He wasn't sure what to make of the time now that he knew what it was. Making conversation, he supposed. Except for the Healers and the occasional babbling to Penelope she normally couldn't reciprocate to, he rarely spoke unless Bess was with him. And even then… Nodding his thanks, Drystan knew he would be surprised if he managed more than a bite or two. For more weeks than he cared to remember, Drystan hadn't eaten for any other reason besides necessity, and had tasted less than that. He chalked the ashy, vaguely burnt flavor all food currently had to the effort of suppressing the mind-numbing terror he constantly faced, that at any moment he would relive something similar to that horrific night three years past.
Desperate to rid himself of such thoughts, he asked, "All well?" shifting slightly in his seat. "Your parents? Children behaving?" Though he had a feeling they were—troublemakers though his spawn were, their destruction and reign of terror had an unmistakable impact on the adults around them. They were all bright, though, and however much he hated that they had to be exposed to this epidemic, the children knew how to handle themselves. It was Stephen that broke his heart most, the idea of that stoic four-year-old waiting with unwavering patience and faith for his Auntie Ducks to get better, and Drystan being wholly unable to promise she would.
Bracing his hands on his thighs, he looked towards the bed briefly before glancing his bed away. "It's been a quiet day here."
'Quiet day' being the only euphemism he could allow himself for another day that passed without improvement. No worsening, but… no improvement, either.
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