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Talon coughs, and he can taste iron in his spit.
He has been lying down for a while now, maybe minutes, maybe hours. The frost of the Ionian coastline still clings to the ends of his limbs. Spirits lace their fingers with his, and his heart rate calms.
This is far from the first time he's gotten sick.
Endurance training had only the best intentions in mind. For a blade to be reliable, it must be sharpened and trained, and Talon was no stranger to testing his limits. He'd been finely tuned, sent out sick, hungry, hurt, in all matters of ways to pinpoint his weaknesses. Only then, when each of his bruises could be felt to the bone, and he knew the sensation of a muscle tearing, a bone snapping, of bile bubbling past his throat, could he be truly assessed. Whatever he would go through afterward would only serve to make him stronger — nothing would be a surprise if he'd already felt it all before.
Sickness, though, had a strange trick on the mind: it wasn't as predictable as pain. Once it rooted itself deep in the body, aching the musculature, weighing down the limbs, pulling the mind back to the floor, there was a despair alongside it that betrayed the logic that dictated nearly everything. Nothing was eternal — his training taught him so — but deep in that misery, so intense even he couldn't swallow it down his cut-up throat, sickness felt never-ending.
There was a voice in the back of his mind, though never his own, that told him this was forever. That he would continue to deteriorate, rot, fall apart at the seams until there was nothing left on the cot but a carcass. That he was weak, that this was another test, something he would have to shoulder. And he played through these steps each time, spiting that voice that would creep into his subconscious, lifting himself up through the exhaustion to eat, drink, bathe, work. There were things that needed to be done, and no one in his life would wait for him.
He would fight that feeling, all in favor of proving himself to be stronger. He would succeed. He would claw himself up, pour himself a glass of water, but he would never be able to make it to the door.
There's a weight pressed into his head, hot and heavy like a branding iron. His skin screams under the feather light touch, and he swings his body with what remains of his strength, wrapping cold and clammy hands around a wrist. It's larger than his own, but just as rough to the touch.
"Easy, there," comes a voice through the darkness, and, instinctively, Talon's grip loosens. It's a familiar voice, disarming, but not the same one that has been etched into the back of his mind. It's younger, warmer, crackling like a fire.
A palm presses into his forehead, and fingers slot into his hair, slick from sweat. It isn't as abrasive now, not when he's expecting it. His hand drops back to his side, disappearing into the aching mass of his body. He isn't sure if he'll be able to lift it again. He lets out a heavy puff of air.
Talon hears a laugh, but it's quiet, close-yet-distant. His mind is playing tricks on his perception — he hates when he can't get the full picture.
"Just me, pal. Take a breather."
These kinds of things are easier when Talon is alone. There are no words to say, and there is no one to explain himself to. He lets out a slow, labored sigh, cringing at the way the breath catches in his throat.
Sett. How lucky he was, to end up under the care of the Boss.
The realization inspires a surge of clarity. He isn't bleeding out on the floor of an abandoned temple, or against the trees of the Navori forests. He could feel the mattress underneath him now, bending to the weight of his body. The clothes he wears feels lighter, looser than usual; it must have been why his earlier grip had been so clumsy.
Clarity brings another realization: he'd been changed. He digs his hands into the bed and sits himself up with purpose, nearly knocking his forehead into Sett's in the process. His grip moves to his sides, his legs, and is mortified to feel nothing but the impression of cloth, muscle, and skin.
His weapons.
"Whoa," Sett interjects, and Talon can feel both hands on his shoulders now, keeping him steady. His own face screws up in distaste before he can finally open his eyes, getting a look at his surroundings. A dark room, a door left ajar, and a man he knew far too well by his bedside, kneeling on the floor. "Easy, easy, Tal. Take it slow. I'm here."
Talon shifts uncomfortably in Sett's grip, but can't will his arms to do much more than grip at the vastayan's coat, holding himself steady. His body is used to running on his autopilot, and nothing here feels quite right. Left feverish on the Ionian coastline, he expects to be in mortal peril, but he couldn't even predict that correctly. In an odd, roundabout way, the subverted expectations frustrate him.
"My blades," Talon chokes out, cringing at how rough his voice sounds coming from his throat. The air agitates the inflammation, and he coughs, shaking in Sett's grasp. "You — you have…"
Talon can see the vague impression of Sett's smile. It lies somewhere between worry, amusement, and pity. He isn't sure which one he hates most. "Right to your side, wrapped up," Sett assures him, and, to make a point, reaches down out of view. One of the ends of his cloak is brought up between them, proving his point to be true. It's a substantial relief, if nothing else.
Without thinking, he reaches out to the cloak. Halfway, Sett intercepts him, wrapping his hand around Talon's forearm. Talon's brow furrows, and he looks back out at Sett, of whom lost his smile somewhere in the process. Even in this lighting, he can see those cuts on his lips, of the way he'd often emote and get his teeth caught on skin. He was rough, but soft in all the ways Talon was not.
"Where d'you think you're goin'?" Sett asks, but it lacks the bite one might expect out of him. Talon isn't sure why he's granted the privilege of seeing this side of him.
"Work," Talon responds curtly, unable to manage much more. This should be an indicator of his state, but he's already lost so much time, the least his body could do was hold it together. He needed to find out how long he was unconscious for, and how much of his job was jeopardized for his misstep.
Sett tutted. "We found ya half-dead south of some farms along the coast. If ya kept doin' work out there, nature'd do ya in before anyone would find ya."
Talon doesn't like this feeling of being underestimated. What is somehow worse, however, is that there is merit to Sett's words. He bites the inside of his lip, unable to find the energy or the words to argue.
"Here, uh — can ya sit up?" Sett slowly lets go, eyeing Talon until he was sure he'd be able to stay upright. "Made a little somethin' for the fever; this time'a year, leaves are grown just east to help combat cold season. It'll help."
Talon blinks, and suddenly there is a low bowl held out to him with a wide spoon. He squints at it, inspecting it before all else, and he's unnerved when he doesn't recognize anything floating in the broth. He backs up, letting his shoulder blades dig into the wall.
"C'mon, Tal. It's just soup," Sett insists, and reaches out with it, trying to get Talon to hold it. "If it bites ya, blame Ma. It's her recipe."
Nothing about this feels natural, even the way his hands are soothed by the warmth of the ceramic. Years of callouses dull him to the temperature, but it reaches his nerves, regulating the icy temperature at the ends of his limbs. It's sat in his lap, and he stares down at it, at the white cubes of protein floating amongst the cloudy broth and large leaves pooling at the bottom. Against his better judgment, he spoons a bit into his mouth, swallowing around the utensil.
It's like a hug.