Drystan had very little experience with sickness. He'd been rarely afflicted growing up, and the same held true for his family. Penelope had had her moments, yes… after their family, after the kidnapping, which was to be expected, but it had never been like this. And he'd never felt as helpless then as he did now. The gulf that had grown between them over the last year and a half was all but forgotten for him, though the guilt and panic remained. When the diagnosis was concluded to be severe but stable, he still found it hard to leave Penelope's side. He wanted to see his family, but the risk of carrying the infection even if he himself wasn't sick stopped him from close contact. If one of his children were to fall sick, Drystan couldn't have said what he would do.
The fever wasn't the only thing that overwhelmed him—they were told the illness in such severe cases also had a tremendous impact on the state of mind, and though she had been largely incoherent in the beginning, he could tell she was suffering distress. In a rare moment of lucidity, she'd awakened, but mistaken him for their father. That… that had been a harrowing experience, he thought. 'Harrowing' was a very clean word for what it had been. There had been some improvement, but not enough to ease his mind—or the Healers', either, if he read them correctly. Penelope could only sleep the days away now, while he did so less and less.
His mind registered the opening of the door, and footsteps. He felt the presence of someone next to him, but didn't stir until he felt her lips. Blinking out of his stupor, he reached over to lay a hand on her thigh. "Thank you," he said in a voice stiff from disuse, scrubbing his other hand over his face. His gaze flicked down to his wrist before he saw he didn't have a watch on. "What time is it?"
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