Miquella was slumped over with his head resting on his desk.
Surrounding him were borrowed books full of formulas and fundamentalist theories, and crumpled pieces of paper with notes that were scribbled, crossed out, then corrected. He began his work, in his childlike mind, that he could achieve an advantage over what had stumped even the most brilliant fundamentalist minds. He was at it for months, even before that awful day at Malenia's door. But as he studied, Miquella found himself overwhelmed by both the scale of the task and the lack of helpful resources.
There were mentions of the "rotting sickness" and "scarlet death" in the old records that Miquella could, with reasonable deduction, assume was the disease that plagued his sister. Most were momentary mentions tucked away in fables. There was a lengthy epic poem about a blind hero given a sword by a fairy and sealing away an outer god of rot, but other than a fun story, it offered little value. The best source was the brief written by an unknown scholar, but it was composed only of observations while passing through a town plagued by it. The scholar assumed it was a waterborne illness caused by small microbes that gave the water a red hue and so dubbed it the name "scarlet rot" and described some of the symptoms, but that was all.
Interesting, but none of it described Malenia's condition. Where the disease was easily treated by bolases or cleansing spells, neither of those things was successful.
"Son?"
Miquella lifted his head to see his father.
"Hello, Papa," Miquella replied as he rubbed his eye.
"What are you doing?" Radagon asked.
"I just want to help Malenia. But I can't find anything in the books," said Miquella.
"What's this?" Radagon asked. He picked up a bottle used by the perfumers.
"Oh, Tricia gave it to me to look at. I had her come here. Malenia says she's wicked, but I think she just wants to help. She just doesn't know how," said Miquella.
He spent hours interviewing the perfumer, which flattered Tricia to see great interest in such a young mind. He asked her all sorts of questions, not just about the known paradigms of the scarlet rot, but of the fundamentals in the art of healing. Miquella was fascinated, astonished even, by the general difference between the theories presented by the fundamentalists and the actual practice of medicine done by the perfumers.
Of Malenia's disease, Tricia explained that while it was true, that most people came into contact with the rotting sickness through contaminated red water, Malenia's unique symptoms seemed more in line with a disease "of the blood". Blood was related to water, Tricia further explained and theorized that Malenia's was somehow infected before she was born. A cure was likely impossible but bloodletting seemed to offer Malenia the most, albeit temporary, relief.
They went off on quite a few tangents where she talked about those said to carry curses from contact with the crucible and how their treatment was challenging due to lack of resources. Much of what the perfumers knew, was passed down from master to apprentice, with very little written down, and often information was lost. Miquella suggested that perhaps all the perfumers ought to come together and compile their combined knowledge into volumes.
"Look. I made this sleeping spell," said Miquella. "Tricia said she'll try it next time and maybe it'll help Malenia could sleep when they help her."
"Son," said Radagon. "The perfumers have done a fine job, but they don't always understand that some things are meant to be in their proper cycle."
Miquella gave a puzzled look.
"Remember how the sun rises and sets," said Radagon.
"Yes."
"And the birds. The sparrows come out in the day and the owls come out at night."
"Yes."
"What if the sparrows decided that they would rather not be put off and have the sun stay out forever? Is that fair to the owls?"
"But..."
"What do we always learn? That everything is governed by order," said Radagon.
Miquella wrinkled his brow, "What does that have to do with Malenia being sick?"
Radagon had no answer. He finally kissed Miquella on the cheek and said, "Well, you should be pleased to know who wants to play today."
Miquella gasped in delight and dashed outside his door.
Radagon looked at the papers on Miquella's desk and frowned. He grabbed Miquella's notes and tore them in half.
Malenia was out in the "wild garden" which was a small section that neither guards nor groundskeepers were permitted to tend to. So it grew without restraint until it was thick with natural bushes and trees that were unkempt and yet beautiful in their own right.
It was in this place where the young Empyrean enjoyed the company of a certain Mr. Margit. He was a strange, eccentric sort that everyone denied existed save Miquella. Anyone else Malenia told, all dismissed her experience as the rot's influence taking hold of her mind. Her poor eyesight meant she could provide no description, other than how he smelled like a damp dog.
His smell didn't bother Malenia as others have said the same about her; albeit they were nicer and merely said she smelled "strange." Even at that young age, Malenia concluded that a foul smell meant someone suffered and deserved empathy.
Mr. Margit's company was much appreciated as often Radagon had Miquella occupied elsewhere for his education. For Malenia, her frequent illness meant a disrupted education to the point where Mr. Margit was the only one who taught her about anything.
He introduced her to the concept of life, death, and rebirth as the primary power of the Erdtree. Order, particularly the Golden Order, effectively brought an end to death's unpredictable and finite nature. But Malenia never held much interest in these as she did about the overall history of the Lands-Between and Margit's claim that his father was a great warrior and hero in the days before the Erdtree. Malenia wasn't aware there was an age before the Erdtree as the way her father spoke, he'd suggest there wasn't.
"My father is a warrior too," said Malenia.
"Yes. He is the Great Radagon of the Golden Order and Elden Lord," said Margit.
Malenia couldn't say much more than that as she was rarely well enough to spend any significant time with Radagon. As the scarlet rot worsened and her prognosis grim, her parents' time was in a constant division between herself and her brother.
Margit took Malenia under the chin and looked her over.
"What?" said Malenia.
"Thou lookest like the Fair Lady who came oft to the dark place after she married Radagon," said Margit. "Do not allow thy curse to distract thee from what thou art; the daughter of a warrior and a goddess. The place of us cursed souls may not be pleasant, but it serves its purpose."
"What purpose does always being sick have?" scoffed Malenia.
"Thou art an Empyrean. The Two-Fingers will reveal thy path," said Mr. Margit.
No sooner had Margit left, that Malenia heard the cry, "Little Sister! Little Sister!"
Malenia limped toward the sound of his voice but didn't get too far. In his excitement, Miquella embraced Malenia knocking them both to the ground in a giggling heap. Malenia tickled her brother, which caused Miquella to curl up in a laughing frenzy and beg her to stop.
They soon both lay on the grass, trying to catch their breath as they held hands.
"Miquella, are there any clouds today?" Malenia asked.
Miquella couldn't see beyond the thick canopy of the wild garden, so he lied and said there were.
"What do they look like?" Malenia asked.
Again, Miquella made something up and said one looked like Leonard.
"Even his skinny legs?" Malenia giggled.
"Yes," replied Miquella.
He made up other stories too. One looked like Fortissax, and those sheep that rolled up on balls every time they got scared. He said there were birds. Lots and lots of birds swirl around the cerulean sky. The twins told each other stories with no plotlines but stuffed in as much nonsense as two children could think.
Soon Malenia let go of Miquella's hand and rolled to her side.
"What's the matter?" Miquella asked.
"I'm tired," Malenia replied.
Miquella kissed his sister's cheek and laid his head down on her shoulder with a smile. She smelled of the earth, particularly the rich black soil that nurtured his beloved lilies.
"I love you, Little Sister," said Miquella.
Her breathing, which started as deep, constant, and robust, soon grew raspy and shallow. Miquella snapped his head up and tried to shake Malenia awake. She gave some muttering.
"Oh no," said Miquella.
In a panic, Miquella grabbed Malenia's hand where he felt a wet snap in her fingers. Miquella dropped her hand which landed misshaped on the ground with a thud. A white, frayed bone stuck out from the torn skin as a black liquid oozed out from the wound.
Miquella stared at the lifeless arm that didn't look like it belonged to his sister. It was stiff with a dull gold hue to the skin. And the smell was a disgusting stench. His mouth opened, but nothing seemed to come out.
"Oh, little one. No one is here and no one is coming," said Mr. Margit.
Without saying a word, Mr. Margit scooped up Malenia and cradled her in the crook of his arm. He then took Miquella's hand and led the children out of the wild garden.
The moment Mr. Margit laid Malenia down on the manicured grass where she and Miquella could be found, the guards were on top of him. They kicked and beat the "filthy omen" until he fell to the ground.
"I am her son! I am her son!" Margit cried.
"Stop!" said Miquella. "He didn't do anything wrong!"
The boy's cries distracted the guards long enough for Margit to slip away into the wild garden where they were forbidden to follow.
Tricia had come at this point and had her assistant carry Malenia back inside.
"Please, don't hurt her anymore. Please," begged Miquella.
Tricia knelt in front of Miquella and placed an arm on his shoulder.
"I promise, we will do what we can to make your sister comfortable," said Tricia.
Miquella pulled from his pocket the sleeping drought he designed and handed it to Tricia.
Godwyn came shortly after and the moment Miquella saw him, he threw himself in his brother's arms. Every emotion Miquella held inside came flooding out in tears. The anger, frustration, confusion, and fear - all long-suppressed to cultivate an image - were at least given their time to be present.
Godwyn called for his fiancee and asked that Ranni check in on Malenia. Gather whatever news, any news, good or bad. He then led his younger brother to a bench where they could talk.
Miquella talked and Godwyn listened.
Miquella's separation from his twin was taking its toll. She was his soul friend and playmate and not for lack of trying on the part of the Golden Order. They tried to introduce the boy to other youngsters in the interest of bonding him with a shadow, but Miquella rejected all of them.
"An empyrean cannot be a shadow. And how would she learn to fight to protect you?"
Radagon's stance was that Miquella would bond to a shadow in his own time. For now, do what they can to keep Malenia as healthy as possible if only to make Miquella happy.
"You shouldn't fret, Little Brother," said Godwyn. He wiped a tear from Miquella's eye. "We all love Malenia."
"Father doesn't!" exclaimed Miquella. "He only cares about the Golden Order. Everything Tricia tries has to first follow his stupid precious Golden Order. And it's not fair."
"Miquella, don't say that out loud."
"Why not? Someone has to," said Miquella.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to go find Mr. Margit and make sure he's okay. At least he cares."
Ranni came out of the palace at this time and asked where Miquella was going.
"He has to figure this out himself," said Godwyn. "How's our sister?"
"In poor shape. They do not believe they can save the arm this time."
Godwyn pulled Ranni in close for a hug.
The wild garden wasn't a large area, but it had confusing paths of overgrowth. Still, if Malenia managed to find her way through it, Miquella didn't feel he would have any problem. He came soon to the spot where he and Malenia played. Already, there was a patch of yellowed grass where his sister lay.
Further in the woods, Miquella heard weeping. Not surprising how poorly those fanatical guards treated poor Mr. Margit. Maybe Tricia might have something to help him too.
He pulled back the weeds but soon hid himself.
Margit was there, on his knees, with his face in his hand as he cried. Before, Miquella hadn't had an opportunity to look at him, but now he saw the twisted horns, gray fur, and long, torn cape, it terrified him. Margit was an animal! One that Miquella had never seen before. Yet oddly human at the same time.
There was also Queen Marika. She stood over Margit with her face covered over by her long blond hair, and one hand rested on the creature's head. Despite his horns, Marika embraced Margit and allowed him to cry in her bosom. Margit wrapped his arms around her waist like a young child looking for comfort.
"Mama," Margit sobbed.
Know, my Friend, that impure and defiled things are not fit for our work; for their Leprosy, can be no help in our operations; that which is good is hindered by that which is impure. - Basil Valentine (Alchemist).