Work Text:
The smell of another candle putting itself out filled his nose, and he shakes his head, trembling fingers setting his quill down to light yet another one. The shaking had started fairly early on, but there's nothing he can do for it at this point.
Judging by the way his shirt sticks to his skin, he imagines the fever's set in; it doesn't do anything to help the fog in his head. He lets out a trembling sigh, setting the newly lit candle aside, and pressing his palms to his eyes, trying to regain focus. This would be far from his first all-nighter and yet this one seems the most difficult, proven by the way he struggles to grip the quill once more.
He can't sleep now, it would only be worse when he opened his eyes. What if he didn't wake? These people were relying on him, he had to put in his best efforts.
There's only so long left, he can almost hear the clock ticking away, louder each minute.
Hastily, he dips the tip of the quill into the ink, to write yet another note, only to curse when he doesn't pull it far enough away. The jar tips over, spilling thick dark liquid across his desk.
Standing abruptly, he picks his papers up, and sweeps his books to the side, running his fingers through his hair, only to frustratedly yank his fingers from the tangled mop of curls as they catch and get stuck.
He can't focus.
He can't think.
He needs time. Something he's very quickly running out of.
He prays. To who? He doesn't know. Who- or what -ever is listening, he supposes.
"Please- Please, please. Give me something. Anything. I'm begging."
It's hard to catch his breath. Is it because he's growing ever desperate? Or was it the sickness that had weaved it's way into his immune system, draining him of life with every passing moment?
He sits once more, slumping onto his chair with his elbows on the edge of his workplace. He doesn't bother righting his ink bottle, or cleaning the spill, only caring to not set his work into the mess. Desperately, his eyes scan the writing sprawled across the wood, until they stop, and he sits up, his eyes wide.
Amidst the dark writing that seemed to smear in his unfocused vision, there was red.
Blinking a few times, he moved closer to the candle, studying the drawing of the beetle that- quite literally -plagued Vesuvia.
These beetles didn't exist up until a certain point, when they had just.. popped into existence to destroy lands and eat away at the people.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking back on the history of the vermin. They'd come around the same time as the count had arrived, maybe not even two weeks apart. In fact, he recalled other cities having a breakout, and recovering, just as their oh-so dear Count told tales of his travels across the country. That could be coincidence.
But it took the Count so much longer to wither away. So many people had passed- rest in peace -within days. Why had it taken so long for him to waste away to skin and bones? To the pathetic Count he was now? Nobody has lasted as long as he was lasting.
His brain swirls with the thought, and he sits back, holding the sketch up above his head, frowning deeply.
it was a horrible thought, an absolutely insane idea but at this point.. there isn't any more sane ideas.
It was time to end this, once and for all.