He sighed quietly as he leaned to pick up the scrolls and parchment which he had been studying late into the night. Those scrolls, which had at first promised a revelation, now seemed so ancient and beyond him that Khyrian felt a pang of hopelessness in ever discovering what needed to be learned from them. He closed his eyes and hung his head in weariness as he tried to renew his resolve, and a fit of coughing overtook him.

Suddenly remembering his charge, Khyrian reached for the cart which Sherman, a guard stationed here at the Enclave, had fashioned for him. Lacking the full use of his legs, Khyrian's only means of moving about through the halls and rooms here (where his horse was not allowed) was upon Sherman's cart. He allowed himself a smile as he dragged himself onto it, remembering Sherman's eagerness to show off his skill in woodcraft as he presented the cart to Khyrian, who was certainly very grateful for it. Placing his healer's pouch on his lap, he pushed his way to the next room where his patient lay sleeping. Still sleeping.

Khyrian steeled himself against the almost tangible dread he knew he would face in that room where Randal lay. He was slowly losing ground in the battle for Randal's life, and his spirit was greatly the worse for wear. His own experience with the condition made him much more sensitive to his patient's plight, and he feared for him. Moving into the oppressive chamber, he checked the herbal unguent which was steadily bubbling in a pot in the corner, scooped out a measure of it, and placed it in a folded cloth. Pulling himself to Randal's bedside, he pressed the cloth over the boy's chest, checking for signs of breath and pulse.
This patient's life, like so many others, ebbed away, and Khyrian could not prevent it. Though he was always learning more about the horrid affliction, he was still far from defeating it. And he wondered if that point would ever be reached...
This particular patient's suffering cut him more deeply than most, for his lifelong friend Azeron was losing a brother, and Khyrian's heart was heavy with sorrow.

A low hum murmured from Khyrian's lips as he concentrated his healing magic. Randal had not stirred from his sleep in over 3 weeks, and Khyrian knew it could not be long. Darkness had almost fully engulfed Randal's features, and his malnourished body was near the end of its strength. With hands placed on the lad's face and chest, the healer channeled his soothing energies into the still form, hoping at least to lessen the pain and slow the corruption. Even so, the warmth from his hands quickly dissipated into the coldness that gripped Randal so firmly, and Khyrian pulled his hands back, weary with the effort.

He looked at the motionless form lying before him and wept.

Khyrian composed himself and, with a shiver, pulled himself back down the hall and through the doorway to his chamber. Pushing the scrolls out of the way for the time being, he slid off the wooden cart onto his mattress and let sleep take him.

Khyrian slumped as he reread the letter. Must it always come to this!? Slow had been the process of Randal's death, and slowly it had continued with neither mercy nor hesitation, so that hope had gained no foothold. Though heartbreaking, it came as no surprise to Khyrian that the fight was finally ending. He was weary from it beyond description. Battered in body, mind and spirit, Khyrian simply let go from his own similar struggle. He wanted no more of this. Let it be ended! He slid from the chair to the floor and quivered, wracked with the advanced symptoms of the very affliction that had taken Randal. Pain lashed through his limbs, and his lungs were crushed nearly to bursting. Images swam through his head. Dark, demented faces howling with pain, shrieking at him and taunting him. One face, though, stood out clearly from the rest. It was not crying its rage or gnashing its teeth, but the terror that gripped Khyrian at seeing this face put aside all other senses.

He knew and feared this face.

What tormented him most was not the flaming red hair that reached out to burn him, not the piercing green eyes that held him immobile. It was the sneering smile. That smile held such confidence and derision in it that Khyrian knew then that all his struggles had been useless. There was nothing that could ever have been done to prevent the suffering and decay that this man willed. The sinister face then laughed at him, knowing and approving of all his failure. Khyrian had no will to resist him any longer.

The sinister face twisted into a malicious grin. It inched closer to Khyrian, and the gaze seared through him, shaking him down to his soul. When it spoke it used a quiet, almost pleasant voice, that made the words carry even more dread. Poor little healer. You've fought so hard to survive, to help others survive. Did you really hope to unwork all that I have set in place? Did you really think you could best me in my own game? Everything you have done since the moment I took you has been because I allowed it. He moved in closely, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried death on its breath. You have have kept them alive far longer than they would have. And you've provided me with so much more sustenance that I would have gained otherwise. And for this I give you my gratitude. The grin left the sinister face as it distorted again, this time bearing no sign of amusement, only pure hatred. But the game is over, healer. Know the failure of your life, and come to me!

With these words, spectral figures came forward from the surrounding whirlwind of faces. The figures silently swept slowly closer to Khyrian, and he quailed back as he began to recognize them. Most were former brothers, healers like himself, of the Order of the Ankh, and others were citizens of the land that had come under his care, worthless as it was. The figures reached out for him, their ethereal hands clutching at him like talons. A sudden strength came to him, and he fought against the grasping hands, trying to free himself from their icy grip. Suddenly, he ceased his struggling as he looked into the spectral face of a former companion. Derrick! No, it cannot be you!

Khyrian watched as the ghostly mouth formed words without sound. He thought there was a flicker of recognition in the spectre's eyes, but it was immediately replaced with the hollow gaze of before. Is this to become my fate as well? Seeing the wretched condition of his former friends, he began to recover his will. He felt grief for their condition, and he shivered at the thought of becoming like them. But he determined that he would continue his fight, futile though it might be, though he refused to succumb to that belief again. Clinging to the tenuous hold he had on his will, Khyrian focused his energy on a single incantation. Amid the still-swirling faces and figures, he released the spell. Kal Vas An Ort. Pain raced through his body, paralyzing him completely, and he lost consciousness...

The ache on the left side of his face was the first thing Khyrian became aware of. He carefully opened his eyes, and saw a dark reflection in front of him. Picking his head up off the stone floor, Khyrian experienced a brief sense of relief as he realized where he was. Struggling back into his chair, he saw the letter resting there and remembered what still needed to be done, and he called for a messenger. "Take this to Azeron Daefaroth immediately. If he is not in Tel'Ruid with the elves, then I am not certain of his location, but I can hope he is with his wife, somewhere near Yew. Be quick!"

The messenger glanced at the puddle of blood on the floor before sprinting out of the chamber toward the stables. Khyrian sighed and threw some rags over the blood to soak it up. He felt different than he had before the letter was written, but, thinking on his vision, he was not sure if it was for the better or the worse.

Azeron looked up, grinning. "Just Azeron, son. I'm not a lord yet..."

The messenger nodded a silent affirmation, and then stepped toward Azeron, handing him the scroll. Azeron tossed him a gold coin and issued a "Thank you". And with that, the messenger was out the door.

Azeron undid the wax seal that bound the scroll, and unfurled it at the table. Beside him, his wife Melyanna leaned in curiously. He scanned the page, and as he did his face went from smile to utter dread.

Finally, Melyanna spoke, breaking the silence. "Mela, what is it?"

A stunned silence was Azeron's only reply.

He looked up at her, her eyes still heavy with exhaustion. We wondered about the journey she had taken with the others last night, and how it could have drained her so. He thought about his conversation with Joylah, and whether this old, decaying land held a detrimental effect on all elves as it had with her. Or perhaps... Perhaps it was something different entirely.

He watched her hand, as it idly rested on her stomach. Perhaps it was all in his mind, but he was able to recollect enough to suspect. Cautiously and quietly, he crawled up, moving his head from her lap up to her stomach, and rested his cheek there... just waiting, listening, hoping for... something.

Mesmerized by the sound of her breath and the rhythm of her heart, he lay there pressed against her for several long minutes. Then, with a sigh of resignation, he forced himself up, planting a gentle kiss on her stomach before leaving. They had come to this old house for a reason — its closeness to the Enclave. And his brother Randal lay there on the brink of death, while his best friend, Khyrian, suffered the same ailment, and worked desperately to cure the both of them.

Azeron stood up, shaking the sleep out of his cramped legs, and running a brush through his sleep-tangled hair. He tied the skullcap around his head, tightening it. Melyanna stirred for just a moment, and he watched her sigh. He walked over to a chest and pulled out a scroll. On in, he wrote a brief note, explaining where he would be, and asking that she join him when she was ready. Then he placed that note on the table next to her, and set a whispering rose on top of it.

He leaned down and planted a soft kiss on her lips before making his way out into the cool morning. The days were growing longer now that they were spent watching over his brother, and he saw no reason to delay the start of this one. He left footprints in the morning dew as he made his way to the road, and took the brief walk to the Healers’ Enclave, where he knew Khyrian would be waiting.

Warm sunshine caressed the small child as she played outside her parents home. Her mother, Ilthaya was a kneeled a few feet away from her daughter, tending to an injured wolf pup. From deep in the forest came the solid thunks of her father's axe as it ate away at the wood from which the master bowyer,Corayanus, made his bows. Melyanna played with a small rabbit, unaware of the change in it's once placid brown eyes, now a burning red.

In a matter of moments the calm scene changed. The rabbit turned on the child. Glowing orbs meeting the startled emerald gaze as the rabbit sunk it's teeth into the child's hand. From deep in the woods there came a pain filled scream and then silence. Shaking the rabbit from her hand, young Melyanna followed her Atara through the now oppressively silent woods. From the shadows glowing eyes followed their progress as the elves broke into the small clearing, Melyanna rushing past her Atara shouting for her beloved Atar. She stopped, kneeled next to her father and reached out to shake him. Atar? Her father lay face down and at her shake, he rolled over, seemingly of his own volition. He could have been sleeping, except for the axe protruding from between his eyes. Melyanna echoed her mother's pain-filled screams...

Her screams echoed through the small house, bringing Melyanna instantly out of her reverie. Her heart pounding as silent screams echoed through her thoughts, she pushed off of the chair and moved towards the window, wrapping her arms about herself. She leaned against the scarred wood sill, bumping into the table that stood next to the window. Azeron's note and the whispering rose falling unnoticed to the floor.

Very slowly, his breathing returned to something resembling normalcy, though it was still rather restricted. He took a moment to calm himself and looked out the small window in his chamber. On the eastern edges he could vaguely see the sky beginning to lighten, but it was still quite dark. Sleep had come fitfully for him during this last week, and this night had been no better. He felt so very tired. The oppressiveness that always hung about him felt even thicker and heavier than usual. His limbs were tied to wooden blocks, and a shroud was fastened over his head.

Attempting to shake off his weariness, he reached toward his candle, fumbling for it in the darkness. Finally finding the stub of it that remained, he vainly felt about for a stick of lighting powder. Sighing his irritation, he whispered words of power: In Bet Flam that brought a flicker to the candle. As the glow feebly illuminated the small chamber, the constricting feeling returned, causing more coughing to erupt, but it quickly faded again to a dull throb.

Khyrian took a moment to see if it would come back once more, but after several minutes he deemed it safe to let it go for the time being. Pulling on his robe, he maneuvered his cart next to his mattress and rolled himself onto it. Randal's room was the next one over, and Khyrian had often moved between the two on previous nights, keeping watch over his afflicted patient. This early morning, however, Khyrian's heart caught in his throat as he entered the misty chamber. The familiar aroma of herbs and earth from the bubbling cauldron greeted him at the doorway, but Khyrian did not notice it. Though his physical senses did not tell him, he knew that something was missing.

Cautiously approaching the bed where Randal's form lay quietly, Khyrian confirmed what he had feared.

Randal was no longer there.

Staring dumbly at the frail body before him, Khyrian could find no more tears to shed. His mind reeled with the confrontation of yet another failure. Another defeat. Another loss...

Azeron... I must tell Azeron...

The steps, however did not become easier. Azeron knew he wanted to be here, and yet there was no crueler torture than watching his brother Randal waste away as the healers stood by helplessly. His brother, who had lay silent, fevered and wasting for weeks, had never regained consciousness since the attack that had left him in his state. And still, nothing could be done.

He rounded the side of the Enclave, making his way towards the door, when he heard voices. Peering around the corner, he saw Sherman the guard helping Khyrian atop his horse, Storm. Walking up to the two of them, he cleared his throat before issuing a “Morning, gentlemen.”

Both men stared at Azeron, a look of dread on their faces. No words were spoken, yet the obvious question lingered in the air. Sherman turned his eyes down, and Khyrian shook his head ever so slightly before doing the same.

Azeron ran past his longtime friend, making his way to the infirmary. Neither the healer nor the guard moved to stop him. Inside the dimly lit room his mouth turned suddenly dry and his hands began shaking. A few moments later, Khyrian and Sherman made their way in solemnly and silently. In front of them, Azeron stared in disbelief at the shell that was once his brother. And as he stared, he felt a piece of his own soul torn away as realization set in...

He walked toward her, his hand moving across his forehead, pulling his skullcap off and letting his hair loose. Melyanna looked up at him, sensing that something was very wrong. “Mela, what is it?”

Azeron did not answer. Instead, he knelt down in front of her and took her hands into his. For a moment, he tried to say something, but he felt his breath quiver and his eyes well with tears, and he held his voice in.

Melyanna squeezed his hands gently. “Mela?” Her concern was growing. “Mela, you’re shaking...” She wrapped her arms around him, and he moved in close, clinging desperately to her. His eyes met hers for just an instant, and then he buried his face in her embrace. The flood began, and he could no longer hold it back.

In an old wooden cabin north of Britain, muted only by the arms of his beloved wife, Azeron Daefaroth wept long and hard for the loss of his dead brother.

Eventually the violent storm of emotions subsided. Melyanna now sat in one of the chairs with Azeron's head resting in her lap. Slender fingers gently massaged his temples as she watched the occasional tear slip down his cheek. "Azeron, we're going to have to tell your parents...they should know." She whispered, purple rimmed eyes, the only outward sign of her exhaustion, watching him, her soul aching with the shared pain.

Randal had fallen victim to some sickness that plagued his body, tearing it down and taking all his strength. My lifelong friend Khyrian had looked after my brother's treatment, enduring agonizing hours of study and engaging in desperate research. But in the end he could find nothing to save Randal. And Khyrian, more than any, knew this. For even now, he is still ravaged by the same sickness.

The only comfort I drew was through my wife Melyanna. She stood there with us this night, offering her silent support when I needed it most. My hand held hers desperately, seeking what strength I could in the love she poured out.

In the end, all that we could do was cry and comfort one another. My father sped off to Jhelom as soon as he was able. My mother lingered for a bit, talking with Melyanna and I. And we thought of Randal.