Grim (BL)

The Plague's Grip

The air in the city felt suffocating, thick with the weight of despair and disease. Azreal walked through the narrow streets, his boots scuffing over the cobblestones as he made his way deeper into the heart of the plague-stricken district. His breath was shallow, not just from the foul odor of death that seemed to cling to every corner, but from the mounting fear inside him. His heart ached with a heavy sense of purpose and dread, pushing him forward even as uncertainty tugged at his soul.

The city seemed lifeless. Shutters were closed tight, doors bolted shut, and the usual hum of life—the sound of merchants peddling their wares, children laughing in the streets, and families gossiping on their doorsteps—was eerily absent. In its place was an oppressive silence, broken only by the distant cries of the afflicted and the occasional hacking cough. The plague had reduced this once-vibrant city to a hollow shell of itself, and yet, in the face of such devastation, the church had done little more than offer hollow sermons from behind closed doors.

Azreal felt his jaw tighten as he recalled the High Priest's words from the day before. He could still hear that cold voice, speaking with unwavering certainty about divine punishment and the need to remain "pure" by avoiding contact with the sick. But as Azreal walked through the deserted streets, seeing the suffering with his own eyes, the doctrine he had been taught felt increasingly distant, cruel, and unfeeling.

He had tried to follow orders, tried to reconcile the teachings of the church with what he felt in his heart. But every time he saw someone collapse from the fever or heard the heart-wrenching wails of a child who had just lost a parent, the weight of those words shattered. He could not stand by and do nothing. He would not.

As Azreal approached the outskirts of the town's poorest quarter, where the plague had hit the hardest, his steps slowed. This area had been all but abandoned by the authorities, the church included. A makeshift quarantine had been set up, but it was hardly enforced, leaving the sick to fend for themselves. The deeper he ventured into the area, the more the weight of death pressed in on him.

Tents, some made of nothing more than patched sheets, lined the narrow streets. Inside them, families huddled together, their faces pale and gaunt, their eyes hollow with fear. Others lay out in the open, bodies wrapped in blankets, some unmoving, others shaking violently with fever.

Azreal hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of eyes upon him. A few of the sick and their caretakers glanced up as he passed, their expressions a mixture of surprise and suspicion. A priest wandering into their midst was not a common sight—certainly not after the church's decrees about divine punishment. Yet Azreal had chosen to come anyway, his heart pushing him toward these people who had been abandoned by the very institution that was supposed to protect and serve them.

He stopped in front of a small gathering of people, a family huddled around a mat where an elderly woman lay coughing weakly. Her face was drawn and pale, her eyes sunken into her skull, her skin slick with sweat. The family looked at him, their eyes filled with fear and perhaps even a glimmer of hope.

Azreal knelt beside the woman, offering a soft, comforting smile. "May I pray with her?" he asked gently.

The family exchanged uncertain glances, but after a moment, the eldest man, perhaps the woman's son, gave a reluctant nod. Azreal reached out, gently placing his hand on the woman's fevered forehead. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer, not one of condemnation or judgment, but of healing and mercy, pleading for her pain to be eased and her suffering to be lifted. He felt the warmth of her skin beneath his hand, and for a moment, he let himself believe that even in the face of such overwhelming darkness, there was still hope.

When he finished, the family offered him a quiet, grateful nod. But as Azreal rose to leave, he noticed a few of the onlookers watching him with narrowed eyes. Whispers broke out among the small group, their voices hushed but tense.