Outside, I find Chief Boggs in the exact same spot. "Did you find what you were looking for?" he asks.
I hold up the purple bud in answer and then stumble past him. I must have made it back to my room, because the next thing I know, I'm filling a mug with water from the tub and sticking the lavender in it. I sink to my knees on the cold, splintery wood and squint at the flower, as the purple seems hard to focus on in the stark fluorescent light.
My fingers interlace with the strings on my sleeves and I pull them tight. Twisting like a tourniquet, hurting my right forearm. I'm hoping the pain will help me hang on to reality. I must hang on. I must know the truth about what has happened.
There are two possibilities, although the details associated with them vary. First, as I've believed, that Alvin has sent the armada of dragons, ignited the barrels and sacrificed his citizens lives, knowing the Vikings would go to their aid. There's evidence to support this. Alvin's compound was the last to burn from within the city. It's possible he just let the dragons free, assuming they'd be too crazed to stop burning the city to the ground.
Then there's Alvin's account. That the dragons were sent by someone on my own team. My own side. That they sent them out to bomb the citizens to bring a speedy end to the war. But if that's the case, why were the Vikings working so desperately to evacuate the citizens? And why was my father and everyone else running in a blind panic to find me if it was part of their plan? Did the element of surprise throw them? And why would they do it knowing their own men would break through the haze just to save the enemy people?
They wouldn't.
They couldn't.
Alvin's lying.
Manipulating me as he always has. Hoping to turn me against my own people and possibly destroy them. Yes. Of course.
Then what's nagging at me? Those double-exploding barrels for one. Then there's the fact that Alvin made no escape attempt, when I know him enough to be the consummate survivor. It seems hard to believe that he didn't have a retreat somewhere, some bunker stocked with provisions where he could live out the rest of his snaky little life.
And finally there's his assessment on Mildew. What's irrefutable is that he's done exactly what Alvin said. Let the Vikings and Outcasts run each other into the ground and then sauntered up to blame the dragons like he always would. Even if it was his plan, it doesn't mean he's the one who sent the dragons in. Victory was already in our grasp.
Except me.
I recall the unknown Outcast ally when I was watching him die. And my own thoughts. I'm the face of the rebellion. I have more influence than any other single person. Any words that come out of my mouth practically turns to gold. Could that be it? Did Mildew send the dragons into the city and have them destroy everything just to show me that they're nothing but destructive animals? So that if I were to say get rid of them, no one would question me?
Suddenly, I'm thinking of Savage. Who perished at the hilt of my knife. He said, "Alvin, not responsible." Did he mean he wasn't responsible for the death of Skullette like I had assumed? If I were to look at it from a different perspective, it would appear that the dragons' fire ignited the barrels therefore causing the explosion and death. Thereby making them the reason why Skullette's dead.
Making them appear wild. Feral. Mad. Branding them as psychotic.
Un-trainable.
Did Mildew really do it, hoping that losing Skullette would push me over the edge? Or, at least firmly on his side? The side saying that dragons are monsters and nothing more, and never will be anything more. I wouldn't even have had to witness the thing in person. Just looking at the Chief Boggs alone would be enough.
No, now I am going crazy, slipping into some state of hysteria. Too many people would've known about it. Word would get out. Or would it? Who would've known besides Mildew? No one like him, let alone trusts him. He could've kept the whole thing to himself. Making it easier.
I badly need to work this out, only everyone I trust is dead. Mulch. Hunter. Skullette. There's Bucket, but he couldn't do more than speculate, and who knows what state of mind he's in anyway. My father's out of the question. Now that Alvin's case has been decided, he's too caught up in his own agenda. Plus I don't want to stress his any further; especially after the Savage incident.
I refuse to talk with Astrid simply because I'm stuck on the illogical idea that she's trying to win my affection now that Skullette's out of the picture. It's unfair, I know and I have no right to wrongfully accuse her of such an idea. But the nagging inside me refuses to let the idea slip into the silence. So I let it settle.
That leaves only Toothless. It's not like it'll be unusual for me to talk to him. I have in the past. And he seems to really listen. But could I confide in him? What could I say, how could I phrase it, without implying that it was his fire that killed Skullette? The impossibility of that idea, more than nay, is why Alvin must be lying.
Ultimately, there's only one other person to turn to who might know what happened and might still be on my side. To broach the subject at all will be a risk. But while I know Gobber to be insensitive, he tells the truth. Even if it hurts. We prefer resolving our problems one-on-one.
I scramble off the wood, out the door, and across the Town Square. The windows of the blacksmith's shop are closed, but I know Gobber's not at the Great Hall. So I push inside. The embers that remain in the pit after a long day of work, still give off a warm glow. But the warmth never reaches my skin.
I look all around and the place is quiet. Even the candlelight in the back room is blown out. I crawl up the wooden staircase into Gobber's home. I don't' expect the place to be tidy. No Viking ever is. And when I reach the top, I'm surprised to find the smell of rosemary perfuming the air.
While there are scattered pieces of clothing on the floor, the place seems in decent shape. I'm still in the living room/kitchen, much like my house, and I have to climb another flight to reach his bedroom. He's in a tangle of sheets on the bed, passed out.
"Gobber." I say, shaking his leg. Of course, that's insufficient. But I still give a few more tries before I result to Astrid's technique.
I slam my foot into his side and he fumbles off the bed and onto the floor with a thud. He wakes with a gasp and is slashing the air with his knife. I almost forgot he sleeps with one.
He looks to me and seems relatively calm, even pleased to see me. "Oh, hey Hiccup." He says.
"Gobber," I begin.
He looks to me in disbelief and smiles. Strangely it's warm, genuine. But it never breaches. "Well, listen to that. The mighty warrior has found his voice." He says, happiness in his voice. "Your father will be very happy."
"I need your help." I say.
When he agrees, I leave him to change. We walk through the village and I keep my speaking to a minimum. But strangely Gobber seems to understand. He tells me that Mildew hasn't done much to his knowledge, which isn't very helpful. Knowing Mildew, he's probably been scheming the whole time since I joined the war.
Gobber tells me that there were situations involving him while I was stowed away in Alvin's dungeon. No one really listened. In fact, while I was gone, people actually embraced dragons even more. He says it was like they own little connection to me.
We've just reached the entrance to the Dragon Academy when I finally ask, "What about the invasion?"
He looks at me and then away, closing his eyes. Like he's trying to remember. After a few moments of silence, his eyes snap open. "I remember, Mildew he walked away without a word."
My heart speeds up. Could it really be true? Could he really be the one who sent the armada of dragons into the city? He's about to go on, when all of a sudden the door to the Academy opens and I'm suddenly swept up in the Astrid's arms while Fishlegs wraps us both in a bear hug.
They're both talking over each other with excitement in their voices. The twins and Snotlout come up behind them. Even the twins seem happier.
"Did you just talk?" Fishlegs asks. And I give him a weird look.
"He's just getting started." Gobber interjects. "Let's not rush it."
"So what were you two talking about?" Ruffnut asks. As usual, she doesn't know the fine line of staying out of someone's business.
"Some serious matters, Ruffnut. And they certainly don't involve you" Gobber hisses.
"Oh, what's a matter Hiccup? More girlfriend problems?" Snotlout asks. Not even caring about my feelings. I don't how, but this hurts me in a way Snotlout never has. It must show on my face, because he immediately and suddenly tries to take it back.
"SNOTLOUT!" Astrid screams in a tone forged from anger and hatred that it's frightening.
"Okay, not funny."
I'm already sprinting twenty feet away.
"Not funny! Come back!"
"Hiccup!"
"SNOTLOUT!"
The last thing I can hear are viscous screams and arguments aimed at Snotlout.
I zigzag through the Square, sprint past the Plaza, and disappearing into a wardrobe closet of the seamstresses home. But before that, I recall stopping at Goathy's infirmary and snatching a vial of my medicine. I'm hidden behind a clothing rack of silken dresses. My body feels hot from the run and my clothes cling to me so tight, it's constricting. I rip everything off, tossing all but my undertunic aside. I feel so lonely and ragged.
I yank the dresses from their hangers until the rack is bare, then I burrow into it. My escape has done nothing to subdue the rising hysteria inside me. It will drown me unless it's released. I ball up the skirt of a beautiful blue skirt with gold lining, stuff it in my mouth, and begin to scream. How long this goes on, I don't know. And I don't care.
By the time I'm done, my voice is almost gone, and my tonsils are burning. I swallow the vial of medicine in one gulp, heading off my hysteria. It's not enough to right things though. I can hear people calling me, I don't answer. I don't want to. And they'll never find me. Not in this new hiding spot.
I slouch in deeper into the pile of clothing. I lay there. Broken. Swathed in the dresses, I feel like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Awaiting metamorphosis. The effects of the medicine take hold. The world becomes distorted. I always thought this stage in the process would be the most peaceful. At first it is, but as the day dwells on, I only feel more and more suffocated. Trapped by the slippery bindings.
Not allowed to emerge until I've become something better. Better than what I am now. Unscarred. Unburned. Unbroken. I clutch my string pouch filled with the dirt of Skullette's grave with desperate fingers as I prepare for the worst.
The slip of a red dress tickles at my cheek, and I imagine soft rose petals falling on me. I try to imagine I'm in a meadow. Sitting on a bed of daisies and lavender.
Clothed in crimson roses.
The encounter with Alvin has opened the door to my old repertoire of nightmares and fears. Along with the venom of my medicine. My cocoon begins to turn and morph in alarming ways. Little dirt particles float upward, slowly ballooning into bats the size of houses, then shattering into a million embers.
The silk of the dresses transform into slithering snakes and they slither toward me. Fireworm dragons crawl out of my prostatic leg and I can't shake them. Their bodies glow a soft yellow, but they start to crawl up my legs, on my arms. In the distance there's someone screaming. A long high-pitched scream that never stops for a breath. I have a vague idea that it's me.
Sick and disoriented, I tuck my knees up to my chin and wait for death. But I'm not given the mercy of a simple knockout. Wave after wave of horrifying images wrecks my body. There are brief respites I confuse with waking, only to be knocked out again, and entering a greater terror waiting for me. Beginning a new chapter of torture. All the things I dread most, all the things I fear for myself and others manifest in such vivid detail I can't help but believe their real.
How many ways do I watch Skullette die? Relive Mulch's last moments? Feel my own body ripped apart my Outcasts? Leaving me wrecked and feeble. When the guards finally locate me, I'm lying on my side behind the rack in the wardrobe locked in a fetal position, tangled in the dresses, screaming bloody murder.
I fight them at first, until they manage to break the haze and convince me that they're on my side. They peel away the choking garments, but I don't move. I lift my hand to my face, rub my arms. Completely free of Fireworms that never existed. The guards wish to escort me back to my room, but my muscles are too rigid to move because of my iron grip on my body.
I'm afraid that if I let go, I'll disintegrate into ashes. But when I do, the trembling begins. Simply stretching my limbs requires an enormous effort. So many parts of me hurt.
My father and Goathy break through the crowd of guards surrounding me. Goathy's eyes go to the empty vial that somehow shattered. And now lays broken on the floor. She sighs and shakes her head. Very, very slowly, I manage to sit up. My undertunic is damp, and I have a strong idea that it was sweat that did it.
Gobber slowly comes up behind my dad, who's at a loss for words. He looks to me with an emotion I don't know what to name. Pity? Sham? Sorrow? I don't know.
Dad looks at me, then he says, "Let's go son."
His tone was, empty. I can't clarify any emotion. Or even if there was any. Seeing as how he doesn't know how to react to the sight of his son screaming like a psycho on the floor of a wardrobe. I lazily change into my clothes, then slowly walk outside with the guards. I take the lead, guards on all of my sides, and my father behind me. Once outside, I see a gray, snowy dawn spreading across the sky.
As we walk through the village, it might be my imagination, but I think the villagers are either following, or eyeballing me. We pass the Square, then enter the cul-de-sac of houses before bounding the steps of my own.
When we walk in, I come to find everyone waiting in the living room. Sitting by the fire pit. Astrid's stirring something in the pot, Fishlegs reading over the Book of Dragons. The twins just sitting anxiously. Toothless lying at Astrid's feet. They heads all snap up when the door opens.
Gobber enters and walks past me sauntering over to the pot over the fire pit. He makes a feeble attempt to get me to talk again, but seeing it's pointless, gives up. I can sense the hatred toward Snotlout grow. Toothless pushes himself up and walks over to me and nudges my hand. I don't move it. Astrid brings forward a tray of food and a medicine vial she should know I don't have the stomach for.
"You must be hungry." She says softly. But in the sense that she's afraid I'll run off again.
As I slowly make my way over to the fire pit, Fishlegs practically drops the book and rushes to get me a chair. Astrid places tray – consisting of a cored apple and a bowl of broth – across my thighs and slips me a spoon. "When you're done, you can go and take a nice relaxing bath we've drawn for you." she says.
I nod numbly.
Eating the broth is difficult since I wasn't very hungry to begin with. But I force it down to calm everyone's nerves. If I wasn't so wrecked, I would say that this is Astrid's best batch yet, since her Yaknog from Snoggletog wasn't exactly the most edible. I'm about halfway through the bowl when I hear footsteps come down the staircase.
"Okay Astrid, his bed is made." My eyes widen, my muscles tense, and my head snaps up. Snotlout has just reached the last three steps down when we see each other. His face contorts into fear at the sight of me. Suddenly, all of the things that Snotlout has ever said to me since we were no more than five years old, pours into my mind, filling me to the brim with hatred, and anger.
Now technically I'm unarmed. But no one should ever underestimate the harm that fingernails can do, especially if the target is unprepared. And mine haven't been treated since they broke from my digging them into Skullette's grave. Makin them jagged and sharp.
My face breaks into a vicious snarl, and I lunge forward, spilling the tray and broth all over the floor. I reach Snotlout in a blaze and I'm raking them down his face, causing blood to flow and damage to one eye. I'm screaming. A mixture of terrible, terrible things to him, and just wailing like an animal.
Everyone breaks into a sudden panic and Gobber's trying to drag me off. My cold fingers lock around Snotlout's throat. Dad's hands help Gobber's and I'm brought up to my room, my body restrained, my wrists pinned down. I slam my head in fury again and again against my bed and headboard. A needle pokes my arm and my head hurts so badly I stop fighting and continue to wail in a horrible dying-animal way, until my voice gives out.
The drug causes sedation, not sleep, so I'm trapped in a fuzzy, dully aching misery for what feels like eternity. People talk to me in soothing voices that never reach me. All I do is stare at a small hole on my ceiling, letting in the thinnest ray of light that pierces the room with a golden dart. I recall Toothless coming up and nestling at my right side, but I stay still.
I can hear him whimper and cry, but it doesn't reach me either. I don't care.
"Hiccup. Hiccup, I'm, I-I'm sorry." Snotlout's voice comes from the left of my bed and slips me into consciousness. "I didn't mean what I said. I don't even know why I said it. I had no right. Especially after what you've been through."
I don't answer. Snotlout's good intentions mean less than nothing.
I'm debating on whether to reply or not. Trying to see which would hurt more. Not giving him an answer, or letting him hear me speak, but replying with a cruel comment. I can hear him weeping, but I don't care.
Things are going nothing but down in a spiral since Skullette's death.
So I give up. Done speaking, responding, refuse food and water. They can pump whatever they want into my arm, but it takes more than that to keep a person going once he's lost the will to live.
A lot of people come to visit me, but I make all their words sound like the cricketing of crickets in the summer night. Meaningless and distant. Dangerous, but only if approached. Whenever the words start to become distinct, I moan until Goathy gives me either more painkiller medicine or sleep syrup, and that fixes things right up.
Until one time, I open my eyes and find someone I cannot block out looking down at me. Someone who will not plead, or explain, or think she can alter my design with entreaties, because she alone knows how I really operate.
"Mom." I whisper.
"Hi honey." She reaches down and pushes a few strands of hair out of my eyes. I press my face against her hand for a moment. I never knew how frozen inside I was without her touch. Without her love. I must be dreaming. If I am, I never want to wake up. Only she would be the life when living among the dead.
My cheeks tickle and I realize I'm crying. I don't fight my tears because they feel so good. I take her hand and pull it up and lean my cheek against the back of it. I don't need to understand how she got here. Too lost to lose. I let the tendrils of whatever's in me pull me down.
My mother lets me sleep until noon, then rouses me and gives me a cup of chamomile tea. I'm ordered a week of bed rest until I'm better. I need to be for the execution. My whole body aches with exhaustion. So I let my mother doctor me and feed me breakfast in bed and tuck another quilt around me.
She dispatches to get me my pajamas and another blanket. When I'm changed, my mother serves me dinner. I eat three bowls of stew and half a loaf of bread while the others are to dine at the table.
I lose track of time and days, but I couldn't care less. When I'm with my mother, all the destruction, all the disaster, all of the loss I feel melts away. I thrive for it. I tell her everything. And she doesn't offer judgment.
I tell her about Skullette' death and pain carves into her face. She pulls my head gently into her thigh and pets my head. "Why aren't you crying, honey?" she asks.
"I can't" I whisper in reply.
"Why ever not?" She's rubbing her thumb on my cheek as if she can transfer her grief into my skin, shattering the icy silence within me into something she can understand.
I can't allow that. If I grieve now, how will I ever find my way out again in time to keep my promises?
"Because there will be nothing left of me if I do." I look at my hands, bloodstained, the dirt from Savage's grave mixing in.
She leaves for a moment and returns with a bowl of water and a rag. I don't want to let her wash my hands, but she takes my left, dips the rag into the war water and carefully begins to scrub away the blood, the dirt, and the evidence of all that's been.
The crimson has seeped beneath my skin, entered my veins, and become a part of what's left of me. No amount of scrubbing can erase that. When she finishes the left, she picks up the bowl and moves to my right side, and starts the process again.
Once she's cleaned my palm, out of nowhere I say, "I killed Savage." My voice sounds cold and empty as it echoes through the house. Her hand tightens on mine.
"Why?" she asks. There's no censure in her voice.
"Because I thought he was attacking me."
"Then it was self-defense."
"No. No it wasn't."
"Hiccup, he had attacked you in the past and was probably tasked with killing you if you ever were to capture Alvin. It was self-defense." She continues to clean my hand.
"He wasn't going to kill me, I thought he was, but he wasn't. He was trying to disarm me. He wanted to give me Alvin's most precious sword to kill him with at the execution. He was going to let me live." The words make me sick. I thought I'd feel relief to have it out in the open, but I don't.
She's quiet, her fingers still wrapped around mine. "If you thought he was trying to kill you, defending yourself is understandable, Hiccup. I would've done the same."
"No you wouldn't have." I reply with the slightest smile. I've figured my mom to be a peaceful person. Resorting to violence as the very last option. "You'd have kept control. I know you."
Beneath the steadiness of her gaze, pain lingers. "Like how your levelheaded father kept control when Alvin backhanded you during the ceremony?"
"It's not the same."
"I fail to see the difference." She finishes and places the bowl aside, but warms my hands with hers. "You were afraid. You knew him as a killer. Instinct kicked in, and you did what you had to do."
I shake my head, "You would've seen the signs, and stopped."
"Sweetheart, you haven't been reading people right since Mulch."
My voice is a rough whisper. "And Skullette."
She pets my head and kisses just above my temple. "Sweetie,"
"I don't want to talk about it, mom" I interject before she can finish.
"Oh."
She sounds hurt. I don't want to hurt her. I just don't know how to get past the silence consuming me and find anything that feels like hope.
"Mom-"
"It's fine, honey."
"No, it's not fine."
"I thought you'd be at least a little bit receptive."
I can't look at her. "I would've been. I was. Before."
"Before? Before what?"
I whip my head back to face her. "Before everything! Before I saw Mulch get murdered right in front of me. Before I knew Skullette was . . . dead. Before Savage. Before I became this." I gesture toward myself, wondering how she can think washing the blood off my hands makes it any less real.
My entire being breaks down and my eyes overflow with tears and I begin to sob uncontrollably.
She shushes me gently and wraps her arm securely around my shoulder. She leans me down onto her shoulder. Rubbing my back, eyes glowing with fierce conviction. "You're still the same beautiful, stubborn, strong, fascinating Hiccup you were before any of that happened."
My laugh sounds more like a sob, and I clamp my lips shut.
"Listen to me. I know it's been bad for you, honey. I see that. But shutting yourself off from something good because of all the bad that's happened is unfair. For everyone."
I sniff as tears run down my cheeks. I clap my hand over my mouth because I'm starting to make those awful choking sounds that happen when I sob. Mom fetches a small handkerchief and wipes my eyes. I blow my nose so loudly and mop the tears off my face. With that, we end the conversation and let the silence of the house provide as background music.
It's when mother sits on the side of the bed, tentatively stroking my head, humming a lullaby from my childhood, that I feel something . . . warm inside me. It festers inside me and contaminates my entire being. Leading down into my ore, where I've become so numb. And I love it. It's the greatest thing I've ever felt in a long time. Saving me from the nothing I've become.
And the silence inside me cracks open, just a little. Just enough to let a small piece of hope float to the surface, I grab onto it with desperate fingers.