"We both know I'm totally one to say I told you so."
Still naked (damn straight, I kept him nude on purpose), Rafe stirred. Though heavy as the half-horse he was, my imbued strength allowed me to carry him from the floor to the bed.
I went on, even if he probably only caught some of my words: "Something is goddamn wrong with you."
Rafe groaned, rolling from side to side. "My head."
I grabbed a pillow and carefully tucked it under his head. "Are you okay?"
I always believed that to be a stupid question, but I asked it all the same. He didn't say much, just writhing in pain, which was a tad sexy, even in the state he was in.
I shook my head. "This is more than just sleep-walking."
"I'm okay," he wheezed.
His skin held a dull pigment, his hair sticking to his forehead in greasy strands.
"You're clearly not okay," I said, struggling to exude a calm demeanor.
I couldn't exactly take Rafe to the emergency room, and his tribe was too far away. Not gonna lie, my head spun a bit. I stared down at my ailing husband, feeling helpless for the first time in a long time.
"What happens when Ipontane are sick?" I murmered, more to myself than anything else.
Sick or not, my loving bastard heard me and replied, "Chosen one."
I bent closer to hear him better. "What was that, babe?"
But he was out and folded like a worn road map.
Chosen one. That had to have been what he said, but all I had in mind was the last episode of Buffy.
~*~