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It doesn’t matter how hard he tries; he can’t shake the haze from his field of vision when he opens his eyes. It’s been like this every time since…he can’t really remember.
He doesn’t remember what started this. Only that he’s sick, and has been for quite a while.
But his mind feels clearer today than it has since he fell ill.
He looks back and forth across the room, desperately trying to bring anything into focus, grasping at whatever energy this illness has left him with, to do so.
It’s only when his mother enters the room that his vision begins to sharpen, focusing on her as she approaches his bedside. Everything else is fuzzy, but she’s clear as a crystal by the time she sits beside him.
“How are you feeling, sweetheart?”
His tongue is slow in his mouth. He can’t remember the last time he used it to form words. Everything is heavy. Heavier than he’s ever been in his life. A whimper of a moan escapes his lips before he can move his tongue right.
“I want…”
She’s patient with him as he reaches for the words. As he slowly pries his tongue and mind farther from the syrup that his illness has drowned them in.
“to see…my…”
What word comes next? Half-formed memories of an infant being placed in his arms flash through his mind. He tries to grab hold of them, to remember anything about this child, but they’re too fleeting. There’s little more than glimpses that he can cling to. He’s holding the child, and things are good, and then they’re taken from him and the memory slips through his arms as the child is removed.
All he can keep a hold of is the warmth in his chest when holding her. How it’s unlike anything he’s ever felt.
Her, he thinks. That- that seems right.
“the baby” is what he settles on. Any other words are beyond his grasp.
Something passes his mother’s eyes as he finds the words. The thought of figuring out the emotion exhausts him. Even the words he has just managed to form are draining him.
“Your sister?”
Of course. Who else would the baby have been?
It will be nice to have a sister.
“My sister…Can I see her?”
There’s another look on Mother’s face. So many looks, so little energy.
“Do you think you can handle it? I don’t want to overwhelm you so soon.”
Only some of the words make it to his mind from his ears. He catches handle it? and overwhelm.
He tries to nod. “Please.”
He has to save the rest of his words for his sister. There are so few.
Mother thinks. And thinks and thinks and thinks.
“Okay. I will go get her.”
She leaves the room, and the haze fills in the gap behind her.
The world snaps into focus when Mother sits beside him again, his sister in her lap. His baby sister wipes away the rest of the haze.
His chest starts to feel warm. So warm it’s overwhelming.
He can’t help but smile, seeing her. Seeing her properly for the first time. She’s beautiful.
“What’s her name?”
“Juliana.”
Briefly, he wonders why Mother looks so sad when he asks.
Any other thoughts are gone when Juliana starts babbling and trying to escape Mother’s arms to crawl towards him.
Mother relents and lets Juliana climb onto him. Laughter bursts through his mouth despite the pain it makes surge in his chest. He tries to sit up to meet her. Air catches in his lungs. Everything spins and he has to lay his head back down.
“Take it easy, now,” Mother says.
Juliana crawls on his chest and gets close to his face. He tries to lift his arm to reach for her face, for her hands.
It doesn’t work. They’re too heavy. He’s too weak. He can’t move his arms. Or the rest of his body.
He can’t move.
The pain in his chest worsens.
All he can do is cry.
Juliana grabs at his face. Grabs a lock of his hair and pulls. He laughs through the tears.
Mother tries to take Juliana back when he cries.
“No. I want her.”
But she takes her anyway. Hands her to a staff member. (How long were they here?)
Then she takes hold of him and slowly lifts him until he’s sitting up. She keeps his head from spinning again. She’s always so careful with him.
Once he’s in her arms, head resting against her chest, Juliana is placed in his lap. Mother takes his arms and intertwines her fingers with his. Then he feels his arms wrap about Juliana and hold her close to his chest.
This is the only way he can hold his baby sister.
—
An aide holds his leg above the bed and tells him to push back against her hand.
“I said push,” she says.
“I am.”
Mother, who has been sitting with him since his exercise lessons began, says to the aide, “She’s doing the best she can.”
The fact that this is the best he can do leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He glances at the ceiling and closes his eyes. It’s unclear if he huffs or sighs.
The feeling of a hand in his hair makes him open his eyes.
“You can do it. I believe in you.”
Mother looks at him like she’s about to fall ill herself.
Of course she does, she’s his mother. It must be breaking her heart in a way he can’t understand to see him like this. Relearning how to move his arms and legs, let alone to sit up, to feed himself, to dress himself. To see her child nearly destroyed by illness.
You’d almost think this was her fault, the way she looks at him.
Once he tries again, he’s able to push back enough to satisfy the aide, though his leg barely appears to move.
—
Soup is supposed to be easy to eat, he thinks as his hands fumble the spoon on another sip. More soup has made it onto his shirt than into his mouth.
Mother offers to help him, but he refuses. He’s seventeen years old, he can eat a bowl of soup by himself, damn it.
By the end, the staff has to bring him a second bowl, to make sure gets enough in his stomach. They wait to change his shirt until he’s eaten the second bowl.
He accepts Mother’s help this time.
—
Months ago, he could run through the family’s courtyard, hide from staff throughout the house, dance circles around his instructors.
Now, he has to relearn how to sit up. How to tighten the muscles in his abdomen. Which is easy enough; it’s keeping them tightened that is much harder. And he has to master that, before he can then use those muscles to pull himself upright, let alone keep himself there.
He loses track of how long it takes for him to be able to sit up by himself. What he does remember, though, is that he watches Juliana’s clumsy toddler gait go from her first steps to nearly running along the way.
He still needs pillows behind him for support, meanwhile.
—
Perhaps it would kill his aides to put him in the outfits he requests. That has to be the reason none of them take his suggestions when going through the wardrobe each morning. No matter his protests, he is dressed in the most neutral clothes he owns. The solid gray and blue dresses his father keeps having made for him. The clothes that he kept putting in the back of his wardrobe for a reason.
One aide goes so far as to tell him that he can pick the clothes he wants to wear when he’s able to retrieve them himself. With a tone that implies he has to earn it.
Mother sees that aide swiftly replaced. Not that the new one listens to him, either.
He misses Yelora. She would have listened.
—
When he’s strong enough to sit up on his own, without being assisted by pillows or a pair of hands, his aides help him get into a wheeled chair so they can push him around the house.
It lets him finally leave his bedroom for the first time since he fell ill over two years ago. (Was it a blessing or a curse that he could only remember less than half of that time?)
He never thought he’d be so happy to be able to go visit his parents’ room. It feels like the world is opening back up to him, slowly but surely.
He wishes he could move the chair himself, though. He finds himself dreaming, even, of being able to transfer his body from his bed to the seat. Of having enough strength in his arms to roll the wheels forward, to be able to move about the house on his own.
It’s almost funny. He doesn’t dream of being able to walk again. To be able to leave his home and run through the streets of Silverymoon like he used to. He only dreams that he might be able to do something by himself.
It’s almost funny.
Almost.
—
Deep breath in, push his hands into his mattress as he uses the other muscles to rise to his feet.
He has to be able to do this by himself for once.
It doesn’t really matter what goes wrong. One moment, he’s shifting his weight to his feet as he rises, then his feet are falling from under him before he can steady himself. That he’s falling is the only thing that matters.
Mother isn’t quick enough to catch him, either, so he winds up crashing into her as she tries to grab him, knocking them both to the floor.
Sobbing into her arms, he can’t help but think of how steady Juliana’s gait has gotten.
—
It takes everything in him not to sit back down in the dining chair as he argues with his aide about the sleepy Juliana in his arms. He tightens his fingers around his cane as he leans onto it a little more.
“You really ought to let someone else take her to bed.”
“I assure you, I can handle it.”
He almost claims he is perfectly capable of it, but they both know that’s not true.
He only needs to convince them that he’s capable of carrying Juliana back to her bedroom.
Never mind how unsteady on his feet he is. Never mind how every time she squirms he feels like he might topple over. Never mind the iron grip on his cane to steady himself. Never mind the growing fatigue in his muscles as he holds her up. Never mind fucking any of it.
Because once he hands her over, this is the last time anyone will let him take care of her like this. (As if it even counts as a first time.) He will always be too weak, too sickly, to do anything for himself. Let alone his baby sister. And that simply won’t do.
They go back and forth, until the aide concedes on the grounds that they accompany him and Juliana back to her room. To make sure they’re alright. To make sure he’s alright. That he doesn’t fall, that he can make it all the way there.
Each step he takes down the hall is slow and measured. All his thoughts are preoccupied with the placement of his feet, the weight of Juliana on his left hip, the movement of his cane in his right hand, the wobbling of his knees, his poor balance.
Three times, he almost trips before he gets to the door. It would have been nice to have his chair for this trip. But it would have undermined his argument.
He has to beg the aide not to follow him into the room.
“Please. I just want to be alone with my sister.”
For once. He just wants to be left alone for once. He can’t remember the last time he’s been properly alone since Juliana was born. When was the last time someone wasn’t watching him at his bedside? Dressing him? Helping him out of bed? Pushing his chair through the halls? Holding onto him once he could finally walk again?
What does he have to do to get everyone to leave him alone, just for one evening?
His knees are about to give out when the aide agrees to leave the two of them alone. They’ll return in an hour to check on him.
That’s the best he’s going to get, it seems.
They shut the door for him and he collapses immediately, sinking to the floor. The jostling movement and the clattering of his cane rouse Juliana, who mumbles his name blearily and grasps at his shirt. He strokes her hair to soothe her as he sinks against the wall, the rest of his muscles giving in to the fatigue.
He doesn’t know who falls asleep first, only that he passes out while holding her in his arms.
When he opens his eyes again, he’s in his own bed, tucked in in his nightclothes. Mother is sitting by his side, writing in her journal, having taken over from his aide.
They couldn’t even let him stay in Juliana’s room.
—
Juliana is four and a half when Mavis can no longer pick her up.
She runs into his room to find him after one of her lessons. He drops the jewelry he’s sorting as she collides with his legs, asking to be lifted into his arms. Almost knocks him over, but that’s okay.
Except this time, when he squats and wraps his arms around her to lift her, almost every muscle in his body protests. Arms, legs, abdomen; you name it. Try as he might, he can barely get her off the ground before his arms fail and he has to let go of her.
He thinks of how hard it’s been lately to hold her. How his muscles strain more and more as he does. How they ache more intensely each time. How long it takes him to recover the next bit of strength to resume his old life. How he still, years later, hasn’t been able to regain what he once had.
It hits him like a tidal wave. He can’t keep up with how fast she’s growing.
His heart sinks in his chest as he realizes he won’t be able to pick her up like this anymore. Won’t be able to swing her around in a circle, tripping over his own feet as he spins. Won’t be able to hold her on his hip through a boring meeting. Won’t be able to have her ride on his shoulders or back. Won’t be able to do any of it again.
He wants to sob right then and there. But he can’t not with her still in his arms, still wanting him to pick her up the same way he always does.
He can’t let her see that.
“When did you get so big on me?” he exclaims as he pulls back to look at her, plastering a surprised grin on his face. “Didn’t you used to be smaller?”
“Duh!” she scoffs. “When I was three! I’m four now.”
Yeah, he thinks, heart tossing in the waves. Yeah, you were.
He sits down on the floor—the pain in his ankles has begun screaming—and explains to her that this means he won’t be able to pick her up as often anymore. The pout on her face makes him curse the illness. Not only for doing this to him, but for disappointing her like this. He would give anything to wipe away that disappointment. To be able to hold her forever, to keep a permanent smile on her face.
He has to look away for a moment, looking out the window to regain his composure.
“Can I still sit in your lap?”
“Always.” He meets her eyes again. “I will always hold you.”
“But not standing up.”
“But not standing up,” he confirms, voice breaking ever so slightly.
She perks back up when he suggests they cuddle in his bed together, and he can read to her. She darts off to her room to grab her favorite book. He uses his vanity as leverage to climb up off the floor as she leaves. When she returns, he wraps them both in his duvet and begins to read.
It’s a story he knows by heart, with how many times she’s asked him to read it to her. So when she begins to drift off to sleep, he puts the book aside and continues from memory, pulling her closer to his chest.
He waits until she starts snoring to let the tears finally fall.
—
Strength exercises are of no use to him anymore. He has been able to function independently for the most part, with the only help coming from his cane. He can lift everyday objects; anything he can’t, he can have someone do it for him. And he can’t pick up Juliana anymore. That’s the final straw.
So he quits his exercises and dismisses his aides when they try to make him continue. He keeps refusing despite his parents’ protests—Father protests longer than Mother, but he eventually gives up, too.
He focuses on endurance instead. Children are fast, and Juliana is no exception.
He starts with his balance. Measured steps in a line back and forth in his room, until he is steady enough to no longer need the cane. Then it’s walking. Around the room, the halls, the courtyard, until he can venture out into the city without getting lightheaded.
Until he can play games of tag with Juliana. Until he can traipse around outside the city with her and lure a wild fox back home together.
—
He’s finally allowed to learn to sword-fight. Before, it wasn’t proper for a lady to learn such things. On his next birthday, his parents gift him a custom-made rapier. The hilt is based off a design that Juliana drew.
Most of his alone time is spent practicing with it. He gets pretty good, if he does say so.
—
It grates him, when his father assigns him a personal bodyguard.
“To keep you out of trouble,” he claims.
It’s not just to keep him from tarnishing the Fulmine name. It’s because sometimes, even still, Mavis can watch his father look at him and see the fragile child he once was.
To keep you from being broken again, Mavis thinks.
—
He doesn’t want to be that kid again. That kid who can’t do anything for himself. Who has to rely on everyone around him. Who can’t take care of the people he loves.
But he still is. It doesn’t matter how often he reminds himself that Somnus does it out of caring for him. Every intercepted blow, every patched up wound, every time he has to be carried, he becomes that kid again.
He tries to take care of Somnus, whenever and however he can. But he can’t guard Somnus in the same capacity. He can’t use his body as defense, leverage his nonexistent strength.
It feels wrong to say he’s grateful when Somnus sustains minor injuries. Not because of the hurt, but because he can patch them up. He can pull a needle and thread deftly through a wound. Can secure the bandages and keep replacing them.
It’s something, at least, that he can do.
But it’s not enough. Somnus does vastly more from him day in and day out, and Lemnos can never possibly hope to repay it. (Who is he, anyway, that he should wish harm on Somnus so he can reciprocate care?)
It’s at its worst when he and Somnus find each other again, when he’s wounded in a way that renders him feverish and confused. Wounded in a way that leaves him unable to care for himself. Somnus has to do everything for him.
He will always be that kid again. It’s the one thing he can never run from.