The Return - 3. Chapter 3

The plague always sent people running. He'd been one of them, Mordred mused. He stood at the window overlooking the deserted street. Running was useless, but they ran anyway, those who hadn't already had loved ones struck down. Gone were the gaiety and petty worries. Now the people fought for their very lives. Soon, he knew the worst was still to come. He needed to go back to the forge and grab a weapon. He needed to make sure they had provisions for a seige. He needed to bar the doors and make ready, but not yet.

Behind him, the man lying motionless and weak on the bed made a soft noise. Mordred turned and went to him. Dmitri's cheek felt hot and tight against the back of his fingers. He was also shivering again. Dmitri had alternated between wracking chills and hot sweats for almost three days now. Very little stayed in his stomach and, like Dmitri's wife, Mordred worried that there was too little nourishment for the man to survive.

He looked up then as Ania came into the room. She looked haggard and ill, gracing Mordred with a faint smile as she wobbled on the threshold before sinking onto the bed. Her blue eyes looked bright. Too bright, Mordred suddenly realized. Her eyes met his and in that moment Mordred knew that they'd almost run out of time. A sudden chill made him shiver.

He almost felt that he knew this woman. They had spoken few enough words over the passing hours and Mordred admired her even as he envied her this existence. Her family came from another town on the merchant route. When plague took her hair and parents, she and her older sister were sent to distant kin here in Whispering Cliffs. She was a soft-spoken woman who clearly loved her husband dearly, but Mordred could almost sense something bittersweet about their love. The questions he wanted to ask hovered on the tip of his tongue, wanting to be asked, and yet he held back. For some reason, asking such personal questions didn't feel proper. His confusion over this distracted him through the long hours while they worked together to nurse Dmitri. Now, looking at Ania, he wondered if he'd waited too long.

"You should rest," he told her, taking the tray from her hands and sliding it onto a nearby table. Soup sloshed over the edges of the bowl and Mordred inhaled deeply of the rich aromas. Saliva came to his mouth and all he really wanted to do, just then, was to bring the bowl to his mouth and drink deeply. He'd never had the opportunity, before arriving in Whispering Cliffs, to eat regular meals, and now he found that he was seldom actually hungry. He'd learned to eat when the moment struck, because those moods were infrequent and of short duration. Not eating did not seem to affect him greatly. Sleep, likewise, had the feel of something more expected than necessary.

Ania only smiled sadly at him. She'd never once asked him why he was there. Her simple acceptance was refreshing in a society that, Mordred felt, asked far too many questions. Now, however, Mordred was uneasy.

He didn't know how many instances of the plague he had survived. Ania had survived the attack that decimated most of her home village and family, but she'd been a child at the time. She didn't know what Mordred did, how those who were struck ill in the first days were the lucky ones, even if they succumbed quickly. Mordred had seen how those who got the purple-blue lesions and didn't immediately get sick grew ill later on in the worst way imaginable. He'd seen how the people turned on each other, sick or healthy, and tore each other apart like animals. Wounds didn't affect them; the only way to stop them was by fire, or chopping off enough limbs that they could no longer give chase.

"If you don't want to rest," Mordred said quietly, "will you help me gather some things from the forge?"

Her face drew into a worried frown and she rubbed her arms. "What about John?"

Mordred just wanted her out of this house. "I'm sure he is at home, with his family." The comforting words felt awkward on his tongue, but Ania didn't question. She simply nodded. One of her hands reached out to smooth back some of Dmitri's sweat-soaked hair, hair that had lost its entire luster. Mordred watched impassively as the woman leaned over and kissed her husband's cheek. Tears came to his eyes and he turned away, swallowing hard.

He rose and went to the window. Outside, with the shutters thrown wide, it seemed like any normal, late-summer day. The birds sang on and squabbled gaily as they always did. Clouds drifted slowly by in a light-blue sky, as blue as plague eyes. Salt came to him on the wind, carried from the ocean below. There were a few differences, of course. This Whispering Cliffs had no children or dogs playing in the streets, no laughter and no childish peals of glee or howls of hurt or indignation. No wagon wheels or horses' hooves clattered up the streets. The only sound that could be heard was the distant shushing of the tide.

"I'm ready."

Mordred moved from the window and nodded. Ania had a shawl wrapped about her shoulders and a basket looped over an arm. Mordred shoved his feet into boots and grabbed the poker from the fireplace. He held open the door and latched it behind them, hoping it would be enough for just long enough.

The bakery looked intact and unsullied, which told Mordred that perhaps they had enough time after all. As they moved cautiously through the empty streets, he kept the poker ready. A cat hissed as their shadows flickered over its hiding place and Mordred flinched, but he kept moving. Ania's hand sneaked into his and he looked back at her, startled as much by the gesture as by the iciness of her skin. Her eyes were round, lips parted as she panted with fear. At least, he hoped it was fear. In the sunlight, the purplish tone to her skin was all too obvious. Her hand was dry, like parchment, and Mordred fought down a sensation akin to bugs crawling on his skin. He shook off the notion, if not the dread, and moved them quicker away from the heart of town.

The forge stood in a building located along the edge of the town, where the smoke and fumes would be blown away from the homes and gathering places. A horse stood in the road, blowing out its nose as it watched them warily before trotting off. Mordred pulled Ania in the opposite direction, sticking to the edges of the street, to shadows and to alleys. His heart thumped loudly in his chest and they both startled when the sound of a door slamming echoed down the street. Ania drew back with a gasp when a gull landed on a rooftop overhead, screeching loudly.

Mordred pulled her along, moving with greater speed as the forge came into view. At last they were inside! He slammed the door closed and threw the latch, leaning against the wood as sweat dripped from his face. There was a sound from deeper inside and they drew back, Ania huddling into Mordred's side. They squinted into the darkness, darker still after the bright sunlight outside.

Telling himself not to be a fool, that they still had time, Mordred forced his feet to move. All the same, he tightened his grip on the poker. When he reached the bin where the smith stored half-completed or abandoned projects, Mordred passed the poker to Ania in order to pull out the sword he'd made. He could see better now, and the cool metal in his hand made him more comfortable still. This was the sole reason he had ventured across town, but Mordred kept moving steadily deeper into the abandoned shop. Something was there with them and he wanted to find out what.

They reached Mordred's small room without the source of the sound first being found. Mordred went in and gathered up his spare set of clothes which Ania placed in her basket. Moving back into the main room, a shadow fell across them and Ania dropped the basket, screaming.

The scream cut off abruptly as Mordred grabbed her, thrusting her none-too-gently behind him as a large figure loomed out of the dark. The height and wide shoulders made Mordred want to relax, but then he realized that his former employer had yet to speak. The smith lunged. Mordred swung the sword, ears ringing from Ania's scream. He felt the blade cut deep, heard the splitting of flesh, just the same as a cut of lamb at the butcher's. His stomach turned over.
Grabbing Ania's hand, Mordred ran. Light entered the shop through an open door leading towards the front of the shop. To this Mordred fled, dragging Ania behind. He vaulted the counter and his sword skittered, spinning out of his grip. Wagon wheels and furniture, little pot-bellied iron stoves and copper kettles leered at him from all sides. He'd forgotten that the wheelwright also worked out of this shop.

Ania was crying, and someone -- something -- else grunted and groaned and moaned and panted harshly nearby. Mordred looked around wildly for the sword, diving after it. He popped his knees against the ground, his toes catching on a claw-footed wardrobe, and Mordred realized that he was the one making those frightening sounds. Shaking almost too hard to hold onto the sword, he stood.

"Ania," he hissed. "Ania! Come on!" He crouched there for several minutes, waiting for her and expecting to see the smith charging at them again. He tasted bile at the back of his throat, felt and heard again the sound of sword on flesh. Only this time there was something else. This time he heard not only the squelch, the soft popping noise, and the patter of blood but also two distinct thuds, one full and thick, the other softer. He hadn't heard before, or maybe was imagining it now, and the urge to vomit filled his thoughts, turning the sword's hilt slippery in his hands.

Before, the combined store and forge had given him comfort and a sense of belonging, of familiarity. Now all Mordred wanted to do was flee.

"Ania," he called again. He took a hesitant step forward, just as she edged around the counter. Mordred sighed with relief. Gone was his fear that she would become like the monster he'd just slain. She seemed familiar and friendly, his ally against the death which stalked their town.

Once again hand in hand, they darted from the sheltering building, hurrying back towards the safety of Dmitri's little house.

A scream rent the air. Mordred and Ania stuttered to a halt. Gone was her basket, dropped somewhere along the way. Both of her hands dug into Mordred's upper arm, but he didn't feel the burn. Another scream sounded apart from the first, off to their right. Mordred licked his lips. It was beginning; he'd been too late after all.

Ania was crying, gasping for breath. Mordred could hear nothing else and his eyes snapped from place to place to place. The sword dipped in his grasp as he freed one hand to wipe on his pants, and then the other. The need to be back at Dmitri's side was like a shove to his back and he forced himself forward a step. Then another and another until they were running again.

In their haste, they took a shorter route that led past the inn. The attached stables and courtyard stood empty, the animals released to forage on their own.

"Mordred!"

Ania stuck her legs out, halting and causing Mordred to stumble even as she fell, collapsing to her hands and knees. Tension made him scowl, a hairsbreadth from screaming at her. Then he got a good look at her face. The eyes, turned blue by plague when she was still a child, had been growing brighter and brighter the past few days. Now when he looked, the candle behind those blue eyes was absent. She fell to her knees as Mordred stared, shivering cold even in the sunlight. Ania's hand was like a claw against his sleeve as her arms fell to her sides.

Mordred couldn't speak. His breath whooshed from his lungs and for a long moment he stared at her.

"Run, Mordred."

He had to lean forward to hear her, an instinctive reaction to pull away giving him a comical bob.

"Ania." He'd forgotten to expect this, to harden his heart against what needed done, and his voice begged her. This couldn't happen! He stood there in the sunshine, with the salty air pulling at his hair, dust tickling his nose, and feeling so desperate for a miracle he couldn't move.

Then she lifted her head. She had to fight to concentrate on his face, a face slowly slipping away despite all she could do. Words came to her lips but fell away again without meaning. She smiled.

Mordred shivered. He backed up a step in horror. When the woman screamed, he jumped, his head jerking as unearthly howls echoed between the buildings in response. She shuffled closer, still on her knees. Mordred's hands tightened, the metal feeling too warm under his hands, but he had to stop their trembling. He didn't want to do this.

But he had little choice. If he left her, Ania would fully transform into one of the plague creatures, things that had once been human that hungered after living flesh. He took another step back as she continued to advance, her nose twitching, mouth falling open, face slack and eyes blank and dark.

Do it now! his mind screamed, but although Mordred knew he must strike, his mind also persisted in showing him the Ania who had sat at Dmitri's bedside and with whom he had shared small smiles and quiet conversation.

Another howl came from around a corner and Mordred turned to face this new threat as a body shuffled into view. He didn't know who this thing had once been, but the plague was far more advanced here. His mind shouted about impossibilities, about how the plague was not this quick, but scuffling feet and slavering jaws filled his ears and eyes.

"Gods' Mercy," he breathed, holding the sword in front of him with both hands. Darkness crowded his vision, but he shook his head, stubbornly focusing on the threat staring him down. More creatures shuffled into view. "Gods' Mercy," he said again. His feet didn't want to move. "Gods' Mercy."

They came closer, a large crowd of them, hemming him into the inn's courtyard. Prayers fell like song from Mordred's lips in a language he wouldn't have recognized if he'd thought about it. The closest creatures were almost within reach, and they staggered back at this onslaught, screeching in fury. Mordred flinched.

He struck!

The sword swung up and to the side, lopping Ania's head from her body, a body that fell sideways with a wet thock. Blood spilled into the dusty ground. The nearest creatures fell upon her. Had Mordred still been watching, he would have become sick, but he was too busy fighting for his life.

They backed him right up to the inn's door. The stench of death, of rotting corpses, feces and blood, filled his nose and he gagged, nearly losing his sword as the strength spilled from his arms and body. Fumbling after the blade, he staggered backwards, hitting the door and falling as the hinges swung open. He grunted, hitting the floor shoulder first and hurriedly climbing back to his feet. All he saw was death everywhere.

Now. Now he could run. He bolted for the kitchens and the back door, stumbling back out into the sunlight. He looked up and down the open, cobbled square, and then ran, the crashing of furniture and howls behind him echoing in his ears.

Dmitri rolled over on his bed, chilled such that his muscles seized on him and his teeth chattered, but his hands clawed for his head instead. He groaned from deep in his throat, entwining his fingers around the back of his head, arms pressing against his ears. The bells invaded his sleep until he felt he could be the bell himself with how his body and head vibrated. The clear, ringing tone overwhelmed him, chased him as he ran, was all around him. Left, right, still there as he came to a panting halt.

Tears on his face, he wiped at his eyes and covered his ears as he squinted to look around. The light could be either twilight or right before dawn, sort of silvery-gray, shapes indistinct in the fog. Dmitri shivered as the billowy mist caressed his skin. Dirt shifted beneath his feet and he looked down, shivering harder as he realized he was naked. Thick, dark soil shifted between his toes. The broken stalks of flowers poked his skin and now he could see that he stood in a vast meadow covered with small, blue flowers. High in the distance stood a white-covered mountain. One side looked misshapen, as if a giant hand had scooped stone straight from the mountainside.

Over everything rang the bells. They were pure, like an angel's song, but they throbbed inside, dropping Dmitri to his knees. He begged and cried for them to stop.

They stopped.

Dmitri gasped, breathing in the strong, earthy scent of the dirt, the light, caressing perfume of the flowers. Grass and stalks played along his skin, making him shiver in a confusing tease. Twisting onto his back, he stared up at the distant, indistinct sky.

Suddenly, he sat up. Through the ringing in his ears he heard -- could swore he heard -- giggling. Laughter.

"H-hello?" he called, staggering to his feet. He went towards the sound, heard the laughter again, a light, glittering sound of joy, like a child's voice but deeper, more mature. The laughter beckoned to him, promised a delightful surprise to discover.

The laughter felt closer and Dmitri took a step in that direction. The ground was soft and springy beneath his feet, as if he could jump and the flower-covered grass would cushion him like a mother wrapping her child in warm blankets.

"Wait. Wait for me."

The sound moved further away as Dmitri pursued. From time to time, he thought he saw something golden moving in the mist, sometimes close enough that he could, almost, touch, if he could just stretch out his hand far enough fast enough.

Each step took him closer to the misshapen peak and Dmitri stopped, startled to find himself so close. The air, which had felt warm, was now cool, clinging to his skin and casting a gray-white curtain over everything. The light giggling now seemed harsh, the notes digging at him. He wrapped his arms around his body, staring around. He felt watched --

Golden hair drifted by him and Dmitri startled. "Ania!"

He'd never imagined her with hair, so normal for them were the hoods and shawls she wore to disguise her baldness. Laughter had likewise transformed into what sounded like sobs.

"Ania!" He burst into a run, seeking out the ghostly figure in the mist. She called to him, now, and he ran faster. Had they not always been close? Helping each other, needing each other? She needed him now and Dmitri cried out to her to stop, to wait. What was wrong?

She was there.

Dmitri smiled broadly, seeing the long, golden hair that should be bringing his wife such joy. She had her face averted and he reached for her.

She turned. Dmitri froze.

Red, blazing eyes consumed his vision. They grew and grew until they were all that he could see, mirroring him from every angle, growing bigger and bigger and bigger until Dmitri was no bigger than the flowers he stood amongst.

The laughter rumbled like thunder, low and rolling over Dmitri until he cowered beneath the onslaught. Sharp, acrid air surrounded him -- the worst breath imaginable. Wave after wave as the laughter caged him in. Pleasure, of something long sought gleamed out at him like a sudden flash of reflected light.

Dmitri recoiled, and then he was screaming as he felt fire bite into him. Hands shot up to shield his face. He fell, and fell and fell.

His fingernails split and tore against hard wood as Dmitri scrabbled to flee. He couldn't breathe for panting between sharp bites of agony. A doorway swam into view. The need to escape drove him towards the door, fingers and feet slipping on something wet spilled onto the floor. A bit of cloth wrapped around his ankle drove Dmitri to incoherent weeping when he could not free himself.

He screamed to feel icy hands upon his shoulders. They instantly let go and he thumped back to the floor, knocking the breath from him in a fresh wave of the burning, searing pain. The hands came back too soon, touching his face and making him whimper, moaning and flinching from every touch.

"Dmitri! Dmitri!"

Unyielding ice wrapped around both wrists, drawing his arms over his head. He cried out anew at the throbbing pain. That stench, of death, filled his nostrils and a surge of strength brought his knee up, sending the body poised over him rolling off to the side.

"Bellona's balls!" snarled Mordred, hands to his groin. He panted, picking himself up with a grunt of effort, eyes narrowed on where Dmitri feebly inched along the floor. He'd raced up the outside stairs and thrown himself inside when he'd heard the man's scream. The worst seemed confirmed when he saw the blood -- so much blood!

"Dmitri," he tried again, but the baker wasn't responding. The coppery taste of blood covered everything and Mordred knew that he had to do something fast else Dmitri would bleed to death right in front of his eyes.

He started humming. Ania had hummed, sitting by Dmitri's bedside. The tune came to Mordred's lips without thought, evolving into a soft croon as he inched closer to the struggling man. Words seemed just out of Mordred's reach; he ignored the feeling that if he stretched just a bit more he could find them. Why did he need words? He only needed to extend his voice a few inches to wrap the comfort of song around Dmitri and still his flailing.

He drew Dmitri into his arms, wrapping a blanket around his cold, clammy skin. "Shh, shh." As he calmed, collapsing too weak even to shiver, Mordred despaired as he got a good look at the wounds. Long and jagged they were, stretching from shoulder to hip, they were thankfully shallow but oozing some kind of clearish-yellow fluid. They smelled rancid and Mordred had to turn his head to control his gag.

"Ania," Dmitri moaned, fingers twitching as if to grasp after something. Mordred's tears slipped from his face to mingle with Dmitri's. Why had he stayed here? Why had he come? He was too late! He wanted to scream and rant.

"Damn you, Eirny!" he swore, cradling Dmitri close. If fate had been near at hand, Mordred would have gladly wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed, twisting until there was no more possibility of twisted prophesies or visions. In that moment, he hated her.