Day 18

The first sound Jules heard upon waking up was that of the radiator turning on. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he shifted in bed to look at the clock. It was only four in the morning, and it was lightly snowing outside. He was glad he didn't have to get up just yet to take care of the horses, so he settled back down in his pillow, hoping to get a few more hours of sleep.

Before he could doze back off, Jules jolted at the sound of someone retching and vomiting in the bathroom. He got out of bed and went out to find the bathroom door wide open. The lights hadn't been turned on, but Jules could still make out the lanky form of his father crumpled on the floor. Jules turned the light on, revealing a very ashen-faced Moffitt. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was trembling.

"Don't—" Moffitt held up a shaky hand, "—come in any further."

"Why? What's wrong?" Jules asked.

"I'm…" Moffitt trailed off, more color draining from his face. He leaned over the trash can to throw up once more.

It was plainly obvious that he was sick, but Jules didn't want to just let Moffitt lay in the bathroom and suffer. "I'll help you get back to bed."

"Not yet!" Moffitt groaned. "Wait till I'm empty!"

That shouldn't take long, Jules thought. He bit his lip, keeping his comments to himself. He stepped aside when he saw his mother leaving her room.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Dad's sick," Jules replied.

Vanora sighed. "And the sky is blue." She stepped into the bathroom. "Jack?"

Moffitt retched one last time before slowly lifting his head. "Yes, darling?"

"Do we need to bring you to the hospital?"

"No… no, no… n-no… I'm alright. Just…" He slowly sat with his back against the wall, wrapping his arms around his stomach and drawing his knees up. "Don't feel good…"

Vanora felt Moffitt's forehead. "You're burning up. Here—" She started unbuttoning his pajama top. "Jules, get me a washrag."

Jules nodded before dashing over to the linen closet, taking out and unfolding a washcloth. "Here, Mum."

"Thank you." Vanora ran the cloth under cold water, then rung it out and folded it before placing it on Moffitt's forehead. "Did you touch him at all, Jules?"

"No. I didn't even touch the doorknob," Jules replied.

"Alright. Still, wash up, then go back to bed."

"You're sure you don't need help?"

"I'm positive."

Jules went back to his bedroom after giving his hands a light scrub, but he didn't close the door like he usually did. He lay in bed, uncertain he would be able to fall asleep. His father had been sick like this before, but the worry was always present that it would take a turn for the worse. Jules eventually slept, and awoke to see the icicles outside his window had grown a little, and the snow was still falling. Sunlight glinted off the snow and ice, and all was quiet aside from the sound of pots and pans in the kitchen. After getting dressed, Jules stepped out to see Anah stirring broth on the stove. "Good morning," Jules said.

"Good morning," Anah replied. "Your father's sick."

"I know. I found him chundering in the loo last night. How is he?"

"He is in the parlor right now, still quite feverish."

"Okay." Jules went over to the parlor doorway, seeing Moffitt laying on the couch. "Dad?"

"Jules?" Moffitt murmured.

"Yeah."

Moffitt was quiet for a moment. He squirmed on the couch, moaning and holding his stomach. "So… hot… It's so hot… So hot…"

Jules went into the bathroom to get a washrag, making sure the water was cold before soaking it. He returned to the parlor to set the cloth on his father's forehead.

"It's hot… It's hot…" Moffitt slurred. He kept writhing for a moment, and gradually relaxed once Jules pressed the cloth to his head. Moffitt glanced at Jules, eyes glassy with fever. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Dad," Jules said, quietly. His thoughts turned briefly to the journal Moffitt had found in his closet, detailing his cursed illness while he was attending university. Michael, his father's late brother, had basically given himself the role of nurse, doing whatever he could to keep Moffitt comfortable despite being completely unaware of what was actually wrong. Jules said nothing, knowing that was still a bit of a touchy subject with his father.

Livna came trotting into the parlor, and without missing a beat, she hopped up onto the couch, gently nosing Moffitt's stomach.

"Yes, that hurts, lint-ball," Moffitt said. "Please be gentle."

The husky sniffed her master's face, then lay with her head on his chest, looking at Moffitt with what could be best described as sympathy.

Jules smiled, knowing that his father wouldn't have tolerated this a year ago. He chose not to say anything, and instead went back into the kitchen. "Is there anything we can do, Anah?"

"Unfortunately, not much," the cobra replied.

Jules nodded. He went to the coatrack in order to go outside and take care of the horses. When he returned, he found Anah had breakfast and tea waiting for him, and his mother talking on the phone.

"…Yes, this started last night," Vanora was saying. "No, there's been no blood, Doctor… Alright. That sounds easy enough… Yes, we will keep him in bed and keep him hydrated. Thank you, Doctor." She hung up the phone, letting out her breath. "Well, that's good."

"What is it, Mum?" Jules asked.

"I don't have to take your father to the hospital, but the doctor has given me strict instructions to keep him home unless he becomes severely dehydrated. We also have to be a bit more diligent about keeping things clean, and this means we can't have anyone visiting for a little while."

"Does this mean we're not going over to Dietrich's for the Christmas party?"

"I'm going to call him right now and ask about postponing it."

"Okay." Jules sat at the table, disappointed about the Christmas party having to change, but his father's health was more important. After breakfast, Jules went out to the parlor, seeing Livna was still with Moffitt, and Anah had joined them. He wanted to do something to help, but nothing came to mind. He sat in a chair, and looked out over the snowy yard. In the corner of his eye, he saw Anah raising her head.

"Do you need something, dear?" Anah asked.

"No. I was wondering if Dad needed anything," Jules replied.

"A miracle cure," Moffitt muttered.

"I would gladly go on a quest for that. I have a sword, a cloak, and a horse. All I'm missing is a fellowship."

Moffitt smiled a little. "I'm sure if you called Dietrich, Troy, Hitch, and Tully, they would gladly accompany you on such a quest. There's your fellowship."

Jules was glad to see his father smiling. "Hey, didn't you first read The Hobbit to me when I was sick?"

"I did, and you enjoyed it so much that I would read it to you for bedtime after you got better."

Vanora appeared in the doorway to the parlor. "Jack, I called Dietrich. The Christmas party is being postponed to next Saturday."

"Alright." Moffitt sighed. "I wish we didn't have to."

"I know. It'll be better for all of us. You can't even walk right now, and we don't want everyone else getting sick."

"Fair point."

"Did you hear any of my conversation with the doctor?"

"No."

"We need to make sure you're drinking enough water so we don't have to bring you to the hospital."

"Fantastic. There's just one problem with that."

"What?"

"I don't think my stomach wants anything in it at the moment. Even water."

"Then we'll let you rest and try offering water later."

"What about ginger ale?" Jules asked.

Moffitt glared at him. "I will never touch one of those blasted carbonated beverages. It'll make everything worse!"

Jules sighed and rolled his eyes. "Forget I asked, then."

With nothing more that could be done, Jules offered to help his mother and Anah maintain the house, leaving Moffitt to rest. That evening, Anah prepared a somewhat bland meal for him, but he was only able to eat a couple of spoonfuls before feeling nauseated again.

Jules went out into the parlor after getting his shower, finding Moffitt curled up under a blanket, looking miserable. "Are you awake, Dad?" Jules asked.

"I wish I wasn't," Moffitt muttered. "Just sleep it off."

"I'm guessing there's still nothing we can do?"

"No."

"Okay. Um… I'll leave you alone." Jules turned to leave the parlor, giving a sigh of defeat.

"You are allowed to keep me company. Honestly… that's all I'd like right now."

Jules nodded before turning around and going to sit in one of the chairs near the couch.

Moffitt was slow as he moved onto his back. He took a few deep breaths in an effort to soothe his nausea, and stared up at the ceiling for a moment. "Do you remember when I found that diary I kept when I was younger, while I was sick from a curse?"

"Yeah," Jules said. "What about it?"

"Earlier today, I was dreaming about it. I dreamt that I was that sick again, unable to walk without feeling oppressively dizzy. Michael was here, in this house, trying to take care of me the way he did back then." Moffitt let out a sad sigh. "I've been trying to remember if I ever did thank him for all that. My… My frustration with my father had been the dominating feeling at the time. I remember that far more clearly."

"It's still strange to think there was once a time when you and Grandpa didn't get along."

"It is. I'm glad we were able to discuss our differences and move past them." Moffitt went quiet again. "I don't know what would've happened if we were still fighting when he went to North Africa during the war and was captured by the Germans. I would have gone after him regardless, but I don't know… how things would play out afterward. I wouldn't exactly want to be arguing in front of Troy, Hitch, and Tully. That would've been embarrassing." He kept staring up at the ceiling. "I wish I had been able to think more about what Michael had done. I want to gain all my memories back, but… that's one that I'm afraid of. I'm afraid that I never did thank him."

"He knew about your arguments with Grandpa, though."

"Yes, and he tried taking my side. He didn't like seeing us fight. That's still no excuse for me neglecting something so simple."

"Based on everything you've told me, I'm sure he would understand."

"I hope so. That'll be something worth discussing with him when my time comes to cross the river, which, hopefully, won't be a long, long time."

Jules tried swallow past the choking sensation of tears rapidly building in his throat. No matter how far away that seemed, it wasn't something he wanted to think about. He drew in a breath, and stood to go over to Moffitt, taking and squeezing his hand.

"Are you alright?" Moffitt asked.

"Yes. Just… agreeing that I hope that won't be for a long time."

"Ah. I'm sorry if that frightened you."

"It's okay. At least we'll never fight the way you and Grandpa did."

"No. I learned from his mistakes—and he told me not to repeat the mistakes he did."

"Well, I would tell you if something was wrong, just like you taught me."

Moffitt smiled and nodded. "That's right. I did."

Jules let go of his father's hand. "I should let you get some sleep."

"I'm not sure how much sleep I'll get, but I'm glad we talked. Sleep well, Jules."

"You, too. Feel better, Dad."

Moffitt steadily improved over the next several days, but the celebrating of his recovery didn't last long, as Jules awoke late one night with similar symptoms. Like his father, Jules was stuck inside, but given a lot of love and attention by his parents, Anah, and of course Livna. The following afternoon, Moffitt went out into the parlor with a well-worn book in hand, and sat near Jules.

"What's that?" Jules asked.

"Do you remember me telling you about the journey I went on after my illness, when I crossed North Africa?" Moffitt replied.

"Yeah."

"I found the diary I kept. It's not the most interesting story in the world, though."

"I'm willing to listen."

Moffitt reached over to ruffle Jules's hair. "Alright. Get comfortable, and we'll begin."