Inspired by the Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt "Chickenpox" and the Wollemi Whump Event prompts 7 "Heat" and 11 "Out of it."
He does not die during the night. But neither is Cahir better when Madam Livilla returns to the kindergarten early in the morning, the contrary. She finds him still in bed and so out of it and delirious with fever that, when she calls his name and he opens his eyes for a moment blinking up at her blearily, he mistakes her for his mother. How very ridiculous! Yet, the massive amount of heat coming off the sick young man is deeply worrying. His forehead feels so hot to her touch, she could probably fry eggs on it if she wanted to. Of course, Madam Livilla has no intention of doing anything as foolish as this, and why would she? She has had two perfectly boiled eggs for breakfast already, thank you very much. Like every morning, she would love to sit down in her cosy little office now to have another cup of tea and some quiet before the parents arrive with their kids - or, more precisely, the servants many of them send to drop off their progeny. Well, looks like today this will not be an option, thanks to Cahir. With a heartfelt sigh she fills some water into a bowl instead of into the tea kettle and fetches a piece of cloth to wipe her unlikely employee's sweat-covered brow with. He moans weakly in his semi-sleep when she does so but does not open his eyes this time.
How wonderful, exactly what she has dreamed of. Instead of getting help, now she has to take care of a sick, grown man on top of all the stressful work with the children. And, of course, nobody is going to pay her a single mark extra for it. If she were not as well-behaved and polite as she is, she would swear like a sailor out of exasperation.
Sighing once again instead of cursing the unfairness of her fate, Madam Livilla dips the piece of cloth into the bowl a second time, wrings it out a little, then places it on Cahir's forehead. He shivers in his sleep despite feeling as hot as an oven from the fever. Or not despite but because of it? The thin blanket is damp with sweat, too, and, when she lifts it a little, Madam Livilla notes with dismay that his shirt is thoroughly soaked, as are the bedsheets. Not good. Dehydration is a possible and dangerous complication of high fevers, that much she knows although she has never had any real medical training.
"Cahir?" she calls his name like she did the evening before while filling his cup with water. He needs to drink something to make up for sweating so excessively. Yet, he does not wake up, and neither does he do so when she shakes him by his shoulders. The only discernible reaction she gets from the badly feverish man is another low moan.
Perhaps it is time to consult a healer? Madam Livilla wonders. Although, come to think of it, if Cahir dies from the high fever, the emperor might send a more competent replacement - maybe the oldest daughter of an educated but impoverished, noble Nilfgaardian family, or a nice young widow who has to work to earn a living for herself and her own three little children. On the other hand, you never know what strange ideas Emhyr var Emreis might come up with next. She might get a war invalid on crutches as her new assistant, or a gnome or goblin, or nobody at all. Well, to be fair, for a man who has no previous knowledge of how to work with children and hates every second of it, Cahir is not doing that horribly, Madam Livilla has to admit. And he does whatever she orders him to do, not exactly rejoicing in the tasks but without hesitation or arguing, like one can expect of a soldier who cannot afford to displease his emperor. All in all, it could be far worse. For some mysterious reason, quite a few of the children even seem to like the erstwhile Commander general.
So, pox on it, a healer it is, the kindergarten supervisor decides. With yet another heartfelt sigh, she turns around and walks to the door. She will have to hurry to be back from her usual healer's place in time before the kids arrive. It is not exactly around the corner. And, of course, it has started to rain. Just her bad luck. Hmm, maybe she should try out the newly opened barber-surgeon's shop right across the street instead? Cahir has probably just caught the flue and a strong antipyretic tea and a few days of rest might be all the medication he needs. Even though barber-surgeons are usually less qualified than healers and turn out to be incompetent quacks more often, it is surely worth checking the man out. And a lot cheaper. Not an irrelevant aspect considering that Cahir is, as far as she knows, not paid for his work. His very meagre belongings, which appear to consist of nothing but a few pieces of well-worn clothing, do not leave the impression that he is in possession of any personal funds either despite hailing from one of the oldest and richest noble families in Vicovaro. It looks like the government will have to cover the costs, but will it? Anyway, the barber-surgeon's place is a lot more convenient for her.
Stepping into the alleyway, Madam Livilla looks to the left and right, carefully watching out for riders and carriages - more out of habit than necessity this early in the morning. Then she crosses the cobblestone street with brisk strides.
To Madam Livilla's big surprise, the barber surgeon is not an elderly, bespectacled man who smells strongly of garlic and camphor and all kinds of other herbs and spices, but a young woman with luscious auburn hair, freckles and the cutest of dimples when she smiles. Which she seems to do a lot. She is more than happy to help, too, and, when Madam Livilla tells her about her predicament and Cahir's symptoms, she immediately grabs some jars and liquid-filled vials from the many shelves in the shop, puts them into a colourful canvas bag and, still smiling, follows the tall and stern, middle-aged woman across the street and into the old but nicely renovated kindergarten building.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"Lucky you came," he hears a female voice through the fog in his brain and the ringing in his ears. It is a soft, melodious voice he has not heard before, but his eyelids feel far too heavy to lift and see for himself who the woman might be and who she is talking to.
He moans softly when cool but gentle hands touch his neck, feeling for his pulse.
"This is serious," the woman adds. She sounds very serious indeed. Feeling blazingly hot and freezing cold at the same time, and in pain and too weak to move a single finger, Cahir could not agree more. As a soldier he has been injured before and severely so more than once, but never has he been sick like this from some mere, regular illness. Even minding the kids would be much preferable to feeling as shitty and miserable as this.
The woman's deft fingers wander down to the buttons of his sweat-drenched shirt and open them.
"See that?" she asks. "The little red dots here and here?"
"You don't think it's — but no, this is impossible, only children get it!" Madam Livilla's harsh voice cuts through his cloudy mind like a knife. Cahir heaves a groan. If he could move his arms, he would cover his ears with his hands, but they feel so heavy, they could as well be made of solid stone.
"Besides, it's a pretty harmless disease," his superior goes on, still far too loudly. "Except for the rash, the kids hardly have any symptoms at all, and definitely never a fever like this."
"Yet, have any of the children attending your institution come down with it lately?" the other woman insists.
"Yes, there was a bit of an outbreak not long before Cahir started working here, and a few stragglers after that. But as I said, it's a childhood disease and Cahir's hardly a child!"
"He's not, I agree. And it happens very rarely, but trust me, I know the signs," the woman with the soft voice explains. "If somebody has never contracted it during their childhood, they can fall ill with it later on in life at any age. The symptoms are usually a lot more severe then, especially in adult men. They frequently suffer from fever above forty degrees Celsius, and there's a much higher likelihood of serious complications, like infections of the skin, bronchitis, pneumonia, hepatitis, arterial ischemic stroke, or inflammation of the brain. Seventy-five percent of deaths due to chickenpox occur in adults, although the huge majority of people has it before they turn ten."
Damn, chickenpox, is that what he has? In his fever-addled state, Cahir did not even understand half of what the women were saying, only a snippet here and a word there, but he is almost sure that this is what the healer, or whatever she is, called it. There was also something about serious complications and seventy-five percent deaths in adults, right? Fuck, those bloody little buggers infected him with a children's disease which he will, most likely, die from. And here he thought raiding caravans would be the far more dangerous job. The pox on this fucking kindergarten and those germ-spreading little menaces! And on the emperor and his fantastic spur-of-the-moment ideas as well.
"The rash will soon become a lot worse," the woman continues her explanations. "This is only the very beginning. I'll leave an ointment here for it. And a potion to bring down the fever. He also needs to drink lots of water. Those wet sheets should be changed, too, and his clothes. And cold leg compresses would be good. Most importantly, you need to call me right away if any other symptoms develop, like a bad cough, difficulties breathing, cramps, or paralysis."
Sighing heavily, Madam Livilla nods. How she is supposed to do all that while supervising not only her own group of kids but also Cahir's, cook for all of them and clean up their mess afterwards is a mystery to her. Well, she will try to do her best, as always.
"Don't worry, I'll come by to check on how he's doing as soon as I'm back from visiting my other patients," the soft-voiced woman promises. It sounds strangely reassuring. If he managed to have a look, Cahir is almost certain that she would flash a bright, encouraging smile at him.
Perhaps, with her help, he might not die after all?