Spain

3,868 years since initial death
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Every road was shrouded underneath nightfall's void.

Only a few dim lanterns illuminated the area. A few crows flew high above in the sky, looking down over a rotting city. Everyone remained indoors, their doors locked, and windows shut. Not one soul dared to venture out onto the rodent-infested streets, not without proper coverage and equipment.

The only ones outside were dressed in dark green robes, their heads covered in rags and wrinkly cloth with nothing but small eyeholes to see and breathe out of. They stationed themselves in front of shelves stacked with vials of urine and bowls of leeches. That was the best medicine they had to offer.

One man stepped forward down the wet, puddled road. His blackened cloak was torn at the bottom, concealing him alongside the surrounding darkness. A hood was worn over his head, and so was a short face mask. Only his eyes and forehead were barely visible in the shadows as he walked his path. The heavy wind accompanied him, and his robes rippled along. 

A few rats scurried around nearby, and the rain drizzled down over the city. He started to pick up his pace, looking back at the doctors that stood close by. They cautioned him to tread carefully, and he continued. Reaching several rows of wooden houses, he kept his chin up, observing these three-story high structures that nearly looked identical to one another.

Before long, he reached his home, resembling much like the others be it not for the tulips that rested underneath the casements. Light could be seen illuminating through the boarded shut windows, but the sign of rats scurrying by the door caused him to hesitate. Opening the door would surely spell disaster. During this time, letting a single rodent indoors could very well be a death sentence.

Instead, his only other alternate way in was through the upstairs balcony hanging out right above the front door. However, no ladders were nearby. The balcony was too high up for him to reach by jumping, he needed something to climb up there. But with nothing in the surrounding area to aid him, he tilted his head to stretch himself and sighed.

Taking a couple steps back, he took a deep breath through his mask. Raising his hands to his face, he carefully lowered his mask and uncovered his hood to clear his vision. His dark hair and cleanly shaven face were revealed in the moonlight, just as the wind increased its strength.

Nearly four thousand years, and his appearance remains unchanged.

With his eyes focused directly ahead of him, he sprinted forward. Before crashing into his home, he leapt upwards and drove his feet up against the wall. His hands extended and reached a wooden frame beside the balcony. Keeping himself hanging briefly, he slowly grabbed a hold of the balcony's lower ledge.

A slight groan escaped his lips as he scraped himself against the frames when repositioning himself. He was causing a lot of noise, it wouldn't surprise him if somebody found him hanging in the air like this. 

His thought instantly became a reality when the upper window was opened, revealing a worried-looking woman watching him. Though when one of her brows was raised, he sighed to himself before she could even speak.

"Milton!" Her voice rattled against his ears as he paused his climb to dangle from the ledge and look at her. "What in God's name are you doing?"

"There's rats at the door." He raised an arm to grab one of the balcony's railings. Once he secured a grip, he followed with his other hand. 

"So you scale our home instead?" His wife stepped away from the window before shortly reappearing behind the balcony door. He could barely see her figure as she walked over to the railings. "Could you not have shooed them away? Dionora keeps a broom outside her home for this very occasion." 

She pointed at the neighbor's house. He groaned a quiet response. Now that he thought about it, there were easier methods to enter his home. But he's committed to climbing up. With his last bit of strength, he almost reached the top of the railings. Suddenly, as he tried to continue climbing, his foot slipped against the frames. Taking him off guard, he lost his grip. Instead of falling to the ground, he managed to catch the balcony's ledge with a single hand.

The jolting movement tugged his arm forcefully. His wife yelled for him, and he felt her hand wrap around his. He allowed her to rescue him, dragging him up until he could slouch over the railing and tumble onto the floor. 

After catching his breath, he looked up and inspected her. She towered above him, donned in her casual purple gown. Her hands rested against her hips, and she looked down on him with a frown. Her dark, hazel-like hair draped by her shoulders.

He finally let out a defeated chuckle. "Ah, think I've finally started to grow a little old. I normally could have climbed here without trouble in a heartbeat. Howbeit, thank you for your aid, Violet."

He held her hand and repositioned himself back on his feet. Finally, they headed indoors, standing in front of a bed lightened only by the lantern resting on the nightstand. 

Milton tossed aside his mask and removed his cloak. Violet looked over his apparel, the look she gave was one of disapproval. "You've ought to scare away the women and children with your dark robes. At least show some color, you resemble a shadowy assassin."

"A cloak, hood and mask." Milton eyed his clothes before glancing back at her. "You know, there was a secret Order of Assassins in the Middle Eastern lands. They killed political leaders and often were at war with the Knights of Templar. They wore similar robes, sometimes lighter. Who's to say I wasn't amongst them?"

"Don't go there, Milton. You above all know how much I loathe violence. I'd rather journey back across the ocean than wed a killer." His wife often displayed her disgust towards murderers, thieves and brutes. Milton is thankful she's unaware of his past.

He reassured her. "Worry not, I jest. That Order fell nearly a century ago. I wasn't even conceived by the time their final contract was completed."

Just as he smiled, Violet grabbed his shoulders and gently pushed him against the bed. Her eyes locked with his, and her lips spread to convey a more menacing smirk. Her dark hair brushed against his skin as she continued to lean over him.

"You best be careful then. If I catch you along the rooftops murdering your enemies with poisoned daggers, I'll strip you down and rip open your chest with the sharpened end of your staff. I'll flip open your flesh like parchment, your bones will bend and snap, and I will grasp your heart before I devour it. Your blood will do nicely as a warm pint should my thirst arouse."

Milton looked back with terrified eyes, processing everything she said. He fell against the bed's soft surface, feeling his wife push herself against him. Her nose almost touched his, and they stared at one another. While he conveyed fear, she looked to be devilishly enjoying this. It was effective at granting the room total silence except for the battering of rain atop their roof and the flickering of candles.

"I thought you hate murder." It was the only thing he could possibly say in response.

"Oh, I do. But I hate liars more." Her lips suddenly met him, and they exchanged a deep kiss. It felt satisfying, and Milton found it hard to resist. Despite not wanting it, the temptation took control of his body, forcing him to finish the kiss. It almost felt supernatural, like something was keeping him within her embrace.

But when her hands reached to undress him, he finally found the strength to stop her. "I wouldn't." 

She looked agitated that he interrupted her lust. He took the opportunity to explain himself before she could ask. "I reek of piss, and quite possibly shit too."

Violet visibly sniffed him. "I've smelled worse. But what happened?"

Milton momentarily forgot all about his past endeavors outside the walls. But upon being granted a moment of peace to recollect his thoughts, he was ready to explain what he had remembered.

Earlier that day, he had left to find food and any goods to bring back home. Since food was already running short, his first instinct was to head outside the city walls and reach the farmlands. It was too dangerous to walk towards the markets, not that anyone would be there regardless. 

However, even the farms were abandoned. Only a few farmers remained, but they were ill, every single one of them. He couldn't leave them behind to die without aid. Milton wasn't a doctor, and he was still unfamiliar with the current methods used to slow the plague.

Of the methods he could remember, most of them seemed illogical in his mind. One procedure required him to pluck the backside of a chicken and strap it to the sick patient. The disease would supposedly leave the patient and spread into the chicken, thus killing only the chicken in the process.

There was another method that suggested bathing in urine, but even Milton knew that was ridiculous. Other things he could do was create potions, but he didn't have the required ingredients. Many of the methods that were used, involved human waste that spread nausea and sickness amongst the people, and animals were often abused and killed as a result.

Finally, he tried exposing the swollen buboes to heat. Setting up a fire with some logs, the farmers laid on the floor and sweated as the heat overwhelmed them. Milton had no idea if it would even work, but it was worth a try. By the time an actual doctor arrived at the scene, one of the farmers had already succumbed to the plague and perished on the spot.

The others remained in bad condition with little to no improvement after being exposed to the heat of the flames for so long. One final method brought by the doctor involved leeches, but Milton never stayed to witness it. He scavenged the land for any food or resources to bring back home, but it was all to no avail. By then, nightfall had already approached.

Despite his immortality, even he was not immune to the plague. Just as any other man, he could still catch it. A few months ago, he had been unfortunate enough to find black spots over his legs. They became swollen and started to spread over his body, killing his skin in the process.

His face darkened, especially his nose and upper lips. They became pitch black. A high fever overtook him, and he was eventually met with a seizure. It was unbearable, and he refused to suffer any longer. Fleeing alone to an abandoned hut outside the city walls, he took his own life with a dagger quickly and painlessly. Oddly enough, it satisfied him to see the many shocked faces of doctors and neighbors when he returned the next day without any spots or signs of illness.

Although he could survive it, he knew it was still dangerous to catch it again. If he's not careful, he could infect others. Letting his wife suffer from the bubonic plague was something he never wanted her to withstand. Besides, he couldn't let her die so soon. Not when he's still uncovering her layers of mysteries surrounding her origins.

Somehow, she may be the most peculiar woman he's ever met.

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Historical Notes:

You cannot fathom just how disgusting and putrid medieval streets were, especially in large cities such as London and Paris. Live animals roamed the streets and often relieved themselves out in the open. Additionally, so many were slaughtered that their blood covered the streets, only adding to the combined wastes that filled the cities.

It reached a point where some streets were actually named after human waste. In Paris, many streets were renamed using the word "merde", which translates to "shit" in English. Merdeuax, Merdiere, Merdelet, and even Rue du Pipi.

Humanity's health negligence played a major role in the spreading of the Bubonic Plague. Rats would scurry past cities and spread the plague. The Mongolians catapulted infected corpses into cities they attempted to sieged. Ships arriving in the harbors of Italy contained merchants that unknowingly carried the disease.

The plague killed the 13-year-old son of the Byzantine's Emperor. It reached all parts of Europe, and even spread into Russia. The Middle East saw outbreaks of their own as the plague reached Egypt via the sea from Constantinople. Slaves delivered to the city alone were infected, and a third of the city's 600,000 population perished because of it.

There is a very common misconception that plague doctors at this time wore the traditional black robe with the iconic beaked mask. But this outfit wasn't introduced until the late 1500s, over 200 years after the Black Death first arrived.

16th - 17th Century Plague Doctor

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