A Fever in the Rearing Stallion

As the bone-deep cold began to recede from her limbs, the world swam back into focus. Jianna found herself in a place that felt lifted from the pages of a fantasy epic or a meticulously crafted historical saga. The inn was a study in timber; sturdy wooden tables and chairs were scattered across the common room, and the walls and floors were fashioned from thick, dark-stained planks. On one side of the expansive space, a staircase ascended to the guest rooms above. On the other, a long, polished bar stood silent, its tender currently asleep with his head resting on the counter. The air was thick with a layered aroma—the savory scent of old meals, the sweet perfume of pipe smoke, the waxy smell of candles, and overriding it all, the earthy, resinous fragrance of the wood that comprised nearly everything. Indeed, the only object not hewn from timber was the enormous stone fireplace, where a healthy blaze now crackled and spat.

Gods, Jianna thought with a flicker of unease, if a fire ever gets loose in here, the whole place will go up like a tinderbox.

Her gaze drifted to the other patrons. A small group was gathered near the bar, presenting a formidable sight. They were draped in the full pelts of wolves, with the heads of the great beasts pulled up to serve as hoods over their own. There was a palpable wildness about them, an untamed and erratic energy that felt distinctly predatory.

The old innkeeper soon returned, balancing a tray laden with four bowls of steaming stew. He set the entire tray down on a table beside their hearthside chairs, prompting a general shuffle as they repositioned themselves around it. They each reached for a bowl; Jianna took one for herself and another for Malakor, whom she gently placed on the tabletop so he could eat more easily.

The moment the fragrant steam from the bowl wafted over him, however, Malakor’s complexion took on a distinct greenish tinge. "Oh, no," he groaned, turning his head away. "I find I'm not hungry at the moment."

"What's the matter, Malakor?" Jianna asked, her brow furrowing with concern. "Is something wrong with the stew?" Beside her, Byrns and Flitterwing, who had already begun to eat, glanced up with anxious expressions.

To their collective relief, Malakor shook his head. "No, it has nothing to do with the stew," he insisted weakly. "I simply have no appetite."

Suddenly, Flitterwing pushed his chair back from the table with a scrape. In a fluid motion, he crossed to the other side, leaned over, and scooped Malakor up. "Not hungry, feeling sick, and already proven to be exhausted," Flitterwing declared, holding him aloft. "I believe it is past your bedtime, Malakor."

If Malakor had merely appeared ill before, he now looked utterly enraged. He transformed into a flailing, furious storm in miniature, twisting and writhing in Flitterwing's expert grasp. "No!" he shrieked with all the vocal power his tiny lungs could muster. "I am not going to bed! I am not tired! Put me down this instant! I don't deserve this! Let me go!"

Flitterwing completely disregarded his tantrum. After a brief exchange with the innkeeper, he turned and carried his protesting burden up the stairs toward their assigned chamber, Malakor’s furious shouts echoing in his wake.

One of the men in the wolf pelts turned his gaze on Jianna and Byrns. "My own boy was much the same," the man grunted, a rough sympathy in his voice. "A few firm but gentle smacks on the backside usually quieted his fits. I'd recommend you try it with yours, little mother."

He thinks Malakor is my son? Jianna screamed inwardly, a hot flush of mortification creeping up her neck. "Erm… thank you for the advice," was all she could manage to say aloud.

A short while later, Flitterwing descended the stairs and calmly rejoined them at the table. He picked up his spoon and returned to his rapidly cooling stew. When he eventually looked up, it was to find both Jianna and Byrns staring at him with identical expressions of curiosity and disapproval.

"What did I do?" he asked, a defensive edge to his voice.

"That was mean, Flitty," Jianna said, deliberately employing the diminutive nickname she knew he disliked. Byrns nodded in firm agreement. "You know how Malakor hates being treated differently because of his… situation." She was uncertain of the range of the other patrons’ hearing and thought it best to be discreet.

"I wasn't teasing him," Flitterwing countered, defending his actions. "Jianna, the boy is genuinely sick. You know how stubborn he is. He would never admit it, but he would have forced himself to stay awake as long as we did. In his condition, and at his current… 'age,' that could be incredibly dangerous." He shrugged, a gesture of simple pragmatism. "I was just looking out for the little guy."

Jianna could approve of his motive, if not his method. She decided to take a moderate stance. "It was still mean."

Flitterwing offered another nonchalant shrug. "Whatever."

The combination of the crackling fire and the warm food began to work its magic on Jianna, and a profound drowsiness settled over her. She eventually excused herself and made her way up to the room Flitterwing had secured. In his effort to be frugal with Malakor's coin, he had acquired only a single room with a single bed, which appeared to be already occupied.

Malakor was a small lump under the covers.

Jianna eyed the bed, then the hard floorboards, which were her only other option. Well, she reasoned, he is tiny. He won't take up much space.

She was climbing into the bed, still in her damp and dirty clothes, when she noticed it. Malakor had abandoned all pretense; his entire body was shaking violently. A deep, uncontrollable chill was wracking his tiny frame.

Reaching over, Jianna gently touched his forehead. Though the room was warm, his skin was like ice, far, far too cold.

"Malakor," she whispered, "are you all right?"

He curled himself into an even tighter ball. "N-no," he whined, the sound heartbreakingly small. "I'm cold, tired, an' just plain sick."

"Well, one of us was bound to fall ill after being caught in all that rain," Jianna said, trying to sound logical and calm. "You just happened to get the worst of it."

A fresh wave of shivers coursed through him, and he shook his head emphatically. "I ain't s-s-supposed t' get s-sick!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling. "Not since m' Binding… I'm not s-supposed t' get s-sick…" His protest was cut short by a cough, a harsh, rattling sound that shook his entire body.

Slowly, carefully, Jianna moved under the blankets. What she was about to do might very well get her sick, too, but Malakor looked so small and helpless, so utterly unaccustomed to the misery of illness. She drew him gently toward her, pulling him close against her side. For a brief instant, she felt his miniature form stiffen in surprise, but then the shivers took hold again, and he trembled against her.

"W-w-what are ye doin'?" he chattered through his teeth.

"I'm helping you get warm," she said, her voice soft and soothing. "That's the most important thing right now. We need to break this chill. A fever will probably come later, but we'll deal with that when it happens."

She felt the faintest of nods against her shoulder, and his body seemed to lose some of its tension. After a long while, as sleep finally claimed him, he instinctively burrowed closer, clinging to her warmth.

Smiling softly down at him, Jianna gently brushed the dark hair from his feverish brow. Poor guy, she thought, a wave of pity and affection washing over her. She shifted slightly, trying to find a comfortable position without disturbing the sleeping demon too much, and settled in, hoping for a peaceful night.