CHAPTER 5: KNOWLEDGE OF SUFFERING
“He is death’s disciple, death’s apostle, and death’s heretic! He is the sworn knight of Time and Blood! He is consort to Red Dawn and Ivory Dusk! He is the first and final of his kind. He is between diamond and dirt. He will guard the… the… oh Fixed Stars…” - Testimony of Jude the Sibylline to the Hidden Choir.
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Cole sat on a too-small wooden cott and felt himself growing sick. Staring out at the surrounding clinic with tired eyes, the Paladin watched as infected people were shepherded into the quarantine ward. Still wearing armor, Cole tried to sit still, fearing any sudden movement of his steel-clad bulk would splinter the flimsy cott he rested on. He’d been offered a private room when such things were being decided but declined. The Temple would be squeezed for space, having to give up two full wards to the quarantined. They’d need their private rooms for the traditionally sick and dying. So he sat alone, wondering if the slight shiver he experienced was from being slightly damp or slightly diseased.
His armor had been covered in wyvern blood and similar filth, so he’d been doused in cleaning tonics and cold water. Of course, he could have changed out of the soaked armor and underclothes, but healthy paranoia told Cole to suffer the discomfort if it meant staying prepared. This wasn’t his usual paranoia either; after Natalie left, a messenger arrived with a letter bearing the mark of Uncle Trickster. The note contained worrying details about a new variant of plague and what little information Argentari knew about events. Later inside the clinic, when Cole got word of the missing wyvern, he felt morbidly vindicated in keeping his armor on. The night’s horrors might only be starting.
Cole shivered violently, and the room swam around him. Shutting his eyes, Cole fought the nausea overtaking him. Hands set on his knees, Cole debated calling upon his power. It would dull his suffering and maybe help his body fight the infection, but somehow that felt like a waste. Argentari’s note said everyone infected needs to be magically cleansed within an hour of exposure or risk a terrible affliction. Using his remaining power to steady himself seemed terribly selfish to Cole; he’d keep his reserve for when it was truly needed.
A familiar voice forced Cole to open his eyes. “Wow, you look like shit.”
Alia Cat-eyes stood in front of him, sporting the red welt of quarantine on her forehead. Grunting in acknowledgment, Cole said. “I’ve had the plague before; this is only the start.”
Grimacing, Alia squatted down next to him and rubbed her marked forehead. “Mina wants you; the healers need anyone with magical power, but they are too intimidated to ask you directly.”
Sighing, Cole got to his feet, “They are running low already?”
Nodding, Alia tried to pull herself up and nearly toppled over. Cole gripped her forearm and helped steady her. Cursing, Alia muttered. “Gorey guts! I thought the healers said we had half a day before the symptoms really started!”
Cole grimly replied. “These are just the precursors; we’ll be puking up blood and developing buboes by the morning.”
Alia lost a little of her braggadocio at the thought and lulled behind Cole. She caught up to him just as Cole left the ward and passed into the clinic atrium. The well-lit space held dozens of Priests and Magi sorting through over a hundred scared-looking vindabonites. Plague wardens brought in new batches of confirmed infected who were cleansed by the magically gifted and sorted into the wards by mundane healers. The whole thing had a rhythm to it, reminding Cole strangely of a guild workshop or something similar.
Mina was standing near the atrium’s center, aiding a line of infected that stretched from her to the chamber’s entrance. Cole approached her and slipped off his gauntlets, hooking them to his belt. “What can I do to help?”
Blinking up at him, a shockingly weary-looking Mina took a moment to register his words. “Oh! Uh, just put your hand on the infected and let a little power wash over them.”
Whispering slightly, she elaborated. “It’s kinda like freeing someone, but you must go slower. Just letting the power flow through them completely.”
Nodding, Cole approached the line of worried people and winced when they shied away from him. Grunting in annoyance, Mina grabbed one of the patients and pulled him towards Cole. Muttering, “We don’t have time for this.” before addressing the crowd, “Okay, people, this is the Paladin you’ve probably all heard about; he’s really powerful and can cleanse people as well.”
The grabbed patient was handed off to Cole, who put a huge hand on the man’s forehead. Shutting his eyes, Cole peered into the Aether and tried to follow Mina’s advice. Icy power flowed out from Cole and into the man’s body, forcing him to shudder and shiver. Where freeing a soul was like breaking the last bonds between flesh and ephemera, this was more like bathing a person in power. Letting a wave of steady cold energy touch the body, mind, and soul.
As the wave passed through the man’s flesh, something inside him reacted. Cole frowned as he sensed another presence, a flicker of awareness hiding within the Aether. It was like some creature poked out of its burrow to sniff the air before scurrying away. A primitive mind hid in the patient, an alien intelligence using his body and soul as camouflage. Cole’s frown deepened as he chased the presence with his power. Twice more, it showed itself, noticing his approaching magic and trying to flee. But now Cole saw the logic of Mina’s instructions. By bathing the patient’s soul slowly and totally, he could catch the slippery invader and scour it away.
Metaphysical cold closed in on the parasite, trapping and eventually crushing it to nothingness. As Cole’s power settled over the patient fully, no signs of the invader could be seen, the simple intelligence destroyed by a Paladin’s will. Once he was certain no trace remained, Cole let his power dissipate and opened his eyes. His first patient was violently shivering, and plumes of frost came out with every breath.
Mina sighed and stepped forward, putting her own hand on the man’s forehead. His breath returned to normal, and his shivering slowed. Guiding the man towards some of the healers, Mina looked over her shoulder and said. “You might be too powerful for this.”
Wincing, Cole looked at the line of very nervous-looking petitioners, each starting to second guess if they should undergo cleansing. Alia, of all people, stepped up then. “Quit your whinging! I had sunburns on every centimeter of my body when Sister Sun’s Priests cleansed the demonic taint from me! A little cold is survivable; the next stage of the plague is not.”
The belligerent Cat-blood did little to calm the crowd, so Cole tried next. “I’ve never used my power like this before. I was excessive with my first attempt; I’ll be gentler from here on out. Please, the city's Priests are being run ragged; help me help them.”
Compared to Cat-eye’s piss-and-vinegar approach, Cole seemed reasonable to the scared citizens. Mina returned to the cue just as Cole finished cleansing his third patient. Each of them was shivering but not teetering on the edge of hypothermia like the first one. Cole was learning quickly; it took little magical energy to cleanse a person, just time and focus. Where freeing a soul felt like reaching out and snapping a small rope, this was more like trying to paint a large surface.
As he worked, Cole started to better understand healing magic and its complexities. He knew most forms of arcane healing worked by simply enhancing a body's natural ability to repair itself; now Cole understood why. The myriad interconnecting systems making up a body exist in a shockingly precarious equilibrium; a heavy hand could much easier harm than help. In these early stages of infection, Cole couldn’t even sense the virulent pestilence, let alone attack it. Only the strange pseudo-mind attached to the infection was visible in the Aether. It wasn’t the plague, as Cole first assumed, but rather a spirit or something similar using the plague as an anchor.
The crude working Cole and every other spell-weaver in the city were doing didn’t cure the plague; it simply cut the spirit's connection and rendered the disease relatively mundane. It was still a variant of the plague and could kill quickly, but those treated wouldn’t lose their minds to some occult madness.
By the twenty-sixth patient, Cole felt an ugly headache growing behind his eyes. His reserves of power were still reasonably intact, but the constant use of magic was mentally draining. Yet despite his and Mina’s effort, the line of nervous infected hadn’t shrunk at all. Every cleansed person was replaced by another needing treatment. So when the screaming started, Cole felt something almost like relief. Quickly quashing the emotion out of shame, Cole ran towards the sound. The crowd of infected quailed away from him as the Paladin buckled on his gauntlets and returned to something familiar.
The hallway outside the clinic stunk of blood and fear. Cole pushed through, panicking civilians trying to flee something at the hallway’s end. Gritting his teeth, Cole heard the screams grow louder and louder, a small choir of primal pain echoing down the stone passage. Reaching the end of the crowd, Cole found a battle raging. A trio of beleaguered plague warden Templars held the hallway from a dozen Screamers. Armed with shields and cudgels, the soldiers tried to keep the infected back without injuring them.
Running towards the Templars, Cole got a better look at the horror beyond them. Sprays of fresh blood covered the hallway's walls, floor, and ceiling. Broken bodies with ripped-open throats lay on the ground, silver flames licking at the corpses, stopping them from rising as Grinners. Cole took in those details, preferring them to looking at the Screamers. Eyes bulging, mouth foaming, the Screamers wore expressions of psychotic agony. A horrendous expression, especially on children. The Screamers were young, the eldest no older than twelve. It appeared weaker flesh translated to faster infection.
One of the Screamers, a young boy, lunged for the middle Templar, bloodstained milk teeth eager to rip into living flesh. Fast as the child was, Cole was faster; he shoved the Templar aside and caught the Screamer on an armored gauntlet. The scrabbling, screaming child tried to bite through the Hakon steel, and Cole gripped the infected kid by the scruff of his shirt. Hauling the boy bodily into the air, Cole flared his power and looked into the Aether.
Hate and pain made up the child’s world. Every emotion and thought was washed aside by a feral madness pouring into the boy’s mind. The pain’s source wasn’t hard to find; something clung to the child’s soul. Barbed rat tails wrapped around and through the boy’s soul, roots of a metaphysical parasite extending out of its victim and floating in the Aether.
Cole had often swum in the Atredian Sea and encountered sea jellies. The parasite’s body reminded Cole of the squishy stinging creatures, with a bulbous ‘torso’ textured like rotting brains and colored in various visceral red shades. A hundred or more rat tail tendrils dangled down from the body and enclosed the boy’s soul, while a leech-like mouth capped the torso, suckling on the Aether, leaving a patch of bruised ephemera around its greasy fanged maw.
Reeling in disgust, Cole poured power into his free hand and thrust the frosted limb into the parasite. The Cold of Entropy licked out at the abomination and turned its mottled flesh black wherever it touched. A noise that wasn’t a noise rippled through the Aether as the parasite squealed in pain, tightening its grip on the boy’s soul. Dawning horror spread over Cole as he saw the infected soul start to bulge and split. Pulling his hand back, Cole saw the barbed rat tails stop moving, settling back into place. The message was clear, Cole might be able to kill the parasite, but it would rend the child’s soul apart as revenge.
Dropping his Aether sight, Cole barked at the Templars. “One of you find a healer and some ether or dwale. We need something to knock these people out before they hurt anyone else.”
The Templar he’d pushed out of the attacking child’s way did as commanded and bolted down the hallway. Shoving the infected boy back, Cole widened his stance and prepared to help hold the hallway. Helped by two unarmored and panicked Templars, Cole tried to dance on a knife's edge. He couldn’t hurt the children or let them hurt anyone. So desperately, the Paladin tried to keep himself the object of the infected’s wrath.
Thankfully someone \shut the doors leading out of the hallway, trapping the Screamers between sturdy wood and less sturdy soldiers. Fully armored, Cole worked to keep the children focused on him. Swinging out in wide foreshadowed strikes the infected could dodge. The two Templars were clad only in medical leathers, and Cole was still wearing his armor. Once again, paranoia was proving its merit.
Shoving a Screamer back into the small crowd, Cole winced as a pre-teen girl hit the ground hard. One of the Templars stepped forward on instinct, and three children leaped for him. Cole knocked one away, but the other two latched onto the Templar. Small but shockingly strong jaws bit into the Templar’s leg and chest. The medical leathers caught the chest bite, but the literal ankle-biter drew blood. A new source of screams joined the infected children as the Templar stumbled back, trying to kick the attacking child free. Much to the Templar and Cole’s horror, they succeeded and sent the child sprawling to the ground.
In answer to Cole’s unspoken prayer, the Templar he’d given orders to returned then, carrying a large bottle. Showing the initiative, the Templar carefully uncorked the bottle and poured some of the substance onto his gloved hands and arms. Charging forward, the Templar handed the bottle to Cole before wrapping two children in strange hugs, smothering their faces in the doused leathers. Cole mimicked what the Templar had done and handed the bottle off before finding his own Screamers to subdue. The soporific did its work quickly, and soon, the hallway’s defenders knocked out all the children.
Looking over the scene of madness, Cole grit his teeth and watched as more healers and templars filled the hallway. The unconscious children were carried away, strong leather cords binding their hands and feet. Cole watched this disturbing sight briefly before going to the brutalized corpses and quickly freeing their souls. As he worked, Cole tried not to notice how similar some of the victims looked to the infected children. Parricide was a cursed crime, especially when the killers had no choice in the matter.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Removing his gauntlets, Cole shut glassy eyes and tried to give the dead a modicum of respect. Corpse-tenders wrapped in plague leathers came then, hauling the ruined bodies away as similarly clothed cleaners tried to mop up the puddles of blood.
Finally, Cole left the hallway and returned to the clinic, splattered with blood, reeking of ether; he looked even more intimidating than before. His headache was growing fast, a pulse of pain behind the eyes matching his heartbeat. Trying to ignore the throbbing discomfort, Cole focused on the clinic atrium. The crowd of infected was smaller than before, only by virtue of the incident in the hallway blocking new arrivals. Sighing, Cole returned to where Mina was still working and joined the Priestess. Time was running out, soon others would be transformed into Screamers, and the whole nightmare would start again.
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Yara sat next to a large marble statue of a hound sitting on its haunches. Staring up at the carved canine, the thrall let out a sigh and a shiver. She’d been taken from the Final Flagon and brought to the Tenth Temple’s plaza for testing and sorting. A beak-masked plague warden jabbed her forehead three times with his silver-capped staff, making the skin tingle uncomfortably each time but not creating the signature welt of infection. Despite helping Priestess Mina gather and destroy tainted clothes, despite repeated exposure in the tavern and on the transport cart, Yara wasn’t sick.
Rationally she felt happy about that; she remembered when the Plague swept through Glockmire and took its grim toll. But her clean status created several new problems she was currently trying to solve. Chiefly was the fact she couldn’t enter the Temple since it was being used as a quarantine center, and she couldn’t find her new mistress.
Natalie vanished into the Temple while Yara was being tested, and now the thrall could not reach her mistress. This involuntary separation from Natalie weighed more on Yara than the fact she might be forced to sleep in the Temple statue garden. Months on the road with Sir Dietrich made most forms of discomfort seem manageable.
At the thought of her original master, a throb of distress went through Yara. She missed him dearly and found her current situation confusing and distressing. Dietrich rescued Yara from a miserable life, giving her purpose and security. She’d served him the best she could and would gladly die to free him. But layered over that deep loyalty was something new, the bond with Natalie.
Natalie rejected and scorned Yara at every opportunity. Only bothering to give Yara a taste of Sting once a week. Even going so far in her rejection of Yara to not even drink her blood. The thrall actually saw her new mistress spit offered blood into a wash sink on multiple occasions. An act that acutely reminded Yara how useless and unwanted she was.
As the Temple bell struck out the hour, Yara forced herself to get up from the cool stone of the statue garden and wander towards the plaza’s edge. Stewing in her own worthlessness wouldn’t change things, so Yara looked for a way to earn a modicum of Natalie’s attention. Where a non-thrall might grow to loathe her mistress for rejecting her, Yara just saw this as confirmation of her own failings and redoubled her desire to prove she held some value.
Reaching the plaza's edge, Yara was stopped by a pair of plague wardens who examined her forehead, seeing the slight pink mark confirming her health. To those free of the plague, the caduceus staff left a small flushed imprint instead of a raised red welt. Confirming she wasn’t infected, Yara was allowed to leave the plaza but given explicit warning of what and where to avoid. Only partially listening, Yara bobbed her head in semi-feigned understanding and left for wider Vindabon.
Walking around a pile of smoking viscera that once was a ghoul, Yara hoped Preceptor Rellim was still awake. She’d set out on this errand to provide the Magi with her sketches and maybe learn some things her mistress would find useful in return. If Natalie wouldn’t accept Yara’s blood or subservience, maybe she’d accept knowledge as tribute.
Yara held only a vague idea of the monolithic city’s layout and was counting on landmarks to guide her. A plan that started to seem a little threadbare as Yara wandered through empty streets, trying to keep relatively on course to her destination. The Ivory Tower of Vindabon was the tallest structure in the city, and it took great effort to go someplace in the metropolis it wasn’t visible. Still, Yara was starting to realize she might have miscalculated. She’d assumed it was like going to Temple back in Glockmire, simply heading towards the tallest building. But instead, navigating Vindabon felt more like a wilderness excursion. Just because you could see a distant mountain, or in this case tower, didn’t mean you could reach it easily.
Despite this, Yara felt little apprehension walking the city streets at night. A lifetime serving the Nocturnal Nobility inured her to all but the most extreme terrors. Of course, the sharp butcher’s knife she’d stolen from the Final Flagon’s kitchen helped. Yara picked up the meat-cutting blade back when the current crisis started and hadn’t bothered to return it. If, gods willing, the knife didn’t see any uncouth use, Yara would try and return it eventually.
Licking her dry lips nervously, scanning the surroundings, Yara kept finding herself amazed and befuddled by Vindabon. The city felt wrong to her; it was too bright, too noisy, just too… too much. It reminded her of an over-active child allowed to grow old and spoiled, never taught to be silent or respectful. Going from precocious to vulgar by merit of its inordinate size and age. Now at least, the shocked city felt slightly more familiar to Yara. The silent streets and covered windows felt right; the fever pitch of Vindabon cooled into something more respectable.
Keeping the Ivory Tower in sight, Yara slipped down a side street and stopped midstride. She wasn’t alone anymore; a trio of people were clustered in the shadow of a building, all kneeling on the ground. Frowning, Yara slowly stepped back; something didn’t feel right about this. Her foot caught on a loose piece of cobblestone, and she stumbled slightly. Catching herself, Yara looked to the kneelers and felt a surge of panic. They were looking at her, and now in the faint glowstone light of the streetlamps, Yara could see the kneelers were covered in blood.
The sticky metallic smell reached Yara then, and her eyes fell on what the kneelers were clustered about. It said something about Yara’s short but arduous life that she instantly recognized the shredded carcass as human. Reaching for her pilfered knife, Yara slowly backed away from the three ghouls. Suddenly feeling very stupid, Yara wanted to flagellate herself for getting into this situation.
All three ghouls slowly got to their feet, fresh blood dripping down their faces and fronts. As one, they charged Yara, a low-building scream rising in their throats. Yara froze, unable to move as the monsters closed in on her, their wretched screaming stunning her in place. Shutting her eyes, Yara flinched, expecting the horrid feeling of dull teeth sinking into her flesh. It didn’t come; even when the screams were so close they physically hurt, Yara wasn’t attacked. Slowly, tentatively, wondering if she was already dead, Yara opened her eyes.
All three ghouls were maybe half a stride from her, still screaming, staring at her with pure hatred. Slowly the screams died down, turning into low rattling wheezes, then heavy breaths. Blinking in confusion, Yara realized something didn’t add up; ghouls didn’t need to breathe. This close to her, Yara’s excellent night vision let her examine the blood-stained creatures in more detail. Their hands and mouths were badly damaged, living blood oozing from dozens of cuts and scrapes while cooling dead ichor dripped down their fronts.
The smallest of the three creatures was once a middle-aged woman with heavy jowls and steel-grey hair; now, her cheeks were split open, and she sniffed at Yara like a confused hunting hound. Still unable to move, Yara let the creature sniff at her neck, right where the thrall carried her marks of service. After a few deep rattling breaths, the creature turned away and returned to its ‘meal.’ The other cannibals did the same, leaving a stunned Yara uncertain of what to do.
Eventually, as the sound of ripping meat and labored eating filled the side street, Yara decided she’d used up any allotment of luck Uncle Trickster provided and needed to return to the Tenth Temple quickly. Slipping out of the alleyway, trying to stop her trembling hands, Yara started retracing her steps. Trying not to run, she moved down the empty streets, wondering if information about strange plague cannibals would be enough to make Natalie show any interest.
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Two more outbreaks of screamers plagued the Tenth Temple that night. Both times, Cole was one of the first into the fray. He used his strength, size, and steel to protect the afflicted and healer alike. The strategy of smothering screamers in fabric soaked in a dwale proved less effective against adults but was better than anything else they tried. So Cole repeatedly grappled with maddened plague victims, trying to force a doused sponge into their mouth without accidentally strangling them. Of course, in comparison to his fellows, Cole’s efforts were going wonderfully; four plague wardens had already lost fingers trying to drug screamers.
As the early hours of the morning arrived, Cole burned through his considerable reserves of magical and physical energy. He briefly considered locking himself in a storage room and committing suicide to reset but decided without Natalie around, it would be too risky. Besides, the number of infected entering the Temple was much smaller; dying to recharge himself felt gratuitous. So eventually, when he alone of the first shift of cleansers still stood working, Cole allowed himself to be guided towards a cott where he collapsed, armor and all.
After four hours of sleep rivaling even Natalie’s torpor in its intensity, Cole awoke in the clinic. The contradictory but equally important need to gain new fluids and expel old ones forced Cole from his slumber and to maintain his body. A dozen new muscle aches greeted Cole upon waking up, a rare experience for his unnatural physique. While he didn’t know the exact details, Cole’s musculature worked more efficiently than a mundane person's. He gained and retained muscle mass easily while rarely experiencing the draining micro-injuries you’d expect from the brutal treatment he put himself through. Another boon from Isabelle’s attempt to perfect the inefficient humanoid form.
Uncertain if the pain was from sleeping in full armor or the plague, Cole did what he usually did and pushed through the discomfort. Trying not to disturb the legions of fellow infected filling the clinic ward, Cole took care of his biological needs and decided to remove his armor. Returning to his cott, Cole slowly removed the different steel pieces. Cole winced in pain as he lifted his arms to take off the pauldrons. Pulling up his tunic, Cole felt a knot of tension build in his throat as he exposed the source of his discomfort. A small but noticeable lump near his armpit. Grimly, Cole knew it was the first among many to come. His lymph glands would continue to swell; he’d grow weak and feverish while coughing and vomiting up blood. Cole vividly remembered the first time he had the plague and was mentally preparing himself for this new round of horrors.
Finally, with the last piece of his armor off, Cole laid back on his cott, his birthday present tucked beneath the makeshift bed until he could clean and store it properly. Staring up at the vaulted ceiling of the ward, Cole swore he could physically feel the contagion spreading within him. As cold shivers passed through him and nausea spun the room Cole settled in for days of suffering and potential death.
Cole didn’t know how much time passed with him lying like that. Only a nurse offering him water and broth upset the monotony of illness. Conserving his energy, Cole tried to focus on the individual symptoms of the disease and mentally chart out their progress. His nature would allow him to experience the full vileness of the plague and report it to those who might put the knowledge to use.
As the Temple bell signaled it was five in the morning, Cole was roused from his pestilent meditation by a gentle hand on his shoulder. Not even opening his eyes, he sat up, which was a mistake punished with nausea. Blinking away the slight film of exhaustion covering his eyes, Cole looked to his rouser and smiled. “Hey, love.”
Natalie wore a heavy frown and looked at Cole with deep-set concern. “How bad do you feel?”
Shrugging, Cole took the glass of water he just realized she was offering. “Bad, it doesn’t feel much different from the normal plague; it just moves much faster.”
Somehow Natalie’s frown grew more intense. “Why… why haven’t you ‘reset’ yourself?”
Glancing around the ward, Cole saw other ailing patients on similar cotts. He was tucked into a back corner of the room but had no privacy. “It’s not necessary; my strength isn’t needed right now. Besides, the Priests and Magi will need as much information about the plague’s progression and symptoms as possible. No one else can gather the knowledge like I can.”
Clicking her tongue in worry, Natalie shook her head. “That doesn’t feel right. A healer’s examination will be just as useful as anything you learn. You suffering through the plague when you have other options is stupid.”
Sucking in a rattling breath, barely suppressing a cough as he did, Cole asked. “Has killing people gotten easier for you?”
Natalie flinched and looked at Cole with startled anger. “What?”
Licking chapped lips, Cole said. “It did for me. I can still remember the faces of the first ten or so people I killed, but the next couple dozen? Just flashes and impressions. Death is like any resource; the more there is, the cheaper it becomes.”
Glancing around, making sure the surrounding patients were asleep or close enough, Natalie asked. “What are you saying?”
Meeting her eyes with a steady gaze despite his sickness, Cole rasped. “Becoming used to death is bad, even…”
Cole whispered in a low voice, only audible to Natalie’s ears: “...my own.”
Biting her lip, not caring how her fangs hurt, Natalie shook her head, sending dark hair bouncing. “No, that’s not right. You don’t need to suffer like this; you have the power to…”
Cole cut her off by squeezing her hand gently. “Power doesn’t corrupt; it alienates. I could do as you suggest and spare myself this indignity, but no one else has that option. If I am needed, I will do everything I can to answer the call, but if not, I won’t cheapen death and, by extension, life.”
Letting out an annoyed huff, Natalie hissed. “I think I understand you, but that doesn’t mean martyring yourself like this isn’t any less stupid. Trying to suffer selflessly like this doesn’t help anyone and just feels borderline masochistic!”
A wet cough mixed with a bitter laugh escaped Cole. “I’m not being selfless; I’m actually being incredibly selfish. I could be up providing aid to others or helping in a hundred other ways. Instead, I’m lying here dying because I fear becoming something even less human than I already am.”
Slipping her hand from Cole’s grip and crossing her arms, Natalie said. “Cole, you are the best person I know; using your gifts more readily won’t change that. Your nature has brought you so much pain; why not let it prevent some for a change?”
Smiling sadly, Cole leaned back on his cott. “Strangely, I think that’s exactly what I’m doing. Natalie, I’m afraid of what I could become if I cheapened my death. It’s better to suffer a little now rather than lose something key to myself.”
Sighing, Natalie asked. “And what would that be?”
Cole stared up at the ceiling and whispered. “Respect for death and those truly beholden to it. It would be very easy to start dismissing those with a single life, to ignore their struggles, and distance myself from them. I won’t let that happen.”
Sitting down on the edge of Cole’s cott, Natalie shook her head and said. “Okay, I think I understand. Just… just know I love you and am here for you.”
Smiling softly, Cole set a hand on Natalie’s thigh. “I know. Good luck speaking with Isabelle.”
Setting her hand on his, Natalie mused on their discussion and her next objective. She’d wanted to check on Cole before speaking with Isabelle, hoping to help him resurrect before the plague got too bad. Now, she had another reason to speak with Isabelle, not just questioning the old monster about the pestilence. Something about Cole’s determination and devotion struck Natalie as… wrong. She’d thought similar back in Glockmire, but events put the notion out of her mind. Now, as more and more of Cole’s origin and nature came to light, a disturbing question entered Natalie’s mind.
How did Isabelle, an amoral scheming Vampire obsessed with foul occult knowledge, create someone like Cole? Not even meaning the certainly dreadful fleshcrafting and soul-weaving that must have taken place. No, how did she create a mind and soul so… noble. Cole seemed perfectly suited to being a Paladin and a hero, so much so that it made Natalie suspicious.
Getting up from Cole’s cott, Natalie kissed her index and middle fingers, then placed them on Cole’s forehead before leaving. More mysteries were blooming around Natalie, and she needed to cut through them before they overwhelmed her.