Introduction
“Am I going to be okay,” I ask, interrupting Dr. Bernheimer’s thoughtful stare. The chair next to my bed creaks as he lifts himself up.
“I can’t explain it,” He says, flustered, “but we’ll just have to wait as see.” My wife, Catherine, moves towards me as he begins to pack his things. I carefully pull down my shirt to hide the large, purple blemishes on my stomach.
“It’ll be fine, darling,” Catherine utters while she tucks me in, “You’ll get better, I know it.” She kisses my warm cheek for the last time, “It could just be the flu or something. Right, doctor?” She offers me a comforting smile. The doctor clips his bag closed.
“Perhaps,” he ponders, “How long did you say you were ill, Fredrick?” I look up at him.
“Since yesterday morning. We called for y—“, I begin to cough uncontrollably. Catherine quickly rushs for me, but I hold up my hand and muffle the sounds. I recover my breath, “We called for you as soon as the sores appeared.”
The doctor looks up, as if all the answers were lurking in the crook of the ceiling. He nods repetitively, “I’ll return again in a few days to see if the ointment does anything for you.”
Catherine opens the front door, revealing the waiting darkness beyond, “Thank you, Mr. Bernheimer.” Her voice is apprehensive and heavy with disappointment. The doctor inclines his head politely and steps outside. The door slowly closes behind him.
Catherine goes to attend the pot hanging over the fire place while I lay in my bed, calculating the chances of catching a cold mid- summer. My throat was sore; perhaps the well water may have carried a bug. It could be bad food. I wasn’t feeling any worse, so I reassured myself that I could only get better.
The blotches boiled into sores overnight. The next morning, Catherine’s hope for my expedient recovery waned as she ended up stricken beside me, plagued with the same cough and blisters as I. Nobody visited us all day, and we were too exhausted to get up. Catherine held my hand in hers the entire time. Then, that night, I closed my eyes and died.
Memories
The sun was brighter than it usually was; a glaring white that forced me to squint. I could hear birds, but their songs were muffled and faint. I was in a park in Dalaran, on a bench. Catherine was sitting beside me, and we were watching each other, taking in the air. She smiled as I brushed a soft piece of her hair behind her ear.
“One day, will we marry, Fredrick,” she muses.
“Maybe. We’ll see,” I idly reply.
“Oh, don’t go overanalyzing it. It’s just marriage, after all. It won’t kill us.” She looks at me for a response, but doesn’t get one. “I’m starting to think you have someone else in mind.” Her accusation carries a playful tone.
“I’m too young to marry,” I argue.
“You’re twenty-eight.”
I glance up at the bell tower in the near distance. A sense of urgency sweeps over me, “And late,” I retort. I get up to rush to my next class, but then I swing around and plant an apologetic kiss on her cheek. I can’t feel the warmth beneath it.
“Alright, but you can’t ignore the issue forever, Fredrick. One day, you’ll have to say yes, and you will. You’ll see.” She relaxes onto the bench as the sun’s glare blinds me.
When it finally fades, I’m young, barely old enough to leave home. Thandol Span stretches before me, alive with the clashing of swords and taunts. An arrow whizzes by my ear and I turn to find its owner. There are too many people; it’s too much to take in. Another arrow grazes my arm. I look to the right, and there he is. A Fel Orc with his bow pointed straight for me. I stammer a few words and feel the heat of a fireball in my left hand. My concentration wavers when his next arrow lands inches from me. I look straight at him, but I can’t do it. My hand drifts to the left and the fireball misses him completely.
“Look out,” someone shouts as they tackle me out of the way. It’s an elf, and I recognize him: Monty. He springs back up like a fox and charges to the frontlines. I begin to panic and scramble after him. I clamor over dead footmen and Orcs, bounce off armored bodies as I try to keep Monty in my sight.
Dirt flies into my eyes and my ears begin to ring. Somebody falls into me, and I sprawl onto the ground. I push myself up, watching ahead. I’m breathing too heavily to smell the blood trickling from my nose. Then, I spot Monty, knocked back, in the shadow of an Orc about to deliver the killing blow. Monty is looking square at him, as if his pride would cause the axe to only graze him. I blink, and the tip of the ice lance in my right hand is piercing into the Orc’s side before I even realize my palm is cold. I smash into him, and he roars. He uses the back of his hand to bash me back onto the ground. I begin scuttling backwards as he stomps after me, roaring and swinging his axe wildly before finally crashing into the mud.
I look back and try to convince myself that it was exhaustion, not me, that killed him. Monty was already back on his feet and fighting. I just sat there and watched the Orc’s body drain of blood, imagining what it must feel like to die.