Chris Redfield

The heavy tolling of the cathedral bells spread over the capital of the Kingdom of Raccoon from early morning, and each new strike seemed to confirm what people had already begun whispering about in the streets: a sickness had come to the city. At first it was only troubling rumors passed from shop to shop and from courtyard to courtyard - stories of a strange fever, of people whose skin writhed with black tendrils, of families that lost several members in a single night. But soon the rumors turned into a frightening reality - doors of houses began to be barred almost around the clock, windows were boarded shut, and the air above the streets was increasingly filled with the smell of vinegar, smoke, and bitter herbs with which people desperately tried to cleanse the air. Where the market had only recently bustled and merchants’ voices rang out, a heavy, wary silence now reigned, broken only by coughing and the creak of the rare carts carrying the sick to the monastic infirmaries.

Sir Redfield watched all this from the courtyard of the royal castle, standing among the knights of the capital garrison when they were summoned to council. The throne hall was cool despite the torches burning along the walls, and the tension among those gathered could be felt as clearly as the cold stone floor beneath their boots. Maps of the city and scrolls with hastily written reports lay upon the long table, and at the far end stood King Albert. When the matter of the sickness was raised, many knights began proposing to send detachments into the infected quarters - to help maintain order, escort healers, or at least protect people from panic and unrest. To Chris it seemed only natural: if the capital suffered, the garrison was obliged to act.

However, the king’s command was different, Wesker declared that no knight was permitted to interfere with what was happening in the infected districts. No soldier was to enter the homes of the sick or help carry the infected, because the kingdom needed living warriors, not men dead from an unknown plague. Instead, Albert ordered that all physicians, herbalists, and healers in the kingdom be gathered at the palace, supplied with provisions, and sent to the city infirmaries. The sickness, in the king’s words, required knowledge and treatment, not swords. Chris spoke not a word of protest. As always, he bowed his head along with the others, accepting the command of his sovereign.

But that same evening, when he found himself at the city gates and saw people desperately trying to carry their sick relatives in their arms to the monastery refuge, when he noticed an old man nearly collapsing under the weight of the daughter he was trying to drag across the square, the order suddenly seemed far less important to Redfield. How could one stand aside when such things were happening within arm’s reach? Chris stood for a long time in the shadow of the tower, watching the streets where people moved slowly and cautiously, as though they were afraid even to breathe deeply. He knew the order and knew that disobedience would be considered a grave offense. But he also knew something else - that if he turned around and returned to the barracks now, he would remember these faces for the rest of his life. In the end, he simply put a cloak over his armor and walked out through the city gates, taking with him neither a single knight nor even a squire or healer.

The infected quarters greeted him with an almost deafening silence. Guards were rarely seen here, because most people tried to keep as far away from these streets as possible. Chris walked through narrow alleys where the doors of some houses had already been marked with signs of the sickness. He helped those who could still walk reach the infirmaries, supported under the arms those who could barely remain on their feet, and carried in his arms those who could no longer walk at all. Several times Redfield knocked on the doors of healers, demanding they open and take in the sick, and sometimes he simply left people at the gates of hospitals because there was no more space inside.

Days began to blur together. He hardly returned to the barracks, only occasionally for a short time to change his clothes before going back out into the city. At first Redfield did not notice the cough that came more and more often. Then came the heaviness in his body, as though his armor had suddenly begun to weigh twice as much as usual. The fever crept up unnoticed, and only when the stones of the pavement began to swim before his eyes and it seemed that dark, writhing growths had appeared beneath his skin did he realize something was wrong. The last thing Chris clearly remembered was an alley near the old chapel and how he was helping a man who could barely stand to his feet when he suddenly felt his strength leave him all at once. The world around him darkened, the noise of the street dissolved into a dull ringing, and he did not even feel the moment when someone’s hands caught him.

When consciousness returned, the ceiling above him was entirely different. Heavy beams, expensive fabrics on the walls, the smell of incense and medicinal infusions - all of it meant he was not in a city infirmary. Voices of physicians sounded nearby, muted and tense. Someone carefully held his wrist, checking his pulse, another quietly discussed the signs of the plague and how he would be treated. Then came the creak of a door opening and confident, quiet footsteps on the marble floor - and even through the haze of fever Chris immediately knew to whom they belonged. The physicians fell silent at once, nearly standing at attention. An order followed for them to leave the chamber, and a few moments later the door closed with a loud thud, leaving the room filled only with the soft crackling of lamps and the heavy scent of medicinal herbs.

Redfield slowly opened his eyes. His vision was blurred, but gradually the outline of the figure beside the bed became clearer - a tall silhouette, strict posture, black pince-nez on the nose, a crown upon his head. For a few moments Redfield said nothing, trying to gather his strength. The fever still clouded his thoughts, but he understood perfectly well why he was here and that his actions were already known to the king himself. “My lord…” he murmured, trying to raise his head slightly before it fell limply back onto the pillow. “I disobeyed you, and I…deserve your righteous anger and punishment,” Chris said. He fell silent for a moment, catching his breath, and then continued, lowering his gaze as a knight should before his king. “I will accept my punishment in full severity,” he said. “But may I ask one thing?” he added, carefully raising his eyes to Albert. “Why did you order that I be brought here - to your chambers?”