In Which Farilon Is a Little Warm

May 6, 1180

It was morning, which was odd, as Farilon remembered little of the night. As always, he'd gone to bed for the formality of it, knowing that everyone else would be doing the same--had to be doing the same--and not wanting to disturb them with his unique brand of permanent insomnia. Or wanting to, but knowing better. He usually spent those hours trying to find pictures in the patterns of the ceiling, or staring out the window to pinpoint the minute the sky changed shades, anything to pass the time. Now, though... nothing. A good eight hours of his life, at least--gone.

He didn't miss them. He wasn't sure how many hours he had, but he wasn't about to beg for any more. That didn't mean he wasn't curious.

The room was stuffy, which was strange. The candles had been doused, from the looks of it. His mother, for some reason, had fallen asleep on the bench by the fireplace, but even she could not generate such warmth with only her presence. The hearth? No, he would have heard the cracks, or smelled the burning logs.

The candles on the desk? Not that they were near enough to feel. They were unlit anyway. So were the candles of the chandelier.

He pried his dense, bloated head off of his pillow just long enough to peek outside. There seemed to be some sun... but surely not enough for this? It was only May--barely May. He might have believed it had it been July, but May? No. Not when there seemed to be a breeze blowing in, perhaps the only thing keeping the room's contents from melting together.

Farilon flopped back downward and let his head roll to the side, just to look at his mother. She didn't seem to be sweating or panting, at least not as far as he could tell. She was... restful, he guessed. Happy. That was odd. She'd never let anyone know it, but she hadn't seemed happy in weeks.

He tried to reach for her, but his flimsy arm floundered under his own strain.

"Farilon?"

Her lashes fluttered. Her fingers wrapped around the edge of the bench and she pushed herself upright. He wished he could answer her, but in his heated haze he doubted he could even wave.

A train of red fabric trailed across the floor as she stepped toward his bedside. His vision blurred as he tried to keep her in sight. His mother became little more than colors and a fuzzy outline, dark hair and twinkling eyes and red dress and all.

Except her smile. That was sharp and clear as anything had ever been. "Morning, baby."

He kept on staring. His mother bent toward him and brushed a hand across what he supposed passed for his forehead. He normally felt her touch--anyone's touch--as a single unqualitative impact, but each finger was soft and distinct. "You're a little warm. Are you thirsty?"

He struggled to remember what thirsty was, what it felt like. He didn't know. His response might not have mattered anyway. "I'll get you a cup of water, all right? And a cold cloth for your head."

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