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perfectpaperbluebirds · 3 years

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@sicktember Prompt # 27: Blankets

Title: Sick Day Spells

Fandom: N/A

Based on an ask box prompt. The prompt: “It’s all well and good until the cleric gets really sick.”

What does a party of adventures do when their cleric is forced to take a sick day after a battle? Featuring a Halfling Rogue, a Dwarf Fighter, an Elf Sorcerer, and a Human Cleric.

(Author’s note: Holy crap this was fun to write, and I’m thrilled with how it came out! I can’t believe it took me so long to write a D & D-based story. This is the first time I can say with confidence that you will almost certainly see these OCs again. I loved them way too much to let them go. And there's three more people here for me to whump in all ways magical and physical. So keep your eyes peeled for them again soon!)

They say pride comes before the fall, but most people like to think that applies to everyone except them. Still, perhaps the adventuring party should have kept their pride in check, or else watched more vigilantly for the possibility of falling.

The party of four were riding out of the village they had simultaneously saved and partially destroyed. True, they had fought off a school of necromancers that were terrorizing the local area and destroyed the necromancers' constructs, but the fireball they had used to wipe out the zombies had also wiped out the entire market and half of the residential district. Still, collateral damage was to be expected, and the slightly-singed foursome were in high spirits as they left the smoking town in their wake.

Their calamity came from a very unexpected source, and it started with a sneeze. The party always traveled in pairs of two, with the fighter and the sorcerer in front and the cleric and the rogue in the back. This meant that Filius and Kandry were generally surrounded by a cloud of dust while on the road, but they didn't usually mind, both being the hearty sort.

Today though, the dust began to make Filius sneeze even before they'd left the town. After two sets of three sneezes nearly back to back, Lorellyn turned, looking at him with concern.

"Are you all right, Fil? Your cold is still bothering you, isn't it?"

"I suppose. Honestly I'm so tired I barely notice it right now. I just want to get back to camp and sleep for a day or two," said the cleric, congested and hoarse, trying not to cough.

"Well yeh certainly earned it. It seemed yeh were everywhere at once ou’ there, throwin' out healin' spells left an' right, an' destroyin' th' zombies in droves, plus flingin' necromancers here an' there with tha' mace o' yourn," Gundor said.

"He's right. We couldn't have done this without you," Lorellyn said earnestly. "You're the hero of the day."

Filius smiled tiredly, but before he could reply, a sickly green bolt of energy hit him in the back, making him spasm. He froze, then slowly his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped forward on his horse.

The other three jumped into action immediately. Kandry leapt off of her mount and onto the back of Filius’ with flawless acrobatics, somehow managing to prevent him from falling off of his horse and take control of the steed immediately, though she couldn't reach the stirrups.

Lorellyn whipped around, immediately shooting a firebolt from her palm, aimed at the bush from which the offensive spell had come. The dry bush caught fire immediately, causing the pair of tiny goblin mages hiding inside it to run out shrieking, heading toward the smoking village. Gundor was already off of his mount and chasing them down with rage in his eyes, ending them with his axe before they knew what hit them.

Gundor and Lorellyn were at Kandry's side as soon as the threat was eliminated. The halfling was anxiously checking Filius over for visible injuries.

"He's burning up!" she cried. "What did they hit him with?"

"It was a wimpy Ray of Sickness. I saw it out of the corner of my eye," Lorellyn said, taking over assessing the cleric. "Those mages were barely second level. I'm surprised they were able to hit him at all. There's no way this is just from that. There's something else."

"Well can't you figure it out?" Kandry snapped.

"I'm trying! But divination is Filius' specialty, not mine!" Lorellyn snapped back.

"Let's jus’ get ‘im back ta camp. We need ta get off th' road. We're too exposed, an' distracted ta boot," Gundor said, looking around worriedly. "Yeh can look ‘im over there just as well as here."

The other two quickly agreed. They hastened back to their base, with Filius slumped in the saddle in front of Lorellyn, and Gundor leading Filius' horse behind his own.

The ride was somber, the high spirits from their successful battle all but forgotten. Filius had a raging fever and was dead asleep, unable to be woken, but seemed to be in the throes of terrible nightmares, for he writhed and cried out the whole time they were moving. Whenever he would yell, it would send him into an awful coughing fit that left him panting and sweating. Lorellyn tried her best to soothe him, but she was clearly distressed, especially when it seemed to have no effect, and she had tears in her eyes most of the trip.

Arriving at their camp, they made a makeshift stretcher for him from a blanket, gently carrying the tall man to his tent and laying him down on his mat. They lingered at his side, unsure how to proceed.

"Why don't you do a healing spell on him or something?" Kandry snapped at the sorcerer. "There's got to be something we can do!"

"I don't have any spells left after that battle," Lorellyn hissed. "I need to rest my magic! And anyway, sorcerers can't do healing spells. Our magic is too chaotic. Bad things would happen if I tried. Do either of you have any healing potions?”

"I never waste time with that. They're too heavy to bother with. You all always carry them... Or Filius takes care of it," Kandry mumbled.

"I gave mine ta th’ villagers tha' got hurt in th' blast," Gundor said sheepishly. "Filius planned ta brew some more, so I wagered I wouldn't need 'em."

"Some adventurers we are," Kandry groaned. "We can't even take care of our cleric."

Lorellyn wrapped Kandry in a hug, which the halfling immediately tried to wriggle out of, but the elf was stronger.

"We'll figure something out. It will be fine," Lorellyn said bravely.

At that moment, the party heard a commotion on the highway, with many people screaming and yelling loud enough to be heard at the camp, though they were well away from the road. The three healthy members of the party gave each other worried looks. Lorellyn attuned her hearing to better assess the situation while Kandry and Gundor waited breathlessly.

"It's a green dragon," Lorellyn gasped after a moment. "Something angered it and now it's flying around, attacking randomly. It's already killed dozens of people."

"It's all well and good until the cleric gets really sick," Kandry groaned, covering her face.

They didn't have time to make any sort of plan, for immediately they heard the sound of running footsteps approaching their camp. A young man with wild-looking eyes dashed into their midst.

“Adventurers!” he gasped. “Have you heard? There’s a dragon terrorizing us! We need your aid to defeat it!”

Gundor stepped forward. “We hadn’t heard o’ this trouble. O’ course we’ll do what’s necessary in this time o’ danger.”

“So you’ll come? We must go right away!”

“Give us time ta make our necessary preparations. Leave us fer now.”

The lad nodded, hurrying away again.

Gundor, Lorellyn, and Kandry shared a look. Without a word, they quickly began to break down their camp, hastily packing their things and snuffing out the fire under cover of Lorellyn’s disillusionment cantrips, and taking full advantage of Kandry’s stealth. In minutes they had packed their belongings on their horses and were heading in the opposite direction of the main road, deeper into the forest. Through it all, Filius remained unconscious, mumbling and sweating and weak with fever.

After another hour or two’s ride, having hidden themselves deep in the forest, Kandry found a secure cave in which they could hide out. The party was in no shape to fight a dragon right now. Here, they wouldn’t be in danger, or be run out of town for not assisting with the dragon. Gundor secured the perimeter while Lorellyn attended to the sick cleric, laying him out gently on his bedroll once more and bathing his sweat-slicked face with a wet rag while Kandry saw to the rest of the camp preparations. The cool water slowly brought Filius to consciousness, with much coughing and trembling. However, wakefulness did not bring awareness with it. He looked around dully, his eyes heavy-lidded and fever-bright, but seemed to take in little of what he saw. He closed his eyes again wearily without acknowledging his companions hovering over him worriedly. Shivers wracked his body.

“ ‘m so cold,” he coughed. “Thirsty….”

Kandry rushed to get him a mug of water while Lorellyn snatched the blankets off of each of the other bedrolls and brought them over, covering him in all of them. They seemed to have no effect though, and he continued to shiver violently. Gundor built up the fire frantically, but it took a while to catch, and the smoke only made the sick human cough more. After drinking two mugs of water, Filius fell back asleep, which was somehow both a relief and a worry to his friends. His fever never changed, neither going lower nor higher.

“I’ll run ta th’ village ta get ‘im some kind o’ potion,” Gundor murmured over supper. “I can’t watch ‘im suffer like this.”

“And risk being seen, or worse attacked by a dragon?” Kandry scoffed. “After all the trouble we went to to find this place and stay hidden? Please don’t.”

“She’s right,” Lorellyn said. “That’s at least two hours' ride, and one of us will be left alone and vulnerable. At least wait until morning, when our health and spells are back up. If he’s the same or worse, then go. We’ll see how he does through the night.”

Once night fell, with nothing else to do, the party tried to sleep, rotating 6 hour shifts keeping watch, as usual. However, even when not on guard duty, the party members found they couldn’t settle, and kept lifting their heads to shoot worried glances at their cleric, or make sure he hadn’t worsened. Gundor had had the first watch, and when it came time for him to rest, he settled on his bedroll, but then tossed and turned for a long time. He was usually snoring like a bear within moments of shutting his eyes, so this had the ladies on high alert. Finally, the dwarf got up with a huff, picked up his bedroll and carried it over to Filius’ side, dropping it there. When he lay back down, he was close enough that his shoulder touched the cleric’s. The dwarf then pulled a corner of one of the blankets over himself and rolled to his side, pressing up against the human, and immediately falling asleep with a weary snore.

Lorellyn had the second watch, and she kept shooting tender, but envious looks at the sleeping men. Filius never woke, but he seemed to sleep more peacefully after Gundor had joined him. As soon as her watch was finished, she followed the dwarf’s lead, pushing her bedroll up against the other side of the sick human, sliding under the blankets, and resuming her meditation.

Kandry was not so easily swayed, and tried to ignore the thoughtless sharing of germs happening behind her as she took her turn at the watch. However, when no one was looking, she surreptitiously slid her bedroll around to the other side of the fire, placing her closer to her companions.

Had Gundor and Lorellyn been aware of their surroundings, they would have noticed that in the wee hours of the morning Filius began to sweat profusely. He had hardly moved after the other two had settled in with him to share their body heat, but he began to mutter and toss a bit once more. Finally, just as dawn was creeping over the horizon, he woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright with a hacking cough. Lorellyn and Gundor were instantly awakened as well, and Kandry was at their side in an instant. Filius tried to catch his breath, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

“Where ‘m I?” he croaked. “What happened?”

Lorellyn leaned over to press the back of her hand to his forehead, then his neck. “We’re safely hidden in the forest. Are you alright? How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” Filius groaned. “Sick. How long have I been asleep?” He yawned hugely.

“Almost a day,” Kandry said, pressing a mug of water into his hands. “You scared us half to death. You got hit with a Ray of Sickness and you just… passed out.”

“I did?” he said worriedly, looking confused. “I don’t remember that….”

“Yeah. Did you have some poison in your system too or something? I’ve never seen Ray of Sickness do that,” Kandry said accusingly.

“Not that I know of. Might have to do with me already being sick when it hit me. Just exacerbated everything, made it worse temporarily.” He coughed roughly into his shoulder, wincing, then downed the mug of water.

“Well your fever is much better,” Lorellyn said happily. “Let’s hope you’re on the mend now!”

“I’d be on the mend faster if I got some whiskey,” Filius sniffled, looking meaningfully at Gundor. The sleepy dwarf readily got up and shuffled to his pack. Finding what he was looking for, he returned with an amber-colored bottle and handed it to the cleric, who took several unceremonious gulps.

“Good ta have yeh back, mate,” Gundor rumbled happily, reclaiming the bottle and taking several swigs of his own.

“What are you all doing over here anyway?” Filius said after a moment, yawning again. “This cave is plenty big enough for all of us.”

“You were freezing, so we shared our blankets with you,” Lorellyn said.

“Really? You mean you slept here all night?”

“Tha’ we did. ‘Twas a mighty fine night’s rest, too,” Gundor said. “Matter o’ fact, I could use some more shuteye if it’s all th’ same ta you lot.” With that, he lay back down right where he was, pressing up against Filius once more and closing his eyes. The cleric looked surprised, though not unhappy with this development.

“Some more rest would be nice. Filius, are you able to put up some protection spells so we can all relax for another day? I hate to ask so much of you--” Lorellyn began.

“No, it’s fine,” he said, coughing chestily. “I can manage.” He grasped his talisman of Njord and closed his eyes, his brow furrowing. After a moment, an opaque barrier appeared over the cave’s entryway. No creature, magical or otherwise, would be able to pass through. Looking exhausted now, he lay back down alongside Gundor and shut his eyes, a tiny smile appearing on his face as the dwarf shifted cozily against him and Lorellyn too pressed closer.

Lorellyn was also grinning. “Come join us, Kandry.”

The halfling rolled her eyes. “I don’t cuddle.”

“I don’t either, but here we are,” Filius mumbled, almost asleep. “Just call it team bonding.”

Kandry almost declined again… but it really did look very cozy to be surrounded by blankets and pillows and teammates. With a little sigh, she shuffled over and slotted herself in, with Filius’ long legs on one side of her, and Lorellyn’s on the other.

They spent the rest of the day just like that, sleeping and eating and talking, content to take a day to simply enjoy each other’s company as they let their cleric take a sick day.

#sicktember2021 #everyone is hotter with a fever #prompt 27 #sickfic

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hayleysstark · 6 years

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Title: Pretty Words Words: 2356 Warnings: Swearing Summary: "You know, you really should just tell them. The lucky troll. Come on, Branch, we both know you didn't make up those pretty words on the spot." Missing moment. Notes: this was not supposed to happen. i don't know why i wrote this. mutual pining is The Good Shit though.

Read on Fanfiction or AO3.

It's official, Branch decides as he stares unseeingly through the curtain of vibrant rainbow monstrosity Poppy calls Bridget's "Lady Glittersparkles" hair, and he tries to pretend he can't feel everyone's eyes on him or his heart crashing around inside him or his cheeks burning furiously in that stupid obvious purple blush spreading vividly all the way to the tips of his twitching ears. Feeling things is bullshit.

There is one thing, though. Poppy and her friends—at least they're not over there out-and-out staring at him. They're actually making some kind of an effort here, and yeah, the glances they sneak at him every few seconds from the corners of their wandering eyes aren't even in the same stratosphere as subtle, but they're—come on, they're trying, and it's decent of them. Even if they're not very good at it. Even if their eyes have begun to burn holes in him, everywhere their gazes fall, little black voids, cracks and fissures opening in his skin and he wishes he could barricade himself behind his own hair or curl into a ball or even just cross his arms a little tighter, anything to stop feeling so naked, like he just cut his own head open and let them have a look inside which—oh, yeah—he kind of fucking did.

He can still taste the words inside his mouth, on the tip of his tongue, clinging to the corner of his lip. If there was a way to—to spit them out, like spoiled food—spit them out into his hands or into the trash or—well, he thinks, as the Bergen King helps Bridget into her roller skates and she giggles and the sight makes something twinge painfully in Branch's chest and he tells himself it doesn't, at least that stupid poem did someone some good. And—the Bergen King goes to his knees before Bridget, and slowly, lovingly, laces up her skates, and Bridget looks like someone has given her a handful of sunshine and it's not a twinge anymore, it's a twist, a tight coil Branch can't breathe around—and even if she is a Bergen, Bridget deserves some good in her life.

The Bergen King and Bridget link hands, and Branch has to close his eyes, and he tells himself he's only tired.

"Sooo—"

Poppy's voice at his ear and Poppy's breath on his cheek and Branch snaps his eyes open and she's standing at his elbow with her hands clasped behind her back and bouncing on her toes and she's got a huge, obnoxious—adorable—grin on her face and she bumps his shoulder lightly with her own and he wonders if she's actually trying to kill him—

"—you've been holdin' out on us, buddy."

"I—" And maybe Branch's mind is just moving really, really slowly because of Poppy's proximity, but for the life of him, he can't figure out what she means. "What?"

She giggles, and he can't tell if the sound fills up every empty place he's got, or drags his insides out through the gash he made in his own head.

"Those were some real pretty words you were flingin', my man." She raises her eyebrows. "Who knew you were such a romantic?"

"I—I don't—" Okay, if a black hole could just open up right this fucking minute and suck him down inside, that would be great. Please and thank you. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he says, and he knows his voice isn't half as rough or mean as it needs to be. Romantic. Poppy called him a romantic. Death would be kinder.

"Your eyes are like two pools so deep? Come on, no need to play dumb with me, pal."

Branch can't decide if he wants to shut her up with his hand over her mouth, or his mouth over her mouth.

"I just," his tongue feels too heavy, "I just—made that up. O-on the spot. I didn't mean it."

Poppy's rosy cheeks lift a little higher as her smile widens, and he knows she doesn't believe him. "Mm-hm. Sure. Okay." She nods so hard, her frizzy pink hair quivers where it fades smoothly into green-yellow and blends seamlessly with everyone else's. Branch wonders what it would feel to twine his hair with hers. He wonders if her hair is as soft as it looks and if she'd let him touch it if he asked and if it still smells like strawberries since it's touched the other trolls' so much.

And he wonders why he's wondering things that are never going to happen anyway.

He looks away—back to Bridget and the Bergen King, and he sees the soft-spoken scullery maid is still nervously clutching the dirty railing around the rink, to hold herself up even though the Bergen King is promising he won't let go of her hand, promising he won't let her fall. Branch wonders what it would feel like to hold Poppy's hand, and not let go.

"You know," Poppy whispers, "I think you really helped Bridget. Like, a lot." Her eyes are soft, and sparkling like diamonds with a million different colors under the flashing rainbow lights of the rink, and there's no goddamn way Branch is ever coming up for air. "I mean, just look at her! She's really gotten the hang of it now, hasn't she?"

"Sh-she's stuttering up a storm, Poppy." And apparently, she's not the only one. "A-and," Branch continues, quickly, before Poppy can comment on that for herself, "I'm pretty sure she'd have gotten the hang of it without me. She's not stupid. And she had you."

Fuck.

It's way too late to save anything but Branch snaps his mouth shut anyway and isn't that just the fucking name of the day right now—saying everything he means and everything he doesn't want to mean and everything he'd never thought he would—it's like the truth about his grandma had lodged itself in the back of his throat, too big and sharp to swallow down, too horrible, too shameful, to spit out—and now it's gone and there's nothing left—he's got nothing left—no barriers, no roadblocks, nothing to stop the words coming out of him—and God, he has so many, so fucking many—he's kept them inside him so long and now they won't stop coming, they just won't stop coming and Poppy looks at him and she's never looked more like herself than she does in this moment, with her eyes shining and her mouth slowly curling up into another smile—

"That," she says, and there's the barest touch of a laugh to her voice, "just might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me. Can I hug you?"

"No." He tells himself his heart isn't picking up speed at the thought of hugging her, at the thought of her body pressing against his, and fucking God, Branch, get a hold of yourself. "And you'd better not get used to it." Because if we don't all die a miserable death at the hands of a horrible, bloodthirsty Bergen, I'm going to barricade myself in my bunker until you completely forget my existence because if I have to go the rest of my life with you thinking of that stupid poem every time you look at me, I might as well pitch myself off the side of Bridget's head and shatter my skull on the skating rink right now.

"Come on! You don't want to hug your bestest friend in the entire world?"

"I swear to God, Poppy, if you take one step closer to me, I'm handing you to the Bergen King myself."

"Wow, rude," Poppy huffs, but she retreats a little, and her arms fall back to her sides. "Catch you at Hug-Time, then."

"Don't count on it."

"Aww, come on, where's your way with words gone?" The corners of her mouth start to creep upward again. "Don't tell me that was a one-time thing!"

Branch is pretty sure his face is going to catch fire sometime in the next ten seconds unless Poppy decides to learn the wonderful art of shutting the fuck up. "I don't—I told you—I just—on the spot—didn't mean—"

"Branch," Poppy says, quietly now, and there's something softer about the edges of her smile, when she looks at him. She takes a step closer, and her fingers close around his wrist. His breath hitches and he prays she doesn't hear. "You know, you really should just tell them."

"T-tell—?" Fuck fuck fuck she knows okay can I die now please—

"The lucky troll, of course." She tilts her head a little, to hold his gaze. "We both know you didn't make that up on the spot. And I think if you just—if you just gave—whoever it is—a chance—" She's so close so close so close and he can count every single sparkling freckle on her round pink cheeks and God, what he wouldn't give to kiss each one. "—a chance to know you—to see what I've seen in you—" Her hand slips down his wrist until she's holding his hand holding holding holding his hand and she can feel his fingers shaking and his palms sweating and he knows she can and he should pull away he should really just pull away but he's never wanted to do anything less in the entire world. "—well—" the word's barely a breath in the space between them, "—I think they'd like what they see."

Kiss her kiss her kiss her kiss her and the words echo over and over in his mind in time with the frantic pounding of his traitorous and hopeful heart and everyone's watching them and he shouldn't he shouldn't he shouldn't—he swore he'd never—but he is—he's leaning down and leaning in and here's the crazy part—she's leaning in too—

Bridget falls. Spectacularly.

An earsplitting, headache-inducing screech of her skates against the slick tiles of the rink is their only warning, and then the world is a blur of bright lights and Bridget stammering out apologies and the Bergen King kneeling in front of her, asking her if she's okay, and the unmistakable throb of bruises forming all over Branch's body as Bridget strikes the ground, colors popping in front of his eyes and he's only marginally cushioned by the thick cloud of rainbow hair and there's a strange kind of weight on his chest—

Instinct acts for him, tearing his eyes open and ripping his head back up off the ground—and though the others haven't moved, sprawled where they fell atop Bridget's head, they're not hurt, and he lets out a breath—everyone's all right—no—no, wait, everyone's not all right—where—Poppy—where's Poppy—?

The weight on his chest shifts.

Branch snaps his eyes shut. Why didn't the fall just kill me?

"—I-I'm so sorry, I just—I didn't mean—I'm such a clumsy idiot—" Bridget's trembling voice breaks through his momentary pity party. God, the poor girl sounds like she's about to burst into tears any second. The "Lady Glittersparkles" façade has cracked clean in two—Branch tugs his eyes back open, and makes himself meet Poppy's gaze—tries to tell her, without words, to help Bridget—

"No, no, no, that's okay! It's okay!" The Bergen King smiles down at her. "We all lose control of our skates once in a while, darling!"

Poppy absolutely beams. "Ha! Listen to him! Can't take his eyes off her, can he?"

"I—" Branch tries not to notice the warmth of her breath on his neck. He's not the only one. "Great," he says, a little breathlessly, and it's supposed to be sarcastic but that gets a little lost somewhere between his mind and his mouth and yes, her hair does still smell like strawberries, and she's smiling at him and a second too late he realizes the lift, the ache, in the side of his face means he must be smiling back—

"Hey, Branch?"

His name falls softly as snow from her lips. He tells himself he doesn't care if she ever says it again.

"W-what?"

His own voice is ugly in comparison, all shaky and stuttery and clumsy, like a child still learning how to speak.

"I think you kinda do have a nice smile, too."

Branch's heart stops. Either it's finally hammered its way out of him, and flung itself as far away as possible in a desperate bid for freedom from all the shit Poppy's put it through in the last three minutes alone, or it's just given up, and died in his chest and either way, he really can't blame it. I think you kinda do have a nice smile, too, and his skin is tingling where it's pressed against hers and he needs to say something—something horrible—something that'll make her hate him—

Bridget shifts, and reaches for the Bergen King's outstretched hand—and she starts to stand, and the world is a blur all over again and Branch doesn't know who moves first but the world is a blur of he and Poppy ripping away from each other, ripping back, scrambling away like they can't ever put enough space between them—like repelled magnets, like the touch of one burned the other—and his body aches with the absence of hers and he tells himself it doesn't and now that he can't smell the strawberries in her hair or feel the tingle of her skin on his, it's so much easier to remember why he can't kiss her, why he can't love her, why he can't hold her hand in his or twine his hair around hers or go around telling her she has a nice smile or go around believing it when she tells him he has a nice smile—

"Well," she says, softly, and there's something strangely flat in her voice, in her face, "I guess that's my cue." She slides down Bridget's head, to settle right above the enormous ear, and she doesn't look back.

Yeah. It's official. Feeling things is fucking bullshit.

#trolls #dreamworks trolls #emrys' spellbook

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