IT HAD STARTED WITH WHISPERS, rumors of a disease that had struck and killed half the population of sisterton, a sickness that burned hotter and brighter than any fire, and took the souls of fathers and mothers and children alike in their sleep in less than than four days. it had killed desmond manderly and his son in white harbor. and now it was here, in winterfell. elia knew it when she woke. she had felt the unusual flush of her skin even before she had seen it in the mirror, like two painted roses, marring her cheeks. she had thought of the coughing, feverish peasant whose petition she'd heard, of the maid who had complaint of a headache, of the snot - nosed child she had seen stealing apples from the cook.
she acts swiftly, clinging to the hope that it has not struck anyone else in the castle, least of all her family. she sends for water, dry bread. instructs the servants, matter of factly ( as though the stranger does not stalk these halls himself ), to go home or lock themselves in their chambers if they even suspect the onset of fever. she pretends not to see their fear, just as she pretends she cannot smell her own sickness and sweat, sense it drip down her temples, her back, her legs as she closes the heavy doors to her chambers, feeling the wood shiver as she lowers the deadbolt. she falls asleep there, head tilted against the oak, breathing in its familiar scent as the fever finally becomes too strong to resist, burning through her veins, igniting her blood, weighing down her slender limbs.
it does not take long for cregan to find out. elia had counted on this — it was almost as though he were part of the very walls and structure of winterfell, and knew instinctively when something was wrong. she wakes at the sound of his heavy footfall. she can almost sense the stutter in his step when he realizes the servants have fled from the hall and that the doors, the always open doors, have shut. the first knock is almost polite, then becomes increasingly concerned and impatient. she wants to reassure him, but finds her throat already thick and lips dry. she forces herself to open her eyes and lifts herself up, places a palm where she can feel him knock. he's only ten inches from her, she thinks, yet a world away. it summons nearly all of her strength to say, " ... keep away. it's ... " ( she means to say the word fever, or the word nothing, she doesn't know which, and the result is something incoherent ). " ... i'll be fine. " four days. four days and the fever will break, or ...
you lie, elia hears him say. she clings to the northern brogue with all her might, the way a drowning man might clutch his raft. her mind spins. worse, you lie poorly. of course she could not fool him; honesty had been ever been the foundation of their marriage. she laughs, or makes a sound something like it, though it could as easily be a sob. it seems distant. she feels herself sag to the ground like a sack of flour, and suddenly she's fighting the temptation to succumb to the ache of her body, the sleep that threatens to drag her under. " don't, " she sighs. it's becoming difficult to think. " don't come in. please. i want you safe. i need you all safe. "
@thygraves for cregan
