Can't...breathe.
The air...it's so stifling. Not that it's ever been fresh or clean down here, but where once there was just the merest suggestion of old, dusty rot underlaying the incense and sweat of a hundred people, it now hangs heavy with vomit, blood, and death. And I can't do a damned thing about it.

Whether the aches that pounded their way through his thin body were from regret, this sudden and violent illness, or a mixture of the two, Clopin was not sure, and he absolutely hated being unsure of anything. He hated the uncertainty almost as much as he had hated finally having to succumb to the limitations of his own body. When the mysterious illness that had begun to wreak havoc in Paris had begun to work its way through the catacombs, he had been the first to gather the healthy and able and lend a hand preparing mixtures, soothing fevered brows with water fetched from fountains in the dead of night, and emptying bucket after bucket of what remained of food that refused to stay down and nourish.

Stores of herbs that had taken his people years to stockpile and turn to powerful mixtures that promoted good health had been used up in a matter of days, with little to no difference made in the end. The city folk were of course no help; those that did not outright blame his people and send them scurrying off with curses and thrown objects would merely shake their heads in sympathy and say that all of their medicines were already in use to combat the illness among their own people. As though he needed any more proof that the Parisians had never in fact regarded him and his as 'their own people.'

As he lay upon his bed, his view of the Court of Miracles obscured by layer upon layer of cloth hangings, and his shivering body absorbed by the many pillows and blankets he had placed around himself like a protective, fluffy nest, he hated the duplicity of it all: his being allowed to think that maybe just this once, things would turn out well for him and his people. That the citizens might actually overcome their closemindedness and could see their neighbors as human instead of garishly garbed charlatans or harbingers of doom, targeted by the world's most vengeful sky-being.

If there was one thing that caused his already fevered body to burn even hotter, it was his own hatred at the unfairness of it all, and his inability to do anything about it. He knew deep down that there had been a risk of him succumbing to the same illness as the rest of his people as he had continued to do everything he could for them, even as they began dying one by one, their bodies laying within the dark recesses of the catacombs as the living feared that their loved ones' remains would be desecrated by vengeful Parisians, even as they themselves were wracked with fever and dying in turn.

Yet he had continued on, until his own fatigue had resulted in him being more and more careless, dropping light objects and becoming more unfocused in his getting about. His own people had brought this to his attention and had insisted, gently but firmly, that he be guided to his sleeping quarters and remain there until he could be seen to along with all of the others who had taken ill. He had not gone quietly by any means, but as his physical resistance had been all too easily overcome by his now-traitorous helpers, even he had to concede that he was no longer of much use.

But that did NOT mean that he had to like it. Which left him with little more to do than to lay there, feeling the fever consume his body, and occasionally doubling over from paralyzing cramps that radiated from his stomach that felt like some manic demon trying to claw its way out. Sweat poured down his face like rain, soaking his pillows and stinging his eyes until his entire world was one painful blur and he could not discern the colors of his chambers from the vibrant, nauseating palette of a fever dream.

The sudden sound of what he was certain was meant to be a soft knock and instead pounded through his head until he wanted to scream, caused him to raise his tousled head from the sodden pillow it had lain on. "Yes?" His voice was little more than a hoarse croak after he had long since given up anything his stomach had contained, the burning sensation in his throat only adding to his overall misery and causing his voice to sound feeble and dry. The voice that answered was mercifully softer. "I'm so sorry to bother you, but you have visitors, and they're...insistent they see you." Annoyance prickled through Clopin's brain; the word 'visitors' could mean only one thing: outsiders. And he was in no mood to see anyone who wasn't one of his own people. "Tell them they can fu-!"

"Really? With a priest here?"

Clopin didn't think his throbbing head could feel any worse, but the sound of Phoebus' drawl set his head upon an entirely new plane of headache Hell. He narrowed his eyes and barely made out a pair of shapes beyond the many veils of his sleeping area; one with an annoying haircut and the other a shapeless blob that one could suppose was some sort of hooded figure. Fantastic; just what he needed while he was down: a useless blockhead and yet another religious nut.

He didn't bother to mask the rudeness in his voice; after all, any priest wondering why he would not be welcomed in this place, especially in the company he now kept in Phoebus, was a complete fool. "What do you two want? Come to see how we're doing with this blasted illness? I know full well you've not come to offer us aid; are you here to gloat? Compare death tolls? Beseech us to pray to your disease-doling deity? Go find a horse to lay with, you insufferable ass. And take your little tool with you."

He took a small measure of satisfaction in fancying he could feel the heat emanating from Phoebus' face as his temper rose. "Listen here, you pompous-!"

"Wait, please." The voice that came from the other figure was quiet and calm, and oddly familiar. "Mister Clopin, my name is Father Matthew, and we're not here to gloat or do any of those things."

Clopin reached out a hand and pulled the cloths back just enough to look out at the pair, taking in their looks of undisguised horror at the apparition that peered out at them through the darkness. He knew full well what he must look like: his once-healthy brown skin had the pallor of old milk, festooned with quivering drops of sweat here and there. His hair hung in lanky damp strands, several of which hung over eyes that were crusted with yellow granules and bright with fever. His mouth was equally crusted, with cracked lips and a tongue that both looked and felt like old shoe leather.

"So what exactly DO you want, father? Do you want us to join your little 'flock' in praying to your loving, kind god to remember how forgiving he's supposed to be and lift his little curse? Maybe appeal to your holy mother to intervene on our behalf? What makes you think either of them would care enough to bother?" He felt his own anger rising in his chest, and felt the strain it was putting on his already weakened body, but he didn't care.

"Do you know why my people consider me their leader, father? Because I look after them, see to their well-being, give them what they need and try to keep them safe the best way I know how. Because I care about what happens to them. And I'm telling you, if your god was one of my people, I wouldn't trust him with looking after an ageing cheese, to say nothing of living beings. What kind of person, god or otherwise, punishes the people in their care for simply being kind to others? Causes little children to suffer because their father might have given shelter or food to the 'wrong' person? Wipes out a whole city for daring to try and come together and thrive after HIS so-called messenger nearly burns it all down? Why do you still think he would give a damn, father? Why!?-"

A sudden stinging rush of bile welled up in his throat to match his bitter tirade, and Clopin found himself choking and coughing as the foul stuff scorched his already raw throat and mouth. He brought up his other hand to cough into, heard a sound of warning from Phoebus, and suddenly saw a small cloth appear into his hand before it could reach his mouth. He blinked at it in surprise and looked up to see that Father Matthew had moved closer, much closer than was wise for a healthy person, and withdrawing his own hand back into his robes.

The priest fixed Clopin with large, sad eyes. "I don't have an easy answer for any of those questions, Mister Clopin. But the reason I asked Captain Phoebus to bring me here is that I believe, in all sincerity, that this illness is not of God."

Whatever he had expected the priest to say to him after giving his handkerchief, that certainly had not been it. Clopin looked at Father Matthew this time, really looked at him, and his fevered eyes widened in recognition as the swirling colors came into sudden focus. "I remember you; at the square that day. You were trying to talk some sense into that other fool. You said he was your brother?"

Father Matthew chuckled. "In name only. We studied and became clergy together."

"Under the same teacher? Because apparently someone failed somewhere." Clopin was surprised to find himself sharing a small chuckle with the priest, though his ended prematurely in a hacking cough. "So...if you don't believe that your god is behind all of this, I'll ask again; what do you want? Why are you here?"

He watched as Father Matthew's face became thoughtful, as though he were carefully selecting his words. "If this is not of God, then it stands to reason this is of the world. You and your people, you are people of the world; as are we all, but you are more learned in the ways of the world than we. You are known for your travels, and seeing more of this land than many of us could even begin to imagine. With that comes an advantage, for all many of us have known is whatever lies closer to home. I knew that your people were suffering from this illness as much as those up above and thought that if anyone could provide an insight as to what this actually was, perhaps even the insight of one who is not immediately ready to believe that this is a curse brought down by the Almighty, you and yours could. Then we could help both of our people survive, and even rebuild that hope that my unhappy brother so needlessly shattered."

For a long moment, there was silence. Even Phoebus looked a little stunned, as though the idea hadn't occured to him. Well, Clopin thought, one mustn't expect miracles. That was the good father's department, it would seem. He sighed, feeling for what seemed like the first time in a while something other than frustration and anger; a twinge of sadness. "I wish I could help you there, father, but we're just as puzzled as you are. We've run out of every herb trying every combination of potion or ointment we can think of. We've delved into every memory of every sage wisdom passed down from mothers and grandmothers. Nothing works, and my people continue to die. Despite what's happened, I...well if I'm being honest I don't know if I would have shared any cure we found, but what I CAN tell you is we have found nothing. I'm sorry."

Father Matthew smiled, and reached out his hand again to place it on Clopin's shaking one. "I thank you for your honesty, Mister Clopin. And you have my word that if we do find something that works, I will see to it that EVERYONE is taken care of. That means everyone, no matter who they are or whom they serve."

All Clopin could manage was a weak scoff; he still only half believed the priest, though at least this one seemed like he actually took his clergy teachings to heart. Maybe there were still some miracles to be found in his Court after all. He watched as the priest withdrew and turned to Phoebus. "I think it's time we left, and let everyone get some rest. Phoebus, would you kindly see to it that an extra watch is established in the graveyard; having the deceased crowding the catacombs is definitely not contributing to the health of the living..."

That was when Clopin's body decided that that was all of the surprise it was willing to take before sound and sight merged into a sickening swirl in front of his face, and Clopin let both hand and cloths drop back, his body slumped back in the darkness and plagued by restless dreams.