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Chapter 1 : Plague.

1869, London, England.

It was too late, he knew it. Even with the wind pleading its mournful howl and his cape flaring out behind his sore back like a preening peacock's tail, he carried on, willing his dreary legs to move faster.

Kurda Smahlt just wouldn't give up. He couldn't. Not when the one soul that dared to gaze upon his icy blue eyes without a flinch counted upon him to ferry the one thing that mattered the most.

Wiping away the ashy soot and dirt that licked his lashes as he strode past a workhouse, he hurried his strides. Grimy faces peered at him, eyes awonder and silently pleading with innocence not known. His gut clenched as one crippled girl looked up at his stumbling figure that tried to best the furious gales, her mismatched eyes gleaming with curiosity.

Not now, Kurda…You have to think about mother first…he reinforced in his mind, hoping beyond hope that that simple statement would wash away the horrendous images of the ill-begotten children.

Tearing his eyes away, he began to trot slowly, the looming darkness swallowing the dilapidated structure behind him – clouding the stricken features of the young and hopeful. Instead, a small cottage gleamed a few hundred yards in front of him, the tiny speck of light barely visible in a distance.

Hurry, his conscience pushed himself. Or else it will be too late. Run, boy, run!

With renewed valor, he broke into a dead sprint, the wind no longer his adversary. By the time he reached the chipped pathway that lead towards the forlorn cottage, his knees almost buckled with exhaustion. His nostrils flared as he drew in ragged gasps of air, his clammy palms already pushing open the door.

But he paused hesitantly. For the tiniest fraction of a second, he found himself being watched – being silently assessed by someone lurking in the shadows…or perhaps something altogether…

What are you waiting for, you bloody fool? Open the damn door! his innerself hollered, squelching the deep desire to turn around and peer at the person – provided that there was even such a being to begin with – that was sending his heart into a furious tempo.

Shaking off all sense of unease, Kurda reluctantly crossed the threshold of the meager mass of yellow bricks and rotting wood.

"Mother, I found the medicine-" His voice died in his throat as the vicar stood next to a lifeless body, his own bespectacled eyes red with unshed tears.

"No!" Kurda moaned, throwing himself towards the woebegone cot in the corner, his fingers desperately clutching the ice cold hand of Deidre Smahlt.

"Calm yourself , Kurda!" the vicar snapped, his arms reaching out to haul the unsteady lad away from the already rotting corpse.

"But how ?" Kurda howled, eyes brimming with tears and soul shadowed by grief . "How could this have happened? How? Doctor Feldris said it wasn't too late – the plague would not overwhelm her until the end of winter! How, how, HOW?"

The vicar sighed deeply. "She couldn't hold much longer, Kurda. After you left, she was slowly becoming delusional. She kept talking to me akin to that of a child, asking me whether wheat cookies and fresh goat's milk would suffice…" He paused and drew a shaky breath before looking away. "I'm afraid she was frail-"

The younger man's eyes snapped up at his words, his sorrow turned to rage in a mere matter of seconds. He grabbed the vicar by his velvet cloak and held the stouter man up so that their eyes would meet.

"SHE WASN'T FRAIL !" he yelled, louder than necessary .

"Put me down, Kurda! Or you'll be barred from the likes of London for the rest of your days!" the vicar growled in return, his pudgy face flushing crimson.

Kurda slowly lowered the man , glowering and mourning at the same time . He broke into a fresh wave of tears once again, his fingers caressing the lumpy skin of his mother's once beautiful face. Deidre was truly a great beauty – in life alone, she had many a suitor and had attracted none other than Lord Kendric Smahlt himself. Her life as maiden was blissful and painless – Kurda remembered that much, for he was an urchin of eight at that time – up till the moment his father had an ill-fated run in with a large brown bear during hunting. Stripped away from silken sheets and thrust into tattered cloaks in less than a fortnight, he watched his mother suffer to feed both himself and his younger brother, barely an infant at that time.

Deidre's beauty had never wavered however, even though her dainty hands were as roughened by starch and tainted by washwork. But now…now she looked terrible…

Granted, her face had creased and sunk in like worn leather, her body emanating a putrid stench. But none of that mattered to Kurda. She was still his mother, be it in life or death.

Hot tears streamed down his cheeks relentlessly as his fingers tasted the still silken texture of Deidre's caramel blonde hair – the same shade Kurda had proudly inherited from her.

Mother…he cried silently, his shoulders shaking and his lips trembling. Oh, mother…why did you have to leave me be here, lest I suffer alone?

"Here, take this." The vicar pushed a warm mug of ale into the younger lad's unoccupied left hand, gesturing for him to take a sip. "Made from the finest ginger you can purchase in the city. It should toughen your spirit and clear you mind somewhat."

Kurda sipped slowly from the mug, his tears never ceasing.

"You have to leave Kurda, for your own safety."

The blue-eyed man flinched at the soft tone. The words were gentle, but it sounded harsh all the same.

"But where will I go?" Kurda asked, his gut knotting. How could I leave mother here?

"Anywhere but here. The plague has ravaged England and claimed the lives of many as it is. It would be a shame if a bright prodigy such as yourself fall victim to such a disease."

Kurda didn't answer. His gaze lingered upon the pale frame of his mother, his mind still reeling with a thousand concerns and worries.

The vicar sighed and reached into the folds of his cloak, before pulling out a scrap of paper. "Take this – it will take you to Budapest. The last I heard, the plague hasn't reached there yet. You will have a greater chance to start anew there."

Kurda took the slip of paper and studied the untidy scrawls on the surface.

"A ticket ?" he asked dubiously .

"As I said Kurda, it will be a waste to see you die when you are destined for far more greater things." With those last words and one reaffirming pat on the shoulder, the vicar took his leave and stepped out of the dingy cottage.

Grasping the ticket tightly in his fist, Kurda followed suit, pausing only once in the doorway as he studied the rotting cadaver of his mother one last time. His heart twisted with anguish, but there was nothing more he could do.

'Goodbye Deidre, my mother…I shall forever remember you,' he mouthed, his throat convulsing as he turned away and began to stride into the impending darkness.

Somewhere from within the shadows, emerald eyes glittered with satisfaction, its owner's lips twisted upwards in a small smirk.

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