#;; i can only imagine Alear attached to Zephia really strongly after his mother died so like-- this distance HURTS

[alealueur]

By the time he had processed the fact he was standing face-to-face with Zephia, it was obvious that whatever had been afflicting him as of late was suppressing his ability to stay awake and conscious, active and attentive. There had been barely any flow of time between the time he reached her door and to stand here in the midst of conversation with her, and yet his brain felt like it was running on its last legs. Exhaustion, intense pain preventing him from thinking, the need to sleep...

❝ It burns, it's hard to see and think... more than before, ❞ he slowly explained as he fought to keep his eyes open, attempting to keep himself present enough to take the medicine as she directed. Would it be wrong to... stay here in her presence? While he rested? The visual stimulation as it was was overwhelming right now, and as much as he could feel himself drifting even while standing, something was telling him he shouldn't succumb to it here (but who else could he turn to?).

The colors swimming into his sight—the way the edges of mage dragon in front of him and their surroundings blurred to the point of being unable to make out details and shapes—made it hard to properly look into Zephia's eyes. Even though it had been so long ago since the thought occurred to him, part of him wished to find comfort in her touch, to return to the days where he found solace in the image of her running a hand through his hair or the simple act of keeping him steady by holding onto his hand (he sought these things and yet they had not ever happened once, not even back then).

By now, he no longer expected such a thing—as that was only something a child would ever wish to receive—and yet he felt... no, he could not allow these feelings to surface. Zephia would not be the same as the mother he lost, and she never would fulfill that role. He could never expect her to indulge in the wishes that still threatened to showcase his weakness: that he possessed a heart that craved such things like comfort and warmth.

Despite knowing better, Alear reached a hand out towards her, hoping she'd at least attempt to give him something to hold onto before he gave into the darkness. He knew that showing such vulnerability would not go in his favor, but the manakete had no way to hide it in his current condition, ❝ Please hurry. It hurts. ❞ And he didn't want to lose himself again to the owner of that chilling voice.

When Lord Sombron provided her with the horned circlet, she'd been weary of it. It was an unnatural and risky endeavour to tamper with memories; even more so, if it aimed to suppress a particular facet of personality. Playing around with age-old magic as such could lead to devastating consequences, not only for the magic-user, but also the host.

She swears on her very life: she desires the same as Sombron; hopes for nothing more than to have the mild-mannered, temperate young man from her memories back at her side and steadfast in their cause. Yet, the slim risk of the makeshift crown robbing her of him entirely draws forth a rare frission of panic - an odd emotion to parse within her icy, old soul.

As such, she finds herself staring out from the balcony of her chambers, eyes bright and sleepless staring out into wintery desolation, when he comes to her. He doesn't seek her company often, even rarer so nowadays, as the tension of his new ideals loom over them, a nameless chasm that widens the distance between their closeness; closeness that she never truly appreciated, nor felt. It's a silver lining, how the pains caused by the circlet are driving him back to her.

She tries for a wan smile, but it dims slightly as she takes in his haggard appearance. It is evident that the treatment assigned by Lord Sombron is tolling on his body; she has been forewarned that he may exhibit signs of worsening before his current persona stabilizes. She sighs, a crease at her brow. Though it is entirely of her doing, it is not a sin to confess that she doesn't like seeing the young man in any unnecessary pain.

"Oh, dear me. Is it more of the same? Do you feel any worse, or has the discomfort plateaued of late?" She asks, making a show of inspecting him. She'd prepared a potent headache medicine beforehand in case his condition took a turn for the worse. In an attempt of easing the timbre of her voice into something kind, she does her best to soften, "allow me help you with the tincture, so that we can both sleep easy."