The last two days had been a blur at best. He'd been sick before, but never in subfreezing temperatures and without the comforts of his mother's herbal soup to bring him back to full strength. He'd hardly remembered that Fallon was with him, his mind instead occupied with thoughts of his parents and Quillian and Tilda. Poor Tilda. What would she think if she saw him like this? He already knew how his mother would feel; he remembered the look on her face when he'd once stumbled into the house with the poorly-bandaged gash he'd received after a run-in with a toddling dragon. But his sister... would she wear their mother's expression? Would she get angry and yell at him for being stupid? He could envision her saying he deserved it, but it was only that: a vision. His sister was not the angry and bitter sort—not like him.

He groaned as a pair of hands stirred him from his slumber, and he desperately tried to turn away from the whispers that filled his ears. He needed to wake up, they'd said, they needed to get out of here. Out of here sounded like a grand dream, but one as far out of reach as his younger self wishing for a castle of his own. He forced himself to sit up, but his eyes remained closed; the longer he could deny that he was awake, the better. It was only a nasty, phlegm-filled cough that caused him to stir into total awareness, his gaze coming to rest upon a fur-clad Fallon.

"I can get up," he murmured, but he wasn't sure how intelligibly. His words were muffled by the mucus coating his throat, and he took a much slower time to stand than his brain had convinced him. The cool breeze from the cave hit his too-warm body, sending him into a fit of shivers.

They did need to get out of here.

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