"For fuck's sake, have you been listening to me at all?" Milva's voice cuts through the silence like an extra sharp blade.
"What?" Startled, her companion looks up at the archer who has been riding next to him for quite a while now.
"I've been trying to talk to you, Nilfgaardian!"
"Sorry," he apologises to his not a little annoyed friend. "I - I don't feel so great. Must have eaten something ..." Cahir's voice peters out weakly as he averts his eyes again. He does not look so great, either, Milva realises, unusually pale even for his standards and sweaty although they are riding at a leisurely pace and it is not especially warm today. What is even more worrying, her friend did not react at all to her calling him a Nilfgaardian. Which he insists he is not at every occasion. He isn't sick, is he? Before Milva can ask what is wrong with him, though, Cahir suddenly heaves a moan and doubles up, clutching at his stomach and inhaling sharply through clenched teeth.
"Shit, I'll get Regis, he'll know what to do," she says with sudden concern in her voice.
"No, it's nothing," Cahir pants, "I just ..." He does not finish the sentence but half scrambles, half falls off his chestnut colt and, kneeling on the forest path, starts to vomit violently.
"Fuck!" Milva quickly gets off her horse too, although in a much more elegant fashion than her non-Nilfgaardian friend. However, to her surprise, Cahir shakes his head and, in no uncertain terms, motions her to stay away when she steps beside him to help.
"Might be contagious," he wheezes in between heaves. She stops dead in her tracks. Cahir is not wrong. It might be. And in her condition it would definitely not be a good idea to catch a gastric flu or some other stomach bug. Especially not since non of her companions knows of her condition. A state of affairs she does not want to alter, at least not as long as it is humanly possible to keep it a secret.
"You stay here and don't move. I'll be back in a minute," Milva orders. She jumps back onto her mount and spurs it into a gallop.
Geralt, Jaskier and Regis are a bit ahead of them, just out of sight as well as earshot. They turn around in alarm on hearing her horse's muffled hoofbeat pound on the leave-covered trail.
"Damn it!" Geralt swears when Milva has explained the situation. "We don't have time for such nonsense. Any delay could prove detrimental for Ciri. I knew from the start that it was a fucking bad idea to let that Nilfgaardian come along."
"Geralt, don't be an ass. It's not Cahir's fault," Jaskier reprimands his grumpy friend. "It's not as if he's fallen ill on purpose."
"Who knows? What if it's his intention to delay us?" the Witcher grumbles, still not trusting the former Nilfgaardian commander an inch, no matter how much he has already helped them on their perilous journey.
"Rubbish! If Cahir wanted to do that, why would he warn me not to come closer?" Milva bristles. After all, Cahir saved her life as well as her horse. No matter what Geralt might think, she trusts him unconditionally.
"Milva is right, this would not make any sense at all," Regis points out, ever the calm voice of logic and reason. "There would also be far more effective ways to delay our progress, and a lot less unpleasant ones for Cahir. He could poison our horses, for example." Geralt grunts, but does not contradict the higher vampire's reasoning. "I'd suggest that you three find a good place to set up camp while I'll ride back to check on him," the barber-surgeon adds. "Perhaps it's nothing but an upset stomach and we'll be able to continue our journey in the afternoon."
Unfortunately, it is not just an upset stomach. When Regis reaches the place where Cahir's chestnut is waiting, the young knight emerges from behind some bushes, pallid and sweaty and on shaky legs. He is still clutching his stomach, his face a grimace of pain. Seeing Regis dismount, he shakes his head.
"No, don't. Stay away," he pants before turning on his heels and, with a groan, disappearing between the bushes again. Not good. In his mind, Regis checks all the possible causes for this obviously bad case of diarrhoea. Food poisoning, bacterial or viral infection, amoebic dysentery, allergic reaction, poisonous mushrooms or berries ... They all have been eating mostly grub that turned their stomachs those last days and drunk from abandoned, half caved-in wells, fish ponds and ditches. Plenty of opportunity to catch something. The bard vomited once or twice, too, from their questionable fare. Milva throwing up pretty much every morning, of course, is due to a very different reason, Regis suspects. They will soon have to address the issue, they all as a fellowship. But not now. Now he needs to find out what is wrong with the Nilfgaardian - no, Vicovarian.
"Cahir, are you alright?" the barber-surgeon asks. A half grunt, half groan from behind the bushes. Not passed out then, that is something. As the young knight will probably not appreciate it if he goes any closer, Regis decides to give him a few more minutes. Which seems to be enough, at least for the moment. Cahir reappears, looking even worse than before, his skin almost greenish and clammy with cold sweat. He is on his feet, though, albeit hunched over and panting.
"Gods, you look like shit, my friend," Regis says compassionately.
"Feel like it too," Cahir mumbles. "Never had the runs as bad as this. You - you don't think it's dysentery?" However, before Regis can answer, he gives a loud groan and convulses with another bout of stomach pain. The vampire is by his side in the blink of an eye, holding his young friend up as he pukes his guts out. When he is finally done retching, he is so groggy that he can barely stand.
"Let's get you to camp. It's not far. Will you be able to ride on your own?" Regis asks worriedly while supporting the sick knight. He only gets a grunt for an answer which could mean anything at all, but Cahir straightens up a little and, with the vampire's help, manages to walk over to his chestnut colt and climb into the saddle. Luckily, the former soldier is an excellent rider and even in his pitiful state stays on the horse alright, although, hunched over and with his left arm pressed against his still aching stomach, presumably not assuming any posture approved by the Nilfgaardian military. Or any other military on the continent. They only have to stop once for another trip behind some bushes, too. This time, Cahir is so weak in the legs that, as embarrassing as it might be for the young man, Regis has to help him all the way. And back. And onto his mount. Where he more lies on the horse's neck than sits. But he does not fall. Not until they have reached the camp and Regis is there to catch him.
"Geralt, get over here and help me. Milva, Jaskier, you better stay back until I have thoroughly examined our sick friend and know what we are dealing with," Regis orders while holding Cahir up in his arms. "Please put a kettle with water on the fire, too, for tea. And would you make up a bed for Cahir close to the campfire?" The young man is shivering badly and his ghastly pallid skin feels far too cold. Leaning heavily onto the barber-surgeon, he seems close to fainting. He isn't going into shock, is he?
Although Geralt appears to be far from happy about having to help Regis with his patient, he does as he is told by the barber-surgeon and together they manoeuvre Cahir onto the bedroll that Milva has spread out by the fire while Jaskier has filled the kettle. The higher vampire fetches his bag from where it is attached to his horse, rummages inside it and produces several vials with healing potions. As he does not know yet what has caused the severe vomiting fits and diarrhoea, he cannot give Cahir any specific medication, however, something to replenish the electrolytes and to stimulate blood circulation would certainly not go amiss. And some warm chamomile tea mixed with dried, ground blueberries and blackberry leaves to help settle his stomach.
"Cahir?" The young man blinks wearily. "You need to drink this. I'll help you sit up." Supporting Cahir with one arm, he holds one vial after the other to his almost bluish, slightly trembling lips. Cahir swallows obediently and then sinks back onto the bedroll with a groan. Fortunately, the worst vomiting seems to be over, as he does not throw up the potions. Good. Then the tea that still has to simmer for a few minutes will hopefully stay down too, and prevent life-threatening dehydration. Which is the worst danger to a patient with a severe case of the runs, no matter the cause. Well, high time to finally find this mysterious cause.
"I need to examine you, Cahir. Is it okay if I touch you under your shirt? To feel if there is any swelling or other symptoms, like rashes, for example."
"You - you shouldn't get so c-close," Cahir objects, albeit weakly, his teeth chattering slightly. "W-what if I pass it on to y-you?"
"Don't worry, my boy." Regis smiles fondly down at his patient. "Have you forgotten? I'm a higher vampire. Even if you wanted to, there is no way you could possibly infect me with anything. Unless I drank your blood. Which I won't do." He smiles again while, with deft fingers, pushing Cahir's shirt up. No rash or any other symptoms of the skin. And no fever. Well, that rules out a couple of diseases, like typhoid. People infected with dysentery usually display a low-grade fever while nausea and vomiting are rare. Which makes it very unlikely, too. Frowning with concentration he then lets his long fingers wander across Cahir's belly, gently pressing here and squeezing there. His patient moans softly as he does so, but does not cry out in agony. Good. Then there is no really bad inflammation of the intestine or severe organ damage. He can feel some abdominal swelling, though, which does not exactly come as a surprise considering the symptoms.
"Can you think of anything you have eaten recently that might have made you ill? Berries? Mushrooms? Anything we did not eat?" Cahir shakes his head weakly.
"No, n-nothing. Just the breakfast at the f-farm."
"Hm." They had all eaten the simple but quite nice breakfast the farmer had invited them to after Geralt had saved the farmer's only cow. Which had wandered off into the swamp and came very close to being devoured by a grotesquely huge, flesh-eating plant. What did the Witcher call it again? Archespore? Well, the freshly-baked bread with butter and goat's cheese and the milk from the cow could hardly be to blame for Cahir's sudden illness. Otherwise, Jaskier and Milva ought to show symptoms, too. But what else could it be? He frowns, momentarily at a loss. No, wait, what if -?
"Besides the obvious vomiting, stomach ache and blood-tinged diarrhoea, is there anything else? Any other symptoms?" Regis inquires.
"N-Nausea, and a b-bad headache." Hm, the symptoms would fit. It is not impossible, is it?
"Cahir, how frequently do you ingest dairy products from cow's milk?" the barber-surgeon asks suddenly.
"Cow's m-milk?" Cahir frowns, confused. "I usually don't, I g-guess. In Nilfgaard and V-Vicovaro we mostly keep goats and s-sheep, not cows."
"That's what I thought," Regis says sagely. "I believe, I've found the mysterious cause of your illness. You, my dear young friend, are strongly allergic to cow's milk."
"Then - then it's not d-dysentery?"
"Don't worry, my boy, it's not dysentery nor any other contagious disease." The vampire smiles through pursed lips, his typical Regis smile. "And as long as you avoid any dairy products made of cow's milk in the future, you should be perfectly fine. Milva, would you help me get some of that nice warm tea into our clearly non-contagious friend?"
"Aye-aye, Sir!" Milva, smiling broadly, walks over from the far side of the fire. While Regis supports Cahir, the archer makes him drink the content of a big mug full of herbal tea in small sips. Then the vampire reaches into the campfire with his bare hands and retrieves a flat, roundish stone from it that he put there to heat up. He wraps it in a blanket and places it underneath Cahir's shirt before Milva tucks several blankets tightly around her shivering comrade.
"Sleep now. You'll soon feel better, you'll see." Regis smiles encouragingly at his already half asleep patient. Then he walks over to the still grumpy Witcher and sits down next to him.
"Cheer up Geralt," he says with an amicable smirk. "Looks like we'll only lose half a day. I'm sure, Cahir will be fit enough to travel come tomorrow morning."
"Good news indeed," Jaskier chimes in from close by, "and, come to think of it, this grumpy old Witcher has to blame none other than himself for the delay. For, Geralt, if you had not rescued that cow, none of it would ever have happened."
"Shut up, Bard," Geralt grumbles. However, Jaskier is not altogether wrong, he must admit. And things could have been worse, too. Maybe he should just enjoy the travel-free afternoon. His knee would surely not mind the extra hours of rest, and after the fight with the Archespore his swords might need some cleaning and sharpening. Maybe Milva could go hunting and get them something nice for dinner? Which they would not have to share with the Nilfgaardian as he would probably not want to eat anything for a while. Ah yes, things could indeed have been worse ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Milva is riding next to Cahir again, the September late morning sun warming her face. After having slept almost straight through the afternoon, evening and night, her friend looks much improved in comparison to the day before. He is still unusually quiet, though. Not that he is a particularly chatty person on any day, far from it, but he would, once in a while make a casual remark or even discuss the advantages and disadvantages of certain types of bows and fletchings with her. He has not eaten anything for breakfast either. Maybe still feeling a little out of sorts? Well, there is one way to find out for sure.
"How are you doing today, Nilfgaardian?"
"I'm not a Nilfgaardian, I'm from Vicovaro. I must have explained it at least a dozen times already ..."
There we go, he's perfectly fine again. Milva gives Cahir a broad, good-natured grin. Nothing to worry about then. Nothing at all.