get the air out my lungs whenever you need it. Who: Genevieve Albrecht and Azalea Cerelia What: Visits & fever dreams. Where: The Albrecht estate. When:Hereabouts. Rating: PG-13. Status: Complete.
She’d wanted to sleep, but her rest was plagued by fever dreams and vivid hallucinations. (They had to be; she was not so far gone as to believe Alistair to be among the living.) Steadfastly, she refused to talk to what she knew to be an illusion of Ophion; to her mind’s credit, the illusory mage did not speak more than hm here and there, but she had watched the real man leave without so much as a goodbye. (Neither of them were particularly fond of such, she knew, but if that was the last they were to see of each other, a word or two would not have been remiss.)
Cold suddenly wracked her body and she tossed her comforter off. Perhaps she should have saved some of the poison for herself; a quick death was preferable to the lingering illness that was slowly killing her with each passing hour. Prayer to be relieved of it - in death or otherwise - had so far gone unanswered.
Genevieve glanced at her network device, again thinking - trying to convince herself - to inform Reinholdt of her fate, but she turned her head away, looking straight into Reinholdt’s eyes. Ophion was gone, replaced with the Duke. Unthinking, she reached out.
“Honey.”
Lea took the outstretched hand in her own (gloved). The woman before her could barely be called Genevieve Albrecht. Her hair strewn about her like a tangled halo, Vivi was only an echo of herself, a faded daguerreotype yellowing gently at the edges. Ofelia had looked much the same.
A frown marring the machinist’s usually composed features, Lea settled into the bedside seat. “Anything I can get you?”
She swallowed and squeezed her eyes shut, willing the vision to dissipate. The voice didn’t go with the mirage, and while she knew the voice, it was difficult to place. “Lea?” Her voice was hesitant, scratchy. The machinist’s given name was too difficult to pronounce, too heavy on her tongue; the nickname would have to do.
That was, if she was not hallucinating yet another person. She had yet to see Azalea - so far, the illusions had cycled through Alistair, Reinholdt, and Ophion. There was a child she had seen, too; she had looked too much like Genevieve and Alistair for her comfort.
“Water.”
A carafe of just that had been left on the table. Azalea reached over to pour her friend a glass. Even the sound of running water was loud in the silence of sickness. Not a good omen. Grimly, Lea handed Genevieve the drink.
“How long have you been like this?” she asked, brushing an errant strand of hair from Vivi’s face. The disease seemed to be progressing at different paces for everyone, from what Lea had gleaned through the guild’s spies. Existing cases didn’t make entirely accurate bases for the ones that followed them.
A small sip was taken of the drink; it didn’t seem to matter how much she drank - dehydration had settled on her like a heavy blanket. All she could hope to do was not waste away of that particular disease entirely. Slowly, she worked her way through half of the glass before she had to place it on the bedside table, uncomfortably full.
“Since the snowstorm,” she said, trying to focus on Azalea’s face. “I had been feeling ill for a week prior, however it had been manageable.”
Azalea raised her eyebrows. In that, it seemed the cases were consistent. She had to wonder if there were any correlation between the snowstorm and the plague, but it seemed unlikely.
“The guilds have taken action,” Azalea said. She had more to say, but catching sight of Vivi’s network device, clutched in a frail hand, the machinist instead offered a humourless laugh. “Though you must’ve already read. The sign-ups, too.”
Genevieve shook her head. “I have not had much concentration,” she confessed. “And I was unconscious for sometime after my…. visit to Orsinio.” She vaguely recalled Audrey mentioning something regarding a cure, but she could not remember much of the conversation. “I fear I do not understand what you mean by sign ups.”
“Research from the Mages Guild has yielded a potential cure,” Azalea said. “A mountain herb. They’ve posted sign-ups for its retrieval.”
“And the veracity of this information?” It was too fortuitous that a cure be found for this plague. She supposed that there was little harm in attempting to verify it; if it turned out to be true, then those who were suffering could be helped, herself included. Though that brought about an entirely different train of thought - was she deserving of such? She had killed a man in cold blood to escape an arrangement that was not to her liking; was she truly any different than a common murderer?
To distract herself from these thoughts, she closed her eyes and asked, “Who is going?”
“Veracity indefinite as yet,” Lea replied. “But it’s the only lead to come up that’s worth following up on. The mission’s raked in quite the contingent.” Just the thought of it sparked the beginnings of a headache. She raised a hand, fingers tracing soothing lines over her brow. “Only three from us, but that’s to be expected. Ash, Ari, Kinlan. Mag’s going, too. Ophion.”
Wilde and Kinlan were shocking, but not quite so much as Ophion. Lord Ophion Barnard was not the altruistic sort, and most certainly not one she would have guessed to go on a mission such as this. “What does he have to gain?” Azalea was not sick, and she did not know of many that he cared so much for as to risk his life - and she was sure that this would be such a mission. Were a cure so easy to retrieve, it would not have assembled a party from the three guilds.
“Fee’s sick.” Although Azalea figured his concern for Fee’s well-being had just as much to do with what the gambler knew. “We all grew up together,” she clarified, unsure of how much Ophion had told Vivi of his—their—adolescence.
“I see,” she murmured. She knew little of Ophion’s life once misfortune befell it; it surprised her not that he knew Ofelia, as well. That they were so close as to motivate him to run to the aid of those hunting a cure… That was surprising. “He will be a great help, I am sure.”
A coughing fit suddenly overcame her, and she doubled over, covering her mouth with her hand. When it subsided and she withdrew them, her palm was covered in speckled blood. Slowly, she lowered them to the bed, palm down to try to hide it from Azalea.
But little missed the machinist’s eyes, even on occasions less urgent than this one. Azalea’s lips thinned. Her own fears about the dangers of the mission, about Fee’s condition—these would be omitted. Vivi needed her strength for herself, and no other.
“Don’t let me keep you up, honey.”
“Perhaps it best.” She would not sleep, she knew that, but Azalea did not need to be informed of such. It would only serve to worry her further.
She paused for a moment before speaking again. “How fares Ofelia?”
“She’s seen better.” Azalea might as well have been sitting by the same sick bed, changing only the woman ensconced.
“I should send flowers,” she murmured. Suddenly, she felt so tired; so much for her inability to sleep. “Something simple, maybe.” What were those flowers that Reinholdt had sent her? It was far too long ago for her to remember them clearly.
Perhaps she would remember what they were after a bit of rest…
Azalea watched as the countess’s eyes fell shut at last. A relieved sigh left the machinist’s lips, blue eyes darting for the clock. Thirty minutes before she needed to be off.
Taking advantage of the brief silence (and in this moment, the Guild still stood, her friends breathed yet), Azalea too let her eyes fall shut.