I feel so sick. . . I'm about to throw up. . .
“Alma…?”
The coloring is sallow, his eyes rounded with shadow. Swift to feet, she takes cold shoulders dampened, sweat upon his brow. “To the lough, darling! Come! Come!”
Steps swift, gentle as they rush to the outhouse of the castle, a hole opened to only one act occurred by an overabundance of mead or coffee.
“Relieve yourself…”
Movement between the two shook the child’s stomach. Organs flipped each swift step, his eyes lidded and ready to fall at any moment. Lunch just shared with the woman could come up at any moment.
Lunch would have spilt across the castle grounds, Freya’s swift movement caused and helped the boy in this case. Soft cries, whimpers even left, knees buckled and he came to rest before the hole. Before long his gag reflex tensed, breath hightened and even stopped. Food began to drain from the child stomach and dumped into the hole.
Contents make loud statement, illness cries plastered to walls, racked within her ears. He keels over the lou’s disposal, her hands careful to level his head above the tainted surface. Every release, convulses an ocean of emotion, cemented promise of mother’s tender care. Oh darling…
Has neglect maintained a path for flu? Burmecia must be left to the others today… “Come, come… To bed. I shall prepare a brew to combat the fevers.”
