Inspired by the March of Pain prompt 28 "Burn".
After what turned into a more than two-hours-nap on the sofa in her office, Madam Livilla feels much better. The sofa is a bit short for her and not as comfortable as her spacious bed at home, but certainly better than the hard, wooden bench in the garden. Nothing has happened to the children while under the barber-surgeon's care, like expected, and she finds them all playing happily outside in the sun with all limbs still attached and, obviously, not missing her much, or at all. The tiny pang of jealousy that she feels at the thought vanishes instantly the moment the pretty young woman turns around and gives her one of her most radiant smiles.
"Feeling better?" she asks, genuinely worried.
"Like a new woman, thanks to you," Madam Livilla says, smiling back at her. "And I don't even know your name."
"Philomela, but you can call me Melli."
Melli, what a perfect name for somebody with such a mellifluous voice. And isn't Philomela what bird-watchers call the nightingale? How very fitting. Madam Livilla has not heard her new acquaintance sing yet, but, if she had one, she would bet half a kingdom that Melli must be a natural at it.
"Livi," she says so softly that only the young woman can hear her, "but don't tell the kids."
"I won't," Melli promises with a wink. "Shall we have tea now?"
They shall and do. With cookies for everybody. Talking animatedly with the lovely barber-surgeon, Madam Livilla even forgets that Damian and the other tree-climbers were not to get any treats. And the kids are clever enough not to remind her of it. To her great joy, Melli seems to be in no hurry to go home. She stays, helping Madam Livilla with the kids and taking care of Cahir, until dusk falls and all the children have returned home.
"Remember to get me if there are any new symptoms besides the rash and the fever. I'm just across the street," she says when she does leave. Then, waving good-bye at Madam Livilla, she crosses the road and disappears into her shop.
The kindergarten feels horribly empty, almost deserted, when Madam Livilla sits down on her sofa with another cup of tea. Not that she misses the hordes of kids, no, it is a relief to finally find some peace and quiet. Yet, she misses her new friend. Well, Melli promised to be back early in the morning to check on Cahir. Then, of course, she will have to see to her own business, lots of other patients to visit, potions to brew, herbs to dry, salves to mix and what not. She cannot possibly take another afternoon off, and why would she want to work in her free time and not even get paid for it? Nobody in their right mind would do such a thing. Still, after this most miserable morning, the afternoon with her was so enjoyable despite it being as busy and noisy as always, Madam Livilla would not mind a repetition, on the contrary.
Unfortunately, the pleasant afternoon is followed by a mostly sleepless night. There are no further complications, so - much to her regret - there is no real reason to alert the barber-surgeon. Yet, despite the antipyretic potion, Cahir's fever stubbornly refuses to go down. Madam Livilla is changing cold compresses, administering more of the fever medicine, applying ointment to the rapidly spreading and worsening rash, and trying to get as much of Melli's special tea into her sick assistant as possible for what feels like an eternity. She even does hold his hand once or twice to calm him down when the fever dreams get really bad. How very fortunate that he will, most likely, not remember any of it in the morning. This would be too embarrassing.
As she cannot sleep anyway, only rest her eyes a bit once in a while sitting on the not very comfortable chair, Madam Livilla looks through the get-well cards that are still lying on the chest of drawers. Some of them are really nice and you can easily see that the young artists put a lot of effort into their creations. Others maybe not so much, but what can you expect of a three-year-old? There are some pretty funny ones, too, and this drab room could benefit from some colour, whether its current resident likes it or not. So, she uses the time in between her nursing tasks to decorate the walls.
Yes, this looks much better already, Madam Livilla smiles to herself when she is done, a lot less depressing than before. Melli will love it. And the children will be happy that their hard work is appreciated. Cahir will have to get used to it.
After several more doses of the antipyretic potion, Cahir's temperature finally goes down a little and he stops tossing and turning and raving in his fevered sleep. It looks like she can get a little sleep herself now, Madam Livilla decides, before Melli arrives, and then the kids. The sofa in her office is far more comfortable than the rickety chair in Cahir's room, and, dog-tired as she is, it takes less than a minute for her to drift off.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"How are you feeling?" the pretty young woman asks after Cahir has swallowed yet another spoonful of the bitter medicine. He suppresses a grimace. At least, it seems to show some effect by now. His head does not hurt that viciously anymore and he can see and hear the healer more clearly, not blurrily and distorted like before. Still being horribly exhausted, he only manages to blink his eyes open for a few brief moments, though. It is so quiet in the dimly lit room, it must be very early in the morning anyway. Yet, to his great relief, one quick, tired glance at her was enough to convince him that she is not a delusion, Cahir is ninety percent sure of it. However, in spite of the improvements, he feels far from good, only slightly less miserable.
"Cold," he croaks, shivering under the thin blanket.
"Any double vision, chest pain or difficulty breathing?"
Cahir shakes his head weakly.
"Good." She gives him a dazzling smile. "Can you bend your neck?"
He can. His neck feels a bit stiff and his muscles weak and a little achy, but no more so than the rest of his body.
"Very good. Your brain and lungs seem alright. What about the rash? Does it hurt? Itch?"
"Yes," he whispers miserably. It is good to hear that there is nothing wrong with his brain, but his skin burns and itches like he has fallen naked into a field of stinging nettles, or wallowed about in an ant hill. The rash must be everywhere. He better not imagine what he looks like, probably a lot worse than after Sodden.
"I fear it will stay like this for at least a week. It's the main symptom of chickenpox and is usually more expansive, painful and longer-lasting in adults than when children have it. Some adults have it for up to four weeks," she explains, giving him a sympathetic look from soft, hazel eyes when he blinks up at her, aghast.
"But, no scratching!" she then adds with emphasis. "That is an order. If you scratch, this cannot only cause ugly scars - and I believe you've got enough of those already - but also lead to severe, potentially deadly skin infections. This ointment," she opens a jar filled with a white substance and starts to apply it to the worst of the blisters in his face, "will help prevent inflammation and ease the pain and itch a little, but, unfortunately, it's not a panacea."
The ointment feels good on his burning skin, however, it is a time-consuming and embarrassing procedure. There are so many of the liquid-filled, red dots on his chest and back that the healer soon gives up singling out any and spreads the ointment all over the rash before she slips his shirt back into place. The other parts of his body are not quite as densely populated with pustules, but there are some that require treatment pretty much everywhere, also in places he very much wishes had been spared. It would be so much easier if Fringilla was here. She could simply magic the rash away with a flick of her pinkie finger, he supposes, and, for the umpteenth time since he was sent here, wonders what has become of her. Hopefully, the emperor has found a less ridiculous punishment for his friend than for him.
"Done," the healer finally says. "Now you should drink some more tea. I can also add a little something that will help you sleep more easily despite the pain and itching."
She does not wait for her patient to agree to the proposal. It would be idiotic to decline the offer anyway, and Cahir is not an idiot. The healer counts ten drops of a clear liquid into a cup, then fills it with herbal tea and adds a lavish amount of honey. Cahir is so exhausted by now and shivering, she has to help him lift his head a little and hold the cup for him. The second the tea is drunk, he sinks back onto the pillow and, still shivering slightly, falls asleep.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Everything is burning. The fortress, the forest, the soldiers, even the night sky is alight with fire. He is staring at the inferno, paralysed with fear and pain. As much as he wants to, he cannot run as his legs refuse to work. And where to? There is nothing but a searing sea of fire all around him. The deadly flames are already dancing around and licking at his legs, his torso, reaching with their red-hot tongues into his face, engulfing him, devouring him. But he does not want to burn to ashes like his men. He did not burn like them. Something is wrong. This is not what happened. It cannot be real.
Cahir wakes up with a panicked gasp. The sun is shining through the window. From outside, he can hear the laughter of children. For a brief moment, he feels disoriented. He raises his head a little and looks around the room, confused. Right, not Sodden Hill. The kindergarten. In Vicovaro. And he is sick with bloody chickenpox. The painful burning, itching sensation is the rash, not fire. Although extremely unpleasant, nothing to worry too much about. If he does not scratch. But damn, how is he supposed to not do it? For weeks? He groans, closing his eyes again. The itching, and with it the urge to scratch, seems to become worse with every passing minute. A new form of torture. Maybe not quite as bad as what Tissaia did to him, but bad enough to possibly drive him crazy. Perhaps, he could have more of the pretty healer's ointment and tea? With another groan, he sits up and gazes around tiredly. Apart from him, the room is empty, but it looks different. He blinks. Is he still dreaming?
Shit. The walls of his tiny room are covered in colourful pictures of hearts, rainbows, unidentifiable abstract doodles, accidental blobs of paint, and some other, rather weird motives. Cahir stares at them, then pinches himself in the arm, not quite believing what he sees. And the pictures are not even all of it. There is a warm, fluffy pink blanket on top of his threadbare one. It must be the blanket from the kids' cosy corner that they love so much and would certainly not give up easily. Next to his pillow sit their favourite two cuddly toys. They are both ugly as hell in his opinion, and all the pink almost makes his eyes bleed, still, this is kind of - touching. The pictures are not exactly what he would call art or tasteful or anything close to his liking, but, all of a sudden, he feels a strange kind of warmth at the thought that the little rascals made those for him. To cheer him up and make him feel better while he is sick. Is it possible that they, against all odds and despite him hating the little menaces most of the time, like him? Probably not a lot, but maybe enough to not want him to die?
Perhaps, he even misses them, too, just a tiny, tiny little bit, of course, yet Cahir is almost looking forward to getting back to work. It will be less annoying than this incessant itching, that much is certain.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Fortunately, it does not take four weeks. The ten days that pass until the healer - who, as Cahir finds out, really is a barber-surgeon by the name of Melli - pronounces him not contagious anymore and fit enough to resume his job for a few hours a day, feel a lot longer to him, though. Ten tedious days of recurring but luckily not very high fever, pain and almost unbearable itching. If not for the ointment and lots and lots of Melli's special tea, he would have gone crazy, Cahir is sure of it. Poor Madam Livilla. After being on the job all alone for so many days, she must be totally at the end of her tether with all the extra work on top of her normalwork load, he assumes. Yet, to his very surprise, his usually so stern and distanced boss welcomes him back to work with a bright smile despite the rings under her eyes, and, all in all, is a lot friendlier and chattier than ever before. Perhaps this has something to do with the barber-surgeon's continuing, frequent visits although he does not need medical treatment anymore? Cahir wonders. The two so different women appear to have grown quite fond of each other, maybe even fonder than he would wish to imagine. Well, whatever the cause, he definitely does not complain about Madam Livilla's new, cheerful mood.
The kids are, Cahir quickly finds out, still the snotty little squirts, chaotic troublemakers and whiney wimps of before he fell sick - which was to be expected. Yet, somehow, he gets used to it, like he has gotten used to his colourful wall decorations. However stressful and irritating at times, maybe this is not the worst of jobs or possible punishments after all. Sometimes, Cahir has to admit, he even enjoys reading stories about dragons and princesses and knights out to his children or showing them how to sword fight with a stick - when Madam Livilla is not watching.
As time passes, more and more little presents from the kids find their way onto Cahir's chest of drawers, too, like animals and monsters made of chestnuts and acorns, painted stones, more or less tattered feathers they found in the garden, and a dead dung beatle.
The pink blanket and the ugly plushies are back in the cosy corner, of course, where they belong.
(At least most of the time when it is not too fucking cold.)