Plague Doctors: Beginning of the End-Chapter 16 - : Thin ice

The landscape was silent, save for the occasional creak of ancient trees swaying in the bitter wind. Snow blanketed the ground, muffling the world in a cold, unfeeling stillness. The air was sharp, biting at exposed skin, and the sky above was a pale, lifeless gray. It was a place where time seemed to slow, where every breath felt heavier, every step more labored. And in the midst of this frozen expanse, a scream shattered the quiet—a raw, guttural cry that seemed to claw at the very fabric of the air.

Lyra's voice echoed through the atmosphere, a sound so full of anguish that it seemed to freeze the hearts of all who heard it. Her scream was not just a cry of pain; it was a lament, a wail that carried the weight of loss and despair. The others turned, their movements slow and deliberate, as if they were reluctant to face the source of such sorrow. But they could not look away. Lyra fell to her knees, her hands trembling as they reached for the small, lifeless form before her.

Piku lay in the snow, his tiny body broken and still. Blood seeped from his neck and mouth, staining the pristine white around him in a grotesque, crimson halo. His eyes were open, staring blankly at the sky, but there was no light in them, no spark of the vibrant, curious child he had once been. Lyra cradled him in her arms, her fingers brushing against his cold cheeks as tears streamed down her face. She rocked back and forth, her sobs muffled by the thick, oppressive air.

Eli stood a few paces away, his plague mask obscuring his face, but his body language betrayed the turmoil within. His gloved hand tightened around the small, clawed hand of the child orc beside him. The orc child, no older than Piku had been, looked up at Eli with wide, understanding eyes. He could feel the tension in Eli's grip, the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly. The child orc squeezed back, a silent gesture of reassurance, but Eli quickly loosened his hold, as if ashamed to have shown even that small hint of vulnerability. He turned his gaze away, staring off into the distance, his mask hiding the conflict that raged behind his eyes.

Micah, ever the pragmatist, had already turned his attention to the living. He knelt beside Petra, his hands moving with practiced precision as he tended to the deep gash in her leg. She sat stoically, her face a mask of grim determination, though the occasional twitch of her eye betrayed the pain she felt. Micah's voice was calm, almost clinical, as he instructed her to bite down on a strip of bandage. She obeyed without question, her pride set aside in the face of necessity. He worked quickly, cleaning the wound with alcohol and removing shards of chitin and massive hairs with a pair of forceps. Petra's breath hitched, but she made no sound, her years of battle-hardened endurance serving her well. When Micah finished, he secured the wound with a makeshift splint, his movements efficient and deliberate.

"There," he said, his voice steady but not unkind. He glanced up at Petra, who gave him a curt nod of thanks. For a moment, their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them—a mutual respect forged in the crucible of survival.

Hano's voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp and impatient. "Quiet down, elf. You could attract more predators." His tone was cold, almost dismissive, as if Lyra's grief were nothing more than an inconvenience. He stood with his arms crossed, his massive sword strapped to his back, his posture radiating authority. But there was no empathy in his words, no attempt to offer comfort. To him, Lyra's tears were a liability, a risk that could jeopardize their safety.

Lyra's head snapped up, her tear-streaked face contorted with rage. "Don't tell me to quiet down!" she screamed, her voice trembling with fury. The air around her seemed to shimmer, and then, with a sudden burst of heat, white flames erupted from her body. The snow around her melted instantly, steam rising in thick clouds as the ground beneath her feet turned to mud. The flames danced along her arms, their intensity so great that even those standing several feet away could feel their searing heat.

Hano's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the threat. Neil, Kira, and Aleck followed suit, their weapons at the ready. To them, Lyra was an elf—a creature to be feared, not mourned. If she turned on them, they would not hesitate to cut her down.

"It's dead," Aleck said, his voice firm but not unkind. "There's nothing you can do about that. We have to keep moving."

Lyra's eyes burned with a mixture of grief and fury. "It?!" she spat, her voice trembling with rage. "His name was Piku! And he was a kind boy. He just wanted to go back home to his people! Away from you monsters!" Her words were a dagger, cutting through the air with precision. She glared at Aleck, her white flames flickering like a living thing, a manifestation of her pain and anger.

Aleck hesitated, his grip on his weapon tightening. He was a man of faith, a believer in the sanctity of all life, and Lyra's words struck a chord deep within him. He had always struggled with the teachings that elves were little more than animals, and now, faced with the raw humanity of Lyra's grief, he found himself questioning so much he had been taught.

Neil, however, had no such reservations. "Well, we didn't kill it, now did we?" he said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. Even through the mask, his tone was unmistakable, and it was clear that he felt no remorse for Piku's death. If anything, he seemed almost pleased with himself.

Lyra's eyes narrowed, her flames flaring brighter. "You... you did this on purpose, didn't you?" she demanded, her voice low and dangerous. She took a step toward Neil, her movements deliberate, her gaze locked on his.

Neil faltered, his confidence wavering for the first time. "I don't know what you're talking about, elf," he said, though his voice lacked its usual conviction.

"You kicked him a day ago! And today, I saw you throw him at that thing. You wanted him to die," Lyra accused, her voice rising with each word. She took another step forward, the flames on her arms growing hotter, brighter. "You're armed! Trained! Experienced! He was a child, unarmed, scared. If you wanted to, you could've killed that thing, but no, you chose to kill Piku instead."

Neil's mask hid his face, but his body language betrayed his fear. He took a step back, his hand twitching toward his weapon, but he knew better than to draw it. The other plague doctors were watching, their loyalty to him unquestioned.

"Stand down, elf, or die," Hano commanded, his voice cold and unyielding. He stepped forward, his sword half-drawn, his eyes locked on Lyra. Neil, emboldened by Hano's presence, straightened his posture, though his hands still trembled slightly.

Eli, sensing the tension, stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "Listen to me," he said, his tone gentle but insistent. "You do not have to do this. You may be alright with throwing your life away, but think of the other child." He gestured to the young elf standing near Hano, her eyes wide with fear and sorrow, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Lyra's gaze shifted to the child, and for a moment, her flames flickered. The little elf was crying, her small frame trembling as she clutched at the hem of her tattered cloak. Lyra's rage faltered, replaced by a deep, aching sorrow. She looked back at Piku's lifeless body, then at the child who still needed her, and the flames on her arms slowly died away.

She sank to her knees, her shoulders shaking as she wept. The child elf ran to her, throwing her arms around Lyra's neck, and the two of them clung to each other, their tears mingling as they mourned the loss of Piku.

"Let me cremate him," Lyra said, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked up at the plague doctors, her eyes pleading.

Hano opened his mouth to protest, but Aleck cut him off. "We'll allow it," he said, his voice firm. "And Neil will help."

Lyra's eyes flashed with anger. "No! He did this. I don't want him anywhere near Piku. We'll do it ourselves."

Hano's jaw tightened, his frustration evident. "Are you fucking serious?" he snapped, his voice rising. "We don't have time for this! It's dead! If we waste too much time, we'll be found by whatever else is lurking around here!"

Aleck stepped forward, his voice calm but resolute. "It'll only be a moment, Hano. Let them mourn. We're human, and as such, we will treat them humanely."

Hano's eyes narrowed, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. "They're not human, Aleck. And if you've forgotten, I am also a member of the board of surgeons. My opinion counts."

Aleck met his gaze, unflinching. "I am too. And unless the majority here agree with you, we will let the elves cremate and mourn."

The tension between the two men was palpable, their conflicting ideologies clashing in the cold, still air. Hano looked around, his eyes landing on Kira, who stood with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. "Dr. Hano is right," she said, her voice cold and detached. "This is a waste of time."

Neil, eager to align himself with Hano, nodded in agreement. "I stand with Dr. Hano."

Micah, however, stepped forward, his voice steady. "I stand with Dr. Aleck." His words were firm, his conviction clear. He was a man who valued all life, regardless of race, and he would not stand by while others were denied their right to grieve.

Eli, too, added his voice to the chorus. "This is unnecessary. It could divide us. But I stand with Dr. Aleck."

Petra, seated on the ground with her injured leg, looked up at the group. "We, the orcs, stand with Aleck," she said, her voice strong despite her pain.

Hano's face twisted with anger, his frustration boiling over. "Your opinion holds no water, orc!" he snapped, his voice sharp and cutting.

Aleck stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "We are escorting them. They have a say."

Hano clenched his teeth, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He looked around, his eyes scanning the faces of his companions, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might argue further. But then, with a frustrated growl, he turned away, his sword still half-drawn.

Micah moved to help Lyra and the child elf gather wood for the pyre, his movements gentle and respectful. Together, they built a small mound of branches and twigs, placing Piku's body atop it. Lyra began to sing, her voice soft and mournful, a haunting melody that seemed to echo through the trees. The child elf joined in, their voices blending together in a song of loss and remembrance.

As the flames consumed Piku's body, the smoke rose into the sky, a silent tribute to a life cut tragically short. The plague doctors stood in silence, their masks hiding their expressions, but their body language spoke volumes. Some, like Aleck and Micah, felt a deep sense of sorrow and respect. Others, like Hano and Kira, remained stoic, their focus on the mission at hand.

And in the shadows, unseen by the group, the figure watched from a distance. The plague doctor, her mask obscuring her face, observed the scene with a detached curiosity. She took a bite of bread, her movements slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving the group. The smoke from Piku's pyre rose higher, a beacon in the cold, gray sky, and she knew that it would not be long before others took notice.

"Eli Jones, Two driders and with an orc in your hands yet, you stand unscathed. Truly you are formidable," she said.

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The forest was silent once more, but the air was heavy with the weight of what had transpired. The group stood together, united by circumstance but divided by ideology, their journey far from over. And as the flames died down, leaving only ashes in their wake, they knew that the road ahead would be fraught with danger, both from without and within.