[ATM] Helping Hand
Title: Helping Hand
Fandom: Original (Against the Moon)
Character/s: Skeff, Tol
Prompt: delirious
Words: 704
Notes: For oc_speedfic. I am determined to catch up!
- - -
Tol was eight years old when Skeff came down with a fever. Leysa had weighed the younger boy down with as many blankets and rugs as she could get her hands on. Tol remembers that, though very little of the soothing little songs she had sung to Skeff have stayed with him, even though he is sure he heard them hundreds of times during that small sickness.
It had not seemed such a small sickness at the time. The memory still holds a special horror for Tol. Until Skeff’s illness, Tol had thought the boy was indestructible. It was usually Tol who fell ill when he touched certain plants, Tol who could not climb as far or as fast for the burning in his lungs and the dancing black of sparks before his eyes. Seeing Skeff pale and sweating, gasping as though every breath was an effort too difficult to make - it had frightened him terribly, as a child, and he is sure now that Leysa (and Skeff, too) would have had a far easier time dealing with the sickness had she not had to divide her attention between the boy who was ill, and boy who merely felt ill, as he sat by his friend unable to help.
It had been his first time sitting at a bedside rather than being in the bed, and Leysa, perhaps, had known that. She had given him kind words, and spoken with his parents when they wanted him to come away, and he’d refused.
“Skeff won’t pass this on,” she had told them, “so there’s no harm in his staying, for either of them. And if I know my boy, Tol’s staying will ease him.” And she had sent them on their way, with a typically cheek-filled comment on child-free homes and opportunities that had sent his mother laughing from the house.
And so he had been allowed to sit there for the three, four days that Skeff was ill - he had fallen asleep exactly once in that time, and he never was certain of how long it had been. All he knew was that when he woke, Skeff’s hand had fisted itself in his hair, and it had taken a few minutes of struggle and a woeful yelp for Leysa’s assistance to free him.
Leysa had leaned down to smile at him as he massaged his head reproachfully. “Try holding his hand,” she suggested. “He’s less like to grab at things you don’t want grabbed.” Her eyes were soft and warm as she looked at him, just as they always were while she watched over her son. “It’s what he always does for you.”
And so he’d held it, while Leysa went about her usual business, tending to her chores with what he thought then was the calm, motherly assumption that everything would be just fine, but later recognised as confidence in her own knowledge of health and sickness and, perhaps most importantly, people. She was sleeping when Skeff woke, but Tol was not, and when Skeff’s hand squeezed his lightly, he’d been suddenly glad of the fact.
“You scared me, idiot,” he’d hissed under his breath, determined not to wake Leysa unless he had to. “You’re not supposed to get sick like this.”
Skeff had smiled back tiredly, eyes still sunken, flesh still pale, but warmer for his being awake in it. “Serves you right,” he breathed. “Always... making me... worry.”
He’d fallen asleep again shortly after that, but his breathing was less laboured, and when Tol laid a thin hand over his brow, he thought that Skeff felt slightly cooler. The fever had broken, and within a day or two, Skeff was out climbing trees and falling into the river again, as though nothing had happened at all.
But that soft reproach had stayed with him far longer than he was sure Skeff expected it to. He had made such effort, after that, to keep himself well - to fight the colds and fevers, instead of surrendering to their inevitability. But even when they overwrought him and brought him crashing into whirling darkness and strange, bright colours, he was aware - or thought he was aware, at any rate - of Skeff’s hand, pulling him back.
Fandom: Original (Against the Moon)
Character/s: Skeff, Tol
Prompt: delirious
Words: 704
Notes: For oc_speedfic. I am determined to catch up!
- - -
Tol was eight years old when Skeff came down with a fever. Leysa had weighed the younger boy down with as many blankets and rugs as she could get her hands on. Tol remembers that, though very little of the soothing little songs she had sung to Skeff have stayed with him, even though he is sure he heard them hundreds of times during that small sickness.
It had not seemed such a small sickness at the time. The memory still holds a special horror for Tol. Until Skeff’s illness, Tol had thought the boy was indestructible. It was usually Tol who fell ill when he touched certain plants, Tol who could not climb as far or as fast for the burning in his lungs and the dancing black of sparks before his eyes. Seeing Skeff pale and sweating, gasping as though every breath was an effort too difficult to make - it had frightened him terribly, as a child, and he is sure now that Leysa (and Skeff, too) would have had a far easier time dealing with the sickness had she not had to divide her attention between the boy who was ill, and boy who merely felt ill, as he sat by his friend unable to help.
It had been his first time sitting at a bedside rather than being in the bed, and Leysa, perhaps, had known that. She had given him kind words, and spoken with his parents when they wanted him to come away, and he’d refused.
“Skeff won’t pass this on,” she had told them, “so there’s no harm in his staying, for either of them. And if I know my boy, Tol’s staying will ease him.” And she had sent them on their way, with a typically cheek-filled comment on child-free homes and opportunities that had sent his mother laughing from the house.
And so he had been allowed to sit there for the three, four days that Skeff was ill - he had fallen asleep exactly once in that time, and he never was certain of how long it had been. All he knew was that when he woke, Skeff’s hand had fisted itself in his hair, and it had taken a few minutes of struggle and a woeful yelp for Leysa’s assistance to free him.
Leysa had leaned down to smile at him as he massaged his head reproachfully. “Try holding his hand,” she suggested. “He’s less like to grab at things you don’t want grabbed.” Her eyes were soft and warm as she looked at him, just as they always were while she watched over her son. “It’s what he always does for you.”
And so he’d held it, while Leysa went about her usual business, tending to her chores with what he thought then was the calm, motherly assumption that everything would be just fine, but later recognised as confidence in her own knowledge of health and sickness and, perhaps most importantly, people. She was sleeping when Skeff woke, but Tol was not, and when Skeff’s hand squeezed his lightly, he’d been suddenly glad of the fact.
“You scared me, idiot,” he’d hissed under his breath, determined not to wake Leysa unless he had to. “You’re not supposed to get sick like this.”
Skeff had smiled back tiredly, eyes still sunken, flesh still pale, but warmer for his being awake in it. “Serves you right,” he breathed. “Always... making me... worry.”
He’d fallen asleep again shortly after that, but his breathing was less laboured, and when Tol laid a thin hand over his brow, he thought that Skeff felt slightly cooler. The fever had broken, and within a day or two, Skeff was out climbing trees and falling into the river again, as though nothing had happened at all.
But that soft reproach had stayed with him far longer than he was sure Skeff expected it to. He had made such effort, after that, to keep himself well - to fight the colds and fevers, instead of surrendering to their inevitability. But even when they overwrought him and brought him crashing into whirling darkness and strange, bright colours, he was aware - or thought he was aware, at any rate - of Skeff’s hand, pulling him back.