Killian
Killian glanced over his shoulder, his eyes lingering on the flames dancing atop the mountain. The moans of the diseased pierced through the smoke, carrying over the ashen breeze toward him. He quickly turned away from the sight and focused forward on the path descending from the pit. A plague was slowly killing them, spreading to everyone through every possible.
Killian did his best to insure the plague didn’t thrive by burning the dead. The males that weren’t stricken with the plague had tore at the dirt at the highest point of the land. When it had been dug, he ignited the pit in a never ending inferno. Smoke clotted the sky, blocking the sun and weakening the land as ash blanketed it. He couldn’t recall the last time Ifrin’s true colors showed. His beautiful village now reminded him of the human’s myths of hell.
His calloused palm lifted upward, catching flakes of ash. It dirtied his healthy pearl colored skin, made his eyes dry and scratchy; his lungs were sparred thanks to the cloth wrapped around his mouth. The cloth was almost colored He wondered whose ash he held in his hand; was it fellow soldier, a neighbor, a friend. He shook his hand free of ash, this dull ashen world didn’t reflect the vivid anger he felt.
“So deep in thought; are you praying?”
Her voice drifted from behind him, he looked over his shoulder and saw Lucia stopped in the distance. This plague was killing them and this healer his father brought in had done nothing. She idled daily in the village comforting people with well wishes and prayers to a god who done nothing. Killian didn’t understand how his people could pray when they themselves were looked upon as gods by the humans.
Killian cursed his wandering mind while in her presence. He looked at her, took in her lithe form covered in a light grey cloak. She had wandered close to the shores of the puddling stream; the edge of her cloak was damped from the polluted water. A soft layer of ash coated her form. Her mask fixed upon her face where it hadn’t moved since her arrival. There were bulging glass covered eyes, slightly tinted, and a long curved beak protruded from the center of her face.
“I don’t entertain such notions, so hurry up healer!” Killian called out.
She was taking too long, dallying around like this was a trip. His father was Ifrin’s leader, and as the son and leader of the guard he was tasked with shadowing Lucia. Her safety was in his hands. He rested his hand on the hilt of the sword strapped to his side. Ifrin had changed, and he wished this was not his task. His talents could be spent toward something productive, not protecting a false healer.
“Healer!”
Killian blinked, and when he opened his eyes she was gone from view. He scowled as he faced the other way and saw her a step away. The beak of her mask was a breathe away from his nose. He didn’t flinch. All the Shee could move as she.
“Prehaps,” Lucia slowly spoke, keeping eye contact so he could see the dark blue behind the glass lenses, “if the humans would’ve honored their Father, they wouldn’t have become plagued, and left to be slaughtered by the war that ravages their realm.”
Rejoice in suffering for God shall strengthen you. The words of his father echoed in his mind. Bitterness welled within, such beliefs were the notions of fools. Their people were above humans, there was nothing greater than their people. The plague and raiders had taken the humans because they were frail, and it was the nature of them. The Shee were better, and to yet have their village taken by a human disease caused doubt within them. It wasn’t enough to fool Killian into her foolish beliefs which had spread like the plague. He didn’t entertain her with a response, keeping silence and moving around her to continue to their next destination.
“Come now Killian, have faith!” Lucia’s voice wasn’t hindered by the mask. She followed closely and he moved to avoid her beak. “Please, entertain my notions.” Her voice caused more stress to well within his shoulders, but didn’t interrupt his pace. “I wonder why you’re so adamant against your father’s beliefs. Is it wrong to take comfort in a belief? Wrong to seek solace when hope is nothing more than obscured cinder drifting in smoke?”
Killian had tried to confront his father, if only they brought in another healer. One who practiced acts and not faith.
“Weeks have passed and nothing has changed,” Killian stepped in front of her, stopping her pace. “My father dies idly as he relies on prayers and superstitions!” His tone was control, cracking slightly with the urge to yell. The anger burned within and he was careful not to be baited by her. “He wastes time praying and suffering when he should call upon a real healer.”
He had never dishonored his position or his father, and despite what he felt he wouldn’t start now. Still, a slight insult toward her was nothing in the scheme of things. He entertained the thought of scaring her off or insulting her enough to leave. Yet, her she remained encouraging foolish behavior.
"Oh, Killian,” Lucia sighed. “Don’t you understand that my Father allows us to suffer? It proves our character. And in the end,” she paused, her voice filled with teasing devotion. “My Father shall reconcile us all.”
“Better late than never,” Killian replied.
Her chuckled seemed to linger as they continued toward the last stop of the day. His father kept his abode within the lands of Ifrin. The lands were his roof, and he resided beneath them as the tradition for the Leaders. It signified closeness with the land. They approached a white door placed in the side of the hill. Killian paused; he glanced at what villagers lined the streets and nodded at them in acknowledgment. He frowned when they knelt. It was a behavior that had begun when Lucia arrived.
He held the door open to his father’s abode allowing Lucia to slip inside. He took one last glance at the kneeling villagers before shutting the door.
Lucia moved through the short hall that led to a company room, and finally she opened another round door to his father’s chambers. He ignored her as he took in his father’s continually weakening form. Grey and black tainted Ifrin, and the boils that protruding from the diseased were large and black. The lesions oozed grey pus and smelt of rotten meat. The skin surrounding the lesions was like leather, dried and splitting open like a seam.
Killian would rather be outside inhaling the smoke and ashen air than in a room with the infected. The cloth over his face helped little as he moved closer to his father’s bedside. His father’s hand had a few lesions, the skin was dry and cracked. Killian pulled away so he wouldn’t be touched. As much as he wished to comfort his father he wouldn’t risk getting infected, he wasn’t foolish enough to believe this was some spiritual affliction.
“Is there nothing you can do, Lucia?” Killian asked.
“Son, must you harass her?” Lord Tyldythe wheezed as his chest sunk and struggled to fill with air.
“If I don’t, who will?” A lesion overtook his father’s cheek on the right. It drew his gaze and made him fill with anger. “She has done nothing so far.”
“Do not stress the ill,” Lucia scolded as she rested a hand on Lord Tyldythe’s chest.
“You let them wither and die. I would not have to harass if you did more than utter nonsense.”
“I can only do what my Father allows me,” the healer proclaimed, devotion in her tone. The permanent smile curving the mask did nothing to ease the image of her smirking. His fist clenched as his tongue prodded the wound inside his mouth, reopening it.
His father lifted a hand, fingernails chipped, bloodied, and flesh sunken as he beckoned Killian closer to him and the healer. Fear gripped Killian, knowing this dying, disillusioned creature was his father. A single act of compassion brought this upon all of them, and belief kept them all in suffering.
“Cease this taunting of Lucia.” His father rasped, quick to correct Killian’s temper. The stench of rot pierced the air despite his cloth covering his face. “Do not lay blame to the messenger.”
“Of course,” Killlian said with a scowl. “Who am I to judge?”
Even if he disagreed with his father and this woman, he respected his father’s wishes during this trying time. His lips pursed tight as he fought to hold back the words crawling in his throat. They needed this woman gone so they could find someone that could help. Nothing seemed to chase this woman out of Irin, and his father only defended her.
“Come, let us pray,” Lucia urged.
Lucia knelt at his father’s bedside. She lifted a hand and pressed it to his father’s fevered skin, brushing a lesion along his hairline. Her whispered prayers buzzed on the air. Killian found himself wanting to protest the reckless move. No one deserved to suffer the effects of this disease.
“You shouldn’t touch the infected so freely,” Killian said.
“My Father protects me.”
“It’s your funeral.”
Her eyes focused on him, he could see amusement in them. It bothered him that she treated this situation like a game. Her fingers brushed a lesion disregarding what he said and drawing his gaze. The woman was unnatural, her hands weren’t the hands of someone that worked. They were smooth, the flesh unmarred by the constant tasks of physical tasks. Her outfit looked far more worn than the skin of her hands.
“My Father is with me,” Lucia said. Her smug tone furthered his ill mood.
Superstitious fool. The disdain he felt coiled tight, testing his patience.
“Blessed woman!” His father blurted. “Sin festers upon our flesh revealing our iniquity.” Lord Tyldythe gagged; his body convulsing as it struggled for air. Lucia rolled him onto his side. She was unfazed as globs of phlegm lined with pus and blood dribbled to the floor. It trailed along his lips onto his chin. “It consumes within—attacking my soul. Have faith my son.”
Lord Tyldythe sighed and shut his eyes. Lucia smoothed her hands along his father’s face as he wheezed. The taunting smirk of the mask focused on him as Lucia said, “There is little time left; rejoice, for He shall take you soon.”
“I refuse to believe such nonsense!” Killian yelled. His voice filled the room causing him to glance at his father, he remained resting.
Lucia’s fingers gently tapped above Lord Tyldythe’s heart as she said, “Your disbelief does not make my Father any less real.”
If there was a difference between religious and superstitious, Killian couldn’t tell. He didn’t believe in his father’s religious ramblings, nor did he listen to his superstitious warnings. If their God didn’t bother to save the humans from the plague and raiders, why would he bother with them? They were better than humans.
“Regardless of your superstitions, my threat is very real,” Killian said as he grabbed her arm, lifting her away from his father’s prone form. “When my father dies, I will rid Ifrin of you.”
Lucia slipped from grasp and leaned closer to him. He had to lean back due to the mask’s nose. She softly laughed, and their gazes lingered until he stepped back and made for the exit. The thought of his father’s impending death bothered him. His father, Lucia, and maybe even himself had done nothing to save anyone from this plague.
Inaction is destroying Ifrin.
