Interlude
Summer came, slowly folding heat which started in waves. A faded hollow August brought me a half-dead garden and a nearly constant headache; the dull ache persisted until I was bedridden. I averaged a few hours of the morning away from my bed—took breakfast indoors, had a small turn about the garden, and then the migraine overwhelmed me so much I was in bed for the rest of the night. Several Healers were called, and when they did, I lapsed entire days in an opium haze from the droppers of laudanum, but I loathed these so much I refused to see any of them that called to the house.
With this persisting symptom, my eyes were mostly rendered useless, and so reading was out of question. However, it turned worse within a few weeks, and suddenly the head pain was accompanied by fever. My neck turned stiff and impossible to move, I never wished to eat despite how weak my body had grown. Waves of horrendous nausea kept me curled in on myself, wishing for the madness to end.
I was certain I would die.