Morning comes slow.
Light cuts thin lines through the window shutters, spilling over wooden walls and the faint smell of herbs still hanging from last night's fever treatment. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster sounds exactly as miserable as we feel.
Henry groans first — or thinks he does.
Henry: Ugh. Morning. Why does consciousness come with hangovers even when you didn't drink?
Aldric: Maybe the brain's rebooting sequence failed. I could—
Cain: We are not "fixing" the nervous system, Aldric. Let the body stabilize naturally.
The three of them shuffle toward wakefulness like coworkers forced into a shared cubicle. The body—Elias's—creaks, turns, and breathes in the still-cool air.
The door opens quietly. Mirella steps in with a bowl and that same look—love laced with insomnia.
"Good morning, sweetheart. You were talking in your sleep again. Something about... rules?"
Henry: Oh, fantastic. We're now quoting ourselves in front of Mum.
Cain: Let me handle—
Aldric: No, no! Let's observe the social interaction like normal humans—oh wait, never mind.
Elias's lips twitch uncertainly. "Ah... yes. Dream rules. Heh."
Lira's face appears behind their mother's skirt, eyes bright and suspicious. "You sounded like three people arguing."
Busted already.
Henry jumps forward mentally: Quick, humor shield!
He forces a crooked half-smile. "Was…was I winning?"
Lira's brow furrows, but she giggles despite herself.
"Barely. Sounded like a council of idiots."
Aldric: Council! I love councils. Especially the kind that explode halfway through deliberations.
Cain sighs within. Henry, keep steady. Aldric, no suggestions about explosions today.
Mirella sets the bowl down. "Eat slowly, Elias. It's your first real meal since the fever. No experiments, no excitement."
Aldric: I resent the implication.
Henry: She's got us pegged already.
Cain: Focus. We need coordination.
The spoon trembles slightly as they try to lift it. Henry's instinct is casual; Aldric takes over reflexively to calculate optimal wrist torque; Cain overcorrects for tremors. Result?
Broth everywhere.
Mirella gasps. Lira bursts out laughing.
Henry mutters, "Guess I forgot how gravity works," and offers a sheepish grin through the embarrassment.
Aldric: If you think about it, gravity is the universe's most persistent prank.
Cain: Henry, apologize.
"I'm sorry," Elias says quietly, voice sliding from humor to sincere politeness. "My hands are a bit off today."
The family exchanges confused glances—Mirella softens, while Lira looks oddly intrigued. "You talk weird now," she says. "Old words and proper stuff."
Henry: Oof. She caught your 'proper diction,' Cain.
Aldric: At least she didn't call it archaic.
Cain: It's fine. Keep calm. We'll adapt.
They eat in hesitant silence. Every bite is an exercise in restraint—a duet of tremors and whispered corrections. When they finally finish, Mirella rests her hand on Elias's hair and murmurs, "You're improving faster than I expected... but don't rush."
Something quiet flickers in Cain's side of the mind: memories of long nights at the orphanage, soothing frightened children with calm words and warm hands. He lets a soft thought drift to the front:
Cain: She's worried. Reassure her, gently.
Henry nods internally, taking the metaphorical baton.
"I'll go slow, Mum. Promise. Not planning to run any marathons yet."
The delivery lands—half humor, half comfort—and it works. Mirella smiles; Lira relaxes a little, crossing her arms but grinning.
"Good," Mirella says. "You always push too hard too soon, just like your father."
At the mention of Garrick, something shifts inside them—an echo none of them own but all of them feel. Pride, strength, a longing to live up to something.
Henry: So that's dear old Dad, huh? The tough-love type?
Cain: Likely. Mercenary, if I'm reading the fragments right.
Aldric: A fascinating specimen for study—a warrior bound by sentiment.
Henry: Okay, but not literally study him.
Aldric: Perhaps later.
Cain: We're not dissecting anyone.
Mirella wipes the table, humming softly. "Lira, fetch the healer's cloth. We'll wrap your brother's arm so he doesn't strain it."
Lira skips off. Silence fills the space.
Henry feels it first—the urge to say something, anything, to break the unreal tension of existing as three in one.
He blurts, softly, "Mum… do you think people can change after something big?"
Mirella blinks. "Change? How do you mean?"
Henry falters. Cain, smoothly: "I mean... realize things. See the world differently."
Her face softens, unaware of the implosion happening behind those words. "That's what living is, sweetheart. Change means you survived."
For a moment, even Aldric goes quiet.
As Mirella turns away to prepare herbs, Lira scampers back in, eager. "Mum says we can sit outside if you're careful!"
Cain: Fresh air might help recovery.
Aldric: Also good lighting for observation.
Henry: Fine. But we're keeping conversations below the 'existential revelation' threshold, alright?
They step outside slowly, body trembling but functional—Cain adjusting balance, Henry adjusting posture, Aldric admiring every shift of light and sound like a scientist seeing color for the first time. The village stretches before them: quiet lanes, fields bronzed by morning sun, sea wind ghosting through the crops.
Henry: You know... this feels kind of nice. Normal.
Cain: Normal is underrated.
Aldric: Normality, my dear compatriots, is merely order before the next glorious explosion.
Henry sighs audibly. "Please don't say that out loud."
Lira looks up. "Say what?"
Elias's lips twitch into a grin. "Nothing. Just... enjoying the view."
The girl laughs, rolling her eyes. "You really are weird now."
And for the first time—they all smile together.
That night, as they lay in bed, their inner voices drift through the shared mind like soft echoes.
Henry: I think we handled that okay.
Cain: Progress is progress.
Aldric: Indeed. Only two minor catastrophes, one spill, no explosions. A triumph.
Henry: You're impossible.
Aldric: And yet, indispensable.
Cain: Sleep now. Tomorrow, we start again. Together.
The body relaxes; three minds settle. The last thought before sleep comes, unprompted but unanimous:
We might just make this work.