Finally, the two men shook hands. Grian sagged onto the bench, groaning.
The merchant ship's crew began lowering nets first, crew members grabbing hold to be hoisted upwards in small groups. Some risked the ladders, chancing a dunk in the waves just to get aboard faster. Luckily, no one took a bath.
One by one or in threes, the crew was brought up to the ship, the water growing more violent with every passing moment. Grian was trying to get the attention of an officer - or better yet, Xisuma himself - to get the Bosun's chair ready for Scar. No one was listening, though. They were all arguing and whining about their wet trousers, chattering in nervous excitement, singing loudly in celebration for their rescue.
Finally, Grian grew too fed up to wait. He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled as loud as possible, the shrill, awful sound mimicking the scream of a bird that only he could make.
Skizz clapped his hands over his ears nearby. “Hey! What is wrong with you, G?”
Grian fumed, scowling. “Everyone's having a jolly time getting aboard without prioritizing an injured crewmate, that's what!”
Before the argument could escalate further, their captain’s voice cut across the lifeboat’s deck.
“Grian!” Xisuma called, confusion written all over his weathered face.
“What on earth is this about?”
“Scar-”
“Scar will be lifted in the Bosun's chair as soon as it's ready. That was one of the first matters I settled with their first mate. We're clearing the first boat so we can row this one toward the bow a little. That's all.” Xisuma spoke quickly, but his expression had already softened a bit by the time he'd finished. He clapped Grian on the shoulder.
“Go sit with him and let him know. I was on the way to do it myself.”
Grian turned sharply, heading aft to find Scar, who had been moved to a bench. He was leaning on Lizzie, his face showing more emotion than it had in days.
Unfortunately for Grian those emotions were amusement and fondness, a knowing glint in his bright green eyes.
“Aw, G -”
“Shut up. ” Grian barked.” Lizzie, go reunite with your husband. I'll stay with him.”
Lizzie giggled. She slowly shifted away, making sure Scar's weight was supported by Grian, before she hopped up to head for a ladder. “You make sure he's nice and secure, lovebird.” she sang, before scaling up the ship like it was easier than walking.
Grian grumbled, arm instinctively going around Scar's shoulders to bolster him.
Grian wasn’t sure if Scar was shaking from his concealed snickering or the cold. He rubbed at his shoulder and sighed.
“Gri-Gri, you're my knight in rotten rags.” Scar cooed at him. If he weren't already in bad shape, Grian would have cuffed him.
Finally, the Bosun’s chair was lowered. Together, Tango and Bdubs held Scar with his arms over their shoulders, and Grian lifted his legs. They were cold - Scar had removed the wrappings after they'd been soaked with seawater, leaving them bare in rolled up trousers. Grian cursed aloud, stuffing Scar's feet under his armpits to warm them as they moved.
They got him fastened to the chair at last, and up he went, over the edge to the deck. The Hermit crew cheered at his arrival on board.
Finally, the last of them came up.
As if a benevolent force had been holding it back, the rain started the moment Grian stepped onto the deck.
The ship was abuzz with its own tense activity. Men moved to and fro with bored expressions, orders called out from officers wielding megaphones.
One officer, sans megaphone, bellowed at the Hermits who stood crowded against the starboard railing, fully at the mercy of the worsening rain.
“Below deck, the lot of you. Follow Watts here,” he held out a hand toward a redheaded man to his right “and make no trouble. You'll get your supper when we're out of this storm. ‘Til then, stay out of the way.” he finished gruffly.
Not the warmest welcome he'd ever received, but not the worst either. His crewmates meandered behind Watts in a loose, noisy line. Grian hung back, looking for Scar, who he found surrounded by crewmates. He was being held upright between Skizz and Impulse, who wore matching grave expressions. Bdubs was there too, his cheeks glowing with anger even in the gray of the impending storm.
*“He ain't sick, so no, we won't take him to sickbay. Cause the sick bay is for people who are sick.” Bdubs was insisting, arms crossed, glaring upwards toward a broad-shouldered man in a soaked tricorne and fine raincoat.
A lean man stood beside him, also clearly a ranking officer by his dress. His lips twisted in a sneer. “If he isn’t sick or something, why can't he walk on his own?”
A beat of silence followed, until Scar laughed softly. Grian stepped up, wearing his most charming smile.
“Gentleman! How lucky we are to have run into you just before this storm, eh?” he said, offering a little bow. “And we couldn't have asked for a nicer ship to rescue us. I, for one, can't wait to get below deck. I'd be happy to take my crewmate down and leave you officers to it.” he tried.
The lean man shrugged. “Captain said put that one in sickbay. Don't know what the problem is.”
The bigger man shifted his gaze to Grian. He looked as if he'd rather like to throw the lot of them into the sea.
“Problem is he's a cripple, ain't he?” he said, voice dripping with disdain. “Legs don't work. He'll be in the way no matter what - just take him below with the rest of you.”
Grian's mind went instantly to the blade Pearl kept hidden on her right thigh. A ship in a storm was an easy place for a man to go missing. A slit throat, a push into the ocean, the rain to wash away the blood. Easy. Easy.
He must have done something - made a sound, a face. Or perhaps Bdubs could sense the bloodlust like Doc had sniffed out the storm. In any case, he pulled Grian in with an arm around his shoulders, his face set in a rigid, unnatural smile.
*“Y'heard that, G? Let's get outta this mess and reunite with everybody.”
Grian was dragged to the deckhouse where the last of the Hermits were making their way through the companionway to the ‘tween deck. Cleo and Cub were waiting for them.
Cub looked horrible. Dark circles sat heavy beneath his bloodshot eyes. He massaged his left hand with his right, face twitching. Still, he smiled wide as they approached, eyes zeroed in on Scar.
“There’s my guy. How ya feelin’, Scar?”
“Peachy.” Scar deadpanned. That got a chuckle from everyone, even Grian, his murder plot temporarily forgotten as he re-focused on Scar. He looked him over in the lanternlight of the deckhouse.
His shivering was obvious. He was pale again, his lips especially so, and the hard set of his green eyes told Grian he was in pain.
“Come on, would you?” Watts said irritably. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re currently in a storm, and I have things to do.”
Into the companionway they went, two at a time, Skizz bringing Scar down on his back. The ‘tween deck was humid and dim, but blessedly dry - and already teeming with activity. Hermits were making themselves at home as best as they could, moving about supplies and arguing over the limited hammocks. Cub waved Skizz further back, and Grian followed too, head beginning to buzz unpleasantly with exhaustion.
A slightly more private space was being set up, crates pushed against the ship wall on either side and a hammock slung up between them. Skizz wasted no time dropping Scar into it.
Cub sat on a barrel beside him, cleaning his spectacles as he spoke. “Alright, Scar, tell me where it hurts. And don’t say everywhere.”
“His legs are freezing.” Grian interrupted before he could stop himself. He avoided Scar’s eyes. “Doc had them wrapped up, but they probably got wet.”
“Right.” Cub said, voice tired. He was giving Grian a look with a very clear message: go away.
Grian stayed put, leaning against a crate, casual. Somewhere, a peal of laughter broke out, followed by shushing. The sound of the storm was muffled but present, and the sturdy vessel was rocked from the force of it. If they’d been trapped on their lifeboats, they’d likely all be drowned by now.
Scar shifted in the hammock, trying to get comfortable. He sighed. “I just need some rest. And to get my land legs, once we’re in Boatem.” He smiled at Cub reassuringly. “Though, uh, that oil you rub on ‘em sometimes. If we can ever get some of that again…”
“Of course. I’ll prepare it as soon as we get to Boatem. For now, let me wrap them up.”
He looked at Grian again. Grian still didn’t move. Scar covered his face and groaned, and the other two men both turned their attention to him instead.
“Grian.” Cub said. “Go see if there’s anything around here that might make him a little more comfortable, will ya?”
The two men locked eyes for a moment, neither moving, until Grian sighed, standing up straight. "Right. I'll see what I can find." he gave a curt nod, moving away to begin his search.
As he casually ransacked cargo and begged things off of his crewmates, he listened to the roar of the storm from the safety of the 'tween deck, surrounded by his friends.
He wondered why he didn't actually feel any better.