炎吐き病

It's somewhere in the middle of America, trekking from one state to the next, that you realize that there is something growing inside of you.

"Unsurprising." Nightingale states simply. "You are quite the sick child."

You jolt at the sudden interjection. You'd assumed she'd gone to sleep already, like Mash and Rama. "Wha-?"

"You've displayed symptoms from the moment we've met. Did you really not realize it?" She scowls. "You need to monitor your health more. Turning a blind eye to small discrepancies is exactly how infections go out of control."

Warily, you drag your knees under your chin, protecting your stomach. "You're not going to amputate me, are you?"

She raises an eyebrow. "I can't amputate what would go through a scalpel's blade. If you want a cure, I recommend a gun."

---

Obviously, you don't go for the gun.

What would you even do with it, shoot yourself? Shoot someone else? Either could be likely, with Nightingale. So you don't go for the gun. You keep quiet, and you keep walking, and the thing stays nested right beside your heart.

You're aware that this is pretty irresponsible behavior. For all you know, there could be magic involved, and oh BOI could that be bad. But the fact is you don't have any time right now for a full medical check-up, especially now that the resident nurse has diagnosed you incurable. Besides, it's not... really... doing anything?

It sits in your chest, heavy despite having no weight. The warmth soothes you during cold nights and fuels you during the day. Sometimes, it pulses as your heart beats, dares to start crawling up your throat, but it goes back down quickly enough. It's distracting when Billy quips a joke at you or Mash expects your input on something, but overall harmless.

Harmless.

(The worst comes the day you meet Sita; the scene unfolds and their fate flows between your fingers, unable to catch it, unable to help them, and you have no choice but to see these lovers miss each other again, again, how long has it been? again, again, AGAIN-

it flares up in your chest, burns like flames reaching higher and higher, and as Sita disappears you're not only choking on tears.

Rama wakes up, eventually, and you can breathe again, and the relief is such that you quickly shoves the whole incident under a carpet. You'll deal with it.

Even if the smell of smoke sticks to your nose for days afterwards.)

Harmless.

---

It calms down in Chaldea.

Maybe it's the cold air. You are noticeably more comfortable living here than you were just a few singularities prior.

Roman and Da Vinci have no idea what you're on about.

"The tests don't show anything wrong." Roman tells you, dumbfounded. "You're as healthy as they come."

He doesn't ask are you sure of what you felt? He doesn't say you must have dreamed the whole thing. But he doesn't have any explanation to give either.

This is problematic.

"I'll come with you to Jerusalem." Da Vinci says. "So if it acts up again, I'll be here."

It's a good thing she does, for a variety of reasons not all related to this newfound illness.

(You hate this place you hate this place YOU HATE THIS PLACE harsh winds and flying sand and faces, so many faces, unknown faces lying in blood and familiar ones standing over corpses with red on their hands YOU HATE THIS PLACE YOU HATE THIS PLACE-

Your lungs seem to hate it just as much as you do, if the frequent coughing fits are any indication.)

---

It's in the middle of mountains with no names, with dirt on your skin and chipped nails, that you finally make sense of Nightingale's words.

Mordred stands before you, helmet off, a cruel light in their eyes. That face, that voice, everything about them reminds you of London and its fog and shared laughs on Jekyll's living room, and-

You can't do this. The realization is like a brick to your face. You can't do this. You came in this accursed land ready to fight monsters and humans alike, ready to- to- to kill, should you need to, should there be no other way, but- but- this one, this person you once called an ally, a partner, a friend, you can't. You can't fight them.

Mordred laughs, of course. Calls you a coward. It's Mordred but not Mordred, it's someone with the same body and the same core but twisted, corrupted, blinded by a light so bright it erased part of their being. They talk casually, about death, yours, their own, about their gift that is really a curse in disguise, and you can't, you can't fight this one, you can fight anyone in the entirety of Jerusalem but not Mordred. You want to save them. More than anything, you want to help them, get them to listen to reason, get them to stop.

You want, you want, you can't, you, it burns, this desire, this pain at the sight of them, this need to protect them, it burns, this love so intense it makes you sick-

You choke.

Your chest heaves. Your shoulders hunch forward as you arch to cough. The act is so sudden, so violent, that even Mordred stops to watch you. There is- there- something, snake or vine, sneaking up your throat, scorching and intense and you can't breathe, and then even as you heave once more you can't take your eyes off Mordred.

It's hot. Viscous. Bright, holy honey, sticking to your teeth on its way out. You open your mouth wide, as wide as you can manage, and still the lava refuses to let you speak. So you cough, you cough, let it dribble down your chin in the most terrible of spit. It's hot, and heavy, and it pulses.

You scoop as much as you can out of your mouth. The magma stings your palm, but you need to speak.

Rampage, Mordred had called their curse. A gift from father. But you know, now. You know what that is.

"You, you're burning too, aren't you?" You're panting. You take a deep breath. Another. Try to speak again. "You're burning on that love, too."

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