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hookaroo · 1 year

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Laden of the Torn (5 of 25)

AO3 link Catch up on tumblr: One Two Three Four Tagging @priscilla9993 @cocohook38 <3

***

Killian was still in the wagon when next he awoke, still in a tremendous amount of pain and massively disoriented. He lay trapped on his back as searing anguish prevented most movement, but at some point he had at least managed to turn his head so that the knot in his skull wasn't directly impacted every time the wagon jolted.

They seemed to be at a standstill now. Dead silence reigned. Killian could not see much beyond the tree-lined starscape. Now and then, above a background of blood and bile, he caught a whiff of the horses hitched to the wagon.

“Just the bare minimum to keep him alive.” The words floated in from somewhere up ahead, faint but audible. “He's not worth the expense of anything drastic.”

“Bring him inside and we'll take a look,” came the weary reply. Killian grimaced. He would have to be carried again, and the mere thought triggered renewed queasiness. He took some deep breaths as heavy footsteps came his way.

Despite the low light and the unsteadiness of his gaze, there was no mistaking the silhouette that came into view a moment later. Killian blinked, certain he must be hallucinating. Captain Blackbeard lowered the sideboard, then noticed Killian watching him and sneered.

“Well now,” he said. “Don't you look a fright.”

“What the devil,” hissed Killian, still not entirely convinced of his own sanity.

“Pleasure to see you again, Hook.” Blackbeard's words dripped with insincerity. “Although when I overheard that numskull Ahab crowing over how he'd bested you, he made no mention of the fact that you were in worse shape than a kraken’s pickings.”

Had Killian possessed the mental capacity for a scathing retort, it would have been cut short by virtue of being scooped up and slung roughly over Blackbeard's shoulder once again. Anguish overwhelmed him. Darkness quickly followed.

***

All too soon, pain once again dragged Killian into unwilling awareness. He lay shirtless, on his side this time; that was an improvement, at least. But any relief to the back of his head was currently being outweighed by merciless hands pressing on each of his bruises in turn, with no qualms about it either. If he had been fortunate enough to escape the beating without any broken bones, he would need that luck to continue, the way things were going. He uttered an involuntary groan and then flinched as a particularly painful touch seemed to grate bone against bone. Squinting up at the figure hovering over him, Killian drew a careful breath. It was an old woman poking at him; Blackbeard was leaning against a nearby wall, supervising with his arms crossed.

“I’ll save us all the inconvenience of torture,” Killian ground out. “I don’t know where--” He broke off to hiss a wince. When he’d collected his wits again, he continued, “--the Jolly Roger is. I’m not her captain anymore.”

“Torture?” scoffed Blackbeard. “Don’t be melodramatic. In fact, you should be thanking me. The services of a healer are never cheap. And Zeus knows, I won’t be covering it with the rubbish in here.”

He reached lazily for a worn leather satchel that rested on a nearby table, shoved a gloved hand inside, and sniffed haughtily as he withdrew a small length of shining steel. Even from across the room, Killian recognized it instantly: his hook. Forgetting his current condition, Killian lurched up onto his elbow, growling as the pain and pressure skyrocketed within his skull.

“Where did you get that?” he demanded weakly, voice tight. The healer laid an insistent hand on his shoulder.

“Lie still,” she snapped. The animosity between her patrons was clearly more than she’d bargained for in the middle of the night.

Blackbeard had retrieved Killian’s flask, shaken it to confirm its lack of contents, and tossed it aside in disgust. Feeling the darkness rolling in once again, Killian gave in to the attempts to coax him to lie down, but he couldn’t relax. He both hoped and feared…

“Same place I got you, of course. Bribed the quarry transporters. Return on investment is yet to be determined… but I’m not holding out much hope.”

There it was: the mirror. Killian froze, not even reacting to another wickedly sharp, stabbing pain in his side. The rival pirate examined his reflection, checked his teeth, then sneered at Killian as he tossed the prized possession aside to join the other items. “Pitiful.”

Killian’s relief manifested as nausea, and he closed his eyes momentarily, praying he wasn’t about to start up that miserable retching again.

“Nothing broken,” announced the old woman. “I don’t like the look of that head wound, but he should recover with rest.”

Killian opened one eye to get a better look at her, but she had moved off to some cabinets behind him, out of view.

“What’s your name, love?” he asked wearily. He had a feeling Blackbeard wasn’t intending to allow the prescribed rest, but maybe building a rapport with the woman would encourage her to take his side. “And how did you find yourself in league with this villain?”

“It’s Gloria. And we’re not ‘in league.’ Like he said, he’s paying me just enough to drag myself out of bed at this godsforsaken hour and look after you.”

Killian could hear her moving about, opening drawers and gathering the tools of her trade, and it was clear she didn’t appreciate the rude interruption to her evening. Bloody hell. His head throbbed, the twisting cramping was back in his guts, and he wanted nothing more than to be allowed some uninterrupted sleep. “Well, just because one of us lacks the decency to remove his hat when indoors… it doesn’t mean we’re both similarly ill-mannered.” He paused to wrestle with the tide of pain threatening to sweep him away, then ground out, “It’s… a pleasure to meet you… Gloria. I’m called Killian.”

Gloria moved back to the table on which he lay, and there was a touch less hostility in her voice as she answered,

“You really should stop talking. You sound awful.”

“Sounds fairly normal to me,” said Blackbeard. Unaffected by Killian’s earlier quip about manners, he’d kept his hat firmly in place.

“Drink this.” Gloria gently helped Killian to raise his head a bit while she held a cup to his lips. It smelled pleasant and spicy, fennel and a dash of ginger, and it would no doubt soothe the wretched dryness of his mouth and throat. But his bowels gurgled a warning.

“I’m not… so sure--”

Ignoring his feeble protests, the healer poured a mouthful past his lips, and when he’d swallowed, another. “It should help with the pain and encourage rest and healing.”

She set the cup aside, but before allowing his head back on the pillow, she slid a towel beneath. It was rough against his ear and cheek. Nauseated once again, Killian closed his eyes and drew his knees up, hearing an unfamiliar clatter which he eventually identified as the ball and chain still shackled to his ankle. He crossed his arms over an aching stomach and tried to focus on taking slow, even breaths.

Gloria’s next order of business was to bathe his head wound, which burned like hell at first, but it was also a small relief to finally be rid of the dried blood that had been matting his hair for the past few days. Killian desperately wanted to ask Blackbeard about his motivations for rescuing him, knowing it wouldn’t be anything close to altruism, but he had to keep all his attention on fighting back nausea. The other captain, apparently bored and tired of being ignored, let out a loud yawn.

“How long is this going to take, woman? I don’t need him smelling fresh as a daisy, only alive and breathing for the next week or so.”

“You want infection to set in and kill him?” Gloria shot back. “I can stop right now.”

Despite her threat, she continued dabbing her sponge at Killian’s scalp, sending warm, rust-tinted water drizzling down to soak the towel and pillow underneath. At that moment, a powerful cramp seized Killian’s midsection, and he had time for one hissed expletive before the healer’s brew came up in a most painful fashion. Through the uncontrollable spasms, he could faintly hear Blackbeard say,

“I’m not paying for that.”

When every last drop had been expelled and Killian lay trembling and struggling to catch his breath, every nerve ending afire, he muttered a weak apology as Gloria calmly cleaned the mess.

“This happen before?” she asked. Blackbeard was quick to cut in.

“All the way here. Bloody nuisance, I can tell you.”

“Aye,” croaked Killian. “And before that.”

“How long since you’ve kept anything down?”

He couldn’t say for sure, not with the effects of the head wound and sickness distorting his sense of time. “A couple of days, at least.”

Gloria made a non-committal grunt, moved to dispose of her cleaning supplies, then returned to his side and began probing at his tender insides. Killian grit his teeth. She may be tempting fate, pushing on him there… but then again, there couldn’t be much left inside him to splatter her with.

“Could be the bump on the head,” she remarked, digging four fingers quite deeply into his abdomen, her other hand behind his back to stabilize him. “But there is a lot of inflammation not associated with visible bruising… I’d guess there’s something else going on as well. Eat or drink anything suspicious lately?”

Killian grimaced wryly. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Hmm.” Satisfied with the results of her examination, she stepped back. “Well, we’ll try again in a few hours. Dehydration can kill just as quickly as infection, or even faster. Now. You’re welcome to try and sleep, but I do need to finish cleaning you up, so I can’t promise you won’t be interrupted.”

He winced. “Got anything to knock me out for a while?”

“Sorry, afraid not. That wouldn’t be a good idea with your head wound, anyway.”

“Just say the word, Hook,” said Blackbeard, and without even having to look, Killian knew he was holding up his clenched fist.

“It would be a huge waste of your money to kill him now,” Gloria pointed out as she wrung out her cleaning rag. “But maybe then I could go back to bed.”

The three of them lapsed into silence, and the healer got to work on the blood staining Killian’s battered face. Her motions were practiced and effective, if slightly less gentle than he would have liked, and whatever disinfectant she favored burned like hellfire.

Methodically, Gloria worked her way down his body, cleaning off dried blood and scalding each of his wounds with her chemicals, and any time she wasn’t directly touching him, he dropped to the very edge of sleep, but would then be awakened by a new lance of pain or queasy rumbling in his gut. It felt like hours passed in this way, but whenever he pried a burning eye open a slit, Blackbeard was keeping vigil. Bastard.

At one point, Gloria decided that one of the gashes on his shoulder blade needed stitching. That pain was all too familiar, and he bore it easily enough, grateful that her technique was excellent and she finished faster than even Smee could have done. Inexplicably, she did not attempt the same with his scalp wound, preferring instead to knot some clumps of hair together and trust that the existing clotting would suffice to begin the healing process. That technique was painful enough that he didn’t question her decision to forgo the needle there.

“Well,” she began, startling him to a higher degree of wakefulness. “That’s about all I can reach. Think you can roll over to your other side?”

***

Eventually, Killian’s utter exhaustion took over, and if Gloria’s light touches woke him, he stopped noticing, or at least remembering. And so it came as somewhat of a surprise the next time he woke fully and saw that the sun had risen. Gloria had just said something to him, but he’d completely missed it in the fog of sleep.

Heavy footsteps approached. Killian squinted up at the dark-rimmed eyes of Blackbeard, who appeared no worse for wear after the long night.

“Still with us, then?” Blackbeard smirked. He turned to Gloria. “Get him ready to leave. Once the horses are tended, he’s coming with me, whatever state he’s in.”

He stomped toward the exit, heedless of the twin glares cast in his direction. Once the door had slammed closed behind his retreating form, Gloria sighed and gave Killian a sympathetic look.

“That one’s a piece of work.”

“Aye,” growled Killian. He could think of few things he’d like to be doing less than setting out on a journey with that blaggard, especially in his current condition.

“Well, I’ve done what I could. I’d prefer for you to stay another day, but it seems neither of us are getting a say.” She stalked around to the other side of the bed and held out her arm. “Let’s see if we can get you to sit up without passing out.”

Killian had severe misgivings, but perhaps if he did accomplish this feat, he could hobble outside with assistance and not have to be carted about by bloody Blackbeard. He drew a steadying breath and reached for the waiting arm.

Being lifted to a seated position felt rather like he was being torn into pieces, and he couldn’t suppress a growl of pain. Gloria had her other arm behind his back, careful of the stitching in his shoulder blade but, by necessity, contacting very tender bruises from the soldier’s spear haft the day before. The room started to spin again as pressure built up within his skull, and he had to gulp several times to avoid the nausea that constantly lurked one breath away. Squeezing his eyes shut, he panted through the worst of the anguish, having to rely on Gloria’s assistance much more than he would have liked in order to avoid falling straight off the table. The healer waited patiently, understanding his plight. Finally, when he felt relatively safe, Killian slitted his eyes open, hissing,

“Apologies, love, but… bloody hell.”

She gave his arm a sympathetic pat. “I’ve heard worse.”

He grimaced. “I can believe that.”

“How’s the head?”

“About to burst open. But that’s been the custom the past several days.”

“At least you aren’t heaving your guts out.”

“Yet…”

She showed him a small sack that was perched on the table’s edge, saying,

“There are a few supplies in there to help continue your recovery out on the road. Once you’re able to keep things down, I’ve included a remedy that should ward off the effects of that head wound. Drink it with a good amount of water, if your heartless traveling companion will let you.”

Killian sighed, still unable to consider swallowing anything without feeling queasy. But a clear mind would be crucial to forming any sort of escape plan. “Thank you, Gloria.”

The healer was just helping him into his shirt when the front door burst open and Blackbeard strode inside, wearing his customary roguish smirk. He eyed the proceedings with a cocked eyebrow.

“Thought you said he wasn’t your type,” he jeered. “Got any left for me, wench?”

“Bugger off,” grunted Killian, shoving the blanket aside and preparing to endure the sheer torment of the journey outside. “Act like a gentleman, for once in your life.”

Blackbeard swaggered over to the table, and it was clear he expected to have to carry Killian out again. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was that ‘bad form’? Should I be treating this old crone with more respect?”

He burst out in cruel laughter, then grabbed Killian by the shoulder. “Stir your stumps, granddad. Time we were off, and she can count her blessings when she finds her house and lands still standing after a visit from the Scourge of the Sea.”

Bristling, Killian reached down to take hold of the chain at his ankle. He wanted to control its descent as much as possible, to avoid inadvertently hitting Gloria or her table with the heavy iron ball, as well as reduce the amount of strain on the cuff chafing his leg. An impatient Blackbeard laid waste to that plan, carelessly batting the ball off the edge. The chain rattled loudly and tugged painfully at Killian’s raw skin. Gritting his teeth, Killian gingerly swung both legs over the edge of the table.

“Do you really think you’re going to make it that far?” taunted Blackbeard. “And here I was all prepared to hoist you over my shoulder once again.”

“You should be thanking me for saving you the trouble, then,” winced Killian. His head felt like it was being clobbered by cannon balls. Gloria, above and beyond her obligation, stood with her arm outstretched, volunteering her strength even within smelling radius of the pungent Blackbeard.

Get it over with, Killian snarled to himself. He’d either collapse to the floorboards or surrender to tears of pain, but there was no way around it. He accepted Gloria’s arm and was forced to endure Blackbeard’s viselike grip around his elbow as he slid off the table with a jarring jolt to his storm-filled skull. The tiny whimper that escaped his throat did nothing to relieve his suffering, but his legs held, if a little wobbly, and he did not immediately devolve into miserable retching.

Gloria settled his stump across her shoulders, allowing him to lean heavily upon her, while Blackbeard pulled him forward mercilessly. In this manner, they made it to the doorway, though every step rattled Killian’s head and caused his wounds to throb, and he could feel the queasy heaviness returning to his gut, pressure building with each passing second.

By the time they reached the wagon, a haze stalked the periphery of Killian’s vision, his heart hammered against sore ribs, and his lips tingled. He knew he was only seconds away from losing consciousness. When his knee buckled and Gloria’s support was the only thing stopping him from faceplanting into the wooden planks ahead, Blackbeard apparently decided Killian had done enough on his own power. Abruptly and with no consideration of the many injured areas he could have tried to avoid, the other pirate shoved Gloria aside and heaved Killian up and onto the hard wagon bed.

Killian’s breath left him in a yelp and he curled in on himself as agony wracked his nerves. A cruel hammer was driving a spike deep into his brain. Shuddering, he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for darkness to take him, and it was in this state that they took their leave of the healer, without one more word of thanks.

#ouat fanfiction #laden of the torn #wish hook #healer #wound care #sutures #vomiting #pain #ouat blackbeard #captive

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