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Therion comes to decide he absolutely hates the Frostlands.
The cold is unforgiving. It numbs nimble fingers and gnaws at joints that ache far more than they should. Good a thief as he is, it’s impossible to ignore the pain crawling up his arm—the same one Darius had gone and rendered nearly useless six years ago. It begs to move, as the rest of his body does, but it feels weighed down by snow.
Stupid, cold, blinding snow. He’s sick of the stuff. He’s sick of the way his shuddering breaths puff out in the air before him. He’s sick and tired of his lungs hurting with each inhale.
It shouldn’t be this cold inside.
“Therion.”
A dragonstone sits in his hand, the size of a red apple.
“Therion.”
He closes his eyes, letting out a deep sigh. The sooner he gets out of Northreach, the better. There’s nothing for him here, nor was there ever. Even if Therion is aware a night of rest is necessary, he doesn’t want to do it here. Logically, they won’t make it out of the Frostlands in a night, not this far north. Sleeping outside is tantamount to suicide in the cold. A warm fire won’t keep eight people alive, huddled in a cave together under thick blankets. Therion can’t do that to the others—not when he’s finally started to trust them.
Maybe even call them his friends, if he’s in the mood to humor himself.
“...Therion?”
“I’m still here,” he replies, even if his mind feels scattered to the wind. “I’m fine.”
The source of the voice is Ophilia, whose gloved hand seeks his own. Her fingers curl over his, around the dragonstone. He doesn’t have the heart to look at her right now; Therion fears the expression he sees. It’s not going to be pity. It’ll be concern, and the last thing Therion needs right now is to feel fragile.
“Come now,” she says. “Let’s at least get you out of here, alright? Once we get to the inn, I’ll make us all some tea.”
Therion’s about to argue she really doesn’t need to do that, but he’s cut off before he can begin.
“Don’t go and tell us you’d rather be alone now, y’hear? We ain’t gonna let you deal with this alone.” And there goes Alfyn, who’s still always too damn nice. “And once we’re back, I’ll take a look at that arm of yours.”
As Therion’s been trying to ignore the pain in for however long they’ve been in this frostbitten cathedral, he can’t deny how good that sounds. Even if Alfyn can’t magically restore its use, he’s done a good job at making the pain lessen.
“Alright.” He finally looks at them both. Their expressions are exactly what he wagered them to be—patient smiles and concerned gazes. He gives a light scoff, glancing over his shoulder to see Primrose making sure they’ve got a clear path to the exit. Therion’s not entirely sure what he’s done to deserve people like this in his life, but he isn’t about to argue.
Pitiful minces, huh? Therion thinks he’s far better off having those.
It’s better than being dead, anyway.
The dragonstones rest upon Alfyn’s—Zeph’s, actually, as Alfyn never stops talking about him—satchel as he looks over his arm. Ophilia and Primrose are working on the tea, somehow having made their way into the kitchens. Knowing those two, they’re getting tea for all eight of them. For everything they’ve been through, Therion’s glad the world never took their kindness.
Gods, listen to him. He sounds like a sap. Part of him is ridiculously embarrassed at his own thoughts, but… he could have worse ones. Maybe. Therion’s still fairly new to this whole “actually listening to your feelings” thing.
He appreciates the silence between him and Alfyn. The man’s known for talking anyone’s ear off, especially if he’s trying to make the process less painful for his patients. Yes, slight movement hurts his arm, yes the cold numbing feeling hasn’t left, yes it hurts more because all Therion can think about is how he somehow survived that fall all those years ago. Alfyn knows better than to repeat questions he’s asked before, and goes off the slight winces Therion makes.
“I’ll whip up a salve that’ll help with the pain, and that should do ‘er.” Alfyn gingerly sets Therion’s arm back at his side. “I know it won’t make you feel perfect, but… whatever helps, right?”
“Yeah.” Therion does wonder if he’ll ever be able to use it again. The idea’s nice, but he’s been told before he shouldn’t get his hopes up. “...Thanks, Alfyn.”
“It’s what friends are for, Therion.” Alfyn gives his usual, dopey good-natured smile. “Lemme set those dragonstones somewhere else, and I’ll get to work.”
Therion doesn’t have to tell him to be careful. Regardless, he watches Alfyn with a close eye as each dragonstone is placed on his poncho. The only reason he isn’t wearing it is due to the necessary check up on his arm, and to avoid any chills, Ophilia and Primrose had gone through the trouble of draping a large, thick blanket over his shoulders to prevent him from catching cold.
He’s fully aware he’s being coddled, but he’ll let it slide for this once—granted no one teases him over it. Poor Tressa might be losing her mind, unable to work her way into the room. Maybe he’ll tell her that he let everyone be a mother hen over him, but she’ll lack concrete proof—or that no one would ever believe her. It’s an amusing idea, at least. Ridiculous as one it is, it’s proof Therion will be alright, or something like that.
Idly swinging his feet back and forth, Therion watches Alfyn work. He gets this scrunched up expression on his face when he’s focused, Therion’s noticed. It’s only seen when he’s working on tonics and the like or trying to think of some perfect letter to write to Zeph. Nauseating as it is to hear Alfyn go on and on about the guy, at least he’s going home happy.
Therion’s not entirely sure where he’s ending up after this, but it won’t be the Frostlands. It does make him think he’ll have a hard time wanting to see Ophilia—and Primrose, for that matter, considering how they are—in the future. The fact he wants to visit them is… new, but it’s not something he’s to dismiss.
“That’ll do ‘er!” Alfyn sounds rather proud of himself as he sets his pestle aside. “This should help you plenty, and prevent any nasty aches from the cold.”
“You really can make anything, huh?” Therion thinks this man could really go and cure every disease known to man.
“Aw, shucks.” He rubs the back of his neck with a smile. “I’m just helpin’ out a friend in a bind.”
“So I’ve heard.” Therion gives a smile of his own.
Not too long after, the door opens, Ophilia and Primrose to follow. A teapot and four cups rest on a tray with a small assortment of cookies to match. Either the two of them made those in record time, or they just happened to be lucky enough to get extras from the kitchen.
“You’re looking better already!” Ophilia beams brightly, relief in her eyes. “I made sure to get cinnamon tea to help keep you warm.”
“She also insisted we got you something to eat, and how could I ever say no to her?” Primrose begins to pour the tea. “We figured you wouldn’t be up for eating with everyone else tonight.”
Therion takes his cup, breathing in the warm scent. It’s far nicer than he expects. “I hope you’re not expecting that to be our dinner.”
Ophilia gives a soft laugh, taking a seat on the bed. “I don’t see why not. I’m sure they’re rather tasty, and they’ll go wonderfully with the tea.”
“It’d be one of the most interesting meals I’ve had, that’s for certain.” Primrose sits next to Ophilia, smiling in her direction. “As long as Alfyn doesn’t lecture us about this, since it hardly counts as a proper dinner.”
“It’d be mighty difficult for the four of us to stay warm eatin’ a sorry meal like that,” Alfyn says, trying to keep a straight face. “How’re ya gonna stay healthy?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Primrose tilts her head to the side. “Why, we have a master apothecary by our side. Isn’t that what Zeph calls you? Or is it the other way around?”
Alfyn clears his throat, which does no avail in helping his reddening cheeks. “Hey now—”
“Maybe if Primrose teases you about Zeph enough, you’ll warm right up,” Ophilia adds, sipping her tea.
Therion stays quiet, glad to listen to the three of them banter. Normally, he’d join in, but he’s content to sip at his tea and relax. It’s… nice. He really doesn’t have a better word for it. He can concern himself about the Dragonstones tomorrow, as well as his journey back to Bolderfall. For now, he’ll do something that Therion once thought impossible: enjoy the night with people he’s glad to call his friends.
It doesn’t seem so cold anymore.