[open] you won't feel the drowning

[theintercessor]

WHO: Jude Sullivan
WHERE: 6I Village, between the store room and schoolhouse
WHEN: April 15
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Jude's been hit with a plant spore that slowly drowns the victim in mucus/fluids, so maybe just gross symptoms?

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He'd talked something of a big game to Sam about asking for help--but there's a metaphorical canyon between puking blood and what he thinks is a spring cold. The cold weather snaps into spring and then back to snow; easier to link a runny nose to that than a plant he's never seen before, crushed underfoot and spitting something up his pant leg. He cuts a new kerchief out of an old towel and keeps going.

The next day, he wakes up fuzzy-headed, nose and throat thick with snot, and wishes there were more fruit in the village--more tea in the house. He can't imagine what the docs would do but tell him to keep warm and sleep it off, so he builds up the fire and waits.

It's the third day that he braves the world outside of his house. The dust in it can't be helping, and after the last disaster--he knows he shouldn't be alone. If nothing else, Bodhi can fuss over him in a clean kitchen with tea and whatever we have soup. The journey shouldn't be long, a few rows of houses, a couple of paths. Jude tries to cut between the storage house and now-standing school to save time.

He makes it to the back corner, hand steadying on the wall, before he sinks down toward the lingering snow. A cough drops his head, barking and sharp--not the cough of a common cold, but the too-familiar choke of something blocking his throat, dripping into his windpipe. It goes on for long minutes, disturbing the quiet of the morning, until he's coughed and spat enough thin fluid into the snow and grass to drag in a breath. As soon as he does, it starts again, and he leans harder on the wall as he chokes.

Comments

[theintercessor]

Not talking while someone spoke at him was par for the usual course, Jude barely tempted to offer a name. It's enough effort to keep his head up, stimming between Robb's shoulder and the path ahead. For a cough, he swings it outward, all of his own manners focused on not getting any of this in Robb's face.

The worse it gets, the less he knows what it is. He can't recall picking it up from anyone, but he might have not known what to look for at the time.

The feast was only so many days ago. The changes only so many more before that. They've been gathered up trying to sort things out, and it's his first day out since falling ill. Swinging his head back out, he coughs up enough to ask, gasping, "Has anyone else--been sick?"