A Secret Whispered in Fever

"You know," Blynn began, his voice a low murmur in the quiet common room. He stared into the dark depths of the beer tankard he’d acquired, watching the faint lamplight shimmer on its pewter surface. "I was just pondering the spellcaster's motive. Why attempt to turn Miss Jianna into a child? It’s not as if she couldn't simply wait for the magic to expire, or for Malakor to mature again on his own, is it?"

Flitterwing paused, a glass of pale wine halfway to his lips, and considered this for a long moment. The firelight danced in his silver hair as he slowly shook his head. "Malakor… he is ancient. I don’t know his true age, but it is vast. A spell potent enough to revert someone of his years to the state of a toddler possesses an almost unimaginable power." He lowered his glass, his expression grim. "Had that same magic struck Jianna, she would not have merely become a child. The spell would have unraveled the thread of her existence so completely that nothing would have remained. She would have simply… ceased to be."

A visible chill traced its way down Blynn’s spine, and his eyes widened in horror. "I do not know her well," the Satyri whispered, his voice barely audible, "but that is a terrifying thought. It was a very good thing that Malakor intercepted it."

A smirk touched Flitterwing’s lips, but it was devoid of his usual sardonic humor. Instead, it carried the bitter weight of self-recrimination. "Yes," he said softly. "And had I not been rushing about so foolishly, trying to slay an Aelvin, none of this would have occurred in the first place." Before the Satyri could offer any words of consolation, Flitterwing pushed his chair back with a sharp scrape against the wooden floor and rose to his feet. "I am turning in for the night. I will see you in the morning."

"Sleep well, Flitterwing," Blynn called after the Fey’s retreating form.

Without turning, Flitterwing offered a slight wave of acknowledgment, his steps heavy as he ascended the stairs to their room. His sharp Feyan eyes, accustomed to darkness, easily made out the sleeping form of Jianna on the bed, and beside her, the petite figure of Malakor. From the foot of the bed, he retrieved a neatly folded blanket he had packed, its familiar comfort a small solace against the prospect of the hard, naked floor.

He was about to arrange it when a feeble whimper sliced through the silence. His head snapped up. Malakor was huddled at the far edge of the mattress, as far from Jianna as he could get, his small arms and legs splayed. A sheen of sweat had matted his dark hair to his skull. As Flitterwing watched, the demon began to mumble, the words mostly an incoherent slur born of delirium. Through the fevered haze, however, Flitterwing managed to catch a few distinct phrases, and one question that made his eyebrows arch nearly to his hairline.

"Why… why couldn’t she have been one of The Returned? Why did it have to be me? Dammit."

Malakor? One of The Returned? Disbelief washed over Flitterwing. He shook his head, dismissing the notion. No, it was impossible. Malakor had claimed to be old, certainly, but being one of The Returned was a fate that transcended mere age. It was a curse. A punishment of the highest order.

His thoughts were shattered by another heart-wrenching whimper from the bed, a sound that pierced a raw, paternal nerve deep inside him. So as not to wake the sleeping Jianna, he slipped to the side of the bed and reached out to touch Malakor’s forehead. He recoiled with a soft hiss. The demon's skin was scorching, clammy and blazing with a dreadful inner fire. Malakor was gravely ill.

He knew he had to bring the fever down. His gaze darted around the dark chamber, searching for water, for anything that might cool the demon's small body. His eyes landed on the basin and jug of water that had been left for their use. Washing can wait, he thought grimly. This is far more important.

He plunged a washcloth into the basin, soaking it completely before wringing out the excess and carrying it back to the bed. Malakor shuddered violently as the cool, damp cloth made contact with his burning skin, drawing the heat from his flesh. Flitterwing gently laid it over his small torso. Cradling the swaddled demon tenderly in one arm, he used his free hand to arrange his own blanket and the one from the bed into a comfortable nest on the floor. After carefully placing Malakor upon the pallet, he brought the water jug closer. The fever was already warming the cloth at an alarming rate; he had a strong suspicion he would be rewetting it many times before sunrise.

With a heavy sigh, he settled into his makeshift nest, his eyes fixed on Malakor. It's going to be a long night, was the only thought that echoed in his weary mind.

Jianna sighed as consciousness slowly returned, her body aching from a night spent on a hard mattress. She instinctively reached a hand to the space beside her, only to find it cold and empty. Alarm jolted her fully awake. Ignoring the dizzying rush of blood to her head, she sat up abruptly.

Her eyes scanned the room. The three males of her party were on the floor. Blynn was curled closest to the hearth, chasing the embers’ waning warmth even in his sleep. Flitterwing was slumped against the wall, a blanket draped over his legs. And beside him, sprawled out and still, lay Malakor. Jianna blinked, her mind struggling to process what she was seeing.

"Malakor!" she cried out, her voice shattering the morning stillness. "You're big again!"

Her shout startled both Blynn and Malakor from their slumber. Blynn sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his gaze falling upon Malakor, who was frowning in confusion as he examined his own now-familiar, full-sized form.

"Oh. So I am," Malakor observed, his voice once more a deep, gravelly rumble.

"That's wonderful," Blynn remarked, shifting to a more comfortable position. "Flitterwing told me last night, shortly after you went up, that the spell could have lingered for days. I'd say you're quite fortunate it only affected you for a day."

"I would have preferred it not affect me at all," Malakor snarled, his voice laced with venom.

Blynn visibly winced as if struck. His head ducked, his ears drooping in a gesture of immediate submission as he mumbled an apology so soft Jianna barely caught it.

"Malakor, that was cruel!" she reprimanded, her own voice rising. "He was simply happy for you, and that's how you repay him?"

"Keh. I'm happy to be 'back to normal' too, so save your concern. However, that blasted spell has put us further behind schedule than is wise. Get yourselves ready. We are leaving immediately."

That was the final straw for Jianna. "Schedule? You know what, Malakor? Forget the schedule! You were desperately ill last night, no matter how much you denied it. Do you have any idea that if we had kept moving in that rain, you would likely be dead right now? So maybe, just for once, you could try showing a little gratitude by saying 'thank you'!"

"Dead?" A sneer curled Malakor's lips back from his fangs. "As if the gods would permit me the sweet release of death from a common chill. And you listen to me, girl. I did not offer to guide you to Kaur-Koram out of the goodness of my heart. I was ordered to do so by the Council. Therefore, the only thing I owe you is safe delivery. Is that understood?"