cups of paint and memories

I am not a scholar and I don't believe in fate

Noah had never slept this long in his entire life. He was a pretty healthy guy, even in his youth. Very rarely did sickness keep him down or in bed. With his mother being a healer, he had always been able to work through things quickly while she was alive. Even the fever that hit the children of Halo when Noah was a boy had not been a problem for the Olson household. Being hungover, however, this was the first time that had ever happened to him. The whiskey Weaver had given him, and he had consumed, was the hardest drink he had ever been drunk off of. Being drunk off of piss-poor ale, in the handful of times that happened to him, had not even hindered him in the slightest.

He was sure that Weaver had poisoned him, and she wasn't even here to laugh at him.

When Noah finally did wake to a state that Delphine did not tend back to sleeping, he simply laid there. He did not move, he just opened his eyes and watched the woman. She was surrounded by the mess of paints, but Noah did not care about that. He was so happy to see her huddled over something that was not harming her. When he found her in this position, typically, she was slicing a knife down her arm or trying to ingest some sort of drug that he had to take away. But now she was so intent on working that he did not want to disturb her.

Not only did Noah not want to disturb the woman, he was sure if he moved right after he woke he would have had to use the bucket she provided for him. When his stomach finally settled enough to where he knew he could predict its actions, he leaned up in the bed and smiled. "You are a very good artist." He smiled, warm and bright, and tried to push away the throbbing in his head that increased from sitting up.

NOAH