Captain Fury: Pirate of Berk

31: Waking Up

Advisory: References to wounds and adult situations.

Waking Up

Consciousness slowly crept over Hiccup and he fought against the insidious resumption of light, sound and pain. Finally, disorientated eyes fluttered open and he winced as the light scorched his bleary eyeballs: automatically, he flung an arm across his face and gave a low croaking moan.

Abruptly, a host of sensations crowded him and he fought to make sense of his situation. He was lying on a very soft and very comfortable bed with what felt like a feather counterpane neatly pulled over his aching shape. He was clothed in a very light, very clean and very smooth nightgown that wasn't his and he had no weapons on at all. His side was agonising, sharp pains stabbing as he moved and he could feel linen bandages wound tightly around his body against what felt like stitches pulling at his flesh. His limbs felt bruised and heavy and his throat was very, very sore. Warily, he lifted a hand and traced a finger lightly over the painful weal, feeling hard bruising under his fingers. He sighed and swallowed and that hurt as well.

He rocked his head and as his vision focussed, he found himself in a very fine room with mahogany floors, plastered walls painted a soft green and a full length window bordered by deep green curtains. There was a rug by the bed and an armoire against the far wall. There was no sign of his armour or weapons at all. And he seemed to be alone in the room.

Slowly, he rolled onto his side, a hand pressed hard against his searing wound to try to reduce the pain. Pausing to regain his breath and try to stop his head spinning, he slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position before pausing again and listening. There was silence, soft and pervasive. So he slowly slid his long legs down to the floor, bare feet feeling the thick rug under his feet as he pushed himself upright, his legs wobbling and his head spinning more insistently. Despite the nausea, he lifted his chin and forced himself away from the bed. Grimacing as he started to stumble forward, he fixed his still-dazed forest green eyes on the dark wood door and continued his pained stumble.

It took an age but he finally made the door. The house was eerily quiet and a thought flashed through his mind that maybe he was dead and this was some strange part of Valhalla...or maybe Helheim. He gave a grim smile, his bruised face aching: he probably deserved Helheim with his exploits. He had dedicated his life to revenge, destroyed boats and robbed men without hesitation, fought ferociously and killed more men than he liked to consider. Odin, he had slain his own cousin and Uncle in the battle for Berk! He had been disowned by his father, been betrayed by the woman he loved...whom he had forgiven...and adopted a son.

His head snapped up and he wrestled the door open, grimacing in pain. Arild! The boy had been stabbed by Spitelout... He gave a pained croak. He had instinctively thrown himself in the way of the cowardly vengeful stroke aimed at the only innocent in the game, taking the blow in his son's stead...but he had been struck anyway. Was he alive? Was he dying? Was he dead? He had to know.

He stumbled slowly along the high corridor, the thick deep blue carpet stretching from wall to wall while a quartet of closed doors stretched to his left. Limping along slowly, he reached the first and slowly opened the door ajar: it was empty. The second was also empty but the third held a bed with a small, black-haired shape lying under a pale green quilt. Leaning on the door and breathing hard against pain and the exhaustion from walking a few meagre yards, Hiccup stumbled in hesitantly, his green gaze sweeping over the skinny shape. Arild was still, pale and silent. His legs wavering and heart pounding in his chest, Hiccup slowly limped to his side, his hand still clamped hard against his wound. Until finally, he looked down on the still shape of his son.

"...please...Odin...let him...live...take me...instead..." he croaked, tears burning his eyes as he lifted a hand very slowly to stroke the boy's cheek. And then he realised the boy's skin was cool, not ice cold with death and the skinny chest was rising and falling slightly.