[ He cannot help the smug pleasure that spreads through him when Liem praises his efforts. In all his life, Cardan has never had cause to plan anything for anyone -- nothing like this, anyway. He had not expected Liem's enjoyment of it to feel so satisfying, so very worth every hour of shortened sleep and sneaking around he'd had to do.
Of course, Liem might be overstating his delight because it's polite. But with Liem's hand on his, with his soft mouth on Cardan's ear, he chooses to ignore this possibility entirely. There is nothing he can do for it, anyway -- and nothing to repress the pleased grin that takes over his expression, nor the satisfied loops his tail draws through the fragrant night air.
The fact he wins their counting game only underscores the success of the scheme.
Their days in Elfhame are numbered after that. Cardan makes good on his promise of arranging a hunt with Princess Rhyia, whose little half-smile reveals canines nearly as sharp as Liem's own. Her company proves much like that of the redcaps, as she is plainly disinterested in mincing her words -- though, unlike the redcaps, she does not bother maligning Cardan on their hunting trip to the Milkwood. They will track a white stag deep into the bleach-white forest; along the way, she asks Liem about his family and the woods at his estate. Before they part at the end of the night, she will pat his cheek and tell him to feed her brother less wine and more cheese.
Shortly after that, their trip comes to an end.
Even with the extra rest he had gotten, the winter cold hits Cardan like a punch to the gut. He finds himself unable to get fully warm again once they land on Ironside's grey shores. It had been challenging to crawl out of bed before; now, he has to bargain with himself to emerge before midnight. But there is simply no time for rest: he has a house to source and purchase and outfit, and, since it is supposed to be where he conducts his supposed affairs, it is not as if Liem can take over the paperwork as per usual.
And so he gets up, and he works, and he drinks a lot of wine to keep his hands and toes from feeling like blocks of ice. The day after the sale is finalized, he rises from the office couch to acquire more coffee, and feels his vision go a little wobbly. This is not particularly unusual, and so it does not alarm him. As he doesn't wish to be tripping over furniture, he waits for it to pass; by the time he realizes the world is tilting sideways, it is already too late.
At least his lack of coffee is a blessing: this way there is nothing to spill as he goes down. ]
[Just as Liem had predicted, their night in Cardan’s secret hideaway lingers pleasantly in Liem’s thoughts for the rest of their time in Elfhame, and even after it is once again time for them to depart. The nerve-wracking trip over the ocean is eased somewhat by the comforting nearness of his husband, the weight of the beautiful watch in his pocket, and the surprising number of delightful memories he carries back home along with his other souvenirs. Even his time spent with Cardan’s middle sister leaves him feeling unexpectedly charmed, which none of his spouse’s other siblings had ever managed to accomplish. He finds himself a little sad to pack up and return to Ironside’s bitter winter and the host of responsibilities intent on stealing him from his marriage bed.
But he is pleased with the trip overall, and not even the mountain of work awaiting him back home can dim his spirits. The only troubling aspect of their return is the way the cold seems to sap the vitality from his spouse, even after their vacation in Faerie. Despite the way Cardan waves off his inquiries, he cannot help but mislike the pallor and sluggishness that their time away has not managed to dispel. If anything, since returning from Elfhame’s eternal summer, his husband’s fatigue seems to be even worse. Whether it is the iron, the cold, or something else entirely, worry about it lives uneasily in his stomach, making him restless whenever his mind is not occupied with work.
He is frowning when movement from Cardan’s couch draws his gaze away from his discussion with Gusairne and towards that side of the room. The sight of his husband’s long form crumpling to the floor has him on his feet before he even registers his own shock.]
Cardan—!
[The list of roofing contractors they were in the midst of examining is forgotten in a jolt of alarm as Liem hurries to kneel on the rug beside his husband’s senseless sprawl. His hands find Cardan’s face, and after a moment’s hesitation as he listens to the rapid beat of his pulse, Liem gathers his head and shoulders carefully into his lap.]
Gusairne, send for Dr. Samari.
[To his credit, the ever-efficient Gul Gusairne does not quibble about this demand. He slips out of the room to see the task done, leaving Liem to set the fallen coffee cup distractedly on a nearby end table as he frowns over his husband.]
[ It is less than a minute -- some seconds, more like, before he's blinking disorientedly up at... Liem? Cardan's thoughts feel sluggish, too slow to catch up to his senses. For one, he doesn't know how he ended up on the floor, with his head in Liem's lap -- not that he would usually protest such a circumstance. It's just that he's broken out in a cold sweat, and he can't quite manage to concentrate, even looking up at Liem's face.
His husband is so handsome, even when he looks unhappy. Perhaps especially when he looks unhappy.
Cardan frowns. It takes some focus to speak; he feels like he's just run a mile through knee-deep snow. ] What...?
[ It occurs to him that he may have been stabbed again. If so, then he hopes the lack of acute pain continues, though he could do without all the rest of it. ]
[Liem’s fingers are smoothing the hair back from Cardan’s brow when his eyes twitch and drift open. He looks befuddled, Liem thinks, as though rousing from a deep slumber — but the patter of his heart and the faint sheen of sweat on his skin suggest anything but rest. Still, when Cardan’s gaze finds his, relief loosens the pressure strangling his chest, just a little.]
Cardan. Welcome back.
[The frown on his face eases, softening with an effort. Despite the welcome sight of Cardan rousing to consciousness, the enormity of Liem’s ignorance at this moment threatens to drown him in anxiety. How can he keep his husband safe when he might at any moment pass out in a heap on the floor, for reasons Liem knows nothing about? Is he ill? Is he just tired? Is he poisoned and dying?
Fretfully, Liem seeks Cardan’s hand with his own, though his expression remains patient and earnest.]
You passed out after you got up. How are you feeling?
[ He blinks, momentarily distracted by the fingers wrapping around his own. It's not that it's uncommon for Liem to hold his hand -- not anymore, anyway -- but strangely, it recalls to him the night of the attempted assassination most of all. Liem had taken Cardan's hand then, too; he remembers being startled by it. As back then, he squeezes it, just to prove that he still can.
Though his grip certainly isn't quite as vice-like, for both their benefit.
All that distraction means he misses his asked-for explanation entirely, but judging by the fact Liem is calmly gazing down at Cardan, he's going to assume he is not, in fact, bleeding out.
He doesn't really know how to answer the question; he would have liked to lie. Since that's not an option, he ignores it in favour of attempting to sit up. This goes less elegantly than he'd hoped: he manages to get an elbow under him long enough to raise up his torso, and the room starts spinning again.
He scowls, closes his eyes, and returns to Liem's lap. After a moment, he will say. ]
It is possible I am being poisoned.
[ His tone suggests this is something of an extreme annoyance. ]
[Though Liem allows himself to feel a little comfort from the squeeze Cardan gives his hand, the fact that his husband abandons his endeavour to sit up after just propping himself up on his elbow only fuels his concern. He hovers worriedly over him, reaching for a moment as though he might cup Cardan’s cheek, before apparently thinking better of it, and returning his fingers to his hair instead.
He cannot entirely mask the distress that lands hard in his gut at Cardan’s annoyed supposition. Perhaps it is for the best that his husband’s eyes are currently closed.]
All right, [he says evenly. What does “possible” mean in this context? Cardan doesn’t seem like he’s dying right at this very moment, but he is also clearly not well. And, most upsettingly of all, Liem has no idea how to solve a problem like this one. But he tries not to linger on that fact.]
We’ll sort this out soon, once the doctor gets here. Shall I put you on the couch?
[Would moving him around more make him feel worse? He doesn’t want to leave his husband on the floor…]
[ Does he want to be on the couch? Not really. He is about as comfortable as a man can be in his current circumstance. The rug-covered floor is nice and flat, and Liem's lap -- though not particularly soft -- is comforting, given it smells like Liem and comes bundled with Liem's gentle hand petting his hair. The thought of trying to move feels exhausting.
But mention of the doctor furrows his brow further. He cracks open an eye to look at Liem. ]
What, so she can torture me more efficiently?
[ He has not forgiven her for the stitches, nor the thoroughly uncomfortable process of getting them removed. He doesn't want to imagine what sorts of horrors she might pull out when faced with his current predicament.
...so, on that thought, perhaps moving off the floor is better than not, lest she try anything truly drastic. He sighs, and shuts his eyes again. ]
If I must.
[ He doesn't really fancy Liem hauling him up like a dead weight, either, but he's not confident in a second attempt at getting himself upright independently. ]
[Liem is not unaware of the animosity that previous interactions with Dr. Samari have fostered in Cardan, but even if her methods seem barbaric to the faerie prince, she is the only person they could possibly call upon to help him in this circumstance — and they do require help. He desperately wants to cure this malady plaguing his husband, because the quiet little worries that had plagued him whenever he noticed Cardan’s fatigue have now become painfully loud. He terribly misses the formidable man who had menaced him so doggedly for the first weeks of their marriage. It is not right that Cardan should look like this while supposedly safe under his roof.]
You oblige me so.
[Sliding his arm beneath his lover’s shoulders, he props him up as he shifts around him, leaning Cardan against his chest and pausing very briefly to press a kiss against his damp forehead. Lifting him up is no trouble at all; he simply scoops one arm beneath his legs and gathers him carefully close as he gets to his feet, even if doing so does involve folding him up a little. He married such a long man.
Liem is still in the process of laying Cardan back down on the couch, making sure he’s propped up on the cushions, when the door opens and the good doctor strides in. In her hand is the sturdy doctor’s bag Cardan likely recalls from other visits; she sets it down on the end table next to the empty coffee cup as Liem edges further down the couch, perching on the arm by his husband’s feet.
“Well,” she says, glancing over her patient as she opens the bag, “what seems to be the problem? I hear you suffered a bit of a fainting spell.”]
[ Oh no-- no, he doesn't like this at all. It's not that he would complain about Liem's arms around him -- and, admittedly, the easy strength with which his husband lifts him up still stirs an incongruent flutter in his belly -- it's just that being hauled about so limply is strangely humiliating. Even drunk and insensate, he rarely feels this helpless. Not even the tenderness of Liem's mouth at his brow can assuage it.
But the couch, bizarrely, appears to return some of Cardan's strength to him: at the very least, he immediately and quite naturally drapes himself in the manner of a consumptive debutante -- wasting away, but beautifully so. It is not a moment too early, either. As soon as Dr. Samari enters, his gaze turns low-lidded and cool. ]
I thought you were supposed to tell me, [ he sneers. How is he supposed to know what the problem is? He is not the one with the fancy torture instruments.
The fact that Liem has elected to distance himself is clearly her fault, too. He already misses the gentle, soothing hands in his hair. The tilt of his mouth is decidedly surly, which is admittedly a little at odds with his display of languid suffering. ]
[For good or for ill, Cardan’s surly demeanour has no noticeable effect on the small woman stooping over the table next to him. Reaching into her bag, she pulls out a construction of twinned tubes terminating in a bell of glossy mahogany, and for the moment simply hangs it from her neck as she looks down at her unwilling patient.
“Then you have mistaken me for an oracle, Sir. I am not here to divine your problems: only the causes thereof. If you tell me less, I will only have to rely more on physical examination.”
So saying, she takes one of Cardan’s hands briefly in her small warm ones, humming pensively as she examines the fingers of first one hand and then the other.
“You’ve chilly hands,” she observes, placing his hand down again. “Is this usual for you?”
Now she finally fits the stethoscope into her ears, moving frivolous silk out of the way so she can press the bell against his chest — listening to the same labouring heart that Cardan’s anxious vampire spouse has been able to hear this entire time.]
[ He eyes the strange equipment with unrestrained suspicion. Part of him does not expect her to actually make good on her threat of examining him, and he'll tense immediately when she does, drawing himself back insofar as the mound of pillows allows. ]
It is winter, [ he tells her, with the air of someone stating the obvious. Yes, he has very nice hands, thank her for noticing. No, that does not necessitate touching them. Had they always been this cold? No, of course not; but he had never been anywhere with such persistent, bitter, wet chill in the air. It had not occurred to him as anything but normal up until she had taken his palms into her warm ones.
She is very warm. It makes him not protest as much as he should.
He attempts to redeem himself when she starts shoving aside his clothing to put strange instruments against his chest. Except there is nowhere to go -- he's already backed himself up as much as possible, and he's not confident in his chances if he were to try and move off the couch. His attempt to swipe at the stethoscope is not as decisive as it ought to be.
More disquieting than anything else is her calm, and her utter lack of intimidation. It is unmeet for a mortal, let alone a mortal servant. ]
[Dr. Samari greets Cardan’s non-answer with an even look, but hoping for cooperation would have been overly optimistic, and it seems she’s cultivating more realistic expectations. She listens to his chest for about half a second before his attempted retreat and the swipe at her stethoscope finally encourage her to straighten, taking the earpieces from her ears once more as she gazes with unflinching patience down at the faerie prince.
“I am attempting to listen to your heart. It will improve my understanding of your physical condition.”
Despite Cardan eyeing her as though she’s a quack or perhaps a witch, the doctor’s regard remains steady. Her manner is that of a schoolteacher in front of an inattentive student.
“Healthy young men do not faint without cause, no matter the season. You seem alert, but you are weak, and your circulation is poor. If you will not tell me what ails you or allow me to inspect your condition, I cannot do my job, and I cannot be of help to you.”
At the other end of the couch, Liem’s worried frown has returned at full force. Despite his prim and completely unmoved seat as he watches his spouse unwillingly endure the doctor’s ministrations, he is not happy about anything that is occurring right now, mostly because he doesn’t know how else to help Cardan other than by subjecting him to this.]
[ Cardan opens his mouth to say something pertinent and rude, like You cannot be of help to me regardless or What do you know about my kind's conditions? -- a legitimate question, given he is nothing like the humans she typically revives after vampire bacchanals. And he is almost certain this is a fool's errand. But before he can tell her as much, Liem's frown enters his peripheral vision.
Cardan frowns, too. Then he scowls. Then he folds his arms over his chest and struggles into a slightly more straight-backed position. ]
Explain what you need from me, healer.
[ ...that's as much deference as her expertise will get her. There are no doctors in Faerie, and he sees not why he would acknowledge mortal titles. ]
[Sadly for Liem, he has nothing to contribute to this interaction but a sober, vaguely concerned gaze reminiscent of a nervous hound who has been made to sit quietly amidst boisterous strangers. Unlike Cardan, he actually has confidence in Dr. Samari’s abilities, if not her knowledge of elven physiology, but the potential gap between the two is admittedly concerning. Furthermore, the fact that Cardan and the doctor are mostly fighting instead of addressing the problem is stressing him out.
Dr. Samari, however, does not appear to be stressed at all. When Cardan asks her to explain what she requires, she delves unhesitatingly back into her bag and emerges with a notebook, which she flips open with an air of satisfaction. Finally, a demand from her obstreperous patient that she is pleased to oblige.
(The complaint following it, she doesn't dignify with a response.)
“I need you to answer my questions,” comes the immediate reply, as she uses a pencil to scratch notes into her book. “Do you have a history of fainting spells? Have you experienced any faintness or dizziness prior to tonight? Any weakness or fatigue?”
She rattles the questions off immediately, eyeing Cardan with hawk-like sharpness. From her brisk manner, these are only the first of many questions she intends to ask him — though whether he will provide useful answers remains to be seen.]
[ Cardan realizes immediately -- and yet, too late -- that he has committed an error. Anything that makes the doctor this happy is bound to be unpleasant for him, surely. Nor does he trust her -- an instinct confirmed when she immediately begins barraging him with inquiries, too quickly for him to answer in order.
That's annoying, though the first question is easy enough. ]
This is the first time.
[ The second one -- that's the one he doesn't want to answer. Thankfully, the rapid-fire way she poses them makes it easy to ignore it. He meets her unnecessarily intense gaze with his own; his expression has smoothed out into careful coolness. He does not glance over at Liem this time. ]
...And of course I am tired. I am accustomed to a life of idleness, and an absence of iron.
[ None of that is untrue. Furthermore, up until this exact moment he had indeed attributed his fatigue to endless work; the fact it could be anything else did not particularly occur to him. ]
[The doctor is indeed pleased — even more so when Cardan actually answers at least some of her questions without any further complaints. Her pencil scribbles away while Cardan talks: No prior episodes. Fatigue…
“How long has that been going on?”
Scritch scritch goes the pencil. She seems content to let the matter of past dizzy spells lie for now, though perhaps she’s just biding her time, and intends to repeat the difficult questions once she’s gone through all the easier ones.
“Any weight loss or loss of appetite in the last several months?”
She looks up here, glancing Cardan over as though she might discern the answer just from looking at him. Pale and sweaty and sallow is probably not how he usually looks, but perhaps excessively long and pointy is. Her gaze returns to her notebook.
“Any headaches? Chest pain or shortness of breath?”]
[ It is easier if he thinks of this as a game of wits where she asks him invasive questions, and he tries to tell her nothing that feels actually vulnerable. How long as he been tired for? He goes to say this entire time, and then realizes he cannot; the earliest he remembers being exhausted was the Duchess' visit, and then he cannot remember being well-rested at any point since. So: how long has this been going on? A month into his marriage. -- Headaches? Yes, plenty, actually, but he suspects she would have to kill Gusairne to get them to stop, and tells her as much. -- At the question regarding his appetite, he shrugs. ]
I am the same as I was. The Folk are not prone to change.
[ He has not noticed his clothing being particularly more loose. Perhaps he has skipped meals, but only because he'd forgotten. He's certainly always finished the food served to him at dinner.
Actually-- ]
If anything, I am hungrier.
[ He sincerely hopes this throws a wrench into whatever ailment she's outlining for him in that notebook of hers. ]
[If the doctor was expecting particular answers to any of her questions, she gives no sign as she jots information into her slim little book. At the mention of his being unrested since a month into his marriage, however, she does aim a small scowl of disapproval Liem’s way. Clearly he has been a terrible influence at the very least.
She asks after Cardan’s eating habits, knowing that the other lords of the estate view eating as a frivolous pastime — and after his drinking habits, as well. What and how much does he usually eat? Drink? What about tonight, before his faint?
And she circles back, giving that previous question one more go. “And have you suffered any weakness or dizziness in the last few months before now?”
Then she looks at Liem, and it is his turn to feel a little cornered when she stares him down and asks directly: “Do you drink from him?”
It is not a question with an especially secret answer; it’s obvious enough to vampires who can scent the traces of blood, and to the servants who do the laundry, which leaves few who wouldn’t have at least heard rumours by now. But Liem’s expression still becomes a little more guarded as his eyes flick between the doctor and his husband. It isn’t just the intimacy of the subject that makes him loath to talk about it; the intentness of her gaze makes him feel a little guilty, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.]
Yes, [he admits. Then, when she continues to stare him down,] Fairly regularly.
[This, too, simply goes into the notebook without comment, before she finally sets it down and turns back to Cardan.
“Now, Sir, I need you to sit still while I listen to your heart.”]
[ Cardan's responses become their most unhelpful when it comes to his dietary habits, and for once it is not even on purpose -- because no, he doesn't remember when or what he eats, or how much, or what he's had today. Maybe an orange with his evening tea? Surely this is a question better asked of the serving staff. He cannot remember ever being questioned so persistently about anything -- except perhaps the one time Liem insisted on understanding Elfhame's wager-based economy. To his chagrin, by the time she returns with a repeat of her second question, he is worn down enough to admit that yes, he has sometimes felt dizzy.
Thankfully, she moves on after this. He had noted the scowl in Liem's direction earlier, and it had surprised him -- that Liem should succeed in provoking her ire where Cardan has failed seems inconceivable. It surprises him more that Liem answers her question now. What their sex life has to do with any of this, he could not possibly fathom; his confused (and annoyed) frown is still directed at his husband when she asks to listen to his heart.
Cardan's scoff is dismissive. ]
How much more still could I possibly be?
[ Though he does, at least, remove the cravat from his neck this time, revealing the fading bruises he is never quite without anymore. It's better than having her unceremoniously rumple it again ]
[Cardan is lucky that the doctor follows her question about dizzy spells with her query for Liem, since it distracts him from the revelation that his husband has apparently been suffering from this issue for some time. He is occupied instead by his own troubled thoughts, mulling them over as he watches Dr. Samari fit her stethoscope back into her ears and press the bell against his husband’s chest to listen to his hurrying heartbeat.
This information is nothing new to him; he is well familiar with the rhythms of Cardan’s heart, how it speeds at times and calms when he is at rest. It sounds anything but calm now, despite Cardan being quite correct: he could hardly be any more still than he already is. But Liem has never been able to understand the idiosyncrasies of his husband’s pulse. It seems often to speed for no reason at all, and Liem will glance over to see his husband doing nothing but idling and looking his way. It had never occurred to him to think of this as cause for concern (other than perhaps concern for what Cardan might be plotting).
After some time spent listening, sliding the bell around, then listening again, the doctor leans back and takes the stethoscope from her ears. Looking sternly down at Cardan, she tells him, “From what I can tell, Sir, you are almost certainly suffering from an advanced state of anemia due to your change in lifestyle.”
The long nights, the skipped meals. The regular bloodloss.
“Drink more fluids, and eat more regularly. I would suggest you do so now, then go back to bed and avoid any strenuous activity for at least the next week, to rest your heart. Avoid liquor and caffeine, as well.”
From the intensity in her gaze, she has her doubts about whether Cardan will actually do this.
“I will advise the head cook on your dietary requirements. Do you have any questions?”]
[ Cardan meets her gaze with a raised brow, busy doing up his shirt once more. He's-- dubious, to say the least, and he bristles at the idea of being told what to do by any mortal. ]
I do, [ he drawls, leaning back onto the cushions, ] What is anemia?
[ It takes some time before he grows-- well, if not satisfied, then tired of questioning her about her theory. He can, at the very least, accept the idea that having too little blood in his body is probably bad, and that eating and drinking is a good way to replenish said reserves, though he maintains some doubts that wine does not accomplish this purpose satisfactorily. (But it's red? he puts forth, clearly expecting her to find this argument convincing.)
He will, in the end, accept the platter of food that gets brought up, especially as the dizziness appears to have receded somewhat, and his heart no longer feels like he's run a race. Eating and drinking is not the challenging bit of her prescription for him. And if he need not stay awake for endless meetings, then he supposes he won't require the miraculous assistance of coffee.
...even if it feels unfair to let Liem tackle the endless barrage of work on his own. He surprises himself with the notion; when did he start to feel so terribly compelled to spare his husband from his labours? It feels especially silly when he considers how much perverse satisfaction Liem appears to draw from endless toil. ]
[To her credit, what Dr. Samari lacks in bedside manner, she makes up for in willingness to entertain Cardan’s own array of questions. She is patient in her explanations of anemia and the relevance of various symptoms in relation to it. She even restrains herself to just a vaguely incredulous frown when Cardan suggests that wine should adequately replenish his blood by virtue of being red, and after a couple probing questions of her own, she assures him dryly that she’ll specify he’s to have red drinks, if that will convince him of their healthfulness.
Though she is firm about avoiding wine, as she insists it can weaken the heart further — even the red varieties.
And once she has sufficiently worn down Cardan’s objections, she turns to Liem, hefting her bag in one hand as she fixes him with a stern expression.
“As for you, my Lord — I don’t want you drinking from him until he’s fully recovered.”
The frown Liem aims her way is a little offended.]
I wasn’t going to.
[“Don’t get wise with me, young man.” One slim finger prods him vigorously in the chest. “I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t need to be told these things. If he were human this would have happened far sooner, so he’ll likely be just fine inside a few weeks. But until then, you’ll need to get your meals elsewhere. No nibbles.”
So saying, the good doctor strides from the room with the air of a woman on a mission, leaving Liem to frown at the door in her wake.]
[ Once again, the interaction is surprising -- and alarming. Cardan has never seen anyone ignore his obstinacy and crabbiness, only to turn around and berate Liem, who has done nothing beyond emanating silent concern. He watches his husband being told off over his cup of tart hibiscus tea, and it's his turn to frown as the doctor stalks off.
He waits for her to be out of earshot before he speaks. ]
A few weeks? Absolutely not.
[ Liem cannot mean to wait that long. The thought is silly -- if the issue is actually just malnourishment, Cardan is going to be fine very shortly. He's eating a croissant right now. How long could it possibly take to kick in? ]
[For the entire visit, Liem has had little to do aside from watch the doctor wrangle his obstinate spouse, and worry about Cardan's condition. The sight of him collapsing unceremoniously to the floor still lingers uncomfortably at the back of Liem's mind, edging back into the foreground whenever he has cause to notice Cardan's pallor or the rapid pace of his pulse. He is in a poor mood to weather the doctor's scolding; stress makes him irritable as he finally abandons the couch arm to pace back to his desk.]
That's not so long.
[He asserts it quietly as he looks down at his papers, trying to remember what he'd been doing before. He considers for a moment how busy he will be for the next little while without Cardan's assistance to ease even part of his workload, and wonders when he'd actually come to rely on his husband in that way. It seems strange now to consider going even a single night without seeking his input on at least some matters.
But that is a strangeness he'll have to reacquaint himself with.]
If such a simple thing will speed your recovery, I will do as the doctor asks.
[ Cardan's frown deepens. This is not how he had expected Liem to respond -- well, he supposes he hadn't expected his fussy, overly concerned husband to acquiesce outright, either. But usually Liem seems at least amenable to being convinced, or willing to take Cardan's input.
Cardan can't say he much likes the decision being presented to him as a foregone thing. Even worse, he is starting to suspect that Liem truly means it -- that he won't bite Cardan for weeks, just because some mortal with a stern manner and strange theories about Cardan's health had said so. ]
Oh?
[ His tone is mild. Of course, that inevitably means he's rather rankled, and probably gearing up to saying something mean. ]
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Of course, Liem might be overstating his delight because it's polite. But with Liem's hand on his, with his soft mouth on Cardan's ear, he chooses to ignore this possibility entirely. There is nothing he can do for it, anyway -- and nothing to repress the pleased grin that takes over his expression, nor the satisfied loops his tail draws through the fragrant night air.
The fact he wins their counting game only underscores the success of the scheme.
Their days in Elfhame are numbered after that. Cardan makes good on his promise of arranging a hunt with Princess Rhyia, whose little half-smile reveals canines nearly as sharp as Liem's own. Her company proves much like that of the redcaps, as she is plainly disinterested in mincing her words -- though, unlike the redcaps, she does not bother maligning Cardan on their hunting trip to the Milkwood. They will track a white stag deep into the bleach-white forest; along the way, she asks Liem about his family and the woods at his estate. Before they part at the end of the night, she will pat his cheek and tell him to feed her brother less wine and more cheese.
Shortly after that, their trip comes to an end.
Even with the extra rest he had gotten, the winter cold hits Cardan like a punch to the gut. He finds himself unable to get fully warm again once they land on Ironside's grey shores. It had been challenging to crawl out of bed before; now, he has to bargain with himself to emerge before midnight. But there is simply no time for rest: he has a house to source and purchase and outfit, and, since it is supposed to be where he conducts his supposed affairs, it is not as if Liem can take over the paperwork as per usual.
And so he gets up, and he works, and he drinks a lot of wine to keep his hands and toes from feeling like blocks of ice. The day after the sale is finalized, he rises from the office couch to acquire more coffee, and feels his vision go a little wobbly. This is not particularly unusual, and so it does not alarm him. As he doesn't wish to be tripping over furniture, he waits for it to pass; by the time he realizes the world is tilting sideways, it is already too late.
At least his lack of coffee is a blessing: this way there is nothing to spill as he goes down. ]
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But he is pleased with the trip overall, and not even the mountain of work awaiting him back home can dim his spirits. The only troubling aspect of their return is the way the cold seems to sap the vitality from his spouse, even after their vacation in Faerie. Despite the way Cardan waves off his inquiries, he cannot help but mislike the pallor and sluggishness that their time away has not managed to dispel. If anything, since returning from Elfhame’s eternal summer, his husband’s fatigue seems to be even worse. Whether it is the iron, the cold, or something else entirely, worry about it lives uneasily in his stomach, making him restless whenever his mind is not occupied with work.
He is frowning when movement from Cardan’s couch draws his gaze away from his discussion with Gusairne and towards that side of the room. The sight of his husband’s long form crumpling to the floor has him on his feet before he even registers his own shock.]
Cardan—!
[The list of roofing contractors they were in the midst of examining is forgotten in a jolt of alarm as Liem hurries to kneel on the rug beside his husband’s senseless sprawl. His hands find Cardan’s face, and after a moment’s hesitation as he listens to the rapid beat of his pulse, Liem gathers his head and shoulders carefully into his lap.]
Gusairne, send for Dr. Samari.
[To his credit, the ever-efficient Gul Gusairne does not quibble about this demand. He slips out of the room to see the task done, leaving Liem to set the fallen coffee cup distractedly on a nearby end table as he frowns over his husband.]
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His husband is so handsome, even when he looks unhappy. Perhaps especially when he looks unhappy.
Cardan frowns. It takes some focus to speak; he feels like he's just run a mile through knee-deep snow. ] What...?
[ It occurs to him that he may have been stabbed again. If so, then he hopes the lack of acute pain continues, though he could do without all the rest of it. ]
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Cardan. Welcome back.
[The frown on his face eases, softening with an effort. Despite the welcome sight of Cardan rousing to consciousness, the enormity of Liem’s ignorance at this moment threatens to drown him in anxiety. How can he keep his husband safe when he might at any moment pass out in a heap on the floor, for reasons Liem knows nothing about? Is he ill? Is he just tired? Is he poisoned and dying?
Fretfully, Liem seeks Cardan’s hand with his own, though his expression remains patient and earnest.]
You passed out after you got up. How are you feeling?
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Though his grip certainly isn't quite as vice-like, for both their benefit.
All that distraction means he misses his asked-for explanation entirely, but judging by the fact Liem is calmly gazing down at Cardan, he's going to assume he is not, in fact, bleeding out.
He doesn't really know how to answer the question; he would have liked to lie. Since that's not an option, he ignores it in favour of attempting to sit up. This goes less elegantly than he'd hoped: he manages to get an elbow under him long enough to raise up his torso, and the room starts spinning again.
He scowls, closes his eyes, and returns to Liem's lap. After a moment, he will say. ]
It is possible I am being poisoned.
[ His tone suggests this is something of an extreme annoyance. ]
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He cannot entirely mask the distress that lands hard in his gut at Cardan’s annoyed supposition. Perhaps it is for the best that his husband’s eyes are currently closed.]
All right, [he says evenly. What does “possible” mean in this context? Cardan doesn’t seem like he’s dying right at this very moment, but he is also clearly not well. And, most upsettingly of all, Liem has no idea how to solve a problem like this one. But he tries not to linger on that fact.]
We’ll sort this out soon, once the doctor gets here. Shall I put you on the couch?
[Would moving him around more make him feel worse? He doesn’t want to leave his husband on the floor…]
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But mention of the doctor furrows his brow further. He cracks open an eye to look at Liem. ]
What, so she can torture me more efficiently?
[ He has not forgiven her for the stitches, nor the thoroughly uncomfortable process of getting them removed. He doesn't want to imagine what sorts of horrors she might pull out when faced with his current predicament.
...so, on that thought, perhaps moving off the floor is better than not, lest she try anything truly drastic. He sighs, and shuts his eyes again. ]
If I must.
[ He doesn't really fancy Liem hauling him up like a dead weight, either, but he's not confident in a second attempt at getting himself upright independently. ]
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You oblige me so.
[Sliding his arm beneath his lover’s shoulders, he props him up as he shifts around him, leaning Cardan against his chest and pausing very briefly to press a kiss against his damp forehead. Lifting him up is no trouble at all; he simply scoops one arm beneath his legs and gathers him carefully close as he gets to his feet, even if doing so does involve folding him up a little. He married such a long man.
Liem is still in the process of laying Cardan back down on the couch, making sure he’s propped up on the cushions, when the door opens and the good doctor strides in. In her hand is the sturdy doctor’s bag Cardan likely recalls from other visits; she sets it down on the end table next to the empty coffee cup as Liem edges further down the couch, perching on the arm by his husband’s feet.
“Well,” she says, glancing over her patient as she opens the bag, “what seems to be the problem? I hear you suffered a bit of a fainting spell.”]
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But the couch, bizarrely, appears to return some of Cardan's strength to him: at the very least, he immediately and quite naturally drapes himself in the manner of a consumptive debutante -- wasting away, but beautifully so. It is not a moment too early, either. As soon as Dr. Samari enters, his gaze turns low-lidded and cool. ]
I thought you were supposed to tell me, [ he sneers. How is he supposed to know what the problem is? He is not the one with the fancy torture instruments.
The fact that Liem has elected to distance himself is clearly her fault, too. He already misses the gentle, soothing hands in his hair. The tilt of his mouth is decidedly surly, which is admittedly a little at odds with his display of languid suffering. ]
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“Then you have mistaken me for an oracle, Sir. I am not here to divine your problems: only the causes thereof. If you tell me less, I will only have to rely more on physical examination.”
So saying, she takes one of Cardan’s hands briefly in her small warm ones, humming pensively as she examines the fingers of first one hand and then the other.
“You’ve chilly hands,” she observes, placing his hand down again. “Is this usual for you?”
Now she finally fits the stethoscope into her ears, moving frivolous silk out of the way so she can press the bell against his chest — listening to the same labouring heart that Cardan’s anxious vampire spouse has been able to hear this entire time.]
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It is winter, [ he tells her, with the air of someone stating the obvious. Yes, he has very nice hands, thank her for noticing. No, that does not necessitate touching them. Had they always been this cold? No, of course not; but he had never been anywhere with such persistent, bitter, wet chill in the air. It had not occurred to him as anything but normal up until she had taken his palms into her warm ones.
She is very warm. It makes him not protest as much as he should.
He attempts to redeem himself when she starts shoving aside his clothing to put strange instruments against his chest. Except there is nowhere to go -- he's already backed himself up as much as possible, and he's not confident in his chances if he were to try and move off the couch. His attempt to swipe at the stethoscope is not as decisive as it ought to be.
More disquieting than anything else is her calm, and her utter lack of intimidation. It is unmeet for a mortal, let alone a mortal servant. ]
What are you doing?
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“I am attempting to listen to your heart. It will improve my understanding of your physical condition.”
Despite Cardan eyeing her as though she’s a quack or perhaps a witch, the doctor’s regard remains steady. Her manner is that of a schoolteacher in front of an inattentive student.
“Healthy young men do not faint without cause, no matter the season. You seem alert, but you are weak, and your circulation is poor. If you will not tell me what ails you or allow me to inspect your condition, I cannot do my job, and I cannot be of help to you.”
At the other end of the couch, Liem’s worried frown has returned at full force. Despite his prim and completely unmoved seat as he watches his spouse unwillingly endure the doctor’s ministrations, he is not happy about anything that is occurring right now, mostly because he doesn’t know how else to help Cardan other than by subjecting him to this.]
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Cardan frowns, too. Then he scowls. Then he folds his arms over his chest and struggles into a slightly more straight-backed position. ]
Explain what you need from me, healer.
[ ...that's as much deference as her expertise will get her. There are no doctors in Faerie, and he sees not why he would acknowledge mortal titles. ]
Before you endeavour to paw at me again.
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Dr. Samari, however, does not appear to be stressed at all. When Cardan asks her to explain what she requires, she delves unhesitatingly back into her bag and emerges with a notebook, which she flips open with an air of satisfaction. Finally, a demand from her obstreperous patient that she is pleased to oblige.
(The complaint following it, she doesn't dignify with a response.)
“I need you to answer my questions,” comes the immediate reply, as she uses a pencil to scratch notes into her book. “Do you have a history of fainting spells? Have you experienced any faintness or dizziness prior to tonight? Any weakness or fatigue?”
She rattles the questions off immediately, eyeing Cardan with hawk-like sharpness. From her brisk manner, these are only the first of many questions she intends to ask him — though whether he will provide useful answers remains to be seen.]
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That's annoying, though the first question is easy enough. ]
This is the first time.
[ The second one -- that's the one he doesn't want to answer. Thankfully, the rapid-fire way she poses them makes it easy to ignore it. He meets her unnecessarily intense gaze with his own; his expression has smoothed out into careful coolness. He does not glance over at Liem this time. ]
...And of course I am tired. I am accustomed to a life of idleness, and an absence of iron.
[ None of that is untrue. Furthermore, up until this exact moment he had indeed attributed his fatigue to endless work; the fact it could be anything else did not particularly occur to him. ]
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“How long has that been going on?”
Scritch scritch goes the pencil. She seems content to let the matter of past dizzy spells lie for now, though perhaps she’s just biding her time, and intends to repeat the difficult questions once she’s gone through all the easier ones.
“Any weight loss or loss of appetite in the last several months?”
She looks up here, glancing Cardan over as though she might discern the answer just from looking at him. Pale and sweaty and sallow is probably not how he usually looks, but perhaps excessively long and pointy is. Her gaze returns to her notebook.
“Any headaches? Chest pain or shortness of breath?”]
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I am the same as I was. The Folk are not prone to change.
[ He has not noticed his clothing being particularly more loose. Perhaps he has skipped meals, but only because he'd forgotten. He's certainly always finished the food served to him at dinner.
Actually-- ]
If anything, I am hungrier.
[ He sincerely hopes this throws a wrench into whatever ailment she's outlining for him in that notebook of hers. ]
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She asks after Cardan’s eating habits, knowing that the other lords of the estate view eating as a frivolous pastime — and after his drinking habits, as well. What and how much does he usually eat? Drink? What about tonight, before his faint?
And she circles back, giving that previous question one more go. “And have you suffered any weakness or dizziness in the last few months before now?”
Then she looks at Liem, and it is his turn to feel a little cornered when she stares him down and asks directly: “Do you drink from him?”
It is not a question with an especially secret answer; it’s obvious enough to vampires who can scent the traces of blood, and to the servants who do the laundry, which leaves few who wouldn’t have at least heard rumours by now. But Liem’s expression still becomes a little more guarded as his eyes flick between the doctor and his husband. It isn’t just the intimacy of the subject that makes him loath to talk about it; the intentness of her gaze makes him feel a little guilty, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.]
Yes, [he admits. Then, when she continues to stare him down,] Fairly regularly.
[This, too, simply goes into the notebook without comment, before she finally sets it down and turns back to Cardan.
“Now, Sir, I need you to sit still while I listen to your heart.”]
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Thankfully, she moves on after this. He had noted the scowl in Liem's direction earlier, and it had surprised him -- that Liem should succeed in provoking her ire where Cardan has failed seems inconceivable. It surprises him more that Liem answers her question now. What their sex life has to do with any of this, he could not possibly fathom; his confused (and annoyed) frown is still directed at his husband when she asks to listen to his heart.
Cardan's scoff is dismissive. ]
How much more still could I possibly be?
[ Though he does, at least, remove the cravat from his neck this time, revealing the fading bruises he is never quite without anymore. It's better than having her unceremoniously rumple it again ]
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This information is nothing new to him; he is well familiar with the rhythms of Cardan’s heart, how it speeds at times and calms when he is at rest. It sounds anything but calm now, despite Cardan being quite correct: he could hardly be any more still than he already is. But Liem has never been able to understand the idiosyncrasies of his husband’s pulse. It seems often to speed for no reason at all, and Liem will glance over to see his husband doing nothing but idling and looking his way. It had never occurred to him to think of this as cause for concern (other than perhaps concern for what Cardan might be plotting).
After some time spent listening, sliding the bell around, then listening again, the doctor leans back and takes the stethoscope from her ears. Looking sternly down at Cardan, she tells him, “From what I can tell, Sir, you are almost certainly suffering from an advanced state of anemia due to your change in lifestyle.”
The long nights, the skipped meals. The regular bloodloss.
“Drink more fluids, and eat more regularly. I would suggest you do so now, then go back to bed and avoid any strenuous activity for at least the next week, to rest your heart. Avoid liquor and caffeine, as well.”
From the intensity in her gaze, she has her doubts about whether Cardan will actually do this.
“I will advise the head cook on your dietary requirements. Do you have any questions?”]
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I do, [ he drawls, leaning back onto the cushions, ] What is anemia?
[ It takes some time before he grows-- well, if not satisfied, then tired of questioning her about her theory. He can, at the very least, accept the idea that having too little blood in his body is probably bad, and that eating and drinking is a good way to replenish said reserves, though he maintains some doubts that wine does not accomplish this purpose satisfactorily. (But it's red? he puts forth, clearly expecting her to find this argument convincing.)
He will, in the end, accept the platter of food that gets brought up, especially as the dizziness appears to have receded somewhat, and his heart no longer feels like he's run a race. Eating and drinking is not the challenging bit of her prescription for him. And if he need not stay awake for endless meetings, then he supposes he won't require the miraculous assistance of coffee.
...even if it feels unfair to let Liem tackle the endless barrage of work on his own. He surprises himself with the notion; when did he start to feel so terribly compelled to spare his husband from his labours? It feels especially silly when he considers how much perverse satisfaction Liem appears to draw from endless toil. ]
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Though she is firm about avoiding wine, as she insists it can weaken the heart further — even the red varieties.
And once she has sufficiently worn down Cardan’s objections, she turns to Liem, hefting her bag in one hand as she fixes him with a stern expression.
“As for you, my Lord — I don’t want you drinking from him until he’s fully recovered.”
The frown Liem aims her way is a little offended.]
I wasn’t going to.
[“Don’t get wise with me, young man.” One slim finger prods him vigorously in the chest. “I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t need to be told these things. If he were human this would have happened far sooner, so he’ll likely be just fine inside a few weeks. But until then, you’ll need to get your meals elsewhere. No nibbles.”
So saying, the good doctor strides from the room with the air of a woman on a mission, leaving Liem to frown at the door in her wake.]
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He waits for her to be out of earshot before he speaks. ]
A few weeks? Absolutely not.
[ Liem cannot mean to wait that long. The thought is silly -- if the issue is actually just malnourishment, Cardan is going to be fine very shortly. He's eating a croissant right now. How long could it possibly take to kick in? ]
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That's not so long.
[He asserts it quietly as he looks down at his papers, trying to remember what he'd been doing before. He considers for a moment how busy he will be for the next little while without Cardan's assistance to ease even part of his workload, and wonders when he'd actually come to rely on his husband in that way. It seems strange now to consider going even a single night without seeking his input on at least some matters.
But that is a strangeness he'll have to reacquaint himself with.]
If such a simple thing will speed your recovery, I will do as the doctor asks.
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Cardan can't say he much likes the decision being presented to him as a foregone thing. Even worse, he is starting to suspect that Liem truly means it -- that he won't bite Cardan for weeks, just because some mortal with a stern manner and strange theories about Cardan's health had said so. ]
Oh?
[ His tone is mild. Of course, that inevitably means he's rather rankled, and probably gearing up to saying something mean. ]
And will you just starve all that time?
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