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“When the Imperium talks about decay and disease, they very often focus upon ailments of the body. They are always so base. Far worse is the decay in one’s mind that belittles existence to the point of forcing a candle to flicker, coaxing the wind and licking the wax in an attempt to fade away. A flame is meant to burn strong and ferocious, to ravage landscapes without bias, not to be trapped in a wax house.”

“I was that candle. Groomed and pampered, a pedigree pet put on a pedestal to suffocate in apathy. I’d been disgusting and wasteful; doing no good, bad, doing nothing. Like you. They would tell me how lucky I was to be coveted and protected, but a disease-like stagnation settled upon me. I know now that I was searching for something long before he found me.”

She spoke with resolve and a twisted sort of adoration. The way those words stretched her pale lips hinted at the charm and education groomed into upper class and if fear hadn’t clenched his reactions he would likely have found the girl attractive, in a sickly sort of way. Blonde hair continually curling underneath an oppressive heat that exuded from her and eyes as pale green as death that whispered paradoxical promises to what sanity the fever had not possessed.

“W..why are you telling me all of this?”

“Because how else would I save you?”

“Are...Aren’t you going to kill me?” She looked down at the hog tied man beneath her lithe form. His face was half pressed into the ash and grit of this burial tomb he had led her into and tears, clean and lost, fell from his eyes causing his voice to quiver. Her eyebrows quirked in what could only be shock, and maybe a little hurt. She had spent weeks tracking him down, hunting [i]him[/i] specifically and he thought she was just going to kill him? She couldn’t let him ruin this moment.

“You haven’t been listening at all. I’m not some psychopath.” She remembered then that he was still confused. There was a pause before a laugh slipped from between her lips, joyous and, in other circumstances, infectious. Almost as much as her fever damp fingers that petted across his cheek while she spoke. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to send you home, a savior.”

Currently, he was no one but a connection to the Imperium, but she knew he could be so much more. The hunt had proved he was resourceful and strong willed, taking much longer than initially expected. She had become quite adept at tracking down the things she wanted. Originally it had all been about the book, but after such an elaborate chase she had seen the fighter inside of him. Nurgle would be so pleased.

It would be days before the Weeping Widow consumed him, weeks if he was as strong as she hoped. Men rarely survived the disease, hence its colloquial tag. She felt such pride that she could only beam down at him like a coveting mother, like she had with her own son years ago.

[i]The baby had been quarantined as the Weeping Widow’s plague corrupted their country. The poverty stricken were embraced first as the wealthy locked themselves away and dismissed their servants. All of it was in vain, Nurgle does not care about status. The Imperium and their corpse god were not coming to the rescue as promised; and why would they? They had no might to reclaim the conquests of a stronger god. It had been two weeks and the taint had made it into every home. With the servants dismissed it wasn’t difficult to make it to her son’s side. She lay with him, petting the infant’s plagueless forehead and letting him grab and suck upon her fingers, damp with disease. A smile had claimed residence on her lips; such a lucky boy indeed, to never have to look back at wasted life. He would live forever with the knowledge of struggle and the vibrant joy that erupted from such.[/i]

“Of course, you may be angry at first. I was. There is an initial desperation and agony. My own was immense, consuming, a burning fire unchecked. I was dying; hateful and aghast at my own misfortune and my old god. Under the guise of fevered dreams they came to me. Nurgle. It was impossible to imagine a time this didn’t make sense. How had my reality been so tainted that I could not see such a blatant truth? The truth of everything. This was my freedom, the Weeping Widow plague that defiled my planet, devouring souls relentlessly for Nurgle. My husband would no longer force me to stay. They would no longer expect dutiful stagnation.” Her captured prize continued eking out pathetic whimpers while the hand extending from her flak jacket continued to caress his cheek. She was careful not to mar his appearance with her clawlike nails, even as she ignored his protests and continued on. “You’ll be free too, after the pain.”

“It is said that after Nurgle’s embrace the torment is no longer there; the ailment exists but the pain is replaced. I believe this. I believe my pain came from my pride and the deceit of the Imperium about the goals of existence. I saw clearly the waste and disgust I had rooted in for years. The pain ceased because I realized the futility of that life.”

“Please, please stop. Just let me go. I can pay you.” Her eyes rolled as another giggle chimed from her throat. The ash of the fallen stuck to the tears upon his face that she stroked away. The infection from her fingertips had long soaked into his pores and now she was simply trying to comfort the man.

“You’ll see.” Long lashes pinched in a wink as she removed her weight from on top of him, jingling the clip/drop harness that hugged her hips. She reached into his pocket and pulled out a communication device she knew contained a tracker. Spidery digits tapped on the controls and connected with his employer before she tossed the tech beside him.

“They’ll come for you and you can tell them about me, but they’ll kill you on the spot. Or you can fight the good fight.” She knew what he would choose. It was her absolute favorite part of humanity; that pesky drive to survive. She slipped the book, one that claimed to be the account of a psyker who had ventured to Nurgle’s plain, into a satchel at her side and turned towards the entrance of the cave. As her feet moved en route to the exit they began a skipping rhythm. In the decay behind her she dragged an open blade chassis chain sword, rusted and corroded. He continued to whimper and sob, hopefully on the path of desperation, as she slipped from his view. His muffled sobs were soon overwhelmed with her own humming; an enchanting diddy she’d picked up a trader’s station.
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