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It was, Qifrey thought, rather nice to be sick in the usual way.
Not his usual way, which was a sharp bolt of agony, forcefully reminding him of his status as silverwood host. (As if he needed the nudge.)
This new sickness was bland, a completely mundane kind of illness, with no ulterior motive behind it other than feeling rotten. There was nothing to downplay around the girls or Olruggio, no curses or forbidden magic driving it, and, being so used to hiding his affliction, it was almost refreshing to find himself so straightforwardly unwell.
Almost.
He’d felt the beginnings of a quiet malaise early in the afternoon, after he and the girls had come back from a walk to the far spring, and over the course of the afternoon it had bloomed into something more insistent. His head throbbed, and his energy ebbed slowly away until he found there was little he could do without pausing for a rest.
Qifrey had made it just past the central hearth when the illness decided to make its move in earnest, and he very suddenly broke out in a cold, unpleasant sweat. Just in time, he managed to put a hand to the nearby couch and slowly sank to his knees on the floor beside it, robes settling around him like a cloud.
“Ah,” he said to the pattern on the rug. He glanced at his fingers, spread in the woolen weave, and they were pale, with a slight tremor to them. The pattern, always aloof, said nothing in return.
It was the window of time just before dinner. The girls would often use the slow hours of late afternoon to read or rest, or visit with one another in their own rooms, and there was little danger of one stumbling across him now, and for that he was grateful.
Qifrey sighed and leaned to the side, propping himself against the couch and closing his eye.
He should be starting on dinner by now. He should be looking through the larder to piece together a meal, but the idea of devoting that much energy to anything seemed exhausting. Perhaps one of the girls would volunteer to cook? Or maybe he could coax Olruggio away from-
“Wanna tell me what’s going on?”
Qifrey drew himself up, settling back on his knees, and the sudden movement and the rush of blood in his ears made him instantly lightheaded. He looked to the sound of the voice, and found Olruggio watching him with some concern and an admonishment ready in his eyes. He was dressed in his cloak, his hat tucked under his arm, and it might have struck Qifrey as an imposing sight, were he not so fond of the man under all that heavy cloth and aspirational facial hair.
“I might be…” Qifrey considered his next words carefully. “Coming down with something.”
“Oh, you don’t say.”
Olruggio stepped into the room and held out a hand, palm up.
“Let’s get you on to the couch, at least. I’ll bring you some tea, and then I’ll see what we’ve got for dinner so you don’t have to cook. Maybe I can swing by the Hall to grab somethin’ fast.”
Depending on the day, Qifrey might’ve waved away the help, but today he was grateful for any and all assistance. He reached up and accepted the warm hand, and was pulled up easily to his feet.
Once there, however, he swayed in place, stepping back awkwardly to catch himself.
“Easy. Didn’t know you liked the floor so much.”
“I’ve nothing against it, really,” Qifrey muttered.
“You’re about to, if you’re not careful.”
Olruggio steered him backwards towards the safety of the couch, and Qifrey was grateful to let his body relax into the cushions beneath him. With no prompting, and with little thought to decorum, he leaned to the side and curled up in the manner of a hibernating brushbug.
Olruggio, hands on hips, seemed to take in the show of vulnerability with growing concern. He reached to his own shoulder and unfastened his cloak, then drew it off and gave it a cursory shake. Satisfied, he leaned forward and draped it carefully over Qifrey, covering everything but his head and making sure his feet were tucked beneath.
The cloak was heavy and thick, and the weight of it pressed Qifrey gently into the softness of the cushions. So nice of him, he thought absently, and it was the last thought he was truly aware of before slipping into a syrupy sleep.
If he had dreams, they had no staying power. Time passed in a dark nothingness and Qifrey was grateful to be away from his own body. He liked his body, and there was much to appreciate about the long, elegant lines of it, but it was hard to become truly, deeply attached to something that might, at any time, be taken away from him.
When he awoke some hours later, the light from the window was dim and cool, and he became vaguely aware of the smell of dinner drifting from the kitchen and the din of distant voices engaged in friendly conversation. For once, nothing could’ve tempted him less.
There was a weight by his feet, pinning down a part of the cloak, and he lifted his head to find a new companion. He’d been joined by - or perhaps gifted - a light sculpture, emitting a subdued, warm glow, and as he squinted at it he realized what it was. An owlcat, deep in sleep, tail coiled around it, wings tucked neatly around its small sculptured body. It made no sound, but its chest rose and fell, and it occurred to him that the girls must’ve worked with Olruggio to put the spell together as a foot warmer.
He smiled wanly.
A mug of tea had been helpfully positioned on the table in front of him, still steaming, unmistakably herbal. He considered it, then rolled in the other direction and buried himself into the warmth and the darkness of the back of the couch, and promptly put himself back to sleep.
When he woke again, well into the evening, it was from a surge of discomfort. His thoughts were sluggish and noncommittal, and his headache now had enough force behind it to make his eye water. When he swallowed his throat felt raw and sharp.
But there was nothing to be done for it, he would simply have to weather the storm, as he always did, and always would.
The chills, however, were a newer addition. He gathered Olruggio’s cloak around him, teeth chattering, but no amount of fabric or well-meaning warming spell would protect him from the creeping cold. Could the others not feel this? Surely they should light a fire in the hearth.
Gone was the impulse to call the sickness mundane. It was mean in a different way. A more acute way. What’s more, he could scarcely stand the thought of passing it along to the girls. There was nothing sadder than a sick apprentice, let alone four of them at once. He would have to move to the bedroom to spare them this discomfort.
He draped Olruggio’s cloak around his shoulders and swung his legs to the side. The owlcat spell had vanished as he slept, and, like the soft, radiant glow it gave off, this too must’ve been written into the spell. They’d been learning timed magic of late, and he made a note to compliment the girls on their use of it when he felt better.
When, at last, Qifrey managed to stand all the way up, his legs rejected the idea of any further movement. They were simply too weak to do the job, and all he could do was loiter in place, reluctant to take a step forward.
What now?
Qifrey took a steadying breath, still shivering from the cold.
Footsteps. They padded into his awareness on the side of his damaged eye, and he turned his head to see.
“Oh. You look pretty uncomfortable, professor,” said Agott, entering the room and giving him a full once over.
Qifrey adjusted his glasses on his nose. “Thank you, Agott. I suppose it’s nice to have external validation.”
“I’m going to get Master Olly,” she said, and before he could object, she vanished from his sight with a swirl of her skirts, back in the direction of the kitchen.
Then came the missing block of time.
He remembered speaking to Agott, with her thoughtful, appraising expression, and climbing into his own bed with Olruggio’s steady help, but actually crossing the atelier to reach his room was lost to him. It was as if the entire trip had never happened, but clearly that wasn’t the case. The plushness of his own bed beneath him was proof enough of that.
How exhausting.
“Alright, gimme a sec here.”
Olruggio sat on the side of the bed and set his pen between his lips, then reached forward and gently released the bands of leather at the base of Qifrey’s neck. He was ready to protest, but Olly’s fingers worked quickly, and by the time Qifrey had gathered the breath needed to decline, it was already too late.
“The rest of it, too,” Olruggio said.
Qifrey blinked slowly, not understanding. “The rest of what?”
“Lift your arms. I’m putting you to bed.”
He must mean undressing, but the notion was too draining to even consider. Too much of a struggle by half.
“No thank you,” Qifrey said, searching with his hand for the cloak, or a blanket, or something to draw around himself for warmth.
“If you want me to write to Sinocia we can do that instead.”
The threat of a doctor had the intended effect. Qifrey made a sour face, his brows drawing into a stern line. He lifted his arms reluctantly, and Olruggio untied the last of the straps and tugged at his shirt until, between the two of them, they managed to peel it from his body.
“That’s a little better,” said Olruggio, eyeing his handiwork. “Should be easier to sleep, anyway.”
Qifrey sat in place, top half bare above the blankets, and he became aware that he was covered in a thin layer of sweat, despite the chill. The realization coloured his cheeks.
“I’d rather you not have to see me looking so awful,” he said, glancing away.
Olruggio’s hands were busy loosely folding the black garment and setting it over the headboard, and when he turned back he was fighting a losing battle with a wry smile, as if debating whether to voice a thought aloud. “This doesn’t even crack the top ten of times you’ve looked awful, sorry to say.”
Qifrey searched to either side of him for a pillow to hurl at Olly, but the spare he normally kept on the bed had fallen to the floor, and may as well be in Romonon for the effort it would take to retrieve it.
“I’ll remember this when you catch whatever this is,” he said, his tone dry.
“I’m the picture of health.” Olruggio’s grin stayed where it was.
“Ah, that’s right, you had a vegetable just last week.”
Olruggio ignored the volley and moved forward to adjust the blankets around Qifrey’s shoulders. “Gonna catch up on some work in your room. If you need anything, just ask.”
Qifrey gingerly laid himself back into the pillow and was immediately overcome with another wave of drowsiness so strong he could barely keep his eye open.
“There’s no need for you to inconvenience yourself at my expense.”
Or that’s what Qifrey intended to say. Whether he did or not, he never found out.
His third foray into sleep was less peaceful than before. Instead of a slow descent, he was dropped abruptly into a vivid, too-detailed series of fever dreams. Some were short and nonsensical, but others were winding forays into avenues of his mind he didn’t dare explore in his waking hours. He was trapped in the coffin again, this time buried deep beneath the Great Hall, his body turning slowly to silt. He was bursting into a tree, his veins splitting as they transformed into roots, snaking beneath his skin. He was opening his book with shaking hands, preparing to use the mind erasure spell on himself, once and for all.
And all of it, every sensation, was so real.
Then, gently, he was brought back to his bedroom by the soothing motion of a hand stroking lightly across his hair, over and over, and with each pass the dreams retreated a little more.
Olruggio sat beside him, peering down at him, perched on the edge of the bed. It was the dead of night.
“Nightmares,” Qifrey said, voice hoarse, and Olruggio nodded.
Without another word he climbed onto the bed and made himself comfortable beside Qifrey, lacing his fingers together and resting them across his own chest. He turned his head, meeting Qifrey’s eye.
“If you ever find something to stop them, promise me you’ll let me know.”
Qifrey smiled weakly. “Do you want to trade?”
Olruggio laughed despite himself, then quickly settled down and seemed to mull it over for a time. “Yours seem worse.” He smiled. “Of course I would.”
“What do you dream about lately?” Qifrey drew one arm free of the blanket and used it to tug it higher.
His friend’s smile broadened, and Qifrey was all too familiar with the dawning look of a smug Olruggio. “You don’t dream if you don’t sleep.”
Qifrey reached across the bed and hit him squarely in the arm.