The Mysterious Case of Patient H: The Patient

"Right this way, gentlemen," the clipboard-toting doctor said, motioning for the two visitors to follow.

The first, a blonde and bookish man with intelligent eyes behind a pair of glasses, started after him immediately. The second, tall, silver-haired and dressed to the nines in formal US Military attire, was a little less enthusiastic in his response, trailing several steps behind.

As was to be expected in such establishments, the atmosphere in the long hallway was chokingly sterile, the lighting cool and uninviting, the people a disquieting mix of both. Stone-faced doctors, nurses and assistants hurried past the rows of doors, all of which were locked tight, sealing off those behind them from the world. With a slight shudder, the taller man had to wonder if it was really for the protection of the individuals occupying these rooms…or more for the ones on the outside. There weren't many things that could get under his skin, but this high security psychiatric research facility was definitely on the list.

The group made a left as the doctor continued.

"We call him 'Patient H'. We haven't been able to learn his real name yet. The police brought him in a few months ago after he was found wandering the streets one day while wearing this strange warrior-type costume. I hear he put up quite a struggle once they caught up with him, shouting gibberish and using some kind of flame thrower and aerosol explosive device."

"Yikes," said the military man. "I can see why they wanted him committed, although I'm not sure anybody should ever have to be stuck in a place like this."

"I assure you, Colonel, our patients receive respectful, quality treatment from highly trained—"

"Gibberish?" interrupted the civilian counterpart as they came to a stop at the very last door in this corridor. "You mean no one could understand anything he was saying?"

"Yes, Dr. Blake. Not a word, and he didn't seem to be able to understand us either. He certainly wasn't screaming in English, or any other known language, for that matter. At first he was very violent, very vocal and we had to restrain him until he was too exhausted to fight anymore. After that, he just…stopped, went completely silent. Now we can't get so much as a sound out of him, gibberish or not."

After a swipe of an ID badge and a few taps on a keypad, the door made series of soft clicks and opened.

The small room behind it was plain, grey and dismally lit by the tiniest slit of a window. There wasn't much else occupying the space other than a cot, a table, and a hunched shadow in one corner. The two visitors exchanged an uneasy glance before stepping inside. There was a long, long silence while they observed the hollow shell of a human being in front of them.

He was young, seeming to have only recently crossed the border into adulthood. He was skinny. Almost too skinny, but it was easy to guess why at the sight of the cold, barely touched tray of food sitting beside him on the hard floor. Huddled with his arms wrapped tightly around his legs (one of which, the two noted, ended in a prosthetic), his forehead rested on bent knees in a pose of utter despair. His auburn hair was trimmed close to the skull, probably to keep him from tearing it out by the roots.

The Colonel had to look twice just to be sure the patient was breathing since he made no stir at their entrance. The most unsettling feature of the scene, however, were the rune-like gouges and scratches covering the walls on either side of his corner, which explained the absence of any silverware on the tray.

"Is…is he always like this?" asked the Colonel, slightly horrified.

"Well, like I said, he wasn't at first," the doctor answered. "His condition has declined significantly since he was admitted. We haven't quite nailed down what's wrong with him yet, but it's almost as if...well, as if he's given up on existing."

"Yup. Quality care, right here."

The doctor flashed him an insulted glance. "We're doing the best we can with an exceptionally difficult case, Sir. He is the one you're looking for, isn't he?"

"Pretty sure," Dr. Blake said, squatting in front of the young man to run a couple fingers over the damage on the wall.

"May…may I ask why the government is interested in one of our most unstable psychiatric patients?"

The Colonel raised an annoyed eyebrow, shrugging.

"Sure, you can ask…" he enjoyed the doctor's uncomfortable fidgeting for a moment before getting around to the rest of his answer, "and there are a few dozen reasons, actually, but they're all classified. Sorry."

"These runes…" Dr. Blake said, standing up suddenly, "these runes…are in Old Norse."

"Ok, we've seen weirder," the Colonel nodded. "Well, Blake, what do they say? I know you've already translated it."

"They mostly spell out the words 'help me' over and over again, but I thought I saw something about a black dragon, which is different…" Blake trailed off, buried in his thoughts. "D'you know what this means?"

"Uh, no. That's why I asked you."

"Ok, well, that time-distortion anomaly—"

The Colonel raised a finger. "Ah-ah, we've been through this. You know how touchy the military gets about its anomalies."

"Anomalies…?" asked the confused doctor.

The Colonel shook his head. "Trust me, you don't wanna know, because then you would probably have to disappear. Forever."

The doctor gulped as his face paled.

"Uh…I'll be right back," he said, slipping through the crack in the doorway. "I just…remembered an important item of business that needs my immediate attention."

"Good idea."

Dr. Blake prattled on. "This…this is huge! The scientific and historical implications will turn academia on its head. Just imagine what can be gained from such a unique opportunity!"

"Blake," the slight note of reprimand in the Colonel's voice brought the researcher back to earth. "The kid's a person, not an artifact, and he can't stay here. I mean, look at him! Not only does he look half-dead already, but you said yourself that he's scribbled 'help' all over the wall."

"Right, right," Blake agreed after a moment, sounding more disappointed than apologetic.

"If he really is what we think, if he really is a...a Viking or whatever, then he doesn't belong in the twenty-first century and won't survive if we don't find a way to fix this."

Blake stood, stroking his chin, then began to pace. "Yes, yes, there's the cultural barrier, for one thing, not to mention the physical differences between our time and his. And let's not even start on the language—wait a minute…that's it."

"Uh…that's what? What happened? You were on a roll."

"That's it!" he repeated, snapping his fingers. "Language!"

"But of course." The Colonel tapped the side of his head. "Language. Is it ever anything else?"

At that moment, the doctor returned, looking slightly less flustered.

"Doctor," the blonde researcher addressed him, ignoring his colleague's automatic shot of sarcasm, "would it be all right if I tried communicating with him? I think I might know how to get through."

The doctor frowned, then heaved a sigh. "I don't see why not, but good luck getting any kind of response. We've tried everything there is to try, I'm sure of it."

"Well, probably nothing like this." Grinning, Dr. Blake resumed his crouch before the young man. "Hello," he greeted in Old Norse after clearing his throat purposefully.

To everyone's surprise, the young patient twitched.

"Hello," he repeated, "can…can you hear me?"

The head lifted slowly from the knees to reveal a pale, narrow face with a pair of sunken green eyes set in hollow sockets. It was like staring into the face of some long-tormented ghost.

"Yes, um, my name is Dr. Blake. I'm a researcher, a…a scholar. I study cultures different from my own and try to learn all I can about…well, about people like you."

The eyes widened, blinked once, twice…

"What's he saying?" murmured the doctor.

The Colonel shrugged. "No idea. Blake's pretty much the only person on the planet who's figured out how to speak Ancient Norse. Y'know, dead language and everything. Kind of why I brought him along."

"Can you understand me?" the professor pressed.

After a tense moment, hopeless desperation flooded the room as two skeletal arms slowly extended to grasp the cringing Dr. Blake by the shoulders. The young man's parched lips split apart and out of his mouth crackled a dry voice that hadn't seen use in weeks.

"Help…please help m-me. I need to get home."