#thunderdragons

Óen | Cethair - Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3

Glossary (contains backstory spoilers)

This is going ever so slowly, but here, have some more.

I hope you enjoy it.

-o-o-o-

Virgil’s heart was weeping.

With both grief and terror.

The night air was bone cold and sucked the heat from his body through the many layers he had piled on, but fortunately the wind had died down leaving the darkness calm.

Dá’s massive wing strokes were reassuring in their steady strength as she supported her glide towards the beaches.

On their left, Scott was silent and almost invisible in the dark. Óen’s flight was ever silent, the lack of moon leaving the frail starlight inadequate to outline the night fury.

His brother shouldn’t be here. He should be in bed. But Virgil didn’t bother to waste his breath because he knew that Scott had to be there.

They all had to be there, for good or ill.

This was why John on Cóic, equally silent on his right, held young Alan, dressed in warm flight leathers far too big for him. Unlike Óen, Cóic caught all the starlight and reflected it back into the night, every feather glittering, her vast wings dwarfing both Dá and Óen.

But it was Virgil and Dá who carried the most precious and fragile burden.

Gordon was wrapped in healer’s cloth and sheep’s skin, strapped to Virgil’s strength. In the darkness, his mortally wounded little brother was more ghost than alive.

Virgil treasured every breath against his neck. There was terror that Gordon wouldn’t make it to the beaches. There was terror that he would.

There was no changing Scott’s mind. The injured and newly made Flaithri was steadfast and willing to do anything to save their little brother. John had been reassuring, Cóic warbling encouragement to Virgil at his questions.

There had been an answer. One of the sea had answered and it was wildly appropriate and felt determined by fate considering Gordon’s love of the water.

But the sacrifice was an unknown that terrified Virgil. A dragon willing to give its life force to heal another was fantastic myth and made a great story around the evening fires. But those myths all ended in tragedy and loss.

But what choice did they have?

Scott’s voice had been pain itself.

Dá warbled quietly and banked to the right, gliding down towards the waves. She back-winged ever so elegantly and touched down softly on fine pebbles.

The sea hissed at them.

Cóic landed at a distance, giving them room, while Óen did the opposite, expertly diving in close, likely to save his rider from walking too far.

Virgil and Óen had a long-standing agreement where the dragon’s rider was concerned, and Virgil couldn’t help but love the night fury for it.

So, of course, it was Scott who reached up to help Virgil dismount with his burden.

Virgil grit his teeth but didn’t say anything. He did his best to not place strain on his eldest brother, yet dismount without hurting his cherished burden.

Fortunately, John soon arrived, taking over from their limping brother.

The slice in Scott’s thigh was the only reason he wasn’t holding Gordon. Every screwed up muscle in the man’s face begged to bear his little brother’s weight in this, but Virgil wouldn’t allow it.

Scott wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to lose any more family.

Once Virgil had both boots on the ground, Scott stepped in close and peeled back the healer’s cloth from Gordon’s face.

Even in the darkness, the burns scarred their little brother’s visage. Each breath was strained. He was mercifully unconscious and limp in Virgil’s arms, the contrast between his active and boisterous self ever so heartbreaking, emphasising the reality of what they could, were likely, to lose.

Scott’s forehead briefly touched Virgil’s.

“There is hope.” It was whispered.

Please, let the gods be merciful to his little brother.

So it was Virgil, with his brothers beside him, who stood holding Gordon to his chest and confronted the unending waves as Cóic bellowed a call into the darkness.

Óen | Cethair - Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 | Bit 4 | Bit 5 | Bit 6

Wherein we learn some more about Scott in this universe.

I promise to get back to Gordon shortly. Scott just needed some background sorted out.

Also, off screen, poor Virgil is a mess, so we will be getting back to him soon, too.

@onereyofstarlight claimed I was a meanie after her readthrough. She's probably right. Sorry Scotty. ::hugs both of you::

I hope you enjoy this bit.

-o-o-o-

When Scott O’Treasaigh was born, his father lost his dragon.

It was a family tale around the fire, usually related by his father with much laughter. He could see that fond spark in the Flaithri’s eyes, how proud he was of his eldest son.

He would relate how Óen fell for the boy the moment he was born. How the dragon ignored Jeff and wandered around the village following the toddler.

Scott, of course, loved the great night fury. Earnest toddler conversations with a silver and black head paying attention to every word.

As Scott grew and his brothers appeared in the tale, he couldn’t deny that he loved Óen with everything he was.

But Óen was his father’s dragon.

When Virgil brought home an injured young rumblehorn and nursed it back to health, it was obvious his younger brother had found himself a dragon. And Dá was everything Virgil could dream of. Under his care and that of the family, Dá recovered well and grew ever so strong. She eventually became the biggest rumblehorn ever seen, her iridescent green hide glittering with health.

But Scott didn’t find a dragon. He had Óen.

But Óen was his father’s.

When John was honoured with the Matriarch’s child, everything changed. Their uncle proved bitter and wrong, and before long, they were fleeing across the sea.

Scott was young at the time, far from his manhood still, but he remembered the long stretches of ocean, the beat of Óen’s wings, his warm breath beneath him.

His father holding him tight.

It had been a slow journey. Dá had still been young, as had Virgil, and had not the strength of the older dragons.

But they made it, and ventured into a whole new world full of strangers and strange customs.

This new land did not know of dragons and there was fear, but his father was strong, as was their grandfather and grandmother and their new people grew to love the dragons as much as they.

Scott grew up and into his own strength. He flew with Óen as often as he could, but it wasn’t until Scott was taken that the decision was made.

He hadn’t been with Óen at the time, and his father blamed that fact for all that followed.

As a member of the ruling family he had martial duty to the clan. Scott took to the initial training like a bird to the sky. He did his family proud, winning the tustles and tourneys enough to take the lead in prowess and skill.

But this was not without opposition. While out on a distant patrol, he was targeted by the dishonourable and betrayed into capture.

They took him far away and held him for too many days. It was there he was taught the ill in the world and he still bore the scars of that teaching.

It was Óen who retrieved him.

His father often related the chaos the dragon created when Scott did not return that night. The night fury was inconsolable.

Of course, the family took to the air. Dá and a determined Virgil discovered the tracks and traced the culprits to a valley on the far side of the Island.

His father was both proud and a little exasperated at what happened next. He had gathered his men, prepared to attack, their party nestled under a ridge halfway up the other side of the hill.

But Óen had left them all behind, taking flight without command and disappearing into the valley.

Running through the damp foliage after him, their father told of the bright flashes as he reached the crest of the hill. The yelling, screaming and the roar of an infuriated dragon.

Óen returned shortly, a weak and injured Scott in his forearms. The dragon’s whimpers breaking every heart that heard them.

Scott was taken home and Máthair Chriona saw to his long road to wellness again.

But their father always, always, recited what he saw once he reached the place where his son had been held.

There was nothing. Nothing more than burnt bones and rubble. Whatever had stood had been destroyed by fury.

From that point on, Óen was Scott’s dragon. His father made sure of it.

Scott had often protested that the Flaith needed his dragon and that this wasn’t right, but his father would not bend.

Óen was Scott’s dragon.

Óen seemed to agree. But then Óen apparently had decided Scott was his human anyway.

As for Scott, it felt ever so right…and so wrong. Óen had saved his father from the Great Western Sea. If Óen hadn’t then, Scott would not exist.

The dragon thwapped him gently across the head whenever Scott mentioned it.

But it was now, here in the darkness of illness, that the truth fought with him.

If his father had been in the sky with Óen, not on the ground, standing between Gaat and John, then Gaat wouldn’t have had such an easy target.

His father would not be…

And Gordon wouldn’t have had to…

If Scott had been there…

But he hadn’t and neither had Óen.

Because Óen was Scott’s dragon.

-o-o-o-

Óen | Cethair

Okay, so about a third of you who voted requested some more Thunderdragons. I don't have much, and I need to write more, but here is the intro to the fic about Gordon's dragon.

This is a standalone fic that happens a few years before Óen. There are no HTTYD characters in this one. I needed to write it to sort out their history so I could write Óen. This AU/Crossover is hard work :D

Many thanks to @onereyofstarlight and @idontknowreallywhy for all their support on this project. And many thanks to those of you who answered my poll today. It gives me an idea of what you guys would prefer. As always, I can't guarantee anything (stupid brain won't even do what I prefer), but you never know.

Oh, and this is apparently my 12,008th post on this blog. Go me :D

I hope you enjoy this bit.

-o-o-o-

Virgil O’Treasaigh hurried between the tents careful not to trip on the pitch lines, but moving as fast as possible nonetheless.

The Flaithri’s tent was not far, the stamp of the Thunderbird was lit up by the torches clearly in the night, but it felt like leagues into the distance.

Perhaps because the title of Flaithri had shifted so recently and so painfully. Because behind that stamp he would no longer find his father, but instead his eldest brother.

And he feared his mood.

His flight leathers rubbed in places sore from travel and he let out a breath.

Casey had placed guards at the tent, the soldiers eyes sharp as he passed between them without question, striding through the tightly woven flax as it was whipped up by the wind off the black ocean to the west.

“Flaithri, I must speak with you.”

His brother was pacing, of a sort, the injury to his leg forcing a limp that had Virgil biting back protest. Considering the slice to his thigh, it was a sign of his agitation that he could pace at all.

Kyrano stood to one side, his eagle eyes watching everything. His daughter,  Tan, may as well have been a statue in his honour, her stance so mirrored her father’s.

“Scott!”

His brother stopped. His stance lopsided as he turned to face Virgil. “News?”

Virgil swallowed. “Mathair Chriona fears he will not see the light of morning.”

He watched his brother absorb the information. Ever the king he was born to be, there were no tears, only hurt in the depths of his eyes. “Nothing can be done?”

“We have tried everything. He has lost too much and his heart is beginning to falter.” Virgil’s voice cracked on the last word and his head dipped, his own calm strained beyond exhaustion and grief.

A hand landed on his shoulder, fingers tightening almost enough to cause pain. “John has spoken to Cóic.”

Virgil’s head shot up. “No!”

“Virgil, I will lose no more family today.”

And the blue of his brother’s eyes was terrible. Because today they had seen their father taken from them, the fire of Gaat’s beast scorching him from the earth.

The attack had been sudden and unexpected. Cóic had been unable to give warning, still too young to have the reach of an adult matriarch.

They had thought they were safe, hidden in the mountains in the land of the Picts, far from their homeland and the decimation the Scourge had wrought. They thought that Gaat could not find them.

His attack had targeted John and Cóic as it always did. Cóic was what he wanted, of course. The power of the Matriarch and the offence of John receiving the gift and not him had maddened the man.

But John had family and their father had intervened to protect and given his life. It was Gordon, seamaster at arms, who had leapt up onto the worm, stabbed the man, and ended the fight.

But despite his victory, Gaat’s beast had shaken him off and Gordon had fallen. If that was not enough, the cursed worm had then raked Virgil’s little brother with fire.

Gaat had been desperate and had withdrawn to lick his wounds.

But Gordon, dear Gordon…

A single tear tracked down Virgil’s cheek.

“Cóic will save him.”

“She can’t. We don’t know what creatures might be willing. What is the price?!”

But there was blue fire in those eyes. “His life.”

-o-o-o-

Óen | Cethair - Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 | Bit 4 | Bit 5

Dashing out the door.

Many thanks to @onereyofstarlight for the readthrough and all the wonderful support I have received for this fic. I haven't forgotten it! So here is the next bit for FishTank Week :D

I hope you enjoy.

-o-o-o-

Pain.

There was only pain.

Somewhere beyond that, there were his brothers, but their touch hurt and grief burned.

Father.

His beloved father.

Gaat. He snarled the name. Begotten of worms and dung. Though he was doing shame to the worms and dung. Gaat was worthy of nothing that lived.

You have some fire in you, little one. Good. We will need it.

But above all, he was tired.

Tired of the pain. So much pain. It hurt to breathe.

Breathe, you need to breathe.

Máthair Chriona had been there. Virgil, too. There had been pleading, but he had not the strength.

You have the strength now. Breathe.

Something poked him in the belly. He opened both his eyes and his mouth without thinking and was bathed in golden light.

And water. So much water. It crawled into his lungs and he was drowning. A gasp for air and…

Count with me, little one, draw in the sustenance and let it give us the life we need…óen, dá, tri, cethair…

His body struggled with a density it wasn’t used to, pushing fluid in and out with a foreign strength.

Hmmm, yes, that’s good. Keep at it.

Panic began to wane and his senses finally came back with something other than pain.

He was floating in a golden light.

And there was a dragon.

All the gods!

Óen | Cethair - Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 | Bit 4

Glossary (contains backstory spoilers)

Here is the next bit. Meet Cethair :D

Thank you to all your amazing support with this. I've received such amazing feedback, you are all gorgeous and ever so supportive.

I hope you enjoy it.

-o-o-o-

There was a myth, told by the fire of those who bonded with a dragon with their dying breath. Fallen on the battlefield or cursed with sickness, their breath was taken by a wyrm who saw into their heart and judged them worthy.

The dragon would give life, heal wounds and sickness, and the cherished loved one would be saved.

But there would be something different. At first small things, a change in food preferences, or the odd request, before a personality change would take them away from their family, their community, and eventually they would disappear, never to return.

Some said the dragons took the souls of the dying. Some said they turned into dragons themselves. Others that there was a price for life that had to be paid, that those who were saved were not really saved at all, but enslaved to their saviour.

Some spoke of horrors that should never be spoken.

What was known was that dragons were a great people with knowledge and capabilities beyond that of man. While man partnered and loved them as family, there was always that awareness that dragons were more than they seemed and that there were questions they did not answer.

So rumours continued to speak and some feared the dragons and the myths became lore.

For those from across the Great Western Sea, the place Virgil knew as his childhood home, dragons were everything. Beloved Thunderbirds protecting and honouring their tribe in a harsh world.

But the myths persisted and while he had grown up with the beautiful creatures and loved Dá as much as his brothers, the question was always there. Something to be aware of…

And now to fear.

The ocean was a dark abyss that roared as it pounded onto the finely pebbled shore. Behind him Cóic let off another bellow into that darkness.

It was answered, not by sound, but a golden glow.

Far out beyond the breakers, the ocean lit up with a slowly expanding golden light, strengthening to shine through the waves themselves, lighting up their greens and gold-plating white foam.

Gordon would love this.

The thought came unbidden and brought tears to Virgil’s eyes, blurring it all.

A hand on his arm urged him forward. “Virgil, all will be well.” John’s voice was melodious as always and as he turned to look at him, his red hair was blonded by the light.

Virgil swallowed and took a step into the water.

Golden foam writhed about his leather boots.

Cóic let off another roar, this time joined by both Dá and Óen.

Virgil drew in a wet breath and straightened his shoulders. John had not let go of his arm. On his other side, his big brother reached out and touched his elbow, holding gently, and together they walked into the glowing surf just as a golden dragon lifted its head far above the waves.

And warbled at them.

It was a sea serpent, rumoured to live at the greatest depths, to roam the ocean, wise, yet mercurial, quick to temper and a scourge of the fisherman as they foiled nets and stole catches.

Again, Gordon would have loved to see this.

Virgil’s sight blurred again and he looked down at his little brother, still struggling for breath in his arms.

Scott and John nudged him forward and the freezing surf crashed over his thighs.

The serpent towered over them, red eyes glistening as it peered down. Its snout was slender, but as its mouth opened, dagger-like teeth protruded from its jaws. Its glowing scales flickered gold with hints of greens and blues, ever so smooth over its long snake-like back and belly. A frill of fin structures encircled its neck and shoulders, tapering to a single line down its spine. Two great webbed claws stepped out over the waves.

And one reached out, palm up, to Virgil.

Cóic and Dá crooned at him from the beach.

“Virgil, give Gordon to Cethair.”

Virgil looked at his brother. Lit up by the golden dragon, John appeared ethereal, a soft reassuring smile on his face, Cóic’s silver-white scale at his temple shining in the light.

“He will be safe.”

Scott’s hand tightened on his arm.

And something nudged at Virgil’s hair.

Dá bellowed as Virgil looked back to find the golden dragon’s snout at eye level, every glowing scale vibrating with energy, red eyes flashing.

Cethair warbled again and touched its nose to Gordon’s wrapped shoulder.

“Let him go, Virgil.”

Golden light surrounded him, Cethair’s warm breath washing away the cold air.

Trembling, Virgil lifted up his little brother, his bright, sunshine, ever smiling little brother, now broken and dying in his arms, and offered him to the sea dragon.

That claw wrapped around Gordon, encompassing him in light until he almost disappeared, as the dragon reared up and took him away.

Virgil reached out as Cethair drew Gordon in close, holding his little brother a moment and nuzzling him with its snout.

Another warble and the sea serpent turned in the water, creating a wash that swept over the three brothers, and disappeared into the depths taking its golden light with it.

There was a pain-filled sound to Virgil’s left, but he couldn’t respond, caught in a gasp of his own, his legs dropping from under him as if they wished the cold sea could take him as well.

It was John who dragged him and Scott from the water, all of them shivering and soaked to the bone. Virgil found himself bundled up with both Scott and John in a flurry of white feathers as Cóic curled around them.

It was only then, as the world slowed and gave him a moment, that he could give in and breakdown in grief.

-o-o-o-

Óen | Cethair - Bit 1 | Bit 2

Glossary (contains backstory spoilers)

Many thanks to @onereyofstarlight, @idontknowreallywhy, @womble1 and @sofasurf for all their amazing support of my writing.

Here we continue with the fic about Gordon, but this bit focusses on Johnny and a little backstory.

Sorry for the delay in writing. I will get there eventually.

I hope you enjoy.

-o-o-o-

John was beside himself. Cóic’s thoughts were a turmoil and her heart anguished.

“It was not your fault, my love.” He reached up, ever so glad of his lanky height to reach her eyebrow feathers and rub her gently. “You know Gordon-“

She snorted, warm breath catching his long hair and tossing it about.

“Yes, he has a history of rapscallion-hood, but you know his heart. He would not have acted any other way, even should he have known this outcome. He did this for us.” He let his forehead rest against her white and gold cheek feathers, soft in their strength. “As did our father.”

That was a raw wound in his heart. Losing their father and king, his strength…all because…

It was Cóic‘s turn to interrupt his train of thought, sour that it was. He reached his fingers to his left temple, closing his eyes as her mind enveloped his.

It truly was magic. To be held like a child in the arms of a giant. Cóic had inherited the memories of the Ages, those who had come before, and the wisdom that entailed. But she was still young, unable to access it all until she was fully grown. Kyrano had spoken of it as a burden and part of John feared his beloved dragon would lose some of herself the day she came into her knowledge.

And feared he wouldn’t be good enough.

His father had spoken to him from a very young age about the importance of the gift he had been given, the honour it was to help guide a Matriarch into adulthood.

His mother’s family had been stewards of the great dragons across the Western Ocean and when the Matriarch of the tribe chose him to be the companion of her unborn child, the O’Treasaigh family had been ever so honoured.

His mother had held him in her lap telling him stories of the old ones and legends of their tribe leading back into the darkness of the past. How the tribe had grown strong and safe with the dragons, the great Thunderbirds. And how, in each generation one was chosen for the next Matriarch, the next great Thunderbird. Chosen for his mental prowess and agility, his strength for love and for kindness.

The Matriarch had chosen John.

And Gaat had not agreed.

John hadn’t been aware of it at first, until one day their father announced they were returning home.

As far as he and his brothers were concerned, they were home. The land of the Matriarch was all they had ever known. They were, of course, aware that their father was from across the ocean, very far away indeed. And they knew the story of how he had entered these lands held in Óen’s claws, a half-dead bedraggled mess - Kyrano’s words, not John’s.

The tales of Ériu, a land of eternal green and bounty, of their grandfather, Flaithri O’Treasaigh, king of their lands, and their grandmother who had trained in the Temple and knew all the medicines and was so kind to their people.

It would have been harder to leave if Gaat hadn’t forced the issue. John was still young when it all happened, but he remembered the fires and the screams. His mother grabbing him and Cóic, still in her egg, and bundling them up in furs so warm.

Of Óen’s bellows and fire, all the family’s dragons taking to the air in the darkness, his mother’s reassuring words as she held him close, his father’s voice firm and strong.

John shook himself. He often drifted when held by Cóic. He suspected she had interest in his memories and his point of view. They were so different, yet together they were one.

The family had returned to Ériu to great fanfare. The Flaithri was over joyous to have his son not only return, but with a wife and three strong sons.

The revelation of dragons took a longer time to settle, but eventually the O’Treasaigh family settled back into a new comfort, a new home that was as full of history as their previous.

The Kyrano family had travelled with them, their mother’s brother exercising the right to ensure her safety. Scott had once confided in John claiming Kyrano wanted to get away from Gaat as much as any of them. Gaat was a half-brother to both their mother and Kyrano, and a half they could both do without.

But as time passed and they all settled, it was good to have another family from across the Western Sea to share memories with.

Gordon and Alan were born one after the other and the Flaithri doted on both the young children. Five strong sons were cause for as much celebration as three.

The day Cóic hatched, John’s life changed.

He had slept with the egg every night, kept it warm as his mother instructed. It had so long been his companion, it was second nature to keep it safe. Until early in the morning dark, he had been awoken by movement and shattering eggshell.

She had bowled him over in eagerness, landing on his chest, still dripping with egg fluids. He had been bewitched by her beautiful turquoise eyes - to this day, he still was - though it had taken some time for her gold-tipped white feathers to fully come in. As a hatchling she had been rather scrawny, more like a bald bird than a dragon.

The wave of fond mock-offence had him smiling and he suspected that his response was her purpose in sending it.

It also brought him back to the present and separated him a little from her embrace. Today was one of mourning but in it there may be hope.

Cóic rumbled deep in her throat.

John startled. “Have you a response?”

The matriarch had sent out a request, across dragon minds seeking one willing to give everything for a heroic young prince. One willing to make the sacrifice to save him.

How the dragons saw his people, why they served, associated, and loved their human counterparts was not clear. While Cóic never hesitated to share her thoughts with him, there was seeing and feeling, but understanding was not a given. Dragonkind had its mysteries and its purpose and it was other than what humans pursued or recognised. It was also something John could only accept and trust.

But the call out across the seas and the land looking for one willing to give everything for a stranger…only clarified dragon difference. It was a hope, but it was also a terror, an unknown.

Cóic warbled, her heart lifting. She touched her great head gently to John’s.

She had an answer.

Her reassurance was a boon. Gordon could be saved.

As his fingers drifted through her neck feathers and he climbed into her saddle, his hope was joined by fear and his heart ached.

-o-o-o-

For @sofasurf because of this post.

Only a short thing and not really addressing the challenge as I did a little research and in 700AD there wasn't plate armour and most stuff in Ireland was light. Plus our boys fly dragons, so instead we have padded leather armour. I also stuffed up the removal of even that.

Scott demanded POV even though I wanted to write Virgil's and the scene suffers from his lack of coherence.

But anyway, we have 500 words of something Thunderdragons. I hope you enjoy this tiny bit.

-o-o-o-

“Scott! Scott, look at me! Look at me!”

His brother’s eyes shone from a grotty and blood smeared face.

“Virg…” It was an exhalation, almost a last breath.

“Scott, you stay with me. Stay!” His brother knew how to yell, his deep voice echoing in Scott’s head, back and forth, back and forth.

He realised he was being carried. “Put him down here. I need boiled water and cloths.” Hurried footsteps darted out of the tent.

Something came up behind him and his body sunk onto a hard surface. A wad of soft fabric was tucked under his head as the room spun.

“Brother? Flaith!” His helmet was removed as a hand held his jaw. Scott opened his eyes to find dark eyes glaring at him. “Keep your eyes open, Flaith.”

Curse, Virgil only called him Flaith when he wanted to piss him off.

But it worked. Scott struggled to pull himself together. He had been on the battlefield. There had been an attack. Óen had been beneath him…

“Flaithri!” He sat up, his muscles working on memory before informing him that there was injury, the reason why his healer brother was now yelling again.

Virgil’s voice was so loud!

But arms caught him and lowered him back down to whatever it was he was lying on.

“Scott, please.”

It was his brother’s soft hiss that slammed reality home.

He was injured. But…”Flaithri?”

Virgil’s eyes answered him without words.

So, their grandfather was taken by the Scourge from across the Western Sea.

“Father?” Their father would now be Flaithri. Please.

There was a tear running down Virgil’s face. “The Flaithri has instructed us to prepare to retreat.”

“We are fleeing?” Scott struggled to sit up again, but Virgil held him down.

“You are injured, Flaith. I have been instructed to make you ready for transport.”

“Virg…”

“Please, Scott.” Again with the whispered plea.

When he didn’t respond, Virgil let go of his shoulders and began removing his flight leathers.

Scott swallowed as Virgil gently tugged at the ties at his throat, unlacing his padded armour. His brother’s breathing was tightly controlled, but that tear was still tracking down his cheek.

“Virg…”

His brother wiped his face on his sleeve. “You have injury. We need to clean-“

“Virgil.”

But his brother was looking away as he called for assistance, and the healer’s attendant hurried in, lugging water and cloths. As they removed the leathers from his side, they caught in clotted blood, leaving Scott gasping and barely hanging onto reality.

As if taking the opportunity, hands then poked and prodded and placed pressure on the source of so much fire.

The warmth of his brother’s hand on his cheek slowly drew him back from the edge. Sweat was beaded on his temples; his lungs grabbing for air.

He was bare-chested, still lying on a healer’s pallet. Virgil’s worried eyes still hovered above him.

“You will heal. But you need time and rest.”

“I have neither.” His father would need him.

But Virgil grabbed at his shoulders, again preventing his rise.

And there was something in his brother’s eyes, more than just Scott’s injury.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Virgil’s eyes closed and his head dropped.

“Virgil?”

Something shuddered through Virgil’s frame and when he looked up, Scott could only feel fear.

“What is it?!”

“Mother was taken also.” The words rasped across his brother’s lips.

Time froze.

“No.”

“I’m sorry, Scott.” There were tears in Virgil’s voice.

“No.”

Virgil closed his eyes again.

Please, no.