Chapter Text
The high-pitched clinking of glass against glass sounded a little bit like music. It almost reminded Trousseau of the wind chime Yorna had bought from some traveling merchant years ago, a melody that had been part of his daily life for long enough to seamlessly blend in with the background, and somehow still carry so many memories in every tune of it. And whether it was that or the small bottles containing various tinctures in his bag, the meaning remained the same. A sound promising stability, familiarity. A place he could feel confident in, and more importantly, safe.
Trousseau had rejected these concepts the moment he had chosen his path. It meant studying, experimenting, trying things no one had tested before. It might not have been a decision made entirely out of his free will, but that didn’t mean he had any regrets, not in the slightest.
And yet, he found himself pausing for a few seconds too long, listening to the echo of a sound long gone like a distant memory. Perhaps it was a mere illusion, but even so, the warm feeling it triggered inside his chest was oddly soothing. Comforting, even. Almost.
“One of these a day should be enough.“ Trousseau raised the bottle to check the label one last time (little surprisingly, it still said the same as it had about ten seconds ago) before setting it down on the nightstand and turning back around to Rosa. Who seemed to be paying more attention to him than the medicine anyway, a faint smile on her lips that weren’t reminding of the circumstances of this visit either. “If anything changes, tell me,“ he continued, although more out of habit than anything else. “I’ll check in with you more frequently now, if that’s alright.“
It was as much of a promise as an apology, although the casually neutral look on Rosa’s face didn’t really give him a hint on whether she was aware of it or not. Perhaps that was for the best, though; knowing her, she probably didn’t mind that he hadn’t been too present recently, regardless of the fact that she would be in the right for it. Her condition appeared to be stable so far, but as long as all he had to offer was a set of basic medicines that wouldn’t do a lot more than- hopefully- ensure things stayed that way long enough to give him time to find something better, he couldn’t just rely on that.
“Thank you. Don’t worry about it.“ Rosa seemed to understand, though, judging by the way her smile echoed in her calm voice. And maybe it would have actually helped Trousseau feel better about it, if it hadn’t remained when she continued. “How is Yorna doing, by the way?“
Now, Trousseau had expected this question to come up. Even if his visits primarily served the purpose of Rosa’s treatment, she’d never forget about the personal aspect of it, and Yorna and her wellbeing were the central points of those conversations more often than not. Depending on the situation, Rosa’s inquiries came in varying degrees of concern, but even without the faint worry echoing in her voice, Trousseau was well aware that the circumstances probably spoke for themselves. Considering that, he’d had time to prepare for this, and he had thought about the best way to reply, but even so, his mouth felt too dry to speak for a moment.
He had never been a particularly good liar. Yorna called it endearing, which Trousseau would probably take as a compliment if she didn’t love to make fun of him for it, and Rosa had never seemed to consider it a flaw either. Trousseau generally agreed, most of the time at least; in some situations, though, a lie just seemed so much more gentle than the truth.
Then again, those were probably the times that called for it the most.
His shoulders stiffened and he lowered his head a little, making a weak attempt to cover it up by turning away from Rosa and pretending to look for something in his bag. “It’s been…“ The words got stuck in his throat; he wasn’t even sure she could hear him through his voice, barely louder than a whisper, cracking. “Bad.“
That was a vague, rather toned-down description of what the past weeks had been like. It hadn’t been the first period of Yorna’s state worsening for seemingly no reason at all, but (even though- gods, he tried) Trousseau couldn’t brush off the thought that they hadn’t lasted that long before. Days of her body shutting down, her muscles drained of the strength to allow her to get out of bed, but in too much pain to let her sleep. Trousseau had made and remade close to every medicine he could think of that might vaguely help, getting far closer to the maximum dosage of painkillers than he would have felt comfortable giving her under regular circumstances, but nothing had seemed to work. On the worst days, Yorna had been unable to even sit up, as though her muscles had shut down and refused to respond to any of her efforts.
Trousseau shook his head, as though it would do anything to block out the memory, or the burning blade it drove into his chest, drenched in a poison that would proceed to spread through his veins regardless. But who was he to bother Rosa with that? Especially considering that she had her own illness to deal with. He was supposed to help her, not make it worse by giving her more to worry about.
Which he had thoroughly failed at, judging by her reaction. “I’m sorry to hear that.“ There was a somewhat pained tone in her voice that made Trousseau’s heart squeeze for a reason he wasn’t sure of. He didn’t need to hear it to know she was being genuine, but it gave her words a sort of gravity that seemed to weigh even heavier in his chest than his own pain.
“Thank you.“ Even to Trousseau’s ears, his tone sounded a little bit too hollow. He shifted, clearing his throat hoping it would help steady his voice, just enough to sound like he actually believed in his words. “It’s getting better,“ he muttered, even though he was certain Rosa had already figured that out by the circumstances (say, the fact that he was here in the first place). It probably wouldn’t do a lot to actually make her feel better anyway, but there wasn’t really anything else he could do, was there? “I just… I just hoped it wouldn’t…“ He trailed off, mostly because he still couldn’t keep his voice from trembling. He didn’t dare to look up from his bag either; if his voice didn’t give his true feelings away, surely the look in his eyes would.
Rosa didn’t seem to acknowledge his efforts (she never did, to be fair; their families had always been close and Trousseau had barely been old enough to care for Yorna and himself when their mother died, so Rosa had more or less taken over that role, and while that had been almost a decade ago, some things appeared to stick), because she only paused for a few seconds, then added, in the same tone of voice as before: “And how are you?“
Trousseau felt his shoulders, which had only begun to relax a little during the few seconds of silence, stiffen again; that was as far as any reaction that may have given Rosa the ground to doubt his words went, though. “I’m fine.“ Frankly, he didn’t even have the capacities to determine to which degree they were true himself. It was like a mental mechanism that would snap in upon those sort of questions, regardless of the situation, or what he really felt. He had lost the ability to control it long ago, which, on the bright side, made it about the only lie he could convincingly voice without even thinking about it. It was just a matter of practice, really.
Then again, Rosa’s look was doubtful at best, and definitely laced with more concern than it should. Trousseau shifted, doing his best to fight the urge to turn away from her again, for no real reason other than that it would probably defeat his point. “Really,“ he added, although he couldn’t quite suppress the feeling that it just served his own peace of mind, rather than actually supporting the credibility of his words. “Things are looking better already.“
It fulfilled its purpose, however, because this time, Rosa’s expression softened. “I’m glad,“ she replied, tone of voice too soft to read her words as anything but genuine, even if Trousseau wouldn’t have known better anyway. “I’m sure it’ll be alright.“
“Yes. Thank you.“ He finally allowed a smile to return to his lips, only now feeling somewhat confident that it wouldn’t just look strained, contradicting his words rather than anything else. “I believe I should head back anyway,“ he said. “If you don’t need anything else.“
“No, it’s good.“ Rosa shifted, her voice grew a little quieter, although the warm tone remained. “But stop by Lily and Melia before you leave, alright? I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you too.“
Trousseau simply gave her a small nod before turning to leave. He had planned to do so anyway; less out of courtesy rather than genuine will, especially in Melia’s case. It was rare for her not to be present while Trousseau was attending to Rosa, actually (even for her young age, she showed an exceptional amount of interest in his work; to help Mommy, according to her, and the amount of confidence and pride in her voice would send a bittersweet sting through his chest) and considering that it had been a while since he’d last seen her, he hadn’t been going to leave without at least saying hello to her.
He found the two in the kitchen; Melia sat at the table in front of a few books spread out on it while Lily stood at the counter, although she reacted to his greetings even quicker than Melia did. “Ah, good,“ she commented as she walked over to the table as well, gesturing for him to follow her. “Lady Rosa told me to give you these.“
Trousseau approached the separate pile of books she slid in his direction; the greatest part of him wasn’t quite sure how to feel as he briefly looked through them. Most were volumes of an adventure series Yorna liked, as well as a medical nonfiction.
The smile he gave Lily was genuine, but even so, he couldn’t keep his shoulders from stiffening. “That’s too kind,“ he muttered, because it was, quite literally. Such gifts were a habit left from the time when Rosa had still supported Yorna and him, and even though this was (supposedly) long over, Rosa kept insisting on it. Trousseau even understood her, to some extent; she had known the both of them for all their lives, and he would probably do the same in her position. Not that it’d ever happen.
She still was his patient though, and more importantly, the head of their town. Yorna loved to forget about that (the greatest part of Trousseau couldn’t even blame her; she had been younger than Melia was now when their mother died, so Rosa was the closest to a parental figure she’d had for the majority of her life) but that only made it more important for him to remember the hierarchal difference.
“I picked these out,“ Melia chimed in, tone of voice almost excited enough to dissipate his concerns. “For Yorna!“ Then, a little quieter: “When will she be able to visit again?“
That part succeeded in wiping his earlier thoughts from Trousseau’s mind, albeit by replacing them with a different kind of sting, a whole lot more bitter. “Soon,“ he assured her, hoping his smile would match the soft tone of his voice. That it wouldn’t bleed through how desperately he hoped these words were true. “She still needs to rest right now, but she’ll be better in no time.“
“Okay.“ Melia nodded happily, her smile looking just as big as genuine, and somehow, it made the weight in Trousseau’s chest a little lighter. “Tell her hello from me then! And that I’m looking forward.“
Her tone was so lighthearted, so cheerful it would have been difficult not to return it, even if the the spark in her eyes hadn’t been sufficient on that matter. “I will,“ Trousseau promised as he picked up the books; while he couldn’t quite keep his stomach from churning, it had gotten significantly easier to ignore. “She’ll be happy to hear it.“
Melia responded with a happy hum before returning to her book.
The look in Lily’s eyes seemed to soften as well when Trousseau met them. “Please tell Miss Rosa my thanks,“ he muttered, although his voice sounded a little clearer this time. “I’ll- I’ll come back in a few days, but if anything happens, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me.“ Not that Lily needed to hear this, but spelling it out gave Trousseau a sense of security.
She simply gave him a small nod that Trousseau answered with a smile, which faded a little too quickly after he had turned away. Because a different shadow resurfaced on his mind, a dormant concern he was somewhat able to drown out as long as he had something to distract himself with. Yorna was doing a lot better than she had been just a week ago, and he had double checked everything was as alright as could be before he had left (until Yorna had sent him away, in fact, assuring him that she was fine, gods, Miss Rosa probably needs you more than I do right now) but even so, Trousseau’s heartbeat sped up a little as he left the Glenville estate. It was the first time in a while he had left her alone for so long, and that always put him on the edge, nevermind that most of these worries weren’t exactly rational, let alone had ever been true.
Despite what he had told Melia, Yorna’s bed was empty when he returned home, which would have been a concerning sight if he hadn’t found her in the kitchen hardly a few seconds later. “Welcome back,“ she greeted him without turning away from the counter, but in a tone of voice so cheerful Trousseau’s heart did a small jump, almost enough to make him forget about the general situation.
Almost. “Hello.“ Even to himself, his voice sounded warm more than anything; then again, his sister probably knew him well enough to pick up on the trace of concern anyway. She likely didn’t even need to hear his words for it. “Why are you up?“ Not that it wasn’t mostly a good sign in itself, but he had left her under the premise that she was going to get some rest while he was away.
“I’m making dinner,“ Yorna replied simply, although this time, she paused to turn around to him.
The spark in her bright eyes did help ease Trousseau’s concerns a little bit. All about her seemed to be in the right state to be up and active for a little while as far as he could tell at a glance, but she had a tendency to push herself, which definitely wasn’t beneficial when she was still recovering. “Why?“
“It’s dinnertime.“
Okay, ask stupid questions. “I mean, why didn’t you wait for me,“ Trousseau corrected himself, fully aware that Yorna had understood that the first time, and probably wouldn’t accept this phrasing either.
He turned out to be correct. “You were taking forever,“ she complained, although the whine in her voice was a little too exaggerated to make her sound genuinely upset. “I was bored! And hungry.“
Under different circumstances, Trousseau would have felt guilty for it (regardless of whether Yorna truly meant her words or not; his mind tended to do an extraordinary job at ignoring such aspects, no matter that every rational part of him knew it wasn’t serious), but after the past few weeks, Yorna acting so much like herself was far too relieving to feel bad about any part of it. “I was gone for an hour.“
“That isn’t what it felt like to me,“ Yorna argued. There was a somewhat triumphant tone echoing in her voice, replacing the whine as an indicator that she wasn’t really serious. “How was I supposed to know when you’d be back anyways?“
Trousseau sighed. All things considered, it was difficult to want to argue, let alone be upset upon seeing his sister that lively again. “Alright.“ He gave her a soft smile, before deciding to compromise. “You shouldn’t overexert yourself, though. Sit down, I’ll handle the rest.“
“No way! I made this, so I’m finishing it.“ As though to prove that she was feeling fine, she straightened up more, waving a hand at him. “Aside from that, you’d just take that as an excuse not to eat it. You can’t fool me.“
“I-“ Trousseau stiffened, but didn’t finish the sentence, mostly because there wasn’t anything he could say to that (in either of their favour, anyway). She had a point, in a way; he hadn’t been able to force more than a few bites down his throat at once recently, and even that had taken more time and energy than he could afford to waste. But Yorna hadn’t been supposed to notice, so bringing more attention to it was precisely the opposite of what he wanted.
This reaction didn’t help his point either, as Yorna seemed to take his hesitance as an admission of her victory. “That’s right!“ She turned back towards the counter. “You go get ready, I’m almost done anyway.“
Trousseau was sure his smile didn’t exactly look genuine, but Yorna didn’t turn back around when he didn’t reply. Proceeding the discussion seemed counter intuitive either way, so he simply decided to listen; he couldn’t brush off the unease stirring inside his stomach as he left, but managed to ignore it, more or less.
Even though Trousseau had hurried, by the time he returned to the kitchen, Yorna was finished, already sitting at the table. He did his best to force the aftertaste of guilt from his mind (because it wouldn’t do much now), which he sort of succeeded in, considering that his voice sounded mostly just apologetic as he sat down as well. “Thank you.“ Not that Yorna seemed to pay enough attention to notice anyway, too preoccupied with her own food.
“Slow down a little,“ Trousseau told her, although the greatest part of him couldn’t really blame her. She hadn’t really been able to keep food down the past few weeks, and her appetite returning was first and foremost a good sign. “You’ll make yourself sick.“
Yorna made a sound vaguely reminiscent of a hum, although that was as far as her recognition of his words went. She still appeared to focus more on her meal than him in general, which was good, as Trousseau felt his smile fade, something inside him refusing to take his eyes off his sister.
Because despite everything, her hands were trembling as she moved, her breathing a little too irregular to brush it off, and her pale skin was glistening with sweat. The spark in her eyes remained, but up close it couldn’t quite cover up the shadows underneath them.
Trousseau bit his tongue until it hurt, but even so, the pain wasn’t enough to block out the thoughts threatening to flood his mind. Stupid, worthless, dangerous, why had he allowed it to come this far? Even on her better days, Yorna was still sick, and he was supposed to care for her. To help her, find a cure, soon, because things weren’t getting better.
He tried to swallow the sickness on his tongue, to no avail; even the smell of food was enough to make him feel nauseous now (and, perhaps even more so, the guilt that went along with it, stuck in his throat like bitter poison, because he wasn’t able to enjoy something Yorna made when it was probably- no, he was not going to finish that thought, that definitely wasn’t helping).
Perhaps he wanted to forget about it a little too desperately, but Yorna was far from fine, even considering all her progress. She’s lucky if she lives to twelve, that was what the traveling apothecary that had seen her when she had first fallen sick had said, and even after all the years that had passed since then, those words still made Trousseau’s stomach twist in the same way as they had when he’d first heard them. As though that sentence, so little and yet so grave, had been all it had taken to shatter his entire world, and in a way, that wasn’t all that wrong.
Trousseau had sought him out that evening, had practically begged him to teach him about medicine so he could do something to help Yorna, and the apothecary had accepted after an initial reluctant reaction. He had shown him a variety of simple concoctions, things that would help ease her symptoms and perhaps extend her lifespan a little bit, but whenever Trousseau would ask about more, he was always met with the same answer.
Incurable, just the word made him sick to his stomach. What an insult! How could he have any sort of worth as an apothecary- as a brother- if he were to give up on his sister without even trying to save her? Maybe he couldn’t expect anyone else to, but in that case, he would take the matter in his own hands. Which was exactly what he’d told that apothecary too, and the look he had received was still etched in his mind after all those years. Don’t hurt yourself, kid, said in such a low, hollow voice, eyes shimmering with something akin to pity, sometimes all you can do is make sure someone had a good life.
But he had been wrong! Yorna was fourteen years old, and even if her health was getting… wasn’t getting better, she was alive and breathing, and despite everything still her energetic, cheerful self. Perhaps things hadn’t looked good for her back then, but Trousseau made progress with her treatment. He would find a way to cure her. He had to, he- the both of them made it so far, there was no way all of that had been for nothing.
“Hey.“ Yorna’s voice dragged his mind back to the present (and Trousseau couldn’t help but feel as though it sounded a little too quiet, too exhausted), along with her tapping her foot against his leg underneath the table (half-heartedly, or perhaps just weakly because that had been all she could muster). “Hey,“ she repeated, as though she could sense his thoughts, and Trousseau couldn’t do a lot more but hope that wasn’t the case. “You’re meant to eat it, not just play with it.“
“I’m sorry.“ He forced a smile, but it quickly softened into a genuine one when Yorna only stuck out her tongue as a reply. Perhaps it was true and he was worrying too much. All hardships aside, Yorna was doing much better than what had been predicted for her, which meant that they were on the right path. The bad moments barely outweighed the good when she wouldn’t even be alive anymore according to her diagnosis, and that had to mean something. He would find a cure for her suffering, and make sure she was going to be okay until then.
As long as he was here, and as long as there was anything he could do for her, nothing bad would happen to his little sister.
It was a rather slow afternoon.
With Yorna and Rosa doing as good as could be, and no one else at his door (so far), Trousseau settled for organising his notes and supplies. It was long overdue anyway; by now, he was used to functioning on days without sleep and a mix of caffeine and as much skybalm essence as he felt comfortable wasting on himself, but the stress of the past few weeks had left his workspace in a greater mess than he liked. It was a good opportunity to coordinate his stock with the herbs mentioned in the book Rosa had bought anyway, which had probably been one task too much. The open book took up about a quarter of the space on his desk, while the rest was scattered with herbs and sheets of paper covered in scribblings of varying degrees of legibility. Considering that, some free time was probably for the best, as cleaning this up would take a while anyway.
Yorna sat upright in her bed on the other side of the room, the pile of her own books on the nightstand slowly shrinking; all to be heard from her was her steady breathing and the turning of the pages.
It was everything Trousseau could wish for, really. These kinds of days almost reminded him of a time years back, when he had first made progress with Yorna’s treatment. (He vaguely remembered how enthusiastic he’d been, so full of hope that he was on the right way, he would find a cure in no time. It felt bitter, looking back at it now, how simple and naive his worldview had been, yet to break with reality.) He couldn’t truly get even a piece of that feeling back, but on days like this, it was a little easier to pretend that everything was alright.
Until Yorna interrupted the silence, at least. “Trousseau?“
Trousseau raised his head a little, humming to indicate he was paying attention. He expected a simple request or a question or comment on the scene she was reading. That was usually what she wanted in situations like this, at least, and there had been no clue in her tone of voice that it would be any different now.
It was, but even knowing that, it wouldn’t have taken away the impact of her words. “What will you do when I’m gone?“
Trousseau’s blood ran cold.
He was sure he couldn’t keep himself from wincing, or freezing up at least. Hearing such a question with no context or buildup whatsoever would have been enough to throw him off on its own, but that wasn’t even the part that caught his mind. The worst part was the naturalness Yorna spoke in, her almost casual tone of voice, the-
The utter certainty bleeding through her words.
This wasn’t a simple hypothetical to think about, but a very real scenario to her. She talked as though she considered… this (damn, he couldn’t even think about it, no matter that Yorna had just said it out loud) a given, an inevitable outcome of their situation.
It wasn’t that Trousseau (as though either of them, it seemed) could ever ignore the silent shadow looming over any of his attempts to find a cure; the certainty that they were racing against time, a hourglass running out, slowly, but never halting. No, it was impossible to forget about it, but that didn’t lessen the impact of hearing it spelled out, just like that. By Yorna no less, who should be the last person to be burdened by these thoughts, if he could do anything about it.
Or that’s what he wanted to believe, but he didn’t really do anything, did he? Because even so, it took him a few seconds too long to push this feeling away; this was about Yorna, letting his own emotions bleed into his assurances would surely rob them of any comforting effect.
“It’s not going to get that far.“ He turned his head to the side; while he wasn’t sure Yorna could even see his face from her position, he couldn’t bring himself to turn around to her. Because he didn’t know if his smile quite made it to his eyes, and it would probably defeat any comfort his soft voice might have held. “Please don’t worry.“ Even so, he couldn’t stop it from trembling upon these words, albeit too slightly for his sister to notice. Or so he hoped, at least.
Whether Yorna picked up on it or not, or perhaps had been thinking about this for too long to let go, he didn’t know. He didn’t want to know, no matter how bitter that admission was, because the greatest part of him had a feeling that it was the latter. “I’m not, I just thought…“ There she trailed off, and something inside Trousseau squeezed painfully. Yorna wasn’t the type of person to struggle with her words, and even without seeing her face, her breathy voice and the slight hesitance in it gave him an idea of how heavy it must have been weighing on her mind. “It’s… better to have something, just… just in case.“ She paused for a second. “Even if it’s not going to get that far.“
Perhaps it was something about her tone, perhaps it was the way her voice grew a little quieter at these last words, but something about them only made the weight in Trousseau's chest heavier. Because Yorna, or at least the greatest part of her, didn’t believe in them, he didn’t even need to look at her to sense this with every fiber of his being; and yet, he somehow lacked the capacities to help her. To change that impression, something he had done dozens of times for other patients, and it had never given him significant trouble- on the contrary, it came naturally to him most of the time, so why didn’t it work for Yorna? She was the reason why he did this in the first place, why did the sadness in her voice stir up nothing but hollow dread inside him?
“Don’t say things like that.“ This time, he was certain his expression would have given away far too much of his feelings, when it took all the strength he could muster to even keep up the same tone as before. And in addition to that, even though he wasn’t proud to admit it, he didn’t want to see the look on Yorna’s face either; if it was anywhere similar to her tone of voice, he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t break his paper-thin illusion that her words didn’t terrify him. “Please.“
The silence that followed was so loud in his ears.
Trousseau bit his tongue, still not daring to turn around. He had no idea if Yorna even had the intention of saying anything more, and part of him prayed she didn’t; the other part prayed he wouldn’t see the answer in her face once he gathered the courage to look at her.
“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,“ Yorna continued. Although her voice remained a little too quiet to brush it off, it had shifted into a steady, almost calm tone that was so much worse than the one before. There was a deeply, fundamentally twisted naturalness to it, as though any of Trousseau’s attempts of offering some sort of hope were worthless from the start.
And yet, and that was the worst part, it was all he had. “I d-it’s not going to happen.“ I don’t want to think about this. Perhaps this version was closer to the truth, and perhaps he could have said that sentence out loud without breaking under the weight of it. Without his voice, which should be calm and steady, reassuring, comforting- without it trembling so much he barely even understood his own words.
This was far from the right way of handling situations like this, Trousseau was painfully aware of that. He was an apothecary after all, and Yorna, in that sense, his patient. Death and the discussion thereof were an inevitable part of this occupation; this was the point where he should have turned around to her and listened to her with a smile. Ease her concerns without giving her any unrealistic expectations of the outcome of his treatment. Remain calm, lead her through this conversation, offer some sort of comfort instead of making everything worse.
He knew all that, in theory. And yet, he couldn’t imagine himself ever holding such a conversation with anyone, least of all his sister. Not when it he had to fight to even keep his breathing somewhat steady, his shoulders from trembling, anything that would only further upset Yorna. When he couldn’t even look at her without breaking, despite the fact that he was supposed to be by her side. Take her hand, metaphorically and literally, and not let go until she felt safe again.
But here he was, unable to even just grasp it when she was reaching out.
“Please don’t…“ His voice broke, but perhaps that was for the best. Truth was, he had no idea what he could say when there was nothing that would actually help. If there was any way to ease the worries on her mind, to take her pain, he would do so without hesitation, but he didn’t have the means for it. At this rate, all he could offer were empty phrases that, speaking from experience, wouldn’t actually bring her any sort of comfort. On the contrary, if anything, given the way he still couldn’t muster the courage to turn around to her.
There was a long pause (or so Trousseau guessed, because he wasn’t confident he could trust his perception of time in this situation) before Yorna spoke up again, and if her words hadn’t been enough to shatter something inside him for good, her voice, so small and quiet, would have been. “I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.“
Trousseau bit his tongue; the sharp pain barely outweighed the one in his chest, but at least it kept him from saying anything else, anything that would only make the situation worse than it already was. That would somehow shift the blame on Yorna, when he couldn’t even do so much as reassure her despite the fact that it was his entire job to make sure she didn’t have such thoughts in the first place. This was his failing, and somehow Yorna was the one apologising.
A better apothecary- no, a better brother wouldn’t even have let it come so far, or at least have the strength to do something about it now. And yet here he was, allowing his sister to feel bad for something that was entirely his fault, because he was utterly helpless in the situation.
There was nothing he could do, that thought stayed back in his head, oozing into every last corner of his mind. Right, how could he blame his sister for having such thoughts, when he gave her no reason to hope otherwise? He couldn’t even help her in a situation like this, and yet he expected her to put her trust, her life in his hands, and never once doubt that everything would somehow end well?
Trousseau lowered his head, pretending to rub his eyes as to wipe away tears in a way Yorna wouldn’t notice. Whether she did or not, he didn’t know. It would have required turning around to her, which meant revealing his face after all, and the whole act would have turned fairly pointless.
Or maybe he was still too scared to see the expression on her face. There was no point in thinking about which option it was, though; the result stayed the same, he simply stared at the book still open in front of him, until the letters blurred together and the blackness of the ink took over his whole field of vision.
Trousseau woke up at some point in the night, darkness and silence surrounding him. It took him a few seconds to gain some sort of awareness of the present, the first thing he noticed was the dull ache in his whole body. His back protested painfully when he attempted to straighten up; his head was pounding, a sour, acidic taste laid on his tongue. His arms, barely strong enough to support his weight, radiated a burning sting, the skin felt rough and hot when he ran his fingers over it, a (figuratively and literally) painful note that he must have been scratching at them without noticing again.
For a few seconds, Trousseau just sat there, waiting for the pain to die down and regain some sort of sense of his surroundings. It wasn’t the first time he had fallen asleep like this, and even though it was, generally speaking, far from comfortable, it didn’t usually make him feel this bad. It was likely the aftermath of… well, the past few weeks, and that conversation probably hadn’t helped it either.
But as his mind cleared little by little, he started to notice some details that made the dull burn inside his stomach a little less sour, somehow. There was a blanket around his shoulders, and his desk seemed less clattered than before. The book was closed, a cup filled with a dark liquid sitting in the free space.
Slowly, Trousseau reached out for it (only realising his hands were shaking upon picking it up; whether his muscles were protesting the less than optimal sleeping conditions or it was something… else, he didn’t want to think about) and took a sip of the tea. It was long cold, of course, but that didn’t matter; the warmth was in the gesture, a message more important than its means of transmission.
Beneath that thought, however, there was something else, a faint sting barely present enough to hurt, but nonetheless increasingly difficult to ignore the longer it went on.
His stomach churning, Trousseau set the cup down again and looked over to Yorna’s bed. His sister looked fast asleep, and so peaceful at that; Trousseau could only hope it reflected some of her state before that. That she hadn’t spent the evening worrying about things that had no business being on her mind in the first place.
Then again, something inside him refused to let go of the feeling that she did. That she wouldn’t have brought… this up if she hadn’t been thinking about it for a while, and that his reaction probably hadn’t done a lot to ease her concerns (which was arguably even worse). Even so, however, the greatest part of him was aware he was probably in no position to shut these thoughts down. Yorna cared about him, just as much as he cared about her.
(As much as he loathed himself for feeling this way, there were times he wished she didn’t. It would take so much weight off both their shoulders, one less thing to worry about when countless others were waiting in line anyway. Yorna wouldn’t have to waste her energy on his wellbeing, he wouldn’t have to try so hard to hold the pieces of himself, sharp-edged enough to cut into his skin, together. It was a terrible thought he’d shut down the second it would come up, but that didn’t stop it from reemerging, more and more frequently in situations like this.)
Trousseau swallowed heavily, as though it would do anything to force that feeling down, and walked over to her bed. Yorna laid perfectly still, the only indication that she was even alive being the quiet sound of her breathing, but that was more of a relief than a concern to see. She hadn’t been able to sleep so peacefully in a while, after all.
Carefully, as though she might shatter under his touch (and perhaps she would, in one way or another) Trousseau brushed a strand of clear white hair out of her face. It was such a pure, clean color, not tinged with brownish pink like his own; Melia, with her sweet and innocent view of the world that could only belong to a child, would compare it to the color of snow, but to Trousseau, she looked more like a doll. A doll with porcelain skin and hair of the same shade, beauty only a reminder of her fragility.
Or, sometimes, a ghost.
His heart squeezed painfully as his hand slid off of Yorna’s soft cheek. At times like this, she reminded him of a ghost, as though his fingers would pass right through her if he added the slightest bit of force; her figure fading away right in front of him while he couldn’t do anything, starting off with holding her.
He knew she was everything but that, of course. She was brave, strong, a fighter, more so than he could even dream of. Actually, Trousseau felt as though she was the one carrying the both of them more often than not, even if it should be the other way round.
Should be. A bitter sting pierced his chest, almost intense enough to make him wince. His little sister wasn’t supposed to be worrying about what would happen to him when- no, if, that was all he could hold onto- if she was gone. She shouldn’t have to think about either of it, not her own death, and certainly not what he would do then, when it was about her. He was supposed to help her, to make sure she didn’t have to worry about either of that, and somehow, he managed to fail at both.
He would have to work harder.
Trousseau swallowed, heavy through the lump in his throat. Yorna’s hopes, her life- it was all in his hands, and he wouldn’t betray the trust she put in him. He had to, he would put an end to this pain that had been allowed to go on for far too long, in one way too much to be just.
That was a promise. To Yorna, as well as to himself.
The bitterness on his tongue slowly began to fade as Trousseau adjusted Yorna’s blanket and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. Right, this was his responsibility, but he couldn’t- he wouldn’t allow it to break him. Not when Yorna needed him.
For now, he would let her sleep. In the meanwhile, he’d proceed his work, go through the book and his supplies again because there had to be something he hadn’t tried yet, a concoction that would make progress with curing her illness. He’d have breakfast ready by the time she woke up, and perhaps add some extra honey to her medicine. Yorna shouldn’t have a single negative thought on her mind, that was the least he could do for her.
That plan gave him a faint sense of ease despite everything, following along a warm feeling inside his chest almost present enough to wash out the bitter acid beneath. It was easy- far, far too easy- to forget about it sometimes, but all the efforts of studying her condition and testing potential cures weren’t worth a lot if Yorna wasn’t happy. He would find a way to save her, and until then, he would make sure she had a good life. Her illness wouldn’t get to define her better days, not if there was anything he could do about it.
It wouldn’t make the overall situation a lot better, part of Trousseau was painfully aware of that, but right now, he could gather the strength- the faith to force that feeling down. Living like this wasn’t easy, not for him and definitely not for Yorna, but that didn’t make it right to just accept this state, on the contrary. Because they still had each other, and at least in moments like this, that was enough.