Author's Note: The idea for this came from me thinking it took ten years to get a doctorate, when it's actually eight. I have it referenced in several stories that Moffitt studied at Cambridge for ten years, and decided to create something interesting out of it rather than just correct it. And besides, who doesn't love a bit of Moffitt whump?

October, 1966

Cambridge, Great Britain

Jack Moffitt had seen more disorganized closets, but the sight of several unlabeled boxes in the back of the closet he shared with his wife, Vanora, still bothered him. He was a little surprised that he hadn't gone through and organized them before. The boxes were covered in a thick layer of dust when he pulled them out. "What a mess," he muttered to himself. "What's even in these?"

His hands were on the lid of a particularly heavy box when he heard someone enter the room and say, "Hey, Dad? We're out of the cleaner we use for the saddles."

Moffitt looked up at his 14-year-old son, Jules. The young man's usually messy dark hair was now stuck to his head with water from the downpour outside. "Why are you working with the horses in this weather, Jules?" Moffitt asked. "It's raining cats and dogs out there. You'll catch a cold."

"Sorry." Jules looked a bit embarrassed. "It was only drizzling when I went out to the stables. Thought I could do some cleaning before it got bad."

Moffitt sighed. "Alright. I bought a new bottle yesterday. I left the bag by the coat tree."

"Okay, thanks." Jules jogged out of the room.

Anah, a talking Egyptian cobra with supernatural abilities, raised her head from her jet-black coils on the bed. "I think Jules will be alright, dear."

"I hope so." Moffitt went back to the dusty boxes. "Don't want him to be entirely like his old man with getting sick all the time in the winter." He took the lid off slowly, trying not to disturb the dust too much. Inside the box were several old books. Some had titles on their spines, others didn't. "I think I know what these are."

Anah slithered over to the edge of the bed, stretching herself out to get a better look. "Oh? What are they?"

"Well, I know some are from my childhood. A few textbooks from my days at Cambridge. These—" Moffitt touched the blank spine of one of the books, "are diaries."

"Your diaries?"

"Yes. I wrote extensively when I was a student, and when I was in the Scots Greys. I wish I had continued when I joined the Rat Patrol. My, there would be some fascinating tales to revisit. Let's see, what's in this one…" Moffitt pulled one of the diaries out, and opened it to the first page. His heart sank upon seeing the date. "Oh… this is… this is the one I kept during my illness at the beginning of my seventh year at the university."

Anah continued stretching until she reached Moffitt's shoulder, then wrapped herself around him. "I know that was a very unpleasant experience for you, for multiple reasons beyond just the fact that you were sick for a while. You do not have to read it if it makes you uncomfortable."

Moffitt stared at the first page for a little while, then shook his head. "No, I want to start confronting this. I'll read it, but… you'll be with me?"

"Of course, dear." Anah nuzzled him. "Take your time. I will not leave your shoulders."

"Thanks." Moffitt drew in a breath. "Alright. Here we go."

October, 1936

I couldn't quite understand Michael's enthusiasm for the start of a new term. He spent several mornings going on and on about what sport teams he was planning on trying out for, in spite of our parents telling him not to get too attached to the idea—this was only his second year and he needed to stay focused on his work and not "trivial things" like sports. I had grasped that pretty quickly when I started my lengthy journey to get my doctorate in anthropology. There was a lot of work, very little play. As I would find out later that day, perhaps I should have tried to work less—or at least not nearly as hard.

Michael was optimistic, though. It was one of the things I envied about him, but I knew it was largely because my father hadn't put the same amount of pressure on him that he did with me. While I was going for a field similar to my father's, Michael had taken a slightly different path, choosing to get his degree in geography. We were both good students, but I pushed myself well beyond my limits to impress not only my father, but everyone he worked with. I didn't want to be seen as an embarrassment.

I had gotten used to Michael's optimism whenever we walked together to begin classes for the day. That particular day was… different. I awoke feeling as though I hadn't slept a wink, and dismissed it as a consequence of staying up a little too late to get ahead on my assigned textbooks. Nothing a spot of tea and a quick bite of breakfast couldn't fix.

Or so I had hoped.

I didn't feel particularly hungry when I put together breakfast that morning. Nothing seemed appetizing, even things I usually enjoyed when I actually remembered to have something more than just a cup of tea. I was fortunately on my own that morning, so I could dispose of what I didn't finish without getting lectured. The only thing I finished was my tea, as it would keep me warm that bitterly cold October morning, and hopefully settle whatever dispute my stomach was having with itself.

The continued sensation of things rocking back and forth inside me like a small ship at sea made it difficult to pay attention to anything Michael was saying as we headed through the university's ancient and esteemed halls to get to our first classes of the day. I think he was talking about joining the cricket team. I can't remember. I do remember when he changed topics.

"You're looking a bit paler than usual, Jack," he said. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, I didn't get a lot of sleep last night," I replied.

"I could tell. Your light was still on after one in the morning." Michael checked his watch, then gave me a sympathetic look. "I have to run. You might not see me for lunch. I'm going to the library with some friends."

I was glad he had friends. I hoped Michael didn't become the wreck that I was becoming in my last few years of studying. Normally, I would have said that I would see him later for tea, but my mind was feeling sluggish. Not exactly a state one wants to be in at the very beginning of a day packed with classes.

My first class of the day was my advanced German language course. My condition had steadily begun to deteriorate as I read through the material my professor assigned us that day. The rocking motion had eased a bit once I was sitting, but it was becoming quite clear that I should have had a different tea that morning. I've started my day with English breakfast tea for many years and that routine isn't changing anytime soon. It's a wonderful wake-up drink, when made properly. Herbal teas just don't cut it when you need to perk up. I knew we had several tins of peppermint and ginger loose-leaf tea at home. That would quell whatever disturbance was roiling in my gut. It was bloody near impossible to focus on anything.

The embarrassment that flooded me when my professor called on me to answer a question in German certainly didn't help. As we were all advanced students, we were encouraged to start thinking in German over the summer. I was a proficient speaker—when I was healthy. Today, I was very much not healthy. It took me far too long to mentally translate what he asked, and even longer to form a grammatically correct response. I was corrected, lectured, and told that this wasn't the year to dawdle on my studies—and the year had just began!

I reckon hiding how I was feeling was just making things worse for everyone. It's my seventh year—just this year and one more until I graduate! I couldn't afford to get sick. I simply couldn't, and I would refuse to rest until it became impossible.

The next few classes of the day ranged from somewhat tolerable to me being certain I would chunder on my desk. It was, as I expected, my class with my father that went the worst. My stomach had made it very clear that it wanted nothing that day, or all hell would break loose. Even water was touchy, but water isn't exactly something one can skimp on. I did my best to not make things worse, and sipped on water instead of taking sizable swallows. Becoming dehydrated wouldn't make things better.

I could get away with not looking fully attentive in other classes. Not my father's. He is not the strictest professor by any means, but me being his son didn't mean I was treated like something special. In fact, he was far more strict with me than any other student, especially in these last few years leading up to the completion of my degree. So, I had to sit there, do my best to focus, and try not to do anything that would anger my father or my increasingly disagreeable stomach.

One could argue I was torturing myself here. They'd be right, but any amount of sense I possessed had flown the coop. I highly doubted painting the desk the color of tea and half a muffin would be appreciated by anyone, but that desire was getting stronger. It was turning into a train without brakes, and it was only a matter of time before it crashed. No amount of flowery poetry could describe just how miserable and awful I felt. There was misery. There was awfulness. I'm not sure what more needed to be said. I was on a speeding locomotive with no brakes, the next station was disaster, and I was the only one with a ticket to ride, even though I didn't want that ticket in the first place. Throughout that class, I was more focused on silently begging to be let off this bloody train than on anything my father was saying.

I was pulled from my frantic thoughts by the already-nerve-wracking sound of my father saying my name in front of all the other students. The room went quiet. Too quiet, and there were a lot of pairs of eyes on me. I struggled to swallow past my anxiety, and looked my father in the eye. "Uh… c-could you repeat that?"

He gave me a confused look. "I asked you, what group of people introduced the horse to the ancient Egyptians?"

"Oh… uh… th-the, uh… the Hyksos." I wanted to disappear. I was cold, but I could feel my face turning red.

My father moved on, but I knew he was going to sit me down for a talk later that night at home. I was in deep trouble. I got the question right, but my attention and hesitation would surely earn me a lecture. I was tempted to just stand and scream that I was feeling sick, but that wouldn't accomplish anything, now, would it?

My strength was fading throughout the day. I didn't bother with lunch. Instead, I found a quiet area near one of the libraries to just sit and try to relax. Perhaps this was all related to stress. Or I ate something that had spoiled. Surely that wasn't the case, especially if I was the only one feeling ill.

My break ended with nothing having been accomplished. I still felt like I was on the brakeless train. I was now very cold. Every muscle ached. I didn't want to believe it, but it was becoming more and more obvious, at least to myself, that I was sick. Once I admitted that, I felt the griping and groaning in my gut come to a head… then it stopped, almost like tidal water pulling out to sea before coming crashing back to shore in a violent fashion. All at once, I was overwhelmed with a strong urge to throw up, stronger than anything I felt earlier that day. Classes be damned—I left my books on the bench and made a mad dash for the nearest restroom.

I would've cursed aloud if there hadn't been another gentleman in the restroom adjusting his uniform and doing his hair, probably to impress a girl. He glanced at me while humming some popular tune from the radio, and I was turning all sorts of shades of red trying to hold back the rising tide threatening to just spill out of my mouth. I had no interest in spewing all over the bathroom floor.

The man gave me a look. "Are you alright, mate?"

I was certain that if I opened my mouth, I would throw up right then and there. I didn't offer a response, so the fellow went back to fixing his clothing and hair. He finally left a few seconds later, allowing me to give in to the urge that had been building all bloody day. All I could do was grab the sink and hang on, feeling every muscle in my stomach clench hard and send everything up and out of my throat.

I had hoped that this purging would make me feel better. What happened next proved that this was only the beginning.

I left the restroom after rinsing my mouth out and cleaning the sink as best I could. I felt horribly drained. My head was aching, and the feeling of being cold hadn't gone away. I shivered while picking up my books, and headed to my next class. In the middle of a hallway, I started to feel as though my brain had been replaced with a balloon. Then—was I spinning? Was the rest of the world spinning? It was impossible to tell, but something was spinning. Things went black for a second, and I found myself stumbling. I didn't feel fully in control of my own body. Sounds became muffled aside from everything in my own body. I faintly remember people giving me worried looks, trying to ask me things.

I heard… an irritated hiss. Felt a strange pulsing sensation in my head. In the moments where I was somewhat unconscious, I heard and felt static, like a bad radio signal. And it hurt so much. You would think I'd be screaming, but as I swayed and staggered in vain attempts to remain upright, I was moaning and whimpering something incomprehensible. I vaguely remember falling against the wall, then involuntarily pushing myself back up before trying to stagger onward.

I could no longer fight it. The world around me became fuzzy. I could hear the heavy pounding of my own heart, then my knees buckled. I collapsed onto the cold stone floor of the university hallway, and a heavy black curtain dropped over my vision.

The next thing I heard was my brother frantically saying, "Is he going to be alright? What happened?" over and over again.

"Please, Michael, relax. Jack will be alright, but he needs to rest," my father said.

I opened my eyes, and took a moment to adjust. I realized I was in the university's infirmary after looking around a little. My father and Michael were seated nearby, and Michael was biting his knuckles. His hands stopped shaking when he made eye contact with me, and he looked relieved. "You're awake."

"Awake, but not exactly better," an unfamiliar voice said. The owner of the voice, a doctor about the same age as my father, walked over with a clipboard. "I suggest you take him home right away, Professor. He needs bedrest."

"How will he stay on top of his classwork?" my father asked.

"Classwork? Jack is running a high fever and had a fainting spell in the hall! The last thing he needs to worry about is classwork. He can always make up his courses later. Maintaining good health is far more important, especially for someone as underweight as he is."

I was about as stunned as the doctor was at what my father said. Perhaps it was some automatic reaction to the shock of me falling ill, talking about something he was more knowledgeable about. Even Michael looked a little surprised, but he said nothing.

My father apologized for his insensitivity, and had to wait until I was given a brief examination before being allowed to go home. Michael offered me support, in case I fainted again. Trying to stay upright, even with help, was a challenge. As soon as I was up, I felt blood rush from my head, and I nearly collapsed against my brother. He was patient, trying to be reassuring, and eased me out of the infirmary.

Things became quite fuzzy here. I must have passed out again, which would explain why I have memories of being helped into my father's automobile from a wheelchair. I felt Michael squeeze my hand, and heard him say that we would be home soon so I could properly rest and get well.

In my moments of unclear consciousness, I was seeing and hearing things. Long, winding things. Slithering things. Hissing things. And yet, they weren't threatening. In fact, they were… strangely comforting. I could only make out the vague shapes of snakes of all different species moving around, and at one point, I felt one brush past my hand, letting me feel its cool, smooth scales. I was alternating between these strange visions and listening to Michael telling me that we were almost home.

The visions stopped when we arrived home. I was helped out of the car, and walked into the house. My mother, who was normally quite calm and collected, was in a state of hysterics upon seeing the horrible state I was in. My ability to stay conscious was fading again, but I remember being moved about like a ragdoll while being dressed in my nightclothes. I heard my mother say that I was burning up as I was being laid in my bed. The sensation of a cool, damp rag being draped on my head offered a tiny bit of comfort. A greater comfort was that of our old cat, a Russian Blue named Osiris, named so because he was found by a temple dedicated to the ancient Egyptian god, being placed on the bed with me. I felt his whiskers lightly brush my face as he sniffed me, then he lay in the space between my right arm and torso. He rested his head on my chest, and I felt the gentle vibrations of him purring.

I kept dozing off and waking up throughout the day. My mother fussed over me, constantly changing out the rag on my head. At one point, I awoke to find a thermometer stuck under my tongue. I went to take it out, but heard my mother shout, "Don't touch that!"

Eventually, I was left alone with only Osiris for company. The cat had moved to my left side, and was sound asleep. As for me, the dizzy feeling had gone away, but I didn't dare move, both because I was afraid of the feeling coming back, and because there was a cat on me. My bedroom door had been left slightly ajar, but Michael still knocked before gently pushing it open.

"Are you awake?" he asked.

"For now," I muttered.

Michael closed the door. His school uniform was a rumpled mess. "How are you feeling?"

"Not great. Not worse, either."

"I suppose that's good to hear." Michael sighed. "You looked awful this morning. I wish I had said something more."

"Don't worry about it. I knew I wasn't doing too well, but I decided to keep going anyway. Nothing you or anyone else could've said would have made me stop. I don't want to fall behind."

"You heard what the doctor said. You need to focus on resting, not your schoolwork." Michael glanced toward the door. "I've heard Father say he's going to try getting your assignments, though. Can't believe it."

"If it helps keep me from falling too far behind, I'm alright with it."

"How? By stressing you out and making you worse? It's not exactly a secret that you push yourself so bloody hard, Jack. We don't do any of the things we did growing up anymore because you're so focused on school. You don't need to do that to yourself. Look at me—I'm doing well, and I make time for fun things—"

"You don't have Father breathing down your neck to make sure you get the best marks."

"He gets on my case a little, but it's not like I'm failing. I'll still be quite high up in my class."

"For me, that's not enough. I can't just settle."

A look of disappointment and sadness came over Michael's face. He stood and went to the door. "I have homework after dinner. I'll stop by again later if you're awake."

I was left alone once more, and had been alone for some time. I took advantage of the time to write about what happened earlier, but that became a challenge after a while. My fevered brain was finding it difficult to keep everything in line, so I stopped, set my pen and journal on my nightstand, and tried to sleep.

A great deal of time passed when I next awoke. It was dark out, but I didn't bother checking to see exactly what time it was. I was covered in sweat, and craving water. Osiris was at the foot of the bed, giving me the freedom to move. I didn't have the strength to call for someone, but I did have the stupidity to try getting out of bed to get the water myself. My limbs were shaky as I gripped my nightstand to pull myself out of bed, and the dizziness gradually began creeping back into my brain. I made sure to always be holding something so I didn't collapse. Not sure that was going to do anything, though. I managed to stand, hunched over, shaking, but so desperate for water that I was going to do this no matter what.

The whole house was dark when I limped my way out into the hallway. My parents' door and Michael's door were closed. I tried to avoid using any of the shelves for leverage, as my father kept priceless artifacts and old books on them that wouldn't be replaceable if I fell and broke something. So, I stuck to the wall. Nausea was climbing up my throat, though it wasn't nearly as aggressive as it had been earlier that day. I went slow, hoping to avoid throwing up on the carpet.

Going downstairs to the kitchen would be a challenge. I held tight to the railing, taking each step slow. I was so determined for just one glass of water that I didn't care if it took me all night. I could imagine it as a trek through the desert, a treacherous journey in unforgiving conditions. The only difference was that the hostility was coming from within me instead of my surroundings. I'm not sure which is worse.

There came a point where I needed to stop, and I slowly lowered myself down to sit on the steps. I only had a few more to go until I reached the hallway that led to the kitchen, parlor, and my father's study. I could do this! I had to do this! I forced myself to stand and things immediately became fuzzy and blurred. Weakness flooded me for a moment, and I slumped against the railing. Slowly, cautiously, I tried to continue my descent to the last step. A flash of joy when I reached the floor of the hallway granted me a precious five seconds of energy to propel myself toward the kitchen.

I don't think I've ever been so happy to see a sink before. I don't think anyone has ever been so happy to see a sink before. My father once told me that dehydration in the desert can make people do funny things. For me, it was choosing to skip the step of getting a glass. I turned on the faucet and drank from there. For the first time in nearly twenty-four hours, I felt human. I prayed that feeling would last as I gulped down as much as I could. That day had been truly awful. That little moment of pure, absolute relief was worth the effort it took to get here.

Silence filled the house again when I turned the sink off. I stood there for a moment, hoping that would be enough to get me back upstairs and in bed. As I turned to leave the kitchen, a soft buzzing sound started. It gradually grew louder, until finding the volume it wanted and stayed there. I stayed against the wall as I left the room. The water had helped some, but something was telling me not to push myself too hard. Still, I was curious about the source of the sound.

It was coming from within my father's study. I clung tight to the wall as I peered into the room, and was overcome with confusion upon seeing a large rattlesnake on his desk. The viper stopped rattling its tail, and stared at me. I was compelled to approach it, even though dizziness had begun surging rapidly.

A faint voice in my head—a voice that I didn't recognize—was saying, whispering, "Not ready… Stop fighting…"

The rattlesnake raised its head slightly, looking me in the eye. Was it the source of the voice? That couldn't be possible.

"Not ready… Stop fighting…"

Pain seized my head. The voice was abruptly replaced with that horrible static, and I was hurled into a chaotic vision, full of blistering heat, sand, the smell of blood and petrol, and the sound of machine guns and shouting. Nothing made a lick of sense.

Silence suddenly crashed over the room, and I found I had collapsed on the floor. I was staring up at the old chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It took great effort, but I managed to turn onto my stomach and make an attempt to stand. I wanted to just stay down. Stay down and let someone else carry me up to bed. No, I had to do it myself. I didn't want to be burden. So, I crawled over to the doorway, and began pulling myself up. From there, I kept myself plastered to the wall as I limped and staggered to the stairs. I eventually found it was easier to just crawl up the stairs, especially with exhaustion weighing heavier and heavier on me.

When I got to the top of the stairs, I lay there for a moment, aching and feeling each heartbeat pulsing through me. I reached up to grab the railing with a grunt, then began inching my way back to my bedroom. The sight of my own bed provided some relief. Not nearly as much as the water, but relief was relief. I crawled back under the blankets, hoping to sleep despite the aches radiating throughout my body. Osiris stood from his place at the foot of the bed, and trotted over to where I lay, curled up on my left side. He nudged himself under my arm and began to purr. I ran my fingers through his soft, gray fur, and gently hugged the cat close. It took time, but the aches resonating through me stopped long enough for me to sleep. When I closed my eyes, I really hoped I would feel better in the morning, but something was telling me that wouldn't be the case for at least several mornings.

Present Day, 1966

Anah's coils had tightened a little around Moffitt's shoulders over this course of his reading. "Oh, you poor dear." She nuzzled him. "I would have been quite upset with you if you tried getting out of bed with such a horrible flu."

"You get angry when I get out of bed with a simple little sinus infection," Moffitt said.

"That is true. I would. I would not even make it necessary for you to get out of bed in the first place. I would make sure you had all the water you needed."

"No doubt about that."

Anah became quiet for a moment. "It also sounds like your snake-whispering abilities had gone haywire."

"It's difficult to tell if it was that, or just hallucinations. Some felt a bit too real to be hallucinations. There are more. Hopefully, that'll provide some clues for you."

"I have a feeling I know what they actually are, but I would like to hear the rest of the story first." Anah looked down at the old diary. "Strange… we have known each other for over twenty years, and this is the first time you have given me any sort of hint as to the kind of person your brother was."

"Well, now I'm more comfortable talking about him. It's still difficult, but… like I said earlier, I think revisiting this will help me start putting more of my past in the past." Moffitt sighed a little. "Stop letting it drag me down so much."

"Michael sounds very sweet. I would have loved to meet him."

"I think he would've been as fascinated with you as my father was when he first met you."

Anah nodded. "It is also interesting to see how different your relationship with your father was back then compared to now."

"Yes. It… It was certainly a bit more strained. You know it was this incident that pushed him to rethink a lot of things in regards to me. In a way, I'm glad that this happened. I've met many people who never really got a chance to make things right with their fathers."

Anah smiled. "I see Dietrich's trick of getting you to rethink certain things is still working. You used to be terrified of talking about things like this."

"I was." Moffitt kept his gaze on his journal. "I'll still finish reading this. After all, even though things have changed, there's always something to be learned, and it's… it's really the only means I have of 'seeing' Michael again."

Anah gave him another nuzzle. "At least you will always have this, and your memories of him." She adjusted herself to get comfortable again. "I am ready to continue when you are, dear."