Emma

Goddess, forgive me. Had I known then what lengths we would go to in the name of survival, I would have gladly died with the rest. But I didn't, for the Rot arrived gently, a slow, subtle poison that did not sing of its potency until it was too late.

An observant eye might have noticed something amiss from the moment it all began, the slightly sour taste that lingered in the well water, the unusual mushiness of the year's harvest, the oddly lackadaisical nature of both the livestock and the surrounding wildlife. That winter was a rough one, and their were more mourners that year than any year before, but little was thought of it until the turning of spring did not improve matters as it usually does. As things continued to grow worse, alarms were raised, reaching my ears when a farmer who had been complaining about the health of his animals demanded my immediate attention, wanting my expertise as the village's priestess.

He showed me to his barn where his horse, formerly a strong and able-bodied work animal, keeled over after letting out 'ungodly shrieking' in the dead of night. It was nightmarishly bloated, laying in a puddle disturbingly thick blood and dark black bile. I was there for autopsy when the farmer cut it open, and I'll never forget the fetid reek of its innards, which had turned black and gained the sickening consistency of soft butter. This was not a singular incident, and as reports from neighboring villages came in, it became clear that the world had begun to rot, us with it.

As a direct witness and a priestess, I was immediately placed on a pedestal and given the burden of communing with the Goddess. Hope in me was misplaced though, for try as I might through countless prayers and rituals, I could not reach our protector. Abandoning our birthplace seemed to be our only remaining option, a nomadic escape from the tainted lands. Yet try as we might to escape the Rot's infected grip, we quickly learned that no where was safe from the sudden plague.

Groves in good health could be found occasionally, but their vitality was always temporary. We were prodded ever onward by the encroaching decay, growing more desperate every day. In most places, there was no fruit, no clean water, and no animals to hunt for food. Our supplies were running low, our people growing thinner, both in number and in waistline. That's when the true tragedies began to occur. Quiet whispers in certain circles started to entertain the thought of cutting loose the more decrepit and elderly. 'They've lived long full lives already', they said, 'They're slowing our pace', 'They're eating our food', 'It's them or us.' A logical but callous assessment, and one that I ultimately concurred with in the group's vote. It was decided that it would be 'humane' to slit their throats while they slept. No one spoke a word of it the next morning.

That was the beginning of our descent into moral degeneracy, but it was far from the end of it. A chance encounter with another village also fleeing from the Rot offered a possibility to acquire more supplies, supplies that we needed at any cost. Bartering was out of the question, for what could be more valuable in times of scarcity than simple food and water? From the moment our two groups met, there was an uneasy tension in the air. I think everyone knew where it was going, but the other group underestimated how ruthless and violent we could be. I did not personally engage in the bloodshed, but when it was done, I still feasted on the pillaged rations without complaint on where they came from.

At the end of the skirmish, something happened that will stay with me for the rest of my life, no matter how long or short it may be. A young child, weakened by hunger, cried for someone to carry her. She was one of our own, I'm sure everyone recognized her. She had brought me flowers on many occasions when life was more carefree, and I was still the village's priestess. And yet her very own parents remained silent, refusing to claim her. The group collectively concluded that she 'must' be from the now slaughtered village, and we left her there to die. We were sounded off by her only hysterical wailing echoing through the rotted woods behind us, the sound of which moved me less than I wish it did.

The girl's death was the catalyst who we revealed who we truly were. We weren't a village full of friends and neighbors any more; we have become a warband. Evaluations on who is 'worthy' and who has 'earned' their keep have started. Already, many deemed weak or useless have been expunged from our ranks. Only those that serve some purpose have been spared. Thus far, I have lived through the selection process thanks to my supposed connection with the Goddess, which I am playing up to great effect. In truth, the Goddess has been silent from quite some time now, but stretching the truth is enough to keep me alive. For now.

It's certainly not enough to keep me comfortable or healthy though. My legs ache as I trudge through the black mush, each step feeling like it's ripping apart my muscles. My body is emaciated and starving, and it's a struggle to even keep my eyes open, even more so to walk. Around me, everything that used to make up the natural floor, be it fallen leaves, soil, or animals, is now just a slurry of foul-smelling decay. The trees are wilted and leafless, the normally firm bark that maintains their shape now porous and droopy. In time, I'm sure that they too will join the thick sludge underfoot.

Surrounding me, the rest of my travelling party looks little to no better than me. Most of them are wearing robes that hide their bodies, but even the strongest of us have atrophied in these trying times, and it subtly shows in the hobbled way they move. With the pretense of us being a peaceful village gone, and many of them openly wear dried blood as war paint or don menacing masks. Their is no illusion of kinship between us anymore. If I were to trip and fall here the next thing I would feel is a boot in my back as they trample over me and leave me to die, and I can say with absolute certainty that I would return the favor without a second thought.

"Goddess, please." I pray quietly to myself, clinging to my absolute faith as a my only motivator. "Have I erred? Send me a sign. Something. Anything. I need your guidance now more than ever."

But my words carry with them a certain hollowness that I cannot dispel no matter how fervently I pray. It's as if my prayers are not reaching Her ears. Why have you shut me out, Goddess? What does this mean? What are you trying to tell me? It's a sign. It has to be. As my mind races to find deeper spiritual meaning in the silence, I consider that perhaps this is the Goddess's way of telling me to repent. Maybe this is my last chance to cleanse my hands of the horrible deeds I've been complicit to in the name of survival. I take a moment to entertain this thought, entertain how far I've fallen, and then wonder why I continue to struggle forward without Her light. Eventually, I reach a decision and prepare a final, pathetic sermon.

"Everyone... Former friends, neighbors... I'm sorry..." I rasp painfully, trying to raise my voice as loud as I can despite dry and shriveled throat. "I've failed us all. I've strayed from the teachings of the Goddess, and I can no longer recognize what we've become. The weight of my sins halts my stride... Leave me behind to make my peace... Let this be my resting place, final or otherwise..."

As the words leave me parched lips, my empty stomach twists and knots. More than anything, I'm afraid. By encouraging my group to leave me behind, I am surrendering my fate to the will of the Goddess. I don't want to die. Even now, I still don't want to die. I still long for the better days that I once took for granted and let pass me by. But my feelings are hypocritical. The others who were put down just to slightly better our station didn't want to die either. Maybe death is the reckoning I deserve. It is the Goddess's place to pass judgement on me after all, and I will not question it. If it is Her will, I will try to accept what becomes of me.