I no longer know what time it is. I've been lying on the damp, gritty floor of this cell for hours. Maybe a day. Maybe more. Without a way to track the sun, I can't be sure.
Pain is a constant companion – stabbing me with every breath and making a mockery of my attempts at sleep. At least one rib is broken, my arms and legs ache fiercely with bone-deep bruises, and my eyes are nearly swollen shut.
But worse than all of that is the burn on my neck. Every throb of agony from my seared flesh is a reminder of Alvin's power over me. I want to use that pain to focus a plan to remove that power from him permanently, but my thoughts are fuzzy and vague, and the pain seems so much more important.
A chill seeps into me from the stone floor I lay on, and even with my cloak, I'm shivering. I should force myself to stand up and walk. Loosen the muscles. Promote faster healing. I inhale slowly, trying to keep from pressing my lungs against my rib cage with too much force, and place my palms flat on the floor in front of me.
My body shakes as I slowly push myself to my hands and knees, inch by torturous inch. Gray dots swirl in front of my limited vision, and my empty stomach rebels against the waves of dizziness swamping me.
I may have a gained my cloak, but I'm in no condition to gain my freedom.
It's a devastating thought, but I can't hang onto it for long. Heat is eating away at my brain, blurring the edges of reality until I can't tell if the contents of my head are memories, dreams, or wisps of things not worth the effort the effort it takes to force them into something that makes sense.
I can't stand without help. I wish Toothless was here. But of course, he can't be, and I'm glad. Crawling toward the wall is a slow, agonizing process, and I stop frequently to rest, laying my face against the filthy stone floor and shivering both from external cold and the internal heat that blazes through my head but refuses to warm my body.
How does one cure a fever? I can't remember. My body shakes as I force myself to keep crawling. Keep moving. Keep pushing my muscles to work through the bruises because he'll come back. And I refuse to let him kill me.
I reach the wall sometime later and discover my nose is bleeding. I don't know how long that's been going on, and I decide I don't care.
From a distance, I hear the main dungeon door open, and I know I should be afraid, but that takes too much effort. Instead, I dig my fingers into the rugged texture of the wall beside me, and pull myself to my feet.
The room spins in slow, sickening circles. I try to breathe through the nausea this creates, but dragging air into my lungs ignites the terrible pain in my side. Someone is walking along the row between cells. I don't know who it is. I can't seem to turn my head to look. Instead, I lean my forehead against the cold stone of the wall and shake uncontrollably.
Skullette is out there. Somewhere. With Dad. Astrid. Toothless. I know I should remember something important about their situation, but with fire eating at my brain, all I can think about is Toothless. His plasma blasts shooting through the air. Exploding in the sky, like a firework. Flames adorning the edges. Like the flames pounding at the inside of my skull.
I bang my head against the wall to put out the flames, but they just multiply.
Move.
I have to move.
If I don't, he'll kill me before I can escape.
I slide one foot in front of me, but it wobbles, and I have to hand on to the wall to keep from falling over.
Someone opens the door to my cell. The noise explodes inside my head, sending brutal hammers of pain into my temples. I let go of the wall to cover my ears, and pitch forward onto the unforgiving stone floor. Footsteps hurry my way, and I reach for my bow. It isn't there, and the motion triggers the pain in my side until I'm gaping air in quick, shallow breaths.
The owner of the footsteps reaches me, and crouches down. I can't see who it is, but the soft scent of dandelion seeps through the stench of the cell and makes me want to close my eyes and pretend I'm in a field. Safe. Free. Lying on a bed of crushed dandelion while the pain in my body subsides into nothing but a memory, and those I love are still alive and well.
"Oh," a girl's voice exclaims in a whisper. A cool hand presses against my forehead.
For a moment, I imagine I'm back in bed, sick with the flu and my mother's checking my temperature.
I'm dreaming. I must be. There aren't any girls walking freely through the dungeon. My brain has cooked up a fantasy, and if I don't snap out of it, whoever is truly inside my cell with me will kill me before I can keep my promise to Dad. And Skullette.
Skullette.
Skullette doesn't smell like dandelion. She smells like Lavender. And Astrid smells of citrus and midnight jasmine. I with the dandelion would disappear and become Skullette's scent instead.
It doesn't.
Instead, the same cool hands that were pressed to my forehead are busy pushing something into the pocket of my cloak.
"Food," she whispers against my ear. "I'm putting medicine for your fever in the water. When the fever goes down, eat."
A cup tips against my lips and a trickle of bitter-tasting water dribbles down into my mouth. I swallow reflexively, though part of me is screaming that this is a trick. A trap. Another wicked ploy of Alvin to torture me. maybe it's poison. Maybe it's something that will scrape me raw inside, doubling the pain until I want to kill myself just to make it end.
I turn my face and let another mouthful of water leak out onto the floor.
A girl lays her face next to mine, her outline blurry through the swollen slits of my eyelids. "Swallow," she says softly. "We're trying to help you."
I want to ask her who she means. No one helps you once you're in the dungeon. No one from Outcast Island has ever helped me outside the dungeon either. The hard, brisk steps of a guard echo down the row, coming swiftly toward my cell.
"Hurry!" she whispers and presses the cup to my lips.
The water feels good, even if it tastes vile, and I swallow. It might be a trick. It might make things worse, but the heat beating at my brain won't allow me the luxury of thinking through my options, and I'm desperately thirsty.
"What are you doing, girl?" the guard demands.
"Watering the prisoner as you asked." She says, her tone low and respectful.
"He has enough. Get out of there."
She stands immediately and exists the cell, her steps hurried. The guard laughs as he looks at me lying on the floor, shivering while blood slowly seeps out of my nose. I close my eyes and wish for a world where Skullette and Dad are safe and Mulch still alive.
It's morning the next day. At least I think it is. I still don't know. And I make a shocking discovery.
I'm awake.
She didn't kill me. Whatever the dandelion-scented girl put in my water, is soothed my feverish thinking and kept the pain somewhat at bay. I'm able to wrap myself in my cloak, lean against the wall, and sleep until the next guard makes his rounds.
By the time he reaches my cell, I've slumped to the floor and I huddle there, shivering. He studies me for a moment. I study him from under the lining of the hood of my cloak. He's about seventeen if I had to guess. Dark brown hair, blue eyes. Lean-muscled body, well-built.
He grunts at me and traces along his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. Like he's a wolf, and I'm a baby lamb caught in his sights. The corners of his mouth curling into a smirk. His eyes fill with . . . lust. And I shudder at the thoughts of what he could possibly be thinking. What's even worse is that, if my assumptions are right, whatever he's thinking, it's a high possibility he could do it.
He then makes the trek back to the main door, locks it behind him, and leaves the dungeon in silence again. I wait a few minutes longer to make sure he's truly gone, and then slowly sit up, making it look like it's a struggle to do so. That isn't hard either. My muscles protest the slightest movement, the scorched skin on the side of my neck throbs, and my broken rib aches fiercely.
But my fever is gone, and I can think clearly again.
Along with the return of reason comes the knowledge that I've wasted precious time succumbing to my injuries. I don't know what day it is, or how long I've been away from Dad and Skullette. My body is weak from lack of food and lack of movement. And Alvin is probably due to arrive at any moment to either toy with me, or drag me out to help him train dragons.
I can't fix it all at once. I have to prioritize and determine an appropriate course of action. Whatever I choose, it has to be something I can do without raising suspicion if I'm being watched by more than just the occasional guard.
Food is the first order of business. I double over as if in excruciating pain and feel within my cloak pockets until I find the wrapped lump the girl left for me. Inside the cloth is a chunk of oat bread with cheese and dried apples inside. I take small bites, rocking back and forth to simulate pain so I can hide what I'm doing. My stomach has been without food for hours, maybe days. I need to take it easy.
One third of the way through the food, I stop eating. It's enough to get my system working again, and I need to conserve what I have left. I don't know when I'll be getting more. I settles against the wall again as exhaustion overtakes me. I'd hoped to get up and walk a bit, but my head is already spinning and I can't risk another fall.
Instead, I slowly stretch each limb and tighten my muscles for the length of time it takes to recite the Book of Dragons. By the time I'm done, I'm shaking and slightly nauseous. Water would be nice, but that's one problem I'm helpless to address.
Through it all, the knowledge that Mulch is gone aches within me, a constant source of pain I rub against with every thought. For just a moment, the image of my mother's smile, the feel of Mulch's arm around my shoulders, and the warmth of Skullette's trust in me bleed together into one gaping pit of loss.
I'm hollowed out.
Empty of everything that once gave me a reason to live.
Grief is a deep pool of darkness, and I huddle on the damp, cold floor as it sucks me under. I had something worth losing, and now that it's gone, now that they're gone, I'm realizing the life of solitude I always thought I wanted isn't good enough anymore.
I don't want to be alone.
I don't want the cold comfort of the pages of the Book of Dragons to keep me company.
I want m family.
I want Skullette.
Not because she's beautiful. Not because she's my responsibility. I want her because she makes me laugh. Makes me think. Inspires me to be the kind of man I always hoped I'd be.
I want Skullette because the thought of a life without her is more than I can bear.
The grief recedes. It won't help me plan. I haven't lost Skullette. Not yet. I lean my head against the wall, careful not to rub my burned skin against the damp stone, and I turn to see Rachel, staring at me.
I don't greet her. I don't need to announce to anyone that I'm capable of that. But I hold her gaze, trying to assess what I see there. The options are endless.
Either she's an innocent caught up in all of this and means me no harm, or she means me no harm but will unwittingly gather information she'll later deliver to Alvin under duress. Or she's cunning enough to realize she might leverage her way out of here by providing Alvin with secrets about me. Or she's his spy dressed up to look helpless and pregnant. Hoping I'll pity her. Hoping to play on the sense of honor Alvin swears I don't have.
The answer to every scenario is the same. Give nothing away and set in motion my plan for escape before anyone realizes I'm well enough to do so. She's still watching me, but I close my eyes and turn away. It's easy to look exhausted and sick. I don't even have to feign it. Let her report my weaknesses. The fact that I can't even stand. Let her tell them that Alvin has me beaten.
By the time he realizes it, I'll be gone.
"Stop him." someone whispers, a mere breath of sound I barely catch.
I open my eyes a fraction and she's still watching me, her eyes pleading. Stop whom? Alvin? This is exactly the kind of conversation I need to avoid. I close my eyes again, and keep my silence.
"Please."
Another breathy whisper. I tamp down on the surge of irritation that wants to snap my eyes open so I can glare at her into silence. Does she think I'm so easily led that I'll fall for this? Does she really think I have the power at the moment to stop anyone?
"He's a killer. He is . . ." Her whisper chokes off into stillness as the dungeon door opens with a clang.
If "he" is a killer, she can only be discussing Alvin. But how she thinks I'll ever be able to kill him in time while I'm lying indisposed in a dungeon of stone is a mystery. Not that I don't have a plan for it, of course. But she has no way of knowing that, and her misplaced faith is me rings false.
Another sign I need to be careful what I allow her to see.
The footsteps traveling the aisle are light. They stop at the first occupied cell and a door slides open with a high-pitched squeal. A girl's voice, light and calm, murmurs through the air, and my stomach tightens.
This must be my secret savior. The one who gave me hope that someone on the outside is interested is interested in helping me. I need more information, but I have to hide the transaction from Rachel.
I slide down to the floor and curl into a ball with my back facing the cell door. The girl is talking to every prisoner she encounters. Seeing her talk to me will raise no alarms, while seeing me question her will give more away than I can afford.
She moves to the cell with the young man in chains, and her voice is clearer now. I listen to her offer him food and water and then quietly suggest he put the paste she's placed in his tin of food on his abraded wrists rather than in his mouth.
She could be arrested for that alone.
I marvel at her courage, even while I tense for the appearance of a guard. No one comes, though, and she moves on to Rachel. I strain to hear their conversation and catch snippets of admonitions to eat everything in front of her and drink her water slowly. Then there's the sound of fabric hitting the floor.
"You can't give me your cloak," Rachel whispers.
Because apparently she is incapable of realizing the best way to punish a good deed is to announce it to everyone else. Or because she thinks turning in the girl will somehow grant her favor with Alvin.
Her mistake could simply be one of youth and ignorance, but I have precious little sympathy for either at the moment. The door to my cell creaks open, and I'm swamped with the delicate scent of dandelion a second before she drops to the floor beside me, clutching a tin water pail and a cup.
The concern on her face doesn't falter, even as she takes in my steady, fever-free gaze. She's tall, thin in a lithe, graceful way, and the torchlight flickers beautifully against her dusky skin. The cloud of dark hair hanging down her back throws off the dandelion scent every time she moves.
She seems familiar, and I try to recall where I've seen her before. One of the stalls in the Lower Market? A merchant's place in the North Hub? Neither of those locations fit.
She scoops a cup of water out of the pail and leans toward me.
"Day?" I mouth silently before accepting a few swallows. The water is tepid and tastes of tin. It's the most refreshing drink I've ever had.
She frowns as if I've spilled the water out of my mouth and fishes around in her skirt pocket for a scrap of cloth. Bending down, she pretends to mop my face with the cloth and keeps her face level with mine, her hair obscuring her features from anyone outside my cell.
"Tuesday," she says and presses a small, paper-wrapped packet into my hand. "For the pain."
Tuesday. The battle was Saturday. I've lost three days.
She sits up and scoops more water into her cup. I drink obediently, and watch her calm, competent movements. I've seen those movements before, but my brain refuses to make the connection, and I let it go. I have more important things to think about. She's risked death today, not just for me, but for each of the prisoners here. I can't quite understand it.
"Why help?" I mouth to her, though I feel the answer may be too lengthy to share like this.
She dips her cloth in the remaining water and scrubs gently at my face, using her hair once more as a cloak to mask her face from any observers.
"Things must change," she says so softly, I barely catch it. "Someone needs to lead that change. We know it will be you."
I'm stunned into silence, and wait a beat too long to ask her the other questions that burn within me. She's already leaving, shutting the door behind her as if she hasn't just ignited a firestorm of speculation within me.
I'd laugh if it didn't hurt my ribcage. I'm injured, locked in a dungeon, and the only people I still care about are far away from Outcast Island. While I am the Dragon Conquer back on Berk, what part of that description makes me fit to lead a revolution here?
Not that I'm not sympathetic to their cause. The citizens of Outcast Island desperately need change. I'd been wrong to think my mother's death meant the price of dissent was too high to pay. Silent acquiescence in the face of tyranny is no better than outright agreement.
My mother knew that. Now, so do I.
But revolution and change must wait their turn.
Skullette needs me.
Dad needs me.
Alvin needs to be brought to justice.
If I have to lead a revolution to accomplish that, so be it.