The Reaper's Cage

1
“Elsivar is a place of mountain ranges; of valleys and streams. Villages were few and far between in the Dark Ages, and few men dared venture into the wilderness. The inhabitants of the wild places were savage creatures: werewolves who roamed the woodland in search of strays, siths that dug tunnels and built whole cities of priceless crystal beneath the earth. And in the deep, silver valleys of Amonthule, lived the sorcerors. They were proud and fierce warriors, protecting their homeland from all invaders. But, at the peak of the Dark Ages, a shadow fell on Amonthule. The troll-king of the mountain tribe grew jealous of the wealth of their neighbors. The trolls attacked the sorcerers, and left not one alive. Amonthule was left in ruins; the trolls were badly wounded, and as a result of the troll-king's greed, many of his own people died. The rest dispersed into the woodlands, where they remain today. As for the king, he died in the ruins of Amonthule; the treasures he had sought after, turned to dust. The ruins of Amonthule, in time, were healed by the greenery of the forest, and now the ancient statues and plinths of the sorcerers stand watch over the Forest of Night.”
Abigail Archdale closed the book and smiled sadly at the sleeping face of her daughter, Vivian. Vivian's hands were clasped at her lap, and they fell to her sides as she shifted in her bed. Abigail tucked the edge of Vivian's quilt around her thin frame. When she reached Vivian's legs, Abigail's face darkened. Her child's legs lay limply on the bed, senseless and numb. They were pale and wasted, nerveless flesh encasing bone. Abigail 's fingers dug into the binding of Vivian's book of lore, tears starting in her eyes. Paralyzed... I don't care what the healer says... Vivian will walk again. She's got the willpower to do it, if only her body doesn't fail her.
* * *
Seven Years Later
Alaric watched the sleet fall thick on the straggled dead grass of the empty field that bordered Wermoth. Alaric scooped up the last chuck of sod and threw it on the last grave. Alaric looked around the field, already filled with wooden markers, his mind slow, his body numb. Why am I here? Who am I burying? Alaric looked unseeingly at the filled in cavity. In his mind's eye, he could still picture the bodies- their mouths sealed shut with dried blood, black blotches covering their otherwise livid skin.
Bile rose in his throat at the memory. Alaric threw away his shovel, staggering away from the graves. He slipped on the icy mud and picked himself up, not sure where he was going, or why. I'm the last one. I'll come down with the plague in a day or so. All that's left to do is wait.