“So, do we have a deal?” the figure in the black hooded robes asked with his hand outstretched.
“Yes, I accept your terms,” Han said, grabbing the figure’s hand. Instantly, his own hand burned as if being stabbed by a searing metal prong. He dropped to his knees, but couldn’t let go; the figure would not let him. The insides of Han’s palm began to sizzle, the skin bubbled and blistered over and over as the air filled with the most horrendous stench. The pain soon spread beyond his hand to his heart, his face–his whole body was on fire. It hurt. It hurt beyond all belief.
What’s this pain?! What’s happening? He grimaced to himself.
Looking up, Han could only make out the grinning mouth of the figure. Unadulterated terror replaced the pain in his body as he stared into the maw of this devil.
Darkness.
Slowly, Han opened his eyes as he awoke on the ground of an empty room. The house, which had not been used in so long, still smelled of wood and dust. He could not recollect what happened after he had gotten home the night before, nor could he explain how he ended up on the hard, cold floor next to his armor and sword. Beside him, Han noticed something odd: there were melted candles on the ground and a red stain that looked an awful lot like blood.
What happened to me? He wondered.
A throbbing beat pounded against his skull as he tried to remember what had occurred last night. It continued pulsing at random, with no pattern. Eventually, the discomfort went away, as did his urge to remember.
With a painful grunt, he got to his feet and headed toward the window. As he divided the curtains and looked out, he could see the morning sun attempting to peek through the thick overcast outside. Looking at his reflection in the window, Han noticed just how tired his face looked. His eyes were slightly sunken, and bags were starting to form.
What a mess, he mused
It was a gloomy day, alright. The rain had ceased no more than a half hour before the villagers began opening the marketplace. Han walked briskly past the vendors, glancing at the booths as he did, before a woman met him.
“There you are! How are you today, Han?” the woman asked as she made small talk.
Han was perplexed, “Who are you?”
The woman looked equally perplexed. “Are you feeling alright? It’s me, Meredith.”
What is she talking about? He didn’t recognize her in the slightest. Han really did not understand what was happening. It was time for him to leave. “Pardon me.”
“Are you heading to see Srak?” she asked. Her utterance of that name stopped Han in his tracks. Srak? That was his uncle’s name. How did she know him?
“You wouldn’t believe it! After two years, he spoke, he actually spoke to me!” she said excitedly.
“Excuse me!” Han said, racing off.
That was impossible, he thought as he ran at full speed. Han came to a halt as he reached the front of a building. The church that stood before him was tucked at the back of the village, near the wooden fence that bordered the woods.
The church was small and decrepit, standing close to 100 years old. Inside, the architecture’s illusion made it appear taller and more immaculate than it was.
Kimella Forest Church
The sound of heels hitting the stone floor grew louder as a middle-aged nun rounded the corner. He bowed his head slightly at the nun as they slowly approached each other. “I’m here to see Srak-Dûl,” he said firmly. The nun led Han through the tunnel-like halls of the church. Each step they made sent waves of sound trailing behind them. Through the church, they traversed with no word passing each other’s lips, not even a glance or a turn.
Out in the backyard of the church, Han gathered the familiar sight before him. The church, much like the entire village, was carved out from a patch of the great Kimella forest. Large trees loomed on every side of the village’s perimeter fence, providing much-needed shade during extreme heat.
In the left corner of the church fence, something new caught his eye. A white, weathered tent the size of a small room stood mounted to the ground with stakes. He quickly rushed inside, pushing the tent flap open. “Gods almighty, Han-Dûl! You trying to give an old man a heart attack?” said the village priest… at least he thinks it’s the priest?
The inside of the tent was blindingly white as bits of sunlight began to peek through the clouds and leaves outside. There was no bottom to the tent; only yellow, dehydrated grass was sprawled underneath. In the center of the tent lay an old man. His face was gaunt and his cheeks pale, yet somehow he looked better than he had two years ago.
How could this be? Han wondered to himself.
“You know, he actually spoke to me today? Well, not a full sentence, he merely said ‘food,’ but still!” the man said with a huge smile on his face.
“I don’t understand. Was he not on death’s door?” Han asked.
The man’s brow furrowed with puzzlement. “Have you been feeling alright, Han-Dûl? You don’t look well.”
“Yeah, well, I just got back from the front lines. I must be feeling–” Han began to say before being interrupted by the man.
“Han-Dûl… you’ve been home for a couple of months,” he said, frankly.
Han turned to the man, wide-eyed. “Two months?” No, that’s impossible. What is he saying? He questioned as his stomach began to knot. I was told in a letter that Uncle had at most three weeks left. That’s why I rushed home. What’s happened?
The knots began to turn serious as a splitting pain hit Han square in his temple. “Argh!!!” he wailed as he slumped to the ground, grasping his head and clenching his stomach.
What? What? What? What? There was an extreme burning sensation in his cheek as if he were being branded by a hot iron bar. Suddenly, something plopped to the ground.
What is this? It’s pink, red, and burnt. Skin! My skin?! His face was melting. “AAGH!!!” He screamed louder this time as he writhed on the ground, clawing at his deforming face, and foaming from the mouth.
Light.