There was truth to the saying ‘sickness comes in waves’. It was never just a single thing: it was one thing after another in an acute phase of illness. The fact that it was often proceeded by long periods of good health was meaningless - you instantly forgot being well in favour of being miserable for a few days. There was also something to be said for the fact that Leo only ever fell sick when he stopped. And, what he meant by that wasn’t that he had stopped working because he became ill. Rather that he had decided to take a trial or two off and then had fallen unwell. The Immortals had it in for him.
This was trial four of feeling sorry for himself. The aches and pains radiated from his hips down to his knees, his throat felt like someone had thrust a rusted metal pike down there, his head was pounding, his nose was simultaneously stuffed and running. It wasn’t the worst he had ever felt, not by any stretch, but Leander was certainly not enjoying life right now.
Shivering as he pushed himself out of his bed, Leo shuffled across the wooden floor, wishing there was a rug or something to make his footfalls just that little bit more cushioned to protect his throbbing head. Coughing into a handkerchief, the chemist bent down - very slowly - and opened a cupboard door, wherein he spied some of the strong stuff: some whisky. It would make his throat hurt more than it currently did, but it would, with the right dose, soothe nearly ever other wretched symptom he was experiencing. Biting his tongue, he pulled the stopper out and poured a generous helping into a flagon (an ideal drinking receptacle because he actually had no idea how much of the golden nectar he had poured out).
Task complete, the despondent invalid dragged himself back across the room and sighed as he slowly eased himself back into bed. Then he heard a banging at the door, two in total. Half-way down to lying in the bed, Leander paused and remained perfectly still, awkwardly holding himself up on his elbow, his other hand extended with the flagon of whisky vibrating a little in his grasp. There was another three knocks. They didn’t sound urgent, but no knock at his door ever was.
Still, Leander, feeling a little pathetic and having no intention to display anything but that emotion, groaned as he pushed himself back out of the bed. The flagon clattered a little as he blindly groped for a surface upon which to place it before he reached down and grabbed his blanket. It was the height of the Hot Cycle - the beginning of Saun, for Immortals’ sake. But damnit, the man was still cold. He didn’t care how pitiable he looked, he wrapped the blanket around his head and shoulders and padded across the room and out to the front door.
Two more knocks, just as Leo arrived. He wasn’t quite irritated, but he was definitely moving in that direction. Grasping the handle, he pulled the door open. “What?” He all but snarled as he blinked, eyes adjusting to the bright light of the early afternoon sun. A few moments and he recognised Tristan, and he sniffed as he felt his nose beginning to run, his expression turning into one of confusion, as he tried to find a reason for the Andarian Duke tracking him down to his home.
A couple more seconds and it morphed into a look of horror. “Tristan! I-” he coughed, which couldn’t have been better timed, “I am so sorry, I had remembered, I meant to send a missive - did I not do that? I was going to come this trial, but I - and then I forgot, or I… well I must have.” He was rambling and not really making sense. And his head hurt. He stopped talking. “Sorry.”