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Fever

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Vladimir laughs softly and sits beside the assassin on his sickbed. Talon had perhaps taken too much from him- or perhaps he had gotten an illness as any human might? Vladimir wasn’t a healer and he wasn’t worried. He couldn’t fix the fever that was running through Talon even if he wanted to- he’d tried, but he wasn’t very good at such things. Not without running the risk of doing damage in his carelessness. It was a risk he didn’t want to take.

He supposed that he wanted this strange, strange creature around. At least he could keep the temperature from becoming deadly and boiling the boy’s tortured brain. He places his warm hand on Talon’s forehead. Still burning. The assassin flinches from him and repeats the same strange lines again, feverish, whispered, eyes fluttering and straining in pain, lost half in dreams. Talon tries to sit up and reaches for the hemomancer then- his lovely hair dampened with sweat, plastered to his neck and his forehead. He is clumsily trying to hold Vlad, perhaps trying to put feverish lips to his neck and bite, trying to take the strange nursing comfort of cursed blood. That wouldn’t be wise- not until until he was better.

The hemomancer feels around carelessly for a leather strap in a bedside drawer- it would do- and firmly shoves it between the boys teeth, watching Talon clamp down instinctively. He settles down then, putting his arms around the nasty, lovely, difficult human. Horrid little curiosity. It was good to see him so unguarded. He would think about something to do with him. Perhaps. But it was sweet to wait, to sip this helplessness and think. Vlad is selectively patient. He waits, eyes closed, not asleep- only dreaming red dreams and idly playing with Talon’s hair.

Then he begins to draw his claws up Talon’s shivering back, listening to the rasp they made against his skin. Over and over and over, as though he was keeping time.