After the Plague

VI. Relief Effort

A crate had washed up into Roslin. It was destroyed in all senses of the word, but Francis recognized its distinctive blue coloring and, even with the words washed away, he knew that at one point it said RELIEF EFFORT on all six sides. 

It rained for three days, possibly more. It was hard to say for certain, as the pounding water had no regard for regular life and tradition. Francis had no idea how long he slept, but it was much more than he cared to admit to himself. 

He made food for himself and Dominic, cleaned the boy's wounds to a point where he hoped they wouldn't be as painfully noticeable as they already were, and sent him back home. A welt had formed around his own neck, streaked with black and blue where fingers had been. It hurt to breath and speak, so he did as little of both as he could manage.

Burlap had choked the life out of him.

While the storm raged, he had no energy to think, write, study, or leave the hut. His already low food supplies were becoming nonexistent, but his body didn't need the nutrition; rather, it was content to feed on his spirit. He would eat a small bite or walk around his hut for a few minutes to stretch his legs in between extended bouts of dreamless sleep.

If death could be felt in life, this is it.

And so Francis slept, and when the rain cleared he was able to muster enough willpower to leave his hut. He came to regret it.

The crate was a ghost. He had first seen it on his initial, half-hearted walk around the village. While there were only a few people milling about, all eyes were on him. Some were full of adoration, others with an emotion he couldn't quite decipher. He knew what was on their mind.

The messiah. I'm their messiah. The thought had weighed heavy on him since he had first heard it, and the first semblances of intelligent thought were beginning to form. I am the chosen one. I'm sent by the gods. He knew it to be true. He felt Jupiter's presence in the rain that had fallen. It had been torrential and longstanding, but he knew there was a message in it. He knew that the king of god's had sent this rain to be his rejuvenation, his reconciliation, his revival. I am the chosen one. God sent. This is my mission. The weakness of my body is a simply a hurdle. The previous days had simply been tests, confirmations, notifications and turning points in his life. It had shown him his calling. 

A calling I have spent years finding.

Suddenly those lost years made sense. They were all part of this ultimate journey.

I am Roslin. I will not let you down. 

He knew that Olympus was looking down on him, wary of the libations he made, the sacrifices he had performed, the sacrifices that had carved his present form.

All is well, or all shall be well. He felt hopeful.

Until he saw the crate. 

That damned crate. It was a curse, and he wanted nothing to do with it. He had no idea where it could have come from, especially after all of these years. Those crates were used up years ago. The relief effort hasn't been together since they put up the Gateway. 

He was fairly certain he was the first person to see it, and the first thought he had was how he could destroy or hide it, but his knees were on fire and he simply didn't have the energy to do anything about it. And so he did the most logical thing he could think of; he went back to his hut.

The hearth had remained cold all through out the rain, and as a result the entire room had a slight bite to it. He layered up with several of his thickest tunics, and felt compelled to make a warm meal. His shelves were mostly empty, but he made a mental note to get a new batch of food from what was available, and proceeded to fry up slices of what he had. While he wasn't at full energy, he did feel the potential for the day to get better. He had purpose - what could be better?