faderift | [open] stop, drop

WHO: Benedict and whomever
WHAT: LE GRIPPE
WHEN: Guardian
WHERE: DUNGEON (and possibly elsewhere)
NOTES: cw for illness I s'pose

I. (one thread please) It was bound to happen eventually, and one might even find it a little impressive that it took this long: the illness floating around Kirkwall has somehow tracked its way to the Gallows dungeon, where it has befallen the solitary prisoner like a sackful of so many bricks.
It started out as a shudder, a sneeze, a cough one day, and over the course of 24 hours has rendered Benedict a shivering pile of blankets on the stone floor, burning with fever, and barely able to take a breath without coughing it violently back out.

To be fair, sometimes he just looks like that. But it's been a day or so and he hasn't touched his food (which he's usually so good about), and it won't take long for the right person to notice that he can't even seem to wake up properly, let alone acknowledge their presence.
He will absolutely die if left in this state. There those who are, no doubt, perfectly comfortable with that.

II. The Sickroom

Camped out on a bed in the chapel sickroom for the foreseeable future, Benedict is awake and available to interaction with healers, other sickies, or those on official business who don't mind getting coughed on. There's a lot of that happening.

III. Relocation

There was a letter, and there were orders, and one day when Benedict is a little more conscious and less feverish, guards arrive to escort him back downstairs.
He'd suspected that this would happen, and is prepared to go quietly, without a word of complaint or a muscle moved out of place. He's still weak and slow as he's shuffled out of the infirmary, but that seems to be that.

Anyone in or near the open windows of the cells will, shortly thereafter, hear the sounds of panicked, wailing protest and a futile struggle, which is muffled efficiently behind the closing of a heavy door.

Future visitors will find the prisoner curled on his side by the brazier in the center of the isolation cell, staring distantly into the coals and moving only when he has to cough.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

When the fit passes, Colin passes Benedict a cloth to wipe his lips with before helping him to lie back on the pillows.

"Good," he says with a smile. "Do you know who I am?" A question to gauge the state of the patient's delirium.

Benedict nods, weakly rubbing the cloth on his lips and continuing to hold it as his hand slides limply to the floor. He sighs when he returns to the pillows, finding that he can at least, for the moment, breathe a little easier.

"Where are we," he asks in a rasping whisper, keeping his eyes closed.

"A sick room," Colin says vaguely, in case it's decided the prisoner (who knows the layout of the building) shouldn't know exactly where he is in case he tries to escape. Not that he thinks Benedict will. He goes to the fire to add another dipper of boiling water to the large, shallow bowl at Benedict's bedside. "You have the grippe, unsurprisingly, given the conditions you've been living in. I'm going to have a talk with Flint about that. Suffice to say, you'll be in this room until Sawbones or I see fit to let you leave, and that won't be soon."

"Don't talk to Flint," comes the automatic response, some parts of Bene's brain still firing on all cylinders, but he doesn't do much else in protest.
He takes a breath, coughs lightly, and mushes his miserable face against the pillow. "I'm glad you're here," he mumbles.

Colin considers that. He's not sure exactly why Benedict is saying it, but he's lucid, so for now, he might consider going to a different division head if possible.

"Must have been an awful day between when I left and when I saw you like this," he says with a little smile. "Breathe the steam. Do you think Flint is a danger to you?"

He wouldn't be surprised by it, for reasons he admitted to Sawbones. He hopes another division head can help, if so.

That's a question that requires more thought than one very ill individual can provide at the moment, and he gives a weary little shrug of one shoulder, angling his head to breathe the steam as directed.

"He'll think I'm sending you," he decides, after a pause in which he actually seemed to have fallen asleep.

Ah. Colin makes a mental note to go to a different division head about this, then.

"Not Flint, then," he promises, reaching for the cup of tea again. "You need to drink," he encourages him gently. "Come on."

He needs to see about getting some broth, since it's been a while since Benedict ate.

Though he very much wants to go back to sleep, suddenly the cup is in his face again, and Benedict finds that he is, at least, pretty thirsty. He takes it and sips from it again, having to go slowly, in between stilted, rasping breaths.

"You're doing so well," Colin says with a smile. "Drink all of it, come on. Slow as you can."

With a lot of patience and encouragement, the cup is emptied, and Colin rests Bene back on the pillows, brushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead.

"Rest now. When you wake up, I might still be here, or it might be Sawbones, but someone will be here for you."

Sometimes (most of the time) Bene is very predictable. When Colin is gently telling him he's doing a good job, there is nothing he wants more than to continue that pattern.
He has to stop and take a few coughing breaks, but eventually gets all the tea down and rests back on the pillow, exhausted from such minimal effort. He nods to Colin, seemingly content to let that be the end of the interaction for now.

When Benedict awakens, Colin is indeed gone, but since he and Sawbones are taking shifts, he is back the next afternoon, carrying with him a tray of bland, easily digestible food--broth and toast, essentially. He sets it aside and approaches to take a look at how his friend is doing.

Benedict is a little more awake today, and his fever has dropped. Unfortunately the cough remains, however, and he looks miserable and tired from having to deal with it constantly-- but this kind of misery, at least, is still leaps and bounds above where he was when he was so cold.
He looks up at the approaching Colin with a sleepy expression, not in a good enough place yet to smile, but not about to start throwing a fit either.

"Hungry?"

Bene has to think about it, because at first shake he isn't. But then, because he recognizes that humans need food to live, he sighs and nods faintly.

Colin sets the tray on the bedside table. The toast is dry and the meal is bland. He sits on the edge of the bed and checks Benedict's temperature with his palm.

"At least drink the broth," he says. "You need the fluids and the salt should help as well. How are you feeling?"

Though still clearly feverish, Benedict isn't burning as hot as he was before. The fact that he's awake is likely sign enough that he's improving, however slowly.

"Like shit," he replies with a little smirk. Languidly, he reaches for the broth.

[open] stop, drop

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