Chapter Text
It had started as a faint tickle in the back of Therion’s throat as they traversed across the Flatlands. He coughed once or twice, several times each day, getting a quick glance from a companion or two. Therion didn’t think twice of it but Alfyn, always keeping an eye out on the health of his friends, insisted on giving the thief a once-over. As it wasn’t truly bothering him he brushed the apothecary off. He declared it was “probably just the pollen or whatever” and walked ahead.
Crossing into the Coastlands and stopping off in the town of Rippletide, his cough seemed to be growing in intensity day by day. Soon he allowed Alfyn to briefly check up on it, but the man could find nothing out of the ordinary. He simply gave Therion a small vial of bitter tasting sludge to drink. He drank it, cursing the twelve gods for giving him the ability to taste. However it worked so he couldn’t complain too much.
Tressa’s parents had begged the group to stay for a night before they left Rippletide. They wanted to get to know their daughter’s new friends and had set a whale of a feast out for everyone. Therion, eating his meal a fair distance from the commotion from the others, began to cough again.
As he keeled over, he felt a gentle hand lightly rest on his back. Heaving from the coughing fit, he waited to be able to catch his breath. “Great medicine there Alfyn. Really hit the spot.” He lifted his head and met an oh-so-familiar gentle blue gaze.
Cyrus was far from the last person he’d expect to see at his side during a moment of need, and if he was being honest he wasn’t... disappointed. His presence always seemed to calm the storms brewing in his mind. Ever since the events that had unfolded at the Wellspring Black Market, he’d had a dark cloud hanging over him that the others had tried to pierce through to no avail. Therion had spent a long time sinking deeper and deeper into his own sea of despair, wanting nothing to do with anyone else in fear of the same betrayal. Eventually he’d plunged a hand to the surface where his friends met him to pull him out.
While he took his sweet time opening to the others, little by little, he oddly found Cyrus easiest to be around. The rest of the group got too noisy. Where he once found the scholar to be unbearably pedantic and obnoxious he now found him to be... reassuring? Having him talk about whatever was on his mind, be it a historical tale or a steady stream of consciousness gave him something to focus on rather than his own thoughts. When he sat reading from a tome, Therion found himself sitting himself nearby, listening to Cyrus’ quiet muttering as he analyzed the text or the crinkle of page after page turning. In the evenings as they settled into the inns to rest, he would room with Cyrus as Alfyn and Olberic snored too loudly for either of them.
“Are you alright?” Cyrus asked, eyes giving away a good amount of concern.
“Yeah,” Therion answered sharply between two coughs. He moved out from under Cyrus’ hand. “I’m fine. Just. Probably allergic to something.”
The professor pulled his hand back, averting his gaze slightly. “I have been worried about you. You appear to be coughing much more often.” He looked back at Therion. “Most of the flora between the Coastlands and the Flatlands varies greatly, so if it was truly an allergic reaction, surely it would be easing up and not growing worse?”
“I said I’m fine, I’m just-” He cut off with a much harder fit. This time alerting Alfyn, who rushed over to the two.
“Okay buddy, you need some real medical attention now. That ain’t normal.” The apothecary held out an arm which Therion took gratefully, suddenly feeling unsteady. Cyrus opened his mouth to say something, but Therion was ushered away before he could say a word.
Alfyn led Therion into another room and sat him down on a chair. He pulled out his mortar, pestle, and a few herbs Therion couldn’t identify. “Cough’s getting worse, huh?”
“Amazing analysis, doc. What gave it away?”
Alfyn looked over at him incredulously. “The blood on your hand?”
He quickly gazed at his hand. There was indeed a small amount of blood on his palm. “Oh.” The thief thought back to the monster encounters they’d had that day. None of them had even gotten close to him, so there wasn’t a battle injury to deal with. Perhaps he’d fallen? Not that he could recall. Grabbed his dagger awkwardly? It didn’t look like a cut he’d gotten when he’d had that happen before. This looked more like he’d coughed it up.
“I’m hoping y’ just coughed so much your throat’s a bit raw.” He poured gold liquid from a strange shaped vial into the green paste. “That’s an easy fix. Real common around Clearbrook with the old pipe smokers.” He chuckled. “You ain’t getting at a pipe when the rest of us aren’t lookin’, are ya?”
“The hell would I hide it? None of you leave me alone for more than five seconds.”
Alfyn spun back around to face him. “Alright, fair point. But I’ll get ya fixed up all right. A sore throat’s better than any of the alternatives.”
“Such as?”
“Tuberculosis? Plague? Measles?”
“Come on, quit making up words.”
Alfyn handed the paste to the thief, who eyed it doubtfully before knocking it back. The bitterness hit his throat and he grimaced. “Disgusting. Can’t you make it taste better?”
“It’s not supposed to taste good. It’s supposed to heal you.” Alfyn leaned back. “You got any other symptoms I should know about? Fever? Aches?”
“Nope. Unless we’re counting you being a huge pain in the ass.”
The two men jumped when they heard a light rapping on the wall outside the room. Therion whipped around instinctively to see Cyrus peering in. “Apologies. How is he doing?”
“Ah, he’ll be fine.” The apothecary smiled and flashed a thumbs-up. “I’m sure it’s just a cough. Nothing needs amputating yet.”
Therion rolled his eyes. “That joke wasn’t even funny the first time. Think the hundredth time’s any different?”
“Well, do ya want a doctor who’s deathly serious all the time? Where’s the fun in that?”
“Yeah, because nothing says “fun” like getting a check up. Almost as fun as the time I was stabbed in the-”
Before Therion could finish the sentence, he doubled over at a sharp pain in his chest. He gasped for air, feeling another fit coming on. When it passed he looked back up at the other two men, who were returning it with fear. They sat in silence for what could have been ten seconds or ten minutes.
Finally, Alfyn spoke. “Therion, are those... petals?”
He inspected his hand. Sure enough two small blue clumps rested in his palm. The apothecary motioned to hand them over, which he obliged to with only a slight grimace. Cyrus peered down at them as well, and Therion could have sworn he saw a brief moment of... fear? Shock? Whatever it was, Therion did not miss it.
“Looks like sage flowers... do you remember if I used sage in any of my medicines you took?”
“I'm sorry, were you not keeping track of what I was taking?”
Cyrus nodded alongside Alfyn, ignoring the question. “Indeed, that is sage... When you put sage into your medicines, do you grind it up or put them in whole?”
“Nah, you have to grind them up first. Putting them in whole makes it harder for the body to process-”
More coughing. More petals. Therion felt his skin crawling, felt a deep and sharp pain piercing through his chest like a dagger. He felt sweat beading up along his hairline. Within the first few heaves, Alfyn was there with another elixir and Cyrus was examining him like a bug under a magnifying glass. Therion looked past his friend to meet Cyrus’ eyes, feeling a brief, strange pang of disappointment as the scholar turned to the petals once more.
Suddenly something in his demeanor changed.
“Alfyn, have you ever heard of Hanahaki?”