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Consciousness floated back to Hiccup like a petal in the wind: turbulent and fragile.
Fragmented memories scattered in the air around him, but even when he caught one, he couldn't make sense of it enough to understand it. Just flashes of light and color — suffocating darkness, the scratch of ropes, the rolling of a ship upon the waves. The stench of fear and sweat, cracks like thunder in a cloudless sky, screaming, sobbing, someone shouting. Laughter, dark, terrible laughter, pressing in on all sides. And pain. Lots of pain.
He felt it now, all over his body, gnawing his bones and digging into his joints and seeping into his muscles. Burning relentlessly into his left shoulder, arcing like molten blades down his back. His head ached like he'd overindulged in mead, and his stomach roiled with nausea at every surge of pain.
Gods… what had happened to him?
He couldn't bring himself to open his eyes — not yet, not with the way his head pounded in time with his heart — so he extended his other senses, tried to draw in as much information as he could through them.
He seemed to be lying on his stomach on something soft, maybe a bedroll? He could smell the the slight sweetness of grass, feel a cool breeze lift the hairs at the nape of his neck and coast over the skin of his upper back. Uneasiness spiked — where was his tunic? His armor? And his leg — he couldn't feel his prosthetic strapped to what remained of his calf. He had no memory of taking them off, and the alternative, that someone else had done it while he slept, made his skin crawl.
He heard the gentle crackle of a small fire. And footsteps, padding across soft grass, coming closer. And with those footsteps, a low, angry muttering. Even before he recognized the voice, Hiccup's body instinctively tensed, sending fear cascading through him and making the pain pulse louder, hotter.
"…I'm gonna kill him… no one messes with my stuff… I'll wear his skull as a helmet… I'll throw him into a volcano… I don't have a volcano… I'll find one and chuck him in it, gods-damnit!"
But as the mutterer drew closer, his voice came into sharp relief. And raw panic clawed at Hiccup's insides — Dagur.
The panic usurped everything, even the pain and sickness, and Hiccup's eyes snapped open, his breath coming in quick, short pants. And even the short breaths hurt, burned like someone had filled his lungs with lava, like his chest had been trampled by a herd of Gronkles.
Dagur stalked into view. In his arms he carried a bundle of kindling. Hiccup couldn't see much from his vantage point, belly-down on the ground with his head turned to the side, but he and Dagur appeared to be alone in a small clearing. The trees surrounding them looked half-dead, their sparse branches growing gnarled and stunted, what few leaves that remained glowing sickly green in the moonlight. A dying fire burned in the center of a ring of stones a few yards away from where Hiccup lay. Hiccup watched, his heart racing, terror coursing through him, pain suffocating him, as Dagur stomped up to the fire and tossed the kindling into the faltering flame; for a moment, the fire spluttered, then it roared back to merry life.
Hiccup could only see Dagur's boots from this angle, and the second he saw them start to shift in his direction, he slammed his eyes closed, struggling to keep his breath even. He didn't want to let Dagur know he'd woken up, not until he had time to think, to plan, to remember. He had no idea what Dagur had done to him to make him hurt this much, nor why he lay on a comfortable bedroll by a cozy fire. If Dagur had captured him, he would have expected to be bound, maybe gagged, tossed to the side until he woke up and could be of use. It actually scared him more to be treated like a guest rather than a prisoner; what the Hel could Dagur be playing at?
Hiccup tried not to stiffen as he heard Dagur's footsteps circle behind him. It was a wonder, he thought, that Dagur couldn't hear his frantically beating heart. He heard the squeak of leather as Dagur crouched at his back; his breath hitched in terror. But a moment later, fear fled in the face of unbearable agony as something was pressed against his burning shoulder.
He jerked away from the touch, unable to hold in a strangled cry of pain when the motion doubled the pain in his shoulder and back. It felt like his skin was being peeled from his body, like he was burning away into nothing. Over the high-pitched ringing in his ears, he thought he heard Dagur talking, but he couldn't understand it. He just knew the exquisite cacophony of pain, the overwhelming sensations of fire and ice and acid burning deep into his flesh.
He realized what was going to happen seconds before it did. He had no time to get his arms beneath him, to prop himself up, and he doubted he would have had the strength to do so anyway. His nausea turned sharp and sour, his stomach contracted, and he heaved, bile spilling out of his mouth and pooling around his face. A terrifying vision of drowning in a pool of his own vomit rose in his head as he choked and gagged, but then he felt hands — rough and calloused, surprisingly gentle — grip him under the armpits and haul him partially up, supporting him. He somehow managed to hold his head up until he'd finished, but the second his stomach offered an uneasy truce, exhaustion bled into every inch of his battered body, his mind white with agony as all of his injuries protested.
Slowly, the fog in his mind and the ringing in his ears diminished enough for him to hear Dagur, still holding him up, away from his own sick, murmuring, "…easy, brother. You're all right. You got this, Hiccup." His voice sounded odd, almost… soft but with a bitter, angry edge that told Hiccup he could snap at any moment.
"D-Dagur," Hiccup gasped between painful gulps of air (vomiting had filled his chest with acid instead of lava, and every breath ate away a little more of his body, his control). "Wh-wha—?" He couldn't believe the way his voice sounded: shredded, raw, weak.
"Okay, come on," Dagur said, "let's get you on your side."
Somehow, he managed to shift Hiccup off the bedroll and onto his right side in the short grass. The blades tickled his shoulder and arm but not his side; only now did he realize that something — bandages, most likely — had been wrapped tightly around his chest and abdomen. Even in the midst of his physical distress, the uneasiness returned. Who had bandaged him? Dagur? But why? Surely Dagur was the one who had done this to him in the first place? He racked his brain, but he couldn't… he just couldn't remember.
"Okay," Dagur said again, and Hiccup watched his boots as they moved back into his line of sight. "Be right back. Don't move."
Funny, Hiccup thought, because Dagur had to know as well as he did that Hiccup couldn't move at all right now. Even staying conscious took tremendous effort, but he refused to pass out, not before he got answers.
A few minutes later, Dagur returned, this time with a couple of threadbare blankets. He lay one on the ground next to Hiccup, then helped roll him back onto his stomach, then rolled the other one up and wedged it under Hiccup's head, propping him up. Then he sat down within Hiccup's line of sight, and Hiccup got his first good look at his captor.
Dagur looked awful. His face had a sickly pallor, his eyes bright and dancing blithely on the cusp of madness. His skin looked drawn tight over his cheekbones and around his mouth. The remnants of a dark fury lurked in his countenance, sending shivers down Hiccup's spine. He sincerely hoped that whoever Dagur had been plotting to throw into a volcano earlier, it wasn't him. Because someone had certainly incurred the Berserker's wrath, and Hiccup could do literally nothing to stop Dagur for chucking him into a volcano, or burying his axe in his chest, or… or…
The icy weight of horror settled itself over Hiccup like seawater. He'd seen the way Dagur looked at him, still had nightmares about that night on Dragon Island, the way Dagur had kept touching him, grabbing at him and shoving him and pulling him close. He'd suspected that Dagur's interest in him had been more than what it seemed on the surface for a while, but meeting Dagur again on The Reaper had solidified it in Hiccup's mind. The way Dagur had looked him up and down, his eyes roving unabashedly, almost hungrily, the admission that he'd thought about Hiccup every day in prison, the way he still hadn't been able to keep his hands to himself…
If Dagur chose to follow those desires now, Hiccup wouldn't be able to fight him off. Dagur could do anything he wanted to Hiccup, take anything he wanted, and there wasn't a damn thing Hiccup could do to stop him.
But right now, Dagur didn't look particularly interested in hurting Hiccup in that way or any other. He just sat there, sculpted forearms resting on bent knees. Leaning forward, staring at Hiccup with an intense kind of scrutiny. Waiting, Hiccup assumed, but for what, he didn't know. He'd never known the Berserker to be quiet for this long though, and that unnerved him even more.
When Hiccup could stand the charged silence no longer, he cleared his throat and asked, "Wh-what happened?"
Dagur threw his hands up explosively and cursed, and Hiccup jumped, jarring his injuries. He felt bile rise again, but he managed to quell the nausea with a couple of halted breaths through his nose. "You don't remember?" Dagur asked, rage flickering in his eyes. "You don't remember anything?"
"Uh," Hiccup stammered, "I — I remember… some things? Maybe? Just, just snatches. Nothing… nothing concrete." He stopped talking and focused on breathing; he felt like he'd just finished climbing a mountain. Though why he would climb a mountain instead of flying—
A thrill of alarm shot through him. "Where's Toothless?" he demanded, maneuvering his arms beneath him and struggling to push himself up; the pain in his back crescendoed and white spots popped in front of his eyes. "What — what did you do with him?"
"Hiccup, you need to — stop trying to — Hiccup, LIE DOWN!" Dagur screeched at the top of his lungs.
The screamed command had its intended effect: Hiccup froze, heart throwing itself desperately against his aching rib cage, then he slowly, painfully, lowered himself back down. Dagur had risen to his knees, but now he sat back, apparently satisfied. Hiccup glared up at him with all the vitriol he could summon. "Where's my dragon, Dagur?" he asked in a low, steady voice.
Dagur spread his arms wide. "Not here," he answered unhelpfully.
Hiccup scowled. "I didn't ask… ask you where he isn't," he snapped. Gods, he couldn't get his breath!
"Look, man, I genuinely have no idea. He wasn't with you when the Dragon Hunters grabbed you off your island."
Hiccup closed his eyes, thinking hard. Straining to remember anything. If Dagur was telling the truth — and somehow Hiccup could sense that he was — then why would Hiccup be without Toothless? He and Toothless were together most of the time. He must have been feeling really stressed or overwhelmed to need a break from even Toothless…
The memories meandered back slowly at first, and not in the right order: Barf and Belch in his hut, sparking an explosion; an avalanche, being snatched from the air and then tumbling to the earth, desperately trying to reconnect with Toothless; broken prosthetics; Snotlout punching him in the face; hanging upside down while Barf and Belch happily butted him between their heads…
And then the memories picked up speed and some semblance of order: Stalking through the woods, trying to think, to calm down; a bag being thrown over his head; hands yanking him back, wrestling his arms behind his back and binding him tightly; Dagur and Ryker and a handful of Hunters sneering down at him on a ship sailing away from the Edge—
"Oh, gods," Hiccup breathed. Something itched at the back of his mind, something sinister, something that begged him to pick at it, to allow it to bleed into his memories, but terror filled him at the very thought of what that something might hold. Everything he'd just remembered, he knew instinctively that it paled in comparison to what had come after, and he feared that if he allowed himself to remember, he might never be the same. So he pushed it aside, pretended it wasn't there, beckoning him, cajoling him. He didn't want it. Instead, he focused on the fact that Toothless truly hadn't been captured with him, that he was safe. And he asked Dagur, "Where's Ryker? What happened to the ship?"
Dagur studied him sullenly for a couple of seconds, then jumped to his feet with the suddenness and ferocity of a Whispering Death erupting from the earth. Again, Hiccup jumped, and the pain, which had receded in the onslaught of chaotic memories, flared. He barely managed to bite back a groan and instead tracked Dagur warily with his eyes as he paced and pulled at his ragged beard.
"I didn't plan to do it," Dagur muttered, more to himself than to Hiccup. "I allied with the Dragon Hunters for a reason! I lost everything when you got me thrown in prison — my tribe, my armada, my wealth! I needed to start over, and the Hunters are wealthy. I figured I'd work with them for a while, start saving up gold, work on building up my armada again, and then take my revenge on you and your Night Fury!"
Hiccup narrowed his eyes. He had no idea where Dagur was going with this and couldn't be sure that Dagur did either. With a huff, Dagur plopped back to the ground, deflated. "I thought I'd enjoy seeing you get what was coming to you. I mean, you destroyed my life, threw me in prison, and foiled me at every turn! And it was fun, at first! But Ryker… what he did, the way he did it. And then, when he — well, you don't remember, but it was the final straw. I said it three years ago, Hiccup. I said you were mine, that no one else gets to hurt you except me."
Hiccup's skin writhed at Dagur's words; the idea of being claimed, of Dagur wanting to possess him like an object… it sent chills of revulsion down his spine. And the thing in the back of Hiccup's mind twitched again, reached out inky tendrils, begging him to look, to take a peek, to remember…
Dagur had started talking again; probably he had never stopped. His voice had risen both in pitch and volume. "…so later, when everyone else was occupied, I sneaked to your cell, busted you out, and stole the rowboat."
Hiccup blinked, his brain mired in pain and fog. "So… you're saying… you rescued me?"
Dagur laughed, loud and high and long and discordant. Hiccup desperately wanted to back away but even the slightest hint of movement set his back, chest, and shoulder alight. Dagur cackled for a good minute or so before abruptly changing course; in an instant, no trace of mirth remained on his face. "Yeah," he said, almost self-consciously. Then, as if to himself, "Why the Hel did I do that?"
Hiccup didn't answer — mostly because he had no idea, either. The decision to free Hiccup from the Dragon Hunters, to sever his alliance with the people who could have aided his rise back to power, contradicted everything Hiccup knew of the man. "So…" Hiccup prompted, "thanks for, uh, saving me? C-can you… get me back to my… my friends now?"
Dagur snapped out of his daze, irritation sparking across his face. "Excuse me?" he growled. "I risked my life, put a target on my own freaking back, ruined my alliance with the Dragon Hunters to save you, and you think I'm just gonna let you go back to your friends? Come on, I may have saved you from the Hunters, but we both know I'm no hero."
Hiccup's heart sank, fear bubbled up once more, shortening his labored breaths even further. "What in Thor's name d-do you even want with me?"
Dagur eyed Hiccup in a manner that reminded him far too much of a Deathsong considering its trapped and terrified prey. "Dunno," he said. "But I thought about you every day for three years, brother. I'm not just gonna let you go."
Hiccup felt the sting of tears bite at the corners of his eyes, but he pushed them back. Lying here, entire body screaming in agony, with no idea of what had happened to cause said agony, too weak and injured to even sit up, let alone fight Dagur off or escape, no armor, no tunic, no prosthetic… Hiccup had never felt so vulnerable, unsure, exposed. And the myriad unknowns bore down on him, slashing their talons of doubt and dread deep into his flesh. Bad enough that he was still a prisoner. But having no idea what Dagur planned to do with him? Of whether his friends had noticed him missing yet? If they'd be able to track him to whatever uninhabited little island Dagur had dragged him to? His breath caught in his chest, sending stabs of pain through his ribs, and a small whine escaped from his throat.
To his surprise, Dagur's fierce expression softened the tiniest bit at his distress. "Hey, calm down, okay? First things first, we gotta get you well enough to move."
Hiccup's desperation curdled into anger. "I don't want your help. And I'm not going anywhere with you."
Dagur snorted. "So what you're saying is you'd rather die from infection than let me take care of you?"
Hiccup's fury blotted out reason. "That about sums it up, yes."
Dagur's face darkened. "Too bad. I didn't get you off that godsforsaken ship just to watch you die."
"Whatever you plan to do with me, I have a feeling death would be preferable!" Hiccup growled back. Gods, everything hurt! The nausea was steadily building again, and his head hurt so damn much, and he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep and pray that when he woke up, he'd be back at the Edge, with Toothless, with his friends.
Dagur's fists clenched and for a terrible moment, Hiccup thought his captor was about to hit him. But slowly, the tension eased, and Dagur's expression evened out. Hiccup found himself almost impressed — he hadn't known that Dagur possessed any measure of self-control. (But if that was what impressed him, then the bar was literally in Helheim.)
"I am not letting you die, Hiccup. So either you lie still and let me check your back and treat your burn, or I tie you down. Your choice."
Hiccup felt his own control slipping at Dagur's words; the idea of being tied down brewed a whirling tempest of panic inside him. And at the mention of a burn, Hiccup's grip on the present began to slip through his fingers and the something in the back of his mind grew bigger and darker and pulled him in, thrusting the memories he didn't want, the things he was terrified to remember, into his unwilling hands.
He slipped into the past, he remembered, the memories throwing themselves at him urgently, violently—
Ryker didn't want to simply torture Hiccup. He wanted to make a spectacle of it, to humiliate him on top of the pain.
Hunters dragged him to his feet, sliced through the ropes around his arms and wrists, threw him to the deck at Ryker's feet. "Armor and tunic off," Ryker ordered, eyes glittering in malicious anticipation. Slightly behind him, Dagur grinned, eyes never leaving Hiccup. Watching. Waiting.
"What? No!"
"You undress, or we do it for you," Ryker growled. His dark, soulless eyes flickered to Dagur. "I can think of one person who will be eager to volunteer."
Hiccup's stomach churned at the implication. He had no desire to undress in front of anyone, especially his enemies, especially Dagur. But having his armor and tunic forcibly removed would be far worse. So with shaking hands, he worked the buckles of his armor. The second he'd removed it, a Hunter snatched it out of his hands and tossed it aside. Sickened, feeling a horrible sense of violation creeping like gooseflesh across his skin, Hiccup pulled his tunic up, over his head. He avoided Dagur's eyes, but he felt them on his bare chest anyway, and he crossed his arms over his front protectively. It did nothing to stave off the chilly night air and even less to protect him from all the eyes boring into him. By this point, more Hunters had gathered around, completely encircling Hiccup and his tormentors, jeering and catcalling and making lewd comments that made Hiccup's face burn.
Ryker asked him again about the Dragon Eye, what he had learned from it. Hiccup refused, even knowing what was coming. He couldn't — he wouldn't — put innocent dragons at risk to save himself a beating. Whatever Ryker dished out, he could take.
Ryker was as strong as he looked, and he possessed far more control than Hiccup gave him credit for. Every hit, every kick, was precise, controlled. He mostly stuck to Hiccup's torso, his ribs especially, but although he bruised and battered, he did not break, and Hiccup knew that was only because he didn't want to — yet. All the while, Dagur watched, arms crossed over his chest, a strange look blooming on his face. Hiccup kept expecting him to jump in, to demand a turn, but instead he just stood there rigidly and glared.
Finally, when Hiccup let loose a particularly nasty string of curses aimed at Ryker's mother, Ryker's control slipped. The crack of Hiccup's ribs breaking rent the air, silencing the laughter of the watching crowd for a single moment before spurring it on, even louder. Agony lanced through Hiccup's chest, so acute that it absorbed everything but itself, made Hiccup forget where he was or what had happened, only that he hurt and he couldn't breathe…
He slowly came back to himself, and his eyes landed first on Dagur. The Berserker's jaw was tight, his eyes blazing, his fists balled so tightly veins popped in his arms. Hiccup didn't understand, but he hurt too much to care. Hiccup had only just gotten some of his breath back when Ryker grabbed his hair, shoved his face into Hiccup's, asked him again about the Dragon Eye.
Hiccup spat in his face.
Everything happened too quickly after that — Ryker backhanded him so brutally across the face that Hiccup blacked out for a couple of seconds, and when he came to, Hunters were shoving him back to the mast. They spun him around to face it, pushed him to his knees. A couple men wrapped Hiccup's arms around it and clamped manacles around his wrists, securing him tightly. Hiccup's arms were barely long enough to reach, so he had no slack; his wrists ached and his arms screamed at the pull on his joints and muscles.
Ryker didn't ask him a question this time. Hiccup jolted as something cracked in the air close to his head; Hiccup only had this warning of what was to come a second before the whip sliced into his back. The sound it made against Hiccup's flesh was like thunder, and the pain like lightning. Hiccup threw his head back and screamed; he hadn't meant to, didn't want to give Ryker the satisfaction, but the pain burned like a line of Fireworms parading down his spine.
And Ryker wasn't done. He didn't ask any more questions, not until the whip had fallen again and again and again… Hiccup lost count of how many stripes the leather cut into his back. He felt the wounds weeping blood, felt it dripping down his back, soaking into the waist of his pants. He sobbed, he thrashed, he screamed. Ryker only stopped when Hiccup's shouts had dwindled into weak whimpers. His torturer's breath came shallow and ragged; the bastard had winded himself whipping Hiccup.
"Here, Dagur," the Dragon Hunter said, his voice sliding down Hiccup's blood-slicked back like sludge. Oh, gods, was it not over? "Want a turn?"
But to his surprise, Dagur's response came clipped, harsh, and filled with barely restrained rage. "No, thanks. I'm just happy to watch." But he didn't sound happy at all.
To Hiccup's relief, he heard the whip fall to the deck. He rested his forehead against the rough wood of the mast, tried to stem the tears flowing freely down his cheeks. His breath came in hitched, desperate sobs, and with each one, it felt like his ribs breaking all over again.
Then a hand found the hair at the top of his head, and Ryker wrenched his head back hard — Hiccup yelped at the sudden, sharp pain in his scalp. He felt Ryker's hot breath on his ear as the man leaned in close. "Are you sure," he whispered, "you don't want to tell me about that Dragon Eye?"
"Go to Helheim," Hiccup snapped.
Ryker just chuckled and wrenched Hiccup's head to the side, eliciting another cry of pain. "Are you sure?" he asked again, and he held something up for Hiccup to see, lit from behind by the guttering light of an enormous torch. Hiccup's blood turned to ice, his heart pounded a frantic tattoo against his broken ribs. His breath came short and shallow, his vision narrowed to the horrible glowing thing in Ryker's hand.
Terror surged through his bloodstream in a drowning cataract, and he renewed his struggles against the manacles, feeling splinters digging into his bare chest. Oh gods, oh gods, oh no, please, gods, no —
He couldn't give them any information. He couldn't. But if he didn't, then Ryker would do something unspeakable to him, take his identity and freedom and personhood, ravage his future, destroy him with one little sigil.
If he didn't tell them what they wanted to hear, Ryker would brand him.
Hiccup opened his mouth, whether to cave and tell them something, anything to avoid this fate (he'd lie, he'd give them false or harmless information), or to double down on his refusal, even Hiccup didn't know. But it didn't matter. He'd hesitated for too long, and Ryker wanted to brand Hiccup. He'd probably have gone ahead and done it even if Hiccup had told him what he wanted to hear.
The Dragon Hunter sigil seared into the flesh of his left shoulder, so hot that at first he didn't even feel it. He heard the sizzle of hot metal meeting skin, smelled the reek of burning flesh, heard the crowd behind him go quiet. And then he felt it — pain so consuming, a hundred times worse than any burn he'd gotten working in the forge, like one of the Fireworm dragons migrating down his back had made its nest in his flesh, curled up on his shoulder and cooked him while it slept. Fresh tears rolled down his face, he writhed in his bonds. A tinny ringing filled his ears and his vision faded at the edges. He felt himself detach from reality, the pain too much, too intense, too everything.
He didn't exactly pass out, not right away. But his body slumped against the mast, and his eyes slipped shut, tears still falling freely. His battered body shook with sobs that he couldn't control. He cried because of the pain, because of the mark burned into his flesh, because of what it could mean for his future and the future of his tribe.
He did not go gently into unconsciousness, but fitfully, filled with terror and dread and shame and all the scuttling uncertainties of a future going up in flame.
"…brother?"
Hiccup blinked back to the present. Silent tears slipped down his cheeks. Oh, gods. Ryker had branded him, marked him as property of the Dragon Hunters. Even if he escaped from Dagur, he wouldn't truly be free. If anyone found out that he had been marked as the property of another…
Hiccup nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand brushed his arm. Hiccup jerked away, panting in pain and horror. "Don't touch me!" he cried. "Get away from me!"
Adrenaline propelled him up to his knees; he swayed but did not fall. He couldn't walk, wouldn't have been able to even if he'd had his leg, but it didn't matter. He just wanted to get away. He started to crawl, knowing he would never get far, that he couldn't escape his captor or the reality of what had happened to him.
But damn it, he could try.
Ultimately, Dagur didn't even need to chase after him. Hiccup's arms gave out after only a few shuffled paces and he collapsed onto his front, humiliated, hurting so much he could barely comprehend the pain. To his surprise, Dagur didn't rage at his pitiful attempt at escape. He just stood with a heavy sigh, grabbed Hiccup firmly by the right arm, and heaved him to his foot. His arm pressed into Hiccup's shredded back, but Hiccup was more concerned with the hand clamped around his waist, keeping him upright. Dagur carried more than supported Hiccup back to the bedroll, and carefully lowered him to a sitting position. Hiccup swayed but managed to stay upright, curling his right knee to his throbbing chest and folding his left leg beneath him. He wrapped his arms around his knee and dropped his head onto it.
"Ryker branded me," he whispered, and he didn't even recognize his own voice. It was too timid, too scared, too cracked. Too broken.
"Yeah," Dagur said, settling himself beside Hiccup. A weighted pause. "I tried to stop him. And afterwards, I was so mad I almost…" He chuckled humorlessly. "I may be deranged, but even I know better than to kill a man on his own ship while surrounded by men loyal to him."
"Why do you even care?" Hiccup asked. All the fight had drained out of him. A hollow had opened in his chest, deeper than his broken ribs, sucking everything but the physical pain into it. The fear, the panic, the rage all disappeared into the gaping blackness, rotting there with the last vestiges of his hope.
Dagur shifted uneasily beside him. He sat so closely their arms brushed. Hiccup didn't have it in him to recoil. "I told him, when I suggested capturing you to get your Dragon Eye knowledge, that I didn't care what he did to you, but that in the end, you were mine." A spark of revulsion rose up in Hiccup but flickered and died as the hollow consumed it. "And I don't like it when people take my stuff."
Perhaps something of himself remained, because at Dagur's words, a heat as terrible as the one on his shoulder rose up inside Hiccup. "I'm not yours. And I'm not theirs, either. I'm a person. Not a possession."
Dagur considered this for a moment. "Not in the eyes of Viking Law. Not really, anymore." The anger faltered, the hollow surged. Dagur was right. But then —
"But if anyone could change that, it would be you, Hiccup."
Hiccup glanced sidelong at Dagur, who stared stoically forward, the calmest and sanest Hiccup had ever seen him. "Why are you saying this? I thought you wanted — I mean, you said—"
"I know what I said!" Dagur shouted, then mellowed like nothing had ever happened. "But I don't think I like this version of Hiccup."
"The tainted version?" Hiccup snarled back.
"The defeated version."
This made Hiccup pause. "I don't understand."
Dagur laughed, but this time it wasn't loud or long or deranged. Just a little lost. Melancholy. "Me either."
A beat. "I really want to go back to my friends," Hiccup said. "I need them right now."
"Yeah," said Dagur, almost forlornly. "I know you do."
"So…?" Hiccup prompted. Maybe, just maybe, if he got back to Toothless, to his friends, he would be okay. He could get through this, he could find his way out of the darkness, purge the ravenous pit from inside of him. But alone, Dagur's prisoner? He didn't think he stood a chance.
"Let me treat you," Dagur said. "You can't move anytime soon, anyway."
"Dagur, please—"
"Huh," Dagur said, bemused. "I thought I'd like begging. Not really a fan of it either. Kinda a bummer."
The hope he'd thought had been consumed clawed its way up, poked its head out of the pit the tiniest bit. "Maybe you're not the same person you used to be," Hiccup ventured. "Maybe… something's changed?" Hiccup couldn't imagine how any of this would have changed anything in the Berserker, but maybe, if somehow, Dagur's hatred had shifted into something less violent…?
"I told you, Hiccup," Dagur snapped. "I'm not a hero."
"Yeah," Hiccup said. "I know."
A heavy silence. Then Dagur stood, and shook himself — honest to Norns shook himself like a dog — and said, "Okay, that's enough emotions for today."
Hiccup stared up at him, confused at the sudden, manic urge to laugh. Instead, he watched Dagur wander to the fire and stoke it, then grab a couple of corked clay jars and a clean cloth from a bag by the fire. "What's in the jars?" Hiccup asked warily.
"Water," said Dagur. Hiccup relaxed slightly. "And a disinfectant." Hiccup's heart stuttered; his whole body tensed. "Honey, vinegar, and thyme, I think? Grabbed these and some bandages before I broke you out, because they sure as Hel weren't going to treat your wounds."
"Dagur, take me back to my friends," Hiccup insisted. "Fishlegs is a healer. He can treat me."
"I told you, Hiccup, you don't need to be moved right now. Besides, I haven't decided what I'm going to do with you yet."
Hiccup's stomach turned. Trying to have a conversation with Dagur was like wandering around lost in the wilderness. Terrifying, confusing, and more than a little maddening. And it got you nowhere.
"Dagur—"
"Enough, Hiccup." Dagur didn't shout, he didn't scream, he didn't spiral into an embodiment of chaotic rage. He sounded worn, and tired, and about as lost as Hiccup felt. And that, more than anything else, gave Hiccup pause. "Now," Dagur said, "lie down on your stomach. I have to clean your wounds, and it's gonna hurt like Hel. Do you think you can be still and let me do that, or do I need to get out the rope?"
Hiccup ground his teeth together so hard they creaked, but he nodded. "Fine. You can treat me."
Dagur bared his teeth in a triumphant grin. "Finally! You're a hard nut to crack, Hiccup, I'll give you that."
"You didn't crack me," Hiccup snapped, surprised to realize he meant it. "A good strategist knows when to concede on small things in order to prevail in bigger ones."
"Sure, sure." Dagur waved him off distractedly, then sat down beside him as Hiccup lowered himself to his stomach, gasping at the pain ripping through his chest.
The revived hope dug its fingers in, stolidly refusing to fall back into the pit. It hauled itself up, squirmed and wriggled and crawled its way out. It lay on the edge of the pit, panting but alive, not daring to glance back down, lest it fall again.
Hiccup couldn't put his finger on it, but something had shifted. Something had changed between himself and Dagur. Dagur had changed, if only a little. And if he could rescue Hiccup, could put his own life and future on the line to get him away from Ryker, if he could sit here, ready to clean and dress Hiccup's wounds, then surely, surely anything was possible.
He'd escape, or maybe Dagur would, improbable as it was, let him go. He could get back to his friends. Together, they'd figure out how to move forward. He could, somehow, navigate the brand and the torture and the fear and shame and helplessness and soul-sickness festering in his mind, his heart, his body. Maybe, someday, the hollow pit inside of him could shrink.
But for now, he settled himself on his stomach, breathed as deeply as he could through the agony in his ribs, and reluctantly allowed his greatest enemy to take care of him. No matter how wrong it felt, no matter how much it scared him. Because in order to heal, he had to get back to his friends, and in order to get back to his friends, he had survive.
Just survive, he told himself as he felt Dagur slice through the bandages, felt the sting of the chilly night air on the open wounds and bit his lip against a rising cry of pain. Just survive, and worry about the rest later.
Hiccup's whole body tensed at the sound of a bottle uncorking, but it turned out to be the water. Dagur brought it to Hiccup's lips, helped him drink — Hiccup drank long and deep, the cool water soothing his abused throat. All too soon, Dagur pulled it away. Hiccup huffed in protest, then jerked back with a shout as the jar was replaced with something else: a length of scratchy fabric pushed gently but firmly between his teeth.
Hiccup struggled against the gag — Dagur said he wouldn't restrain him if he didn't fight! — but Dagur tied it off and grabbed Hiccup's face, forcing him to still his weak struggles and look at him. "I don't think we were followed, but just in case, we gotta keep you quiet. This is going to hurt, and if they hear you scream…" Hiccup forced his breathing to something approaching steady and wrenched his face out of Dagur's grasp. Dagur chuckled. "Guess I should've told you that before I… Yeah, okay. Makes sense. I'm still getting used to this whole 'treating wounds instead of causing them' thing."
Hiccup rolled his eyes but lay his head down on the bedroll, trying to calm his racing heart, trying to brace himself for the pain ahead. He tried not to focus on the way the gag rubbed the corners of his mouth raw, or the way it hurt his jaw, or the way it had been tied just a little too tightly at the back of his head. Instead, he breathed. In, pain, out, pain, in, pain, out, pain.
In the end, Hiccup almost wished he had taken Dagur up on the restraints. Lying still while his mangled back was cleaned, disinfected, and re-bandaged was all but impossible, the pain tearing muffled screams from his aching throat, making his body shake and jerk and writhe to get away. But he mostly managed it, and Dagur's hands remained oddly gentle. He worked quietly, quickly.
When he pressed a cool cloth to Hiccup's burn, Hiccup bucked as the pain exploded to treacherous new life, but after a couple of seconds, the intensity faded, the pain dulled, and Hiccup's body wilted in relief. Exhaustion rolled over him in waves, and his eyes slipped shut. He knew it would be sleep, real sleep, that he would sink into this time, not unconsciousness, and he was too fatigued, too wrung out by all he had been through, that he couldn't even muster up any concern about sleeping around Dagur.
He barely felt the gag being loosened and pulled from his mouth, or the hands arranging him more comfortably on the bedroll, draping a light blanket over his bandaged back, carefully avoiding the burn on his shoulder. He might have dreamed the gentle, tentative fingers gliding through his sweat-soaked hair before drawing reluctantly away.
He didn't hear the footsteps padding away, or the weary sigh as Dagur sat by the fire. Didn't see the firelight reflecting the confusion in his eyes, and the war raging in his soul.