By the Decay of the Pear Tree.

Our pear tree was rotting.

It was subtle, at first. No one noticed when one of the pears began to brown, when the grass beneath it began to die. It was subtle enough that when we pulled the pears from their branches and bit down, none of us noticed that they already tasted too ripe. The pears sustained us when we played out in the fields, when the warmth of the sun tired us out and we took shelter beneath the tree.

The Bloomglave festival was coming up, a festival to celebrate the joys of crop and the creations all the farmers made, and my parents were always a slave to their stress as the festival approached. They didn’t notice the pear tree rotting either. They prided themselves on their fruit, how they managed to make it grow on soil where it should not grow. People from towns over came to buy their fruit, their pears, apples, and honey grapes. Ma made pie out of them all to sell, and people bought those too. The Bloomglave Festival usually brought in enough revenue to feed us through the winter months, when the lords and ladies hid in their castles and cared not for us peasants and whether we survived its chilling bite.

It was a week or so before the festival that I noticed it. The sun was setting, and I sat beneath the pear tree reading an old book I found stored in Ma’s things. I had tired after a day of helping her in the kitchen prepare the pies, and I wasn’t paying too close attention when I reached up to pluck a pear from its root.

I took a bite, and immediately spat it out. The book fell from where it had been balancing in my hand, and I stared at the pear, not understanding what it was that I was seeing, until suddenly it clicked.

The pear was rotting from the inside out. At first glance, the pear was fine, a pristine specimen of its kind. Inside, however, it was rotting, brown and yellow and overflowing with maggots. It took everything in me not to gag as I dropped it, tears pricking the corner of my eyes as the smell hit. The grass it fell upon was starting to die as well, curling in on itself as it browned.

I made move to go tell Ma what I discovered, only to stop when I saw someone standing on the edge of the farm, staring at me.

There was something wrong with him, like a plague of some kind had taken him. Large welts and boils coated his body, and a wet cough could be heard, even from where I stood. The strangest part of his wasn’t either things, but rather the dragon skull that rested over his face. Dragons were thought extinct — called the False Gods by those who worshipped the Lady, by her Grace. Those who follow the False Gods’ ways were burned to death for their sins.

I began to scream.

The man moved at such speeds I didn’t think possible, and suddenly I was on my back, his hand clamped over my mouth. I did gag then, as the smell of rotting flesh and sickness filled my nostrils. The man leaned close, his eyes wild with the heat of fever as he stared at me through his skull mask.

“The Plague Father wants this land, for when he rises again, he wishes to welcome you all home. Accept his love, child. His return will write hymns of their own reckoning. He is to welcome you all home.” The mutterings of a madman, and I prayed silently to the Lady in hopes she would lend me her mercy. I was greeted with silence.

Pinching my cheeks, the man forced my mouth open, where he pressed a finger to my tongue, his nail jagged and sharp. I tasted blood, and then I began to cough so violently I thought I might vomit. Tears blinded me, and only then did I feel the weight of the man free me. I could feel the sickness spreading, could hear whispering within my head. He comes. He waits. He welcomes us all home. The Plague Father loves us so much. Spread his love. Free him. Free yourself. Come home.

Our pear tree was rotting, and so was I.