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This is miserable, Shanoa thought, for not the first time that week.
It had woken up in the coldest of cold sweats that Sunday, and the chills and sore throat had set in by Monday, and so on. The doctor visited on Tuesday, as soon as he was free.
"Well, it's the season for it," Abram had tutted, yesterday. "Nothing to get in a twist about, but you'll need to be isolated for WEEKS ON END... Er, one. One week. That means no SNEAKING ABOUT outside your cottage to do... whatever it is you do."
"I don't think it could sneak outside its own bed right now," Laura rolled her eyes. "Much less the house."
"Well, you'd better keep an EYE on it... On its health, I mean."
Shanoa was relieved Laura had answered for it. Speaking felt like agony at the best of times with this damn illness. It snuggled deeper into the quilts Laura had oh-so-dedicatedly piled onto the bed to stave off the constant shivering.
The eccentric physician left soon after, after squabbling a bit with Laura over the agreed-upon price. The jewelry-maker huffed, "Honestly, you wouldn't even know we were cousins. Me and Abram, I mean."
"...You are?" Shanoa muttered hoarsely. "I knew you were related, at least, but..."
"Yeah, apparently my aunt skipped town to run off with some- Eh, nevermind. I won't torture you with family history. It's not even the fun kind," she scoffed. The fun kind being, of course, what real Belmonts got up to. "I mean, I guess I skipped town, too, so I'm not one to talk."
I'd listen, Shanoa thought to answer. As long as you were telling it. Laura could make any inane gossip sound like the most entertaining thing in the world. Or maybe it was her voice, or her smile, or her wit, or-
The thoughts all seemed to collide into mush. The fever was setting in, and its head ached. Shanoa groaned quietly, and Laura patted it on the arm sympathetically.
Now it was Wednesday.
It had slept through the night and most of the morning, uninterrupted. Laura brought some warm soup for breakfast- freshly made, it noted- which Shanoa ate readily.
"How are you holding up?"
“Badly.”
Laura frowned sympathetically. “Well, the soup will help. Old family recipe. A bit garlicky, though.”
“I don’t mind,” it brought the first spoonful to its lips. “You’ve made this for me before, I think.”
“Yeah, but thicker. I thought it would be easier to swallow if I made the broth thinner.”
“Thank you,” Shanoa closed its eyes, letting the warmth pool in its chest. “I hope I haven’t been distracting you from your work too much," it whispered.
“I don’t have any commissions right now,” assured Laura. "Besides, I work on my own schedule. You need attention. Abram said, remember?"
"Mmhmm," Shanoa nodded, quietly, but secretly wished it would just get better already. It felt odd and unfamiliar, to be in such a weakened state, the kind a potion wouldn't fix.
No, patience alone would do that.
"May I ask something of you...?" it ventured, once the soup was finished and Laura dutifully took the empty dish to the sink in the kitchen. Its hands curled tightly around the hem of the blanket.
"Mm?"
It immediately felt very silly to bring this up. "When I was upset or hurt, my brother would- he'd read to me. Usually scientific papers since that was what he had with him; I could barely understand what it meant but I just liked to listen. Can you... do that? I want to hear you, Laura."
"Just read? Yeah, I can," Laura rubbed her chin, then said, suddenly: "What did he sound like?"
"Hm?"
"Like, the one time I met him, we didn't really talk. He just told me that his spell would be like going to sleep, but it's such a different context... You know what I mean. Just curious."
It didn't know, really, but it answered: "His voice was... Soft. Lighter than you'd expect. Ragged, though. We weren't really allowed to talk about how we got hurt..."
Laura cocked her head to the side, intrigued.
"But his voice betrayed him. They did awful things to me. I don't like to think about what they might have done to him as well... But he was in pain. I know now. His voice carried it for him."
"And I suppose your voice is carrying pain now, in its way."
"It does?" It didn't think its voice sounded typically all that different from any of the others, though it hadn't given that much thought.
"I mean you're hoarse, darling."
"Oh." It bit back a laugh, not wanting to further aggravated its throat. Laura laughed herself, though, amusement enough for the both of them.
"Do you want any medicinal tea? Daniela showed me a recipe book when she heard you got sick. Soothes the throat, you know. Especially with honey, we're lucky I just bought some. This book, though... Apparently it's been in the family for over four hundred years," Laura said, fetching the small, dogeared book from her bedside shelf.
"That was nice of her," Shanoa smiled. "Grandma is so considerate." It considered Daniela to be just about its only real parental figure in life. The first time it ever called her "grandmother" was an accident. Every time after that was quite on purpose. It felt nice to have a bit of a family, and Daniela had always called it her "favorite granddaughter".
"Yeah, the 1470s...Which means it's from around Trevor C. Belmont's time, or thereabouts. But the author's forward says he got them from a close ally, who got them from his mother, so it seems they're even older. Neat!" Laura flicked through the pages. "Damn, this is some potent stuff... I'd have to ask Abram for some of these ingredients, actually."
"Blend of mandrake root, is it?"
Laura snorted. "Would you believe me if I said it was? But I'll brew some up for you."
Shanoa nodded affirmatively.
"I'll only take fifteen minutes or so," Laura leaned in close, and Shanoa almost leaned in as well, but thought against it.
"Don't kiss me, thank you."
"Oh. Oh! I'm sorry-"
"It's not that. I don't want you to get sick either. Don't suffer for my sake."
"Of course," Laura nodded. "You rest, now." She left quickly, taking her purse with her.
It tried, honestly.
But being left alone and isolated, too quiet, was a reminder of those long nights at the Order's infirmary, a series of memories it had wished to forget. Always the aftermath of something bad, something it would not get lectured for until the recovery concluded, but the long silent nights were far worse. Stale and clandestine, lonely apart from the quiet, strict nurses, unless they decided to allow visitors, which was rare.
They never talked to it.
And it was silent.
Shanoa didn't really get sick back then- with such a small, isolated population in one insular place, there was little opportunity- but it did get injured. On purpose, sometimes. The runes-
They're scars, damn you, it corrected itself. Giving name to the hurt it suffered, that it was once denied, felt good. Barlowe never let it call them scars. And yet, that's what they were, bloody red on her shoulders and back.
Albus snuck into the infirmary sometimes, when it was confined as prisoner and patient. Barlowe hurt him on purpose for that, too.
(The old man would always dote on it with candies and false affections once it had recovered. It was easy, back then, to love him and pretend that it was uncomplicated.)
It was too quiet. Too quiet. Stale. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Can't sleep. Careless. Stop getting hurt. Imbecile. You make me nauseous. Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence.
Nothing.
You are nothing, without me.
Stupid disciple.
It was crying, sniffling into the pillow, immediately embarrassed at the violently upset reaction that it had summoned up all on its own. If merely being left alone's enough to set me off, I don't know how they deal with me. Ugh! Stop crying! You're not in the infirmary! Barlowe's dead! He's dead! You couldn't even handle fifteen minutes?!
"Oh..." a little noise, a crack in her voice, was the indication that Laura had returned to the bedroom- and suddenly it was cozy again, not isolated and suffocating.
Shanoa was called back to reality at once. Laura set the tea-tray down- evidently she had returned earlier and brewed the mandrake blend as promised. "Are you alright? Did something happen?"
"Memories," it replied, with an angry sigh, angry at itself for being so illogical and clingy and weak. "I just- Being left alone and silent and waiting was too much like- I couldn't sleep back then- I just-" Words failed too easily. "It was too quiet. When I was waiting. With no-one in the house, I mean. I don't normally get like this, I just- Being bed-bound like this, reminded me of something in Ecclesia," it finished, its voice shaking slightly. “Normally I’d have been alright. I just feel so trapped and weak.”
God, I'm ridiculous.
"You want me to put the phonograph on?"
"The sound will help. It was the silence that hurt me," it replied, with a rush of relief. It was an easy solution, really, and Shanoa at once felt foolish to have not thought of it (not that it would have been an easy time venturing across the room with its lightheadedness). It nodded, as Laura handed it the steaming cup of tea. The mandragora flavoring was smooth and just sweet enough, the honey easing and oozing it down its throat.
The record Laura chose was one of George's, a pleasant violin suite he had toiled on for ages. Shanoa remembered bringing the horsehair, when he broke it for perhaps the fifth time.
"I'm sorry for being so needy," it muttered, once its throat felt soothed enough and its thoughts adequately formed to speak comfortably. It was a relief, certainly, and it was grateful for the tea, lightly squeezing Laura's elegant hand, worn and marked by her metalwork but still so soft.
"What do you mean?"
"I get all... I spiral over the most innocuous things. I should be able to handle this. I mean, I was strong enough... Back then. I could face the old man when I was without emotions, but if I still had them then, I could've broken down. I think that scares me," it explained. "Not that I think feeling makes me worse, but it does make me irrational at the worst times."
"I get it," Laura sighed. "I just hide that side of myself under like fifty layers of false optimism. Not that I'd recommend that."
"Hah." It knew exactly what that was referring to. Getting Laura to discuss her feelings and her past openly was one of Shanoa's proudest accomplishments, more than any monster slain, even if it hadn't exactly done it on purpose.
"...I think you need to remember that we understand you're not going to be normal. We never expect that of you," Laura added. "I want my life to accommodate you, not the other way around. Alright?"
"Is that fair?"
"Of course it is, sweetheart."
"Alright," it smiled a bit. "If you think so, I have no complaints."
"...I really want to cuddle with you," Laura admitted. "Even if it's unwise."
"Don't," it stopped her, though its expression was more relaxed. "We can spend an entire day cuddling once I'm no longer sickly."
"Oh, really? I'm holding you to that," the jeweler smiled. "In the meantime... Do you still want me to read for you? I've got the recipe book right here."
"Yes, love," Shanoa whispered.
"Well, I'll start at the forward. A good cup of tea is something that can heal an ache, and my husband agrees, after many long battles, that these are his favorites. As a witch myself, I know that certain herbs can..."
Her voice was gentle. Or, it was always gentle, but now even moreso. Almost lyrical in the way it flowed, soft and whispery, and Shanoa could rest easy. Laura rubbed its shoulder as she read further. The pressure on its scars was something dull and almost painful, like pressing on a bruise that had nearly healed, but that pressure felt good somehow. It relaxed a bit, sighing, and slept.
It woke the next afternoon, with a warm white ball of fluff curled closely to its side- Tofu had elected to be its bedside nurse, apparently. Shanoa patted the cat and yawned. The liquid sounds of the violin was still echoing through the little house. Had she kept the record playing all night and day? Laura was singing along with lyrics she made up on the fly from the other room, showing off her upper soprano range to no one in particular.
Shanoa thought to sing along- it had been in Ecclesia's holy choir once, after all, a well trained alto- but thought against it. Its throat felt better, though. The mandrake had worked quickly. The last thing it wanted to do was undo that progress.
This didn't stop it from thinking about how lovely their voices would sound in harmony.
But it felt good, if still tired from fighting the sickness. The sun streaming through the pretty glass windows didn't make its head pound with migraines, which was a good sign.
It got out of the bed, feeling none the worse for wear- walking alright, apart from the ever-present irregular gait of its right leg, a reminder of the time Eligor had thrown it against the wall (drinking all those potions in quick succession had made the bone grow back irregularly). But no lightheadedness. That was good. No chills, either. That was better.
"Good morning. Are you feeling better?" Laura greeted it, cheerfully.
"A bit," Shanoa replied.
Laura reached into the pockets of her dress- a pleasant warm brown, so unlike the pretty bright red of her favorite garment- and gave Shanoa an envelope. "Irina handed this over to me last night. She said her kids made it."
Shanoa opened it eagerly. It was a makeshift get-well-soon card, Serge's messy scrawl of well-wishes accompanied with a drawing of Tom, the little grey cat- illustrated by Anna, surely.
"They're sooo sweet, aren't they?" Laura sighed. "I want to have kids one day."
"Me too," it found itself agreeing. Heh, why else do I go out of my way to play hide and seek when they ask me to? "Not that I think I'd be ready for that now."
"Oh, no, I get it. It's just nice to have dreams for the future," Laura hummed. "You'd be a good mom, I think. The kids like you, at least."
Shanoa had half a mind to scoff and deny, to insist that it was too much of a broken mess to mother anything, but thought against the self deprecation. There was something sweet about imagining that future, wasn't there? As warm as the tea had been in her throat yesterday.
"You care about people. I think you would be too," Shanoa replied, finally. Laura chuckled, with a familiar grin. There was a comfortable silence after that, and Shanoa peered out the open windows, eager for some fresh air, and relished the chilly mountain wind and the distant sharp scent of fir trees.
Yes, Laura did care, so very much so, and its wonder at that never ceased. Since the beginning, she was patient with it, reaching towards a buried part of itself. It admired that; that patience enough to heal a wound.
It seemed to fall in love with her anew each day.