(no subject)
"Go and rest yourself, Master Sayre." Hedge's oily tone practically oozes concern. "You look sick to death."
"But--"
"I'll oversee the workers, don't you worry about that. We're almost there, and you'll want to be in good shape then, won't you? Go on now, before you have another one of your ... spells." This time the command is unmistakable.
"... yes, you're right, I suppose," Nick admits, reluctantly. "You'll call me if you find anything?"
"Of course."
* * * * * * *
The young man who pushes through the tent flap and barely manages to catch himself before falling over is a far cry from the bright-eyed, enthusiastic scientist who arrived in the town of Edge only a few months ago. Hollow-eyed and pale, his hair damp with fever-sweat and his athletic frame now wasted with illness, Nick staggers the rest of the way to his cot and collapses onto it, rolling onto his back and throwing his arm over his eyes as he struggles to keep from another coughing fit.
"I'm getting worse," he murmurs.
He's no doctor, he's a scientist, but he knows enough to know that whatever ails him can't be as simple as bronchitis, not any more.
"Swamp fever, maybe. Something I caught from the damp on that blasted hill. Or--"
Nick can't even bring himself to say it aloud.
Consumption. White lung; the worst of all such diseases, being as it's the one without a cure.
He manages to lie still all of half an hour before he can't stand it any longer. Nick draws a deep breath, or tries, and pushes himself upright, swaying.
"Where there's a will, there's a way, old chap," he tells himself, bracingly, "and you've still got plenty of that. Hedge's a good man, but you've come too far to miss out on seeing the job done here at the end, eh? Lung fever or not, you're still a Sayre."
Nick stifles a cough in the crook of his elbow, and stumbles back out of the tent.
"But--"
"I'll oversee the workers, don't you worry about that. We're almost there, and you'll want to be in good shape then, won't you? Go on now, before you have another one of your ... spells." This time the command is unmistakable.
"... yes, you're right, I suppose," Nick admits, reluctantly. "You'll call me if you find anything?"
"Of course."
* * * * * * *
The young man who pushes through the tent flap and barely manages to catch himself before falling over is a far cry from the bright-eyed, enthusiastic scientist who arrived in the town of Edge only a few months ago. Hollow-eyed and pale, his hair damp with fever-sweat and his athletic frame now wasted with illness, Nick staggers the rest of the way to his cot and collapses onto it, rolling onto his back and throwing his arm over his eyes as he struggles to keep from another coughing fit.
"I'm getting worse," he murmurs.
He's no doctor, he's a scientist, but he knows enough to know that whatever ails him can't be as simple as bronchitis, not any more.
"Swamp fever, maybe. Something I caught from the damp on that blasted hill. Or--"
Nick can't even bring himself to say it aloud.
Consumption. White lung; the worst of all such diseases, being as it's the one without a cure.
He manages to lie still all of half an hour before he can't stand it any longer. Nick draws a deep breath, or tries, and pushes himself upright, swaying.
"Where there's a will, there's a way, old chap," he tells himself, bracingly, "and you've still got plenty of that. Hedge's a good man, but you've come too far to miss out on seeing the job done here at the end, eh? Lung fever or not, you're still a Sayre."
Nick stifles a cough in the crook of his elbow, and stumbles back out of the tent.