The journey back to Balmora had started promisingly.
But after Vicente rested against the same sand-smoothed boulder for the third time, he had to admit he was hopelessly lost. Nothing looked familiar- save the circle he had been going in- and it wasn't entirely due to the blackness of the ashlands at night. He had gotten turned around somewhere along the path and had deviated into alien territory.
The notion should have frightened him more, but he was utterly exhausted. Even though he had covered little to no ground, he had spent hours walking… Well, stumbling, staggering, swaying… "Walking" was a woefully generous term for his pitiful shuffling.
He needed to think. He needed a better plan of action than to wander injured through the ashlands until something finished him off.
What better place to think than in the middle of nowhere?
Vicente thought wryly as he leaned heavily against the stone. He didn't trust himself to get back up if he sat down. His body's pains had turned into constant, burning aches- despite his attempts to slowly heal himself in weak, short bursts.
The magicka that flowed through him was stunted and he couldn't seem to regenerate enough to hold onto the spell for more than a moment. But his steady tries had alleviated the worst of the pain. The knife wound in his side was closing nicely- thought he wouldn't heal it any further until he could clean out the grains of sand and ash. His ribs were starting to realign themselves and fuse back together- the shifting of the bone hurting worse than the actual brokenness of it.
But, overall, he was starting to feel better. And that was certainly an improvement.
The only thing magic couldn't soothe was his thirst.
The dryness of his throat and mouth were becoming increasingly profound. Even his tongue had started to feel thick and fuzzy.
Perhaps tomorrow…
He mumbled to himself as he slid down the smooth stone to the ground. He couldn't go any farther tonight.
He closed his stinging eyes and absently grasped his pendent.
The weight of it was almost reassuring.
A reminder the life waiting for him as soon as he could escape the vile clutches of Vvardenfell. What would he tell Marelle when he returned home a shell shocked husk of his former self? It wasn't the change she had been hoping for…
Once home, however, Vicente was determined to never leave again. To Oblivion with adventure and ambition, all he wanted were his books, his herbs, and Marelle wrapped in his arms.
He could live with the humdrum existence of a lowly shop owner and alchemy teacher. He could bear to watch young mages live out the dreams he had once put so much store by. He had had his fill of "adventure".
His mind unintentionally strayed to thoughts of the students that had accompanied him on the horribly tragic expedition.
Children.
Children that would never see their families again or live to build one of their own. And their families… What would he say to them? For they would surely want to know how they had died… Babies that they had carried in their arms and raised so carefully into adolescence. Their legacy, slaughtered by vampires in the wastes of Vvardenfell where their bodies would be devoured by creatures so foul that even The Nine looked away.
And Fasile… What of his wife and daughters? Could they manage without him?
Calvario had been a grandfather to nine…
François had cats…
Survivor's guilt and grief. Two things that had been hovering over him like angry cliff racers, finally came crashing down.
The reality, the depth of the reality, sank in and as it did, it pushed clear tears down his dirt streaked face- moisture he could hardly afford to lose.
But, they fell anyway and he was reduced to a blubbering mess.
The dust covered hands over his eyes not hiding them from the volley of blood stained memories that assailed them.
When he finally calmed down he found himself on his side, curled into a ball and having no recollection of when he had slid to the ground. Once one there, however, he wasn't going to get back up. His chest was still heaving and the burning in his eyes only enhanced the burning in his throat.
He was so tired and without meaning to, he dozed off- a drowsy nap that quickly deepened into a fitful slumber.
0o0o0o0o0o0
The fever hit while he slept.
The burning started as an ember first; twinkling softly in the darkness, then suddenly blazed into a voracious fire.
He woke drenched in sweat, his skin feeling as though it would melt off his bones. He was breathing heavily, trying to pant like an animal.
He needed water, needed medicine, but he had neither.
He couldn't get up. Couldn't even muster the energy it would have taken to open his robes and let the barely existent breeze cool him down.
He was too hot.
The pit of his stomach burned and curled into ash even as the heat spread to his fingertips. But as the flames devoured him from the inside, his body was wracked with violent chills that made his muscles cramp.
His insides twisted and writhed like snakes, causing him to whimper and moan as they contorted.
And somewhere, in the deepest recesses of his mind, he knew that this was only the beginning.
0o0o0o0o0o0
"Aggghhh! God's forgive me!" Vicente wailed, choking on his own breath, grinding his forehead into the ash as terrible spasms erupted in waves through him. The pain wouldn't stop, it was relentless. "Forgive me, for whatever sins I have done!"
"Please, make it stop!" He was crying, twisting, and writhing on the ground, barely able to string the sentences together.
Ash fell from the morning sky like snow, covering him in a fine layer of dust as he fought the fever that was rampaging through him.
His boots had made deep gouges in the sand, his arms wrapped around his gut, his fingers clutched his robes, trying to find some release.
But it wouldn't end.
He screamed and begged until his throat was raw, and then degraded to gasping moans.
Everything was on fire, every part of him in agony.
His vision distorted with every beat of his rapid heart and his ears rang so powerfully that his head was buzzing with the vibrations- making his teeth feel loose and his gums feel swollen.
His chest wouldn't expand. It would catch with every breath until he has hyperventilating with the effort to keep breathing.
Ash flew into his lungs, tearing through his throat and coating his mouth. He coughed until the phlegm came out stained with blood and by then he couldn't stop.
Coughing, twisting, writhing, burning, screaming…
0o0o0o0o0o0
Make it stop…
The convulsions continued, making him tremble.
Please…
Ash fell on his twitching form as though the sky itself were eager to bury him.
His breath rattled in his throat as bleeding lungs struggled to keep inflating.
His heartbeat wavered, burned beyond repair.
I beg of you…
He was slowing down, the chaos before dimming into the terrible realization that he was dying.
The fever was still there, searching for anything that was left to burn, but it was like a well fed predator digging lazily through scraps.
He felt heavy. Like stone, but his head was light as air as it hummed and his scalp tingled.
The shivers traveled down his neck and spine, teasing the torn and twisted muscles.
Minutes passed… then hours…
He heart skipped, reluctantly restarting.
His breathing had all but stopped.
His eyes, though open, could see nothing but the darkness of impending death.
And in the darkness he sensed something else. Something residing just beyond his recognition…
He could hear his heartbeat echo in his ears as he searched for the "something" in the dark.
ba-bump
…
He caught a fleeting movement out of the corner of his eye, like the darkness itself was taking on form just behind him.
ba…bump…
…
…
The darkness touched him gently, like a feathery hand resting on his shoulder.
ba...
…
…bump
…
…
ba….
