Conner had suggested the idea of having the characters try some modern tea because a) he had no other ideas, and b) it'd give them something to talk about, at least.

He and Red walk into the hospital, arms burdened with so, so many paper bags (Conner ignores the flabbergasted looks they get from the staff they pass by. It isn't anything he isn't used to, at this point. He can't help but hurry a little more, though. He doesn't want to come up with some lame excuse), and into the children's ward, where they all but drop the bags onto the floor.

"I'm spilling the tea," he says to his sister when she gives him a look. His mouth twitches up in a small smile.

"Shut up," Blaze sighs as everyone in the room collectively groans. "Just-Shut up."

"Yeah, I don't think the workers at the café didn't like my jokes, either." He reaches into a bag and pulls out a cup. The dark amber colored liquid sloshes inside. "Who wants tea?"

0-0-0-0-0-0

The characters seem to be rejuvenated. Conner supposes it's the tea's doing, but he's still not entirely sure if it's a good thing or not. At least they're not moping around anymore.

"Well, they seem happy," Alex says, watching them slurp up the drink, holding her own lightly. She squints at it. "What'd you get?"

"Just some vanilla milk tea." Conner hums. "The workers were really surprised when I ordered them."

"Mmm."

"What shop did you get these from?" Whipney asks, inspecting the side of her cup. There is a white imprint of a book surrounded by little sparkles.

"The Enchanted Corner Café," Conner tells her. He does not miss the way she-and her siblings, it seems like-stiffen ever so slightly.

"Really?" she says, her tone cool. Her grip tightens around her cup.

"Um, yeah?" Conner says slowly. "Why do you ask?"

"There was a robbery there, like, three weeks ago or something," Morph clarifies. "There was this barista there who got scraped by the robber. Seemed pretty shaken up when we left."

Conner blinks. "Ah, I. . . See."

"What was the worker's name?" Alex inquires.

"Xanthous," Blaze answers immediately. "His name was Xanthous." ("Oh, so you can remember that, but you don't remember the $10 you owe me?!" "I have no idea what you're talking about, Morph.")

"Oh, yeah, I saw him there," Conner says. "He looked okay."

The three older Ziblings seem to deflate with relief. Bolt gives them a look that says something along the lines of I told you so!

"He really knows his stuff." Morph peers into his own cup, which is nearly empty. "The tea back in Big City isn't this good."

"Mmm." Auburn Sally raises her drink in agreement.

0-0-0-0-0-0

Find him.

They roam the earth, searching, searching, searching.

Find him.

The human that had released them had been apprehended a long, long time ago, leaving the fairies to seal up the demons she'd let loose, rounding them up and trapping them in the earth once more.

Find him.

They'd escaped, barely, and they know it is up to them to find him now, their one true ruler.

Find him.

They do often wonder if the others will escape, somehow, someday, or perhaps that woman will. (If she isn't dead yet, they think.)

They do not know. They do not care.

The one and only thing that matters at the moment is finding him.

Find him.

They are careful, of course. They simply can not go rampaging about, starting fires everywhere. They'd be forced back into the Core. They would never be able to find their ruler, their king.

They hide away, in the shadows, away from old and young eyes alike.

It makes their journey harder. They can not search inside homes or shops, no matter the time of day. They are worried of accidentally stirring the residents, or causing a commotion.

Find him.

Is he looking for them too? They believe so. He ought to be feeling a piece missing from his heart; he should be looking for the missing piece.

Find him.

They push onward.

0-0-0-0-0-0

(There's fire. So much fire. It's burning everything around him. He's standing in a ring in the sea of flames. He's not running. Why isn't he running?

He peers down blankly, at the withering corpse in front of him. It suddenly twists its head around with a sickening snap, and its face is horribly marred beyond recognition.

'Cursed child', it hisses, voice soft and raspy and warbling. 'You'll end up burning with demons. Your fault.'

Its voice loops after that. Over and over and over and over-)

Xanthous chokes back a scream as he bolts upright, hands clawing at his sheets. His eyes frantically dart around the room as he breathes heavily, heart pounding erratically.

He sits there, breathing evening slowly, his heart-rate returning to normal.

. . .

. . . . . .

Bad dream.

That's all it was.

A bad dream.

Xanthous shifts his body around and picks up his phone from his nightstand, squinting at the sudden brightness. He blinks a couple of times, letting his eyes adjust.

3:31 A.M.

Groaning, he drops it back onto the nightstand, and rolls over onto his back. He stares blankly at the ceiling for what feels like an eternity, watching shadows dance across the room.

Xanthous wonders if the strange dreams he's been having, and their relation to his coma-induced one, meant anything.

Maybe.

(Probably not.)

(He can't fight back the strange, doubting feeling in his chest, though. Or the one of vague déjà vu.)

The last dream-three or four days ago-had been about him jumping into frigid waters, or something along those lines? He's not sure. The details have escaped him within the chaos of the last few days.

It makes him wonder if the weird fever dream he'd had before he'd first woken up was really a dream. No one could possibly remember that much about a dream so long after having it.

(Of course it's a dream, you fucking idiot, a voice whispers in the back of his mind. It reminds him of Paige. Those things are pure fantasy. They don't happen in real life.)

Mind numbingly blank, he wriggles around, until half of his body is spilling over the edge of his mattress, letting his golden hair spread on the floor, almost like a halo. His head presses against the carpeted floor, and he feels himself slowly slide down, bit by bit, body limp.

(The dream slowly slips out of his memory, like sand.

He won't miss it.

He never does.)

Xanthous lays like that for a while longer, before hoisting himself back up onto his bed, and crawling under his covers once more.

Xanthous listens to himself breath into the heavy silence, before he lets his eyes close, and allows himself to fall into slumber. . .

(He can still taste the acrid smoke in his mouth.)