"Oh dear...what's all this?"

Mirk had been away from the infirmary for a week. His potential had been slow in returning, almost as slow as his recovery from the kindling sickness had been. That morning was the first since the incident with Alice that he’d woken up feeling as if he had the strength to be more than a drain on the other healers, capable of mixing potions and rolling bandages and helping injured men eat and bathe, even if he wouldn’t be of much use for proper healing. But the chaos in the waiting room gave Mirk the impression he'd be needed to do much more than just roll bandages.

No major offensives had been scheduled for overnight. At least, that was what Danu had told him when she'd stopped by yesterday afternoon to visit. Yet the waiting room was completely full, so full that men were huddled together on the floor for want of chairs and benches, most of them coughing and all of them miserable. Their collective suffering and fatigue pressed hard against Mirk's weak mental shielding, making him consider turning around and heading back to the dormitory, just for a second. Then he heard a louder cough, followed by a familiar voice calling his name.

"Mirgosha...please, come be nice...give us the papers...or they'll send us out..."

He searched for the source of the croaking, congested voice, and found that it was coming from much closer to the floor than he'd been expecting. K'aekniv and practically every other man from the Seventh Mirk could recognize were lined up against the wall near the hallway back to the field transporter, too weak to stand, huddled together for warmth. Ilya and Pavel were pressed up against either of K'aekniv's sides, and Mordecai had gone so far as to sit in K'aekniv's lap in an attempt to keep warm. They were all staring up at Mirk, expectant and desperate. And he didn't have the slightest idea what to do.

Mirk decided to start with the basics. Though K'aekniv wasn't looming above him like usual, he still didn't need to kneel down in order to press the back of his hand against the half-angel's forehead. His skin was hot to the touch, more than it usually was. If it wasn't for his angelic blood, his fever would have long since made him lapse into unconsciousness. "What's happened?" Mirk asked him, as he moved on to check his pulse at his neck. Fast, but hard and steady.

"Everyone's sick," Mordecai answered for the half-angel, reluctantly pulling back the blanket over his head. "Something from off-realm."

"They wouldn't send you out like this, would they?"

K’aekniv sniffled hard. "Bastards want their money...don't care if we all d...di..."

Before K'aekniv could finish, he let out a massive sneeze. All the men around him jumped and pulled their cloaks and furs over their heads for protection. The force of the sneeze made K'aekniv lose his grip on his magic. At least it had only made a dusting of snow appear on everyone within a few feet of him, Mirk included. Though it'd also sprayed snot and spit all over the front of his freshly ironed robes. Pavel dug a handkerchief out of his pocket for him. Mirk took it with a grateful bob of his head and did his best to clean himself off, even though he knew the handkerchief wasn't going to be much help. It'd been used well past the point when it should have been switched out for one that wasn't sticky and clammy with mucus.

"The only way we can get out of it is if we have permission from the healers," Pavel explained, taking the handkerchief back from Mirk. "We've been here since two in the morning."

"How long until we're supposed to be at the transporter?" Mordecai asked Ilya.

Ilya dug around in his layers — it seemed like they'd all piled on every last scrap of fabric they owned to help keep warm — coming up with a pocketwatch that looked like he had made it himself out of bits of scrap metal. "Hour," he said, sighing and drawing his firs back up over his head.

"Help us, Mirgosha," K'aekniv groaned, throwing both his arms around Mirk in desperation. His grip lacked its usual inhuman strength, but it was still tight enough to nearly squeeze Mordecai half to death trapped between them.

"Let me talk to Emir," Mirk replied, as he worked his way out of K'aekniv's embrace. "I'll come right back. I promise."

Though all four of the Easterners protested against it, none of them had the strength to keep Mirk from hurrying off. Things were worse the deeper he traveled into the infirmary. Nurses and aides were rushing to and fro down the halls, carrying trays of potions and hauling buckets of water from each hall’s magicked taps. There were men lying prone on the floor along either side of the hall for want of rooms, shivering away under thin infirmary blankets, most of them delirious with fever and many of them covered in snot and vomit and other, worse things. With how much suffering was packed into the infirmary that morning, Mirk knew that trying to use his magical senses to find Danu or Yule would be hopeless. And despite his reassurances, he knew Emir would be too busy to listen to him.

He eventually found the rest of his team by process of elimination, sticking his head into every room he passed and scanning the faces of the exhausted healers overseeing the chaos. Yule and Danu were up on the second floor, tending to a mage still in full battle robes, with enchanted armor strapped to his arms and legs that was still weakly sparking with his out-of-control magic. Things had to be serious if the officers from the Tenth were willing to let them handle a patient like that, a member of one of the high-born divisions, judging by the quality of the enchanted armor. Danu was holding the mage's soul out as far as she could from his body in an effort to keep his magic from striking them all down, while Yule hurried to slap spell papers all over him and pour potions down his throat. Mirk joined in without comment to help however he could, holding the man upright on the exam table so that Yule could work faster. Once the mage had gone fully unconscious from some combination of the sickness and the potions, Yule and Danu stepped back from the table to speak with Mirk, Yule breathing hard and Danu much paler than usual.

"What's going on?" Mirk asked.

"This happens at least twice a year," Danu said. "The infantry gets sick off-realm with something, then somehow everyone in the City ends up half-dead. We've got all the potionmasters working on it, but it never helps. It's usually gone again by the time they come up with something that can really make a difference."

Yule shook his head, propping his hands on his hips as he watched the mage gurgle away to himself on the exam table. "Honestly, it's not that bad this time. They don't have sores and blood coming out of them everywhere. Though the ones who have it worst are coughing some up. But it's nothing terrifying. They'll be fine waiting it out. It's just a matter of keeping the mages from blowing us all up."

"Mordecai and the rest are out in the waiting room," Mirk said to Danu. "Niv says that if we don't give them some kind of paper, they'll get sent out again. But they're really not in any condition to..."

Mirk trailed off as Danu cursed to herself in the native language her and Yule shared, not waiting for him to finish before heading off in search of the Easterners. Yule snorted, elbowing him in the ribs. "That's why every low-born man here is after his own healer to take to bed. All you have to do is make eyes at the right person and it's straight to the front of the line. I'd accuse the little gnome of taking advantage of it, but he's not that smart."

"Mordecai really loves Danu," Mirk said with a sigh. "Everyone can feel it, methinks."

"I know, I know. Well, let's go see what we can do for the rest of them. They really do have a great racket going. It just takes one of them coming here and telling you or her some story about whatever pathetic, idiot thing they've done and then we get stuck with the whole lot of them. And none of them even have to go through the effort of taking you to bed to get you to drop everything."

"You wouldn't do the same for your friends?"

"I'd have to have friends for that to work," Yule shot back, smirking. "Ones who aren't healers, anyway."

Laughing under his breath, Mirk led Yule back down to the ground floor. The Easterners were exactly where he'd left them, near the hallway leading to the field transporter. Danu had pried Mordecai out of K'aekniv's arms and was fussing over him, her head pressed against his chest as she listened to his breathing, tapping at places on it to help tell how full of phlegm his lungs were. In spite of the difficult situation, Mordecai looked happy about this turn of events, in a delirious, edge-of-consciousness sort of way.

"It's bad," Danu said, looking over her shoulder at them as she sensed them approaching. Though she didn't quit stroking back Mordecai's sweat-soaked hair. "But it's not awful. They'll make it through. They could all do with fever reducers and potions to clear out their lungs. Especially him." She nodded at K'aekniv, who was blearily muttering to himself about the injustice of only Mordecai having someone to comfort him.

"Maybe you could be nice, Yu...Yul..." Before K'aekniv could work out his request, he sneezed again. That time when his magic slipped his control, it ignited the fringe on one of Ilya's blankets. The other man patted the flames out bare-handed and without comment.

"Get it together before you burn the whole place down," Yule grumbled, surveying the line of prospective patients.

"It'd be easier if someone pet my hair and said nice things..."

Yule scowled at him, catching himself just before he could kick the half-angel in the leg. Better not to risk making him sneeze again, Mirk supposed. "Not on your life."

They all set to work, checking the pulse and the breathing of all the Easterners lined up against the wall. Mirk noticed that, despite his cursing and scolding, Yule wasn't limiting his survey to those who could be counted among their closer acquaintances. All three of them joined together to check on K'aekniv, Mirk and Yule taking one side each while Danu stood ready to intervene with her Deathly magic, should the half-angel have a proper sneezing fit. Once Yule was satisfied that K'aekniv wasn't about to drown in his own fluids, they all took a collective step backwards to debate their best path forward.

"We're going to have to do something about Niv's magic," Yule said. "Knock him out, probably. Somehow."

"Put me to sleep, I don't care," K'aekniv cut in, scrubbing at his raw, reddened nose with the back of his hand. "Just give me something warm. Or drink. All you healers always have drink."

Yule rolled his eyes. "Not for you, I don't."

"We've got the jump in fifteen, lads! Up and at 'em!"

A collective groan arose from the Easterners. Mirk glanced up and saw that a tallish, barrel-chested man with a thick red beard was headed for them, fast, a shorter, smaller man trailing behind him and trying his best to match the other's long strides. Really, the bearded man was quite tall — much taller than he was, anyway — but a lifetime spent among angels and half-bloods had unduly colored Mirk's opinion on what counted as big.

"Go away, horse-fucker," K'aekniv said under his breath as he drew his wings tightly in around his shoulders as a makeshift blanket. It dragged Ilya and Pavel on either side of him closer, shoving them into the gap Mordecai had left behind in K'aekniv's lap. Both men were too cold and miserable to fight it.

"What was that?" the smaller man snapped. He nearly crashed into the back of the bearded man as he came to a sudden halt in front of K'aekniv.

"Go away," K'aekniv repeated, raising his voice to be heard over the din of the waiting room. Notably, he decided to leave off the epithet he'd used earlier. "We're sick."

"Ah, come on, Fluffy! It's not that bad! You'll feel better once you're up." The man bent down to clap K'aekniv on the shoulder, but reconsidered when he noticed the half-angel was on the brink of another sneeze. Pavel reached up and pinched K'aekniv's nose until the urge passed, grimacing and wiping his hand on the front of K'aekniv's uniform blouse before settling back in under the protection of his wing.

"They really are very sick," Mirk said, since neither Danu or Yule moved to intervene. Danu was too busy fussing over Mordecai still, and all of Yule's focus was being spent on glaring daggers at the shorter man still lurking behind the bearded one's bulk. "Methinks you won't be able to win any battles with them, even if you do take them through the transporter."

The bearded man peered down at Mirk, only seeming to notice his presence just then. "Oh! You're a new one. What's an honest woman like you doing with this Teague?" he asked, flipping an offhand wave at Yule.

"They're not going," Yule snapped, his ire refocusing on the bearded man. Mirk wasn't certain what the word he'd used on Yule meant, but judging by the older healer's reaction, it couldn't be anything good. "Healer's orders."

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The man ignored Yule, inclining his head toward Mirk instead, treating him to what was meant to be a winning grin. The remnants of breakfast caught in his beard detracted from the effect. "Comrade Commander Dauid Craig. Be a good lass and get my men up for me, all right?"

Mirk sighed. If he hadn't been so tired and his mental shielding so weak, he would have been able to put things together more quickly. He'd heard plenty about the commander of the Seventh, most of it bitter complaints from Genesis and profanity-riddled rants at the bar from the Easterners. Mirk didn't think there was any genuine malice in what he'd said — at least, he couldn't feel any coming from Dauid over the emotions of the sick men all around them. Rather, Dauid struck him as the bravado-filled, rough sort of man who prided himself on his honesty and lack of airs, which mostly consisted of casual insults and a disdain for the hassle of manners and appearances.

Or perhaps he'd been spending too much time listening to Genesis as of late.

Since they were resorting to full names, Mirk didn't feel quite so bad about falling back on his own titles. "Seigneur Mirk Dishoael d'Avignon, Comrade Commander. I'm glad to be of service to you and your men. But methinks none of us would be served well by taking them out fighting in this condition. You'd be lucky not to lose any."

Dauid squinted at him for a time, then a light of realization came over his features. "Oh! Apologies. You're Bonesy's pet noble, aren't you? I was expecting you to be bigger. Manly. Half-angel and all."

"Not all of us are like K'aekniv," Mirk replied, mustering up a polite smile and half-bow. He wasn't exactly happy about being called Genesis's "pet", but he understood how an outside observer could get that impression. And the odds were good that Genesis detested being called "Bonesy" even more.

"Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we need all of them. If they can walk, it's good enough. If I don't put someone up on that wall, we'll be overrun. And Ravensdale and the Pappy will have my head."

It was curious, Mirk thought, that Dauid had a dismissive name for everyone but the current head of the K'maneda. Maybe there was something to Genesis's supposition that there was a curse on the man's name.

"They're barely able to stand," Danu said, finally joining the conversation, though she only lifted her gaze from Mordecai long enough to shoot Dauid one of her ominous, black-eyed glares.

"Fine. We'll prop them up against the wall and call it a day. Come on, you lot! On your feet! Sooner you start, sooner you're finished," Dauid said, turning to face the crowd of Easterners with his hands on his hips.

Despite the more serious tone Dauid took with them that time, none of the Easterners budged. The smaller man emerged out of Dauid's shadow, scoffing and giving K'aekniv a sharp kick in the leg. "You heard Comrade Commander! Up, you lazy scum!"

K'aekniv's only response was to sneeze again. That time, Pavel made no effort to stop it. Perhaps because he'd Seen that K'aekniv's magic would lash out only at the small man in particular, encasing the foot he'd just kicked K'aekniv with in a solid block of ice. Low, congested laughter percolated among the Easterners, along with coughs and what Mirk assumed to be insults in their native language.

Dauid joined in, guffawing and slapping the smaller man on the back. "That's what you get for being a little bitch, Squeaky. Show the man some respect. Else he'll put you on your ass the next time."

"Methinks it'd be too dangerous to have K'aekniv out in this condition. God only knows what might happen if he sneezes at the wrong time. If it'd gone only a little more to the right..."Mirk made a vague gesture at Dauid’s bulky frame, letting the commander draw his own conclusions as to which part of his anatomy K’aekniv’s magic might have targeted.

"Got a point there," Dauid conceded, repositioning his stance a hair to protect his more vital interests. "But I still need someone or something up there to hold our position. Ideas?" he asked, surveying the Easterners once more.

All he got was silence. But after a lengthy pause, Ilya extracted something from his mess of blankets and offered it to Dauid. It was a perfect sphere, cobbled together out of bits of metal fused together by Ilya's fire magic. Dauid took it, tossing it up and down in one hand to test its weight.

"Don't do that!" Pavel snapped, his eyes flashing white. "It's a bomb. You can go put it on that bridge halfway to the outpost. Cast a timed disintegration spell on it and run. That should slow them down long enough." As he stared up at Dauid, Pavel's eyes filmed over white once more. Mirk wasn't certain whether he was truly Seeing something, or just putting on a show to make his point more convincing.

As soon as Pavel said the word bomb, Dauid passed the orb over to his second, who took it with the barest tips of his fingers. "Might work. But how do we get it on the bridge? The way's filthy with those ghost-mages of theirs."

"Get Gen to do it," K'aekniv said. "He never gets sick."

"You're sure?"

"I saw him an hour or two ago," Mirk said. "He's...well. As well as he ever is."

Dauid hesitated for a long moment, his eyes trailing over the exhausted and snotty faces of the Easterners. "It's worth a shot. But even if it works, it'll only give us a few days. Bonesy's good, but he's not that good. Those ghost-mages are the worst I've fought in fifty years. And is he even ready to bust up again? He just did it when you all were off wasting my gold in France."

Mirk stiffened at the mention of France, but Dauid and the Easterners were too busy squaring off against one another to notice him. K'aekniv shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. You know him. He tells no one nothing."

"I want my men back in fighting shape in five days," Dauid concluded, glancing at Yule and Mirk. "Otherwise I'm coming back with the Scots and taking them through the transporter whether they want to go or not."

Without giving any of the healers or the Easterners a chance to reply, Dauid turned and left, falling into conversation with his second. Who was still limping along on his frozen foot, despite asking his commander for assistance.

Mirk deflated, hugging himself for comfort as he watched the Easterners settle back in against the bit of wall they'd claimed for themselves. "I can see why Gen and everyone else doesn't like him."

"He's an ass," Yule said, flatly. "Not a malicious ass, but still an ass. His second's worse."

"Oh?"

"Keeps stealing all the men," Yule replied, his voice heavy with disdain. "Oh, but he's a second! Like that matters. Elias is a little bitch, just like Dauid said. What can he do for you? Maybe get you a promotion if you get on your knees often enough? A healer's useful, at least."

Mirk couldn't keep himself from laughing, though he covered his mouth to muffle his snickers and turned the conversation fast back to the problem of the Easterners. "Where should we start with them, Yule? Are there any rooms left?"

"I don't care if there's high-borns in all of them, we're kicking someone out to get him behind a shield," Yule said, gesturing at K'aekniv. "And if we can't fight or bribe our way into one, we're going to have to knock him out. It's not safe. Danu, go put your beloved gnome to bed and get us some sleeping draughts. The strong ones, as many as you can carry. Mirk, you're with me. Think any of you can help us drag him up to third?" Yule asked the men nearest K'aekniv.

Ilya shrugged. "Beds for us if we get him one?"

"No promises, but I'll do my best."

Leaning on K'aekniv for support, Pavel and Ilya struggled to their feet, a few other men joining them after arguing for a bit in their native tongue. It'd have to be a group effort, Mirk knew. Hauling K'aekniv anywhere was next to impossible, even when he was half-conscious and able to help a little. And at present K’aekniv was making no move to get up, having lapsed into a half-conscious daze, his wings puffed up for warmth and his face streaming.

"Should be enough if we work together," Yule said, rolling up his sleeves after surveying his volunteers. "Two on the body and one on each limb. Wings too. Let's get to work."

- - -

By the time he dragged himself back to his quarters just after midnight, Mirk felt like he'd been drained to nothing again, despite not having touched his magic, aside from using it to keep up his shields and identify a few potions missing their labels. It'd been a long day of hauling unresponsive men double his size all over the infirmary, getting sneezed and coughed and vomited on as he tried to force the right potions into them. He was an absolute wreck. Usually he viewed his evening standing bath with weary resignation. That night, he was looking forward to it for once.

Mirk's mood brightened when the door to his quarters swung open before he could touch a finger to the doorknob. Whatever trials Dauid had put Genesis through that day in place of the Easterners must not have been as terrible as everyone had feared. He glanced around the common room as he crossed the threshold, fumbling through taking off his shoes and putting away his things. Genesis was nowhere to be seen. Mirk hoped he wasn't already soaking in his overlarge tub. Genesis's baths never lasted less than an hour. After particularly bad days, the commander could pass the whole night sullenly steeping in his steaming brew of potions and cleansers.

"What...did they do to you?"

Genesis had been out. Sort of. When Mirk looked up at the sound of his voice, he saw Genesis sidling back into the room through the shadows cast by the bookshelves into the corner nearest his desk. Though he had a whole bundle of scrolls in hand, Genesis’s attention was wholly fixed on Mirk, his expression caught somewhere between disapproval and what Mirk thought might be horror. He’d never seen it before. Genesis had faced down whole hoards of demonic constructs and Abyssal horrors without batting an eye. That a set of dirty robes would be what finally brought a look of terror onto Genesis’s face was peculiar, though predictable. "Oh, hello, messire," Mirk said. "Did everything go well on that realm Niv and the rest were supposed to go to? Everyone's been worr—"

"The bath. Immediately."

The words startled a laugh out of Mirk, even though Genesis's tone was dead serious. He looked down at himself, idly passing a hand down the front of his robes before he could think better of it. They'd been the usual gray-green when he'd set out that morning, but a full day's work tending to the sick had left the front of them darkened and encrusted with filth. "I suppose it is worse than usual..."

"As I said. The bath."

"I was headed right there, Genesis. Honest."

Genesis set the scrolls down on his desk, so distracted by Mirk's condition that he didn't even look away from him long enough to ensure they were stacked evenly. "You will require specific materials. And that..."

Though he debated the matter for a moment, Genesis's horror of disease won out over his stuffy, ancient K'maneda sense of propriety. With a disgusted flick of Genesis's hand, Mirk's robes fell away into shadow and dust, leaving him in nothing but his braies and chemise. Mirk felt extremely fortunate at the moment that Genesis had such expert control of his magic. And that the commander had no empathy to speak of. Mirk knew full well that the action was one of desperation on Genesis's part, but the part of him that was constantly murmuring dark thoughts to him about the curve of the commander's neck and the chill of his fingers didn't hesitate to speculate further on what that particular bit of magic might be like in a different scenario.

"Do not bring robes in...that condition in here again," Genesis said, his voice knocking Mirk out of his thoughts.

Mirk moved to cross his arms against the chill in the room, though he managed to catch himself that time before he could touch his cleaner smallclothes with his dirty hands. "Euh...what am I supposed to do, then?"

"Change at the infirmary. And then...change again in the hall."

"Messire, that's a little much, even from you," Mirk said. He knew that Genesis wasn't looking at him like that — he was scanning his smallclothes for any telltale stain that might hint at him carrying his work back with him. But Mirk still felt himself going red. His last informal chemise was getting very thin, and it was quite cold in the common room.

Genesis shook his head, adamant. "I will not get sick."

"But I'm not sick. And the air's not bad in the dormitories. If I do catch it, I suppose I can make a bed on the floor out here..."

"The disease clings to you. Even if you...remain well...you carry the potential with you. Everything you touch. Every time you breathe..."

The longer Genesis thought about the possibility of getting sick, the more agitated he became, his hissing accent growing more prominent, the shadows rising up thick behind him. Mirk needed to stop things before he got truly upset. "If it's too much, I can go stay somewhere else until it passes. Since Niv's not well, I suppose I can go stay in his room until he's better..."

"No. Doubtlessly more...infected...will remain in that building. Who cannot or will not go to the infirmary. You will be at the same...risk."

"But you won't."

"Irrelevant," Genesis hissed, abruptly turning away from him and sifting through the top drawer of his desk. "You will...take a shower bath first. Use the hottest water you can stand. I will have the...necessary potions for the proper bath made by then."

"It's not like you to be so demanding," Mirk muttered, as he shuffled off in the direction of the bathroom. And did his best to ignore the dark voice's aside that it wasn't such an unappealing change of pace. There was a certain passion in Genesis’s insistence, even if it was a matter of self-preservation, that made the heat spread down the sides of his neck.

Genesis didn't seem to hear him. He'd found what he was looking for in the drawer — a blackened bottle, which he shook the contents out of into a pair of handkerchiefs he snatched out of his shirtsleeve. He cut off Mirk's way to the bathroom, holding the two soaked handkerchiefs rigidly out in front of himself. "Hands. If you would," he added, when they weren't forthcoming.

"I was on my way to the bath already, Genesis."

"If you...touch the runes with them, you'll...contaminate them."

Biting his lip, Mirk held out his hands. He was glad the pain blockers he'd taken that afternoon had worn off. No amount of reminding himself that it was all strictly business, that Genesis was just being thorough and methodical as always, could keep his stomach from tying itself into knots as Genesis cleaned his hands.

If the commander hadn't been so delicate about it, so gentle and careful, it wouldn't have been so trying. Or if the intensity of his focus didn’t bring out the blue in his eyes. Or if he hadn't started touching him bare-handed once he'd cleaned his wrists to his satisfaction. The way Genesis's long, slender fingers could close fully around them made something inside of Mirk crumple.

It ended too soon. Or not soon enough. Genesis withdrew without noticing anything was off, though Mirk was absolutely certain he would have been able to hear how fast his heart was pounding, if only he hadn’t been so distracted. "Proceed. I will...return with the potions momentarily," Genesis said, dismissing him as he rifled through Mirk's potions kit for the necessary components.

On unsteady legs, Mirk hurried to the bathroom and shut the door behind himself, pausing in the dark to calm himself for a time before waving on the magelights. It'd be better if he got to work before Genesis could stick his head in to check on him to ensure he hadn’t gotten distracted. And was more thorough than usual with his washing. Despite Genesis’s admonition to use the hottest water he could stand, Mirk opted to tap the cold water rune.

If Genesis judged his efforts inferior and tried cleaning any more of his body himself, Mirk didn't think he could bear it. They'd have to clear a bed for him in the infirmary alongside all the other sick men.