Today was supposed to be a glorious day. The moment he became a true man, a messenger of God and faith. The chance to seek glory and to bring God’s righteous wrath upon the hated Muslims that had the holy city in their filthy grasp. He was to ride on the hundreds of ships pointed at the Holy Land in the name of God and all that was holy. He was to be a hero.

But no. Such a thing would not be brought to his life. This holy duty was to be denied to him.

After all, he had been struck down by an illness beyond recovery, one that the healers were unable to diagnose as of yet and had forced him to stay confined in his bed. All the while continuously sapping away all of his money, resulting in his family becoming more and more destitute with each passing day.

He hated this. All of this. Especially with the wise-woman constantly prodding his sores with a needle. Each time she did so, fire and pain flared up in his chest.

“If you are done…” He growled. “I would appreciate it if you were to focus more on my treatment than fulfilling your curiosity, woman.”

“I cannot give out a cure until I can determine the cause of such pain and disease,” the wise-woman chastised. But she complied. The wooden stick in her hand went back into the hand basket. Then, she pulled out another stick, this one of a dark yellow.

“Now, I will need you to put this into your mouth,” she said as she hung the stick over his mouth.

With great reluctance, he opened his mouth. The stick went into his mouth and–

Salt. Bitterness. All the nastiness a woman can stick into a man’s mouth.

He gagged and spat out the disgusting stick. Heretical, that thing.

The wise-woman raised her eyebrows.

“Vile witch!” He shouted. “Are you trying to poison me?!”

“Patience, good sir.” She tittered as she went and picked up the stick, before a frown erupted on her face. “Oh my.”

“What is it? What have you discovered?! Answ–” Anything else that would have come out of his mouth was cut down by a rush of wet coughs. The wise-woman stepped back away from the phlegm that flew out of his mouth, waiting until he finished. Then, she took a deep breath and spoke.

“Your illness is dangerous. I do not know of any words to signify how badly off you are now.” She said cautiously, stuffing the stick away into the hand-basket. “I do not believe you will be well anytime soon. How long, only God can say.”

“What?!” He gasped. “What are you trying to say?”

“That you are not going to get better, not at your rate.” The wise-woman spoke as she began to pack up her hand-basket. “If anything, that bed might be your grave.”

“W-what?” All life escaped his body as he processed her words. This bed would be his grave? This light cough and a few sores was going to kill him?

No, that can’t be. He can’t be dying, he couldn’t! He was destined for better things! He had to save the holy city that was held captive by those filthy heretics! He could not die here!

He reached out to grab her sleeve. “You have to be able to heal me! Please!”

She shook her head and shook off his grip. Then, the woman stood and turned. Where was she going? Was she leaving? That couldn't be the case, she still needed to cure him! She couldn’t just give up for no reason!

“If I were you, I would pray to God for mercy. There is no other recourse. The only thing you can do now is rot in your bed and give your last wishes to your wife and child.”

She paused once more, before turning back to him. “ If you truly care for your family, then there is only one thing you can do at this point. Tell them to leave you behind. Nothing can reach you now, except to vanish permanently.”

What? Did she… no. No, he had to have misheard.

“Y-you don’t mean–”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“If the pain of your rot becomes too much, there is always the afterlife,” she said, “That would be my suggestion, at the very least.”

A pause. Then, rage filled his body.

“Vile witch! I will–no!” He roared as he fought his body to stand up, do anything. “Out of my house! I will not heed your vile words any longer!”

The woman didn’t say anything back with those words. Not a single breath was made from her as she turned around and looked back at him. There was no anger on her face, no pain, no fear.

There was only pity.

And that look alone made his heart sink down into the depths even more.

“God be with you.”

Those were the words that stayed in the air as she pushed open the door and exited. She left the doorway open, letting in the cold winds into his room.

The witch! What was the point of calling her when she had left without doing a single thing? He should have pummeled her. He should have cursed her to death. He knew that fire of anger, the rage that brought power to his head and body. But now?

There was no fire. There was only cold.

He couldn’t understand. He couldn’t feel any heat.

All he could feel was despair.

Was this it? Was this his life? Was he doomed to rot away in this bed, stuck and unable to move? Was this truly the plan God laid out for him, that he was to die pitifully and hopelessly of an incurable disease?

No, this could not be everything. There had to be something else, anything. He had to recover, he had to!

But how? There didn’t seem to be any other path left. The priests were not willing to meet him, for he did not have the funds necessary to call one over. Not even the promise of donating all of his earnings from the Crusade was enough to bring a single one of the holy men over, all of them claiming that they could not come as he could not provide the holy provisions to get God to bring salvation.

The witch was no use. Granted, he knew the witch would be useless. The only reason he let her in was because his wife called her out of desperation. If she had a cure, it would be unholy and against God’s will. There was no reason to rely on heathens.

That was his thought on the first day.

Then things changed a few weeks later.

After all those days, his condition worsened. His heavy wheezing turned into gasps for air. His body was failing him every day. His strength got worse and worse. Blood began to pour out of his mouth. He could feel the cold touch of death stroking his back.

He couldn’t even get out of the bed anymore, as his arms and legs were too weak to carry his weight. No, the only thing he could do at this point was lay on his bed and cough.

Tears formed on his eyes as another round of hard coughs escaped his body once more. He struggled to pick himself up from the bed, only to fall back down once more.

He was weak. He was dying. This… was this the end?

He looked down at his body. The muscular arms he spent training with a wooden pole and sword for the hopes of one day becoming a warrior. The strong legs that were built by running and trudging through the forest to build up his endurance. The tough body was forged from years of farming, woodworking, and masonry.

All of these traits and experiences that helped define who he was. All of these efforts to go to the dream of protecting his family and doing as God had defined for all.

All of that was gone. His body had weakened to the point he was nothing but skin and bones. All of his strength was gone and he had to watch his wife and son suffer trying to make ends meet.

Another round of coughs. Another dash of blood on his beard. Another session of severe pain throughout his chest.

His body was failing. His spirit was breaking. His dreams were being dashed to nothing.

Was this how he was going to die? Was this how his life was meant to end? Was this… Was this God’s plan for him all along?

He… he…

He would not accept this. This could not be what God intended for him!

Something burned inside his chest and he found the strength to push himself off the bed. His breath escaped his body when he slammed into the ground and pain exploded throughout his core, but he didn’t let that stop him.

His arms found purchase and he started to drag himself towards the door. He forced himself to move with all the remaining energy in his body, even as his fingers felt like breaking with each move.

He… he was not going to die like this! He was not going to let this disease ruin his spirit! This must all be a trial from God, a mission to test his resolve!

There was no way that his death would be something so pathetic, so wretched. He had to be destined for bigger things… not this!

He refused to die like a coward! He was going to live, no matter what!

He reached the door, fighting for every bit of distance to reach the knob. There was a struggle to find his grip, but the entryway was able to be yanked open.

He found himself staring up at a blinding light. Someone standing in the brightness, looking down at him.

A voice entered his head.

“Your will has been heard.”

Heat began to surge within his chest. Then, fire erupted throughout his whole body.

He could feel the flames burn away at every bit of his body. He could feel each of his limbs being twisted and warped as the world seemed to swirl.

Then darkness overtook his vision.