Chapter 8

Hook wouldn't willingly call a halt on his own account; Smee knew this for certain. The captain undoubtedly wanted to get his men as far from danger as possible. They were all exhausted after a whole night plus half a day of walking - not to mention the morning's battle - but they could continue for a while yet; all except Hook. He was their weakest link, and he hated that. But his steps grew less sure, his breathing more labored, as the others surreptitiously slowed their pace to match. At Hook's side, Smee debated with himself when to demand a rest.

He need not have wasted the energy fretting. Without warning, Hook doubled over and lost the meager contents of his stomach. Instinctively, Smee grabbed his arm to keep him from collapse. When the spasms had stopped, Hook straightened a bit; still hunched, his head hanging, he shivered violently. Smee cast about for any sign of shelter, and caught sight of a large pine. Its low-hanging branches would shield them from the elements and also likely mask the smoke should they decide to light a fire.

"Can you make it a little further?" coaxed Smee. "Just up ahead, and you can lie down and rest."

Hook's bloodshot eyes spied the same tree, and even in his worsening state, he must have reached the same conclusions about its usefulness. He staggered forward wordlessly. Smee caught Starkey's scrutiny and tilted his head toward their destination; the bosun indicated his understanding and went to discuss strategy with the others.

Under the shelter provided by the tree, Hook sank heavily to the ground, groaning softly. Everything ached: his skull, his spine, his joints - to say nothing of his shoulder. The nausea had settled somewhat, though the heaviness in the pit of his gut persisted. With a shudder, the pirate lowered himself onto his side, awkwardly using his lifeless hand to assist. As he curled in on himself, Smee fussed nearby: adjusting the coat, sliding a sack under his head to be a pillow, and generally trying to make his captain comfortable. The first mate brushed the back of his hand against Hook's forehead, trying to gauge the change in his temperature since the morning - a definite increase.

Smee poured some water over an extra bandage and used it to wipe away sweat, then wrapped it gently around the back of Hook's neck. The captain frowned, not enjoying the sudden cool sensation over his achiness, but he lacked the energy to complain.

"Before you sleep, sir, I should check your shoulder," murmured Smee. Without waiting for a reply, he pulled the sling from Hook's neck and then proceeded to unwrap the injury. Apart from a few winces and quiet curses, Hook lay still, compliant.

Smee allowed a slight grimace of his own when he peeled back the last linen strip and revealed the wound beneath. If the slowly-trickling leech bites had done any good, it was impossible to tell, for the soldier's well-placed kick had made things much worse. Not only was there new bruising and swelling, but the armored foot had torn several of the sutures loose, and fresh blood leaked out, along with a small amount of pus.

Smee plucked what leeches were still alive from the discarded bandages and dropped them into their jar. Then he drizzled some rum over the wound. Hook hissed at the burn, working his jaw and trying not to squirm too much. Smee apologized but kept working, grim. As he blotted at the trickle of alcohol down Hook's chest, Starkey ducked under the branches to report.

"Sent the others off in pairs to retrace our steps. We'll 'opefully get more warning next time if we're being followed."

"Good," replied Smee. Starkey knelt nearby and grimaced.

"Bloody 'ell, Cap'n; looks sore. Anything I c'n do?"

Hook merely shook his head slightly. Starkey caught Smee's eye, and the first mate licked his lips. Then he gently lay his rag over the wound.

"We'll be right back, sir. Just lie still and relax."

Hook's only response was a shivery grunt, and Smee pulled the coat up to cover his torso. Then he and Starkey quietly left the shelter and went several paces away, until Smee felt they were out of earshot. Starkey watched him in trepidation. Finally, Smee stopped and faced the bosun, saying in a low voice,

"He's developing an infection. It was almost inevitably, really. But with how bad the wound is, and how deep… it could kill him."

Starkey nodded seriously, not particularly surprised by the admission. "Is there anything to be done for 'im?"

"I… I don't know," Smee whined. "I never had training; no apprenticeship; nothing. Just what I've picked up through the years. There should be someone qualified helping him; maybe then he'd stand a chance-"

Starkey stepped forward and gripped Smee's wrist in an attempt to stop the panic. Startled, Smee shut his mouth.

"No use bemoaning what we don't 'ave," hissed Starkey. "You've done all right by us so far. And if 'ook don't pull through, it won't be for lack of effort on your part." He released his grip and eased back on the intensity. "Let's try this again. What's your recommendation? Cautery?"

Smee chewed his lip, wincing when we inadvertently bit the tender area where Hook had hit him. "It… may come to that, especially if he keeps bleeding."

"But you don't think getting it over with now would be beneficial."

"It's just… whenever I've used it, it seems like it makes things worse."

Starkey scoffed. "'Things' are bad to begin with; not much chance of making it worse."

Smee found he couldn't really fault that logic. Perhaps it would be best to get it over with, especially when they weren't currently hiding from definite pursuit. Maybe the heat would drive away the infection this time. Heaven knew, there wasn't much more that would help.

"All right," he finally agreed, grimacing. "It will be good to finally stop the bleeding under the skin. Maybe it'll help him. Or kill him."

Starkey sighed. "Either way, you and I, matey… we share the burden."

Smee glanced back in the direction of the tree. "His shoulder may never be the same. And if he can't use his hand and can't use his hook…"

"'e may be better off dead," Starkey finished the thought. Smee nodded grimly. "Well, we're not there yet, Smee. On the other 'and, he could recover, re'abilitate the shoulder, and break the enchantment on his 'and. Dunno about you, but seems to me, if we wanna improve 'is odds, we think of each outcome equally. Not give too much power to whatever evil spirits control 'is destiny."

"Never knew you were such a philosopher."

"Doesn't 'urt." Starkey glanced around, then volunteered, "I'll gather firewood. You want the rest of me rum?"

Smee shuddered. "I don't know if he'll keep it down, but I guess it's worth a try."

Starkey passed Smee his flask, asking,

"We using a blade, or what?"

"Johnny Corkscrew ought to work. I'll clean it up a little."

The two men separated to begin their tasks. Smee returned to their shelter, finding Hook resting fitfully, arm positioned over his eyes. As Smee drizzled rum on his dagger and polished the blade with a clean cloth, he could see the chills that still wracked the captain periodically. Smee wished they could just let him sleep. But either way, something needed to be done about the renewed bleeding; hopefully, this would be the last intervention required.

Smee had been lucky throughout his extended life to never have an injury severe enough to need this. But since his first instance of applying it - on Hook's mangled wrist, before he was even a proper member of the crew - Smee had used it more than once. Always reluctantly; always with the temptation to close his eyes. Because it hurt. He couldn't even imagine how much.

A few minutes later, Starkey entered, carrying an armful of wood. While he worked on building a fire, Smee got all of his supplies ready, then went to Hook's side to regretfully wake him.

"Sir? We… we're going to need you to drink this, if you can."

It took a moment for the captain to respond. He looked dazed as he met Smee's eyes. But some part of him must have understood the request, for he held out his hand. Smee hesitated.

"Maybe I should…"

Then he saw Hook's fingers twitch. Not significantly, but enough to know he wasn't imagining it.

"Captain - your hand. Can you feel it?"

Hook blinked, startled, only then remembering the events of the morning. He lifted his hand in front of his eyes and watched the fingers form a clumsy fist, the pang from his swollen knuckles a counterintuitively welcome sensation after so much nothing. His gaze darted back to Smee's and he gave a small, trembling smile in reply. Smee beamed down at him, momentarily forgetting what he was about to do.

"That's fantastic, sir! What a relief. I wonder what happened? Just a fluke? Or maybe it was the cut. Or a hard impact against your cutlass that also caused you to drop it..."

"Smee," rasped Hook, interrupting the first mate's nervous rambling. Smee grinned sheepishly.

"Right. Sorry."

He unscrewed the lid from Starkey's flask and surrendered it to Hook's waiting hand, making sure his grasp was strong enough before releasing it entirely. Hook confirmed its contents with a sniff before raising an eyebrow at his first mate. Smee made a sympathetic face.

"Probably not the most appetizing on an upset stomach; sorry."

He hadn't answered the unspoken question. Hook struggled to raise himself on his elbow; the fever, having sapped nearly all of his strength, made it extremely difficult. Hook studied the shelter bearily, wincing as the morning's injury protested his weight. His attention was immediately drawn to Starkey's efforts, and somehow, he put the pieces together. The remaining color drained from his face.

"Bloody hell," he whispered, and Smee cringed.

"I'm so sorry, sir, but I… we think it's for the best."

Hook could feel his heart rate increase, bringing with it the cursed tingling in his hand. He swore and lifted the flask while he was still able. He barely tasted the gulp of rum, or felt its familiar burn down his esophagus. Smee nodded in approval.

"Starks says 'drink up,' sir. You need it more than he does."

Hook panted through a jolt of panic, then took another swig. His thumb twitched against the flask, and he nearly dropped it. He cursed again and then screwed his eyes shut when pain and nausea threatened to expel the rum he'd just consumed. Smee's hand hovered near the flask, ready to assist if needed.

"I'll be quick," Smee promised. "And then maybe we'll be done messing with it."

All of Hook's instincts were screaming for him to run, his rational mind unable to override the animal drive to avoid the upcoming pain at all costs. But it was moot anyway; he wouldn't get any farther than the sheltering branches before collapsing. He choked down another mouthful of rum, vaguely noticing Smee standing and moving over to the now-blazing fire. The first mate tried to hide his movements as he wrapped a wet bandage around the handle of his dagger, but Hook caught the flash of steel reflecting in the firelight, and his racing imagination filled in the rest.

Abruptly, his stomach rebelled, and Hook vomited the alcohol. Eyes watering, he coughed a few times, sniffed, and then immediately downed more. Even if it came up again, he needed to absorb as much as possible while he still could. Across the fire, Starkey watched in pity, speaking in low tones with Smee. Planning, strategizing. Hook shuddered.

The tingling gradually gave way to numbness again, and Hook finally lost his grip on the flask. It landed in the pine needles, adding to the puddle already soaking into the dirt. He hissed a miserable oath that sounded more like a whimper and dropped back onto his side to await his fate.

Starkey came over first, face somber, eyes apologetic. Even before the bosun drew back the black leather coat, the captain trembled uncontrollably. Starkey flung garment and flask aside, murmuring,

"No little splinter of wood'll keep Cap'n 'ook down for long. Eh, sir?"

"A-p-pologies, m-mate," shivered Hook, wild eyes belying his contrived bluster. Starkey cocked an eyebrow.

"For what, sir?"

"C-case I b-break your n-n-nose."

Starkey smirked. "That'd be no more than I deserve."

The bosun gently peeled back the linen stuck to Hook's shoulder, tossed it on the ground to cover the rum-saturated soil, then pulled a knife from his boot. The captain flinched back slightly, already grimacing.

"Just need to be ridda those bloody useless sutures," explained Starkey, and Hook nodded reluctantly. With careful movements, Starkey cut and plucked the remnants of those that had already come loose. Then he used the blade to sever each thread along the line of the wound. Without the extra support, the skin's tenuous attempt to begin knitting together failed, the added pressure of swelling causing the gash to split back open and leak previously-contained fluid down Hook's collarbone. Still trembling, Hook released a pained groan and tried to control his racing heart.

A short while later, Starkey pulled the last thread from the entry wound, which was now bleeding steadily. Hook panted in short, tight breaths, his face frozen in a grimace. Quickly, the bosun stepped over his captain to work on his back.

The exit wound wasn't nearly as swollen, but Smee still wanted to sear it shut and had requested the sutures be removed there as well. Starkey worked as quickly and cautiously as he could, all the while watching goosebumps ripple up and down his captain's back. Once the wound was free of stitches and bled unimpeded, Starkey loosely covered it with a handkerchief, then returned to his former position in front of Hook.

"Need ta chunder? Now's probably better'n later."

Hook gave a quick shake of his head; Starkey could see the anxious dread in his eyes and the bosun could very well sympathize. He glanced at Smee's crouched form, quipping,

"What'd'you say, sir - shall I tell that bloody oaf to bugger off with that damn stocking cap of 'is?"

Hook's barely-perceptible answering smirk didn't reach his eyes, but Starkey knew he appreciated the effort. With a grumbling sigh, the bosun said,

"Well, 'ow 'bout we get you comfortable, then?"

Somehow, the intensity of Hook's tremors increased as Starkey gently rolled him to lie flat on his back. The bosun fished his worn leather glove from a pocket, stealing another surreptitious peek at Smee: the first mate was looking back, and gave a sober nod. Starkey held the glove so Hook could see it, saying,

"Needs more 'oles; try 'arder this time, sir."

As Hook took the leather between his teeth, a tear leaked from the corner of his eye. Hyper-aware of movement by the fire, he knew Smee had stood almost before the first mate knew it himself. The captain screwed his eyes shut, not wanting to risk a glimpse of the red-hot steel headed his way.

He felt Starkey rest an elbow on his right bicep, grasp his shoulder, and pin his stump against his abdomen. His heart thundered in his chest, his short, gasping breaths not enough to keep pace. He heard Smee reach his other side; felt him place a hand directly in the center of his rapidly-heaving chest. A vague plea formed unbidden in his throat, and caught on the foul-tasting leather between his teeth. The resulting vocalization bore no resemblance to any language, and little to any sound a man might normally make.

A brief tendril of warmth was his only warning. Then the whole world stopped, just for an instant. A jolt of tension, of wrongness, deep in his shoulder; shock muting any pain for precious heartbeats. He forgot how to breathe, how to think.

And then came the fire. Impossibly bright and searing and all-consuming. Everlasting. He was screaming before he was even aware of it; thrashing against his tormentors as his flesh scorched and bubbled. All other sensations - the rough attempts to hold him still - were like touches of a butterfly's wing in comparison to the assault on his shoulder.

Hook's muffled screams shattered into a disordered mess of cough-moans as the last swallow of rum made a reappearance, burning esophagus and windpipe alike. Violent curses seemed to leap from the flames in his shoulder, and the world tilted despite feeble struggles to control it. Between choking coughs and desperate gasps for air, his stomach convulsed again, though not much came up.

Though the scalding steel seemed permanently melded with his flesh, continuing to roast its way through him, apparently some remained. Or there existed another piece entirely… a piece that contacted his back without warning, injecting more lava and tearing renewed cries from his throat. He struggled weakly, fruitlessly; pinned in place, he couldn't escape; could only convulse in pain, alternating helpless whimpers with wracking coughs that left him gagging. Tears streamed from eyelids squeezed tight in anguish.

The thing about cautery is that even when it's over - the hot metal discarded, the skin melted into a blistered seal - the burning continues. The process takes less than a minute, but feels like an eternity, and the agony lingers. So even when Smee was finished… when he'd tossed his dagger aside and stood fighting nausea himself… Hook suffered still. As Starkey gamely continued his grip, keeping the captain on his side in case of further vomiting, Hook panted and writhed, shuddering violently. Reaching for death, because at that moment, it would have been preferable.

Smee returned with moistened bandages. He draped them over the burns as he murmured,

"It's done, Captain. It's over."

Hook cringed at the contact, then succumbed to another coughing fit. Starkey winced as he met Smee's eyes. The first mate shook his head solemnly and then added, soothingly,

"You'll be okay, sir."

The bosun snatched an extra length of wet linen and used it to clean Hook's face and neck. "Aye, you're through the worst of Smee's bloody tortures. I c'n deck 'im for ya, if you'd like."

Hook didn't respond to the attempt to lighten the mood, too busy fighting to breathe and feeling the blade still sizzling against his wound. The cool cloth had momentarily weakened the flames, but the heat within him rapidly overcame the temporary respite. He shivered a groan.

Smee and Starkey gently coaxed their captain into a more comfortable position on his side, and he lay trembling and wheezing while the bosun arranged his coat, blanketing it over him until just the shoulder remained exposed. Smee drizzled more water over the bandages as he whispered,

"I'll sit with him, Starkey. You can get some rest."

Starkey got up. "Thanks, matey. Think I'll check on the others first, though. Let 'em know we may be 'ere awhile."

"At least for tonight," Smee agreed nervously. "We'll see what tomorrow brings, but it would probably be smart to try and put more distance between us and that village."

Starkey scowled at the logic, but nodded. "Aye, too true."

The bosun left without another word. Smee turned his attention to Hook, wishing he had access to better pain relievers. Swallowing a mouthful of water, he settled himself at his captain's side. If Hook needed anything, Smee was determined to provide it; there wasn't much else he could do to help.

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AN: It's not my intention for this story to be ableist in any way, although I suppose if there's any question, it might be crossing the line already. I have nothing but respect for anyone who has to deal with any type of challenge, be it physical, mental, or whatever else. In Hook's case, I think it's natural for him and those who care about him to grieve at first and be pessimistic about his future (especially as dramatic a person we know Hook to be!) He's essentially just living for his revenge at this point, and it would be that much harder to accomplish without the use of his hand. But I also think he would eventually overcome this adversity just as he did the loss of his left hand.