xorhas is unkind to those without the monstrous system to fight whatever was in the air. caleb walks and doesn’t talk much and they continue their days and their evenings until caleb sits down and falls down when he tries to stand.
( his face falls into caduceus’s shoulder, pressed against the hard curve of his armor, and oh, it’s such a relief. he protests being moved when fjord’s hands press against the back of his shoulders to lift him upright again. )
and so, he’s here. he’s here, bedridden and feverish and very unhappy about it all. fjord sits a few feet away, looking for all intents and purposes like he is flipping through a book he’s borrowed from beau, except caleb can see the way his eyes flicker back to the prone wizard. he’s smaller, without his coat and his scarf and his many, many layers.
caleb thinks to say something, but his head hurts very badly and his body hurts and he’s drifting back into fitful sleep before he can really do much more than mumble fjord’s name.
he dreams, of course, the horrid half-dreams that fevers always bring. vivid and nonsensical, it is his friends and then it is his family and then it is both, together, when the mighty nein make an appearance, and then there are flames and he thrashes and turns because it’s too damn hot, he’s burning up, something’s not right --
there is a hand on his shoulder, pressing him against the bed when he thrashes, and he slaps his right hand down on the back of fjord’s arm when the half-orc leans over him to see if he was alright. in his delirium, there is another face there over fjord’s, reminders of poison green eyes and dark hair and sharper features than the way fjord looks. it is a childhood friend, a reminder, a memory.
bren, laid up in bed after tumbling from the tree outside his house. eodwulf, worry carved into his features, reflected in his strange eyes, with astrid hovering close behind him.
when he speaks, it’s in a whisper-groan, tinged with sleep and sickness and a childish fear of being alone.
“ -- please, don’t leave. ”
