A/N: Thanks for your reviews

A/N: Thanks for your reviews! I'm doing my best to make him as adorably miserable as possible.

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Numair didn't have much time to sit by the fire and dry off. Almost as soon as he'd sat down, the king's face appeared in his hearth fire.

"Numair, what took you so long to get home?" Jon demanded. Numair relayed the story briefly, trying to still his chattering teeth. Ilta swooped into the library with a cup of hot tea, tsk-ing disapprovingly at Jon's image. Numair wrapped his hands around the mug gratefully.

"In conclusion, I am currently cold, wet, muddy, and in a very bad mood. So I suggest this is not the best time to sing me the happy birthday so-son-achoo!" he sneezed.

The king looked startled. "Oh, it would be your birthday today, wouldn't it. The big three-one…congratulations." Numair glared at him. "Oh, all right. I'm sorry that I forgot. But be back here with your notes in three hours."

The king's spell ended before Numair could protest. Grumbling, he rose from his comfortable seat on the floor, leaving his tea and keeping the blanket wrapped around his still-shivering shoulders with one hand. He tiptoed past the kitchen to avoid a scolding from Ilta and dashed to his workroom.

"They were right there," he mumbled to himself as he searched frantically through the untidy stack of papers on his desk.

Three hours, three hours, two hours and fifty-nine minutes…

"Master Numair!" Ilta called from the top of the stairs. "I told you to stay by that fire until you were dry! Don't think I didn't hear you sneezing!"

Numair found his notes and grabbed them (two hours and fifty-eight minutes…). He sprinted down the stairs, sweeping by his housekeeper on the way down. Ilta turned around and chased after him, brandishing the tea and a waterproof cloak. When Numair stopped at the door, she threw the cloak over his shoulders and shoved the mug into his hands.

"Drink," she commanded. He drank as quickly as the hot tea would allow, and then grinned at her, handing back the empty mug (two hours and fifty-six minutes!).

"Thanks, Ilta!" he called as he flew out the door. She stood in the doorway and watched him dash toward the stables, chasing after a few pages of his notes when they were caught by the wind.

"That man," she muttered in her native language of Scanran, torn between disapproval and fondness.

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When in a disagreeable mood, Numair found it comforting to mumble to himself. "Gods curse this awful rain," he muttered. "Jon, the idiot, wants a simulacrum by tomorrow! Gods curse his gods-cursed simulacrum! Wait a minute…"

If an object is already gods-cursed, he thought, how could the gods curse it again? Or why would they want to? Come to think of it, how did "gods-cursed" ever become an expression?

Numair's mood improved slightly as he recalled books he had read on the development of colloquial speech. This kept him occupied for the entire three-hour trip.

When his internal clock told him that the journey should be almost over, he shook himself out of his thoughts and looked around.

"The road from Port Caynn looks so much different in the rain," he said to Spots, who didn't seem to care. "It smells different, too, and sounds different…it sounds almost like the sea…" he trailed off, frowning. With a small nagging worry in the pit of his stomach, he dismounted Spots and tied the horse to a nearby bush. Walking in the direction of the "sea-like" sound, he confirmed his fear.

"I'm still next to the ocean!" he cried to no one in particular. Looking around more objectively, he said, "this isn't the costal road, but it's certainly not the way back to Corus. Where am I?"

He took one step in the direction he'd come from and fell to the muddy ground for the second time that day. But this time, he felt a sharp pain shoot up his leg, which then eased to a severe throbbing in his ankle. He cursed out loud and carefully removed his foot from the rabbit-hole, which had tripped him.

"Sprained," he growled, tenderly probing his ankle. "It figures." He hauled himself to his feet using a nearby tree trunk, and limped awkwardly back to where he had left Spots. At least, where he was sure he had left him.

"Spots?" Numair called. "Spots?!?! Gods!!" He sank to his knees in frustration, and then lowered himself into a sitting position. Spots' tether was still attached to the bush where the horse had been tied, but bite-marks showed Spots had finally lost patience with being outside in the pouring rain. The horse knew the way home—Numair didn't.

"Gods!" he repeated again, as a fresh series of thunder and lightening filled the sky.

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A/N: So, I wonder what's going to happen next! I have an idea for an interesting conclusion, but I'm not sure if it's too dramatic. I'll think about it.