Galonii’s haunted, solemn eyes appeared from the shadows of his den. His lonely, cold, empty den that filled with the bitter chill of night and left his body pained from its touch. Or that, at least, was the excuse he gave for the sudden aches in his limbs. But, yes, whilst his den was cold now – without the touch of his mate at his side – he knew the real reason for his aches.
The disease.
The idea of it had frightened him since he had been old enough to understand what it was. That was a day he would not forget. One of his brothers had been taken from him at a young age, barely a juvenile. From that day he realised that most of the pride would face the same horrible fate. In some, the plague was quick and spared them a lifetime (short though it was) of torment. Some were gone in a matter of days. Other lingered on for years.
He had a feeling he would be one of them.
From the day that his brother was taken from them, Galonii had pledged himself to the Goddess of Pestilence, rising to become a priest who devoted his life to her. Perhaps, in a way, blocking his fear of the inevitable, painful future. The profession had led him to finding love – a fragile love but love nonetheless – to his late wife, Nadi. They had tried, and failed, to have children during their short time together and then she, too, had been taken from him. She had had the plague since birth, and though it had not been enough to kill her, it seemed to rapidly worsen as she reached adolescence.
So, now, Galonii was alone again, sitting outside that cold, empty den listening to the echoes of his dead mate’s laughter, her sweet voice…her coughing…her pained breathing…her last gasping words. He shook his head violently to dispel those haunting memories and stood, moving away from the place that was no longer home.
