The Tale of Tarrance

Tarrance's Choice.

The sickness was unforgiving, burning through the village faster than any fire itself could. So many of the elders had already succumbed to the disease. The children that had the misfortune of falling victim to it held on by a thread and all anyone could do was isolate the sick and pray.

Pray that Orros' light would shine upon them, that he would hear their prayers and deliver them from the sickness that was ravaging their family and friends. The villagers comforted themselves with the belief that Orros delivers, that word had been sent to the church and they would send aid.

Tarrance scoffed at the thought. No such word had been sent, their local preacher had turned tail and ran to keep himself alive. The man was a craven charlatan, making promises of Orros and the church that Tarrance knew the preacher couldn't ensure. All the while the crook collected what little the village had of value for the 'arduous' journey to Forling. He knew the mand would never return from his trip to the capital and Tarrance knew the word that the preacher would give to the church, and it would ensure the village never heard from any others they sent after the preacher, at least until the sickness had run its course, one way or another.

Despite all that Tarrance believed in Orros, the ideals of a man ending a great evil and saving others, rising above his so-called station to free millions and to become a good through his pure goodness was something that appealed to him.

It was because of that he prayed and not because of any preacher's hollow words, or any of the pointless sermons he had sat through in the little clearing that counted as Orros' temple in such a small village.

Tarrance prayed for guidance, for answers, for permission. The sickness was a considerable enemy but an invisible one. One that they couldn't fight as Orros had fought the Dark Emperor. They needed something else, something forbidden even and Tarrance knew that he had it in him to see it done.

He only hesitated at the thought of damning his soul for eternity for what he had to do but as he sat next to his grandmother's cot that impulse to hesitate became less and less strong. Slowly the resolve to save who he could and damn the consequences was building within him.

Maria, his grandmother, had collapsed today from it. She was a strong woman, Tarrance would say despite her age but truthfully it only seemed to make her stronger and she was all that he had left. His mother was one of the first the sickness had taken before anyone could do anything to stop it' His father had died years ago in a stupid accident that the preacher had tried to divine some grand plan in. How good people dying useless death was in Orros' plan Tarrance couldn't fathom.

The raspy cough of his grandmother did break him from those dark thoughts but only to bring him into others. It broke him to see her looking so weak against the sickness, barely able to take a breath without being wracked by coughs and choking on the very air she needed to live. Each time he heard it he dreaded the blood that might follow, it was a dread sign that he hoped Maria would not show.

He feared for what was left of the village too. Even if Maria was the last the sickness would take it did not bode well what she would leave behind. She was one of the linchpins of the community, she'd lived so long she had advice for anything the villagers and surrounding farmers had trouble with. Purely in that sense, she was important, and that was before you spoke about how good she was. How much she wished to help everyone, how well-loved she was for what she gave of herself each and every day. And how she instilled that drive in those closest to her. In her son, in the woman he married, and in the grandson who now sat by her side as she slowly died. Well, not if Tarrance had anything to say about it.

The cloth he was wrapped up in was heavy and stifling, especially with it covering his face as it did but it was the only way the others would let him sit with his grandmother.