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Cath's Oneshots
Forum-Index → Fanmades → Fanfictions → Cath's Oneshots
Posted: Mon, 29/05/2023 21:29 (1 Year ago)
ℂ𝕒𝕥𝕙'𝕤 𝕆𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕥𝕤
~
ɓuıɯoɔǝq
Let me tell you a story.
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I’m willing to bet you probably haven’t heard this one before.
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Hair as dark as a raven, eyes as bright as emeralds, a young girl was born to a pair of poor herders in the farthest corner of the kingdom. Ebridea was a hilly plain in the North that was a difficult climate to live in. A small village nestled in the highest crags was where the family called home.
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They had nothing. She had nothing. But she didn't know any different, so she was happy.
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Her brief childhood was spent chasing goats, splashing in streams, and learning to play the rusty old saxophone her father hauled around.
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The problems began when she was three. That was when the plague came to their little town. The cursed blooms of the Scarlet Lily, ravaging all that they touched, had arrived. It was only a matter of time before they were infected, only a matter of time before they died. For they were ordinary. Nonmagical. And their type perished.
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They quickly found out it could only be healed by magic-to-magic healing. The art heals through a combination of magic from the healer and the healed. The union of two magics was the only spell strong enough to defeat the plague, so the cure only worked to cure the magical people. The disease was resilient. The ordinaries died in droves.
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The first week, you would never know that you were infected. It sneaks into your system subtlety, gaining a foothold inside your body. You begin to feel achy the second week, the first physical sign. Perhaps you have a headache to go with it. Exhaustion and fatigue slowly begin to consume you. The third week, the fever comes. Climbing higher and hotter as the days go on, that's when you know death is coming closer. Your cheeks flush red, turning scarlet as your forehead burns up. At this point, your hair has also started to fade, turning grey and then white at first glance, but it takes on a distinct reddish tinge. It's now obvious you have the plague. Even if you're hungry, you can't imagine eating. Using the energy it takes to simply swallow a mouthful of water quickly becomes impossible. The fourth week is when you die. Your fever reaches a boiling point, dehydration sets in. Even breathing hurts. You begin to cough blood, the dry air and metallic fluid painfully rattling through your dying form. Eventually, your body shuts down. You breathe your last shuddering gasps. Death is painful.
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The guards came to the villages, acting as a barrier to the spread of the plague. They were all Magicals. The guards brought their healers with them, and each night, they would be healed, plagued or not. But there were barely enough healers for the platoons. Any magical folk that got the plague had to pay exorbitant fees for healing. The plague was extremely contagious, and the average Magical had to be healed two dozen times.
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Manning the borders quickly became a coveted job. The guards additionally needed to deal with the bodies, as they quickly began piling up. They patrolled the towns, looking for people who showed symptoms. They devised a magical symbol to denote the infected: a red "x" layered over a star. From a distance, it could be mistaken for a lily.
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Rumors flew around the kingdom; terror of the plague intensified. The Magicals feared that the disease gave ordinaries the power to steal magic. Some survivors accused of this feat were put to death. Treatment of the infected became brutal. All of the poorest plague survivors were easily identifiable because of their pale red hair, and they fell under suspicion.
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And so the girl’s parents died of the plague within an hour of each other. The final gift they gave to the girl was the disease.
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At the beginning of the third week, she began turning red. That's what they all called it. She was left on the streets, where a guard found her. He dragged her kicking and screaming into the advanced stage quarantine zone, swearing all the while.
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“Stop your whining, you little sh!t. You'll see them soon enough. You only have two weeks left to live, anyway.”
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She’ll remember him and his face forever, branded into her memory. It was one of the first times she felt truly powerless.
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But even at three, she was resourceful. It took her time, but she made sure she wasn't going to die. She had control of all her parents' old possessions. She knew how money worked.
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That was the story she told everyone else, implying she somehow bought a healing. Safe, unquestionable, simple enough.
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If that's what she told you, she lies.
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The girl was filled with the fury of a thousand suns. She could kill someone in that moment. The guard's treatment of her was inexcusable. He didn't even try to be kind like the rest of the platoon, no attempt at comfort.
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In an instant, the fury consumed her like a shadow, diffusing into a determined calm. Her emerald eyes burned bright like a pair of green flames. It was the most focused that she had ever been. She would grow to love that feeling of intensity, channeling the rest of her emotions into purpose, pushing herself to the limits and beyond.
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He continued to haul her to the quarantine zone, passing through a close of trees. A shortcut.
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Extending a small, shaking hand, the girl touched the guard in the center of his brow.
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The connection started to glow red like the petals of a lily, red like the color of the dawn sun, red like the color of blood.
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The girl was certain of three things: she wanted to live, the guard was cruel, and nothing would ever stop her again.
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Then a few things happened at the same time.
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There was a flash of the brightest light anyone had ever seen.
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The girl tumbled to the ground, free from the vice grip.
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The guard gave out a strangled scream.
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The red lily burned brightly on the girl's forehead.
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Shadows drifted through the air like a fine mist, coming to rest at her fingers.
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And, as if he had always been a statue, the guard froze.
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Cautiously, the girl reached out to lightly touch his robes.
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As soon as her fingers brushed the statue, it began to disintegrate, particles of dust and sand drifting away.
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His soul was scattered by the four winds.
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The girl looked at her fingers in awe and confusion. She had done that. She had… killed him.
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Clenching her hand into a fist, the shadows curled around her arm.
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Magic.
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She had magic.
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She had stolen magic from a guard
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She had murdered someone with the power the plague gave her.
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The rumors were true: there was a strand of the plague that found the strong, giving them the power to absorb another's magic if the opportunity arose. What the consequences would be later on were unknown.
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Within the hour, the lily branded into her forehead had faded, signifying she was cured. They allowed her safe passage out of the countryside, and she drifted through the lands. She found work as a servant, a laborer, a mapmaker. Ever present was the desire to succeed.
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But since the plague had incubated inside her, and progressed to week three, a few locks of her hair had started to turn red.
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She learned to hide them quickly. They were the only remnant of her secret.
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She was not born with magic.
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She had stolen it.
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She lived a lie.
~
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟
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