45. feeling their temperature (for a ship of your choosing!)
"Since your souls can get injured here, it does make a lot of sense that you can contract diseases as well," G'raha murmurs. "Are you sure you do not wish to be attended by a chirurgeon rather than someone such as myself?" "Nay," Urianger wheezes. As soon as he arrived he all but collapsed in one of the chairs, haphazard and lacking the usual elegance G'raha associates with him. It quickly became obvious why, as he explained his predicament, flushed and plagued by dry coughs that rattled his entire body.
"Had I the choice I would not even seek thee out — so loath am I to display myself in such a sorry state. However the pixies wouldst not leave me be and when I closed mine eyes to teleport I found myself here." Said so easily, so casually; as if it is not an admittance of trust that makes G'raha stop in his tracks. He has been many things in the years following his arrival at the First — a leader, a judge, an executioner when no other option existed — but he has forgotten entirely what it is to be a friend on equal terms. A companion.
Even if he has found joy and brevity in the moments in between, his cowl always stayed on. The hierarchy he so despised stayed rigid. For the good of the future he long ago cast aside the need for someone who knew what he was trying to do, someone to talk to who would understand the weight of two worlds.
How bitter then, that it is a friendship built on the idea of his future grave.
Urianger watches him from the chair, silent and unblinking.
"Then pray allow me to at least check your temperature. I would be a poor friend if I allowed you to endure rather than ease your pain." If the words sound like they have been dragged out and dusted off from the memories of another man, Urianger doesn't mention it.
send me a prompt