Shadewood in sickness & in health ii

for magpie; prior thread.

It had worsened violently — whether it was the agitation of travel or the mere pace of a fever refusing to better. His stomach had emptied itself twice, thrice? over. Its veritable bounty of spittle and slivers of meat wasted on their path until they had fallen into another stretch of darkened wood. 

He was wordless, just a clutch of limbs lurching forward, a struggling leg causing him to stumble on either pace. Almost ironic, his sawing pace had brought him before his shadow, his compass skewing them back into the Shadewood. At some point he had paused, standing, waiting. For what, only the whim of the wind knew. They stood in a shallow clearing, with no sign of easy, waiting comfort.