Vergil turned to leave, but his legs felt heavy, as if they were rooted to the ground. He tried to take a step, but his feet remained planted firmly in place.
The Halo of Merit flickered, a pulsating glow emanating from the bracelet on his wrist. It was the source of his confinement, a cruel reminder of his pact with Axios. Vergil clenched his fists, his anger and frustration boiling over. That damn God refused to reward him, and now he is not even allowed to leave?
Was this some new celestial torture? A way to bind him to this pitiful village even further?
A sliver of hope, fragile as a spiderweb, spun itself within him. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn't a punishment, but a nudge. A cruel one, yes, but perhaps a nudge nonetheless.
Elara's worried gaze held his for a beat too long. The villagers, their faces etched with fear, hung on his every word. A decision, heavy and momentous, settled on Vergil's shoulders. He could storm out, leaving them to their fate (if the damn god would allow it), But somewhere, beneath the boiling rage and simmering ambition, a strange curiosity flickered to life.
With a sigh that ruffled the makeshift curtains, Vergil met Elara's gaze. The defiance had morphed into something else – a hesitant plea. "Fine," he rasped, the word grating on his own ears. "But don't expect miracles."
Elara's face lit up with an unguarded smile, a flicker of sunshine breaking through the storm clouds that had been her expression.
"Please come with me?"
The stench of decay thinned into dust-choked air as Elara led Vergil away from the hospital. Beyond the makeshift tents, the village sprawled outwards, a bruised but not broken thing. Here, houses still stood, albeit scarred by fire and battle. Barricades, hastily constructed from salvaged wood and debris, snaked through the streets, manned by soldiers whose faces were grim maps of hardship. Their gazes, from time to time flickered towards Vergil.
Elara ignored their stares, her brow furrowed in concentration. They reached a particularly sturdy barricade, its timbers blackened and patched with fresh wood. A soldier, broad-shouldered and battle-worn, stood post. His armor, though dented and scratched, bore the insignia of a hawk in flight - a symbol of leadership in this ravaged village.
Elara stopped before him, her voice taking on a formal edge. "Darius," she addressed the soldier, "This is Corvus. He possess... healing abilities." Her voice trailed off slightly, a subtle hint that spoke volumes.
Darius, his weathered face unreadable, met Vergil's gaze with a searching intensity. The sorcerer felt a prickle crawl up his spine under that scrutiny. Was this hero worship, or were they simply sizing him up - a potential asset or a liability?
Darius broke the silence with a slow nod. "Healing abilities," he rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly. The way he accentuated the word sparked a flicker of annoyance in Vergil. Was doubt dripping from every syllable? But before he could respond, Darius continued, gesturing towards a side street. "We've prepared a place for you, Corvus. Rest, and when you're ready, perhaps you can… demonstrate these abilities."
It wasn't quite a request, but not an order either. It was a challenge, wrapped in a cloak of need. Vergil bristled, a viper sensing a trap. Yet, a twisted amusement bubbled within him. Being treated like a king, pampered before they tested him? It was almost comical in this desolate landscape.
He met Darius' gaze, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "Lead the way, soldier," he said, "Let's see who needs healing more – your village, or your skepticism."
Vergil followed Darius through the fortified streets, a sneer twisting his lips. The man's challenge still hung in the air, a prickly reminder of his diminished power. As a caged beast, his roar is reduced to a pathetic whimper, yet even a whimper could be useful in the right circumstances.
He found himself ushered into a small, surprisingly pristine house, a testament to the village's desperate attempt at normalcy. A bed, a makeshift table, and a single, flickering lantern awaited him. A young soldier, barely past boyhood, scurried in moments later, his arms laden with a steaming pot and a cloth bag.
"Food, Sir Corvus," the boy stammered, awed to meet Vergil, yet fearful.
Vergil raised an eyebrow,"Sir Corvus?" he echoed, the title a foreign sound to his once-revered name.
He dismissed the boy with a curt nod, examining the offerings. The food, though plain, was surprisingly warm and smelled of something other than ash. He tore into a piece of dried meat, the meager offering a stark contrast to the lavish feasts of his past.
Then came a bag. Filled with herbs, roots, and bandages it might have been, in his heyday, a child's plaything. However, here, in this desolate wasteland, it was a treasure chest. Their desperation painted the most ironic portrait. Here he was, Vergil the Vile, reduced to a glorified poultice-peddler, and yet, the villagers clung to him.
He tossed a bundle of herbs onto the table. The flickering lantern cast long, dancing shadows on the walls as Vergil surveyed his "tools."
~
Elara, the youthful leader barely out of her teens, huddled with Darius. Their hushed conversation was punctuated by the distant whimpers of the wounded and the rhythmic thud of hammers repairing shattered fortifications.
"Three days," Darius rasped, the words a lead weight dropping into the already oppressive silence. "That's all the scouts estimate before they return."
Elara visibly flinched. Three days. It was nowhere near enough. They were like a child facing a ravenous beast, armed with nothing but a pebble and a desperate prayer. Their meager stockpiles wouldn't hold, their defenses wouldn't be complete, and most horrifyingly, they hadn't managed to fulfill the enemy's cryptic demand. Whatever it was, it seemed an impossible task in this broken state.
A flicker of anger ignited in Elara's chest, momentarily pushing aside the terror. "What do they even want?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Darius shook his head, a grim resignation etched on his face. "They haven't spoken a word. It's… not like any enemy we've faced before."
Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by a grunt from across the makeshift hospital. Vergil, the enigmatic healer knelt beside a groaning soldier, his expression a mask of cool indifference. Elara watched him with a mix of apprehension and a thin thread of hope. He was a gamble, a wild card she'd been forced to play.
Darius followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing. "How long do you think we can keep him around?" he asked, his voice barely above a murmur.
Elara bit her lip. Despite his aloofness, Vergil possessed a raw power she could sense, even through the limitations he seemed to be struggling with. He was their best chance, maybe even their only one. But trust, in this world, was a luxury they couldn't afford.
"I don't know," she admitted, her voice heavy. "Perhaps…" Her sentence trailed off, a question hanging in the air.
Darius understood. Vergil, a captive in their grasp, could be compelled to obey their every whim. However, skilled healers could concoct a deadly poison just as easily as they could mend a wound.
"A forced hand is dangerous," he said, his voice low and steady. "Desperate times, Elara, but not desperate enough to court a viper in our midst."
The soldier winced, clutching at his bandaged arm, but Vergil offered nothing but a curt nod before moving on to the next injured villager. Suddenly, a shadow fell across him.
Darius, his weathered face etched with a curious mix of wariness and something else, hovered nearby. "Done tending to the wounded, Corvus?" he rumbled, his voice a low growl.
Vergil straightened, a flicker of something akin to amusement playing on his lips. "For now," he replied, his tone cool and detached. "Though, considering the state of your defenses, I wouldn't be surprised if another batch arrives shortly."
Darius ignored the veiled jab. "Come," he said, gesturing towards the village perimeter. "There's a place I want to show you."
Vergil quirked an eyebrow. He was no fool. This wasn't a casual stroll. But a growing curiosity gnawed at him. What could Darius possibly want to show him beyond the grim reality of the village?
As they walked, the sounds of hammering and shouts faded away, replaced by the gentle murmur of water. Vergil was surprised when Darius led him not deeper into the fortifications, but out, into a hidden oasis nestled within a grove of trees. A cascading waterfall fed a clear stream that ran through the green haven, a contrast to the devastation outside. Women and children gathered here, washing clothes, weaving stories, their laughter a fragile melody amidst the chaos.
A strange tension settled between them. Darius seemed hesitant, searching for words. Finally, he spoke, his voice gruff. "Before this," he began, gesturing to the peaceful scene, "this village was different. We were farmers, weavers, storytellers. We had laughter…" He trailed off, his eyes clouding over with a phantom pain.
Vergil watched him, a sliver of impatience cutting through his curiosity. "Your point?" he asked, his voice devoid of warmth.
Darius flinched at the bluntness. Taking a deep breath, he continued, his gaze drifting towards the waterfall. "This… this enemy we face, it's not like anything we've encountered before. They are…"
Vergil's wasn't interested in nostalgic reminiscing. He needed answers, and Darius's meandering monologue wasn't providing them. Before Darius could finish his lament, Vergil cut him off again, his voice laced with biting sarcasm.
"So, this utopia of yours was overrun by... what, exactly?"