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A witch’s flu.
Common enough, amongst solitary witches lacking the bolstering energies of a coven. Common still amongst those who, whether they belonged to a coven or not, were not strong in their practices and convictions.
Zelda Spellman did not fall into one of those categories—-and therefore, Zelda Spellman absolutely did not have any type of flu whatsoever. Of course she was aware of the symptoms. Acute loss of power, physical weakness, a pounding headache, and many other typical, traditional mortal annoyances signaling illness.
So she had recently (very recently, in fact) sneezed once or twice. Fine. There was dust floating about in the academy what with the currently on-going renovations, no question about that. Her throat felt dry and a bit raw in spots but that, too, could be explained away as an allergic reaction—-not to mention overuse of her voice due to teaching. But this headache…
Well, she had certainly suffered headaches before. Hilda believed her prone to the migraine variety, likely induced by stress, but even those paled in comparison to the one plaguing her at present.
Getting worked up over that Helga Stillwell rubbish had not helped a bit in that department. No sooner had she stormed in and confronted her sister than the pain behind her eyes intensified to an almost unbearable level; she had been unable to focus on the book’s small print after reading three lines or so, and therefore it was simple enough to make the text disappear… or so she thought.
The magic had worked, yes, but the aftermath hit like a wallop to her entire body, all at once. Headache somehow pounding worse than before. Nausea suddenly threatening to twist her stomach inside out. Dizziness severe enough she immediately needed to lean against the wall after Hilda had gone in order to catch her balance for fear of falling. A cold chill crept up her spine out of nowhere, and she could feel that her cheeks were growing alarmingly warm.
Hellfire.
This could not be. Zelda did not have time for this, let alone the possible ramifications if this affliction truly was a witch’s flu. The entire coven could be at risk; as there was no clear cause, the High Priestess herself could very well be held responsible. Perhaps she was not providing firm enough leadership—-though that statement could easily be contested by any member of the Church of Lilith—-perhaps she was not devoted enough to their new deity. That… that could very well be the case, no doubt about it. But would Lilith punish her in this way? Would Lilith punish the coven as a whole in this way?
…Possibly.
After all, they barely knew the queen to whom they prayed, and nothing yet seemed as set in stone as it had when the Dark Lord reigned.
Perhaps Lilith did not care for her newly found devotees, and that was why Zelda suffered.
Whatever the reason, whatever the cause, she couldn’t waste time worrying over it now. The Academy would not stop running simply because its Directrix had come down with an awful headache. And stomach pains. And chills. And a possible (likely) fever.
A few students, despite having been previously dismissed, were loitering about the classroom area when Zelda made her way back. Elspeth sat atop one of the desks, still engrossed in that dreadful garbage Hilda called a book, and Melvin was seated at the next desk over, mindlessly chomping away on an apple. Where it had come from, Zelda did not question, nor did she order Elspeth to put away her book. Just the sight of food, even something so mild as an apple, turned her stomach. She focused her attention on erasing the blackboard in preparation for the next course of the afternoon. That was an easy task, one that did not require concentration. Something she could manage without aggravating the pain and pressure between her eyes.
“…Directrix Spellman?”
Only when Elspeth spoke did Zelda realize she was standing still, eraser in one hand and the other grasping tight to the blackboard’s edge. She did not know how long she had been that way, nor did she think she could safely let go. Her head ached far too much, her vision was tunneling to a pinpoint.
Elspeth, for her part, hopped off the desk and jabbed Melvin squarely between the shoulders in order to get his attention. Cautiously, they approached, staying at a distance just across the potions table.
“Forgive my saying so,” continued the young witch, “But you don’t look well.” Sheepishly, she glanced down at the book still in her hand. “Was it the book? It’s—-I mean, none of us were taking it seriously, it’s mostly just funny—-”
“Stop.” Zelda held up a hand to signal silence. “Enough about that drivel, Elspeth. I don’t care what you do with it so long as it isn’t anywhere in my sight again.” Just that sentence was difficult enough to get out. The room was swaying; her legs felt rubbery and unsteady. She swallowed hard, and let loose her grip on the board to turn around. “Understood?”
Elspeth merely blinked. Melvin seemed frozen mid-chomp.
“Well?”
“I’m—-I’m sorry, Directrix Spellman,” stammered Elspeth, “Understood, yes. You, um… you really don’t look…”
Just by glancing down at her hands, Zelda could see how pale (even more so than usual) her skin had gone. She shuddered to think of what that must mean for her face, all color from her cheeks and lips likely vanished. When she looked back up, Elspeth and Melvin were scurrying off and the next thing she knew, Hilda was scurrying in.
“Zelds?” Hilda spoke softly, as though their argument of only five minutes or so ago had not ever occurred. Never had she seen her sister looking as awfully ashen and strange as she did now and something about that sight frightened her to her core. Zelda was the strongest, staunchest person she knew (also, the most stubborn).
This was not happening. Zelda decided this was not happening and therefore it was not and that was that.
“I’m fine,” she huffed, managing to toss her hair over her shoulder despite the fact that flipping her head back even just the slightest bit sent the room spinning all over again. Her fingers fumbled to straighten the hem of her jacket, just to prove to herself that she could stand upright without holding onto anything. “If certain parties would mind their own business and respect when they are dismissed,” she went on, eyeing Elspeth and Melvin, who were peeping in from the hall, “We can get on with our afternoon following that… incident.”
“You mean, ah, the incident in which you shouted at me in front of… well, everybody?” It was a question innocent enough, but perhaps not necessary at this very moment. Hilda did not realize that until well after the fact.
Zelda’s vision had begun to black out again. The darkness came in spots this time, blotches that danced all around instead of fading steadily from the outside. She couldn’t give Hilda a quick-witted retort, nor could she roll her eyes or do anything except try to keep her balance… and that shortly proved a losing battle.
Hilda let out a small squeal of a scream when her sister crumpled to the floor. It was, somehow, rather a graceful collapse (leave it to Zelda, she thought, to even faint in an elegant fashion), and she mentally thanked Satan that Zelda’s head just cleared the corner of the potions table as she fell.
“Oh, shit,” came the first exclamation in the following silence—-from Melvin, still spying around the corner with Elspeth, who gave him a sharp jab to the ribs this time.
Seeing Zelda weak to the point of collapse and Hilda looking so utterly frightened shook Elspeth to her core. “Can we help?” she was asking before she knew it, pulling Melvin along with her.
“I…” Hilda shook her head, momentarily at a loss. Taking care of others was her specialty; taking care of her sister was something she had been doing longer than she could remember, but this… this was something unprecedented and terrifying and her instincts were not kicking in as they should. She lifted Zelda’s arm, pushed up the sleeve of her jacket and undid the dainty little buttons at the cuff of her sleeve in order to feel that her pulse remained steady. “Oh, praise Lucifer—-er, Lilith,” she sighed with relief, and then, “But sakes alive, she’s burning up…” A touch to Zelda’s forehead confirmed it. Fever, no doubt, and a high one at that. “Elspeth, love, can you fetch us a cold washcloth? Two, if you can find another.”
Elspeth nodded, and off she went.
Hilda then looked over at Melvin, who was staring wide-eyed and did not seem half as eager to assist as his ladyfriend. He would be useful, though, in one department… “Do you think you can carry her?”
“Uh…” Melvin knew his own strength, and therefore knew it wasn’t much. But then again, however intimidating Zelda Spellman might have been (answer: very), the woman could not possibly weigh more than he was capable of lifting. He cleared his throat, attempting to sound as sure of himself as possible. “I can try.”
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A stinging sharpness between her temples was the first—-and for a short while, the only—-thing Zelda registered when she awoke. Each of her senses took their time coming back around; solid feeling slowly began to replace the numbness settled in her limbs and Hilda’s voice, familiar and comforting, sounded muffled as though underwater until her hearing cleared.
“Can you open your mouth for me, Zelds?” was what Hilda was saying, thermometer in hand. It was an old-fashioned kind, of course, and once Zelda complied she watched the red mercury shoot up far past any possibly acceptable mark.
Hilda started to speak again, but Zelda managed, albeit weakly, to cut her off.
“No,” she practically moaned, closing her eyes again, hand to her head. “I know it’s dreadful, you can spare me the details.”
“Well, fine,” huffed Hilda, for she could not help but be exasperated by her sister’s stubbornness, even under these evidently dire circumstances. “How are you feeling, then? You had me scared half to death—-”
Zelda shook her head, eyes still squeezed shut. “Hilda. Please. When I said spare me the details, I meant it. I…” She had to swallow suddenly, feeble nausea creeping up her throat. “…I feel absolutely horrid.”
“May I, ah… take a stab at it?” Hilda was still staring down at the thermometer—-a witch’s thermometer, no less. Her sister’s temperature was nothing short of alarming, and as far as she knew, that could mean one thing and one thing only. “Blinding headache, hmm?”
She waited for Zelda to confirm, and that confirmation came in the form of a low, incredibly pained moan.
“Right,” Hilda nodded, going on, “And… the thermometer speaks for itself, with a temperature high as yours you’re bound to have cold chills wracking your bones from the inside out and a foggy feeling all over and I can imagine your tummy isn’t too well, either?”
“Hilda,” Zelda’s voice was just this side of sharp, but did not cut quite so deep as it usually would. “Please. Stop. Talking.”
Those words, in any other situation, would hurt. At present, though, Hilda could only feel sympathy for her obviously ailing sister—-her older sister, ever the glue which held together the Spellman family through triumph and tragedy and all things in between. She didn’t want to see Zelda this way, didn’t want to think about the implications if Zelda did not recover quickly or… at all.
“I just want to help, Zelds,” she said after a moment, voice pitched very soft, “The Witch’s Flu is nothing to be ashamed of, it can’t be helped—-”
“Yes, it certainly can,” snapped Zelda, sounding very much like her usual self for about two seconds, “There is a reason no Spellman has ever suffered it, and that is because—-” A dainty sneeze interrupted her, and oh, how that sneeze aggravated the unbearable pressure in her head. “—Because we have always, always practiced our craft to the best of our ability and proved our devotion time and time again—-” A cough this time, one that wracked her entire body and ached deep in her chest.
“Easy, now,” urged Hilda, gently stroking wayward-fallen curls back from her sister’s face. “Don’t get yourself all bothered. You’re bad off as it is already, and the last thing we need is your blood pressure to kick up and make everything worse.”
At that, Zelda broke. Whether it was the soothing timbre of Hilda’s voice or the words she spoke or a combination of the two, the elder witch found herself on the verge of tears. Oh, how she hated to be incapacitated in any way, and when her own body was rebelling against her… “My head, Hildy…” Yes, she was whining, but with damn good reason. “It’s ached all morning and it keeps getting worse and worse…”
“I know.”
Only then did Zelda begin to register her surroundings. The fever was clouding her mind, the headache making it nearly impossible for her to open her eyes without triggering a searing pain, but she was able to squint enough to see that she was lying in a darkened bedroom, that Hilda was seated beside her…
“What… happened?” she asked, sounding a good deal more frightened than she intended.
“You fainted, love,” said Hilda, as gently as she could. “Came close to hitting your head on the potions table—-”
That gave cause for Zelda’s eyes to shoot wide open, despite the resulting discomfort. “Who saw?”
“No one but me,” Hilda tried to lie, but her voice wavered in that tell-tale way it had since she was a child and she decided to come clean rather than force Zelda to drag it out of her. “…And Elspeth, and Melvin. But that’s all, and—-”
“Oh, for Lilith’s sake…” Zelda shut her eyes again, huffed a trademark sigh of irritation through her nose. “And how did I get… into this room?” Please tell me you teleported me, sister.
…And this would be strike two, Hilda knew without a doubt. Still, she soldiered on. “Melvin, ah… helped me to… carry you. Well. Melvin did the carrying. I did the fluffing of the pillows and the taking off your jacket and—-”
“That’s enough, Hilda.” There came that edge to her voice again, except she was feeling so ill she could not help but attempt to curb it. “…Thank you,” she said after a silent few seconds, “I can only assume you employed discretion and did not alert anyone else to my condition?”
“Of course,” said Hilda, dutifully, “And you’re welcome, Zelds, but I hope you know I wouldn’t be anywhere else other than right at your side while you’re—” She stopped herself just short of saying ill. “—While you’re feeling under the weather.”
Though she would not verbally acknowledge it, Zelda did, in fact, know that to be true. She shivered, involuntarily, and turned onto her side in attempt to gain some semblance of warmth or comfort.
“You’re chilled to the bone, aren’t you?” Hilda reached out to give her sister’s shoulder a squeeze. “Poor thing…” She hopped up in search of an extra blanket, luckily located in the first place she looked: the trunk at the end of the bed. “Never know what treasures are going to pop up for us here at the Academy, hmm?” Silence unnerved her; chattering to herself was comforting, something she did often when anxiety loomed. “Here we are, let’s get you nice and warm, snug as a bug in a soft little rug…”
The fact that Zelda did not resist, even a little, as she draped the blanket and tucked it up to her chin worried her even more. Her eyes were closed, brows furrowed, mouth twisted in a grimace that clearly reflected pain. Hilda swore she could feel her own heart being torn in two. Seeing Sabrina ill as a little one had been awful, but seeing Zelda this way… even with those nasty migraines she suffered from time to time, she never seemed quite this weak, this fragile.
“…Hildy?” The needy, childlike voice that shook Hilda from her inner monologue did not sound anything like Zelda Spellman.
“I’m here, Zelds.” She placed a hand over her sister’s, and tried not to show any visible reaction to the near-scorching heat she felt emanating from her skin.
Zelda’s other hand was pressed tight against her forehead, fingers massaging either side of her temples in vain. She opened her eyes just enough to squint, for even the slightest hint of dim light affected the pain. “Why is this… happening to me?”
If Hilda did not know better, she would think her sister to be near tears. She did not want to see that; she did not want to see Zelda cry because of a headache, because of a fever… because that meant something truly, truly sinister that Hilda could not, at the moment, attempt to process. Nor could she properly answer that question. Sure, she herself had said only minutes before that a witch’s flu was nothing to fret over, but that was… well, that was about one-third for Zelda’s benefit and about two-thirds for her own. She knew more about this sort of flu than she cared to admit or acknowledge; grim bits that would only serve to frighten Zelda and give the whole coven reason to panic.
And there was reason to panic. Several of the students had shown symptoms of some strange illness; they had set up a sickroom, in fact, and surely Zelda had not forgotten that? Hilda hesitated to remind her, if only for the sake of how high her fever had gotten and how much higher it could climb. A healthy witch’s natural temperature ran at least four to five degrees lower than that of a healthy mortal; the mercury had read Zelda’s temperature as dangerously close to mortal levels. Of course, that meant the temperatures of the other affected coven members (teenagers, all of them) would need to be taken as well…
But Hilda had to be the one to manage that. Zelda was High Priestess, yes, but in the instance she was temporarily unable to lead then Hilda… Hilda could and would step up.
Unfortunately, the first step toward stepping up was to be as honest as possible with her sister.
“I… I think something is off with your magic,” she began, choosing her words with the utmost care and consideration, “You poofed all the text out of my book, remember? You held up your hand and went—-” She demonstrated the motion herself, just for clarity’s sake. “—-Poof, right? And the text disappeared, and then—-well, what happened after that? Do you remember how you felt, right after?”
Thinking amidst the hazy fog brought on by the combination of fever and severe headache proved difficult. Zelda barely recalled much of the morning, except that her head had been pounding away since shortly after she had bathed and dressed.
“I felt weak.” That she did recall, and admitting it was akin to admitting defeat. “Drained of energy, hot and cold all over…”
Hilda gave a solemn nod. “I thought as much.” She paused, then, “Something is happening, Zelda. Whether it’s… happening to our coven, or to we Spellmans in particular and the coven is suffering as a side effect, I’m not sure, but it’s… it’s real, and we need to prepare ourselves. I need to prepare, I can, ah… I’ll enlist Ambrose to help me in making enough potions for the half dozen or so we’ve got downstairs, to keep the flu from affecting them as…” This, oh, this was the hardest thing to say. “…As much as it’s affecting you.”
A shiver, half-chill and half-panic, rattled through Zelda’s aching body. “Why me?” she whispered, voice uncharacteristically small and very nearly inaudible.
“Because you’re the strongest of us all. Because you’re… the most devoted, the most powerful.” None of this was anything Hilda had not admitted to herself before, but saying it aloud to Zelda… she had no doubt in her mind Zelda, too, knew it. That did not make it even a single smidge better or easier. “I think we’re being punished—-directly punished, by the Dark Lord himself. He’s aiming to bring down your defenses, in order to… to lower our coven’s strength as a whole.”
The courage necessary to lay all of that out on the line was tremendous, and Hilda was proud of herself for mustering what it took to do so. She held her breath, waiting for a response… and yet, Zelda remained silent. Under ordinary circumstances that would be frustrating, but now…
“Zelds?” she prodded, very softly, “Are you… did you hear me?”
Still silent, Zelda simply nodded once in the affirmative. One arm was flung dramatically over her eyes, while her other hand pressed tight to her temples. She knew she looked as miserable as she felt, and what was more, she knew very well that her sister was absolutely correct. This was no ordinary illness—-nothing contracted from mortals, no simple side effect from a spell gone wrong. And in all honesty, she had known it since the headache first took hold that morning.
“I need to sleep,” was what she said out loud, “Can you… give me something?”
The blatant, obvious desperation in those few words hurt Hilda’s heart all over again. “Of course, love.” She rose to leave, but Zelda caught her by the hand.
“Hilda,” her voice was already breaking, “If anything should happen to me—-”
“No,” Hilda instantly, instinctively cut her off. “There will be none of that sort of talk, Zelda Phiona Spellman, not on my watch.” But her voice had broken, too. “It’s under control, I promise you that. I’ve… I’ve got everything all under control here.” She was fibbing, and a healthy, all-there Zelda would have seen right through it. This Zelda, ill and frightened, put up no resistance. …And the Academy was certainly not the ideal place for her to begin the road to recovery. “I think it’s best that we get you safely home and tucked into your own bed before any potions,” she added, “Let me, ah… make arrangements, yeah?”
Hilda gave her sister’s hand a squeeze, gently let it go, and waited until she was several feet down the hall before allowing herself to cry.
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It ended up that Elspeth’s help was enlisted once again, this time in assisting Hilda with the energies necessary to teleport both herself and her ailing sister back to the mortuary—-precisely, back into the bedroom they once shared. No one else was home, for obvious reasons, and thankfully so. After helping Zelda get changed into clothing more appropriate for a sickbed (at least, more appropriate for Zelda in a sickbed), Hilda made her way downstairs and began to craft three potions. One for sleep, one for pain, one to hopefully—Lilith willing—-bring down that troublesome fever.
Clad in a silk nightgown and her favorite winter-weather robe, Zelda was still shivering with chills—-until, suddenly and miraculously, the shivering stopped. She was warm, then. Too warm. Much too warm. She sat up, head pounding and room spinning, and clumsily got to her feet in order to shed the robe. In her vanity mirror, she caught sight of herself. Her face was paste-pale save her for cheeks, which burned rosy-red with fever.
Just beyond her reflection, a ghostly figure began to take shape. She squinted, blinked a couple of times and yet the vision remained. The floor seemed to tilt beneath her bare feet; she reeled forward, grasped at the back of the vanity chair and somehow managed to sink down onto the seat. The figure did not move, but its face became clearer and clearer—deep-set coal eyes, a sickening grin crossing its mouth.
“…Faustus?” Zelda whispered, trembling hand reaching out toward the mirror to touch, to see if it was real… if he was real…
And that was the scene which greeted Hilda upon her return.
“Oh, Zelds…”
She hastened to set down the tray bearing the potions, and once that was done she cautiously approached her sister. Zelda was still staring into the mirror, eyes glossy and glazed over, and did not seem to snap back to reality even when Hilda placed a hand on her shoulder.
“There isn’t anyone here, love.”
Just by touching bare skin (why on earth had she taken off her robe, when she was so forcefully shivering no less than fifteen minutes ago?) Hilda could tell that her temperature had risen at least a degree or two since last she checked.
“Back to bed with you, yeah?” She did her best to urge a still-dazed Zelda to her feet, making sure to support her in case she should lose her balance. Easier said than done. Zelda was practically deadweight as soon as she stood, Hilda’s grasp the only thing keeping her from hitting the hardwood floor on the short walk back to bed. The difference in their heights made it nearly impossible for Hilda to keep her sister upright, but somehow she managed.
“Here, sit up a bit…” She arranged the pillows so Zelda could prop against them in order to swallow her medicine without incident.
Once the fog began to lift, Zelda slowly registered first her sister’s presence and then the tray, occupied by three vials and one tiny teacup. She cleared her throat, coughing a bit, before she said, “I believe I asked for a sleeping potion, not an entire apothecary.”
Though that remark was no doubt made at her expense, Hilda could not help but find solace in the fact that it did, at the very least, sound like Zelda. She smiled just the slightest trace of a grin.
“These first,” she instructed, handing over the two potions not intended for sleep, “For your headache, and your fever. And the tea is only a couple of sips—-it’s peppermint, to soothe your tummy, just like I used to give Sabrina when she was a baby.”
Zelda arched an eyebrow. “You never gave Sabrina tea when she was a baby.”
“I did so!” She held the vials to Zelda’s lips, one by one, and then the teacup. Each went down smoothly, praise Lilith. “There, now—-do you need anything else before you close your eyes?”
Sinking back down against the mattress, Zelda shook her head. No, she did not need anything, except… “It’s the strangest thing, Hilda,” she said, pulling the duvet clear up to her chin, “I… I don’t know what I was doing at the mirror. I don’t even… recall getting up.” She closed her eyes again, pinched two fingers at the bridge of her nose. “My head…”
“Shh, I know.” Hilda pressed the back of her hand to each of her sister’s cheeks, then her forehead. Warm, and growing warmer still. “Your fever’s gone up—-you might have been hallucinating, or… or something of the sort?” That wasn’t good in any case, but especially in Zelda’s. Hilda did not want to push it, for fear of what that might bring up.
“I suppose.” A murky memory remained, that awful man’s menacing sneer forever etched in her mind. She swallowed against the urge to cough, only to cough regardless. Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy, beginning to close of their own accord.
“Wait,” said Hilda, gently, supplying the vial of sleeping potion before it was too late. She cupped the back of her sister’s head so that she could safely drink. “There we are, now, you just… rest easy, Zelds.”
Already drowsy, Zelda could feel herself starting to drift out of consciousness. “Hildy…?” Her voice was faraway, her words slurring from the effects of the potion. “You’ll stay with me, won’t you?”
“Of course, yeah. I’ll bring in my sewing kit, keep myself occupied while you’re sleeping. I’ll be right here, promise.” How much of that was heard, she did not know, for no sooner had she finished speaking than Zelda was already fast asleep.
Hilda did, naturally, make good on her word. She propped up nice and comfy in her old bed, resumed work on a new summer skirt she had been crafting for Sabrina, and glanced over every two minutes or so to be sure she could still see the steady rise and fall of her sister’s chest beneath the duvet. It would, without a doubt, be a very long night indeed.