Where Mountain Meets Sea: HAWAII'S STORY (1)

Maʻi ʻUla: The Red Sickness

A/N: Once again, the bold is Hawaiian! Love y'all!

When Britain arrived at the hotel at 3 PM sharp on Wednesday, he wasn't surprised Sandy was late. The poor thing was likely still slumbering peacefully in her hotel room, oblivious to the world outside. Britain chuckled to himself, finding her tardiness endearing more than annoying. After all, he had been expecting it.

Britain had always been a punctual man. Time was a precious commodity, and wasting it was a cardinal sin. But with Sandy, he was willing to make a small exception. After all, she was still learning. She would learn punctuality as well.

With a resigned sigh, Britain checked his watch again. Sandy was now over half an hour late. He would head up to her room immediately, he decided. As soon as he had, a young boy approached him, bowing respectfully and handing him a note with Sandy's familiar scrawl that she called handwriting.

Britain sighed a little at the illegibility of it all. The note stated Sandy was not feeling well and had come down with measles, and she was so very sorry for not being there. Britain's irritation flared momentarily. How had she managed to catch such a thing?

She simply couldn't stay here in the hotel. He wouldn't allow it. He would immediately transport his daughter to his own home, where he could provide her with the care and attention she needed.

Thankful for the lack of items, it was easily manageable for Britain to carry her to his home, where she would remain in seclusion until well enough to return to society. The thought of touching her, covered as she was in the contagious swelling phase of the measles, seemed rather disgusting, but then again, he was at no risk of contracting the illness and allowed the child to be placed in his arms.

He had always known that Sandy was delicate, prone to sickness and frail constitution. She really should have watched herself better. She should have known.

What a stupid girl.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Everything was dull, and her head hurt, and everything was hot. She heard a knock on her door and found she didn't even have the energy to answer it. Everything hurt, and nothing made sense. She could feel people touching her back and chest, but couldn't move.

Amidst the haze of agony, a gentle voice cut through the fog. "Oh, you're only small. You'll bounce right back,"

Hawaiʻi longed to sit up and assure the voice that she was fine, but her body betrayed her. She thought for a moment that someone had to have hit her in the back of the head with a club. How would it all hurt like this?

Something was soft beneath her, blankets, wrapped around her.

As she drifted in and out of consciousness, Hawaiʻi's thoughts drifted back to the islands.

Fear gnawed at her heart. Would she ever be able to see them again? Would she be able to live a normal life? She tried to open her eyes but found the pain too much to handle, and rolled over on her side. Was she dead? Please don't let me be dead. I would like to live at least a little longer.

I wonder if I'm in the Christian heaven or... or their hell.

After much consideration, she concluded she was not dead, which should have been cause for much rejoicing. But this sickness wasn't like the little sniffles or coughs she'd get sometimes; this was a pain that she didn't know could exist in her lungs. No, this was an entirely different beast, a pain so excruciating that it felt as though her very lungs were being torn from her. It was a sensation so alien and intense that she questioned everything all at once.