23rd Winter 509
She had been sitting in front of the quarantine tent for three long bells now. Snow had started falling faintly again, replenishing the already thick layer that coated the ground from the day before, turning the deep footprints into fresh white snow again. Despite the thick, fur-lined boots she wore, and warm woven clothes that shielded her from the snow, she still felt a slight chill get to her, seeping through the gaps in the cloth and chilling her slightly, goosebumps rising along her arms and legs. Others remained inside the confinements of the main tent, soaking up the heat the fire produced with joy and eagerness, trying to survive through the flu that had reached their pavilion by staying warm and well. Her mother had urged her to return to them, to keep warm with the few that remained healthy. Merevaika had remained silent and stubborn each time.
The woman came out of the tent once more, looking hot and sweaty from the stress and illness. Merevaika's mother was the only one who had offered to tend to the ill, despite knowing the danger. Then again, the rest were young or unskilled with healing, or both. Perhaps she had realised that she would the be the only one capable of helping, that her efforts would be the only ones that could possibly heal them. Whatever the reason was, the aid wasn't doing anything for the ill, but was detrimental to her own health. Her daughter could see the effects of the illness gripping her too.It would only be so long until she would be unable to help others, but would need the help herself.
"Please, daughter, for your sake, stay inside. You have seen the flu, seen its effect. It will get you too, I fear, you too," she begged once more, lingering at the entrance. The woman feared to go any closer, not wanting to be the one who gave her daughter the illness that had invaded their pavilion. The girl was still so young, she had so much more of her life to live. She shouldn't have needed to see pain like this. She shouldn't have been fearing for her life like this.
Merevaika stared at her blankly, taking in the words but not responding. She had drifted into this state a few days ago, when her younger sister died. That had been the first death, and Merevaika had been so lost and confused as to why the gods would take a child so young and innocent. After all, Caltha had only just turned nine, and her life was ended soon after that. Following that, she had been quiet and reserved, wandering the pavilion with a lost look in her eyes, with no purpose but lost in thought, thinking about why the gods would be so cruel.
Then, when the twins had died, she had stopped wandering, and began to sit by the infirmary tent waiting for... she hated to admit it, but waiting for her father to die. He too had contracted the symptoms of the disease, the aching bones and the putrid cough, the fever that burned inside and rendered him helpless. It appeared that death was inevitable, but she prayed, every moment of being awake, and in her dreams too, prayed to whatever god or goddess she could name, pleading that they could spare her father.
She had been sitting in front of the quarantine tent for three long bells now. Snow had started falling faintly again, replenishing the already thick layer that coated the ground from the day before, turning the deep footprints into fresh white snow again. Despite the thick, fur-lined boots she wore, and warm woven clothes that shielded her from the snow, she still felt a slight chill get to her, seeping through the gaps in the cloth and chilling her slightly, goosebumps rising along her arms and legs. Others remained inside the confinements of the main tent, soaking up the heat the fire produced with joy and eagerness, trying to survive through the flu that had reached their pavilion by staying warm and well. Her mother had urged her to return to them, to keep warm with the few that remained healthy. Merevaika had remained silent and stubborn each time.
The woman came out of the tent once more, looking hot and sweaty from the stress and illness. Merevaika's mother was the only one who had offered to tend to the ill, despite knowing the danger. Then again, the rest were young or unskilled with healing, or both. Perhaps she had realised that she would the be the only one capable of helping, that her efforts would be the only ones that could possibly heal them. Whatever the reason was, the aid wasn't doing anything for the ill, but was detrimental to her own health. Her daughter could see the effects of the illness gripping her too.It would only be so long until she would be unable to help others, but would need the help herself.
"Please, daughter, for your sake, stay inside. You have seen the flu, seen its effect. It will get you too, I fear, you too," she begged once more, lingering at the entrance. The woman feared to go any closer, not wanting to be the one who gave her daughter the illness that had invaded their pavilion. The girl was still so young, she had so much more of her life to live. She shouldn't have needed to see pain like this. She shouldn't have been fearing for her life like this.
Merevaika stared at her blankly, taking in the words but not responding. She had drifted into this state a few days ago, when her younger sister died. That had been the first death, and Merevaika had been so lost and confused as to why the gods would take a child so young and innocent. After all, Caltha had only just turned nine, and her life was ended soon after that. Following that, she had been quiet and reserved, wandering the pavilion with a lost look in her eyes, with no purpose but lost in thought, thinking about why the gods would be so cruel.
Then, when the twins had died, she had stopped wandering, and began to sit by the infirmary tent waiting for... she hated to admit it, but waiting for her father to die. He too had contracted the symptoms of the disease, the aching bones and the putrid cough, the fever that burned inside and rendered him helpless. It appeared that death was inevitable, but she prayed, every moment of being awake, and in her dreams too, prayed to whatever god or goddess she could name, pleading that they could spare her father.
