He looked wearily at his reflection in the mirror and felt sick. There, standing directly before him, was a halfway decent soldier. He felt like a traitor to his own kind because of it. After all, hadn't he fought for years against the Hestia? Now, he was working for them. He wrinkled his nose.
"Great," he mumbled. "I don't know whether to be pleased that this ruse might work or punch out the mirror."
"It's really something, isn't it?" laughed Rena. "Tomorrow nobody's going to be able to tell the difference, but we ought to walk you outside to be sure."
"I have to go out in this?"
Her response was to promptly hit him with one of their few frying pans.
As Rena shuffled around, scraping the few coins that they had, he felt a large, immeasurable cough tear through his chest, sending him to his knees. His eyes watered, his vision growing cloudy, and he felt her press something against his lips. He shoved whatever it was that was being held against his face away, and he threw up a large amount of blood, saliva dangling unattractively from his lips.
He sat there gasping for air for a few minutes, eyes rolling, when Rena shoved the object against him again. It was a glass of water. The water spilled over his face and dribbled down his mouth and chin. Only prayers would keep him from having a fit tomorrow during his meeting with the queen.
"Sorry," he whispered.
"For all that is holy," Rena grunted, wiping his face, looking sadder than he had seen her in a long time, "I hate the Hestia."
Whenever he grew ill, this was the comment that was made, as if she could make her point even clearer by being ridiculously repetitive. Nevertheless, he quietly listened as she buffed the dirt off of his ruby red uniform. He looked at her through puffy eyes but said nothing, leaning his head against the wall.
"My father worked for his master for seventy years." Her hawk-eyes flashed. "They could have bought him medicine, but nope ... What would have cost them a few pennies sent him to death. Someday they'll all burn, you mark me."
Rena was remarkably good at taking care of sick people, and though she had the temper of an active volcano, she was very patient. He was thankful to her, though he knew her actions were an act of survival more than one of kindness. If it wasn't for her, he would be all alone.
"They can't all be bad," he grunted, more to himself then to her.
"Have you ever met a nice one?"
"No," he said thoughtfully, "but I haven't met that many nice Prodigo, either."
That left her to "humph" and "haw" around the room, muttering about "stupid men" and things such as that. He frowned to himself and stood up to reexamine his reflection. He grumbled in disgust before turning away from the soldier in the mirror.