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Everything they'd done before now was completely discounted.

In the morning, Georgie was hacking up vile things and was barely able to lift his head from beneath his blankets, scrags of brown hair poking up from over the white sheets while he tried to talk through them in a shaking and frightened voice. His body was racked with more pain than it already knew, his gloved hands wrapping around his pillow while he convulsed and shuddered in illness, sweat dribbling down his cheeks as the temperature rose beneath his fortress of layers and sheets, which were light and airy in comparison to the chilly Shyregoed cold only a day ago. When he could strain his vision into a focused tunnel, he noticed smears of black lining his fingers, and the strange sensation if itch compel his neck, and in that moment, the Malt knew instantly just what illness he was struck with, and at that moment he was completely overwhelmed with aghast disbelief.

How could he have gotten the Black Death?

Yet, when he tried to get out of bed, his weighted body nearly fell to the floor and he shrivelled in onto himself at the compounding sense of doom and pain. His head hurt, and the sudden rush from extreme heat to extreme cold set him off-kilter, but stubborn as he was, Georgie supported his weight against the cabinet next to the bed and slowly inched his way up to the door. When he twisted the knob, however, his consciousness was nil and he collapsed in fatigue and, Adal, who in that instant burst through the gate with a freckled face and extremely curled hair, rushed up to the upper wings to check on his brother and possibly the Clemmings. What was previously a Locos, his green and painfully human eyes searched madly around, nearly blind now without his keen sense of smell. The was-Plague was as offset as Clurie was, immediately horrified when he found Georgie laying on the floor.

Without a moment's worth of hesitation, Adal pushed Georgie onto his back and set him onto the rustled bed, eyes wide with complete and utter horror at the very sight of him. He looked up at the reflection of him against the slick door just in front of him, noticing his newly acquired and innately human form. Even a Locos like him, something that was meant to look as human as a Plague could get, was utterly shocked at the sight, and Adal sat on the edge of the bed completely stumped, totally and earnestly confounded by these set of events. How could the Doctor's theories have been so incorrect?


But, that was morning, and this was now.

When Clurie opened the door to Chauhn and Georgie's room in the Yizhaq Estate, Adal was sitting in a chair just next to Georgie's bed. He was leaning forward, his hands wrung around each other while he glowered at the Grimm just next to him. Adal barely noticed Clurie burst into the room but, when the Clemmings affronted the room with his loud exclamation, the blond Malt gradually lifted his head from resting against his knuckles. Freckled cheeks scrunching up with irritation, Adal turned to catch Clurie eye to eye, green to green.

He whispered, "I don't know."

"That's right, I don't," Adal retorted, annoyed not at Clurie but at his own unknowing and confusion, though his spitting glare spoke otherwise. He pushed back locks of extremely curly hair from his newly freckled face, brows furrowed in distinct confusion at the sight of the 'Quietus' in front of him. No longer pale nor covered in ashen cracks, Clurie was more human than Adal ever thought he would see him, with his tanned skin and typically chubby childish cheeks, which no longer emitted any external warmth. It was truly a haunting image for everyone, Adal included, to see Clurie with green eyes so similar to Chauhn's, something that twisted the shank in Chauhn's own delusions, something that the Clemmings boy had such a difficult time swallowing after their predicament at the shoddy lodge. Yet, despite expecting such a panicked reaction from Clurie, being so human and Clemmings in form and all, and definitely expecting the warbled reaction from ill-swallowed Chauhn sprawled against the floorboard, he could barely push back his shock at Clurie's latter attempt at quieting Chauhn.

To so quickly move and try to quiet Chauhn like that, to rip off his hat to use it as some kind of smacking tool-- Adal watched with disgust, nose and eyes scrunched up in scrutiny as he watched the moment quickly pass before his eyes. He stood before he could react while it was happening, reactions slurred by his hazy surprise at Georgie's sudden fall to disease. The curly-haired blond scooped up Chauhn from the floor with two arms, a thin and coughing and quiet page after Clurie's burst of anger. Though annoyed and disgusted at the Plague's current state of mind and Chauhn's, as well, Adal could not dispel the sight of Chauhn's own illness and the buboes scattered around his neck. If it were any other time, if Adal was left a Locos, he could quickly take care of this situation by healing the two, but this wasn't the case.

It was a rare instance for Adal to look so helpless and, brows furrowed, he stood up, lifting Chauhn, and placed the Clemmings up into the bed just beside Georgie. Momentarily wallowed in grief, Adal could only stare up blankly at Chauhn with a look of displeasure. Something inside of him snapped, though, a quick and metaphorical snap of the fingers that snapped Adal back into place. He watched Clurie rub his cheeks as he did, something that Clurie did even during his Phasmas days-- how could it be that he was thrown into a place of a magic-ridden Anhelo to something as powerless as an Excito once again?

Frowning, Adal paced toward Clurie, ripping his hands away from his cheeks with a simple grasp of his wrists. "Stop it," Adal murmured, idly dropping Clurie's wrists, then taking a step back, "You're acting pathetic when you don't have to be. You've went over this before-- you're a Plague, not a Clemmings. Nothing's changed, nothing will change." He turned away from Clurie and placed a hand over his mouth, supporting his elbow with his other palm, hazel eyes narrowed.

"There has to be a way to fix this... I haven't felt this human in so long." Adal gently tugged at a lock of his hair, then turned back around to Clurie, "And never to this extent."

Georgie heard the rustle of other company beneath his encompassing array of blankets. Choking, coughing up what muck clogged up his throat, the brunette painfully shuffled away from the layers of cloth surrounding him. He blinked, face fervent and sweating from the throbbing pain infiltrating his head. His blurry focus concentrated just enough for him to make out the distinct contours of Chauhn in the bed next to him and a strange tanned boy not far away. Mind too addled with substance to make out the two not-Plagues' forms correctly enough, having just woken up since Adal placed him on the bed, he could only get himself to recognize the black bulbs around Chauhn's wiry neck.

Neck turned ajar, Georgie squeezed his eyes closed, shuddering sadly. He managed to wrench out a few words from his beaten throat, though his voice was course and hard to hear, "Oh God, Chauhn, I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry... I don't know where Adal is, but it'll be alright soon... it'll be alright."

Adal sifted his hands through his curly hair, clearly distraught but nowhere nearly as much as Clurie, who stood there shivering with so much anticipation and exploding fear that Adal could only hope for the worst. It was true, Clurie was a Clemmings child truest in physical form, now, and it'd be a sheer lie to deny such a thing, but being attacked with such an appearance was enough to predict yet another mental breakdown between the two broken Clemmings. There was due diligence on the Locos' part, though, and he painfully swallowed the ability to drown facts in excuses, pushing aside one worried Clurie fact with reassurance and rebuttals, arguments after argument to the Quietus explaining that he was nothing like Chauhn. It was like training, to subconsciously condition both his friend and himself that they were not boys, but Plagues, constantly and timely forcing themselves to be at the state of mind they were now. Adal refused to let all of their efforts be swallowed so easily, and so he continued to reassure, even if he wasn't entirely sure with himself.

Crossing his hands, the hay-haired boy nodded and rested his heavy body against the wall available between the beds of the two dying boys, trying to focus his mind on other things other than he and Clurie's horrifyingly different images, though staring at the now dying Chauhn and Georgie provided little solace. His mouth was squeezed shut, and he tried to force out something to say to Clurie other than remaining silent-- Adal couldn't tell what was worse, though, spouting an unsure thing like it was fact and giving an already broken Clurie false hope, or to say absolutely nothing at all.

"Yes.... and no." Those words were difficult ones to say, but he resolved that being kept in the dark was worse for Clurie than being told anything at all. "It's happened to me before, seasons ago, when I was stuffed full with that Elixir we use to heal the Plagues... but nothing can be done about it. It took days for it to fully wear off, and..." he touched one of his cheeks with a cold palm, "I've never looked or felt so different in my life. I'd never known a human body would feel so heavy, until now. We need to be patient. I can't predict the outcome."

Despite once being a Locos, a Plague most human-born than something akin to an Infitialis or a Quietus, being raised with human hands and feet and fingers were something of a privilege that Adal tended to look past. Toes like normal wriggled in the warmth of his shoes and socks, he had pink human flesh and plainly colored tufts of hair-- if it weren't for his eyes, he could pass off as a human like any other. Why he felt so disgusting in this form, so weighed down though it looked as though his body was the same height, he had no clue. He could feel a soreness in his feet and legs from walking so long and the overwhelming sensation of cold p***k his pores, the bruises and clumsy cuts on his palms elated with stings of pain. When Chauhn started to shiver, so did Adal, and in that moment while Clurie wallowed in despair, he felt a true sympathy for the pains Georgie and Chauhn were going through.

Adal knelt and bent forward to pick Chauhn between his arms, lifting him off of the cold of the floor, and he saw the welts swollen across the already-thin page's neck. Eyes pinched with disarray, Adal set the Clemmings down onto bed, peeling off the bedsheets strewn and tossed aside to blanket Chauhn once again. When Chauhn started to weep, though, all the once-Plague could feel was contempt, and his heart jutted with surprise when Chauhn shivered and whispered through his mangled throat something the once-Locos could barely make out.

"Ahm not going to be alone anymore."

Both of their Grimms' voices were muffled with sickness, phlegm making it hard to decipher each exact syllable, but Adal could understand the gist of what they were saying. Georgie didn't know who he was, and neither did Chauhn, but Adal could handle this for now-- what was worse was that Chauhn really did dive back into his own self-burrowed pit of denial. Chauhn thought Clurie was back.

It was true that Georgie was pitiful, physically weak and oft mentally defenseless against bullies, but all of the situations that his Grimm had gone through were reversible and could be stopped through his own power. All those times Clurie curled up in a ball, talking to him half-asleep on dozy nights and on those rare occasions when he escaped his new role as a page, Adal realized what it meant to be truly powerless. No arguments could pivot against Chauhn's delusions, especially not any argument supported by Adal and Clurie. Knowing this made Adal crippled with the need to defend, and teetering between the balancing line of keeping his temperance with Chauhn and outright fighting for Clurie was starting to break loose. Adal learned the meaning of protecting someone at Lord Yizhaq's estate, something he thought he learned through Georgie, and it overpowered him.

To him the entire thing was selfish, though, wanting to endure Chauhn's righteous illusions to test his own power and to be the stronger boy and rise above fighting the weak and defenseless, in this case Chauhn, but it was too late-- if Chauhn was going to drag Clurie down with him, Adal would happily interject. Hands curled into tight fists, Adal grit his teeth and stood next to Chauhn's bed, slowly kneeling to meet the Clemmings boy eye-level. Adal fought with himself to keep patient, his voice trembling with exhaustion and rage, so eerily quiet in tone, reminding himself of the last time he'd snapped at the Clemmings in the troupe that ended the Clemmings in disaster.

"Chauhn," Adal murmured, "Look at me and talk. Tell a stranger what you just said."

Of course.

The human Adal stared strangely at Chauhn as he rattled off words that seemed to be his last, and his neck arched forward in bitter anguish when Clurie began to shout at the corner of his ears. Between whispers and wails, Adal could feel his mind entrap itself in a ball that was only shrinking in size, but the freckled Plague grit his teeth and swallowed back the raw, vicious anger that was tempted to burst at any moment.

Instead, Adal gripped at the edge of the bed with his calloused hands. He thought to himself, head lowered, though he was only allowed a mere moments' worth of solitude until he was ripped away by urgent need in intervention, something to keep both Clemmings and out of mind. Adal shot a disappointed, sickly glance at Clurie, hazeline eyes trying to focus onto leaf green, but Clurie was too busy itching away at his now pink-and-teary eyes that now could hardly see any better than Chauhn's.

By now, Georgie had already idled away into a lulling, too warm sleep, fidgeting away in his bed and sucking breath hallowly from his mucus-ridden throat.

Besmirched of wit, Adal could think of no other way-- he stood up and trailed after Clurie as he fumbled away towards the corner of Georgie's head, out of sight from both Chauhn and he. Once Adal was at the corner, he watched Clurie sob despite himself, then knelt in front of him and touched his shoulder gently.

"Let's go," Adal muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with bitter displeasure, "There's nothing I can do, not with you like this. Chauhn will die here alone if he has to, if all you can muster is this."

Alone. The blond glanced back at Georgie and winced, but allowed himself no time for remorse. He wrung a hand around Clurie's thin arm then stood, forcing the Clemmings Plague up with him in the process, then took ample steps towards the doorway. The door swung open with a simple shove, and Adal pushed Clurie out past the threshold, holding the door open just slightly enough for his own head to poke through from the room.

"Leave. Out of sight, out of mind."

"Go away."

Adal pressed his back against the door and quietly let Clurie's words faze through his ears. The Clemmings' and their mercurial relationship was transcending into the Malts' own problems, it seemed, and were it not for the fact that Adal had to take care of two diseased friends by himself, the Locos would shout at Clurie without a second's thought.

Instead, Adal sank, sitting on the floor while he stared back and forth between the two beds. He touched the edge of his now round ears, then pressed his palms against his face, pressing his legs against his stomach and curling into himself. Healing people of the Pestilence had made him a scary, fearful, loathsome thing before, yet the feeling he detested so much before was the only thing he longed for whilst his brother and his friend withered away with illness.

And, quietly, darkly, something in him whispered threats. Even Adal had never experienced something like this in his life, even with his painful and long and difficult apprenticeship with the Doctor. He feared for his own skin, he thought chidingly, cautiously, shamefully.

What if he could catch the Pestilence himself?