Author's Note:

Unfortunately I still can't seem to figure out the spacing issue, I'm very sorry everyone! On another note, thank you for the reviews, comments, favorites, and follows! I am really glad that you all seem to be enjoying the story, and I hope you stay with me and continue! Please leave me a comment, review, critique, or what have you!

Chapter Four: An Angry God

"Doctor, what is she talking about?" Clara insisted. Her eyes began to grow more and more panicked as she saw the Doctor's expression. His eyes were so dark, so angry. It was as though there was a storm raging within them. His jaw locked before his entire expression softened and he looked down at Clara. He was trying to hide his concern and Clara knew it. He might wear his mask well, but his eyes always gave him away.

"Clara," He spoke softly, curling his long fingers around her arm and gently pulling her up to stand with him. "How long have you had that cough?"
"Not long, just before we got here." She looked back and forth from the Doctor to Artima before her eyes widened and she shook her head. "But my throat has been feeling scratchy since we were on the Tardis, it's no big deal. Just an itch in my throat!"
The Doctor placed his hands on either side of her face, looking at her with such an intense stare that Clara almost feared him. Almost.
"Tell me that again." He murmured. Suddenly Clara realized what he was doing; he was trying to make sure she was telling the absolute truth. "Tell me this isn't something that just happened."
"It's not something that just happened. My throat has been scratchy since we were on the Tardis." Clara's voice was even and as calm as she could keep it. The Doctor's eyes narrowed, searching her for any signs of lying before he dropped his hands.

"There, you see?" He smiled, clapping his hands together. "All set. Now, Artima, you were telling me about Ithanor. Why would Ithanor send a plague, what changed? What is different from two weeks ago?"
Artima's eyes were still on Clara, her eyes boring into her as though she were looking into her soul.
"There was this horrible smell." She said finally, looking up at the Doctor. "A horrible smell which burned us when we breathed."
"A horrible smell." The Doctor repeated, squinting his eyes at Artima. "What horrible smell?"
"Doctor, the sulfur. The smell in the street, the smell of sulfur." Clara coughed, clearing her throat.
"Oh…" The Doctor breathed, seeming to stare off into space. "No…it can't…oh but yes…Oh that's brilliant! It's terrible but it's brilliant!" The Doctor clapped his hands, the most wicked, childish grin spreading across his face. "That is terrific, that is clever, very very clever!"
"Doctor, what's clever?" Clara asked, watching as the Doctor ran across the room to grab one of the glasses of water that had been set down by the nurses. He dipped his finger into the glass, stuck his finger in his mouth, and made a face.
"This water is disgusting!" He exclaimed with absolute delight.
Artima, who had remained quiet, looked insulted. "I beg your pardon; there is nothing wrong with our water!"
The Doctor stepped up to her with his Cheshire grin, looking like a kid in a candy shop.
"But it is! Don't you get it? Don't you understand?" The Doctor looked over at Clara. "Clara would you like to explain or shall I?"
Clara smiled at the Doctor, placing the heel of her hand to her forehead. "You look far too excited for me to take this moment away from you, you go ahead."
Clara sat on the floor, taking a deep breath before she coughed once more.
"You see," The Doctor started. "Whatever this plague is, wherever in the Universe it's coming from, it's smart. Impossibly smart, incredibly smart, and very very clever. Your plague, what you call a plague, it knows your planet. It has studied you, watched what you do and how you work. It knows your people, your religion, your rules, your gods. It has gotten to you where you are the weakest—"
"Weakest? Doctor, we are Niscorites, there is nothing weak about us!" Artima interrupted, her childish face twisted in anger.
"Of course there is, there always is!" He said, looking confused by Artima's anger. "Every species has a weakness. And yours is your religion."
"You speak blasphemy." Artima snapped.
The Doctor sighed, looking frustrated. "Don't you understand? That is your weakness, your belief. Whatever is causing this sickness to happen has been watching you. Whatever is causing this has taken note of your religion, how clean you are, and it wants to stay under the radar. So what better way to stay under the radar than make everyone think they're dealing with the wrath of their god?"
Artima's anger slowly ebbed away as she began to understand, and her large eyes widened.
"But what has the water got to do with it?" She asked, gesturing to the glass in the Doctor's hand.
"Doctor…" Clara's voice was too soft for him to hear.
"This," The Doctor said, holding the glass up to his eyes, looking through it. "This is where the secret has been hiding."
"Doctor…"
"So the smell, it's been coming from the water?" Artima looked up at the Doctor, a smile growing on her lips.
The Doctor grinned. "This is exactly where it's coming from. The question is: what is putting sulfur in the water supply?"
"Doctor!"

The Doctor turned quickly to see Clara struggling to stand, her eyes heavily lidded and her face pale. The Doctor's smile fell and he grasped Clara's shoulders, his eyes searching her. The glass of water in his hand shattered on the floor, splintering against the Tepitin surface.
"Clara, Clara what's wrong, tell me what's wrong?"
"I lied." Clara breathed, her fingers curling into the Doctor's jacket. "I lied, Doctor. I lied."
The Doctor froze, his eyes wide and his breathing seemed to have stopped. Artima watched them, swallowing.
"I told you," She whispered, her silver eyes falling sad on Clara's pale face. "It's how it begins."
But the Doctor was ignoring Artima at the moment; his attention was entirely focused on Clara. He grabbed his sonic, quickly pointing it at her as he tried to determine what to do. His mind was racing too quickly, and his anger was rising. Clara was sick, his Clara, and it was his fault. He should have never brought her here.
"Everything is going to be alright, Clara." His voice was strained as he tried to sound calm, but Clara knew better. She coughed, looking up at the Doctor with a smile.
"Silly space man, we both know you can't promise that."
"I can. I can save you, Clara. I'm going to save you."
Clara coughed harshly, leaning her forehead against his shoulder.
"Then save me."

The Doctor clutched her closely for another moment or so before he looked up, his eyes almost black with fury. He placed Clara on one of the cots, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before he balled his hands into fists. He was angry. There was an absolute rage coiling in his stomach and pulling at his two hearts.
"Doctor? Doctor, how are you going to save her? We don't even know what's causing this yet!" Artima said, looking down at the Doctor. The Doctor glared up at her, tucking his sonic into his jacket pocket.
"We're going to find out." He hissed coldly, straightening his bow tie before he stormed outside into the street.
"Do you hear me?!" He shouted into the sky, his anger wild. "Wherever you are, whoever is listening out there, you just made the biggest mistake of your life! Because there is one thing you do not ever want to do, one small thing that you should never ever do if you hope to have any chance of survival! And you've just gone and done it!" The Doctor grinned darkly, dark enough to make Artima shake with fear.
"You've made me angry."