Fever

[moonshadows]

“Kal’shan?”

Her worried voice penetrates the fog clouding his mind. “Hn?” He forces his eyes open and catches a glimpse of her biting her lip before a wave of vertigo robs him of control and she blurs into a cloud of dark purple energy. She puts a hand to his forehead, and his eyes sink closed again at the cool touch of her skin against his.

“You’re hot,” she says softly.

He wants to smirk, to tease her for how that could be interpreted, but it seems like far too much effort and all he manages is a brief twitch of his lips. Still, he imagines that she’s blushing anyway.

“I think you have a fever,” she clarifies firmly, and his lips twitch again. “You’re sweating, and you were falling asleep.”

A fever. That would make his lethargy make sense.

“Go to bed, Kal’shan,” she pleads. “You need to rest until you feel better. Please?”

Bed. Yes. That sounds like a good idea. Running more on instinct than conscious thought, he activates his illusions and strides with misleading confidence through the halls. Once the door to his office has shut behind him, he lets it all drop and blindly scrawls a note to Gladys that he is not to be disturbed for any reason until further notice. That done, he stumbles to his bed and half-falls into it without even stopping to shed the few articles of clothing he wears.

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The first day raised no questions. While not a common occurrence, it was not unheard of for the Warlord to take an unexpected personal day. The second day, unhappiness began to radiate through the governmental section, originating from Gladys’s cold glare and compressed lips as she repeated the orders she’d found in her inbox the previous day: that their Lord was not to be disturbed until further notice. The third day, those whose meetings with the Warlord had been rescheduled or canceled were split between the ones taking his absence as an excuse to slack off, and the ones waiting for the other shoe to drop. The fourth day, Joshua found himself surrounded by whispered rumors that the Warlord had been assassinated, and peppered with questions about what would happen to the tame demon in such an event. He took more than a little malicious pleasure in informing these inquiring minds that no, their Lord was alive, but that his demon was crawling the walls in his absence and liable to rebel soon.

The fifth day, she’d had enough.

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His bedroom is pitch black when she steps out of the Twisting Nether, and she freezes. The only sound is his breathing: rapid and shallow. She relaxes the control she usually maintains to see the physical world, and his green-purple bulk glows from a few feet away. His mind is bristling with a confused swarm of blades, both rage and bits of things yet unrepaired or re-broken. She kneels where she is and casts a tiny light spell, hardly more than a feeble spark. He does not stir, and she waits until her eyes have adjusted to the dim light before looking around.

There’s not much in the room; two doors leading to what must be a closet and washroom, one more going to his office. The shattered remains of chair and desk, shredded rugs and wall hangings, and other unidentifiable debris litters two corners and various sections of floor close to the walls. One corner is totally free of debris, and the walls in that corner look oddly weathered or damaged somehow. The enormous bed must have been in the center of the room originally, but at some point was shoved into the last corner, its bedcurtains ripped down and the posts shattered. The pillows and sheets strewn and tangled over the mattress have been abused to greater or lesser degrees, ranging from  punctures or small rips to one unfortunate pillow bleeding its stuffing through huge gashes.

It takes a moment for her to realize that he’s huddled in the corner of the bed, wing draped over most of his body. What she can see in the dim light is not good: the hair half-covering his face is matted, and dark lines crisscross what portions of his skin she can see. She assumes he’s been clawing at himself for whatever reason, but for the lines to be so crisp, they must be cuts and not just scrapes, which means something happened to his talons – usually, he keeps them dulled. That thought shatters the calm that had driven her here, and some of the blades retreat as her concern washes over him. With a sort of strangled moan, he stirs for the first time, blindly crawling towards her in weak bursts of motion, limbs flailing to push him across the surface as if the effort was pushing the limits of his endurance. She touches his questing hand as he nears the edge of the bed and he stops suddenly, fingers tightening painfully around her own. The broken tips of his claws dig into her skin. Feeling her hand in his seems to calm the rest of the broken shards, and as they retreat he sinks from whatever fevered hallucination he’d been in the grip of, into sleep.

She doesn’t waste time poking about in his mind; whatever broke has likely been broken for a few days, and another few hours won’t hurt anything more than it already is. Instead, she sends him into a deeper sleep and starts taking stock of his physical health. At least three of his talons have broken tips; the other hand is fisted beneath him, but the scratches on his wrist hint that he has broken claws there, as well. Some of the scratches are half-healed, some of them little more than hot lines where his abused flesh has knitted itself back together, but the majority of them are scabbed over if not actually oozing blood. A quick check with his subconscious sense of well-being reveals that his entire torso, both arms, and as much of his back as he could reach are lacerated this way. On top of that, the fever (which, thankfully, has broken) and the effort of healing the cuts have left him starved enough that he’s…dehydrated? Yes, he was sweating between the fever and whatever he did to break his claws, and could use plenty of liquids along with copious amounts of electricity. Pure mana would be better, but this world lacks such a resource.

After some searching, she finds a cable very like her own, and an outlet close enough to the bed that she can tuck the copper nozzle between his lips. His mouth and throat work instinctually, as though he were able to suck out and swallow the energy that trickles into him. While he drinks, she searches his washroom but finds no bowl or basin. After an anxious look at him, she slips into her illusions and steps through the Twisting Nether to the kitchen that services the Warlord. The chefs are startled and more than a little terrified, but at her command they produce a suitable metal bowl and a pitcher of several fruit juices mixed together without questioning why she wants them. One assistant offers her a crystal goblet, but she waves it away in favor of a metal beaker and leaves as abruptly as she’d arrived.

He’s still suckling on the cable when she returns, and she hurries to fill the bowl with warm water. A washcloth hanging in the shower gets tossed in to soak as she carries the bowl carefully back and sets it on the bed. After a moment, she levitates it instead and kneels beside him. Taking his hand in hers, she squeezes the cloth out and begins gently washing his cuts.

 

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The nightmares fade slowly, the overlapping images separating and drifting apart rather than flipping from one to the next or simply bleeding together. The haze of insanity lifts and he scrambles to piece the last few days together. Jumbled memories of what he desperately hopes were hallucinations or dreams assault him: his cell, stone floor and hated bars; the searing dry heat of Hellfire Peninsula; Tichondrius laughing at him as blood drips into what passes for his eyes; his Warden’s hands where he does not want them, shame transmuting into rage and the burning need to violate and dominate, helpless to move as she taunts him, taking her pleasure with languid deliberation; hearing a scream as he slakes his violent lust on Maiev’s body for once, only to discover that the face of the one pinned beneath him is that of his Champion…

With a shudder, he pushes the memories aside and extends his awareness past the boundaries of his mind. The tang of copper fills his mouth and he grimaces at the taste of blood, but metal clinks against his teeth and he realizes that he is tasting the nozzle of his cable. The way his scalp itches hints that he’s been out of it for a few days, and the way his muscles – and softer bits – ache makes him wonder if he hadn’t tried to enact some of his fever-dreams. The word brings back memory: yes, he had been fevered. He knows that he will have scratched himself raw, and the thought of hot water and dried sweat on those lacerations makes him wince.

“I’m sorry.”

The soft voice of his Champion startles him. Panic flares briefly, but he represses it. Wherever he is, he trusts her. Now he can feel a wet cloth against his shoulder, torn flesh protesting as she wipes sweat and blood from his skin with gentle motions. He wants to feel shame at being so pathetic that she had to tend to him as though he were a baby, but all he feels is gratitude that someone cares. He squeezes her hand, and the cloth withdraws.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, the first notes of frantic apology in her tone. “I didn’t mean to hurt you! I just wanted to-“

His grip on her hand tightens, cutting off her apology as he weakly levers himself up enough to look at her. He wants to pull her to his chest, but that would no doubt ruin her shirt. Instead, he releases her hand and lays trembling fingers on her cheek. The expression of bliss that blooms at his touch makes him feel guilty even as it warms his heart.

“How long?” he rasps, cable falling from his dry lips, and he grimaces.

“This is the fifth day,” she says, looking concerned. With her free hand, she gestures and a metal cup of some kind, sides glistening with condensation, floats over. He’s reaching for it even before she says, “Drink.”

Cold, sweet liquid pours down his throat, washing away the dry ache, refreshing as a mountain stream. He sighs as he lowers himself back down, wanting to go back to sleep but at the same time, not wanting to spend any more time in his bed. When the copper nozzle presses against his lips, he takes it and sucks down electricity as greedily as he’d drained the cup of juice. After a few moments, the cool cloth begins dabbing at his chest. Shifting his wings takes an effort, but he moves them enough to roll comfortably onto his back. A handful of breaths later, he’s asleep.

He returns to wakefulness with an odd scraping sound in his ears. Turning his head to the side, he sees his Champion holding his hand and running a strip of metal along one of his talons.

“What-“ he begins, but coughs as his dry throat objects. The metal cup floats over again, and he levers himself up to drink.

“You broke some of your claws,” she says once he’s lain back down again. “I’m filing the broken ends smooth.”

He frowns, unsurprised that he managed to do that in the depths of his fevered insanity. A file. Why had he never thought of that before?

“I cleaned as many of your cuts as I could reach,” she says half-apologetically.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. Suddenly, panic shoots through him and he lunges at her, hands on her shoulders as much for balance as for emphasis. “Did you come here while I was-“ …while I was lost in my insanity? “Did I hurt you at all?” he demands.

She shakes her head. “I only came here this morning, after your fever broke.” With the evidence carved into his skin, she doesn’t bother asking what he’s afraid he might have done to her.

He sighs, visibly relieved, but does not lie back down. Instead, he struggles to climb out of his bed and leans against the cool stone wall, panting, once he has done so. The cup of juice floats over again, and again he drains it.

“Why am I so weak?” he growls angrily.

“You cut yourself, and your body tried to heal that while fighting off the fever,” she says softly. “A day of rest, lots of electricity, and you should be fine.”

His own worst enemy, as always. Still… “If I am going to rest, I do not want to do it here.”

She nods, understanding that after four days, he wants a change of scenery. “My rooms?”

At his nod, she takes his hand and half-carries him through the Twisting Nether. Once he’s settled into his usual armless chair, she vanishes again before returning with the file and – bless her – the pitcher of juice. He downs another cup of the deliciously cool liquid while she fetches her cable and he drinks electricity while she sits happily on the floor beside him, filing his claws, By the time she is finished with both hands, he feels almost like himself again. When she retreats to her room, he assumes she’s gone for the oil, but she comes back with a hairbrush.

“May I?” she asks shyly, and the offered luxury of having her brush his tangled hair makes him smile.

“You may.”

She flushes. “I’ll need to take your blindfold off,” she whispers.

And she likes his wretched eyes. He closes them, the smile still on his lips, steeling himself for the odd vulnerability of not having them hidden. “You may,” he repeats, feeling her adoration wash over him.

Gentle fingers untie the embroidered silk, which whispers across his skin as she pulls the cloth away and then pours it into his hands, as though reassuring him that she wasn’t going to keep it from him. Equally gently, she unties the thong holding back half of his hair and begins teasing the ends of it with the brush. To his mild surprise, the sensation soothes him. It seems like no time at all before she is lavishing long, slow strokes on the full length of his hair, as relaxing as her hands on his horns. He lets himself drift into a pleasant haze as the brush creeps up his scalp, massaging and caressing and satisfying the itch of unwashed hair.

 

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She slips into his mind while he’s lost in the pleasant distraction of having his hair brushed, and finds herself metaphorically ankle-deep in broken debris. Luckily, it’s misleading: he isn’t this broken everywhere, this is just all the broken bits gathered into one spot. As if to prove the point, his sense of responsibility lumbers up and drops half a dozen more shards onto the pile, then wanders off – presumably to look for more. Surprisingly, the soft flesh of his mind is only cut in a few places. She dabs anesthetic into the cuts, and checks the galleries. The ones she’d finished piecing together are relatively untouched, although the barriers have been pretty chewed up. They get repaired or replaced before she moves on to check the next. The ones she hasn’t gotten to are missing their barriers entirely, and it looks as though most of the fragments in the pile came from these. Joy. It’ll take weeks to get the pieces back into their galleries, forget actually repairing the broken memories themselves. She’s afraid of what she’ll see at the Terminal Boundary, but the warded barricades are still firmly in place – if a bit chewed on the inside. Relief floods her. If those shards had gotten loose, there’s no telling how badly they would have damaged him.

With a sigh, she switches to the abstract spectrum visualization and watches the half-rusted machinery and broken bits turn into swaths of speckled color and their missing fragments. The darker, muddy, or unhealthy looking sections get ignored – those are the galleries she hasn’t touched yet – and she picks through the pile for the shards of brighter color. It’s a lot easier to fit the broken bits back into place this way, if a bit mind-numbing. She focuses on the blues and greens first, working her way up through the spectrum until the last scarlet shard has been fitted into its hole. Shifting back to the industrial visualization, she constructs a temporary holding bin around the fragments that remain. The Shan’do nodule is less inflamed than she thought it would be, and she covers it with foam. The toxic emotions behind the barricade aren’t at elevated levels; she’ll deal with it at the usual time. She almost doesn’t see it, but the domed seal of she’s just a child has been cracked and repaired recently – from outside for once, to judge by the nicks and scratches on its surface. It seems to be secure, though, so she leaves it alone.

When she’s done with the repairs, she gathers the top half of his hair and uses the thong to restrain it in its usual high tail before nudging him deeper and tiptoeing back to her bedroom. She was going to save it for the anniversary, but this is too perfect an opportunity. Reverently, she carries the silk back to where he sits and carefully ties it around his head, making sure it does not trap his hair and that the edges are not folded under anywhere. That done, she comes back around in front of him and kneels, hands lightly on his to wake him from his trance. He looks glorious in the new blindfold, and the first thing he sees when his eyes open is her, staring at him in awestruck adoration.

He frowns as it occurs to him that his eyes are covered, but he still holds his blindfold. “You…made me another one?” he asks hesitantly, not quite able to believe that she would care enough to give him a gift like this twice.

Heart in her mouth, she nods. “It’s royal purple,” she whispers around the yearning choking her. “With gold trim shaped like leaves. The flowers are royal purple. You can’t see them, but you can feel them.”

Carefully, he touches the cloth and explores the unfamiliar landscape embroidered on it. “Why?”

“So that you’d have a choice.”

He stares at her. Actually liking his unholy eyes is something he still can’t quite believe; it’s easier to think that she made him a beautiful blindfold so that she had something prettier to look at while he hid the balls of green shame. But this…giving him a second one, so that he can choose? This goes beyond simple functionality. She’s turned his neurotic habit into a fashion statement, a way to show off instead of just covering up.

“Does it look good on me?” He knows from her expression that it does; he’s just selfishly fishing for a compliment, and his lips quirk into a tiny grin when she flushes.

“Do I look better with the new one, or the old one?” he continues mercilessly.

A wicked look flashes across her face. “Neither,” she says with a smirk of her own.

He fights to keep his reaction off his face, fails, and tugs her to her feet as he stands to embrace her so that he can hide it that way. A corner of his mind notes with satisfaction that although he still aches, he is no longer weak and exhausted.

“You are far too good to me,” he murmurs, smiling slightly as her breath catches.

“You deserve better,” she whispers back.

“I don’t want better,” he growls without thinking. “I want you.”

They both freeze as they realize what he’s just said.

“I’m yours,” she says finally, laying her entire being at his feet as a gift.

“Good,” he snarls, but his arms tighten around her as if to say, “Thank you”.