Linnie sat upright, or at least some loose approximation of it—his spine was curved, shoulders heavy, head wilting forward like a dying flower. By midday, it wasn't simply exhaustion, but a crippling sickness.
The sun was filtering through the trees in warm, friendly beams, but it felt sharp and cruel. Far too bright for his bloodshot eyes. His stomach sloshed with every breath. It wasn't pain, really—not that he could feel it if it was—just an awful liquid nausea.
He swallowed once, twice, three times, just trying to keep down the warm syrup of organs and bile that were constantly being stirred within him. Surprisingly, at least to the others, he even skipped breakfast.
Nothing in him wanted food. Or anything, for that matter.
He was moving a half-second slower than everything else, like he alone was submerged knee-deep in honey. Every movement lagged behind. His limbs didn't hurt, but lifting them felt like there were twenty-pound weights strapped to each of the extremities.
His eyes burned. Dry and unquenchable, no matter how many times he blinked. No, in fact, blinking only made him aware of how swollen his eyelids felt. There was grit behind every movement of his eyelid, like someone had poured sand inside.
The sounds of his companions came to him muffled, like his ears were stuffed full of cotton, or perhaps under water, hearing everything from below the surface while the rest of the world moved on above him.
The tiredness wasn't just in his body. No, actually, it was even worse in his head. The simplest idea had to claw through viscous sludge to form. He'd forget what he was looking at and why. He'd try to stand and forget what he was doing halfway through.
And his body kept making small, involuntary, tremors—shivers—that happened when a person was running on absolutely nothing.
Even breathing felt like hard work.
In.
Out.
In...
Out...!
Every inhale made his ribs ache, and every exhale made him feel like he was going to pass out. Of course, he never did.
That would count as sleeping.
It had been three days since the girl, Liora, had joined the party. That was three nights that Linnie hadn't slept. The first day wasn't all that bad—he was a little tired, but it wasn't the first time he hadn't had the best night of sleep.
The second day was a struggle. He couldn't understand what was wrong with him. He lagged behind that entire day. Aliza and Alwyn, happily distracted with the new company of the girl, barely noticed, asking Linnie only once if he was alright.
Linnie, the independent and prideful boy, answered a simple:
"Yup!"
The third day was hell. The day had barely started, and Linnie already needed to lie down. But the world had slept when he hadn't—it was now well rested, energetic and excited to proceed with the day, dragging him by the ankles along behind it.
He didn't speak with the others much at all, preferring to share short whispers with Lady while the three walked ahead of them. She couldn't speak back, really, only meows, but there was little Linnie hated more than real conversation while sleep deprived.
And she couldn't tell the others about what he was feeling, even if she wanted to. That provided the boy some comfort. The comfort of having a confidant.
Slowly, an idea started to formulate inside of his head. A hypothesis, you could say.
Linnie wasn't the most educated boy in the world—far from it. But he wasn't so stupid as to not see the glaring connection.
'That damned god... my 'dream'! That's what she took! She's the one causing this! It's because of her that I can't sleep!'
He wasn't sure if this revelation put him at ease, or if it frightened him even more. On one hand, he was pretty sure the cause of his sudden insomnia. On the other hand, it wasn't a simple restlessness, but... a curse? Divine intervention?
What the hell was he supposed to do about something like that? Surely, Alwyn would know what to do.
Ah, but...
"You don't look good, dude. Your eye bags are starting to look like mine," Aliza said with concern. "Not sleeping great?"
'For some reason, I'm really struggling to get the right words out. I kind of... don't want to tell them.'
Linnie awkwardly squirmed, opening his mouth, pausing, and closing it again. Something inside of him was commanding him against telling anyone about the 'dream' in wonderland he had.
Even without that strange feeling, he probably wouldn't have told anyone, anyway. It's not like he particularly enjoyed keeping secrets, but he didn't like divulging information he wasn't completely sure of, anyway.
How foolish would he look if, in fact, he'd done something... foolish.
It was his immature nature, similar to that of a dog or cat, to run away to a secluded place when injured—to die peacefully and alone, without letting anyone know you were hurt in the first place.
Well, Linnie wouldn't be dying. He hoped not. It did feel like a slow, uncomfortable, death was creeping up on him.
He decided then that he'd need to find either the shadow girl or somehow recontact that deity, the supposed Saint Pischt, before letting Alwyn or Aliza or anyone else in on the events of that night.
And that meant triumphing over this incredible fatigue he felt, at least until he was cured of this curse.
"Cheer up! I'm making lunch today, look forwards to it," Aliza slapped him on the back, grinning.
'She's never made any meals before. I'm kind of excited?'
It was terrible.
Alwyn dramatically spat the sludge into the air.
"You useless hag. You can't cook food, can't cast magic, can't carry bags, what exactly are we lugging you around for?"
The wizard dumped the blackened, bubbling stew onto the ground. The patch of grass died instantly upon contact, creating an unnatural circle of dead, brown grass.
"Holy shit, you're really trying to kill us, huh?" Alwyn continued with mocking laughter.
"It's a perfectly balanced meal, you dumb fuck!" she shouted, throwing her fork with rage.
It shot through the air like a dagger, stopping an inch from his face.
Note: never ask an alchemist to cook you a meal. They're always too concerned with the efficiency of the food, rather than... well, the taste.
"Why're they always fighting? Isn't Alwyn kind of... mean to her, sometimes?" Liora whispered, leaning over into Linnie's ear.
He shrugged, just enjoying the show of their fighting. It kept him awake. Not like there was another option...
"I think he's compensating for something," he snickered.
"Like what?"
"...Well, I don't know? They've known each other for a while, I'm pretty sure. There's some bad blood."
"You've never asked them?"
They both watched the two fight.
"Nope."
Linnie opened his mouth and raised the bowl into the air, pouring its contents and gulping faster than he could taste the sludge. He tossed the bowl aside, yawning.
'I wanna sleep...'