Bubonic - The Phobia Theory. [Forum Challenge-Maeryn (and Drysllthen)]

She was six. Long, impossibly bright curls were held in sweet pigtails at the base of her skull.Jade eyes held a sparkling curiosity and love for the world around her. She was the bane of her brothers in those early years. She could easily squeeze herself into the smallest of spaces, only to spring out for surprise tackles and incessant rough housing the moment they strolled by.

She was six.

Her nursemaid had grown weary, sprinting after the child in the midday summer sun. The poor old woman's bones couldn't handle another playful tackle, another game of hide and seek amidst the lush foliage of the garden. She rested in a shady spot, beneath a large tree to watch the procession of a goods caravan depart the estate, and somehow coaxed the wild little thing to sit beside her.

Even so young, Maeryn could tell the woman would soon be fast asleep. In mere moments, her prediction proved correct, and the older woman was soon snoozing soundly. With a wry grin, the girl gently eased away from the protective arm that rested on her shoulder and sprinted closer toward the train of departing carriages.

The dust of the road was kicked up great blooming clouds by the horses around the procession and Maeryn danced in it. The bright sun transformed the ugly dirt to gold in her eyes, and in her mind, she was high in the sky, a Princess prancing through her goldcloud kingdom.

But the dust was soon carried off in the wind and she found herself staring at the empty road, a small pout on her lips. She very nearly turned away, but a black writhing thing in the middle of the path stole her attention. Gingerly she side-stepped toward it, eyes shifting between the black thing and the tree where her maid slept, knowing she'd be in for trouble if she was caught playing in the dirty road.

Satisfied that the woman wasn't going to wake, Mae finally stooped in front of what turned out to be a large, black rat. It didn't flee when she came close, nor when she reached a finger out to stroke along its sleek fur. It couldn't. Inspection proved its head had been injured by either the recently passed hooves, or a wagon wheel.

"Oh you poor, poor thing." She cooed to it with gleaming tears in her eyes. "You shall come home with me. I'll make you better." Gently, she cradled the half-dead rodent in her cupped hands and placed it tenderly in one of the pockets of her dress. Once it was secure and 'comfortable', she marched over and woke the maid. "I'd like to go play in my room now."

For a few days, the estate saw little of the child. She spent hours upon hours alone in her room. She'd stolen a small basket from the kitchen and several white handkerchiefs from the laundry room and made a small bed for her dying friend. She wrapped his little head in small strips of gauze and tried to feed him milk from a small spoon. Her efforts, however valiant, proved to be in vain, for the creature soon stopped breathing. In silent, secret ceremony, a finely dressed Maeryn buried her short-lived friend in a hidden corner of the garden, and spent a long while there, sobbing her little heart out.

Two days later, a shrill scream pierced the halls of the estate, deep in the night. The old nurse tore from a late night check on little Maeryn and sprinted through the castle. "We need a healer! Someone, hurry! Please! A healer!!"

The scene they stumbled into in that quiet, dark bedroom was horrifying. The thin child laid upon her bed, her sheets gathered tightly around her, and soaked with a stinking mixture of sweat, blood, and other bodily fluids. Her smooth pale skin was marred with large patches of small, angry red, broken blood vessels. They covered her eyes and dripped down to her cheeks, blanketed her arms and legs, and trailed in nasty paths across her stomach. A heavy fever was upon her, sweat poured from her brow and stung her eyes unmercifully, but her body shook in violent chills. She didn't seem to be aware of anyone around her, wide bloodshot eyes stayed focused on the wall at the edge of the room.

The only words that escaped her were spoken in a low, hoarse chant, interrupted only by the chattering of her teeth. "My friend is dead, his little black bugs are on me. Make them stop, it hurts. Make them stop, it hurts."

"Help me with her clothing. We need to get her in cold water quickly, so the fever doesn't eat her alive." The healer ordered the maid. The moment they touched her however, Maeryn broke her chanting with a loud, shrill scream of agony and tried to wrench away from them. But she was too weak. Quickly they stripped her of her gown, and the worst horror was exposed. Several large lumps littered her throat, and several more had risen beneath her arms.

Gasping, the healer took a step back, eyes wide and wild. "Get out." He ordered the old woman. "Wake her mother and father, and send for a priest. The plague is on her. She won't last long." She was so small, and he'd seen grown men topple with the sickness. She couldn't survive. But he began treatment none the less. He carried the banshee screaming child out of her quarters and out of the estate, all the way to the dark, cool stream that ran near the garden.

The moment he released her into that cold clear water, Maeryn went silent. Jades fixed on the swirling water around her. Black streamers began retreating from her body, the flea's her little furred 'friend' left behind, washed away. The healer gagged, but little Mae stared at the retreating blackness, transfixed. "Dirty death bugs." She uttered, much to the shock of the man crouched on the shore beside her.

(I suspect this will be my first in a series of background posts about Drysllthen and Garnett. Yay, Steph for inspiring me!)


He heard the scream first, the lad still too newly returned and too high-strung to sleep easily. Visions of his first raids hung fresh in his mind, and he bolted from the bed at the sound, fully dressed before he fully woke.

With the ferocity of youth, he drew his sword and clutched it tight as he crept through the dark estate. Hanging to the shadows, he went unnoticed by the servants, hearing the fear and resignation in their hushed voices. Low whispers forced him to strain his ears to hear over the pounding of his heart, Drysllthen certain someone had been attacked in the estate. Bandits, encroachers from Syrlabat, assassins .. who knew what else lurked here?

He managed to snatch snippets of conversation as he lurked, knowing well very few of the servants would even think to tell him if anything had happened. He was that Valenti boy, the name spoken as a curse, the cause of all Nharati's ills.

"--called for the priest."

His brow furrowed, the burn to know just who needed a priest nearly sending him leaping from the shadows. Knuckles whitened as they gripped the pommel. Speak up, damn it!

"Poor little.."

Frustration nearly errupted in a growl when the words tapered off, only the concentration required to keep his boots from creaking against the wooden floor silencing him. Little?

"Magda .. sheets stickin' to her from tha blood."

Magda was not little, that much the lad knew. Maeryn's nursemaid was a sturdy -

"No." Horror colder than a Nyrthlond winter flooded his veins, the boy not realizing he'd spoken until the startled servants turned to stare at him. Nothing could happen to her.. she was too light, bounding and bouncing through the world as if she could leap from the surface. All the other Wenfrith children had been distant in the brief time since he'd returned, Sapphine too young to accept the strange gangly lad, Derryk old enough to pattern his father some, Deorwulf shy yet...but not Maeryn.

Visions of the golden child launching herself at him the first day after his return danced in his mind, the feel of her thin arms around his chest as she tried, despite the massive difference in size, to wrestle him to the ground. She'd demanded to know about his journies and why he hadn't written her and why she hadn't met him before, the lass born shortly after he'd left. Her irrepressible smiles made all the glares and uncertainty, the loss of Leugeilean and even Caoilfhionn, almost bearable.

"Boy!" He blinked at the snap from one of the servants. "I said, what are you doing out of bed? You know your father don't like you snooping around at night."

That bastard isn't my father.. Fury threatened to take hold, Drysllthen nearly shuddering as it arced through his arms, hands wanting to close around the servant's neck and shake the story from him. But fury isn't what came out, the lad not having to feign the paleness of his cheeks nor the worry in his deep blue eyes. "What's happened to Maeryn?" he asked gently, letting every ounce of his fear for her trickle into his voice. "Please, she's my sister too."

The serving pair would have perhaps been less surprised to find the boy's hands around their necks than that worried request, sharing a glance before a hand fell on Drysllthen's shoulder with a supportive squeeze. Resentful, maybe, but not so hardhearted as all that. "She's taken ill, lad." The elder murmured in hushed tones. "Magda just found her. The healer.." His own worry broke through his voice. "..healer says it's the plague. Yrik's gone to fetch Lord and Lady Wenfrith. Healer's got her out in the stream, and Lady Tenbrook is gatherin' all the cures they can find."

"But the priest?" He was astounded that he could speak, that the words made any sense at all. In his head, the world reeled and tilted, every word of explaination a dagger.

"Just a precaution, lad, just a precaution."

The old man was lying, he could see it in his eyes. He thought she was dead already.

Drysllthen spun from the servant, his hairless jaw set stubbornly as he marched toward his mother's chambers.

"Go back to bed, lad." As if he hadn't heard, he stalked onward, trying to suppress the terror that nearly had his knees buckling. "Are you mad, boy? Yer father will have yer hide for skulking-"

"Let him try." The hiss rolled from his tongue in Leugish, the foreign words sounding a curse to the servant tugging on his arm. Blood drained from the old man's cheeks as he stared fearfully at the Valenti boy, something in those normally calm blue eyes throwing him back a step. All it took was a haughty lift of Drysllthen's chin, and the servant stood down, his head bowed respectfully, his back pressed against the wall to let the boy pass.

With each step, he swore his boots echoed off the walls, hallways seeming to stretch and twist nightmarishly. If he could reach Mother fast enough, Maeryn would survive. If anyone here could keep Maeryn from dying it was her. Please. Burning surged behind his eyes as he came to yet another turn. Which way? Had he gotten turned around? Right or left? Frustration screamed through him as panic mounted, trembling gripping him to the bone. Left.

Relief shuddered through him as he tore down the hallway, finally certain of his way. Without a pause or even a glance at the servant lingering near the door, he pounded on his mother's door, scarcely hearing the voices behind it.

"I told you, be off!" The roar was definitely not his mother's voice, and his hands clenched at the tone. He stared at the thick wood barrier before him. Quieter now, but with no less anger, the voice continued, disgust lacing the words. "It always comes back to Uhtred, doesn't it?"

The silence that answered contained more than words ever could, Drysllthen quite certain he could see the fury and pain on his mother's face through the door.

"Always dear sainted dead Uhtred." The mocking voice moved across the room away from the door, the annoyance audible in each bootfall. "Never did the slightest thing wrong."

"Leave." Garnett's calmness in that single word surprised him, the boy quite certain had that tone been addressed to him that he'd be running for the door. One did not cross Mother when she used that particular voice.

"I'd wager you never told him to leave, did you, my sweet wife?" The deliberate cruelty in his stepfather's voice made his stomach churn. Offense for the sake of his mother and father nearly blinded him as it went on, Drysllthen unable to breathe, Maeryn half-forgotten only for that instant. "No, you begged for his touch. Why is it you never beg for mine?"

"Because it's as pleasant to me as a week-old fish. Get ou-" A sharp slap that cut her off reverberated through the door, and without a thought, Drysllthen launched at it, full weight slamming into it twice before he broke the latch.

With rage in his blue eyes. he tumbled into the room. He glared as his stepfather turned, the man gone pauchy with age, once dark hair greying. Garnett's right cheek blazed red where his hand had struck, her own clasped tight before her as she stared at the broken door. Jade eyes widened at the sight of Drysllthen, and he saw relief.

"What the devil are you doing in here, boy? GET OUT!"

Impassively, he ignored the old man's roar to focus on his mother, the horror that had sent him scrambling through the hallways looming once more. "Maeryn is ill." His voice seemed to come from somewhere outside himself, somewhere calm and coherent, separate from the rage and fear that had his veins alternately searing and freezing.

Garnett's face paled at his announcement, and she immediately glided toward the door. Her husband shot out a hand, grabbing her upper arm roughly to keep her where she was. "Maeryn will doubtless recover. Children are prone to illnesses." Lord Wenfrith dictated in an utterly sensible tone, dismissing their foolish worry.

"Not like that." Where did that calmness come from? Even his step-father's furious glare at being contradicted failed to push him from the room, Drysllthen quite certain the old man was seconds from striking him too. "It's the plague. They've sent for the priest."

Silence reigned for a terribly loud heartbeat, both his parents' eyes on him, disbelieving, shocked. Drysllthen met only his mother's gaze, a desperate plea in his eyes as he stretched out a hand toward her, Lord Wenfrith forgotten.

"The plague?" His voice broke over his hammering heart, Drysllthen's head snapping toward him. "I'll take the boys from here." The older man's eyes landed sharply on the youth that was not his son while he drew himself up and strolled toward the door. "You stay here and care for your mother and sisters."

Later, Drysllthen would understand the fear in Lord Wenfrith's eyes was for his own heirs, but all he saw in that moment was the patronizing curl of the old man's lip, the cowardice that took him and his sons away from danger, the hope that Drysllthen himself would succumb. Only Mother's hand tightening on his arm that kept him from lunging at his step-father, the challenge in the boy's eyes clear. "I will." Calmness shattered into a snarl, Drysllthen's stare following until Lord Wenfrith left the room.