Chapter 18: The Last Drop
The world was reduced to the violent pitch and roll of the ship, the iron smell of blood, and the fading warmth under Vil’s shaking hands.
Once they got to the ship, Vil frantically used every ounce of his healing magic to do something. Anything. To close the wound. But it wasn’t able to fully heal the wound. It was enough to buy them some time. A patch job on a shattered hull. The vicious, ragged hole in Leona’s shoulder had stopped gushing, the edges knitted together by a fragile web of violet light that pulsed with Vil’s own straining heartbeat. But beneath that thin film, the damage remained—a swamp of ruined tissue, splintered bone, and a creeping, invasive chill that had nothing to do with seawater.
Leona lay on a stained cot in the Savanaclaw’s sickbay, a space that was little more than a closet of suffering. Lantern light swung madly from the low beams, throwing nightmare shadows. With every heave of the ship, he gasped, a thin, agonized sound. His skin was the color of old ash.
Vil knelt on the shuddering deckboards beside him, one hand pressed over the glowing, insufficient seal, the other gripping Leona’s good shoulder. He was murmuring, a continuous, desperate stream of focus, pushing more energy into the fragile dam. It was like trying to bail out a sinking ship with a thimble.
“The cove,” Vil rasped, not looking up. His voice was shredded. “The water from the magic cove they took me to to heal me. It’s the only thing that can fully heal the wound and save Leona’s life.”
Ruggie, gripping a shelf for balance, his face pale under the grime, nodded sharply. “The glowing pool. Right. How do we get it?”
Vil’s head snapped up, his amethyst eyes burning with a frantic intensity. “Epel. Rook.” The two younger sirens, huddled by the door, their tails already formed, snapped to attention. “Swim. Now. Faster than you’ve ever moved in your lives. You know the way. Bring back as much as you can carry. Use shells, skins, anything. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.”
He didn’t need to say what would happen if they stopped. The terror in his voice said it all.
Epel gave a stiff, scared nod. Rook placed a hand over his heart, his usually playful green eyes deadly serious. Without another word, they turned and flung themselves out of the sickbay, the sound of their bodies hitting the churning water a moment later barely audible over the storm and the groaning ship.
They needed water from the magic cove. It was the only chance.
Azul and his lackeys were dead. Buried under the rubble. The colossal collapse of the bank fortress had sent tidal waves through the cavern, swamping the docks. No tentacle, no polished spectacles, had emerged from the mountain of shattered black iron and stone. It deemed the contracts void. The invisible chains that had bound Vil, Rook, Epel and countless other souls simply… dissolved. A thousand silent screams ended, not with a whimper, but with the finality of falling rock. They had been freed, or laid to rest peacefully finally.
But Leona lay in Vil’s arms, dying.
The price of that freedom was bleeding out on this cot.
Vil could feel him fading. The coarse vitality that was so essentially Leona was seeping away, replaced by a terrible, deepening stillness. His breathing grew more shallow, the pauses between ragged inhales stretching longer.
“Vil.”
The name was a choked exhale, wet and barely there.
Vil’s hand tightened. “Don’t. Don’t you dare talk,” he whispered, the command fraying into a plea. “You save your strength, you arrogant bastard. You just lie there and be still.” He gently scolded him for talking at all in this state, his thumbs stroking feverish skin. “They’re coming with the water. Just hold on. Do you hear me? Hold on.”
Leona’s eyelashes fluttered. His sharp green eyes, clouded with pain and shock, found Vil’s. A ghost of his old smirk touched his bloodless lips. It was a pathetic, heartbreaking imitation.
He continued, each word a labor, pushed out on a breath that didn’t want to come. “That cephalo-punk…” A cough racked him, a shudder that made Vil’s fragile magic seal flicker. “…He called me your beloved.”
The world stopped.
The ship’s rocking, the howl of the wind, the crew’s frantic shouts from the deck—it all faded into a distant roar. There was only the feel of Leona’s skin growing colder, the faint, taunting glow of Vil’s failing magic, and those words, hanging in the iodine-thick air.
Vil stared down at him. All the retorts, the scolding, the vanity, the flawless facade—it all crumbled to dust. What was left was raw, terrified, and utterly real.
His carefully constructed world, once defined by allure and contracts and flawless survival, had narrowed to this: a man who called himself a pirate king, dying because he’d shoved a siren out of the way.
A man who was, against all reason, logic, and Vil’s better judgment, exactly that.
Beloved.
Leona’s eyes were closing, the effort to keep them open too much.
“Don’t you die,” Vil ordered, his voice breaking. It wasn’t a siren’s command. It was a human’s desperate bargain. “Don’t you dare die after saying that. You don’t get to say that and then leave.”
You don’t get to say that and then leave.”
Leona’s hand, which had been limp at his side, twitched. It was a tremulous, slow movement, fighting against the immense gravity pulling him under. His fingers, crusted with blood and grime, lifted a few inches from the stained cot.
They wavered in the air, unsteady as a moth’s flight, before his thumb gently found the track of a tear on Vil’s cheek. It was the barest touch, a smear of salt and soot. Vil flinched at the contact, his frantic monologue cutting off.
Leona’s eyes were half-lidded, the vibrant green almost completely swallowed by black. He looked at Vil, through him, to some final, private horizon. His lips moved, shaping silent words before a whisper, frayed and faint as old rope, finally escaped.
“I love you,” he breathed, the admission costing him everything he had left. A final, shaky exhale followed, carrying the last of his strength. “Take care of the kid.”
His hand fell back to the cot, palm open and still. The fierce, mocking light in his eyes guttered out completely, replaced by a fixed, distant emptiness. The terrible, labored rasp of his breathing simply stopped. The silence it left behind was louder than the storm.
Vil stared.
He stared at the unmoving chest, at the face gone slack and unguarded. He waited for the next breath. It didn’t come. He waited for the familiar, irritable grumble. There was only the ship’s groan and the far-off crash of waves.
“No,” Vil whispered. He shook Leona’s good shoulder, gently at first. “Leona. Stop this.” A harder shake. “Stop it right now. This isn’t funny.” His voice climbed, brittle and sharp. “Open your eyes. Open your eyes and tell me I’m a pain in your ass. Do it!”
He pressed his ear to Leona’s chest, his own heaving sobs the only heartbeat he could hear. The cold reality of the silence beneath the skin punched through him, a physical violence that tore a sound from his throat—a raw, broken thing that was neither scream nor song.
He scrambled back, pressing his own bloody hands against his mouth as if to cage the agony escaping. He was crying in great, wracking heaves that stole his air. Sobs shuddered through him, uncontrolled and ugly.
The door to the sickbay slammed open, banging against the wall. Ruggie stood frozen in the frame, a bucket of fresh water dangling forgotten from his hand. Behind him, Jack’s broad frame filled the space, his face a mask of confusion that slowly cracked into horrified understanding.
“Captain?” Ruggie’s voice was small, a child’s question in the dark.
He took a step into the room, his eyes darting from Vil’s devastated face to Leona’s terrifyingly still one. The bucket slipped from his fingers, hitting the deck with a dull, sloshing thud that felt obscenely loud.
Jack pushed past him, his steps heavy. He knelt by the cot, his large, calloused hand hovering over Leona’s nose and mouth, feeling nothing. He looked up at Vil, his golden eyes wide with a disbelief so profound it looked like physical pain. “He’s… he’s not…”
He couldn’t finish. He just shook his head, a slow, denialist pendulum.
Vil couldn’t see them clearly through the blur of tears. The world had shrunk to the cot, to the empty vessel that had housed Leona Kingscholar. Panic, cold and absolute, clawed its way up his throat. He was supposed to fix this. He was supposed to have magic.
He had nothing.
A memory surfaced, uninvited and sudden. Not of siren songs meant to drown, but of a human shanty, rough and sincere, sung by a drunken sailor on a moonlit deck weeks ago. Leona had been there, pretending not to listen, a faint smirk on his face as the man sang off-key.
The melody rose in Vil’s shattered mind, a simple, aching line of notes.
His magic was gone, spent. His voice was ruined from screaming. But something else was there, bubbling up from a place deeper than craft or power. A raw, unfiltered need.
Vil drew a shuddering, wet breath. He crawled back to the cot, collapsing beside it, his forehead resting against Leona’s cold arm. He opened his mouth, and a broken sound emerged, wobbling and tear-choked.
It was not a siren’s call. It was a human lament.
“There… is a lady… sweet and kind…” he sang, his voice cracking on every syllable, soaked in grief. “Was never face… so pleased my mind…”
The tune was “Jolly Sailor Bold.” It was a death knell, a love song, a lullaby. He sang it through the sobs that kept trying to steal his breath, the words sticking in his raw throat.
He didn’t notice the soft, gold-violet light that began to emanate from his own skin, from the place where his forehead touched Leona’s arm. He didn’t see the faint, answering glow that started deep within the terrible wound on Leona’s shoulder.
Ruggie saw it. He grabbed Jack’s arm, pointing mutely, his mouth agape.
The fragile, dying web of Vil’s earlier magic, still stretched across the injury, began to brighten. Then it strengthened. Threads of light, spun from the raw, unbidden emotion of the song, wove themselves into the damaged flesh with a gentle, relentless urgency. The blackened edges of the wound, where Azul’s corrosive magic had taken hold, flushed with a healthy pink.
New tissue knit over shattered bone. The cavern within Leona’s shoulder filled not with scar, but with seamless repair.
Vil sang, lost in a private ocean of loss, feeling the last of his own warmth seep away into the void he was certain held Leona. He poured every memory, every argument, every reluctant smile into the simple, repeating verses.
He didn’t feel the subtle shift beneath his cheek. He didn’t hear the sharp, sudden intake of breath.
A weak, but unmistakable cough rattled from Leona’s chest.
Vil’s song cut off, his head snapping up. He stared, disbelieving, as Leona’s lashes fluttered. A low, pained groan vibrated in the pirate’s throat, his brows knitting together in familiar irritation.
The glow from the wound faded, leaving behind only smooth, healed skin, pale and new against his tan.
Leona’s eyes opened. They were unfocused, hazy with disorientation and residual agony, but they were green. They were alive. They blinked slowly, searching the ceiling before finding Vil’s stunned, tear-streaked face hovering above him.
His voice was a dry scrape, weaker than a kitten’s, but utterly his own. “Why,” he murmured, his gaze drifting over Vil’s features, “are you singing so badly?”
Vil let out a wet, choked sound that was half a sob and half a laugh. The relief that washed over him was so violent it left him trembling, his muscles unlocking from a clench he hadn’t even felt.
“You miserable, insufferable man,” Vil whispered, his voice cracking. He swiped angrily at his own tears, but they just kept coming. Leona’s brow furrowed, his body tensing as he tried to push himself up on his elbows. A grimace of pain flashed across his face. “Don’t you dare move!” Vil scolded, his hands flying to Leona’s shoulders to gently but firmly press him back down against the cot. “Just lie still. For once in your life, listen.”
The command dissolved. Vil’s scolding hands shifted, his arms wrapping around Leona’s neck instead, careful of the newly healed shoulder. He buried his face in the sweaty, blood-crusted collar of Leona’s shirt, his own shoulders shaking. Hot tears of pure, unadulterated relief streamed down his face, soaking into the fabric.
He held on as if Leona were the only solid thing in a dissolving world. After a long moment, he pulled back just enough to look at him, his amethyst eyes glistening and raw.
“I love you too,” Vil said, the words clear and sure, leaving no room for his usual vanity or Leona’s sarcasm. “So you are absolutely forbidden to die.”
From the doorway came a loud, shuddering sniff. Ruggie was openly weeping, one arm wrapped around his own middle, the other hand covering his mouth. “Boss,” he croaked. Jack stood beside him, a single, thick track of moisture cutting through the grime on his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away, just nodded once, a huge, shaky breath leaving his broad chest.
A ragged cheer erupted from the crew crowded in the passage outside, a cacophony of shouts, laughter, and more than a few choked curses of relief. The sound of clapping backs and stomping boots shook the deck.
The celebration was interrupted by two distinct thumps against the hull, followed by frantic scrambling up the side. Epel burst into the sickbay first, his purple hair plastered to his head, clutching a dripping, intricately carved shell overflowing with luminous water. Rook was right behind him, a swollen waterskin gripped in each hand, his usually perfect demeanor shattered by urgency.
“We have it! We flew! The water—” Epel’s frantic report died in his throat. His wide purple eyes took in the scene: Leona, alive and conscious, Vil clinging to him, the crew weeping with joy. He looked down at the priceless, magic water in his shell, then back at the cot. Rook stumbled to a halt beside him, his green eyes scanning from the healed wound to Vil’s tear-streaked face.
Epel’s lower lip began to quiver. Rook’s composure broke entirely, a brilliant, watery smile spreading across his face as his own eyes filled. They stood there, drenched and exhausted, holding their useless salvation and crying from sheer, bewildered joy.
They stood there, drenched and exhausted, holding their useless salvation and crying from sheer, bewildered joy.
Ruggie was the first to break from the stunned silence, swiping a dirty sleeve across his eyes. “He’s breathing. How is he breathing?” He approached the cot cautiously, as if Leona might be a mirage. He poked the newly healed skin on Leona’s shoulder. It was solid, whole, warm. “It’s… it’s gone.”
“It appears our captain is too stubborn for permanent damage,” Rook said, his voice thick with emotion as he lowered the heavy waterskins. He placed a reverent hand on Vil’s trembling shoulder. “Your song…”
Vil didn’t answer. He was still wrapped around Leona, his face hidden, his own body shaking with the aftershocks. Leona shifted weakly, his hand coming up to rest, heavy and real, on Vil’s back. “You’re crushing me,” he rasped, but his fingers curled into the fabric of Vil’s tunic, holding him there.
“Good,” Vil mumbled into his neck, not letting go.
Epel set the glowing shell of cove water down on a crate with a shaky clatter. “But… we brought this. Is it… does he need it?”
Vil finally pulled back, his face a beautiful, splotchy mess of tears and exhaustion. He looked at the shell, its contents shimmering with a soft, internal light. His own magic had been a desperate, emotional surge, something primal and untrained. The water from the spring was pure, concentrated potential.
“Drink it,” Vil ordered, his voice regaining a sliver of its old command. He took the shell from Epel, his movements deliberate now. “All of it.”
Leona grunted, pushing himself up more fully against the wall. The movement was stiff, but there was no gasp of pain. He took the offered shell, his fingers brushing Vil’s. “Tastes like wet rocks and sentiment,” he muttered, but he tipped it back and drank.
The effect wasn’t as dramatic as the healing, but it was profound. The lingering pallor left his skin, replaced by a healthy, warm tan. The shadow of exhaustion under his eyes faded. He took a deeper, clearer breath, and his shoulders straightened, the last vestiges of trauma washed away by the magic. He was, simply, good as new.
He handed the empty shell back to Vil, their eyes locking. “See? Not dead,” Leona said, the old arrogance seeping back into his tone, softened at the edges.
“Yet,” Vil countered, but the threat had no heat. It was a promise. He stood, his legs unsteady. “Get him to his quarters. Now. All of you, out.”
No one argued. Jack moved in, helping Leona to his feet with a gentleness that belied his size. Leona shook him off after a few steps, insisting on walking himself, but allowed Vil’s steadying hand on his elbow. The crew parted for them, a silent, smiling guard of honor all the way to the captain’s cabin.
The door shut, sealing them in the familiar, cluttered space. The howl of the storm outside was muffled here, down to a persistent rumble. Vil guided Leona to sit on the edge of the large bed, then stood before him, suddenly unsure. The adrenaline was gone, leaving only the stark, quiet reality.
Leona was alive. They were alone. The world outside was in pieces, but in here, there was only this.
Vil didn’t leave his side. He stood there, just looking, as if to memorize the fact of his breathing.
“You scared ten years off my life,” Vil finally said, the words quiet in the cabin’s gloom.
“Payback,” Leona replied, his gaze intense. “For the grey hairs you’ve given me since the day we met.” He reached out, catching Vil’s wrist and pulling him closer, between his knees. “That song… what was that?”
“A mistake,” Vil whispered, looking down at their joined hands. “A human one. It just… happened.”
“Yeah.” Leona’s thumb stroked the inside of Vil’s wrist. “So did we.”
The air between them was thick, charged with everything unsaid. The battle, the bleeding, the confession screamed into the void. Vil opened his mouth, then closed it. The most terrifying thing he’d ever faced wasn’t Azul and his trident.
It was this.
“I meant it,” Vil said, forcing his eyes up to meet Leona’s. “On the floor. I meant all of it.”
“I know,” Leona said, simply. “I heard you. Offering your eternity for a pirate and a maybe.” He shook his head, a faint, incredulous smile touching his lips. “You’re the most ridiculous creature I’ve ever known.”
“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” Vil admitted, shame coloring his cheeks. He let Leona tug him down to sit beside him on the bed. The silence stretched, comfortable and heavy. Vil took a breath, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. “Leona… about the child.”
“Yeah.” Leona’s tone shifted, grew quieter.
“I don’t know what happens next,” Vil said, the words spilling out in a nervous rush. “I’ve never… this wasn’t part of any plan. But I know I want it. I want this, with a desperation that frightens me.” He paused, the fear he’d been carrying finally finding its voice. “Are you… I need to know if you…”
He couldn’t finish. The question lodged in his throat.
Leona stared at him for a long moment, his cat-like eyes unreadable. Then he scoffed, a rough, affectionate sound. “You really are an idiot.”
Vil flinched.
Leona’s hand came up, not to strike, but to cradle Vil’s jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Do you think I shoved you out of the way for my health? Do you think I let that overgrown squid stab me for fun?” His voice was low, gravelly with conviction. “That kid is half you. Half me. It’s the only good thing either of us has ever made that wasn’t a mess.” He leaned forward, his forehead resting against Vil’s. “Of course I want this. I want all of it. The mess, the noise, all of it.”
The relief that flooded Vil was so complete it felt like drowning in light. He let out a shaky breath, his own hands coming up to grip Leona’s arms. “Even the parts that involve land? And… dry clothes?”
“Especially those parts,” Leona murmured, his lips finding Vil’s in a kiss that was less about passion and more about sealing a pact. It was slow, deep, and tasted of salt and magic water and a future they’d almost lost.
When they parted, Vil rested his head against Leona’s shoulder, listening to the strong, steady heartbeat beneath his ear. The storm outside was easing. “What do we do now?”
Leona’s arms wrapped around him, solid and sure. “Now,” he said, his voice a lazy rumble against Vil’s hair, “we sail. We find a place. We build something that doesn’t involve soul contracts or talking fish.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a plan,” Vil said, a real smile finally touching his lips.
“Don’t get used to it,” Leona grumbled, but his hold tightened. “And first, you’re going to sleep. You look terrible.”
Vil didn’t argue. For the first time in longer than he could remember, the weight was not his alone to carry. He closed his eyes, the rocking of the ship a gentle lullaby, anchored by the warm, living certainty of the man beside him.