There was a delirium in his sickness, an inkling thought in the back of his mind that wondered if he would ever be healthy again. Every footfall had been a monotonous agony only made tolerable by a complete lack of the concept of time moving forward. Spotting the healer's stand had brought a cool relief to his fevered brow, though catching sight of the fae had brought with it a whole host of memories. He remembered the youthful looking Fennik from the dreaming, where the pair had battled against an unknown demon who fed upon the dreams of the unsuspecting.

It was a surprise to see him again, and an even larger surprise to see the sorry state he was in. The fae clutched at his left arm like a parent carefully carrying their child. It had an odd shape to it, almost unnatural in the way it bent.

”A broken arm,” he thought through heavy eyelids. ”How lucky.”

Before he could speak, a slight coughing fit took over he chest and rocked his body a bit. Thick walls of mucus inside he coated his throat and gave his fit the deep timber of someone much larger and unrecognizable. The coughing caught him so off guard that he didn't notice Fennik's arms wrapped around him in a friendly embrace at first. As the mortification set in, the fae quickly broke off to care for his arm again, no doubt inflamed from the impromptu hug. There was an awkward exchange of glances between the two of them, but Morus soon noticed something was wrong in the large green eyes of his friend.

As Fennik began to collapse to the floor, the waif rushed forward with all the strength his tired limbs would allow him and attempted to catch the fae. He did his best to lift him back up to his feet, but found through feverish eyes and a heavy chest he just didn't have the power needed, and instead helped to gently lower him to the soft earthen path below. He tried his best to avoid the offending limb as to not agitate it further.

“A little help,” he shouted at the healer, his voice hoarse from his illness, as the fae slipped further onto the ground. Though still awake, it was evident the pain had made him feint. Trying his best to come up with a makeshift pillow, the waif had the ignoble idea of placing one of his bottles of spirits beneath his head to help prop him up. “Fennik,” he tried his best to keep the fae as conscious as he could.