Chapter 4: Through The Haze

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It was true, Jemima didn't trust him. But it wasn't because of any expectation, though she didn't care to mention that to him.

Her intention was to return to the farm that night, before the sun disappeared beyond the horizon and the sky was a pinkish purple.

Instead she found herself crouching on an armrest, and very close to the fox lying on the chair.

He was shaking badly, and murmuring something nonsensical about eggshells and abandoned earth.

"A fever," Jemima realised. "that's what you've got."

The fox opened his eyes, but they did not seem to focus on her, or anything specifically. They were covered in something misty, like a haze, and they rolled back into his skull as he seemed to pass out again.

Jemima tried not to panic.

She flew over to the shelves of herbs and spices, though had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for. All her life she'd never encountered a fever, never mind a fox with a fever.

"Oh dear..." Jemima flew back onto the chair rest, feeling ridiculously useless. "How am I supposed to treat you? I'm certainly not a doctor, or nurse...what am I even thinking?!"

The fox tossed in the chair, an arm lashing out at nothing, his tail flicking sporadically around. He was still shaking too much.

Cold. He must be cold.

Jemima looked doubtfully at the fireplace. She had no means for lighting it; no wood to burn or even any matches. She turned back to the fox, and noticed the shaking rise and fall of his chest with a new sense of clarity.

"Please, stay still, Mr. Tod," she carefully stepped forward, her feet resting delicately on the fox's lower chest. "You'll hurt yourself, otherwise,"

Even if he looked cold he certainly didn't feel it. The heat against her was alarming, almost like fire.

"The very nature of a fever," Jemima reminded herself.

She hesitated, the close proximity between herself and the fox's jaws was naturally frightening. Every inch of her tensed, her body telling her to flee, her heart thudding almost painfully against her chest.

Then she realised the frantic beat was not entirely her own, after all.

She looked down at the fox's quaking chest, and though it was uneven and fast, it was somehow calming. Just knowing (as silly as it was) that he had a heart, that could beat as rapid as her own, and in some kind of unison, was comfort. Was some obvious reminder that he was alive and so could die too.

"...it's okay," Jemima said, her voice weak in her ears.

No doubt he couldn't hear her, though his ears did twitch.

"It's okay," she repeated, more soothingly and with certainty, this time.

The fox tilted his head in her vague direction, and his snout poked against her feathers. He made a strange whining sound, and Jemima held her breath and stayed very still, hoping he wouldn't wake and snap her up in some kind of feverish panic.

He poked at her some more with his nose, like a blinded creature trying to learn it's surroundings. Then he opened his eyes, and looked at her.

Jemima was used to his amber eyes now; they were sharp and always bright, like there might be a thousand cunning ideas flickering behind them. They'd make her freeze in a moment of instinctual panic; the desire to fly, as far away as she could manage before she dropped in some exhaustion.

Now they were flashing fever, pupils turning to tiny pin pricks. He looked frightened, and nothing like Jemima had ever seen him.

"It's just me," Jemima said, in a small voice. "Jemima," as if that might help.

He stared at her for a few long seconds, blinking very slowly. He opened his mouth, breath shallow and faint;

"...eggshells...be rid of...the eggshells..."

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Tod awoke from a dream, which in turn became another dream, and then another, which suggested he was at least very ill, if not mad.

His throat hurt, or more felt like it was on fire, and his head throbbed as though it had smashed into confused fragments.

He remembered having a fever only twice before in his life. Once as a young cub that had strayed too far in the winter, and the second when Tommy Brock and ruined his winter house, forcing him to spend much of the season sleeping outside in the cold.

Now he found his mind preoccupied with barking hounds, and then eggshells, and cleaning them up, for whatever reason.

And there was that duck again, watching him and telling him words he couldn't quite make sense of.

"...quiet now, it's okay, Mr. Tod..."

After another foggy minute of being concerned about hounds and eggshells, he blinked through the haze, gathering her image into sharper focus.

"...Jemima Puddle-duck," he said, his throat protesting. "what're...the hounds...the hounds are coming..."

"Shh, there aren't any hounds, I already told you that," Jemima's voice was soothing, and her weight heavy but wanted on his chest. "are you listening?"

He nodded, the unease slowly ebbing away from his mind, and his memory returning to him with a sharpness that made him groan with realisation.

Jemima Puddle-duck was never going to be easy to forget. She was a painful recollection, something he'd rather forget about but found he never could. Everything associated with her made him shudder. And more recently, question everything he thought about ducks, of all things.

Now she sat on his chest, as bold as no duck ever dared be, and he couldn't help but admire her audacity.

Of course, it helped that he currently felt weaker than a small sick kitten, but that wasn't exactly the point.

"How are you feeling?" she said, in a kind sort of way.

"...rather compromised, I should say,"

Jemima gave him an odd look, and Tod nodded between his chest and herself.

"Oh, oh, I'm sorry!" Jemima jumped off the fox in a short fluster, moving quickly onto the floor. "I just...you were shivering, and the warmth...when I sat there...it seemed to help..."

"Please, no need to apologise," Tod found himself smiling at her, despite the terrible ache in his head and pangs clawing at his stomach. "At this point, I'm rather uncertain about what is a dream and what is reality, anyway. I wonder if I'm still asleep," he attempted to shift himself up a little more, but the effort was dizzying. He felt far too weak, and he didn't enjoy that the duck seemed to pick up on it so quickly.

"You must be hungry...you haven't eaten for hours," she said, and unease traced her face. The unspoken and obvious problem. "do you eat...anything besides meat?"

Tod laughed shortly (which did little to improve his headache). "Anything."

"Anything?" Jemima was incredulous. "that's quite a large and unhelpful spectrum of choice."

"Would you prefer I write you up a menu?" Tod attempted to lift himself properly up, but it was a mistake. The world slid and blurred for a few seconds, before he found himself slumped back in the chair again, panting hard.

Jemima was perched close to him, her expression creased with something like concern.

Tod was amused by the sight, but with no energy left to laugh about it. Instead he closed his eyes and sighed heavily; "I could walk far better, with my cane,"

"Nonsense," Jemima said. "You could walk far better if you weren't so sick. I shall redress your wound and then find you some food."

Tod blinked at her. "I would prefer if you found my cane."

"You told me yourself, it was destroyed by the hounds."

"It might be salvageable," Tod was beginning to prickle again, his frustration owed mostly to his feelings of helplessness, than anything to do with the duck. In fact, on some barely hidden level, he was touched by her determination to help him. If still very bewildered by it all.

Jemima hopped off the chair and looked outside. "It's dawn. I can find you something to eat. Will you be alright until then?"

Tod shook his head. "No doubt I'll have perished before then."

"Don't be silly. I'll be quick."

"I don't doubt that."

"Then don't say such things," Jemima left the summer house with that huffing noise, which Tod was beginning to recognise as a sound of mild despair.

It was oddly amusing, and he smiled as he closed his eyes, a drowsiness coming over him more quickly than he could have anticipated.

This time he dreamt of her, and she was walking through a garden. He was following her, and wondering where she was going and what she was doing. She never saw him, and he got close enough to snatch her up more than a couple of times.

It was strange, that it hadn't even crossed his mind to do that.

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When he awoke, his mind was foggy, but the pain in his leg had cooled. The bandaging around it had been replaced.

"Canny duck," Tod murmured, and went back to sleep.

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