"It did not look like this yesterday."

In spite of the continuing rain – little more than a steady drizzle compared to the previous thundershowers, but still a nuisance – Tsifia had come outside to inspect Arabella. Erik had tried to carry her directly inside, but Tsifia had insisted that with how little oil was currently left in the lanterns, she wanted to conserve it for night time examinations. Instead of placing his wife on a nice dry sleeping pallet, he sat down in the little border of wet grass surrounding the tent. His trousers were instantly soaked through, making him shift uncomfortably even as he rested Arabella carefully across his lap.

She'd been muttering to herself quietly the entire race home, her eyes looking around glassily in clear confusion. Nothing she said was clear enough for Erik to catch, in spite of how close her head rested to his own. Her arms had come up to carefully circle his neck, with no real strength to help him keep a hold of her. She did nothing to show distress as though she didn't recognize him; but she also showed no signs of actually knowing who he was, either

Now Tsifia knelt almost on top of the married couple, testing Arabella's body heat with her wrist before pulling up her granddaughters' night dress. It was obscene, the way it exposed her; but it allowed Erik to understand where the strange stains on the nightgown had come from. His face twisted briefly in helpless disgust at the trio smells that reached him, making him distractedly grateful for having placed her carefully across his lap in a way that kept her pelvic area entirely off of him. He instantly discarded his disgust when he saw Tsifia tear off the medicated bandage covering Arabella's stab wound.

The rash had returned with a vengeance; the healing dark brown-red color the edges of her injury had become was almost completely obliterated by a brilliant pink-red of inflammation. Her abdomen had swollen with a horrible spongy texture, filled with pus that couldn't escape her mostly sealed wound. Not only that… but there were several thick pink streaks emanating from the wound, her infection now clearly having seeped directly into her bloodstream.

Erik knew what he was seeing. He'd suffered an infection or two due to childhood injury, but his body had always been able to fight those off quite rapidly. The little inflammations and tiny lines of infection he'd experienced had been painful… and he couldn't imagine what Arabella must be suffering. An infected hangnail – or even infected cuts from bits of mirror - was nothing compared to what she was enduring.

The sight made his gut clench painfully. It felt as though something demonic had reached into his chest and started to teasingly claw at his heart muscle.

Tsifia looked frightened and woeful. She stared almost dumbly at Arabella as though she couldn't think of a single thing to do to help her granddaughter. Her nose was red and her eyes swollen from the cold that had taken over her body so recently, and she coughed violently to one side when it became apparent her body would give her no other choice. Erik imagined that it must be very difficult to think clearly with such a cold. The woman had already claimed it was like having her head stuffed with cotton that had been set on fire.

Arabella was doing no better with her own cold; and it was clear that it was what had interfered with her full recovery.

Erik waited as patiently as he could for Tsifia to work through her cold so that she could think of a way to help his wife… but it seemed the woman wasn't even trying. She just kept staring at her granddaughters' exposed stomach, ignoring the lower and messier body parts entirely. His arms tightened helplessly around Arabella as he gazed up at the older woman; willing her to come up with something brilliant.

It wasn't as though he only counted on Tsifia. She'd been teaching him things… and he'd been doing his own experiments with what he learned. But even his own halfway brilliant – from the older woman's judgement of his attempts - efforts had proven completely useless in saving Arabella.

"Well?" he finally demanded desperately as Arabella lurched briefly on his lap. She began having a coughing fit; forcing him to roll her partially to one side so that she could spit out whatever her lungs were creating. Yes, she had a terrible cold that was reaching into her chest… but it was still secondary to the clearly more fatal issue of her infected stomach.

Tsifia took in a trembling breath and removed the dicklo from her hair. She had slept in it all evening; apparently due to Erik's presence in the tent… although it had seemed foolish to him. Maybe it was one of her eccentricities, or maybe it was simply her clouded mind keeping her from thinking to remove it. Whatever the case, she took the now rain-moistened material and began mopping up Arabella's filthy lower body.

"Now we keep her as comfortable as possible." She murmured - her voice so low that the continuous but gentle rain almost overpowered it. "We'll need to put up a tarp; and bring her sleeping pallet out here."

"Out here?" Erik demanded, his body going rigid. "The cold and wet will kill her! Are you out of your mind?"

Tsifia lifted her eyes to his face and simply stared at him a very long time. The cold began to seep through his clothing and skin, insidiously creeping its way to the depths of his very bones. He could understand the numb façade she showed him. He could almost feel it himself as the implication set in. There had been very little death in the tribe since his arrival to the gypsy camp – and they had been almost entirely unexpected deaths of the elderly who had been old enough to die but shown no signs of illness. There had been only one who died of clear illness – someone who had been suffering some ailment or another for months on end … much longer than Erik had been around. When it became clear the man was declining rapidly, a makeshift lean-to had been erected, the man had been placed outside of his tent… and the premature mourning had begun amongst the entire camp.

"No." he whispered quietly; his voice trying for firm strength but sounding reedy and metallic… like someone trying to coax music from a flute with lungs that were much too weak for the effort. "She's your granddaughter! You can't just… give up!"

"Miri Kom…"

His eyes shot down to his wife's face, and realized that she was staring rather lucidly up at him. In the span of only a few short seconds, she'd somehow found her way back to reality. She was blinking rapidly due to the water pelting her face; but continued to steadily stare at him. It was the first time he'd actually been able to see the physical pain of what she was enduring on her face; for she was now much too sick to work up enough strength to keep up her stoic façade. The sight of her in such visible pain was almost worse than the terrible sight of her growing infection as it poisoned her poor body.

"Ma belle…" he responded weakly; completely at a loss of words as his heart twisted again painfully. Fear made his body tighten abruptly, and he surged into a more upright sitting position - his posture having gone slack while Tsifia cleaned her.

"I'm freezing…"

He almost laughed – almost. If there was one thing his wife was not, it was freezing. She was so hot to the touch that he was surprised her skin wasn't beginning to form blisters and melt. Still… once again - having suffered fevers of his own in the past, he could understand why she might feel cold. She was almost completely naked – with her gown pulled up the way it was to bunch under her breasts. The water falling from the sky and pooling under their bodies was frigid and uncomfortable even for him. It wouldn't be much of a stretch to think Arabella must be feeling like she'd been dropped into glacier water and held under a sheet of ice.

"We'll get you warm and dry very soon." He promised, removing one of his arms from around her body to stroke back the curls that were slowly being weighed down by the cold rainwater. "Tsifia… I'm bringing her back inside."

"Erik-"

He stood, ignoring the old woman's instant protest to give her a glare. He couldn't respond with words instantly, because he was distracted with grunting noises. It wasn't easy to stand when all your balance was thrown off by the weight you carried - especially from a full sitting position on the ground.

"Don't tell me I can't bring my wife somewhere comfortable." He warned the old lady. "We need time to make someplace else more comfortable out here – if you insist on that. I won't have her left suffering in the cold and damp."

He'd turned to enter the tent, but he still heard Tsifia give out a soft sob as she gave him the kind of information that wasn't necessary… but still something he had never wanted to hear.

"We may not have that kind of time."

Ducking his head, Erik tightened his grip on his wife.

"C-cold…" Arabella mumbled almost unintelligibly.

"I know…" he soothed, settling her down on their sleeping mat and keeping her in a sitting positon so that he could remove her soiled gown. He didn't even hesitate as he carefully avoided dirtying her hair with the mess still clinging to her nightgown. In spite of the bit of filth still clinging to her, there was little enough of it left so that he wasn't concerned with the blankets being dirtied as he quickly huddled her within them. "I know mira kom."

He turned to the bag of clothing they had placed some of their clothing in for the journey, so that they had easy access to only what would be needed. He began tossing clothes all over the tent, most worried about finding something she would feel warm and comfortable in. Although she had plenty of warm clothes, he doubted if any of her blouses would be comfortable to continuously sleep in.

"I'll put you in some of my clothes." He murmured distractedly; unaware of whether or not she was still lucid enough to understand him. "The trousers will keep closer to your legs…"
He glanced up as Tsifia entered the tent, a slightly more determined loo on her face than the one that had existed minutes earlier.

"I've told Cassimir to find the nearest village." She murmured quietly, glancing over his head to see how her granddaughter was doing. "He'll bring back a doctor…"

"I thought you'd given up." Erik replied bitterly, still searching for something warm enough, and close enough to Arabella's size so that it would be ridiculously hard to put her in.

"She's my granddaughter, Erik." Tsifia folded her arms across her chest sternly, echoing his earlier words. "What kind of woman would ever give up on her own family?"

"I can think of a few." Erik muttered, finally pulling out a tunic shirt he sometimes wore in his most casual moments. It was long enough that it would almost fall to Arabella's knees, and perhaps that would be best – better than putting her in a long skirt or trousers. She had no control over her body – obviously – and it would be easier to keep her clean if he could easily lift up her clothing when she felt the need to evacuate her waste… if she could tell him she felt it was going to happen. Otherwise, it wouldn't matter what she was wearing.

"Erik…"

He paused to glance up at Tsifia; who came to kneel across from him and help put the shirt over Arabella's rolling head. Although he'd given her his full attention, the old woman didn't speak again until their patient was tucked tightly under a pile of blankets and seemed to be trying to rest once more.

Then, she met his eyes squarely; making him flinch before she ever spoke… knowing he wouldn't want to hear what she was about to say.

"I've also told him to bring a priest."

"Good…"

Both were startled by the whispered words, and they dropped their gazes to Arabella. She lay with her eyes just barely open, a little smile on her face as she looked between them. Slowly, she edged her hand in Erik's direction as her gaze met his.

"I'll make you some tea." Tsifia murmured, looking quickly away from the relief in her granddaughters' eyes as Erik took his wife's hand. She stood and shuffled toward the little stove that had been keeping them warm through all the soaking cold of the storms the night before. "I still have some black Elder…"

For a long time, Erik merely knelt beside his wife, staring down at her as she smiled faintly and apologetically up at him. He was afraid to speak… a terrible feeling in his gut insisting that she was much too aware of what was happening to her. Why else would she look so apologetic? Why else would she have taken his hand to soothe him? She certainly wasn't grasping at him as though she were trying to use contact with him as comfort for her own pain.

He wondered just how lucid she really was. She didn't seem to be surprised by the idea of needing the presence of a priest. Was she lucid enough to understand the reasoning? Had she even heard her grandmother correctly – or at all? Was she just responding to the tone of her grandmother's voice implying something that had needed doing had been accomplished?

"Erik…"

He slowly settled on his side so he could bring his ear closer to her mouth; switching the hand that held hers so that his elbow could support his weight. In spite of the glassiness to her gaze, her eyes didn't leave his face. If she didn't seem so exhausted, he doubted she'd have even blinked.

"Yes?"

There was a very long moment while he waited for her response, thinking what she was going to say would prove vitally important. Maybe she would have an idea of how he could save her – since both he and Tsifia were completely out of ideas.

"Where did you put him?"

Erik blinked hard, staring down at her in confusion. Her voice had been a little stronger than moments before, the question apparently taking Tsifia off guard behind him. The woman had grown quite still in her preparations for the tea.

"Put who?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Adnah…" she replied simply. "Where is he? Is he hidden?"

Erik's thought his heart had entirely stopped beating for several long seconds. Then, as he forced himself not to glance over his shoulder at Tsifia, his heart finally pounded ahead in alarm, trying to catch up with the beats it had missed and then racing on ahead. It was physically painful, the way his blood reacted to his horror. It wasn't that he was afraid of Tsifia discovering his secret… but he certainly would have preferred to keep it a secret. Not only that… but it was proof that Arabella was still just as controlled by her fever as she'd been minutes before.

"I…" he began uneasily, shifting uncomfortably and reaching out to stroke her hair back as was his usual habit. "I'm sure he's very well hidden. After what he tried to do to you…"

It was Arabella's turn to look confused, as Tsifia shifted behind Erik's back. He could feel the old woman edging closer; as though trying to catch every word the two exchanged.

"Are you sure?" she insisted.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to her wet hair before bringing his mouth close to the shell of her ear.

"I'm positive." He promised in a low breath. "You're safe, ma belle."

When he drew back, her smile had grown into one of something close to bliss. Her eyes had even closed as though his words gave her permission to relax.

"Of course I am…" she murmured; almost in the tone of voice she'd used while he was massaging her shoulders after one particularly hard performance had stiffened her muscles. It had been a very brief physical encounter, and one that hadn't made her particularly happy or comfortable with him until she realized just how good it felt to have that particular tension released. It had been such a brief moment between them that hadn't involved any form of intimacy at all… but had felt almost as potent as their performance together. "I have you."

"Yes, you do." He agreed instantly, actually managing a little smile of his own. Her delirium was terrifying to him; but at least she didn't seem to be haunted by nightmares during her fever-induced thoughts.

"Will we be performing tonight?"

He blinked again, barely able to keep up with the shift in thought processes.

"I…" he began uneasily. "No, mira kom. Not tonight."

"Is there a festival?"

"No."

"Here, my dear." Tsifia interrupted them, bringing over a surprisingly large vessel of tea. Erik quickly realized she'd brought over a bowl instead of a cup, and was once more startled. He supposed his wife probably needed a great deal of medication…

He could instantly smell peppermint mixed with the elderberry… and his gut clenched painfully as he thought over the side effects she might suffer taking such tea. Her bowels were already compromised due to the infection… and with what Tsifia had taught him about such ingredients; it was only going to get worse. With a silent groan, he pushed himself into a sitting position and began to pull Arabella up into a supported sit as well.

She obediently swallowed what her grandmother offered, although by the twist of her face it wasn't pleasant – or was perhaps a touch too hot. Once she'd swallowed over half of the contents in the bowl, she collapsed against Erik as though she'd just run a marathon, groaning and placing her hands over her stomach.

"You were right…" she moaned, rolling her head to look up at Tsifia. "The child is death…"

Erik's head jerked up so that he could stare in shock at the old woman. Tsifia didn't seem to be doing much better herself. The woman's swarthy complexion had drained almost instantly of all color, and she swayed quite violently on her knees as she stared at Arabella in mounting horror and revelation.

"What is she talking about?" he demanded. "Is it just her delirium? Or is it something you said the night she found out-"

"It isn't delirium." Tsifia interrupted him instantly, her voice defensive. "It was a vision I had… God… I'd completely forgotten!"

"Vision?" he barked skeptically. "What vision? What nonsense is-"

"I'm a seer, Erik." The woman interrupted almost harshly; although her voice retained its' sense of shock. "I don't just read palms and gaze into crystals. Sometimes I… I get flashes… It's faded over the years… but I had one shortly after you arrived among us. I'd forgotten…"

Erik frowned at the woman skeptically. He'd heard a great deal of superstitious nonsense since his arrival in the tribe, but nothing this outlandish. Still; he didn't dare scoff at her openly. The Romani travelers were too proud and superstitious. They wouldn't be pleased with his skepticism; and this woman would probably try to curse him for scorning her.

"What vision?" he asked.

"I… I'm not entirely…" The woman swayed once again before sinking onto the ground; almost spilling the rest of the tea as she half dropped the bowl into her lap. "I said… I said that the child was death. Untouched… untouched by the flames but… but burned…"

She shook her head as though to clear it.

"Visions aren't exact." She said decisively, waving her hand almost dismissively. "It was just a jumble of words and images to me. But I did say that the child was death. I remember that part."

"Passion…" Arabella murmured, her eyes drifting slowly shut again. "Untouched by the flames… but burned by the heat… passion… death… all is death…"

Erik shuddered at the ominous tone of this so-called prophecy.

"What does passion have to do with it?" he demanded.

"Passion isn't just love or lust, Erik." Tsifia explained softly. "Do you know your Latin?"

"Of course."

"Think of the passion of Christ." The woman suggested.

He would have asked what she knew about Christ… but as Anton had pointed out; Romani were Christian. It wasn't impossible for them to know the bible. Not all of them were illiterate. Some might have even had a passing acquaintance with formal catechism. In fact… he was almost certain he'd witnessed children being brought into the towns they passed through for baptisms and christenings. How had he missed that? He'd had the ceremony explained to him plenty of times in his youth. Had he been so blind to the workings of the tribe around him that he'd missed something so blatantly Christian?

Erik considered Tsifia's words for a long minute. Then, eyes widening, he looked back at Tsifia. Instantly, he pictured the night that Arabella had discovered she was pregnant. He thought of all her father had forced her to endure… and how much she continued to suffer due to her own emotions and thoughts of self-doubt.

"Suffering." He whispered. "The fire and the heat… was Arabella's passion… her suffering…"

Tsifia nodded briefly.

"But… But…" Erik shook his head violently. "No. You're only seeing what you want to see. Now that this is happening, it's an excuse to claim you were right."

"I am not the one who said it first." Tsifia pointed out gently, motioning briefly to Arabella.

"It is coincidence." Erik claimed firmly, turning his gaze away momentarily from both women. "You cannot claim this was destined to happen. I cannot believe God would…"

He stopped, shaking his head miserably.

It made a sick sort of sense. God had destined him to be a miserable outsider. Why wouldn't taking his wife and step-daughter away be a part of that destiny? But was God so cruel as to use Arabella to make him suffer? He hated theological questions… he truly did! Every time scripture was brought into his life, the equation always ultimately condemned him in some brand new painful fashion.

"Erik…"

He slowly turned back to his wife, feeling his eyes itch with unshed tears as she squeezed his hand weakly. There was a strange squelching noise from her body, and then a fresh smell of excrement tinged the air; making all three of them wince in disgust. Whatever Arabella had been about to say; she forgot quickly due to her discomfort and embarrassment.

He said absolutely nothing to her about the incident. Instead, he simply went about doing all he could to clean her up and make her once again comfortable. He wanted to draw as little attention to the indignity of her body's condition as humanly possible… knowing exactly how it felt to be forced to live in your own waste. She might have no control over her body; but he certainly wasn't going to make her lay in it for a single instant longer than necessary.

Death was so damned ugly and humiliating.

By the time she was again clean, she seemed to have fallen unconscious. Only her raspy shallow breathing gave him any indication that she was still alive at all… and he found himself unable to speak as his bitterness and despair washed over him. Even if she by some miracle recovered… they would all have these memories to contend with… and it would be all the worse for Arabella – who hated being tended to and nursed like an invalid. Even though in these moments an invalid was exactly what she was; she would loathe her physical weakness once she was on the mend.

He wondered just how strongly Arabella would object to living through such indignity if she were more lucid. Even in the moments she'd been making sense, it was hard to tell just how aware she was of the world around her. She might not even fully comprehend that she'd soiled herself. She might simply have felt uncomfortable... It was so hard to tell; and he would never be cruel enough to point out what had happened to her just to sate his curiosity on the matter.

If only he could spare her the same indignity he'd suffered in his own past.