He doesn't really know what to do with his hands, at this point: Jon clings clumsily, reluctant to let go, even with Martin's robe seeping oceanwater up his sleeves. They shiver together, like that, both blind and shameless with the relief of it.

"No, I..." He breathes a laugh, shaky and incredulous. There's a cracked note in it, only a few steps shy of hysteria: Martin put a knife through his heart, and they came back as squid. "Well, I'm no more dead than you. And we're both alive enough to be here, for better or worse."

For weeks he's paced this shore, and the cobblestone streets, grasping at threads of memory. For weeks he's felt it just beyond his reach, feverish with nearly knowing. Martin has hung just out of sight like a ghost. It could have gone on for years; it could have gone on forever. (He can half-remember places like that, crowded in at that same edge of his awareness, a hundred Lonely hells of never quite remembering.)

But they made it. They're here. They've washed up somewhere else.