Claude de Lune

Eirene

Sharing was something Claude wasn't used to. Being the only child in his household growing up meant having his own space, his own belongings. Even in the Priesthood, they hadn't shared rooms. Not that they could when the dorms they were given amounted to no more than a closet.

Even so, Claude had grown accustomed to having his own space, his own belongings. Yet here he was, sharing a room with Amadeus. A week prior, the thought of it may have made him lose his lunch, but now... he didn't mind. Amazing how almost dying could change a person.

Amadeus slept soundly on his bed, over by the window, as he had for the past three days. His chest rose and fell at regular intervals, but apart from that, he was still as calm water. The medics came in three times per day, gave him fluids, massaged his limbs. And still, he wouldn't wake up.

Undine said talking would stop him from drifting off—he still didn't know what that meant. So, Claude sat there for the better part of a day and stared at Amadeus' face while he recounted something stupid from his childhood. Like the time he'd found Lylon's rum—which the old man had told him many times over was for adults only. Which meant Claude had to have it. The forbidden was just so enticing.

What resulted was him puking up a stomach full of lunch, and lying miserable in bed while Gwenore forced his weight in herbal concoctions down his throat. And he may have cried. A little.

Not an interesting story, but good enough to fill the silence, and Claude found that he didn't mind staring at Amadeus. At least in repose. He wasn't handsome in the traditional sense. His jawline had a softer curve, his eyes doe-like, and he had an aquiline nose with two little divots where his glasses rested against it. Dark patches of hair had taken over his cheeks, chin and upper lip—apparently shaving wasn't in the medic's repertoire.

Claude probably knew Amadeus' face better than his own from how much he had to stare at it during his vigils. But today, he'd taken out his crochet hook and yarn for a little creative therapy and a break from the mundane monotony. His half-eaten lunch sat on the bedside table, along with a pitcher of water studded with beads of condensation. It was hard to work up an appetite when all he did was laze around.

Three days they'd been in Viperstone, and he hadn't left the stronghold since they arrived. His days consisted of waking up, having a bath, and grabbing breakfast while the medics tended to Amadeus. Sometimes, they'd stay a while, and Claude would busy himself down in the foyer, helping with the sick and injured. While he knew nothing about medicine, he could wrap bandages, carry supplies and burn waste.

When the medics were done with Amadeus, he'd start his vigil, sitting with him, or pacing the room, staring out the window. Pondering if the poor bastard had drifted off.

Whatever that meant. It wasn't death. Perhaps something worse? Like what happened to Arietta. The very thought of it made his skin crawl. He almost regretted not being up to see that bastard's body burn.

"What are you thinking about, Priest?"

He almost jumped out of his skin. His hook fell and his ball of yarn bounced over the throw rug, leaving a long wool trail in its wake.

Amadeus gazed up at him from half-hooded eyes, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "You furrow your brow when you get lost in your thoughts."

Claude blinked, his mouth hanging open, like a witless fool. The rapid thumping of his heart sent tremors into his fingers and toes. He wasn't sure what emotion to equate the sensation to. Shock? Relief? Both?

"Is there anything to drink in here?" Amadeus' voice held the heavy darkness of semi-sleep. "My throat feels like sandpaper."

He gathered his wits and grabbed the pitcher and a glass from the bedside table, while Amadeus pushed himself upright with shaking hands. His skin held a sickly, almost greyish pallor and the bones along his shoulders and spine nigh broke through his skin.