memoir of a forgotten pirate

VIII

I thought I could be happy. Maybe the gods above were offering me some kind of mercy, finally– and yet I found that I couldn't be more wrong.

The Fourth Horseman, as it was called by those who wanted to turn it into something mystical, or the Red Plague, for those who wanted it to be practical. It was a devastating illness that swept many villages and killed many more. No one really knew what spread it— there was some discussion of divine punishment, but it all quickly melted away as the Red Plague took lives indiscriminately.

'Red' because of the blood that littered the streets, of the blood that flowed into the water. Its symptoms were always small, and manageable at first. Tiny things, like a headache or a small cough that wouldn't stop scratching at your throat.

Then slightly bigger things, like a mild fever or fatigue or muscle aches. Things that you hypothesized that you needed to lie down for, to recuperate your strength. And of course, you could do that, but that didn't mean the pain would stop. So you push through.

Then the cough would get worse. Then there would be blood. There would be the fainting spells, the incredible fatigue, and pain that made it impossible to keep going. And by the time your lips were dyed red from the blood you were coughing out, it was too late. Your fate was sealed— you were going to die.

Whether or not you lived it was entirely up to you. How long you lived, too. Some of the strongest people I'd ever met were destroyed by it overnight. Others lasted for weeks, or months, before finally succumbing to all their symptoms.

Including my mentor.

Moke had hidden it well— she would sleep longer hours on off days, and she had seemed frailer and slower in other cases, but it had me be even a cause of concern for me at the time. At that point, she had trusted me to run the shop while she did more of the work behind the scenes— sourcing materials, filling out the majority of the boring paperwork about income, and sourcing new and unique clientele.

She was with me in the forge one day, and midswing of her hammer, I watched with horror as her eyes rolled back and she fainted, collapsing on the ground.

I had to lay her down on her bed, the roaring white noise in my head too much to bear.

"How could you not tell me?" I whispered harshly, wetting a cloth to put over her skin. Her forehead felt dry, her skin dry and papery. "You know how bad the Red Plague is. We could have gotten you a doctor at the very least!"

Moke shook her head, trying her best to sit up. I placed my hand over her chest, and she slumped back on the bed without a second thought. Clearly relieved, in any case.

"You know as well as I do there's no cure," Moke replied. "I didn't want you to worry."

"So what?" I snapped. "You were going to, just, what, die quietly? Just fizzle out and die with no explanation and leave me lost and confused without you?"

"You know that's not true," Moke said, a note of exhaustion in her voice. The disease had clearly taken its toll. I don't know how I didn't notice— her eyes were sunken with dark eye bags, and her usually full face was pale and sunken in. Her hands trembled with each movement. "You're strong enough to go without me. I taught you well."

"Clearly not well enough," I cried. "Not enough to keep you alive." She shook her head as I raised another wet cloth to wipe at her face.

"You don't have to keep me alive," Moke said steadily. She coughed. Blood dribbled down her chin, and she coughed again and again. At that moment, watching my teacher fade away from me, I had never felt so powerless. For someone who had taken lives with her own hands— how could I be so incapable of protecting even one? "You are strong enough to go without me."