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A pounding headache and shivers of hot and cold had been the first things Gortash had been subjected to when he woke up. Before going to bed the night before, Gortash had suspected he was falling ill with something from overworking, thinking that simply sleeping in earlier would help fix the tiredness and elevated temperature he’d been experiencing.
He was very wrong.
Gortash couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this ill. He felt vulnerable and weak, barely having the strength to speak or move a limb without experiencing more fatigue.
Despite the discomfort of doing anything at all, he made sure to tell his guards to not let anyone into his chamber for at least the day. All meetings had been rescheduled, and anything to do with work had to be delayed until he was fully recovered.
Now, all there was to do was to rest and get more sleep. Gortash laid with his back flat against the mattress, his silky night robe sticking to his back with sweat. The bed felt both too warm and too cold, a continuous pounding in his head promising him the opposite of a slumber, but eventually, his eyes had closed…
…
“Why wouldn’t your guards let me in?”
Gortash’s eyes opened up in an instant. The Dark Urge had somehow made his way inside, the probability that it was through one of his windows being high.
The Dark Urge was clad in a dark cloak, moving his hood back to reveal his face. The dragonborn’s red eyes squinted as they took in Gortash’s current appearance; sweaty and with heavy-lidded eyes. Sickness was riddled all over him.
Deciding to approach the banite, the assassin reached out his hand and-
grabbed Gortash’s throat. It wasn’t a full-on chokehold as nothing about the scaled hand restricted his ability to breathe, but the Dark Urge’s hand rested around it, feeling for something.
Gortash swallowed, the action strangely difficult. “What are you doing?” He asked quietly as the Dark Urge put gentle pressure at the sides of his throat, Gortash’s voice unbearably weak to his own ears. He didn’t make a move to remove the assassin’s hand as he felt no harmful intent.
“I’m checking your temperature and such,” the Dark Urge murmured, his hand shortly leaving after the pads of his fingers brushed against the banite’s Adam's apple. Gortash knew there were less intimidating ways of checking one’s temperature, but it somehow made sense for the Dark Urge to do it that way.
The Dark Urge crossed his arms, almost glaring down at Gortash from where he stood; an assessment had been made. “You’re sweaty,” the dragonborn pointed out, “and you’re hot,” he added.
Despite his first thought being to reply with a sly “thank you”, Gortash couldn’t muster talking when it wasn’t necessary.
“You have a very high fever,” the Dark Urge concluded, “you’re not going to do anything in this state, are you?”
“Correct,” Gortash replied simply. As much as he disliked delaying work, being the productive man he is, he knew he had to let his body rest.
The Dark Urge seems to not know what to do with himself at this point, looking over Gortash’s body as he layed in bed. At first Gortash figured the assassin would take his leave, but he stood put; eyes lingering on the details of his face, perhaps following the bead of sweat travelling down his cheek.
There was no doubt about it, he would appear sickly no matter what he did at this point. Gortash disliked showing weakness in any capacity, but there was no way he could hide it when he was as unwell as this.
Looking around, the Dark Urge spotted something and moved towards the centerpiece table. The dragonborn turned back towards where Gortash lay in bed with a wine bottle in hand. ”You need liquids,” the Dark Urge uttered, stabbing the cork with his clawed finger and uncorking the unopened bottle easily. “Drink.”
As the Dark Urge held the lip of the bottle towards Gortash’s lips, the banite turned his head slightly to the side. “Wine?” Gortash questioned, wondering if the dragonborn was messing with him.
“I don’t know where you keep your water, Gortash,” the Dark Urge replied with an unhappy grumble, abandoning his mission to make Gortash drink the wine. Setting the bottle down on the ground and walking off, the assassin searched through Gortash’s cabinets by his office space in hopes of finding water.
Did the Dark Urge want to nurse him back to health? To stay with him and care for his needs from his own free will? Gortash thought it to be a possibility, letting his eyes rest momentarily as he waited for the assassin to return. The back of his eyes were experiencing enough pressure to want to stay permanently closed.
The sound of nearing footsteps made him pry his eyelids open, watching the Dark Urge with a fancy glass water bottle in hand. The dragonborn sat down at the edge of the bed, intent on feeding the sick banite the water when he could’ve very well held onto the bottle himself.
“Drink,” the Dark Urge commanded once more, though this time in a tone that almost sounded gentle.
Seeing no reason to not comply, he drank from the bottle.
It would’ve been a sweet moment had the Dark Urge not tipped the bottle even further. Water ran straight down Gortash’s throat like a waterfall and made him choke, nostrils acting like geysers as he coughed and pushed away the bottle, hastily propping himself up.
“Gods- you’re drowning me!” Gortash managed out with some strain to his voice, still coughing as his throat and nose burned from the intruding water.
The Dark Urge seemed unphased at Gortash’s reaction, though no ill intent could be spotted in his red eyes. “That’s not enough liquid,” the assassin said, moving the bottle towards Gortash’s lips again which the banite yet again pushed away. The Dark Urge frowned.
While Gortash wiped his face and nose clean of water, the assassin stood up, leaving the banite to himself on the bed. As irritated as he was at his ally, it subsided when a towel was brought his way, the dragonborn wordlessly apologizing.
Taking the towel handed to him, Gortash wiped himself down at his chest where the majority of the water had spilled and soaked his night robe.
“I doubt you’ve eaten anything. Have you?” The Dark Urge had asked, to which Gortash shook his head no in response. “Then I’ll make you something.”
Without wasting time, the Dark Urge set down the water bottle on the ground near the bed, then began to collect a few books laying around the space of the chamber. Questions were flooding Gortash’s mind as he watched the dragonborn, but he had spoken so much already so he couldn’t bother to ask what he’d do with them.
The Dark Urge put the small pile of books he’d collected by the bottle as well as a steel bowl he’d found, sitting himself down as well. Gortash had reclined back against the mattress again, head against his pillow as he continued to watch his ally with more exhaustion. Choking on water had burned up a lot of his remaining energy, it had seemed.
A hand stretched out before the Dark Urge, the assassin producing a fire in the middle of his palm and moving it towards the small stack of books; the flame spreading to them with ease.
The Dark Urge had, for whatever reason, started a fire in his chamber.
Still, Gortash didn’t verbally question the assassin, instead resting his eyes and hoping to fall asleep.
Luckily, he had managed to get some shuteye, but not for long as the overwhelming scent of smoke had him coughing again. Opening his eyes had him bewildered, there was nothing but grey smoke wherever he looked. His eyes got a good taste of the irritating smoke, making him shut them hard as they began to water.
“You’re awake,” the voice of the Dark Urge said, coming from somewhere in front of him. His voice was awfully neutral and unbothered despite the thick fog of smoke making every inhale sting his lungs. “The food will be done soon.”
Before the assassin could speak again, a banging was heard at the doors to his chamber, “my Lord, what’s happening?!” A concerned guard had yelled, “smoke’s pouring out from underneath the door, do you need assistance?”
How in the nine Hells is this not a fever dream, Gortash thought to himself.
Growling, the Dark Urge’s footsteps traveled towards the doors. “This is none of your concern,” the dragonborn said harshly through the door. “Go back to your duties before you end up in your Lord’s soup.”
A short silence followed the assassin’s words.
“If I could just advise you to open the windows,” the guard began in a nervous tone, never completing the rest of his sentence.
Gortash pried his eyes open despite the smoke stinging them, managing to make out the Dark Urge’s figure as he without another word opened the windows, the smoke slowly dissipating. Thank the Gods.
Once he could clearly see again, it didn’t take long for Gortash to notice the burning pile of books with the bowl he’d seen right on top of them. There was a muddy-colored liquid boiling within the bowl. The Dark Urge really had made him soup.
“Are you well rested?” The Dark Urge questioned, crouching by the fire and picking up the bowl without wincing at its warmth.
“Yes,” was all he uttered in reply, his voice sore and raspier than before the Dark Urge had come.
The dragonborn gave a curt nod in acknowledgement, sitting down at the edge of his bed with the bowl in his lap. Looking closer, Gortash could see thin chunks of meat in the strange mystery soup. It made him wonder just how he got his hands on the ingredients.
The Dark Urge unsheathed his dagger, the red blade piercing one of the square chunks of meat. The dragonborn lifted it up from the soup, inspecting it before blowing on it gently. A strange warmth surged through Gortash at the sight. Must be a side effect of the fever, he intelligently concluded.
Once the Dark Urge decided it was cool enough, he pointed the blade towards Gortash’s lips with no rush, “eat.”
Gortash parted his lips but hesitated, what sort of meat was this? Knowing the assassin, it could very much be anything… And to eat right from a blade that had been the cause of death to many people didn’t seem appetizing in the slightest.
“Don’t worry about it. Eat,” the Dark Urge mumbled, having noticed the suspicious look in his eyes. The blade moved a little closer, the meat now pressing against Gortash’s lips.
Inhaling through his nose, Gortash decided to not think too much about it and bit into the chunk of meat; tearing off a small part of it. As Gortash began to chew, the assassin’s blade moved away.
A slight grimace washed over Gortash’s face, the meat was strangely stiff, the texture stringy and way too salty. This meal would’ve been deemed inedible by many.
Gortash noticed the Dark Urge scoot closer at his side, careful not to spill the contents of the bowl. “I have never made soup before,” he confessed, eyeing the meat that was left on his blade, his scaled lips wrapping around it to try some himself, easily chewing it as he stirred the soup with his meat-free blade. Whilst Gortash was still chewing, the Dark Urge had already swallowed. “I haven’t made food for anyone, either. Did you like it?”
With this new information, there was no way he’d say no. The Dark Urge, Murder incarnate, had gone out of his way to take care of Gortash, doing things he’s never done before for him. He might’ve been a complete headache to have around, nearly drowning Gortash in both water and smoke, even setting fire to his books and providing him with a horrendous meal, but the Dark Urge had tried. That meant something.
“..I like the fact you did this for me,” he replied tiredly and swallowed the mystery meat down, avoiding answering the direct question without lying.
With Gortash’s answer, the assassin seemed to vaguely smile in a satisfied way. The Dark Urge kept feeding pieces of meat to Gortash, remembering to carefully blow on them each time. The amount of salt Gortash had consumed was through the roof, but he’d figure out how to deal with that later.
Being fed like a sickly puppy should’ve felt humiliating, but it didn’t.
When the bowl of soup had no more meat chunks within it, the Dark Urge held the bowl towards Gortash, signaling him to drink some soup from the rim.
Nervously, Gortash cleared his throat and gently pushed the bowl away with one hand. The bowl wasn’t scorchingly hot after being off the flames for a while, though still uncomfortably warm to the touch.
Sitting himself somewhat upright, he reached for the bowl, “I’d rather not repeat another choking incident,” he explained.
No offense had been taken, the Dark Urge letting Gortash take the warm bowl from him. The soup didn’t look appetizing before, and without the meat chunks it seemed even less consumable. He took a sip anyway to appease the assassin.
Just as expected, the soup was even saltier. If the point of the soup was to get him hydrated, then the Dark Urge had more than failed. Not that he’d tell him. On the bright side, the feverish exhaustion had diminished just a little now with food in his stomach. Questionable food, but food nonetheless.
Handing the bowl back to the Dark Urge, he smiled. “Thank you for taking care of me,” Gortash said.
The Dark Urge’s expression strained, scaled lips in a thin line as he processed the compliment.
There seemed to be some hesitance as he searched for something to say, placing the bowl down on the foot of the bed. “You’re a valuable ally, I need you around for a little while longer. No sickness will claim you under my watch.”
Standing up, the Dark Urge moved to the barely alive fire, putting it out with the sole of his boot.“I’ll let you rest now,” he said with his back to Gortash, seeming ready to leave for a moment before his shoulders tensed, the assassin having forgotten something.
On the floor near the put out fire there was a smaller, wet towel which the Dark Urge picked up. Gortash already knew that the dirty towel full of soot was about to find its place on his forehead. Just the cherry on top for this eventful experience that was the Dark Urge’s nursing.
Gently, the Dark Urge placed it across his forehead as foreseen. A cool towel could help soothe high temperatures, and Gortash expected the nice, cooling effect to take place as soon as it was put on his temple- but it was warm. Not at all shocking in the grand scheme of things.
Gortash’s eyes observed the expression of the assassin as he fixed the towel to cover his forehead perfectly, the black slitted pupils seeming to have adopted a rounder edge to them as he cared for the banite.
Noticing Gortash’s gaze, they restricted back to normal. “There,” he murmured, moving his hands away.
Gortash hummed, “see you soon,” he said quietly, earning a nod in reply. The Dark Urge finally left through one of the opened windows, politely closing it after.
Most of the windows were still left open, another thing he’d deal with before dusk.
Now all alone, Gortash touched the very warm towel at his temple; he didn’t want to remove it. He shifted to his side and got comfortable, making sure the fabric across his forehead didn’t slide off.
Surprisingly enough, Gortash felt less feverish and much more comfortable than before his ally had dropped by, like he could now easily fall asleep. Maybe the Dark Urge’s attempt at caring for him had worked, in the strangest way possible.
Gortash let his eyes shut, shortly slipping into a comfortable dream.