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It’s magical. The Red Plague is of magical origin.
The realization hits me way too late as I stare in our my bedroom mirror, the reflection of my eyes tainted crimson. For a moment, it’s almost funny: I spent two years studying medicine under Dr. Devorak’s guidance, so damn certain that the human disease won’t affect me, instead of sticking to the kind of research I am actually good at. And now I am infected with something that would never overtake my draconic nature if the disease was simply physical.
A jolt of sharp pain in my chest, accompanied by a coughing fit, nearly brings me to my knees. There is blood in my mouth and the vessels on my fingers are already showing through the skin – I am not just susceptible to the Plague, it progresses faster. Over the past years I have seen the process too many times: it won’t be long before delirium overtakes my mind. I can’t suppress a pathetic, terrified whimper as I feel the Plague slowly feeding on the primal magic, not only tearing into my body but my very soul as well.
I stumble to my desk, shoving the reports, books and research notes aside to clear space for empty parchment and one of my notebooks. I didn’t look into magical diseases much before, aside from the few known draconic illnesses, but I still have some notes on the Siren Fever from the Galbradan library I could use as a reference. I re-read everything we know about the Red Plague, scribbling the dates and affected areas on the hastily drawn map, as well as the movement, life cycle and sighting history of the beetles. I cannot sense anything specific from the one I have trapped in a jar next to me, but its energy is erratic, stronger than in most insects, and now I know I encountered this kind of energy before, yet I can’t… I can’t remember.
It feels so infuriatingly close. There is a pattern, I know there is, the migrations of the swarms are familiar somehow, it should not be this difficult to—
How long has it been? I look at the stained glass of the bedroom window – it is much darker than it should be. Or is my vision becoming affected? With some effort I stand up to get some water, trying to clear the odd fog in my head. It helps somewhat, for when I return to my desk I find myself staring at my own writing, the sudden cold pit in my stomach contrasting with the growing fever. Even I wouldn’t be able to decipher most of this now: uneven ink lines slipping from scattered paper sheets onto the desk, parts of my notes speckled with abundant splatters of blood. My own hands aren’t looking much better, with the dark stains almost covering the crimson web of infected vessels spreading to my wrists.
Another wave of pain, longer and more intense than previous ones, makes me grab onto the desk, knocking down a stack of books. I can’t solve this, not anymore. It’s too difficult to think. I nearly fall back onto my chair, brushing off the ruined paper. A letter, I cannot go without leaving a note for—
I jolt awake, my startled gasp nearly makes me pass out again as it sends a torrent of agony through my lungs. It takes me a few minutes to remember where I am and why is there a piece of paper in front of me. I try to read whatever I’d managed to write before I lost consciousness, but the words just do not make sense. They are words, I think, but it feels as if I’m trying to read in an unknown language, the haze in my mind so thick that I cannot understand the letters. All I can do is hope that this is actually readable for someone with a healthy mind. I know I was writing to… them. Can’t recall the name. I remember the face, their scent mixed with the smell of tea and home, the feeling of their hands on my body. The crushing guilt, a price for living a beautiful lie, that has been following me for the past few years. But all of this begins to escape me, my memories slowly fading into the fog. Spirits, I don’t want to forget! Not like this, please, I–
Coughing burns as if molten lava is filling my chest, and uncontrollable sobbing almost makes me throw up. If I die here and they come back, if anyone comes, they’ll get sick too. I cannot let others suffer the same pain and terror because of my mistakes.
There’s only one end for the victims of the Plague, isn’t there?
My vision is blurry at the edges when I finally find a flask of red ink. Leaning heavily on the apartment's walls I descend into the shop and stumble outside. I do not lock the door: there is no need, as a blood-red mark I paint on the wood with my shaking hand will be enough keep anyone away. A large, if slightly uneven, “X”.
“Contaminated.”
I slowly make my way across empty streets, past many doors marked in the same manner, towards the docks. While I take another break to find some strength to breathe again, a human with the mask of a vulture finds me and leads me to a cart with other doomed souls with the same fate as I.
And as the cart stops at the docks, next to a line of boats waiting to bring us to the shores of the ashen island, I gather all that remains of my strength to unwind the spell protecting this body from flames and pray for safety of people whose faces I no longer recall.
Until I cannot pray anymore.
Dear Asra,
If you’re reading this, then I have already joined my ancestors in the place I cannot return from. I am sorry I was too arrogant, too sure of myself to listen to you, love. I am sorry for saying the things I said, and for walking away without saying goodbye. A part of me hopes that you no longer care for me, that you resent me and won’t return just to be hurt by me once again. But I know these hopes are false, for I know you.
I had never wanted to know anyone like this before you appeared in my life. I was once told that I will regret this, regret falling in love with you, but they were wrong. I regret many things: leaving Vesuvia after our first meeting, hesitating to talk more, not confessing sooner. Having to leave so many things hidden and unsaid. But us? Loving you? No, I do not regret that, not a single second of it. Even as this life is cut short, in the next one I will cherish the beautiful moments we had together. I have seen many wondrous places, sought out incredible forgotten corners of the world, met creatures beyond our understanding; yet my most treasured memories are ones of you, my starlight.
I wish you to someday find the kind of peace and happiness you gifted me. And when it is time for us to meet each other again, you better have many new exiting stories to tell.
I love you.
Alastor