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hookaroo · 10 months

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Laden of the Torn (2 of 25?)

AO3 link Catch up on tumblr: Chapter 1 Tagging @priscilla9993 @cocohook38 <3

* * *

The loud thud and jarring impact as Killian's body was thrown carelessly onto a hard surface roused him for approximately fifteen seconds, during which time he could only moan once and gasp for breath, senses alight with pistol shots of pain, before murky darkness overtook him once again.

* * *

The next time, it was the horrendous screech of metal against metal that cut through the fog in an agonizing racket. Cringing, Killian lifted his hand, caressing first his resentfully ringing ear, then the sticky, matted patch on the back of his skull which explained his murderous headache. Other sounds echoed in the dimly lit chamber, but they were still incomprehensible at this point. Until a vaguely familiar voice cut through in sullen monotone.

“Aye, that's him.”

Killian was still struggling to get his bearings as he peeled an eye open and tried to ignore the resulting spike of pain between his temples. A man in chains stood a few meters away, filling the doorway of a barred wall through which Killian could see several uniformed soldiers observing. He couldn't remember where he was or who any of these people were, but his muddled brain still thought it prudent to deny everything.

“Never seen this man before in all me days,” he rasped, rubbing at blurry eyes in an attempt to clear his vision.

“Oh give it up, Hook. No worming your way out of this one. We are going down together.”

“So that's it, is it?” Killian groaned as he pushed himself up to a seated position, and the surrounding gloom seemed to judder and buck like a wave-tossed dinghy. “You hear of the poor, pathetic local with one hand and decide to cast your guilt upon him?”

Killian again touched the knot on the back of his skull and winced. Addressing the somber guards, he continued,

“This criminal is telling tales to save his own hide. I swear I have no involvement in the matter.”

The chained man sneered, and Killian suddenly recognized him as that damnable upstart Ahab.

“Oh no?” The scraggly whaler gave an arrogant smirk, managing to look condescending despite his own predicament. “Then I suppose you don't bear a scar where my bullet found its mark?”

Killian had no answer for him. Ahab turned his gloating in the direction of his guards. “Left upper arm, right about here.”

Seemingly in slow motion, the closest guard entered the cell and made for Killian, who could only reflect on the empty and unimportant question of how Ahab could know in such precise detail where the bullet had grazed him. Surely he had to have been too focused on not dying to notice the fate of his opponent. His second must have given a report later, perhaps gathered from the gossip of bystanders. And none of it made one bit of difference, because the guard was stripping him of his shirt and would soon see the pink line that was the source of all his woes… and was about to bring him even more trouble.

The worn shirt was yanked roughly over Killian's head, setting alight the torn flesh of his scalp. Now missing a few buttons and sporting several new rips in the fabric, it landed in a heap at his feet. The guard grabbed Killian's elbow while a comrade directed lantern light onto the area in question. Killian's skull felt as if it were about to explode.

“Farming mishap,” he mumbled half-heartedly, knowing that the excuse sounded just as implausible to his audience as it did to him.

“Aye, Captain Hook, notorious farmer,” taunted Ahab. Killian's only focus was the outcome of his current quandary. He couldn't hazard a guess at what punishment awaited convicted duelists, but anything beyond a short-term corporal penalty would be simply intolerable. His separation from Alice was more than enough punishment in itself, and he had no funds with which to pay a fine and less time to spare for imprisonment. That would only delay his search for a cure... no, hold on, he had already found an alleged cure; he only needed to test whether it had worked.

With that thought, Killian suddenly noticed the horrid taste in his mouth, as if a plague-ridden rodent corpse had been left to stew overnight in the foulest of gutters before slithering its way down into a suddenly churning gullet. He nearly gagged, irritably pulling his arm from the soldier’s grip with a scowl.

“Any chance of a drink of water, mates, or am I to assume that this is yet another stereotypical dungeon with no regard for basic human welfare?”

“Best not antagonize them,” said Ahab with a nasty wink as he was dragged away. “You and I, mate... we’re going to be spending a fair amount of time with these boys. You don't want to start off on the wrong foot.”

***

What woke Killian next was not the chill of lacking a shirt, or even the constant throb of a possibly fractured skull, but a sudden twisting in his gut, a bladeless disemboweling that had him curling in on himself before he had regained full awareness. Then everything else flooded back and the quilled complaints of his midsection lost their urgency.

He did not remember falling asleep, and he certainly did not recall hearing his jailers bring the bucket of water which now stood just inside the door to his cell. All of which could point to his head injury being more serious then he had hoped, given his current predicament.

Groaning, Killian rose to his knees. On the floor, he noted, not the bench as expected. The dim light of the dungeon flickered, or perhaps that was merely his vision, muddled by concussion. Breathing through another worrying cramp, he gathered the will to stand.

“Are you still drunk?” came the gruff taunt from Ahab when Killian had to catch himself on the bench to prevent a tumble. “I don't know whether to ask for the recommendation of your drink of choice, or laugh at your aging body’s weak tolerance.”

Killian could barely tell up from down at the moment; he had no hope of discerning the whereabouts of his fellow prisoner. Not that it mattered, since he lacked the motivation to reply.

Head pounding, Killian staggered to the water bucket and used the barred wall for balance as he slid down to his knees. His insides lurched at the sight of a green scum coating both bucket and ladle. Even if he weren't already feeling queasy, this water would be of questionable safety. But what other choice did he have? His mouth and tongue felt as if they were made from the same dust-mold he'd consumed an unknown length of time ago.

He choked down just enough algae soup to relieve his thirst, then used one handful to make a halfhearted attempt at rinsing his head wound. It didn’t appear to be actively bleeding at the moment, but he could feel stiff patches of dried blood in his hair and itchy trails of it down the back of his neck and shoulder. Whatever the overzealous soldier had struck him with, it had certainly been effective.

Ahab’s voice cut through the gloom again, from somewhere not too far away, and Killian opened a jaundiced eye to locate him as he spoke.

“It may be the poor lighting in here,” said the whaler, “but you appear to have aged a decade since last I saw you. It seems my bullet took more out of you than I realized.”

Ahab was imprisoned in the cell across the walkway from Killian’s, and he was currently lounging near his own water bucket, one hand gripping the bars as he watched his fellow prisoner. He’d been allowed to keep his wooden leg, Killian noted with some bitterness, feeling the unfamiliar chill of an exposed left arm. It was likely for the benefit of their jailers, keeping Ahab more mobile, but the false leg could be used as a weapon more easily than an empty arm brace.

Another stomach cramp did not help Killian to control his simmering anger. “How much did Gothel pay you? Is it worth the burden of knowing you’ve destroyed the life of an innocent girl?”

Ahab only grinned in that infuriatingly smug way of his, unrepentant, and Killian sighed.

“Actually, you know what, it doesn’t matter. You were just her witless pawn; a small fish. We both fell victim to her schemes. And I’ve given up holding meaningless grudges.”

With that, Killian used the cell bars to pull himself to his feet, intending to struggle into his shirt before the dagger in his skull sent him back into helpless oblivion. As he hobbled unsteadily toward the discarded garment, Ahab delivered the expected empty threats in a fierce snarl.

“I would advise you not to dismiss me so easily, Hook. I’m not some simpering, toothless old Crocodile who’s locked up for all eternity. And unlike you, I don’t back down from my prey.”

Killian sat heavily on the bench, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as he waited for darkness to take him. When that didn’t happen, he affected an expression of mocking indifference. Using his boot to slide his shirt closer, he said,

“Well, good luck doing all of that hunting while we’re both imprisoned for our little duel. I’m eager to hear what you’ve prepared to tell the magistrate, because to me, it appears as if--” Grunting, he bent to snatch up the torn cotton, and the resulting pain was almost enough to override his resolution to be civil. You don’t have a leg to stand on would have been so satisfying. “--It’s a lost cause. Mate.”

The menace drained from Ahab’s posture, and he returned to calm self-satisfaction. Killian cautiously slipped his shirt over his throbbing head as the whaler retorted,

“Ah, well, you’ll soon find out. Best hope you haven’t used up all of your favors lately. You’ll likely need some allies whom you can call on for help.”

#ouat fanfiction #laden of the torn #wish hook #whump #head injury #dungeon #blood #stagnant water #stomach cramps #ouat captain ahab #angst #confusion #bullet scar #taunting #what the heck why are the asterisks so big in the middle?#I tried everything I could think of to replace with regular size #someone help please :P

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