Madrid

3,868 years since initial death
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His anxiety rose.

A crowd of people surrounded his home. Some of them were dressed as doctors, the rest stayed back but held torches in their hands. It was a wild scene of an uncivilized community banding together to commit sin. They were harassing one particular woman, leaving her surrounded by an angry mob.

Violet was pressed against the door of her home, attempting to argue with the crowd. She was begging them to leave her be so she can pack her belongings.

She looked injured, her lips were bleeding as a cut was visible. With one hand behind her back, her other hand was spread forwards, trying to stop the people from getting closer. The crowd remained distant from her, resorting to jabbing their torches and weapons towards her. Only the plague doctors dared to approach her.

They wanted her to leave and burn. It seemed that she didn't even have a choice. She wanted to leave, but they wouldn't let her leave alive. They didn't trust her, instead they all agreed death was her only option. All they had to do was drag her to the courtyard. Burning here could set fire to the houses.

Milton dropped the box from his hands and removed his mask. With widened eyes and a sense of adrenaline rushing through his veins, he rushed forward to intervene. But to no avail, he was prevented from getting closer. They stopped him, claiming he'd die if he got any closer. Violet noticed him and called for his aid, but she was quickly shut out by the crowd screaming over her.

When one doctor suddenly jolted forward to grab Violet's arm, Milton's hostile mindset was awakened. His blood boiled, finally causing him to take action. He instantly shoved his way through and reached the doctor.

Milton grabbed the doctor's head and bashed him against the wall once. The doctor collapsed, still alive. 

"Fiends!" The tempestuous Immortal screamed at them, guarding his wife in the process. "Threatening a fair lady, and for what? What in Christ's name has gotten into you townspeople?!"

"Milton." Her soft voice gently called out to him amidst the riot. Upon turning his head, he locked eyes with her, watching her speak with a sorrowful expression. "I'm sorry. You need to leave."

He shook his head slightly, confused by what she meant. But then he heard someone from the crowd shout at the top of their lungs. "She's infected! Stay back!"

Maintaining his focus on her, he looked down at her left hand. She had been hiding it behind her back this whole time, but from where he was standing, he could make out the spot. Her hand was black; pitch black in color.

Milton struggled to keep himself calm, looking at her with worry in his eyes. He whispered to her, trying his best to defuse the situation. "We can fix this."

"I need you to trust me Milton, please." He didn't want to listen to her, but she kept talking back. "I'll gather my property and leave alone. Once I'm safe, I'll fight off the infection and return to you. I'll find a way, I promise."

It was happening to him again. He's found someone to love, only to lose them again. But he couldn't let it happen. No. Not this time. He won't allow her to leave alone.

The mob was becoming impatient, they had waited long enough. One man stepped forward, still keeping a fair distance away from the infected woman. "Burn her already!"

Milton wanted to scream back, but he felt odd. His blood was boiling inside, yearning to escape his body and attack the world. Rather than vocally expressing this, he began to twitch slightly. He turned his head to face the protesters, staring back with an aggressive frown.

Then, he turned back to his wife. Calmly, he whispered. "Go inside, Violet. Stay away from the windows and wait for me."

He opened the door to force her inside. Despite her protests, he gently closed it back and looked at the crowd. He glared in silence, listening to the insults and protests. 

"Death is the only cure!" One of them shouted. "She'll kill us all!" Another one yelled. "Stand with her, burn with her!" Their screams were despicable. 

There was a terrible pounding in his head. He could feel himself about to burst, and it hurt all that much. He wants it all to stop. He wants them to quiet down, but they won't. There's only one way he could halt their madness. But he didn't want to take that option. There had to be some other way, yet nothing came to mind.

"Stop." He tried to yell, but his words were softened and quiet. His lips quivered, his hands shook uncontrollably. "Please, no."

But then he saw it. Milton found the one thing that confirmed his suspicions and made his decision easier. His anger was accumulating, and the sight of his furry companion only made it worse. The lion gave him the approval he needed. He closed his eyes.

It all happened so fast.

So many horrible screams bombarded his ears, and he endured all of it. His vision flickered in between. Chaos and torment were growing all around him, everything intensified as every ounce of his wrath was released. It was oddly satisfying. Feeling his own frustration escape his nerves managed to ease him, and he enjoyed it. 

Torn fabric ripped away from stained tunics, resting atop the bloody ground. His boots stepped away, almost crushing the severed eyeball that rolled beside him. He gripped the pitchfork he had grabbed from one of the rioters. But when he let it go, it didn't fall to the ground. It stayed in place, gently protruded from one doctor's torso.

Milton slouched against the door. He looked back at his own doing. Rather than pride, he regained a sense of his humanity as he felt sickened. The ecstasy he experienced depleted, and he regretted it. He wanted to vomit, but he held it in. It only just now occurred to him the promise he once made a long time ago. He didn't just break it; he desecrated it. 

"Forgive me, seni." 

He retreated indoors, keeping his head low. Violet was there, and it looked like she had already started gathering some of her belongings and stuffing them into an open crate. Furthermore, she was now wearing gloves that covered both her hands. When she finally looked at him, there was a horrified gasp.

Milton was covered head to toe in blood. He walked past her and ignored everything she said. He made his way to the basin upstairs, finding some water left inside of it. His reflection stared back at him, his eyes appearing red. Without thinking it over, he splashed his face over and rubbed himself. It was enough to clean his hands and face, and the remaining water reddened. 

Finally, he tried to catch his breath. Several deep inhales helped clear his mind enough to form a plan. He turned his head, noticing his wife watching him. He wasn't ready to confess what he did.

Before she could speak, he had already taken the initiative. But he's missing something. He can't leave this place without his companion. "Where did you put Rio?"

She stuttered. "Milton, what did you do?"

"This is neither the time nor place to answer that." Delaying his answer was the only thing he could do. "But we need to leave now, and I need Rio with me."

After a few seconds, she finally obliged. He was led back downstairs and taken to the kitchen. Beside the shelves of fruit and baskets sitting atop the wooden counter-tops was Rio. Leaning against the wall, it was still sturdy and intact. Milton reclaimed his Arthurian staff, taking a mere moment to inspect it.

Stepping back towards his wife, he wrapped his arms around her. "Leave everything behind and stay with me. Close your eyes, keep your arms around me, and remain steady."

Holding her close against his body, he gently made his way to the front door. His staff remained in his off hand. Pushing the door slightly ajar, he covered his wife's eyes. He could hear every breath she took, and when her breathing strengthened, he looked back down. She had taken a peek at the ground. 

He shifted his body to stop her from seeing the mutilated corpses resting in the bloodbath. Continuing onward, he led her away from their home. There's only once place they could run to, and it wasn't going to be pretty. 

Up ahead was the city's main square. It was a wide-open courtyard that used to house parades, city events, rallies and trading. But what they discovered was quite the opposite of a lively and happy community.

In the center of the yard, piles of infected bodies were laid out onto the streets and set ablaze.

What was worse is that some of them were still alive. Around them, doctors marched with torches in their hands. This was why cases had started decreasing. The city wasn't recovering.

It had instead resorted to mass murder. Gone were the cures and methods to save lives; death was the only way forward.

Exterminating the sick was common during this time. Millions were killed before the plague could kill them itself. Despite some medical treatments working in curing individuals, others believed the best course of action was to kill anyone sick before they could spread the disease. Fire was their weapon of choice, as it could kill the plague inside of its host.

Milton spotted a Jewish neighbor get dragged into the pile against his will. He didn't even look to be infected. The madness proved that humanity isn't capable of handling pressure, especially when met by a deadly pandemic. While some knew the risks and were careful to help themselves and others in need, the rest of humanity would revel in chaos.

He continued to hold Violet close, keeping her eyes away from the horrors unfolding before them. This was beyond chaotic, and it was only just getting started.

A fully nude man ahead was maniacally laughing as he beat himself up. He was purposefully bloodying himself, before smacking his head against the ground. Then, he looked back up as a few men dressed in white robes and red crosses stood around him with their torches at hand.

"Pray for me!" He let out a bloodcurdling scream in pure joy for himself. "Pray for me, oh dear God! Witness as I strike away my sins in your presence! Pray that I die honorably and privileged! Pray that I find salvation with you above!"

As he continued screaming with a sadistic grin on his face, he was set on fire. His joyful voice soon turned into cries of utter terror as he burned to death.

There were no words Milton could form to simply describe the horrors of humanity's own actions. It wasn't the plague that men had to fear, but rather themselves. 

They sickened by the thousands daily, and died unattended without help.

Milton kept his distance from the robed men. He looked towards his wife in his arms, noticing that she once more had her eyes opened wide. Despite how hard he tried to block her vision, she persisted to stare in utter silence. 

Many died in the open street, others dying in their houses, made it known, by the stench of their rotting bodies.

Some of the robed men carried whips with metal attachments to the ropes. They whipped themselves as they marched in unison, taking in the carnage and destruction around them.

Even Milton stopped to survey them. He quickly looked for any possible escape route without running into any of these cultists. But just as he was about to make his move, he noticed a shadow approach from the side. He turned his head, only to be met with a spade.

He lost his grip on Violet and collapsed to the ground, his staff dropping out of his grasp just as well. Desperately trying to rise back up, he was beaten down again by a spade. From what he could make out, they were surrounded by a group of those robed cultists accompanied by a few ordinary civilians. 

"Drag him to the pile, I'll take the woman." One of them spoke, walking over him. Milton felt a number of hands begin to grab him. The trauma he took to the head made it difficult to resist. He couldn't even summon any of his anger, he was simply hurt. 

When his eyes darted over to Violet, only confusion struck his mind. She was standing still, ignoring the man that approached her. She was fixed on the fires directly in front of her. Her eyes were wider than before, and her expression seemed blank. It was almost as if she had died standing, there was no soul present within her body. 

"We are gathered to rejoice before our heavenly Father who watches us from above." A white robed man chanted beside Milton, wearing a cone-shaped hood. "It is with pleasure that we present him with two sinners who may unify in death."

Sinners? Milton retaliated by shoving arms aside, but another whack to the head was given in return. His vision was fading. Everything became blurry, and he could still hear the chanting. "We are born of sin, and we die in sin! Oh God who art thou in Heaven, bless these sinners with a joyful death!" 

He glanced yet again at his distant wife. She still hasn't moved an inch, fully mesmerized by the anarchy. A single tear had dropped from one of her eyes, rolling down her cheek. One of the men already grabbed her arm, trying to pull her towards the others. Milton weakly called her name; he couldn't find it within him to raise his voice.

"This pestilence has rendered our mothers and fathers alone, unwilling to tend to their very own children. But are we not all children of our Lord? Do you not see that we have been blessed? This plague is not meant to punish us! We have committed no unjust actions or harm towards our fellow man! Rather we prepare you to relinquish yourselves from complete sin! You are welcome my brothers and sisters!"

All hope was lost. Milton lost his strength. A part of him wanted to die, so he could regenerate stronger and faster, but he couldn't leave Violet. With nothing he could do, he realized he had failed yet again. It was time to scratch her name off a list belonging to everyone he's ever known and lost.

However, one raw scream deafened everybody. It was a blood-curling scream of pure agony belonging to a man. 

When everyone's heads turned to face the sound of peril, they saw Violet standing, although now she was looking back at them. Her eyes locked with Milton's. Meanwhile, her hands were soaked in blood, bits of flesh stuck to her nails. The deceased body of her assailant fell to the ground with a thud. His neck was ripped apart and mutilated.

Violet stepped over his body and steadily approached the crowd. Her fingers trembled, but her gaze was fixed. Milton turned his attention towards the rioters, noticing them gripping pitchforks and torches. They were ready for a fight. 

But what happened next didn't result in a fight. One by one, every single man stood down. Some dropped their weapons, some just lowered them. All of them however turned and ran away.

Why would they run away? Milton pondered at the thought as he lowered his head and rested on the pavement. It didn't seem to make sense. They had her outnumbered and wielded clubs and blades. So why run? 

Right when he looked up, he saw Violet looking down at him expressionless. It scared him. She bent down and grabbed his arm, pulling him up. 

Milton instantly tried to take a step back and keep his distance. But somehow, he felt like he couldn't. Something was forcing him to hold her tight. She placed her blood-soaked hands over the sides of his face, causing him to squint. 

Her lips tried to meet with his. He denied her. Finally freeing himself from her grasp, he wiped away some of the blood off his cheeks. Violet on the other hand finally formed some sort of expression, and it appeared melancholy. 

"I'm sorry, Tadeas." She said softly, almost in a whisper. 

Who's Tadeas? Milton almost asked out loud, but he kept it from spilling out of his lips. Instead, he glared at her. But when he spotted another fire erupt in the distance, he made up his mind. It was time to leave.

Walking over to his fallen staff he reacquired it and gripped it tightly. With his other hand, he held on to Violet and tugged her along. Leaving the courtyard, they had to rest someplace discreet and gather their thoughts. But more importantly, he had many questions. 

She must answer him.

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Historical Notes:

Giovanni Boccaccio was an Italian writer and poet responsible for capturing the true horror of the plague in his several famous quotes and descriptions. He was fortunate enough to experience the plague and its effects on the human body and mind, all while simultaneously avoiding infection and surviving the pandemic. His notes are still used today to showcase just how horrible the pestilence truly was.

The Flagellants were described to be a 'race without a head'. Either dressed in white robes with red crosses or choosing to be fully naked instead. They would whip themselves during their pilgrimage across Europe, as part of their tradition. They formed a path of blood everywhere they went, often freeing themselves of sins by taking their own lives and the lives of others who defied them.

The Triumph of Death, by Pieter Bruegel in 1562

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