He picks her up and whirls her about in the air. He's not as strong as he was, but she's light. She gives a tiny squeak, then laughs along with him out of sheer delight. He releases her, and turns to another friend. They clasp hands, and he gives her a little spin, still laughing. Tears shine on her cheeks, but she laughs too. A large hand lands on his shoulder, and he glances up into the earnest face of another of his companions. The two men share a quick back-slapping hug, and grin. He hesitates in front of the last man, unsure of what their relationship permits. The man smiles genuinely, if sadly, with his eyes open, and gives him a slow nod. He grins, and there are more tears, and more laughter.
Someone breaks out a bottle of something expensive, and another rounds up a handful of glasses. They talk, and laugh, and eat, and congratulate him on his luck in finding the spell, his skill as a sorcerer, and even tease him about his good looks. He soaks it all in with the smile of a person who has suddenly been handed everything he's always wanted. It's nearly midnight when he confesses his love to his beautiful friend. She kisses him shyly, turning the same shade of red as her hair, and says that's all she's been waiting for.
The impromptu party carries on into the wee hours, when the guest of honor finally succumbs to fatigue. His friends smile, and one of the men carries him to his room. The others wander off to bed not long afterward, and do not wake until they hear screams during the first light of dawn.
It's been two weeks. Every night he wakes up screaming and wild-eyed at least once. He's not the only one feeling the effects at this point. They all have bags under their eyes, and none are sure how much longer they can take this. Only the nightmares mar his newfound happiness. The days go on much like they always have, but now the others take quick cat-naps to catch up on their sleep. While they do, he sits by himself under the shade of a tree, and lets himself slip back into a little of the melancholy that he's lived with for so many years. He can't remember the horrors that play through his mind at night. They are mists that burn away quickly under the morning sun. He thought there might have been something wrong with his astral form, but when he checked, it was as healthy and alive as the rest of him.
He gives a sad smile, flipping his hair out of his face. Everything will turn out okay. He has faith for the first time in years. He coughs, and makes a mental note to have someone check into that if it gets any worse.
It has been four weeks. The others have adjusted to a sleeping schedule that is being constantly interrupted, and have compensated with regular afternoon naps. In any case, they don't mind sleeping through the hot part of the day. The nightmares are unceasing. The cough is turning into a full-fledged sickness. Neither of the white magicians can heal it, but they both think that it should go away on it's own. There are some things, they lecture, that just don't respond to white magic. The common cold is one of them.
He doesn't mention that the cough has been developing for two weeks or more. He doesn't mention that he feels warm, and gets winded easily. What purpose would it serve?
He rubs the bridge of his nose, and hopes that his headache departs soon.
It's been five weeks. The pain in his head is omnipresent now. His cough gets worse by the day. He's no longer flushed, but chilled instead. His friends give up their blankets and cloaks so he can use them at night. It's the middle of the summer, and he sleeps as close to the fire as he can, blankets and cloaks piled on top of him. He rarely sleeps deeply enough for the nightmares to visit him now.
His friends are worried. They want to get him to the next city, where one of them knows a healer who specializes in diseases that a simple spell will not cure. Even the companion who is not technically a friend is worried. He usually loves a good mystery, but that's because he's so good at solving them. This time, however, he's at a loss. He hates that.
Five and a half weeks. He's no longer capable of walking even for a short time, and they haven't been able to find a horse and cart. They rig up a litter to carry him, and take turns dragging it, even the smallest of them. She loves him. She used to have a crush on him, but that was mostly hero-worship. She always wanted to be the cool, calm one who always knew just what to say or do. Now she loves him like a member of her family, and worries that, not for the first time in her life, she is going to lose a loved one.
It's sometime around three in the morning when they drag him into the city two days later. Even though she doesn't want to leave his side, his newfound love runs ahead to rouse the healer. He wakes while she's gone. He can barely recognize his friend's faces, but he can read the worry in their eyes. They're afraid for his life.
Twenty minutes later. The healer has him placed on a table in her treatment room, but she doubts there is anything she can do. At best, she can make him comfortable for his last hours, perhaps prolong his life a little more. She understands her limits. She's only human.
The oldest of the companions has begun to consider other ways to save his life. He knows that his ill companion is nearly as important as the flame-haired leader in the Big Picture. They all still have roles to play. He can't let the boy die yet.
The flame haired one is scared out of her mind. She's been this afraid once or twice before, but this is past her experience and knowledge. There's nothing she can do.
She glances down and frowns. There is something wrong with one of her favored children's companions, and it's upsetting her little Chaos-child. She takes a closer look.
Yes, she thinks, there is definitely something wrong. The group she so carefully built around her sorceress is out of balance. The group is a knot of Chaos, but it has to be kept in alignment or else it will ultimately fail in it's intended purpose. But she'd made it to be self regulating; so that each piece was in perfect Chaos, feeding off the other's actions.
She looks through her Chaos-child's eyes, and takes note of the tremble in the Mazoku she'd placed within the group. She loves that one. So perceptive as to the grand scheme. The hand of the body she's controlling touches the Chimera's forehead.
Wait.
She's sure she put a Chimera in the group. So what's this human boy doing lying on the bed. Oh. He's dying. That's interesting, but not good.
Interesting, she repeats to herself. He's found some order. Admirable, since he's a creature of Chaos, whether he knows it or not. He shouldn't have been able to do that. It must have been supremely difficult for him. It must have been that same power that he used to return Order to his form.
She hates to disappoint him, but he can't die yet. And the only way he can live is if she turns him back into a creature of Chaos. This new order is gnawing at his inherent Chaos, and destroying his body.
She hopes he had fun while it lasted.
She glides toward him, feet brushing the ground, and leaving a trail of gold where she moves. The oldest of the group resists the urge to cower. The golden, glazed eyes in his friend's normally expressive face sets him shivering. He knows what the Old Woman's up to. He traded humanity for knowledge long ago, but with this group he got a little of that lost humanity back. Still, he nearly cowers.
The others have no such problem with cowering. Awe mixes with fear in each of them, and it's as much as they can do not to avert their eyes from the gold figure before them. Her hand rises in a graceful arc, and touches their dying friend's forehead. Gold washes over him in waves, leaving rocky blue skin behind it as it recedes.
The others gasp, and the youngest cries out. The oldest simply shakes his head, setting purple hair swinging. He didn't think it would last, but he hopes the Chimera enjoyed it while it lasted. And he hopes the new loss won't drive the younger man insane.
She wakes up before he does. The eldest of her friends explains to her what happened. She cries, not for herself, but for the man she loves. Her friend hugs her hesitatingly, because he's really not the best person in the world at giving comfort. She accepts the gesture, but asks him to leave after a few minutes. He does, and she drags a chair next to the table where the man she loves lies.
Her fingers brush at his wiry hair. She only stares at her finger dully when the needle-sharp hair raises blood. She touches his face, leaving tiny trails of red where her fingers graze his skin. Her tears have stopped entirely, giving way to numbness deep in her soul. She doesn't know how to tell him, how to apologize for what she couldn't stop or control. And there's no way for her to take revenge on the creature responsible. She can't avenge, and she can't heal, and she can't offer paltry apologies. So she silently waits for him to wake.
It's all she can do.