Kaiba climbed to unsteady feet and looked around. Marik, Mai, and Téa were still out cold, as was Ryou. Yami had taken over for his hikari; still jacketless and sneezing, he was shivering violently, and his face was frighteningly pale. Otogi and Tristan weren't much better. At the moment they were huddled back-to-back; Tristan had spread his coat the best he could over his four unconscious friends. (Actually, he'd tried to give it to Yugi, but the young duelist had refused it.)
"Morning, Kaiba."
"Morning, mutt." Neither said 'good'; it wasn't. The rivals were the only two left who were still mostly functional. Joey's eyes were dull and lifeless, though, and he stumbled with every step.
Joey cast an anxious look at his friends. "D'ya think they're gonna be all right?" he asked softly.
"I don't know, Joey. I really don't."
Joey raised an eyebrow at him. "So now I'm Joey, eh?" he said. "Not mutt? Or Chihuahua?"
The young CEO shrugged. "The way I see it, we're probably all going to die here. You might as well get a little respect this once."
"Thanks…Seto." They fell silent, standing side-by-side and watching over their weakening friends. The wind howled around them, blowing wisps of Joey's hair into Kaiba's mouth. He spat them out. Joey turned and smirked at him. Kaiba glared back. Then Joey's smirk began to fade, and suddenly he collapsed, landing face-first in the snow.
"Joey!" Yami struggled to his feet, only to fall back to his knees almost immediately. Kaiba hesitated. Then he reached down and gently lifted the Brooklyn blonde's limp form in his arms and carried him over to where Yami lay, and stretched him out at the duelist's side. Yami gathered him into his arms.
"Thank you, Kaiba," he murmured.
"Here. Take this."
Yami glanced up and his eyes widened in surprise. Kaiba was holding out his trenchcoat. "No, I can't," he protested. "You need that."
"I'll be fine. Take it." Hesitantly, the former Pharaoh reached up and took hold of the long white coat; it was still warm. He tried to wrap it around Joey, but his trembling fingers refused to respond properly. Elegant, steady hands reached down and pulled the coat around first Joey and then himself, and he felt warmth begin to seep slowly into his frozen body.
"Kaiba, I…I can't thank you enough," he whispered.
"Then don't."
Gods, it's cold. I don't know how Yugi could stand it for so long. Kaiba glanced over at where all of his companions lay, unconscious or asleep, arms wrapped around each other and covered with every coat he could find. He prayed that they were all right. He'd become strangely attached to them over the last two weeks; he was afraid of what would happen to him if they were to die.
Not, of course, that he dared to hope otherwise. He knew they were all doomed. He'd known it since they'd first arrived on the god-forsaken island. His stomach twisted painfully, and he grimaced. Even on the off-hand chance they didn't all freeze to death, they would undoubtedly starve. Something cold was burning into the skin on his chest, and he pulled it out; it was his locket. Mokuba…gods, Mokuba, I'm so sorry…I never meant to leave you, I swear! Gods, I'm sorry… Scalding tears streamed down his face.
Then his head snapped up, and his ears strained. He thought he'd heard something. My imagination, he finally decided, feeling his heart sinking back into his stomach. But no – there it was again!
"Land ahoy!" The call was distant, faint, but it was there, and that was enough. Kaiba clambered to feet he couldn't feel and stumbled forward, waving his arms over his head and yelling.
"Hey! Over here! Help! This way – help!" He didn't notice as his feet entered the water. "This way!" Pausing for a second, he shaded his eyes and scanned the horizon. There it was, not more than a mile away - the fact that it was a sailing ship, the likes of which hadn't been seen in over a hundred years, never even registered in his mind. All he knew was that they were saved.
He kept waving and yelling, ecstatic, as a small boat was lowered into the water and rowed towards the island. He yelled right up until the time blackness crowded into his vision and he fell forward into the icy waters.
------------------
"How are they, sir?"
Stephen Maturin, practicing physician, shook his head. "Not so wonderfully. They're all starved nearly to death, and not a one of them escaped frostbite. It's a wonder they're alive."
"Can you do anything for them?"
"I can try, but…I worry. I can't promise anything. Raise the sails again; return to our original course."
"Yes, sir." Trask, ranked an able seaman in the English Navy, raised a knuckle to his forehead in salute and ran forward with the orders. Stephen watched him go with a sigh, then headed belowdecks to look after the refugees and make a new entry in his journal.
'So many dead,' he wrote. 'I have entered in the log all of the Rohir's deaths, and was dismayed to find that the list includes over half of the persons on the ship. This plus the missing prize crews that we left behind so long ago means we now sail with only a quarter of the men we started with. I am of the strong opinion that James Dillon would be able to cope with this situation, and I know my dear friend Jack Aubrey could, but JD is long dead and JA is lying only feet away in his hammock, too weak to move. His wound has not improved; I fear an infection has set in. If he does not begin to recover within the week I fear he too will die.
'I am now in one of those tight situations JA was always so fond of informing me about. As the ship's surgeon – oh, how I hate the word – I should be spending all my time with my patients; as the captain I should be on deck as often as possible, bolstering the crew and all that nonsense. I will not even bring into consideration the fact that had I never signed on with JA in the first place I should even now be comfortably ashore in a warm house and all the potatoes I could eat, not trapped in this wooden prison on low rations and lower hope. I count it a blessing that our navigator Mr Marshall is still alive. If it were not for him, we would have no chance whatsoever; as it is there is still a minute possibility that we may be able to limp into a port in the south of Africa.'
Stephen looked up as Jack Aubrey, rightful master and commander of the Rohir, gave a quiet cough.
"Ah, Jack, you're awake," he said with forced cheerfulness.
"At the moment," the wide-shouldered blonde agreed. "How do we fare?"
"We're still on the same course, running under every canvas that hasn't been reduced to shreds," Maturin said. "Your man Trask has been exceedingly helpful, now that I've lost Dillon. He is acting as both the master and my – what do you say – cotswain."
"Coxswain, my dear doctor, cox'n; with an 'X.'" The captain smiled at his friend's severe lack of nautical understanding. "Tell me, how does the crew stand sailing under a commander so inexperienced as yourself?"
The physician returned the smile. "I just tell them where we need to go. They work out the rest." His mask slipped into a frown for an instant when Aubrey's laughing turned into a wracking cough, but he covered it by turning to reach for a glass of water. He produced a small jar of powder from his pocket and sprinkled it into the cup, swilling it around. "Here, drink this. It's cold, I'm afraid – everything is these days, it seems – but it'll help that cough."
Aubrey swallowed it gratefully. "I don't know what I should have done without you," he said after a moment.
Halfway through the door, the physician turned to look back at his friend. "You'd have found a way, I'm sure of it."