The weeks pass in a blur, pain and nightmare-riddled sleep vying for Hytham's attention in equal parts until he is unsure of which day it is. Shame and guilt plague him as the night of the siege comes together in his mind and his failure burns deeper than his broken ribs. The realization that his actions have led to more than his own injuries, but that of Vili's as well grieves him deeply. Vili's injuries are comparably less severe, though, no less serious. Bruises and cuts aside, his friend has taken a significant head wound, and has been as bedridden as Hytham- neither of which are thrilled with this arrangement. At the least Hytham has had a companion in his misery.
The arduous, yet brief, journey from Kjotve's Fortress to Fornburg seems to leech his tenuous strength and Vili fares little better, experiencing sickness with each swell of the sea. Hytham has nothing but empathy for him and is relieved when Basim takes the initiative to help Vili through his illness.
The relief is short lived when news reaches them a few days after reaching Fornburg that they are to travel with Sigurd and his sister to England. Hytham is too caught in the throes of fiery pain to fully understand why they are moving yet again, though, he learns later of Styrbjorn's pledge to Harald Fairhair and Sigurd's opposition to it. Vili remains an uncharacteristically quiet pillar by his side as they sail for new lands. His head bothers him less, but Hytham can see the creases have deepened around Vili's eyes and notices his friend is careful not to move suddenly.
To Hytham's dismay they are not the only ones to have suffered in pursuing Kjotve's demise. Eivor, too, bears wounds; a broken ankle- how she continued to fight in spite of it is beyond Hytham- and a wrenched shoulder, the result of Kjotve hurling corpses at her. He is deeply ashamed with his actions when she wishes him good health on their shared journey and assures him there are no ill feelings regarding his interference in the holmgang.
"You did what you believed was right." Eivor says, her voice steady and without judgment.
"My actions have done more harm than good." Hytham replies dejectedly.
"Regardless, Kjotve is dead," Eivor dismisses before continuing, "I will be glad to have you and Basim as allies."
As she hobbles to her ship while he is carried on a stretcher to Randvi's longship, Hytham thinks he can see why Vili admires her. Headstrong, brutish and a touch full of herself, there is a glimmer of something great in Eivor. Something kind and resilient, hopeful and compassionate. The bitterness of her wielding the blade holds fast, but, Hytham thinks, she may be a worthwhile ally… perhaps, even, a friend.
The sky is streaked with reds, golds, and purples when they reach their final destination a week later. An abandoned village; a great longhouse still standing amongst the shambles and ghosts that walk the trails. There are several details Hytham misses in his limited state and Vili fills in what he can once they have found a place to pitch their tent.
Annoyingly confined to the evening shade of a nearby tree, Hytham does find a bit of amusement in watching Basim attempt to coordinate with Vili to construct the tent they will share.
"That is not where the support goes, Vili." Basim grumbles, adjusting the tent pole.
"If you are so wise, you do it, Old One." Vili grouses.
Hytham fakes a yawn to hide the weary smile pulling on his lips. After some time has stretched on, the sky turning to greyed pinks and dim with encroaching darkness, the tent is finished, though Vili has declared he will sleep outside for the time being.
"I prefer the stars." Vili declares with a shrug, laying out his makeshift pallet outside the tent entrance.
Their meager belongings, borrowed supplies, food, and several straw-stuffed cushions and furs are arranged within the confines of their tent. Hytham is nearly asleep when everything is finalized and they are ready to move him inside. Rousing enough not to be entirely dead weight, Hytham leans into Basim as his mentor aids him in the short walk.
"Thank you, Basim." Hytham murmurs sincerely.
"Rest now, Hytham," Basim replies gently, "You need your strength."
His body is burning as he is laid back against the cushions stacked to keep him propped up. Pieces of straw stick out from the hastily constructed pillows, poking into his back, but Hytham does not bother to complain. Exhaustion finally takes hold as night falls upon them, pulling him into a restless slumber, and a hush befalls the motley encampment.
Hytham is once again visited by dark visions. He is standing within a cold and abandoned hut. Its roughly hewn walls splintered and bowed, allowing the wind to slip through with its eerie howls. Broken ceramics litter the dirt floor and furs lie in a crumpled pile in a corner. Steam billows around his mouth with each breath, the frigid air biting his lungs and stinging his nose. Shivering, Hytham draws the heavy fur around his shoulders tighter before pushing the door open. A gust of wind slams into him, stealing his breath, and Hytham gasps instinctively to draw in a breath. Snowflakes flurry around him, gathering in his lashes and hair, obscuring the barren tundra. Blinking away the thick snowflakes, Hytham stumbles into the gathering storm.
He does not know where he is going, only that he must keep going forward. There is nothing and no one left in the desolate hut, now far behind him. Heavy grey swells in great contorting shapes around him, encapsulating him in its icy tendrils. Whispers like a chant form in his ears with each shuffling step, haunting him, pursuing him. Shadows twist around him, their fingers stretching to graze his skin, and pull at his hair. Fear strikes him and hastens his feet. The frozen earth proves challenging to trek and his bare feet slip out from under him suddenly. He yelps in alarm as he falls backwards… and keeps falling.
Smooth, solid stone breaks his fall and Hytham feels the air rush out of him at the impact. Lying in a daze, he belatedly notices that it is no longer snowing, nor is he on frozen ground. Rising to his feet, he looks around and sees a towering structure in the distance, great spires glinting in the brilliant sunlight. He squints against the light, shielding his face with a hand. Here it is bright and warm, the land strange with its lush green grass and rich, leafed trees. A wide river flows beside him, dazzling as gentle currents reflect the golden hues of the sun.
A voice calls out to him, strong and comforting, prompting him to turn towards the source. He cannot see the speaker, but is overcome with an eagerness to find him. Breaking into a sprint, he scrambles over the large stones, small feet hardly touching the grass as a wave of elation fills his senses. He sees the speaker then, a man, tall with dark hair cut strangely waiting near a twisted tree on the bank. Drawing breath to call out a greeting, he is abruptly halted by a hand grabbing his arm, dragging him back without warning.
"Beast!" Kjotve hisses with a snarl, though, his mouth does not move and the voice is not his own. Hytham's heart skips and blood rushes in his ears. A great spear flashes in the sunlight and he desperately looks for help, but there is no one.
"I will not let you roam freely." Kjotve spits, the accented voice mingling with a raspy timbre. The spear tip rests on Hytham's collar bone, digging into the hollow of his neck. His breath stills in his throat. The grip on his arm is bruising, the spear tip biting, and the fear engulfing him is paralyzing. He can do nothing but stare into the silver-blue eye as the spear is driven into his neck…
Hytham wakes with a strangled cry on his lips, clutching at his throat as phantom pain mixes with real, lungs seizing with the fire bursting across his ribcage and through his shoulders. Bile burns the back of his throat and Hytham swallows convulsively whilst he scrambles upright, fearful he may choke. Strong hands aid him and turn him to the side as he loses the fight with his stomach.
Sweat drenches him and his body trembles when the heaves have turned dry and become weak coughs. With drooping eyelids, Hytham sags against the arms holding him upright, panting from the exertion. He flinches when a wet cloth wipes away the vomit clinging to his lips.
"Easy, ya tayeb," Basim soothes, guiding him back against the cushions, "It is alright now."
Hytham lets his eyes close, brows furrowing as he registers the sobriquet. The tenderness behind the meaning is uncharacteristic of Basim and Hytham wonders if his current ill health has finally pried open this side of Basim. Darkly, he thinks he would have suffered this sooner if it meant being rewarded with such warmth.
"Is he alright?" Vili's sleep-laden voice carries from the tent entrance, and Hytham realizes he must have been rather loud in his wakening. He prays no one else has been roused.
"He will be," He hears Basim tell Vili, "Go back to sleep."
Vili mumbles a response, tent flaps rustling close as his friend settles down once more. Basim shifts beside him and Hytham stills under the hand that gently sweeps through his hair. Sleep does not find him again, but the night passes easily with Basim beside him.
The weeks continue to pass in an indistinguishable jumble of activity around Hytham. Hindered by the flare of pain in his hip and the constant burn in his chest, he becomes a steady fixture within the shared tent. While Hytham's injuries are tended to with all the care that can be afforded in the rapidly developing settlement, the prognosis remains grim. When the healer finally speaks to him, her words are grave and unwavering.
"You will heal, Hytham, but you will never fully recover. The damage done to your bones cannot be fixed."
The news is as bitter as the pain remedy she offers him. He feels the weight of it settle in his chest, stealing his breath like fire eating at his lungs. He knows what it will mean for his future and the thought is almost more than he can bear.
Basim is the one to deliver the final blow, reluctant and remorseful. His mentor sits beside his makeshift bed while Vili lingers near the tent flaps, anxiously shifting on his feet, yet determined to remain. The air is laden with tension and Hytham fears his mentor's words.
"Hytham," Basim begins, tone steady but filled with contrition, "With these injuries, you cannot be tasked with eliminating targets. Your combative skills will be too limited to accomplish strenuous missions."
Hytham's reaction is immediate and visceral. "No," He shakes his head, brittle voice betraying him, "No, you cannot do this to me! This is my life! My purpose!"
Basim's eyes are pained, though he remains resolute. "There are other ways to serve the Hidden Ones."
Hytham's anger flares, a hot burst of frustration and hurt. "Other ways?" He parrots incredulously, "As a rafiq? Stuffed in some bureau to be forgotten?"
"Hytham-" Basim says sharply.
"No!" Hytham cuts him off with vehemence, "I-I can still do this! I will find a way around my… my limitations."
"It is too dangerous, Hytham," Basim responds sternly before tempering his voice with compassion, "I will not risk your life." Again.
Though unspoken, the word hangs stiffly in the air and Hytham can only stare in disbelief and denial at his mentor. Vili shifts uncomfortably, drawing breath to speak
"Hytham," Vili starts, the gentleness in his words mocking to Hytham's ears, "Do not despair. You will remain a Hidden One."
"Shut up, Vili," Hytham spits, turning towards Vili, "You are hardly even one of us."
Vili noticeably flinches, opens his mouth to speak before snapping it close and clenches his jaw as his eyes go flat. The atmosphere grows painfully thick in the ensuing silence. Hytham refuses to meet either of their tense gazes, instead glowering at the thin blanket draped across his lap.
"Just leave me," Hytham hisses, "Both of you."
He senses more than he sees Basim shift, readying to speak.
"Please." Hytham's voice quivers and he clutches the blanket until his knuckles turn ashy.
Basim sighs quietly, then stands, lingering for a moment before turning and hesitantly walking towards the tent entrance. Hytham stubbornly keeps his blurry gaze fixed on his lap even as Basim glances back. Vili is equally reluctant to leave, Basim's hand firmly resting on his shoulder and guiding him out. The grip on the blanket tightens, nails biting his palms through the fabric.
Hytham listens to their footsteps fade, the silence in the tent amplifying his wild thoughts. The weight of the prognosis settles heavily on his chest, constricting until he can barely breath. A sob escapes his lips and he buries his face in the blanket, the coarse fabric muffling his anguish.
For a long time, he remains like this, caught in a storm of emotions- anger, grief, and a profound sense of loss. He thinks of all the missions he will never complete, the brothers and sisters he will leave behind, that will leave him behind, the purpose he now feels slipping away.
He lifts his head, eyes swollen and red, scanning the dimly lit space. The tent feels both suffocating and empty. It is as if the shadows mock him, whispering of a future that was, a future that is now unattainable. Taking a shuddering breath, Hytham forces himself to sit up straighter. His body protests, each ache and stab of pain a reminder of the foolishness he is paying the price for.
Beneath the physical torment there is a spark of determination that flickers to life. He may not be able to contribute as an active Hidden One, but it does not mean he is without worth or purpose. With trembling hands, Hytham wipes his tears and looks towards the tent entrance. Basim and Vili may have left him alone for now, though they will return, and when they do, he needs to show them- and himself- that he can still serve their cause, fulfill the Creed.
Hytham's resolve hardens. He will find a new path, one that may be different from what he envisioned, yet no less significant. The Hidden Ones have taught him that the fight for justice is never straightforward, and he will embody that lesson, adapting and overcoming.
As the first light of dawn filters through the tent, Hytham rises slowly, each movement a way forward. He may be broken, but he is not defeated. And in that moment, he vows to forge a new destiny.
A/N: Oof. Poor Hytham. I'd say things get better, but, well, they have to get worse first.