Maxwell appreciated the rain, at first; it matched his mood, dour and grey, but the longer it lingered, and the more trouble it became, the less he liked it. The chill of the rain got into everything - his clothes, his boots, down to his very bones.

He sought refuge in the hot springs, trying to soak it from his flesh. Clothes stretched out in a futile attempt to dry them, he drifted on side of the pool, eyes half-lidded and distant in the steam. He stayed until he was nearly more prune than man, but he was at least blessedly warm again.

But that too, lingered well past its point of appreciation.

Untangling himself from his sweat-dampened bedroll, he staggered into the garden and back into the rain. He stumbled and caught himself against the well, leaning... leaning... tipping, thumping down to the sodden, muddied ground.

"I'm fine," he told the shadowy figure he could just see, approaching in the corner of his eye. Could just hear, whispering beside him.

He waved a hand weakly at nothing.

"...I'm fine."