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Rosalyn returned to the villa with four weeks of research on the Eastern Continent in her bag, and a bad feeling in her stomach.
For whatever reason, that feeling had only grown stronger the closer home she got.
It wasn't that she wanted to stay away longer- if anything, it was more of a feeling of abstract regret, or maybe anxiety.
Something that needed to be corrected, something that shouldn't have been at all, or maybe something that just needed to be appeased, proven wrong, so she could move around without being on edge.
The dining hall was the first place her feet took her.
There, she found a number of the Wolf children- including Lark, for once- busied with helping Vicross clean up the table after what must’ve been a mighty dinner, judging by the amount of dishes.
Lark lit up as she entered the room.
“Noona! You’re back!”
Rosalyn found herself smiling back.
Lark scurried over, and through a miracle, she managed to ruffle his hair despite the height difference.
For a few moments, the bad feeling was almost forgotten in light of greeting the children, as well as Vicross, who simply gave her a nod of acknowledgement as he passed by.
The children had lots of questions about her trip, none of which she managed to decode and answer before there was a new one.
Then, she heard Vicross’ voice, sticking out among those of the Wolf children.
“Have you eaten?”
Vicross’ question was warranted, logical, polite even- they were moving what was left of the food back to the kitchen, so if Rosalyn wanted some, that would have been the moment to say it.
However, on Rosalyn’s part, the innocent question served as a reminder.
“Yes, I ate on the way.”
She forced herself to pause a moment, attempting to quench the strange sense of anxiety, before adding, as if it were an afterthought:
“Where is Young Master Cale?”
There was no possible way anyone should get suspicious because of something as small as that, not if they already missed what was actually wrong. Still, she didn't want to risk it- not when she knew how much it mattered to him.
Lark tilted his head at the question, seeming to think for a moment.
“Upstairs, I think?”
"Relaxing", another wolf child added, before scurrying along to the kitchen carrying two empty glasses.
“Yeah! He was going to take a long bath and relax”, Maes added.
The bad feeling grew.
Rosalyn tried not to let it show, keeping up the act best she could.
“Really? And the children are happily allowing this alone time?”
She tried to pose it as a joke, because of course a person needed time alone, tried to pass it off as a remark made in jest...
The delivery still fell short with the building unease pushing her off-kilter.
While the Wolf children didn’t seem to react to her somewhat lackluster enthusiasm, Vicross paused in his movement to gather a few plates to raise an eyebrow at her.
“The children are with Eruhaben for the evening.”
The bad feeling was pooling, expanding, and Rosalyn was pretty sure it wasn't going to leave her alone unless she checked- unless she could reliably confirm or deny it.
At this point, Rosalyn herself wasn't sure she'd be able to sit down and relax unless she followed up on her gut feeling.
Rosalyn excused herself, citing a need to rest after the trip, and slipped away from the dining hall without any more than a passing thought of how suspicious she was acting.
So much for being inconspicuous...
It wasn’t important- at least not now.
It could be a problem for future Rosalyn, if, miraculously, she was wrong in her suspicions.
—
Rosalyn didn’t spare any time going to find him.
Despite the children as well as Vicross seeming to be not the slightest bit alarmed, Rosalyn had a very bad feeling about the situation, and one that only grew.
She knew better than to be relaxed with the picture that had been painted for her by the unknowing Vicross and the children.
And her fears were confirmed as soon as she arrived to find his bathroom door shut and locked, adorned with some muting magic from a scroll.
The feeling in her stomach got heavier and heavier as she subconsciously began casting one spell after the other on herself in an effort to perfect her hearing.
For a while, Rosalyn stood still outside the bathroom door, fighting the urge to just kick the door in, barge in, scream at him to “stop stop stop, stop doing this to yourself ”, she could do nothing but stand there, anxiously listening to the noises.
Her body was tense, fully tuned in on the oh so faint sounds that the young master tried his best to suffocate.
Her magic was enhancing her hearing to an almost ridiculous degree this very moment, but she didn’t dare let it cease or even ease up for a single moment.
If that was the moment he choked on his own vomit, or the moment he tore his aorta, or…
The sudden bitter taste in her mouth made her throw another look at the door.
She couldn’t, not anymore.
Rosalyn took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, and knocked.
“Young master Cale?”
There was no response.
With far less patience and respect for privacy than she’d usually present, Rosalyn swiftly unlocked the door, having stared at that lock enough times to know its workings like her own hand, and pushed it open.
On the marble floor, hunching over the toilet, was a familiar redhead.
He was shaking visibly, noticeable even from her spot at the door, and his whitening fingers gripped the porcelain so tightly they almost seemed to be part of it.
His long hair and white shirt were both drenched with sweat.
He looked smaller and more fragile than in any past battle.
Rosalyn’s heart ached at the sight, her fists clenching at her sides for a brief moment.
Why was she still keeping this secret for him?
Why was she letting him continuously self-destruct like this?
She knew why, but it made the bitter taste already in her mouth grow stronger.
In a fluid movement, she closed and locked the door behind herself before approaching the figure.
He seemed to have stopped either just before she came in, or the same moment she did, because nothing but choked sobs and weak unintentional gags came from the shaking man on the floor at this point.
She snagged a washcloth from the cupboard on her way, halting for the briefest of moments to wet it in the sink.
Sometimes she used mana for it, sometimes she just used her hands to grab one.
Rosalyn crouched down beside the young man, and with a proficiency she never thought she’d have, she wiped away tears, sweat and stomach contents from his pale face.
He didn’t fight her.
His eyes were tightly shut, and his shaking was not easing up the slightest bit just yet.
He looked absolutely awful, beyond awful, but his current state really wasn’t what made Rosalyn’s stomach turn.
And wasn’t that a realization and a half?
That she had grown used to this, enough to brush over this type of state as at least semi-normal?
She sighed- couldn’t help but sigh- as she wiped the blotchy, pale skin and sharpening features clean, feeling the dread in her stomach grow.
It was a constant guest at this point, never quite going away, laying dormant and just waiting for the next incident, waiting for the next chance to grow .
It didn’t seem like what she did mattered anymore- the dread stayed, and it didn’t seem like it was ever going to change for the better.
One of these days, it was going to grow too big to fit inside a human body.
It would grow, grow, grow, feasting on her sparse energy like a parasite, until it outgrew its human host.
Maybe it would burst out, ripping through her organs, flesh and skin, crushing her lowest few ribs on the way as it left, leaving her a hollow, disembowelled corpse. It might look like she’d swallowed a bomb, if it was brutal enough.
Or maybe it would take another route. Maybe it would push its way up her throat, filling it with suffocating panic. Maybe it would cut off her airways on the way out, if she didn’t get it out fast enough.
Would it come in one big piece, or little by little?
Brutal, bloody, but quick, or drawn out and excruciating, over weeks, months, years…
Perhaps what remained inside the host would keep growing at the same pace as pieces left, ensuring it would never leave completely.
Maybe that dread was contagious.
Maybe that parasite was what feasted on Cale.
Cale, face pale and blotchy, shoulders shaking, looking halfway to death’s door already.
“Little brother…”
Her voice carried less anger and more sorrow, worry, than anything else.
She lowered the washcloth and ran a thumb over his cheekbone.
Cale didn’t look at her, eyes pinched shut in what could be pain, exhaustion or simply embarrassment of being seen like this.
The cheekbone was much more noticeable, less protected and shielded by muscle and fat, than before she left.
At the same time, not far below it, his cheek was strangely swollen.
Both of them, actually.
Running her hand down to his neck, just under his jaw, she could feel the swelling there as well.
It was as if this illness, this parasite , was rearranging his already sparse fat and muscle, perhaps to make it less noticeable as it took more and more for itself, leaving him weaker and weaker and then -
She stopped the train of thought, feeling strangely ill.
The thoughts made her more nauseous than the smell.
“What are we going to do with you?”
He didn’t answer, still didn’t even look at her.
The helplessness, having set its root in her body alongside the dread at some point, grew at the silent affirmation, at the complete lack of contact.
Cale wasn’t the most enthusiastic in socialising, but he was rarely ever this shut off.
This unavailable.
And she already knew.
How could she not, after so many times?
She knew, but it still felt sickening to have it confirmed.
This would happen again, and Rosalyn would not be able to stop him.
‘This isn’t the time to wallow.’
Rosalyn took another deep breath, ignoring the smell stinging in her nose.
Without another word, she turned her thoughts off best she could, and got to work.
She wiped the last bit of vomit from his chin.
Flushed the toilet.
Burned the ruined washcloth with mana.
Helped him sit down properly against the wall, still not far from the toilet.
Flushed the toilet.
Grabbed his toothbrush cup, took out the toothbrush.
Filled the cup with water.
Flushed the toilet again.
Helped him hold the cup with his shaking hands as he rinsed his mouth and spat out a mouthful of bile-mixed water into the toilet.
Once done, he tried to push the cup back to her, but Rosalyn stood firm.
“You have to drink something, at the very least.”
His reddish brown eyes, looking genuinely exhausted, tugged at her heartstrings.
Rosalyn didn’t back down.
She pushed the cup back towards him, pressing the rim to his lips.
“Come on.”
Maybe she was a little forthcoming, a little pushy, but damn it, she had the right. She wanted the kid to live.
He would hate to know she referred to him as a “kid”, even just in her thoughts.
In another situation, that thought would have made her smile.
Now, it couldn’t push back the growing dread for more than a brief moment.
She stayed firm.
Cale gave in with a tiny little slump of his shoulders.
Rosalyn didn’t speak up again until the cup was empty.
This time, when he pushed it towards her, she accepted it.
“Do you want more?”
Cale shook his head weakly.
‘This kid…’
Rosalyn wasn’t sure when she started thinking of him as her younger brother not only as a joke due to their similar hair colors, but as the truth. Somehow, along the way, it happened, and it was most certainly the big sister-instincts that showed up whenever this happened.
Rosalyn’s gaze remained on Cale’s pale face, on those tired but intelligent eyes that seemed to hold so much pain, too much for a 20-year old.
How could such a smart guy make these decisions?
Why would a person who taught Mary to love herself in his awkward stoic fashion, a person who helped people despite claiming not to be kind, be so harsh, so cruel to himself?
It was easy to question, but much harder to get any answer, Rosalyn knew that.
Hiding away from the care of his closest, even when he so desperately needed them.
Encouraging the kids to seek help and support at need, while blankly refusing to even think of doing the same himself when it mattered.
Throwing up the same food he seemed to value so highly, for reasons she could never quite understand.
It wasn't logical. It wasn't reasonable. It went against every value, every single trait of the Cale she knew.
Maybe that was why it had been so easy for him to keep it secret for God knows how long.
No one would suspect a thing like this, whatever it was.
Cale was sick, and somehow…
She swallowed, forcing herself to speak up.
“How many times have you done this the past month?”
She had been away for four weeks.
Just four mere weeks, but he looked thinner, paler, more sickly than ever.
Flaky pale skin, brittle to the touch, blotchy and reddened in patches on his arms and face.
Chapped lips, dark bags under glossy, exhausted eyes.
Cheekbones, knees and elbows bonier than they should, bonier than they were just four little weeks ago, while other parts- cheeks, throat, perhaps his hands? - were swollen.
He had to be using some kind of make-up to conceal what was on his face.
Or maybe, he found a way to explain it away.
A way that even their more suspicious family members would readily accept, seeming more like Cale than consistently and continuously throwing his guts up.
No one would have any reason to suspect this, unless he really messed up, and he had only done that once in whatever amount of time he had been doing this.
Four weeks was probably more than what was reasonable, when everything hadn’t calmed down just yet.
It always got worse when he was stressed.
She cursed herself for her lack of foresight.
Rosalyn had thought it would be fine, she thought he was getting better , and he was supposed to tell her if he relapsed but-
but then he’d need someone starting the communication device.
It dawned on her.
Cale had done his best to hide this from everyone for at least two years, possibly more.
He had hid it from everyone - first his parents, siblings, Ron and Vicross, servants and guards, then from Choi Han, various Beast people, actual Dragons, and way too many observant, paranoid and concerned allies.
There would be a mage involved, when he started the communication device.
Perhaps they would leave, as they usually did, but Cale was too paranoid to risk anything, risk raising suspicion.
He had hidden it for too long, far too well, to risk getting caught because of something Cale would deem unnecessary because Rosalyn would be home in a few weeks.
The mage manning the device could catch that something was adrift. They might tell the others about it, out of malice or- more likely- out of genuine concern.
The others might get suspicious, in that case.
They might even find out.
According to Cale, there was a single person that knew, and that was Rosalyn.
Therefore, she was the only one who knew to be extra alert when stress levels rose.
The only one who looked at his swollen cheeks and hands and didn’t think ‘Good, he’s finally putting on some weight’, but ‘Shit, it’s getting worse again’.
She was the only one who knew to chase him down when he disappeared immediately after meals, knew there could be reason for alarm even if he did eat, and knew to sharpen their hearing through mana when he locked himself in his private bathroom.
The others would only be concerned with his tendency to skip meals and sleep when stressed or busy, and at first, Rosalyn had been the very same.
She thought he was passively self-destructive, not intentionally forgoing food or sleep but simply forgetting or brushing them off in a youthful, stupid belief that he was invincible.
As long as they made sure he ate and slept, it was all okay.
That was fucking bullshit .
He hid it well, and even if someone would somehow get a clue about it, no one would have reason to entertain it for long.
It wasn’t like Cale, after all. He didn’t like pain, he loved food, he didn’t seem to care about his weight and most of all wanted to be a slacker , of all things.
Well. In hindsight, Cale was a mess of contradictions, so maybe it shouldn’t have caught her by surprise as much as it did.
But part of the problem was that Rosalyn still didn’t know what, exactly, was wrong- so how would other people, without the evidence staring them in the face, know to piece the clues together?
Rosalyn had searched for information, anything that could fit the symptoms in search of some kind of cure or antidote, but had come up short everywhere she looked.
Whatever Cale had, it wasn't a common illness. It was barely documented at all, Rosalyn finding sparse little scraps of information in old dusty volumes of forgotten illnesses, among stuff that sounded like bullshit, even if one tried to suspend their disbelief.
For example, she’d found a mention of an energy- and food-stealing parasite, in between notes on “Acute Duck Compulsion” and “Gnome Possession”.
(The notes on Acute Duck Compulsion told her that, if she or someone she knew started acting like a duck, she needed to perform an exorcism and then keep them away from water for a fortnight.)
(The notes on Gnome Possession told her to ask the possessed if they wanted a blue, green or a red hat, which would determine whether one hit them in the face or the back of the head, or ran for the hills screaming for salvation.)
It didn’t seem particularly reliable, but Rosalyn was desperate for any potential clues, any potential leads.
She didn’t need them to give her a cure, she just needed anything to tell her there was a solution, that she could still do something.
Any information, reliable or not, was better than just sitting down and giving up on it altogether.
Because Rosalyn would be damned if she gave up on Cale.
She was nothing if not stubborn, and if she set her mind to it, she could always do something.
…
For the past two years, she had looked through every book she could get her hands on.
Even so, the information barely filled a page when she compiled it.
An unknown illness, barely documented, with initially negligible and largely unspecific symptoms to an onlooker.
Rosalyn returned to the thought that really, there was no wonder no one knew - because if she stopped regurgitating that, the anger at everyone who didn’t know came back.
Cale had hid it almost flawlessly, and it had only been by chance that Rosalyn found out.
It would have been impressive, had it not been so concerning.
In hindsight, it was obvious he wouldn’t throw it all away just to contact her. The parasite, or illness, or whatever it was , had a downright frightening grip on him.
And she had left him to his own devices for four full weeks…
Fuck, Rosalyn wished she could go back in time and slap her past self for the oversight.
“Cale?”
The lack of response was starting to get to her.
Rosalyn locked the growing unease away in her chest, to be processed later, when she didn’t have to focus on getting some kind of interaction out of him.
Cale’s eyes were open, but they were distant, seeming to stare at something very far away, or maybe, not looking at anything at all.
Sitting there, pale and exhausted and almost catatonic, Cale almost looked dead.
No.
No, he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t going to die, and Rosalyn just had to get him to stop looking like that, and then they could…
Fix it?
Solve this abstract but terrifying problem?
Get a cure for an illness Rosalyn had no reliable information on?
She didn’t know, but she needed him to stop looking like-
Rosalyn pushed the thoughts away, and tried another route.
“Dearest little brother, can you tell this noona-”
“Shut up.”
Although hoarse, rude and accompanied by a halfhearted glare, the interruption made Rosalyn smile in relief.
He was responding. He was looking at her.
And this was more like his usual self.
More of the sharp but not unfriendly looks, more of the curt, blunt responses, more of the annoyance at anyone who went ahead and proclaimed themselves his older sibling- even if the last one often seemed at least partially for show.
Less of the borderline catatonic states.
Less of the silent, almost mindless obedience, as if the parasite had taken his willpower along with his energy.
Less like he was completely broken down by an enemy neither of them could find a way to fight.
“So, what’s going on?”
She kept her voice calm, even.
If it was too soft, too coaxing, he would feel belittled, and the chances of getting anything valuable out of him went down.
If it was too harsh or accusatory, he could shut down completely.
Cale hesitated visibly, but Rosalyn stayed firm.
She needed him to talk to her- both for the moment, and for the eventual cure that she had to find.
With barely any documentation to go off, a proper understanding of Cale’s experiences- the circumstances in which this happened, the reasons - was absolutely necessary.
Calm, civil, caring- not suffocating, but never backing down.
That was how Rosalyn had to be here, because otherwise she wouldn’t know what to do.
Cale let out a small sigh and cleared his throat, gaze trailing away from her.
“I don’t know.”
He actually sounded lost, uneasy, and Rosalyn took pity on him.
She sat down beside him on the bathroom floor, even though the room smelled horrible, and put her back to the wall to his side.
He was always better at these conversations if he didn’t have to look straight at her.
Even if she was comforted by eye contact, by knowing he was there and looking at her, seeing her, he seemed to feel pressured by it.
And God knew Cale didn’t need more stress at this point.
Rosalyn put a hand on top of his, hoping it would serve as a bit of comfort, but not completely sure as for whom.
“Just tell me from the start. What happened after I left?”
Cale swallowed audibly, but after a moment’s hesitation, he cleared his throat again.
“Everything went well the first five days. Then…”
Every tired little muscle in his body seemed to be tense.
After a few seconds of silence, Rosalyn pressed his hand, repeating the last word.
“Then?”
It could be a trick of her mind, but Cale’s voice seemed to be trembling ever so slightly.
“Vicross made a big celebration meal for Hong’s birthday.”
Rosalyn instantly knew where this was going.
She pursed her lips and stayed silent, allowing him to keep going without unnecessary interruptions. If he got stuck, or trailed off, she’d coax it out of him best she could, but ideally, he would get to tell the story by himself.
“They were trying to give me all this food.”
Ah.
His voice was definitely trembling.
And while Rosalyn wanted to be surprised, wanted to be shocked that their family members ended up triggering whatever illness it was through their own misguided attempts to help, she wasn’t.
Maybe someone had noticed he wasn’t putting on much in actual weight, despite the illusion of a fuller face through water retention.
They’d try to get him to eat- probably a lot, since they also knew he needed more energy to fuel his powers and body alike. It wasn’t like they were wrong to think that, but the execution- the fall-out…
Cale kept going, voice somehow monotone while trembling enough to make him stutter on some words.
“And so much cake… I couldn’t just tell them no, it was Hong’s birthday and everything, but- but-”
They got him to eat much more than he otherwise would have been comfortable with, and it triggered… the issue.
Even if he made it through the dinner without immediately running off to throw it back up, the mass amounts of leftovers, and the passive pressure to eat more, could definitely have triggered him to eat enough that the disease, parasite, curse- whatever it was- set this awful cycle in motion.
That was one thing Rosalyn had seen again and again, and one of few things that seemed predictable with this disease.
Still, she asked, just to be sure.
“You got rid of it afterwards?”
A shaky exhale came from the young man beside her, a silent confirmation.
“Alright. But that was just one time, did something else happen?”
She knew, but she asked anyway.
Rosalyn watched in dull, growing despair as Cale closed his eyes (was it shame, exhaustion, or the same growing creeping dread that was thriving as it pulled at her insides? ) and nodded.
—
Rosalyn didn’t know if what she felt was rage or horror, or a mix of the two.
Maybe it was a completely new emotion?
Or maybe it was the parasitic creature she called dread in a new, acute state, threatening to bubble up through her throat ( it was already there ) and out through her mouth if she didn’t keep it down.
She swallowed, imagining the dread as a formless pile of sludge where pieces stuck to the sides of her throat, clinging on, even as she tried to push it back down.
Maybe it was in her airways too, because it was suddenly a little bit harder to breathe.
(Was it fear?)
Maybe it didn’t matter what it was, or where it was.
She could just barely contain it either way.
She clenched her free hand into a fist, the other one gripping Cale’s hand as tightly as she dared hold.
It was definitely swollen.
(Was it anger?)
Fourteen times.
That was more than three times a week if he’d done it spread out, but he- by his own confession- hadn’t done it a single time the first five days.
The piece of Rosalyn’s brain that was used to memorising, calculating, sitting and studying for hours and hours on end, kept trying to give her numbers, but the majority of her brain was just barely able to stay calm, in no way able to get any of the numbers to stick, except for fourteen.
Fourteen fucking times over the past four weeks, Cale had been in this bathroom, shoving his fingers down his throat, and Rosalyn had not been there .
(Was it guilt?)
Anything could have happened- he could have been hurt, he could have been dead , the parasite could have killed him - and she wouldn’t know until it was-
until it was-
‘Calm yourself, Rosalyn. Calm down, you’re not helping anyone like this.’
She took a deep breath, trying and failing to bring herself any further than a forced, unstable calm.
“And you still haven’t told anyone?”
Her voice sounded deathly calm, neutral, in a way that attempted to shove all the bubbling feelings and the sludge in her body (it had moved to her chest now, it was inside her lungs ) deep underwater, horrors to be hidden under a deceptively even surface.
She knew the answer to that- he wouldn’t be left alone like this ( she shouldn’t have left him alone like this) if he had told anyone.
His continued silence was enough of an answer to confirm her suspicions, and just like that, the surface was broken by a sharp stab to her gut.
(Fear?)
For a moment, the parasite seemed to block the air from her lungs.
The parasite that didn’t really, probably exist- at least not in her, at least not now- gave way for a sharp intake of breath, and something else bubbled up past the breached seal.
Her body turned the mess of hurt and anxiety and absolute terror into anger, because anger meant fighting and fighting was much more familiar to her (much more comfortable , much safer ) than anything else she’d hidden in the depths.
It bubbled up into her throat, tickling like a cough and poking with sharp little spikes at the soft walls of her airways until it was unbearable.
“Fucking hell, Cale!”
It was loud, sharp, accusatory and judgemental, something in between a scream and a hiss.
Cale startled, but Rosalyn was suddenly incapable of stopping herself.
Hot, fiery rage tore through her body, much more acute than the parasite- the dread- and much more demanding, uncontrollable.
Somehow, it was still a welcome change from the festering dread.
The tight reins she’d kept on her feelings, staying calm and collected and approaching it in the best logical way, were torn apart, unsalvageable.
She couldn’t help it.
The uncharacteristic swearing had slipped out of her mouth on its own, rushed through by a floodwave of unleashed emotions.
Her voice was shaking in fury as much as it did in absolute terror.
“What if you tore your aorta while throwing up?!”
It happened, Rosalyn knew- people with illnesses that made them throw up continuously had a higher risk of eventually tearing something important, even the aorta- and then, if they were alone, if they didn’t get help-
“No one would even know until they found you bleeding out on the bathroom floor! ”
The fears that had set their claws into her from the moment she started reading, the moment she started understanding even a little of it, shot out from their locked box in her chest, unleashed, uncontrolled, with potential to make just as much damage as her own magic.
“There’s no guarantee they’d even find you before- before -”
Before it’s too late.
Before you're dead.
It got stuck in her throat.
The unspoken ending sat there, like a makeshift lid in her throat, and once more, Rosalyn struggled to remember how to breathe.
She looked at the man beside her, wordlessly hoping, wishing that she hadn’t fucked it all up with her outburst.
Cale was silent, shoulders tense.
He wasn’t looking at her, head turned down and gaze set on the floor.
It wasn’t a conscious decision- instead, a deep, almost primal fear surged from where it had settled in her stomach, stretching out into every little inch of her body.
She found herself throwing her arms around the frail young man, pulling him close, even as he froze up in surprise.
She held him as close to herself as she could, as if that would somehow let her protect him from himself.
Despite being a decent bit taller than her, Cale was thinner.
The swelling to his cheeks and throat, the similar but slighter to his hands and his stomach, couldn’t hide how his bones jutted out.
It hurt, his elbow caught against her side and seeming to cut into her flesh, but she only held him closer, as tightly as she dared.
It was a bit of a joke among their family and allies- Cale being weak and fragile enough for just about any one of them to accidentally break him, if they weren’t careful- but it had always been a joke.
Here and now, it didn’t feel like a joke.
Rosalyn swallowed, a distinct metallic taste in her mouth.
‘If I hold him any tighter, I might break him.’
How had she not noticed just how bony he was?
How breakable?
On the battlefield, he was larger than any human, but here, in a fancy bathroom where the decorative flowers couldn’t quite cover up the pungent smell of vomit, she was faced with a sick, deteriorating version of that young man, making the first image feel like an illusion.
Had he ever been that firm and strong, or had she just imagined it?
Did she want to believe he was invincible, persevering, enough for it to shift her perception of him?
And she knew . What about those who didn’t?
She didn’t dare squeeze any tighter, but she pulled him as close as she could.
He shifted in her arms, a patch of damaged skin accidentally rubbing against her neck, coarse and uneven.
Had it been a product of the repeated exposure to stomach acid, if it was on his hand?
Was it the result of poor nutrition and prolonged stress, showing in more ways than before?
If it was anywhere open enough for it to be bared right now, there was no way it had gone completely unnoticed.
Surely, Ron had seen it. Maybe he’d bought some expensive salve, or cream, to help the skin recover, oblivious despite his wits and background to the real root of the problem.
Because how would he know what was really going on?
Over Cale’s shoulder, she found herself staring at his red hair- thin, stripy, stuck together with sweat.
Where was the shine to his hair?
The volume?
It couldn’t have deteriorated all the way to this point in four weeks.
Cale couldn’t possibly have reached this point in four mere weeks.
How hadn’t anyone noticed?
How hadn’t Rosalyn noticed?
Her chest was tight.
‘If I hold him any tighter, I might break him.’
Rosalyn swallowed.
‘But if I let him go, he might fade away.’
The position was far from comfortable, sitting half-twisted on a hard bathroom floor, but she couldn’t bring herself to ease her grasp, afraid that either one of them would break into a million pieces as soon as she did.
The acute, overwhelming floodwaves of largely misdirected anger and more accurately directed panic had settled into the cursed, creeping dread, painfully calm and foreboding.
She couldn’t beat the shake of her voice as she spoke up now, feeling Cale’s heart beat slower than it ever should in his chest.
“You can’t keep doing this.”
Her voice was quieter than before, but it could just as well have been a yell in the bathroom, silent apart from their breathing.
Cale was almost perfectly still, but he was breathing, and when she didn’t let go, one of his hands awkwardly settled on her back.
He was there.
He was alive.
Rosalyn buried her face in his shoulder, ignoring the damp fabric being smelly from sweat.
It wasn’t as pungent, not as cutting, as the smell of vomit otherwise permeating the room, despite her best efforts to get that smell out.
“I- we can’t keep going like this.”
She felt selfish to put it like that, especially when she had effectively yelled at Cale for-
for what, really?
She wasn’t sure.
This wasn’t her illness. Rosalyn wasn’t the one to suffer through painful cycles of self-destruction, fuelled by something incomprehensible, hiding everything from her loved ones out of what seemed like either fear or guilt.
But she was scared.
She was scared of what would happen, of how much Cale’s battered body could take before it broke from the pressure he put on it.
It didn’t matter if the others ensured he ate three meals a day if he threw them right back up again.
It didn’t matter if Ron smeared the irritated patches of skin with the most advanced of healing creams, if it was equal to trying to fix a broken leg with band-aids.
And it didn’t matter if Rosalyn read every book she found, looked for evidence and made theories, kept watch the best she can and let the dread fester as she failed again and again, if Cale was more than likely going to kill himself through this before any of her work came to fruition.
She had to remind herself to breathe as that last thought surged through her mind, blunt and unwelcome, but bitterly true.
She was close enough to almost feel it as much as she heard Cale swallow.
After a few moments of silence, there was a whisper- almost silent enough to mistake just for a sharp outtake of breath.
“I know.”
The admission set off a burst of relief and anxiety alike, and Rosalyn found herself blinking back tears in the turmoil of emotions.
She was way out of her depth- she had been, from the moment she found him, throwing his guts up in the most remote bathroom he could find because he just couldn’t stand the urge until he got home.
Rosalyn had been trying frantically to honor Cale’s desperate wishes of keeping it secret, all while doing all she herself could to find an explanation, a reason, a cure, and simultaneously keeping him as safe from the illness and himself as she possibly could.
Maybe she should have told someone straight away. Not everyone, but someone .
Maybe Choi Han could have helped keep an eye on him so he wasn’t alone after meals.
Maybe Ron or Vicross could have served as extra eyes, and made sure no one pushed him to eat those massive portions, if they knew it triggered the cycle.
Maybe Eruhaben would have known something to help.
The next words left her lips before she’d thought them through.
“We need to tell someone.”
Cale tensed, moving to lift his head from her shoulder, but Rosalyn couldn’t bring herself to let him go, and he ended up merely shifting a bit in her arms.
A sigh left him, but it sounded exhausted, final in a way that made Rosalyn’s panic spike for a moment.
“Rosalyn-”
Cale’s voice was brittle, hoarse, strained.
“No. We need to tell someone.”
She hoped her own voice, though still shaky, was firm enough to get the message through.
Two years had gone by, and Rosalyn had only a single page of information with dubious reliability, while Cale had deteriorated to a point where she was forced to admit she wasn’t enough here.
Rosalyn was scared- no, terrified- of losing one of her closest to the wars and conflicts, but now she found herself facing the very real possibility of losing a friend, a brother , to an unnamed illness or potentially his own hand, and that felt like a massive hit to the face.
They had to tell someone. Bring in more help, somehow.
Maybe he could choose who they told, but they had to tell someone , because Rosalyn-
well, it made her feel just a little bit selfish, a little guilty, but she was tired.
Rosalyn couldn’t do this alone anymore.
Giving up on Cale wasn’t an option, but neither was throwing her passions and her own well-being down the drain along with their relationship, when she inevitably failed to remain composed and stable when he needed her to.
There wasn’t a quick fix, and this wasn’t a long-term solution.
‘It would have been great to realize that two years ago’, Rosalyn thought, more than a bit of bitterness seeping into her mental voice.
But what next?
What did she hope would happen, after she went against his firmly stated wishes and told someone?
Rosalyn gritted her teeth, biting back against an imagined critical voice.
‘I’m hoping for him to be okay .’
Rosalyn didn’t know how they’d get there, but she wouldn’t- couldn’t- stand by like this anymore.
She was still expected to- and she wanted to do so much beyond the villa’s walls, but if she kept it like this- if she told no one, and let Cale keep going like this, with only flawed safety measures and flimsy promises to ensure he stayed safe and alive-
well, she wouldn’t be able to trust that he’d be there next time she came home.
They had to tell someone, had to find something to do differently, because-
"Because you can't keep going like this, Cale, and- and I-"
She was repeating herself, but it was the only thing she managed to put into words properly.
Rosalyn choked down a sob.
Her next words were muffled by his shoulder, almost a whisper.
She knew he heard it anyway, just from how he stiffened ever so slightly at the words.
They were guilty and raw, just as selfish as they were honest.
“I can’t bear to keep watching you fade away.”