In the meantime, inside a spacious and grand bedroom, Oliver lies on his bed. His mattress spreads like a grassland, offering him a place to rest and providing warmth and comfort. Draped around his fragile body, an emerald-green blanket lies. Behind the canopy bed, a wall stands, dotted with elegant windows, where the sunlight that touches Oliver's form passes through.

     From all corners of the room, peace abounds. On the side, a line of cabinets and shelves stand beside a wooden desk. Meanwhile, on the other side of the bedroom, a portrait of Oliver hangs, displaying his stunning features during his prime age. Before the room's doorway, a fuzzy white carpet lies like fallen leaves, promising warmth to one's footing upon entering.

     As Oliver squirms around the bed, his body aching with searing pain, he glances to his side and makes eye contact with Gregory. In turn, Gregory locks eyes with Oliver as he leans towards him. Gregory then wrings a cold, damp cloth, placing it on Oliver's forehead, ensuring his temperature maintains balance.

"Oh, Gregory..." Oliver murmured weakly. "My body hurts. It feels like I'm being torn apart, crushed by the weight of a mountain... and my head... oh, it feels like exploding," he grumbled.

"Hang on tight, Oliver," Gregory replied, putting the water bucket aside. "You'll get well soon. I know it," he asserted.

"Will I?" Oliver asked, his eyes heavy.

"You will," Gregory affirmed.

Oliver gritted his teeth as a deep breath streamed through his mouth. "Ow..." he groaned. "I can't take it anymore, Greg. My head..." he mumbled.

"A healing concoction will do," Gregory sighed.

     Turning from the bed momentarily, Gregory grabs a glass bottle overflowing with red liquid and brings it to Oliver. Twisting off the wooden cork, Gregory places the tip of the bottle on Oliver's lips and watches as the red liquid streams into his mouth. As every drop slides into Oliver's tongue, Gregory puts away the glass bottle and examines Oliver's face.

     Though feeling burdened by the crushing weight of his bitter pain, Oliver's mind flashes with wholesome recollections, remembering the day when he also once offered Gregory a healing concoction, which saved his life. The warm and passionate thought brings a sincere smile to Oliver's face, his lips tugging at his cheeks. The two men lock eyes and beam mellow smiles—as if the pain that torments Oliver never exists. However, the respite is short-lived as another round of pain creeps into Oliver's body.

"Err..." Oliver flinched, his body shocked by the pain.

"What's wrong?" Gregory queried, his face reflecting worry.

"My head... again..." Oliver murmured, peering into Gregory's eyes.

     Quickly, Gregory grabbed his sceptre nestled in the room's corner. The sceptre unfolded like a sword, with a shimmering orb on its rear. Gregory approached Oliver on the bed, taking a mouthful of breath. Releasing a heavy sigh, Gregory closed his eyes, seeking a momentary respite.

"Meikathium Sanus," Gregory chanted.

     As Gregory voiced a spell, the orb on his sceptre began to glisten with glitter. Then, the sparkling particles landed on Oliver. As the particles faded, Oliver sighed heavily, taking a moment to rest his eyes.

"Better?" Gregory asked, smiling.

Oliver nodded. "Slightly. However—"

"It's a matter of time before another pang of pain hits you," Gregory said—as if reiterating Oliver's words from the past days. "Am I right? Is that what you were going to say?"

Sighing, Oliver replied, "Yes."

     Gregory stares deeply at Oliver's helpless face, their eyes locked in a silent exchange. With furrowed brows, Gregory closes his eyes and sighs. Then, the sound of a twisting doorknob echoes across the room, capturing the attention of both men.

     Josephine enters the room with a tray in her hands. On the tray, a plate of biscuits and a cup of black tea with a slice of lemon lie, their scent wafting through the air and enticing the senses. Josephine approaches Oliver, placing the tray on the nightstand beside the bed. Then, she hands the cup of black tea to Oliver.

"Here you go. Drink up, Mr Podeshire," Josephine said kindly, passing the cup of black tea.

"Oh, thank you, Josephine," Oliver responded, eagerly grasping the teacup.

     Blowing the steaming tea, Oliver takes a slow and careful sip from the cup. He then swallows the tea, savouring the aromatic taste that drifts to his nostrils. Releasing a heavy sigh through his mouth, Oliver sets the teacup aside, placing it on the nightstand beside his bed.

"Gregory. Look at the time. You must go to work now," Oliver advised.

"No," Gregory refused, shaking his head with conviction. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying here to take care of you, as your symptoms are worsening day by day," he said.

"I wonder if this sickness will seal my fate," Oliver pondered, lowering his eyes.

Gregory's brows furrowed. "Oh, dear, Oliver. Don't think such a thing," he admonished him with a stern but worried voice. "What would your prime self think if he heard what you said??" he questioned.

     Oliver maintained his silence and composure, his eyes steady. Slowly, his gaze drifted past Gregory and landed on the painting hanging on the wall behind him. On the canvas, his portrait glimmered like a diamond, capturing his interest. The portrait depicted him during his younger days, enthralling his profound attention as he peered at his handsome, youthful face.