Black Chasm

The town had fallen ill.

Black Chasm, as it was called. Named for the lesions; thick, leathery, and a rotten black.

It happened so quick. Everything happened so quick. One day things were normal. The next, someone was sick. The next, the town was under lockdown.

The people who arrived were silent. We recognized the masks, of course. But they were like automatons, cautious, halting, strict. We witnessed the strap of one’s mask break, and they were dragged off in seconds. I don’t know if any among us ever caught even a glimpse of one’s face. But they stood outside our doors, on our walls, in our city hall. We were without authority in our own land. The healthy among us were secreted away without so much as a word of where they were going. The rest of us began to see them as death.

They would come into our home, leave lit candles with strange scents and markings on the walls. They chanted curious rites and special words for the god Sylri. We knew her name, we knew her practices, but the incantations they spoke were alien to us. We would try to talk to them, and most would grant us only sorrowful, fleeting glances, unwilling to touch our forsaken souls. Those few who spoke to us did so like hospice workers; soft, honeyed words to ease the strain, and little more. Altogether, it was unbearably silent. I don’t know if I blame them for that. Holding the hand of the dying isn’t easy.

Those who stepped outside were met with blades and bows. There were guards posted at every street, and even in those brief openings in their patrols there was something else directing them. You could slip through your door in perfect silence and make for the wall without a single person laying eyes on you, and yet there’d be tens of guards there when you arrived at the edge of town, waiting to drag you back to your prison. I would see their shadows pass my windows every night.

I tried to stay calm. Remain in my home. Perhaps they would have some cure for us, and needed only for us to stay put. Perhaps they truly were going to put us to death. I didn’t know.

I just waited. I waited until they took my child from me. I fought, of course I did, but not for long. I was so weak that even standing was a herculean task. I watched them carry her off towards the edge of town. They told me that she was going to be saved.

The next night, that woman, with the long hair and the odd armor. She came into my home late at night, gently roused me from my sleep. She was silent as death, and carried with her a vial of glinting silver fluid. She urged me to drink from the flask, and I did. She quietly left.

I could feel my limbs getting cold. A familiar, creeping sensation. With the last of my strength, I stepped out into the night. The stars were so bright against the dead-black silhouette of the town, every lantern extinguished. Ravens attended every street corner, glittering, watchful violet eyes. A cat in an alley stared at me like I was from another world.

I took as deep a breath as I could of the chilly winter air, and felt the smooth cobbles on my feet for the last time. I looked on at a procession of guards marching with stretchers towards the far side of town.

I slipped to my knees, gazing into the glowing horizon.

There was a fire, at the edge of town.