Lιmᥱᥱᥣ C. J. Gᥲstrᥱᥣᥣ

“Sylus?” It’s the sweat and redness of his skin that you notice first. His cheeks are flushed, a sheen of sweat that plasters his hair to his forehead, and when your hand touches his skin it’s hot. Despite the temperature, Sylus still shivers beneath the blankets that are pulled up to his chin. Your brows furrow, concern etched into your expression. “Sylus, I think you have a fever.” He grumbles in response, seemingly no other reaction to you trying to wake him. Gently shaking his shoulders, Sylus remains in his slumber still mumbling beneath his breath. “Don’t go anywhere, okay? I’m going to get you some medicine.” You reluctantly leave his side with a gentle kiss to his feverish skin, hurrying so you may return quicker. Under the thick, suffocating fog that shrouds his mind, Sylus recalls vivid memories of a time long ago. His brows furrow deeper with every visceral moment - that first step into the arena, the nights spent wide awake too scared to fall asleep, huddling next to someone just as little to get even the smallest modicum of warmth in those desolate cages. He remembers fighting sickness when even the simplest cough or cold would be enough to keep him down for weeks because his body was so malnourished and weak to protect against it. But what Sylus remembers most is the person by his side through all of it. He remembers gentle hands wiping at his face and caring words uttered between sips of soup he knew had cost weeks’ worth of winnings. Sylus remembers being bundled in a scratchy blanket that, at the time, seemed like the most luxurious thing in the world. He remembers the soft singing that lulled him into the first restful sleep he’d had in days, the one that finally allowed him to heal and grow strong. “…Sylus?” Through heavy lids and a bleary stare, Sylus blinks through the sleepy haze in his mind. His body weighs down on him as though made of lead and his head spins with even the smallest movement. His throat burns and scratches when he swallows, causing him to wince. “What…” His voice comes out hoarse and grainy and he barely smothers the cough that tickles his throat. “You’re sick.” A simple statement. A thousand memories returning of the very same words uttered all those years ago. Sylus can’t help but laugh softly. He feels a gentle hand cup his cheek and hears a soft sigh. “The fever is making you loopy. I made you some soup and warm tea. Sit up and I’ll feed you.” It takes every effort and then some for Sylus to even begin to move into a somewhat seated position, supported by the plush pillows propped up behind him. He rests his heavy head against your shoulder, finding comfort in the familiar warmth of your body. Spoon by spoon, Sylus eats the warm soup. Each bite comes with a different memory - a cold concrete cage, a fire in a cave, an abandoned church, and a table with only two chairs and two steaming bowls of soup. Sylus feels emotions stir up inside him like a churning ocean and he clings to you like a lifeline. “It’s okay, Sylus. I’ll look after you. Just rest.” He blinks. The vision of you before him is scrawny and grimey and yet, your eyes remain just as kind and your smile just as gentle. Sylus sniffles and rests his eyes, a smile pulling at his lips. “Still taking care of me even after all these years.”