The Veil of Corruption

The elven boy, a tiny, frail thing, slumped to his knees and watched in horror as the corruption destroyed everything he knew and loved. He could see it in the way his mother’s body twisted in grotesque angles, her limbs contorting and spasming, that she was dying, though from what, he did not know. It was a slow, painful death, one which had her hoarsely screaming, her shrill voice echoing throughout the dilapidated building of their farmhouse.

His father had never seen anything like this, or so he muttered as he hovered over his mother’s misshapen form, his hands probing every inch of her body, tracing the black, tar-like veins spider-webbing along her pallid flesh. She was dying, and unfortunately for Aelin, she wasn’t the only one. His father was as well.

Rivulets of blood dripped from the corners of his almond-shaped, bloodshot eyes as he gazed down upon Aelin’s mother, his ragged breathing like grating rocks. The disease had struck quickly and with little to no warning, sweeping through his family as if they were nothing. His parents didn’t even know they were infected until his mother collapsed in the midst of tending to the horses, her body trembling from a high-grade fever. A small black blotch of unknown origin was settled beneath her skin on the inside of her wrist.

At first, his father mistook it for a bruise. Like other farmers, they worked with their hands and as a result, brushed off the initial discovery. Only when the fever made her bedridden did they realize it was worse than anything anyone had ever seen before. Not even the local healers could figure out exactly what was happening to her, and when it spread to Aelin’s father?

It was the beginning of the end for their family.

“M-ma coraza,” his mother managed to croak, her words grating from between her cracked lips. She reached out with gnarled fingers to brush against her son’s arm, coaxing him to look at her, and when he did, he felt all of the pain and anger derived from the last few days broil deep within his chest.

No child should ever have to watch their parents die. Not like this. Not in this way. The boy knew this as his mother drew him in close, her breath rattling in her lungs, and he collapsed against her warmth. His quiet hiccups and sobs were muffled in the soft fabric of her nightgown, Aelin clinging desperately to the woman who’d given him everything, who tended to him whenever he injured himself chopping wood or held him during his most restless nights.

He would be orphaned soon. Two days max was all his parents had, at least that was what the healers informed their family. Two days of watching them wither away and submit to this unknown illness. Where would that leave him? Running their farm, tending to the animals and the crops all on his own? An elven boy of only thirteen years of age?

His mother’s wheezing shifted into a disgusting, racking cough, and for a moment, she curled in on herself as if she were desperate to escape the obvious pain. Blood sprayed from her lips when she attempted to cover her cough, unable to contain it long enough to avoid crimson droplets from splattering across Aelin’s mouth and cheek.

Wisteria-toned fingers trembled as he reached up to swipe away the remnants of her illness, teeth tugging at the sore, cracked flesh of his lower lip. By the time her coughing subsided, Aelin’s father was quick to slip between them, dabbing at her mouth with a blood-stained cloth. “Enough, Idris. You are pushing yourself too far. Rest and send the boy away. Please.”

Aelin blinked, slender shoulders immediately tensing. “Apa…I don’t want to leave her. You can’t make—”

“Aelin, that is enough,” his father’s raspy voice cut him off, casting a stern scowl over his shoulder at his son. The boy’s ears wilted beneath his stern tone. “She is unwell. You must give her the space she needs if you want her to heal.”

“Apa—”

“I said enough. Leave before you make things worse.”

Aelin grimaced and quickly averted his gaze. He knew better than his father’s empty promises. His mother would not heal, and neither would his father; the healers had been open and honest about their inevitable fates. Why his father refused to believe the healers, he would never understand.

Casting one last desperate once-over of his mother, committing every part of her to memory, Aelin turned and stepped from the bedroom, coughing into his fist.