Plague Doctors: Beginning of the End-Chapter 20 - : Make over

The landscape was a vast, frozen expanse, blanketed in a thick layer of snow that crunched underfoot with every step. The air was bitingly cold, each breath visible as a puff of vapor that hung in the stillness before dissipating. Scattered trees, their branches heavy with snow, stood like silent sentinels in the white wilderness, their dark forms stark against the pale backdrop. The sky above was a muted gray, the sun a faint, diffused glow behind the clouds, casting the world in a soft, eerie light.

Micah moved steadily through the snow, his boots sinking slightly with each step but his pace unwavering. In his arms, Petra lay cradled close to his chest, her massive frame—seven feet five inches of muscle and bone, weighing nearly five hundred pounds—supported effortlessly by his seven-foot frame. Her face was turned away, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. One might have thought she was scanning the horizon for danger, but another might have guessed she was avoiding his eyes, too shy or perhaps too proud to face the reality of her vulnerability.

"Sooner or later, you'll get tired," Petra said, her voice low and gruff, though there was a hint of something softer beneath the surface. She shifted slightly in his arms, her movements careful, as though she feared her weight might finally prove too much for him.

Micah's breathing was steady, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that betrayed no strain. "Listen to my breathing," he replied, his voice calm and reassuring. "Don't worry yourself, maiden. I'll be fine."

Petra snorted, a sound that was both dismissive and self-assured. "I'm heavy, boy," she said, as though stating an irrefutable fact.

"And I'm strong, orc," Micah shot back, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips beneath his plague mask. His strides remained even, his movements fluid and unburdened, as though he carried nothing more than a feather.

"You're a cocky one," Petra muttered, her tone laced with a mix of irritation and reluctant admiration.

"No," Micah corrected, his voice carrying a note of quiet confidence. "I'm confident. And in my own right."

There was a shift in his demeanor, something subtle but unmistakable. Perhaps it was his ego, bolstered by her dependence on him, or perhaps it was the weight of her vulnerability that had stirred something deeper within him. Whatever it was, Petra couldn't help but feel a flicker of unease. It was as though, in this moment of weakness, she had handed him a kind of power over her—a power she wasn't entirely comfortable with.

"Look," she said, her voice softening as her eyes dampened with unshed tears. "I want to be there for Mer and Rowa. But as much as we're approaching orc territory, those driders aren't the only things lurking around. In fact, I guarantee you, worse is coming. You won't be able to protect us both, so leave me and stay by them."

Micah's grip on her tightened slightly, his hands firm against her thigh and arm. The shift was subtle, but Petra noticed it, her eyes widening in surprise. His voice, when he spoke, was different—steadier, more resolute, like a promise sealed by an oath. "No," he said firmly. "You're going home. I'll make sure of it."

His chest and arms were warm, the heat of his body seeping through the layers of fabric between them. There was something about the way he held her, the way he spoke, that made her feel as though he wasn't just carrying her with his arms but with his very soul. It was a peculiar trait, one she hadn't expected from a human.

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"Why are you so stubborn?" Petra asked, her voice tinged with exasperation.

"And why are you so pretty?" Micah countered, his smirk audible even beneath the mask.

Petra sighed, turning her head further away. She had no response to his remark, and while he had intended it as a lighthearted jest, he could sense her discomfort. There was a blush creeping up her cheeks, but it was accompanied by a tension in her body, a stiffness that told him she didn't appreciate the compliment. For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy and awkward.

"Mmh," Micah murmured, breaking the quiet. "I'm sorry."

Petra's pointed ear twitched at the tip, a subtle sign that she was listening.

"That was inappropriate of me," Micah continued, his voice sincere. "And insensitive. It wasn't the first time I made you uncomfortable, and I won't repeat it."

His tone had shifted, the confidence still present but now tempered with genuine understanding. He had recognized his mistake, and the apology was heartfelt.

Petra folded her arms, still looking away, but her posture softened slightly. "It's fine," she said, her voice quieter now, less guarded.

Micah's smirk, which had faded into a serious expression, now turned into a light smile. He was pleased with the small step they had taken toward understanding each other. At the very least, her responses were no longer cold and distant, as though he were some repulsive creature. Perhaps to her, he still was, but she no longer made him feel that way.

The snowy landscape around them seemed to grow quieter, as though the world itself was holding its breath. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger and challenges neither of them could fully anticipate. But in that moment, as Micah carried Petra through the snow-covered terrain, there was a fragile sense of connection—a tentative bridge built on vulnerability, understanding, and the unspoken promise that, no matter what lay ahead, they would face it together.

To the northeast of Micah and Petra, Kira and Lyra trudged through the snow, their footsteps muffled by the thick blanket of white beneath them. The silence between them was heavy, almost oppressive, like a vacuum that swallowed sound whole. The air was cold and still, the only noise the occasional crunch of snow underfoot or the distant creak of a tree branch weighed down by its icy burden.

Lyra walked with her head bowed, her shoulders slumped under the weight of her grief. The loss of Piku, the child elf, had carved a hollow space in her heart, one filled with pain and anger. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she fought back tears. The anger burned within her, a fire she could not feed, for she knew that any attempt at vengeance would only lead to her own death. And if she died, the other child elf—Dena—would be left vulnerable, at the mercy of the plague doctors and their cold, calculating cruelty. The thought made her stomach churn, but she had no choice. She had to endure.

Kira, on the other hand, moved with purpose, her gloved hand resting near the handles of her twin katanas. Her eyes darted across the landscape, sharp and vigilant, catching every shift in the environment. A dead branch snapping under the weight of snow, a gust of wind stirring the powdery drifts—nothing escaped her notice. Her plague mask was angled just right, allowing her to keep Lyra in her peripheral vision at all times. She didn't trust the elf, and by her logic, she had no reason to. Trust was a luxury she couldn't afford, not in a world where betrayal could come from any direction.

The silence between them stretched on, broken only by the sound of their breathing and the crunch of snow beneath their boots. Finally, Kira spoke, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. "You didn't tell us you have magic," she said, her tone neutral but probing. The question was odd, perhaps, but necessary. Kira needed to know what she was dealing with, needed to uncover any secrets Lyra might be hiding.

Lyra paused for a moment before answering, her voice cold and distant. "You didn't ask."

Kira's eyes narrowed behind her mask, but she pressed on. "Is the fire you conjured the only form of magic you have?"

"Yes," Lyra replied, her tone flat.

Kira let the silence hang for a moment before asking her next question. "When you were caught, did you use magic?"

"No, girl," Lyra said, her voice tinged with bitterness. "If I had, your kind would've killed me. Or worse." She glanced at Kira, her eyes hard. "I wonder why you're still taking me home anyway."

"It's our mission," Kira replied, her voice steady. "Whether or not you have magic isn't our main concern. Our job is to get you home in one piece."

Lyra didn't respond, her gaze dropping back to the snow-covered ground. The silence returned, heavier than before.

Kira wasn't done. "Does the child have magic?" she asked, her tone sharper this time.

"No!" Lyra snapped, her voice rising slightly. "Just me. She doesn't have magic."

Kira's eyes narrowed further. The quickness of Lyra's response, the slight edge to her voice—it sounded like a lie. Kira couldn't be sure, but she suspected Lyra was trying to protect the child, to shield her from the same scrutiny and danger that Lyra herself faced. It was a noble sentiment, perhaps, but it only deepened Kira's mistrust.

In Lyra's mind, the plague doctors were not to be trusted. They were humans, after all, and humans had been the architects of centuries of suffering for her kind. The memory of Piku's death at Neil's hands was still fresh, a wound that refused to heal. She couldn't shake the fear that this mission was a ruse, that at some point, she would be handed over to face execution. The thought made her stomach twist, but she forced herself to keep walking, to keep moving forward.

Kira, for her part, remained vigilant. She didn't trust Lyra, and she didn't trust the situation. But for now, her duty was clear. She would see this mission through, no matter what. The snow continued to fall around them, the world silent and still, as the two women moved through the frozen wilderness, each lost in her own thoughts, each carrying her own burdens.

Aleck's gaze lingered on Neil as the group moved through the snow-covered terrain, his thoughts a tangled web of suspicion and unease. Neil's actions—his callousness, his willingness to sacrifice Piku—weighed heavily on Aleck's mind. He clenched his mechanical left hand, the gears and pistons within whirring softly as his fingers tightened. The arm, a marvel of steam-powered engineering, was both a tool and a burden, a constant reminder of the past he had tried to leave behind.

The young orc walking beside him, Mer, noticed the shift in Aleck's demeanor. For most of the journey, Aleck had been praying, his rosary beads slipping through his fingers as he murmured prayers under his breath. Even at night, he slept only a few hours before waking to resume his devotions. But now, his attention was elsewhere, his focus fixed on Neil.

Mer hesitated for a moment, his small hands fidgeting nervously. He had been too shy to speak to Aleck before, intimidated by the man's stern demeanor and the imposing mechanical arm that gleamed in the pale winter light. But Aleck had shown him kindness, had even saved his life. That small act of compassion had given Mer the courage to break the silence.

"Your arm is... amazing," Mer said, his voice tentative but filled with awe. He spoke with a mix of restraint and shyness, his tone respectful.

Aleck blinked, pulled from his thoughts, and turned to look at the young orc. "Mhh?" he asked, his brow furrowing slightly beneath his hood.

"Your left arm," Mer repeated, his voice gaining a little more confidence. "It's an amazing device." He held back slightly, unsure of how Aleck would respond, but his curiosity outweighed his fear.

Aleck glanced down at his mechanical arm, the brass and steel gleaming faintly under the gray sky. He flexed his fingers, the gears clicking softly as they moved. "Oh, uhm, thank you, orc," he said, his tone neutral but not unkind.

"Mer," the young orc said quickly, almost eagerly. "My name is Mer." He stood a little taller, his chest puffing out slightly as he introduced himself. Aleck's friendly response had emboldened him, making him feel like more than just cargo being escorted.

Aleck opened his mouth to respond, but Mer interrupted him, his excitement bubbling over. "Aleck!" he exclaimed, then immediately recoiled, realizing he might have overstepped. "Sorry," he mumbled, his voice quieter now. "I heard your friends call you that."

"Right," Aleck said, his tone calm but distant.

Mer's eyes lingered on the mechanical arm, his fascination undiminished. "It's marvelous," he said, his voice filled with wonder. "Connected to your heart too. What a work of art."

Aleck's expression darkened, and he let out a sigh, the sound heavy with something unspoken. "No," he said, his voice low and tinged with bitterness. "This contraption is no work of art. It's a shell, a reminder of... what I was, what I lost."

The weight of his words hung in the air, and Mer immediately regretted his enthusiasm. He took a step back, falling slightly behind Aleck as they walked. He wanted to apologize, to take back his careless words, but he didn't know how. Instead, he stayed quiet, his small shoulders slumping as he stared at the ground.

Aleck noticed the shift in Mer's demeanor and felt a flicker of guilt. He wanted to explain, to tell the young orc that he wasn't angry at him, but the words wouldn't come. After all, Mer was just an orc, a creature Aleck barely knew. Why should he dredge up painful memories for someone he might never see again after this mission?

Instead, Aleck reached into his leather pocket and pulled out his rosary, the beads smooth and familiar in his hand. He began to murmur the Apostle's Creed, the words a comfort in the cold, silent wilderness.

Mer walked quietly beside him, his earlier excitement replaced by a somber understanding. The snow continued to fall around them, the world silent and still, as the two moved forward, each carrying their own burdens, each lost in their own thoughts.