The air reeked of rot and decay.
It permeated everything. The stone walls, the creaking wooden floorboards, his own clothes. He'd been around it for so long, he scarcely noticed it now. Jellal could easily say it hadn't bothered him for a very long time. While others would have retched at the smell, he simply pushed on. Perhaps it had even permeated him. His associates had joked about it when he'd run into them just outside the sanatorium just that morning.
Jellal didn't mind. It was a small price to pay for the very few lives he'd saved and for the comfort he brought to the dying as they fought to drag in each breath. He fearlessly held their hands as they slipped into the next life, fearless of their blackened skin that scraped over his own. He oftentimes spoke calmly to them as they wept, fear wild in their dulled, blood-shot eyes.
Just as he did now.
His patient was dying. He was only a boy, one of the youngest patients Jellal treated, only fourteen years old. His fingers were black, and the swollen lumps and sores on his skin were painful. He practically radiated heat with his high fever. Yet Jellal sat beside him, gripping the scared boy's hand. He noticed his deteriorating state earlier in the morning, and as the other doctors had gone to their isolated homes, Jellal had remained, lighting candles to alleviate the boy's fears of the dark.
It wouldn't be long now, noted Jellal. It always went like this. The boy was slipping away, his eyes blinking slowly. He had stopped tossing and turning an hour ago. Most would have left him, frightened of seeing the fate that might be waiting for them, or scared of confronting death so early in their lives. It was certainly becoming more and more likely the longer they all spent around those inflicted with the disease.
But Jellal couldn't say he feared Death like they did. It had been ever present in his life for a long, long time. Death hovered at his shoulder now, as it often did when he sat with the dying. Death wasn't something to be feared; it provided the balance needed for life. They all died one day. Why fear it? Even so, many fought until the very end against Death, until their bodies could no longer hold out. Very few went willingly.
This boy, it appeared, was one of those rare few.
When the boy spoke, his voice was broken and weak. "Does it hurt?"
To his fellow doctors, it might have seemed as if the boy was hallucinating. He heard things they did not, saw things they couldn't. Jellal might have agreed with them had he not seen this same conversation so many times. Had he not felt the presence at his shoulder, heavy and gentle, powerful and kind. His hand tightened around the boy's. Death was likely speaking to him now.
There was a moment of silence, and then the boy whispered, "What about Mother?"
It was another question the dying often asked. What about my loved ones? This boy's, he knew, was either dead already or on their way to join him. As it was, the mother he asked about was already deceased as of three days prior. She would be waiting for him in whatever came after life, arms outstretched. Jellal simply hadn't had the heart to tell him, fearing it would kill him faster.
Death must have answered him, because the boy settled somewhat. His eyes fluttered shut, face calm and peaceful. "I am ready," he whispered.
Jellal wouldn't have been able to say what was so different in this particular death. Perhaps it was the new level of exhaustion that had settled over Jellal. He'd been caring for plague victims for fourteen days in a room without a single survivor. It could have been that he so badly wished to understand why he couldn't save anyone. It could have even been that he was so badly craving to be a part of something that was clearly not meant for him to know anything about.
But for one moment, just a singular heartbeat, Jellal saw something.
A flash of scarlet, a figure bent over the boy's head.
It was gone just as quickly.
When Jellal turned his attention back to his patient, he found the boy had breathed his last. His pulse no longer fluttered beneath Jellal's fingertips. Forcing a gentle smile to his face, Jellal rose to his feet and tucked the boy's hands over his frail chest. A quick soft touch closed the boy's eyes. He would be at peace now, thought Jellal. He was sure of it.
After fourteen days of caring for his patients, Jellal left the hospital as the sun just barely began its ascent into the sky.
He could feel it there, heavy on his shoulder, just as he always did when someone's time approached. This time, Jellal bared his teeth and fought against that feeling. He would not allow Death to steal this one from him with its kind touch. For this patient, Jellal would fight to his last breath in order to bring her back from the brink, because if this woman died, there would be so many others that would follow her into Death's arms.
He'd scarcely slept when a panicked assistant had summoned him from his home at the brush of dawn. The young girl, no more than twenty, had been out of breath from running. She'd clutched her skirts in white knuckles. Tears had streamed down her face as she'd pleaded, "Please. Please. You must come." She'd merely named the woman he now fought for, and Jellal had sprinted through the strangely empty streets of his city to help.
Everyone in the city knew of this woman. She was a gentle soul, living off of donations and helping everyone she could with her own two hands. She hadn't a mean bone in her body. She was most known for helping the orphans that streamed in and out of her home, seeking hot meals and loving arms after finding themselves with nowhere else to go. Many of the children were those of plague victims, cast out by relatives. She feared the plague as little as Jellal did, and was well-loved by the community. She'd even come by here and there to help Jellal in the later hours of the day.
"You work too hard, Jellal," she'd told him a mere three days prior. "You ought to find yourself a wife and settle down. Have yourself a family."
He'd laughed and replied, "I could say the same about you."
She'd waved him off. A spinster, she'd called herself. "I have a house full of children. They are my family. Don't think I haven't seen you go home alone all these years. You work too hard, Jellal. Too many long hours. You'll run yourself into the ground until you can't help anyone. Give it some thought."
Jellal recalled her warm, motherly smile, her flushed cheeks and gray eyes. She'd been striking, even with silver threading her black curls. Were someone to ask anyone in the city to sacrifice their left hand for her, they would have. She was simply a person they all loved in this plague-infested city.
Which was why Jellal worked so furiously against the ticking clocks of death to try and stop what he knew was coming.
She'd been crossing the cobbled street, the assistant had said. She'd been crossing the street when a team of horses were spooked and took off. She'd been hit hard by the coat that had followed them, the horses' hooves somehow missing her. Jellal could tell she'd done her best to get out of the way, but it hadn't been enough. The broken piece of wood embedded in her side should have hit her straight on, if the witnesses were to be believed.
Crimson spilled over his hands as he did his best to remove every shred of wood, every piece of rubble and debris, while simultaneously trying to avoid using as many tools as he could without causing more damage. Every tool in his arsenal had been touched by plague. He wanted to avoid passing on the illness to his current patient.
His hands slid as he pressed a fresh linen to the flowing blood, his breath catching. Death was heavier than usual on his shoulder, as if it had bent towards him. "No," snarled Jellal, "not this one."
"Sir?" checked the assistant working with him, eyes round and worried. Jellal ignored her, repeating his words under his breath as he fumbled for another shred of wood, as the woman's blood pooled until it began to drip from the heavy table he'd instructed she be put on.
"Sir," the assistant repeated gently a few minutes later, "she's lost too much blood. We cannot continue without drawing out her suffering more than we already have." She bit her lip at the fiery, angry look Jellal shot her, bowing her head nervously. "My apologies, sir. I'll fetch some clean water for you." She grabbed the bucket of bloodied, murky water and fled.
Jellal glared after her before looking upon his patient. His heart ached at the sight of the amount of blood beneath her body. Her face was so ghostly pale, her lips blue. "Not this one," he breathed, pleading now with Death. "Please. Please, not this one. Let me save this one. Please."
But Death's presence remained. It felt a little sorrowful, and he knew the answer. He did not need Death to tell him what he had already known. He knew what Death would have said even before the woman's eyes fluttered a final time and her chest rattled with its final breath. No, he mouthed, even as acceptance flooded him. He couldn't help her.
Not this one.
Jellal inhaled sharply. His breath was jagged and pained. Devastated, he withdrew his bloody hands. He studied them, lips pressing into a hard line as he did so. It was not the first time he'd worn someone else's blood like a second skin. He'd had to in this line of work, and he'd done it in his past, too. But rather than enjoying the sight of it as he once had, he found himself revolted. His stomach roiled.
Jellal bolted for the bucket of clean water the moment the assistant returned, scrubbing his hands raw. The assistant went about her usual duties, even as tears fell down her cheeks. She began to wipe the blood away as best as she could and paused to pat the woman's hair into place as she debated how she could pass on the news to others who were waiting.
When she left the room, it was fairly clean. Well, it was as clean as a room could get after being used to tend to a woman who'd bled so heavily. Jellal remained, doing his best to remove every inch of blood that had touched his skin. His breath rasped jaggedly from his lungs as he tried to push his fury down. This was his fault. Had he done something differently, had he perhaps found another way to stop the bleeding–
"Damn it!" Jellal shouted, kicking the bucket of water he'd been using. It spilled dirty, bloodied water across the floor, ruining the assistant's work. "Damn it," he repeated, burying his face in his hands.
A familiar weight settled on his shoulder, light yet steady. "She is at peace now," whispered a voice in his ear.
Jellal whipped around as it vanished, choking on air. He half-expected the assistant to be standing there. He knew it wouldn't be her though. He knew precisely what had spoken in his ear. Who had spoken to him, and it sent chills skittering down his spine.
Death.
The plague had overridden the city. There was no longer a household who hadn't lost someone to the disease, or would soon. Once, people had come and gone freely from their homes, the markets, the shops, the streets. Now, those same locations remained empty. Businesses were closed, unable to continue without clients spending money. People starved with no food to purchase, and were too frightened to leave their homes. The streets were eerily silent. Jellal certainly didn't mind as he raced through the streets. There were no people or carts or animals that stepped into his path as he flew down a cobbled street, his kit tucked beneath his arm.
A small boy had come to him, seeking help for his ailing grandfather. He now ran beside Jellal, running as fast as his little legs could carry him. "He's not sick, sir," the boy, no more than nine winters old, had hastily insisted. His voice had been panicked. Jellal was his last hope, as he'd been turned away from several others who'd vowed to heal anyone that came to them simply because they feared the plague.
"That one!" the boy called, pointing. Jellal slowed, heaving for air, and let the boy take the lead. He rushed to a small, run-down home, not hesitating to duck inside. Jellal followed him closely. He led him up a flight of stairs to a room, where there was a cluster of people gathered around a bed. The old man lying in the bed looked gaunt and feeble as he gulped down air when it would come to him.
No sickness indeed.
But, Jellal thought as the man's family let him through, this man wasn't sick with the plague. Rather, this was an illness that came with old age. Jellal knew even before he laid his hands on the grandfather that he couldn't do anything to help him. He ran through his self-created mental checklist, checking the man's pulse, feeling for fever, and listening intently to his breath. It was shallow and labored. Even now, the man's pulse would jump and skip a beat here and there. His eyes rolled fearfully in his skull, panicked.
Jellal turned to the small group gathered nearby, anxious for their loved one. "Who takes responsibility for him?"
A young man stepped forward. "I will," he said unevenly, eyes bright with tears. Jellal gestured for the man to follow him. Together, they stepped from the room, closing the door tightly behind them so the rest of the family couldn't hear. The man looked desperate. "Please," he begged, "tell me you can help my father, sir."
Jellal fought the urge to run his hands through his hair as he heavily sighed. Best to avoid touching anything on his person until he could clean his hands and tools. Kindly, in the nicest way he could, he said, "I'm sorry. I truly am. There's nothing to be done. He's not simply ill; he suffers as we all do in the end, when we grow old. The most I can do is ease his passing."
The way the man nearly buckled, tears pouring down his cheeks, made Jellal's heart ache. He always hated passing on this news. He preferred to let the assistants deal with such matters. He was never good with soothing the distressed relatives, though he was always more than happy to see them happy when he did something good. As of late, that had been few and far between given what was happening in their city.
The man took a shaken breath to steady himself. "I see," he whispered. "Thank you. I'm sorry my son brought you here, putting you at risk when there's nothing you can do–"
Jellal interrupted. "I did not say there was nothing I can do, only that I cannot prevent his passing. I can ease it. Make it so that he will not frighten himself and your children, ease some of the pain."
The man looked torn. On one hand he didn't want to speed up the process, for it was someone he treasured immensely. But on the other hand…
He tightened his jaw and squared his shoulder. "Whatever you can do, sir. Please. We will pay you with whatever we can."
Jellal held a hand up and shook his head. "No. I require no payment." He never did, and he never would. He did this to make up for old mistakes, though he doubted he'd ever successfully make up for everything he'd done in his younger years. "Should you wish to, you can donate to the hospital though. They could certainly use funds to assist with the ill that fill their beds right now."
"Then that is what I will do." The man smiled faintly, and then murmured, "May we have a few minutes, sir?"
"Of course." Jellal watched as the man slid into the room, closing the door firmly behind him to give him and his family the privacy they sought so they could say farewell. When he was sure they'd not hear, Jellal released a ragged breath and fought the urge to scrub his hands down his face. He needed to cleanse them. He could hear a woman in the room wail as he tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling overhead. When was the last time he'd saved someone? he wondered dully. It had been too long. If he kept up as he was, he'd attain a reputation that would destroy his determination to redeem himself.
He stilled at the heavy weight that settled onto his shoulder, as if someone had set a hand there. Jellal slumped. Death was here to carry off yet another of his patients. He buried his face in his hands, a sound akin to a broken sob escaping him. "Please," he whispered, "at least allow me to grant him a painless death. You have taken so much from me lately. So many patients. I know I cannot save him from age, but at least allow me to give his family the chance to watch him go peacefully rather than fighting to his last breath. At least give me that."
To his surprise, the weight lessened. Dean lingered, but did nothing as he was allowed to enter the room at last. Jellal found the supplies he'd left there and sought the drug that would ease the man into eternal slumber. He thought he saw Death's shadow in the corner of the room, watching him with gentle warmth that sent shivers down his spine.
It was simple to administer. A small tonic he had made himself, poured into the dying grandfather's mouth. Jellal pretended he didn't see the tears streaming down everyone's faces, kept his own blank as he waited for the tonic to take effect.
Death waited several minutes longer than it might have had to. It gave Jellal time to ensure that the tonic did as it was meant to. Only when he was confident that the old man slept soundly did Jellal silently urge Death to do what it needed to. He stepped back, gathered his things, and left the room. The family would not like it if he lingered.
He'd barely left the house when a wail pierced his ears. Jellal ground his teeth. As he paced down the street in the direction of home, he cursed Death. Yet, he respected it. Everything must die, but…was it not human nature to fight Death every step of the way? Jellal thought over the people he'd lost as of late, how each had fought up until their last moments even when Death seemed to be company they ought to welcome. Jellal wondered what would happen when he faced Death. Would he face it so bravely? Or would he plead for just a little more time? Would he beg for Death to allow him a better chance at redemption?
Jellal knew himself well enough to answer that question; he was ashamed, but he would not go bravely.
Jellal knew that something was off as he feverishly worked to ensure the comfort of his patients. He ignored it. He needed to focus on the family struggling to survive the illness that had struck them all down one by one. He was cautious of treating their symptoms, recognizing them with one glance. They'd been infected with the plague.
The family was poor. They'd never have been able to afford the hospital, so he'd gone to them. The husband's elderly parents had been dead before he'd arrived, the first to catch the plague eating its way through the city. They'd passed it onto the others in the house. First, to the wife and mother, who had then infected her son who was only thirteen winters old. Then had come her husband, and finally their tiny daughter, only five winters. No one else would come like Jellal had agreed to, not even an assistant, so he was on his own, wiping cool cloths over feverish brows and administering whatever he could to help their symptoms. Nothing worked, but at least he helped ease their suffering.
Their ragged breaths hung in the air like a thick wall of noise, and no matter what he did, Jellal couldn't rest with the sound heavy in his ears. After doing a final check for the night, he made his way to the door of the small home and let himself outside. He dropped to sit on the old rotten wood steps, wrists dangling between his knees. Jellal was tired – no, exhausted. He wasn't sure he'd had a single minute of sleep since coming to this home. He was nodding off here and there, but no real sleep.
After a moment of rest, he pulled a pail of water over to him and doused his hands in it. He was grateful for the cold, clean rain that had filled it while he'd worked. He scrubbed his hands as best as he could, then rinsed his face and neck, too, enjoying the brisk, clean air that cooled his sweaty face when he dragged the cloth away from his mouth and nose. Thunder rolled in the distance.
Only then did he scrub at his face with his hands. At least one of these people would die, he knew. Maybe even all of them. He was putting himself at unnecessary risk to help them. But then…how could Jellal claim to be a healer if he didn't help those who so desperately needed it?
Jellal groaned quietly and fought the urge to nod off. He couldn't fall asleep on the steps. He had work to do. He had to prepare some broth for the family to eat, cleanse his tools, send word of his well-being to the hospital so they'd know he was thus far untouched by the plague. He had so many things to do. Yet, he could only sit there and stare blankly across the road.
His heart sank when a heavy weight settled over his shoulder, gripping it gently. He didn't plead with Death as he breathed, "Which one?"
Death couldn't answer him, that much he knew. At least, it shouldn't have been able to. It was a presence that came and went, as natural as life. Yet, he could have sworn lips moved near his ear, sending chills down his spine and making it straighten as a feminine voice whispered back, "The girl."
His heart ached. He knew it couldn't be an assistant this time. There was no way he could be imagining things either. He didn't know how or why, but Death had spoken to him in a way that no other had ever claimed to hear. He dragged himself to his feet and hefted the cloth back over his face. Not nearly as effective as the bird-like masks others wore, but it would suffice. Jellal staggered back inside, wondering what he should do, who he should go to first. If he should try to wake the mother or father of the dying girl.
He decided on neither. Grief would deteriorate their condition, and they still had a son that would likely pull through. So, he went to the girl. He dragged over a stool and settled on it beside her bed. To help her feel more at ease, he dragged the cloth from his face. Jellal took a ragged breath at her pale complexion, at the weak fluttering of her pulse as she struggled to breathe. Even now, there was the all-telling rattling in her chest that signaled her approaching demise. Jellal pretended not to notice the festering welts on her skin that had opened, threatening to infect him.
Death lingered at his side as, fearless of the plague, Jellal rested his hand on the girl's forehead. Her eyes flew open, bright with fever, and he smiled encouragingly. Her cheeks were flushed a hot red. "Sh," he whispered, "be at ease."
The girl looked at him first, and then to the figure Jellal couldn't see. "You're pretty," she said, and it was the last thing Jellal had expected to hear someone say about Death. After all, the depictions of Death showed it to be a frightening, unusual looking character.
Jellal thought he heard soft, musical laughter that took him off guard. Death was certainly female. He ran his thumb comfortingly over the girl's brow when she looked at him nervously. He made himself smile, even as he fought the urge to scream in despair. Had all his work been for nothing? The girl focused again on what Jellal couldn't see and continued her one-sided conversation. "What about Mama? And Papa?" She faltered. "Okay," she whispered, and Jellal steadied himself as he prepared for what was to come, his smile so difficult to maintain.
The final rattling breath wasn't any easier than any other had been. Her eyes glazed over and her body stilled beneath his touch. Only when the girl was gone did Jellal give himself a moment of time to rage at the unfairness. Yet another patient, stolen by Death. It only made sense that Death won most of the time, but did he not deserve at least one victory over her?
Jellal rose to his feet and quickly found a small ragged blanket. He threw it over the girl's body before leaving to do his rounds on the others. He would leave the body where it was in her bed for now, and inform the family when–
He had to swallow the lump in his throat when the weight lingered on his shoulder rather than leaving. It was as if Death had draped an arm over his shoulder. He didn't bother to ask which one was next; he didn't need to, for when he went to check on the father of the girl that had passed, he found him struggling to breathe, just as his daughter had struggled.
Fury crept through his veins, and Jellal didn't bother to stifle his rage. "Why?" he snarled, voice cracking.
"He suffers," whispered Death softly in his ear. Jellal didn't move, even as the exhausted, ill man looked to him with wild, feverish eyes and became alarmed by whatever stood at Jellal's side. "Does he not deserve peace and relief from his suffering?"
Jellal slumped. He understood that. It didn't make it any easier.
Jellal knelt at the man's sickbed, offering him a smile that wasn't as reassuring as he'd like. He'd not yet even pulled the cloth back onto his face when he took the man's hand and squeezed it comfortingly.
Jellal was unafraid of the figure that followed him, but that didn't mean others were, too. The man was deeply frightened and clutched Jellal's hand in his vice-like grip. "My family," he rasped, voice thick with pain. "I'm not…I cannot die now, dir. Please." He coughed, wheezing. Jellal hated that the man thought that he, the caretaker of this man's family, was the one bringing Death to him. "Please."
Quietly, Jellal said, "Your daughter is gone. No more than a few moments ago. I was with her when she passed."
"She lived only five winters." The man coughed again, blood speckling the corners of his mouth. "What of…my son and wife?"
Jellal considered how to answer his question. Death waited patiently beside him, as if curious to hear his answer. "Your son may yet survive the plague," he said, not wanting to tell the man he had yet to check on them again. "Your wife…I am unsure."
Death must have spoken to the man then, because the man's attention focused on her. He appeared to completely forget about Jellal for a moment, staring in terrified awe at Death. "No," he said hoarsely, voice no more than a whisper. "I will…never be ready, but…no one ever….is. I…accept that…it will happen…regardless." He coughed again. Jellal flinched when a droplet of blood struck his cheek, fighting the urge to wipe it away. He would bathe after he'd finished his rounds and hope that the plague didn't leave its mark on him.
The man fought Death harder than most. Jellal lingered, refusing to leave the man to die alone. When he finally did pass, it was with an agonized expression on his face. His death was not a peaceful one, nor had it been easy to watch.
Jellal was unashamed when he vomited beside the man's bed.
Death did not leave him now. In fact, she hovered closer than ever. Jellal found that the weight of Death was becoming more difficult to carry. He was constantly fatigued, and it was noticed by his colleagues and assistants, who always suggested he ought to stop working so hard and rest, lest he get himself sick.
But how could he? Jellal had taken so many lives earlier in his life, had slicked his hands in their blood simply to sate his own greed. He owed it to his patients to try and save them from Death, who refused to leave him no matter what he did. He begged, screamed, cried, and nothing seemed to work. Death was here to stay. He supposed it might be some kind of punishment for what he'd done earlier in his career, when he'd tested things so inhumanely on people. It only made sense that Death would come for the people he tried to save when he'd willingly given her so many.
Death no longer hovered in the corner, or just out of sight. Occasionally, he caught glimpses of her. In the corner of his eye, he'd see her, gowned in white. More than once he'd seen a beautiful, haunting white owl watching him from the trees as he made his way to the hospital, its feathers like freshly fallen snow dipped in half-dried blood.
Whenever he saw her as an owl, Death took every single one of his patients that day.
Others noticed that something had changed. Many patients pleaded to have different doctors, claiming something felt off about Jellal. Those statements worried him. While the plague was the city's primary concern, claims of witchcraft were never far behind, made by scared people who wanted someone to blame. He was lucky that not every patient made similar requests.
After one such patient, who'd initially complained of a bellyache only for it to dire, Jellal simply stood there. He put his face in his hands and struggled to calm the frantic, ragged breaths. A sound not unlike a sob ripped from his lungs. Jellal had come to this profession to save people after causing so many deaths in his early life, and now…all he could do was take them. It was as if all he was capable of was murder. His assistant looked at him with sympathy as she cleaned up, ensuring not to disturb him.
It did not, however, go unnoticed by his colleagues when the majority of those he took care of were taken by Death. The man who supervised them all came to speak with him not long afterwards, wanting to discuss the number of deaths at Jellal's hands. He left satisfied that it wasn't intentional. He would sate the concerns of Jellal's colleagues, he'd said, but Jellal would need to figure something out, or their concerns would return.
The thought tore at his heart. Many here knew what Jellal had done. His punishment for his crimes had been what led him here, and they knew he'd changed. To hear they thought he might hurt people again was almost too much.
One evening, after Jellal had seen an owl and had all of his patients stolen away by Death, he sat alone in the small apartment he owned. It resided above a now abandoned shop that had once sold cloth. He was exhausted, sitting at the edge of his cot, and thought he ought to perhaps find a new line of work. Perhaps then Death would stop following him as she did.
Logically, Jellal knew that finding a new job wouldn't solve his problem. Death would still be there, a shadow forever in his life, just as she'd always been. Death would never leave him. He could feel that in his bones, just as solidly as the exhaustion that had settled there over the last few days.
He was unprepared for the familiar weight dropped onto his shoulder. He was furious for a moment. Could Death not leave him in peace? Not even for just one moment? He let go of his rage after a moment, shoulders slumping. Of course not. "Why are you here?" he murmured aloud, knowing that others would whisper of witchcraft if they ever heard him speaking as he did now.
Death did not answer right away. He was honestly surprised when she did answer though. Her voice came to him as clear as a bell rather than the whisper it had been before. "You are tired," she mused.
"Very." A smile threatened to kick at the corners of his mouth. It faded after a moment. "It hurts me that you've stolen so many of my patients from me as of late."
Death considered it. "You're angry with me," she said.
"No, not angry." How could he be? Death was as natural as life, after all. "Just…upset, I suppose." Jellal sighed softly. "I'm trying to redeem myself. You're taking that from me by taking my patients."
"For the actions that created this plague," realized Death, and Jellal winced, for that was exactly the case. He was the reason this disease had spread as it had. Once, many years ago, he'd found a small town with isolated cases. Without much care for what might happen, he'd brought those infected with it to his home in the capital city to experiment on potential cures that might earn him significant money. He'd not expected the disease to seep into the city as it had, to spread so widely as it had. And not once had he truly come up with a cure. He regretted it so much it hurt him now, but he'd not cared at the time. Not until he'd been sent to prison, and then to his current place of employment as punishment, caring for those who suffered from the very disease he'd given them.
"You redeemed yourself long ago," Death told him, and Jellal jolted, unprepared to hear such a thing. "Through it, you acquired Death's favor; many have sacrificed others for that favor, and still failed to acquire it."
Jellal wasn't at all surprised to hear that. He didn't necessarily want Death's favor. Who would? To know that the ancient being who stole away life would forever look upon you? Yet, at the same time, Jellal felt a flicker of fondness for the being who'd followed him for so long and still thought him worthy of her favor, even after everything he'd done in his life. It was a wonderful feeling, to find that at least one found him worthy, even if he would never forgive himself for his own actions.
Quietly, he told Death softly, "Thank you."
She did not answer.
Death was displeased, though Jellal could not understand why. Nor would Death tell him why she was so agitated and upset. Rather than soothing his patients when she came for them, she instead frightened them. Many fought Death rather than reluctantly accompanying her or greeting her with warmth that he'd grown to expect.
Still, even as patient after patient passed, Jellal did as he knew and worked hard to try and save them. His exhaustion weighed heavily on him, more so than Death's presence did. He'd even rested well, ensuring to care for himself first for once. After all, who would be left to care for the patients if he didn't?
On one such day, Jellal decided that rather than racing around trying to save those he knew Death would take, he instead chose to spend the day comforting those he knew would pass regardless. He sat with dozens of those plagued with disease, age, and injury. A few refused him, terrified of the doctor whose name had spread by word of mouth, known as the doctor shadowed by death.
Death was crueler to those people than necessary. She appeared to mock them before stealing them away. Most, however, seemed to recognize what he brought with him. Some mourned, but accepted their fate, while others seemed to welcome him, relieved that he brought peace to their suffering. Those were the ones Jellal sat with longer; they brought comfort to him, too.
Actually, Jellal thought as he sat beside an ailing young man, who coughed and moaned in pain as the sores on his flesh continued to fester, it was almost pleasant. Perhaps he was not saving people as he would have preferred to do, and perhaps these people would not count in favor of his redemption, but at least he was doing something other than taking lives.
Jellal wouldn't say as such out loud though. To admit such a thing would be to revoke the progress he'd made in redeeming himself of his crimes. To admit that bringing Death to these people was not so bad was to stain his hands crimson once again.
This man fought Death. Irritable as she seemed, Death didn't so much as attempt to answer his questions. She did not soothe his fears. She simply snatched him away, even as Jellal did his best to do so in her place.
A fortnight later, Jellal thought he might understand Death's rage, and he couldn't blame her for it. What had started as a bruise on his arm had swollen and twisted into a festering, pus-filled pocket that marked him as Death's. Several others had begun to form similarly along his body. Death had given him her favor, but it didn't appear to do him much good when it came to his fate. In the end, after all, everything died. He was just disappointed she would take him sooner than he'd have liked.
Jellal couldn't bring himself to be angry after the initial flicker of rage that disappeared so quickly, it was almost never even there. He'd always thought that when confronted with his own death, he would be frightened and angry. While some of that was still true, and he'd not yet saved enough lives to make up for those he'd taken, he supposed to die by the plague he'd helped spread was a reasonable punishment; it was only fair that he die so painfully, too.
He sent word to the man who ran the hospital, indicating that he could not work with those who were not infected with the illness, but that he would continue to help care for those who were infected. Better to do it himself than risk other doctors who were so desperately needed. Jellal was unsure of how long he'd have before the illness left him bedridden, but he was determined to continue working as hard as he could until then.
Until Death came to take him away, too, Jellal would keep pushing for redemption.
Jellal was exhausted despite the early time of day. The sun wasn't even yet at its highest point as he sat in the chair beside a middle-aged woman's bed. Her all-telling breath rattled in her chest with each breath she took. He would need rest after this was done with, before he could continue with the other plague victims left in his charge, he decided. Even so, he didn't want to rest. He was grateful that his paranoid colleagues and the assistants had made time to give him patients, even if he couldn't do much for them.
His colleagues would truly mourn him. Well, at least some would. Others would only mourn what he did so they didn't have to. They were cowards for not risking themself with the plague, but he couldn't bring himself to blame them. He was the odd one out, after all, with his lacking fear towards Death.
Who, Jellal had noted in recent days, had seemed to accept his fate. She'd grown gentle again, closer to what she'd been before he'd fallen ill. Her temper still flared in brief bursts when he muttered aloud about his aches and pains and exhaustion, but settled just as swiftly.
And no longer did she linger in the corner of his eye, in a breath in his ear, as a weight on his shoulder.
No, Death now had a face, and Jellal wondered if her appearance had come with his own impending death. She was devastatingly beautiful, much to Jellal's shock. He'd seen so many depictions of Death, but never had he seen this one, with hair as crimson as blood spilled in her name and a kind look as she brushed human hands over the woman's cheeks as she took her life. The woman's breath left her once more and didn't come again. She was gone.
Death glanced his way, her eyes dark and endless. Jellal stared right through her. He pretended not to see her in her entirety, knowing now what so many saw only on their deathbed. Perhaps if he pretended he couldn't see her, he'd be able to help at least a few more people before she came to his deathbed. Logically, he knew it wouldn't change anything; he was ill, and not just ill, but sentenced to her touch by an illness that had no cure. It was simply a matter of time. Regardless, it was human nature to avoid Death.
The way she silently drifted so close to him after parting from the bed told Jellal he'd succeeded in disguising his sight from her. Her fingers brushed fondly over his shoulder, never stealing his life as she did so many others. He briefly acknowledged the familiar weight with a shift of his shoulders. He groaned tiredly and sat back in his chair, body aching from sitting there for so long. But he rose regardless, debating, and decided he would ignore his own needs in favor of going to another to comfort them.
As he paced among the beds of the dying, Death followed, silently guiding him to the one she would take next. She seemed pleased that he listened. When he settled beside a youthful boy who was wheezing and grappling at the sores on his face, Death smiled brightly at Jellal as if he'd given her the world simply by hearing what she wanted.
And so, they repeated their dance. Jellal comforted the boy as Death settled herself on the cot beside his head, humming as the boy awoke from his restless slumber with a fearful expression. Rather than scaring her victims as she'd done for some time, she answered the boy's questions in a soft, lyrical voice. Her eyes were warm and reassuring. When the boy was ready, she bent over him and pressed a hand to his cheek.
Within moments, the boy was gone, eyes glazed and staring blankly at nothing. Blankly, Jellal studied his face, wondering just how he would look when Death took him from this life. Would he look so empty? He knew that he wouldn't fight it, even if he didn't want to die. Death would come regardless, so why fight her? Though he was occasionally angry with her, he didn't like the sad expression she wore when her victims fought her – when she was being kind, of course. When she was angry, she liked when they fought her.
"Jellal."
For just a moment, Death caught his gaze with her own. Jellal felt a chill race down his spine, and he ripped his eyes from hers. He turned to look at the person that had called for him, cursing silently. She knew. Death knew he saw her.
He took a steadying breath and focused on the man hovering warily in the door, a handkerchief pressed over his nose and mouth as if it would protect him from the lingering plague. Jellal's jaw tightened when the man's attention lingered on his own sores. He casually shifted so that he'd hidden them, asking calmly, "What is it?"
"You ought to get some rest," the man said after a moment. "A room's been prepared."
Jellal's shoulders tensed, and he was unsurprised by Death's familiar touch resting there a moment later, as if hoping to ease the tension away. It didn't. He knew what wasn't being said clearly. He could no longer move freely among those who were ill. He would no longer be allowed to tend to the dying. He would now join them, no more than a regular man dying of the plague tearing through their city at such frightening speeds.
"No," rasped Jellal firmly. He rose to his feet. His knees almost buckled, but he caught himself, ignoring his body's demands. He was fully aware that this behavior would kill him faster, but he didn't care. He was running out of time to finish what he needed to do. He had to continue his work, regardless of what others wanted.
Regardless of what Death, herself, wanted, for she encouraged in his ear, "Rest."
Perhaps his own death was closer than he'd thought.
Still, Jellal was determined. The man rushed to get away from him as Jellal strode in his direction, scrambling and tripping over himself to avoid Jellal. Jellal ignored him. He ignored the worried, shocked look on the man's face when Jellal said, "I don't want to rest. Who's next?"
It was no more than a fortnight before Jellal could no longer comfort the ill and dying as he wished. He was too weak to rise from the bed he'd been given. His colleagues had insisted on a private room, trying to be kind, but Jellal hated it. It would have been better to be among the other patients, if only to talk with them when he had the energy. Not just to help them, but to help him. The isolation devastated him. With even his colleagues avoiding tending to him when they could, scared of the disease that ravaged his body, Jellal spent much of his time alone. He didn't blame them though.
So, with little else to do, Jellal chose to finally acknowledge Death directly. The first time he spoke to her while looking her in the eye, it stopped Death in her tracks. He wondered why she was so surprised. Surely she should have known Jellal could see her. Still, when Jellal said bluntly, "How long do I have before my time to die comes?" she was startled enough that she spun around and stared at him with widened dark eyes. Jellal locked his eyes with hers, serious. If he could not help people anymore, then he did not wish to linger in this life longer than necessary. There was no point to his life now that redemption was beyond his reach.
Death took a long moment to answer him, her lips pursed. "You will not die," she said fiercely, taking him off guard with the vicious look that flashed across her face. Her chin lifted defiantly. "I will not take you. You are one of my Favored. They cannot force me to take your life. I refuse to."
Jellal couldn't say he was excited to hear that, though he couldn't say he was all that surprised. He recalled the days in which she'd been so cruel to those around him. Death was not human, no matter her appearance.
Unsure of how Death could refuse – though not denying she was doing it – Jellal said, "Even so, I don't want to remain like this." He could not imagine lingering like this, with his illness sapping at him like this for an unknown length of time, no end in sight. Others could look forward to the relief from pain that Death brought, from the weakness that made it impossible for them to rise from their beds. They either died, or they – rarely – recovered. They didn't linger in a limbo.
Jellal didn't want to linger like he did now for eternity, too tired and too ill to do anything but sit there as he did. As it was, he was fairly certain his colleagues thought him to be possessed or engaging in witchcraft of some sorts in order to prevent his death. More than one had definitely caught him in the act of speaking to the empty air. He hoped they decided it was his illness stealing away his sanity.
"Favor or not," he said quietly and cautiously, picking each word with great care, "I do not want to stay like this forever." He searched Death's sharp, irritable gaze until she looked away, scowling.
She set about stalking to the window, staring out it wordlessly. Jellal watched her. Death moved like one of the rare large cats that the country's royals had bought to store in one of their horrid zoos, something he'd seen just once. She prowled, anger making her all the more lethal. Jellal said nothing for some time as he waited for her to calm down. She stared out the window, upset about what he'd said to her.
When Jellal was certain her temper had cooled, he asked the question that had been burning in his mind for as long as he'd noticed her gentle weight on his shoulder. "Why me?" It was a ridiculous question, and Jellal felt rather conceited asking it, but he found he had to. If he was to die relatively soon, then he wanted to know why he, who'd killed so many, had gained the favor of a being who didn't seem to thirst for the blood of those she stole away. Rather, she seemed sad for the souls she came in contact with.
For a while, he didn't think Death would answer. In fact, he was nearly dozing off when she did. Death finally looked over her shoulder, crimson hair aflame in the light of the candle he'd lit during her silence. "You are not afraid of me," she said simply, as if that would explain everything. "Even in the deepest depths of your soul, you never feared me. That lack of fear is rare, regardless of how hard humans try to think otherwise."
It was true, Jellal admitted. Even in his violent youth, he'd not feared Death as she stole away those around him. He'd respected her, certainly. He'd been angry with her. But he'd never feared her. Death was a matter of life. It was impossible to avoid her, no matter how hard the alchemists obsessed with immortality pretended otherwise. There was no reason for her to fear the inevitable. He only saw it as another thing to explore, though he'd hoped to have more time for redemption.
Jellal dared to voice those thoughts to Death, something he'd never done to anyone other than the sole official who'd decided he was worth a second chance. Rather than having him hanged, the official had sent Jellal to a new country and city, where the residents wouldn't have heard his name. Jellal wondered if the man had heard of Jellal's efforts since then.
"I took a lot of lives," Jellal murmured, and Death's gaze lingered on him. She knew. Of course she knew. "I took pleasure in it – that's something I will forever regret."
Death's gaze lingered heavily on his face as she said quietly, "Your work saved many lives, Jellal." It was the first time she'd said his name, and Jellal was surprised by the amount of sheer fondness that curled her tongue. "The people who sent you here took over your work after you left, and though the methods you chose to go about your discoveries were not ideal, your efforts were successful. In fact, this plague that your city suffers with has been purged from your previous home because of those efforts. They will be attempting to find a way to bring those efforts to this city shortly."
There was a sharp twist in Jellal's chest. He'd not heard of that. But then…the twist could have come from the cough that suddenly wracked him, making him wince when the hand covering his mouth came away stained crimson as Death's hair. Rubbing the blood off and the ache from his chest, he turned his attention back onto Death. She was watching him with so much intensity that it almost made Jellal uncomfortable. Still, he met her gaze and said hoarsely, "Thank you for telling me that. It means a lot to me, Death."
He'd never called her by her name either. To his surprise, laughter lit Death's dark eyes and her lips curved into a pretty smile. "Erza," she said, and it took him a moment to understand that it wasn't a meaningless word. "I am called Erza."
"Erza," he amended, his tongue curling around her name as hers had his. She seemed thrilled. He'd not anticipated Death to have a name, but he was more than willing to call her by it, and it fit her well.
In fact, Jellal quite liked it.
Jellal could tell his colleagues were growing more fearful than concerned about him the longer he remained ill and didn't die as their patients did. Weeks had passed, and each day, they seemed to hold their breath when they entered with a meal they all knew he would not eat. They anticipated finding his corpse waiting for them. Instead, they found him alive.
More and more they whispered of witchcraft.
It was unpleasant, this way of life. Jellal had been entirely unable to convince Erza thus far that it was not feasible for him to remain in such a way. She grew agitated about it whenever he tried to bring it up with her, though she didn't seem all that angry with him per se. After some time, he managed to convince Erza to tell him why it upset her so much. Surely, he'd told her, even if he was dead, it did not mean anything to her. She was Death; Jellal being dead and claimed by Erza would not change anything for either of them – mostly.
It took some prying, but Erza began to tell him a little of her world since he had nothing better to do. She was a spirit, Erza told Jellal. Nearly a titan, older than most others like herself. There were very few like her. The being that dwelled in the wind's soft touches…the temperamental monster that created tempests in her seas at the briefest flash of irritation…the thing that dwelled and hid among dark shadows, preying on those who used them for bad…they were all ancient like her, alive as long as there had been life in the world.
"But there are newer beings who control the ways of your world," Erza told him one night, perched on the side of his bed and frowning at the rattling way his breath left him. "They are the ones that have been pestering me about you as of late. They speak as if I don't know the way of things." Her mouth twisted into a displeased snarl. "I do not like it anymore than they do, but what else can I do? I will not take your life and leave your soul to wander as so many others do. Especially not now, when some are losing themselves to their death. I will not risk your soul becoming like them."
Jellal didn't know what she meant about souls losing themselves. Was that what came after Death? Endless wandering? Eternity? He didn't like that much more than what he felt now. He could no longer even really voice his thoughts, spending most of his time sleeping when it wasn't disturbed by the pain of the disease that had stolen so much from him so quickly.
He began to plead with Erza, but she was steadfast in her decision.
Death would not – could not – take Jellal Fernandez as she had so many others.
One night, Jellal awoke to a startling sight: there was someone he did not know, standing beside his bed as they waited for him to awaken. It wasn't Erza, who was often in the same spot. Erza was nowhere to be found, which was alarming in itself when she seemed to keep guard over him so often in recent times.
The newcomer was a girl, small and young in appearance with golden hair that fell in wild waves, nearly to her ankles. She wore clothing unlike anything he'd ever seen before, heavily embroidered and decorated with intricate designs, yet light and flowing easily around her ankles as she shifted. Her green eyes gleamed with an ancient light and wisdom that didn't fit her youthful appearance. Jellal knew immediately this was no human girl; this was a creature like Erza.
Jellal, aware of how hellish he looked, gaunt and wracked with disease, attempted to sit up. He didn't have the strength to do so, and as if she'd read his mind, the girl suddenly smiled. "Don't waste strength you don't have, Jellal Fernandez. Erza is unhappy with me as it is."
He was puzzled. It was clear she was one of the gods Erza thought bothersome – or maybe one of the spirits, like Erza herself. But he wasn't sure as to who, precisely, the girl might be. Erza had not described someone similar to her before.
The girl cast a thoughtful look over him, and he concluded that she must have been able to read his thoughts when she told him, "My name is Mavis, and I am the guardian of Valhalla, the home of the gods I preside over." Her voice warmed, and she smiled softly. "They are like my precious children, those gods. And your soul has caused quite an uproar among them."
Jellal hadn't meant to. He grimaced rasping in a barely audible voice, "My apologies."
A giggle escaped Mavis. "Only humans would apologize when they aren't at fault," she hummed, skipping away to peer out the window of Jellal's room. Without looking at him, she commented, "Erza refuses to do as her nature commands. She's quite fond of you, Jellal."
And Jellal had grown incredibly fond of Death, especially now that he could see her and talk to her honestly. He didn't say as such aloud though. Instead, he whispered, "She's grown a little too fond, I'm afraid."
Mavis nodded, still not looking at him. "It blinds her to what the rest of us can so clearly see. The plague has worsened, killing far more than it was meant to. It has touched the lives of a few it was never meant to, and the gods are growing angry and restless because of it. You needn't blame yourself for that," she added when guilt slammed through Jellal. More lives lost because of him. "You are merely human, Jellal. You cannot help what the gods will or will not do."
Silence fell for a short time before Jellal rasped, "They speak of burning me." Mavis finally looked over her shoulder at him, her face unreadable. "I've heard their whispers when they think I cannot. They wonder what witchcraft I perform to linger as I do." A couple of rough coughs wheezed from his lungs, each breath rattling in his bony chest. "I don't want to burn, let alone be forced to endure what will happen when I inevitably survive that burning because Erza won't do what should be done."
"You understand Erza well," said Mavis. "And that is why I have come to an agreement with Erza." She turned to face him fully, hands clasped in front of her. She was no longer smiling, but she didn't look as if she disliked him. "I am granted power to allow those I select to ascend to godhood – so long as Makarov agrees that they are fit to take on the responsibility."
Jellal really didn't like where this was going.
"Makarov and I would not have selected you to ascend," said Mavis honestly and bluntly, "but we are running out of time to find something else Erza will accept, so it is the only offer I can make. It is with that in mind that I offer to you what I offer to so very few." She smiled sadly at Jellal's immediate horror. "It is merely an offer – as I said, I don't make it often. In fact, I've never offered, I've only chosen." She seemed pleased with that. "Most are content with my decision. Should you accept, Jellal Fernandez, there will be limitations, however. You will never be capable of what the others are. It is the price I've chosen for Erza to pay."
Jellal didn't want to become a god. The absurdity of it almost made him laugh. He'd often thought himself a god before coming to the realization regarding the truth of what he'd become all those years ago. A year ago, he'd have laughed himself hoarse had Mavis appeared with this offer. "And if…if I refuse your offer?"
Mavis was quiet for a moment too long to give him comfort, and Jellal knew the answer before she even began to speak. "I cannot allow you to refuse my offer, and I am sorry for that. If Erza continues on the path she has chosen, the balance of this world will be ruined beyond repair. Human souls will corrupt themselves and turn into creatures absent of thought and peace, creatures that will know only pain and torment. The planet will die. Gods will fall. I would allow it if I could, seeing as you weren't my first choice, but we are both stuck with a decision neither of us want."
She seemed truly sorry about it. Her green eyes gleamed with sorrow. Jellal's sharp breath came out a wet bloody cough, and some droplets even struck Mavis's cheek. She didn't bat an eye. Jellal wheezed, "And what would you have me do as a god, Mavis?"
"You seek redemption," said Mavis, and when he frowned, she laughed softly. "Erza never told me anything of what you've told her. It's simply my nature to know all of what happens." She smiled briefly. "You seek redemption, so I will give it to you. You took many lives in the past, so you will guide them in the future. You will work alongside Death and guide the souls she takes from this world. You will teach them to accept their losses and comfort them in their grief."
As she spoke, Mavis reached out and rested her fingers against his forehead, smiling sympathetically as a searing pain shot through his very soul. "You will dwell in another the next life, Hel, with those souls," she continued, withdrawing her touch, "because I am not so cruel as to leave you wandering this world with so many souls. You will be a shepherd to those who need it, a leader to those who seek it, and the executor of justice to those souls who harm others. You may never touch the grounds of Valhalla, but you may find safety in another's. You will be marked as a fallen god, thrown from my realm, and you shall be one who suffers the wants and needs of mortals, even as immortality protects you. When Erza returns, she will grant you death, and you will begin your new life."
And with that, Mavis vanished, as if she'd never been there at all.
He couldn't find the willpower or energy to be angry with Erza when he next saw her. Jellal awoke from a restless sleep to find her seated on the side of his cot, her scarlet hair gleaming beautifully in the light of a rising sun. She seemed much happier than the last time he'd seen her. Jellal couldn't greet her, too weakened by the plague that continued to sap at him. He couldn't even tell her of the pyre being built outside, one on which he would burn if she couldn't do what she needed to.
Erza hummed softly. It was a comforting sound, even as he uttered one of pain when he tried to sit up. She turned her face towards him immediately upon hearing it. Despite his unease with the choices that had been made without a care for what he wanted, Jellal couldn't even be upset with Erza. Perhaps a little unnerved by the intensity of the emotions she held, but not angry, not even a little bitter. He simply felt wistful and saddened that their situation couldn't be different.
"Mavis has marked you to ascend," she said quietly, reaching out to brush sweaty blue strands of hair from his face. Her fingers faltered a few breaths from his skin, and she withdrew suddenly, hesitant to touch him.
Jellal couldn't help the short, cough of a laugh that escaped him. "You are supposedly a very difficult woman to refuse, Erza." His voice was weak, and even a few words left him exhausted.
Her cheeks darkened red, and something unreadable flashed across her gaze. Rather than agreeing, she said, "They intend to light the pyres today."
At least she knew. He didn't have the ability to tell her himself. He smiled ruefully, gaze drifting towards the window. The sun had begun to peek through the panes of glass. "Sun's first light," he choked out. "They will come soon."
A gentle reminder.
A desperate plea.
Do not leave me to burn.
Erza followed his gaze, studying the light. Distaste flickered over her face. "Natsu," she muttered like a curse. Jellal didn't recognize the name. Still, she returned her attention solely to Jellal, and there was some uncertainty now, as if Death herself worried Jellal would hate her for what she'd done. "I didn't want to be alone, nor did I wish to leave you to wander alone like so many other souls do."
"I know." Jellal couldn't blame her for it. He didn't mind her company, and he found himself pleased to know she was fond enough of his company to fight her own nature. Who wouldn't like to find someone so devoted to them that they would stop the world from spinning for them?
Erza rose to her feet and spun to face him. There was no sign of warmth, hidden behind her reluctance. She would claim her Favored, and Jellal would ascend as a fallen god, whatever that would mean. He didn't like it, but he supposed he could have done a lot worse than garner Death's fierce devotion. At least with her, he might make up for all of the mistakes he'd made in his relatively short life.
As Erza bent until her face was a mere breath from his, tucking scarlet strands behind her ear, Jellal thought he could hear the approach of those coming to burn him at the pyre, but he felt no fear. He would not feel it as his body burned.
For Death claimed him with a gentle kiss.
"Plaguefall" at last! I've been trying to get this out before Starfall even started getting published. Regardless, it's here! :D I hope you enjoyed, and if you liked this one-shot but haven't checked out Starfall, then please do so! This is, as stated, a prequel to it.
~river
