Back on Berk, Fishlegs was hot as fire, weak as a fly caught in a spider's web, and talking nonsense. Old Wrinkly quietly bathed his head with cool water, and tried to feed him some watery tea.
"Stop it... you withered old ... dried-up crab claw," fretted Fishlegs feebly, trying to twist away from the old man's hand, but hardly strong enough to move.
"They must get here before ten in the morning," muttered Old Wrinkly to himself. "He's dying fast."
"Don't worry," whispered Fishlegs, looking straight into Old Wrinkly's concerned old eyes. "Hiccup will make it. Hiccup always makes it.... Thor only knows how," and then he drifted off into nonsense again.
Out in the middle of the Sullen Sea, strange noises could be heard, like the creaking of an old man's knee, or the rapping of a gigantic knuckle on a door.
The ice was beginning to crack.
127 Fishlegs was dying fast...
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