Manus looks strange.
Between the subtly concerned faces of Áesta and Maria, the magician looks wane and thin, tired and muted, miserable and weak in ways Jarl has never seen him before. The mage has always been otherworldly loud, hurricane-like in his enthusiasm, and seemingly unstoppable no matter what anyone throws his way.
Even Jarl.
He’d spent years trying to get rid of the strange man, not liking his theology (or lack there of…) and magic and growing influence on Jasey; but he’d but never managed to succeed. He was like a weed: forever returning.
Forever smiling.
That hasn’t changed, Jarl muses. He’s still smiling—grinning away beneath dark eyes and sunken cheeks—even as he looks like a zombie under all his sickness. The stew has helped, Dory would be happy to know, but the hypothermia he was just facing is still vividly obvious: he’s shaking, even under his borrowed shawl, and more subdued than Jarl’s ever seen him—or Áesta, for that matter, whose worried expression is palpable—with unnaturally slow movements and eerily quiet words that belie his carefully cast illusion of fineness.
Even as he coughs, slurs, and fumbles, he insists he’s only allowing them to worry about him.
Forever strong; forever stubborn.
~
“Weeell, if you’d like, you can always share some of your body heeeat with me~”
This is the line Jarl returns to after reheating a container of Dory’s stew. He rolls his eyes as Áesta purrs and Maria snorts through a hearty laugh. She’s amused, rather than affronted, which Jarl is grateful for.
He probably would have wacked the mage upside the head if he’d been on the receiving end of that line.
“Gladly~” Jarl blinks and Áesta’s suddenly in bed with Manus, the olive green undertone of his brown skin matching horribly with the sickly green tinge of the mage’s. Neither of them seem to care as they settle down and arrange themselves against each other amongst the pillows and blankets, giggling the whole while.
Jarl’s reminded of the Wet Wagon and how he found Áesta in P1: tangled in the limbs of five others.
Briefly, he wonders if this is a common thing—a preferred state, if you will, for Áesta or even Manus. Perhaps. The mage did say Áesta feeds off of affection; and the magician seems to thrive on it, too.
Then again, most people do.
“Don’t lay on him like that,” the priest intervenes, huffing at their games. “He needs to be able to eat.”
“I a-am pretty hungry…”
Manus looks sheepishly at Áesta but the daemon is already grabbing for the container. Jarl lets him take it, too surprised to really fight off his grabby hands. Maria giggles and gestures for him to sit in Áesta’s seat, empty now that the little devil’s in bed with the mage. Manus makes a show of being fed like a queen, refusing to entertain the idea that he’s actually being babied and/or seen as too weak to feed himself.
Then again, the one feeding him is probably old enough to baby them all.
(Again, how old IS Áesta?)
“You two are so adorable!” Maria coos at the heathens curled around each other in the guest bed. They grin, unapologetic in their transgressions, and Manus actually winks at the nun. Jarl fights the urge to facepalm. “And so close, too! Have ya known each other long?”
“Mm, eons.”
Jarl frowns as a possibly delirious Manus gives them a rather ambiguous answer. True, it could be hyperbole (The Magician certainly loves his exaggerations.); but the mage clearly knows Áesta from a deal of his own and… maybe… There ARE many things that Manus seems to know in ways that imply he was THERE and ALIVE even if the event or person in question existed what seems like forever ago…
And he never DID explain his knowledge of Áesta; nor their friendship.
“We met in Spain, actually,” the daemon in disguise supplies. “Madrid, to be precise.” Manus nods silently, mouth too full to speak, and Áesta grins as he keeps feeding him (Idly, Jarl wonders if the little devil enjoys it: feeding someone else. The lives of daemons seem solely focused on finding their own meals so perhaps there’s something… important? Significant in being able to give someone else a meal. That’s… kind of cute…).
Jarl ignores the surprised look Áesta gives him.
“O?” Maria smiles, not noticing the interaction. “What were ya doing there?”
“Studying.”
“T’e Peninsular War,” Áesta supplies, a touch too quickly. Jarl raises his eyebrow in surprised suspicion but doesn’t say anything as the daemon continues to paint his half-truth. “Fer school: Central Univ’rsity.”
The priest’s brow raises even higher in disbelief—but then he remembers the one ring on Manus’ left hand and realizes the swan it bares isn’t entirely decorative.
“O?” Dark brown eyes glance between the two bedmates, surprised. “Ya went to school together?”
Manus bursts out laughing.
Jarl think that’s a definite no but says nothing. Let them figure out of their own mess.
Maria will hopefully think it’s just the residual illness.
“Som’t’ing like t’at.” Áesta shoves the still laughing magician to try and shut him up. When it fails, he sighs and shovels more stew into his mouth. The container, however, is almost empty and, soon, that fails too.
At least he didn’t make a mess.
“It were more like…” the daemon pauses to consider his wording and Jarl finds himself holding his breath, curious but also terrified of what he’ll say next. “Ah were a… guest lecturer. On t’e war.”
Manus giggles as Maria exclaims in understanding, their grins wide and bright.
Jarl, however, stares, unable to wrap his mind around Áesta as a teacher.
~
“You two are insufferable.”
Manus giggles again as Jarl frowns down at the two bedbugs cuddling between the sheets. Maria’s left, having duties to perform for the church and other nuns (and Father Gianni, of course). Her tea set’s refilled and sitting on the nightstand for them to share in her absence—especially Manus who could use the warmth.
Jarl seems to be the only one drinking it, of course, which is technically fine since Áesta is very warm.
Aforementioned daemon laughs, (orange) green eyes twinkling above his mischievous, rather flirtatious, grin. “Well, we couldn’ jus’ tell ‘er t’e truth, ceart?”
Jarl sighs annoyed; then: “What IS the truth?”
Áesta seems to freeze. The corner of his mouth twitches with nervous energy before he blinks and regroups. Appearing to literally reform before Jarl’s eyes, Áesta takes to running his slender fingers through Manus’ hair as the magician quietly dozes against his chest. “… T’e Peninsular War made ‘im summon me.”
Jarl stares, “… You mean… he was…”
“Alive in the early 1800s.”
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