Star Ocean: Till The End Of Time Fan Fiction ❯ Yaoi Ocean 3 ❯ Chapter Five: Fever ( Chapter 5 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: excelsis
In which Aquaria and Airyglyph strike a truce, and the group goes to fetch Albel. There is an issue, however...

Non Anime: Star Ocean: Till The End Of Time Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Shounen / Romance / Fantasy / Drama / Adventure / Action | Type: Yaoi | Uploaded On: 06.07.2009 | Updated On: 08.15.2009 | Pages: 2 | Words: 5.9K | Visits: 215 | Status: Work In Progress

Chapter Five
Fever
 
In the morning, they departed for Mosel. Her Majesty road in a small carriage and the others walked in a protective ring around it—and a good thing too. They had just passed through Paterny when a small band of people from the Dragon Brigade made an assassination attempt. Naturally, it was thwarted.
They hurried on to Mosel. They stopped briefly in Surferio, the town right outside Mosel, so that the queen could stretch her legs and the others could rest and get something to eat. As they didn't have the time for pleasantries, it was only a short break and they were soon on the move again. They had to pass through a petite cave before getting to Mosel. The carriage could not travel in the cave, so they paid one of the locals to look after it and continued on foot.
Fayt considered the goings-on of today. Considering the attack earlier, this could be a trap. But if that was the case, wouldn't they want to keep them as suspicion-free as possible? Sending such a small amount of assassins seemed foolhardy. Albeit, battling the air dragons had been difficult in such a wide, open space that provided room enough to move freely and attack from above. Regardless of their advantages, though, it still just seemed reckless. Not only that, but if they were really planning to kill the queen, then wouldn't they attack in Mosel? The Mosel Ruins were in the desert ahead. No matter how Fayt looked at it, a clearly wiser decision would have been to attack there—in a closed-in space that none of them had been to, after they were tired and weary from their journey in the harsh terrain. Something wasn't quite right about that attack.
Fayt wondered what this desert would be like. He had been to deserts before, and seen pictures of them. Some of them were dusty, but were more rock than sand. Others were sandy. Then some deserts were cold. He knew that Mosel was a hot, dry place. But was it sand or rock—and how hot exactly? More than that, did they have enough water? Each of them had several quarts of water, but would it be enough?
While the heat was blistering and made them sweat in the dry heat, there were scattered oasis around the desert, where they could refill their water and refresh themselves a bit at a time. It wasn't as inhospitable as one would assume, except perhaps for the “zombie dragons” inhabiting certain areas of the desert. They avoided those.
They finally made it in to the ruins. Fayt downed an entire quart of water. The small group relaxed out of the desert heat, catching their breath. Aquaria XXVII, despite her obvious thirst and weariness, still retained all the dignity she possessed. Fayt yanked off his boots and poured out the sand that had gathered inside them. Cliff was shaking out his gloves, and kicking off his own boots to do the same. Nel brushed sand off of her clothes. Maria wiped sweat from her brow.
After they played some runic chess (refer to the game for that one) and Fayt discovered a cloak that kept him and his party from becoming dehydrated, they proceeded to the council chamber.
Basically, the king of Airyglyph agreed to cooperate. The trouble was that they had no air dragons large enough to accommodate the weapon. They did, however, have a proposal: They could go ask a dragon called the Marquis, or Crossell, to assist them—on a condition that a representative of their country went with them. Fayt had to admit, it sounded a little daunting. A gigantic dragon, untamed, that the Glyphians seemed intimidated by. Still, what choice did they have?
The representative chosen would be Albel. Fayt frowned. Why wasn't he here? It seemed to Fayt that Albel should be here, as a captain of their military. It was also a little strange that Albel hadn't been leading the Black Brigade during the battle either. He frowned. What had happened to him? Moreover, why did he feel a bit concerned—as well as responsible? He brushed the feeling aside. It annoyed him slightly that they had to go fetch Albel in Airyglyph. Wouldn't it be easier to simply bring him along?
Moreover, this truce seemed silly. They had agreed to help, but lacked the means to do so. To Fayt, the truce was near-pointless. True, it ended the fighting, but the Glyphians weren't really helping so much as giving them the idea to ask the Marquis.
After they had left Mosel again, and escorted the Queen to Peterny where Clair took over the task of royal escort, they headed for the Glyphian capital.
“So who's Albel?” Maria wondered, feeling a little left out when they commented to each other about the man.
Nel scowled. “He's the best swordsman in Airyglyph. The last time we met, we had bested him in battle and left him living. He won't be glad to see us.”
Maria nodded, getting the gist of it. Fayt glanced back at her. “He's also kind of rude and haughty to tell you the truth,” he added. “So traveling with him won't be pleasant.”
She fingered her gun thoughtfully. Cliff laughed at that. “Not to mention that he's arrogant and bloodthirsty,” he chimed in.
Fayt chuckled. “He has nice legs though,” he said.
Cliff roared with laughter. They continued their banter all the way to Arias. Nel was trying not to laugh and Maria, still feeling a bit left out of their private joke, frowned most of the time. All would become clear to her soon though—particularly all the jibes about how feminine he looked and his “cross-dressing” tendencies.
It was true though—for a guy, Albel hasgreatlegs, Cliff thought. Too bad he was such a jackass. Why do we have to go pick him up anyway?
As they walked down the street toward the castle, shivering in the snow (at this moment they weren't sure if they preferred Mosel or Airyglyph), Cliff commented in an irritated tone, “I feel like I'm picking a child up from daycare.”
Fayt snorted a laugh, teeth chattering. “Hehe.” He remembered that when he walked up to the guard. “I'm here to pick up Albel,” he told them. They let them through. Cliff tried desperately not to laugh. Nel rolled her eyes. Maria wasn't listening, as she was studying the architecture of the place.
“It's like a castle from a fairytale,” she muttered, half to herself. Fayt agreed with her. He had never thought he would see a place like this—except maybe something made of plastic as part of a theme park. Yet… here he was.
Fayt felt like there was something very wrong when they were led down to the dungeon to get Albel. Why was he down there? Executing people? Fayt's stomach churned at that thought. But it didn't seem like something he would do—defeat in battle, maybe, but not just kill people. He recalled all too vividly the captain's words—“trouncing weaklings,” indeed!
He looked at his companions. They seemed a bit baffled by this as well. Count Woltar, acting as their guide, took them down to a room Fayt remembered all too well. He and Cliff glanced at each other. It was the room they had been tortured in oh-so long ago. Why was he in here? Fayt really didn't want to go back inside that room. He didn't want to remember being chained up and helpless as a man with a bloodlust had hurt him. He automatically shrunk closer to Cliff. The girls were ahead of him, and thus didn't see it. Cliff gave his arm a reassuring squeeze before Fayt stepped nervously away like an anxious fawn stepping away from its mother.
The door grated open. Fayt shivered in the cold. It really was too cold down here. It was like executing their prisoners slowly—simply letting the elements do the job for them. Fayt glanced around the room, his gaze coming to rest on Albel. He was chained up—just like he had been, his arms suspended above his head. His head was down, staring at the floor listlessly, not even looking up when the door opened—or too cold and tired to care. The tips of his fingers were turning blue. If he was down here too much longer, he would get frostbitten, Fayt was sure. But why…?
The situation was quickly explained by Count Woltar. Albel was being charged with treason—for letting them escape at Kirlsa and again for being beaten by them at the mines. The guilty feeling in the pit of Fayt's stomach reemerged. Cliff shifted self-consciously. They had never thought that something like that would happen. Cliff suddenly felt bad about not killing him. Nel couldn't care less and decided that he deserved it. Maria didn't care either way as this didn't affect her in any way, for she possesses little to no sympathy for other people. The count let the former captain down. The two argued briefly, before Albel consented and followed them out, flexing his fingers, trying to work some feeling back in to them. Fayt glanced back at him. Considering how cold it was, Albel's face looked a bit flushed. He saw a fading bruise along his jaw line. He wondered who had put it there. Likely the one who had charged him with treason—Duke Vox.
A part of Fayt thought that it served him right, but another part felt something like sorrow for the Elicoorian. He shared a look with Cliff. Cliff even felt a bit sorry for him—and that was saying something because he didn't care too much for the man. Nel cast a glance back at Albel, but he glared at her and she kept moving. Fayt sighed. Geez, everyone is concerned about him, and he just glares at us, he thought. He realized that it had more to do with pride than anything else. Fine. Fayt glanced at Maria, who had only given him a passing glance at best. Well, maybe not everyone was concerned.
When they got outside, they discussed what they should do for the night. They could probably make it to Kirlsa by nightfall if they traveled quickly, and that way, they would be near the Bequerel Mountains, where the dragon was, so in the morning, they could start right away. Decision reached, they started out. No one noticed, but Albel had fallen a bit behind, and there was a very good reason for that.
He swayed slightly. No, I won't faint... I can't… Not here… Not now. Just a little while longer… But the body doesn't listen to the mind's pleas, and his body was past its limit. Its last protest of its overuse was to faint to force him to stop.
Albel's eyes rolled to the back of his head. He swayed again, fighting desperately and almost valiantly to stay conscious. “Almost,” though, doesn't quite cut it. To his eternal shame, he fell. He was unconscious before he began the fall, and so he didn't catch himself. He hit the stone pavement hard on his right side, because he had been leaning more to the right when the fall had began. It would have been better if he had fallen on his left, because his gauntlet would have absorbed most of the impact. As it was, it was a bad fall. It was sheer luck that kept him from hitting his head.
The others turned to the noise. Nel, who was closest, was quick to react. She rushed over to him. The others followed quickly. “Cliff,” she said, as he was nearest to her. “Can you roll him over so I can look at him?” Cliff bent and pulled the former captain over. “Don't hold him like that; it'll hurt his neck.” The Klausian glanced down at him.
“So?” he said before he could think better of it. As if he cared if he hurt the guy—he was an asshole. All the same, he readjusted the unconscious man so that his head wasn't tilted awkwardly. He imagined that Albel would be pissed if he woke up right now, but he didn't move. Hell, he barely breathed. When he did breathe, it was labored, and seemed to require some Herculean effort.
Nel scowled at Cliff and peered over at Albel. He was still unconscious. She put a hand to his forehead, looking alarmed. Despite the cold, he was burning with a temperature and his face looked flushed, not to mention that he was covered in a thin sweat. She pulled one of his eyelids open. His eyes were still rolled to the back of his head. He might as well be dead for all that he moved. She sighed and let his eyelid slide back in place. “He has a bad fever, and considering how pale he is, probably half-starved too. Airyglyph isn't known for treating their prisoners well—even their former captains, apparently.”
It didn't come as a surprise to any of them. Albel wasn't wearing much, and it was freezing down there. Fayt had been sneezing and coughing after only a few hours, and the Glyphian had been down there for a good long time. He felt a strange kind of sorrow for him. Albel was a proud man, and had done his best to not look as though he had a fever. His fatigue had caught up with him though, in the end. A good thing he hadn't fainted on any stairs. A fever was still better than a concussion.
“Let's stop here for tonight, then,” Maria said. “If he has a fever, he'll only be a burden.”
Nel looked up. “There's an inn not far away. Cliff, can you carry him?”
Cliff nodded, looking at how thin Albel was. He could carry him with one arm. He found himself staring at his stomach. He had lovely abs… He stopped his train of thought right where it was and scooped him up. If Albel knew… Well, he might just die on the spot—of sheer rage and embarrassment. Not before he skewered Cliff first though.
Unfortunately for the former captain of the Black Brigade, he chose the most inconvenient time possible to wake up. His eyelids fluttered open. He glanced around him. His face turned as scarlet as his eyes. Before he had a chance to do anything (most likely punch Cliff in the eye, as he was raising one of his arms as if to do so), he was overcome with nausea. He clamped his right hand over his mouth. Cliff recognized all the signs of vomiting and rushed off with him to an alley. He set him down. Albel was unsteady on his feet at first, then straightened. He quickly bent in half and heaved. Cliff pulled his hair out of the way. Albel didn't do anything—nothing worth mentioning anyway and no one needs to know about the stench or texture of vomit, particularly when it's nothing but bile.
Albel spit and turned away. Cliff's hands fell away from his rat tails and his bangs. His hair fell against his back. Albel had always possessed a malevolent but somewhat noble air. He still held that quiet dignity, despite the fever. He looked up at Cliff. He was clearly sick, fevered, and nauseated. What Cliff saw was the visage of a proud man silently beseeching his help, though Albel would sooner die of fever than say it out loud. If they were allowed access to his ship, he could fix the entire problem and they could move on quickly.
Fayt peered around the corner. “Are you okay, Albel?” he asked. Fayt was genuinely concerned. Cliff supposed, that was what he liked about Fayt. He authentically cared about others. Albel didn't say anything, but he looked at him. Not in the way he normally did—the way a crow inspected maggots before it devoured them, but in a curious way, like that same crow inspecting something shiny. “Let's get you to the inn. Do you want some water?”
The Glyphian opened his mouth to say something, but coughed instead. He cleared his throat and shook his head. “No.”
“Can you walk?” Fayt asked. “Do you need help?”
For a moment, the fire was back in his eyes, but it faded with another wave of nausea. He didn't vomit this time, but he leaned heavily against the wall, eyes closed, hand to his head as if cradling a headache. Cliff crossed his arms. “You should have told us you were sick,” he reprimanded.
Albel suddenly straightened, all weaknesses either forgotten or ignored. “I am not so weak as to require assistance,” he snapped at both of them. The two ignored his outburst as he had ignored his illness. He stalked off to the inn, doing his best to be his cocky, arrogant self and fevered at the same time. The girls watched him and the men followed him at a close distance, in case he should fall again. He didn't. Determination and a strong will kept him upright all the way to the inn. The same could not be said once inside the inn.
He stumbled walking up the stairs. Fayt tried to help him, but he got kicked in the shin for his efforts so gave up trying. It was awkward seeing Albel try to kick him. Not that he didn't hit the target; he just seemed more like he would have preferred to use his hands or his sword. Of course, his hands were occupied. One was holding his head, massaging his temples and the other was firmly grasped to the hand rail.
The girls retired to their own room and the other three found their room. Albel collapsed in to the first bed he came across and didn't move. He still had his sword strapped to his leg, still had his boots on, and everything else.
“You should take some of that off,” Fayt advised softly. “Let me help you.”
Albel rolled his head to look at him flatly. “No,” he hissed.
Cliff frowned. “Well, I'm gonna go get a bucket.”
“For what?” Fayt wondered quizzically.
“In case he throws up again,” he said flatly. He headed back downstairs. Fayt sat on the bed opposite to Albel. The Glyphian stared at the ceiling briefly before he closed his eyes to shut out the spinning sensation. I hate being sick, he thought. And now they'repandering to me. How repulsive.
Concern etched its was unbidden across Fayt's features. If Albel had stayed down there much longer, he would have died. Even then, fevers were pretty deadly in this era. What if he died anyway? It just didn't sit well with Fayt.
Cliff came back inside the room with a bucket. Nel came in after him carrying a pitcher and some cloths. “We have to break his fever,” she explained. “Fayt, would you mind pulling off his boots—and take his sword away,” she added as an afterthought. The fewer weapons he had while they were doing this, the less at risk they were.
“I can do it!” Albel snapped. Without lifting his head, he unstrapped his sword and dropped it on the floor with a clatter. He kicked off his boots. They hit the floor with a dull thunk.
“The armor too,” Nel said. She had her back to him as she prepared a poultice. More bits of his outfit hit the floor. All except the metal arm. Fayt wondered if his real arm was inside it, or if it was really a false arm. If it was, it was another puzzle about this planet. It just had a few things that were too advanced—like the Thunder Arrow and Albel's left arm—if that was true anyway. He'd need a better look at it. Cliff took the poultice from Nel and applied it to his forehead as directed. Fayt mopped Albel's brow. Albel groaned his displeasure. No one gave him any choice in the matter though, and he was too sick to do anything about it but glare. Maria came back with a basket of herbs. Nel prepared a tea that didn't smell palatable. After she was done, the girls went to go buy tonight's meal. Nel gave Cliff and Fayt instructions to change the poultice while they were gone, to force another cup of tea down Albel's throat, and to wipe off his sweat as needed.
Albel had an expression on his face that, if he were anyone else, might be humorous. He looked like he was dying of horror and embarrassment while also thinking homicidal thoughts about everyone in the room. “Don't look at me like that,” Fayt said, wiping off more sweat from his face. “I'm trying to help you. And don't say you don't need it; you probably would have died if you didn't get help.” He wouldn't have lasted the night alone in the dungeon, Fayt realized.
Cliff brought over the tea. “Fayt, help Albel sit up.” Albel shot upright, then immediately fell back down again, groaning and holding his head. Cliff rolled his eyes. Fayt pushed the older man upright, and used pillows to keep him there. Albel was not happy, and that was an understatement.
When the girls came back, they ate quickly. They had a thin soup for Albel—giving him real food now would only make him sicker. Maria and Nel retired to bed afterwards, abandoning the others to look after Albel. Not that it mattered overmuch—Albel had rolled over and was dead asleep. Cliff made some comment about—the way he was asleep—that not even them having sex would wake him. Fayt had scowled at him, but didn't reply. He wasn't about to do that with someone else in the room. Cliff had meant it half-jokingly, but it still meant he was half-serious too.
Fayt snuggled in to the blankets. He cast a reproachful glance at Albel. His fever had gone down; he would probably be all right. Probably. Before he could worry too much about it, though, he was asleep.
Cliff tossed and turned for some time, then he got up and checked the Elicoorian's temperature. It was stable, but wasn't dropping any more either. He was sweating again, and he had frequent chills too.
He thought of the Eagle. Its medical facilities could heal him—and it was close as well.
Albel's eyes slowly opened. He rolled and looked at Cliff. He looked pale. “How are ya feelin'?” Cliff asked him.
He pursed his lips together for a moment, considering his answer. In the end, he didn't deign respond. Instead, he rolled back over.
“I'll take that as `not so hot' then,” he commented. Albel made a noise that couldn't be described as being negative or affirmative. “Right. So, would you rather be sick—probably for days? Or you could come with me and I can use my technology to heal you.”
There was a moment of hesitation, then he rolled back over yet again. Albel glanced at Fayt. The boy was fast asleep. “Let's go,” he said.