Like my heart longs for an ocean

He gathered her to his chest. Her tiny body radiated a firestorm of heat. His heart rampaged within him to scream, WHO DID THIS. Though her symptoms were clear when he felt her body wrack and tremble with her cough against him. His teeth found his lip as his breath caught in his own chest, hearing the wet unproductive cough. This was beyond his capacity to heal. He knew field medicine, he knew how to patch up a wound and stop the bleeding. He knew the rituals to perform to ask the goddess for blessing to heal a babe drowning in her own lungs. Wait...

Her glazed half delirious emerald eyes found his glaciers. Her weak attempt to tell him she didn't feel good had him biting back a sharp panicked retort—something about shit and Sherlock. His mind ran numb as she snuggled into him, seeking the warmth her body craved, despite the veritable hellfire her skin exuded.

He glanced about, usually the warm Auster nights didn't need hearths in their dens but this was a strange winter and he had an idea. He'll apologize later if she protests the placement of her new fireplace. While holding her with one arm he quickly rakes his strong arms into the dirt. Grateful it wasn't pure stone around them. He dug a shallow pit and found some empty unused sticks and a cotton rag. He quickly stuck those in the pit. It wouldn't be enough.

"I will be back. Stay here." He growled, laying her carefully on her bed. The bedding will need to be refreshed and the old will need to be burned but not in here. He bolted out of the den.

...
It took him longer than he liked. Half an hour later he still found himself balked at the door gathering his nerves to push through the cavernous memories. With a huff he strode in like he owned the place. Well... He kind of owns the place now...

He quickly dug the pit a little deeper and carved a channel for airflow. He had brought a huge basket filled with sticks and herbs from the stores, sage, oregano, thyme, and rosemary. Lighting the fire was easy with his practiced hand.

Maybe it wasn't the chants and the rituals that cured the infants of their wetlungs. Maybe it was the sacred smoke with which they doused over them. Many a mother screamed at the priests believing they were going to roast the child in a sacrifice when the smoke would start to billow over them.

He glanced at her, fragile, skinny body. He swore in the light he could count every rib.

Once the small fire was going, he threw a handful of herbs over it, he couldn't help to say the words he had so often recited.

"Come." He growled, lifting her up, his warning to let her know he was moving her. He brought her next to the small fragrant blaze. The medicinal smoke should help encourage her lungs to heal to clear the air in the den. Antibacterials entered the air for her to breathe and treated her. She would need several days of this smoke and many teas.

He sat with her cradled against him, fanning the smoke toward her.

"Speech!"