Neither Cerwin nor the witch spoke as Geoffrey cried his heart out. Even if they did speak, he wouldn’t have heard them. The euphoria had numbed his senses to oblivion, and everything had been relegated to background noise. Even the pain in his chest seemed to have abated, if only for a moment, when it shouldn’t have.  

It was as if a weight he didn’t know he had been shouldering was lifted, and he slumped over his knees, gripping the blanket of fur with so much strength that his knuckles turned white.  

How could such a miracle be?

He didn’t know, and didn’t care to know.

Marveck was alive, and that was all that mattered.

“—Take deep breaths, and calm down.” At some point, the witch’s voice traveled to his ears, almost like a whisper carried by the wind. “You’re about to hyperventilate.”

A gentle hand stroked his back, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.

Minutes passed until Geoffrey regained control of his breathing, and he wiped the tears on his cheeks. As he did, he caught sight of a bowl of water. Cerwin was silently handing it to him, and he didn’t refuse it. His throat felt parched. An iron taste also lingered in his mouth.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. Cerwin didn’t say anything in response, only patting his shoulder.

He took a sip, and the cold water slowly soothed his burning throat.

Rationally, Geoffrey knew Marveck was alive; emotionally, it was hard to swallow. Someone he had thought wasn’t of this world anymore had never actually departed it, and was, on the contrary, safe and sound. It was difficult to accept. If anything, a part of him couldn't fully believe it, and probably never would, unless he saw his unit leader with his own two eyes.

That was, if they ever met again.

Knowing that he’s alive is already more than enough. Geoffrey let out a soft sigh. Don’t be greedy.

“Now that you’ve composed yourself,” the witch reminded him of his presence, “would you mind taking that deep breath for me?”

Snapping his head toward the witch, Geoffrey momentarily froze. The witch’s smile wasn’t so much of a smile, and once his brain registered the sight, he quickly nodded. That smile held too many similarities to Marveck’s, and his survival instincts kicked in.     

Still holding onto the bowl of water, Geoffrey tapped his fingers on it as he inhaled as much air as he could, which wasn’t much. If he forced it, he knew another violent coughing fit awaited him, so he stopped before his lungs started to protest. His chest barely heaved.

“…Can you do it a second time?” The witch moved the stethoscope to the other side of his chest, and Geoffrey obliged. The man repeated the process on his back, and a groan left him as he lowered his arm. “I can hardly hear anything.”

“That’s not a good sign, I presume?” Cerwin asked.

“Of course not!” The witch threw daggers at the mountain spirit, who immediately lowered his head in shame. Geoffrey blinked. Was Cerwin getting scolded? “If I can’t hear anything, it means his lungs are most likely filled to the brim with liquid! Breathing must be torture for him right now. Cerwin, you should have come fetch me much, much sooner…!”

“Is it too late…?”

“Most likely, yes!” The witch pinched his lips, his clenched fists trembling. “I don’t have the necessary tools to perform a surgery and remove the liquid that has built up in his lungs. The miners blew up our underground clinic, and everything’s been buried. If the infection had been taken care of earlier, it could have been treated with medicine, and he’d have made a full recovery. Why did you wait until it got to a point where a miracle would be needed to save him…? Witches aren’t gods!”

“Don’t be too harsh on him,” Geoffrey interrupted, a meek smile on his lips. “I was the one who didn’t want him to ask for your help. He was just respecting my wishes.”

“Well, he shouldn’t have.” The witch scoffed, passing the cardigan over Geoffrey’s thin shoulders. “That fool is old enough to know when and when not to listen to a youngster.”

Geoffrey couldn’t help but chuckle, fastening the cardigan around his upper body like a second blanket. The sleeves were puffy and long enough to cover the tips of his fingers. The wool was warm, too, and tightly woven, making him feel like he was wrapped in a cocoon.  

“Don’t laugh. This is no laughing matter.” The witch flicked his finger on Geoffrey’s forehead, just above his brow. “We’re talking about your life, not the weather!”

Another chuckle was all the witch got as an answer.

“Solange,” Cerwin called, “do you have something to lessen the pain, at the very least? I ran out of willow bark yesterday. It also didn’t seem to be as effective lately.”

“Yes, I have a few things that can help in my room.” The witch nodded as he folded his stethoscope. “I was about to recommend that you two come over. Your dwelling isn’t bad per se, but it’s not adapted for a patient whose lungs are about to give up on them.” Solange paused, arching an eyebrow as he threw a half-amused, half-annoyed glance at the dumbfounded Geoffrey. “Oh, you, don’t look at me like that. My people won’t mind. I’m already sheltering a soldier in my room, anyway, so what’s one more and a mountain spirit?”

A soldier…? Geoffrey's heart skipped a beat. That has to be Marveck, right? 

If it were truly his unit leader, could he dare entertain the foolish hope of meeting him one last time? 

And offer him a final goodbye?

The chapter is too big for Tapas, so cutting it in two again T-T"