Edema Rue

Der sighed. It… how long had it been?

He kneeled on the grass, vaguely aware of the itching on his legs, the viscous, near-black fluid making its way through across the ground. He wasn’t sure how much of it was his.

It was as such that Wren found him. 

“Do you know how many it took to stop me?” Der stared up to the moon, vision blurry.

”How many did I kill…” he whispered, voice taught.

Wren placed her hand on his shoulder. “They’ll live, this time. Only one was infected, and with the new breakthroughs, the symptoms will be manageable.”

Der wrapped his arms around himself, shaking. “They’re not symptoms… it’s not an infection… it’s a curse. I’m broken. I have been for… for so long now.”

Wren frowned, though Der did not notice. “Der. I know you. You take every precaution possible before it comes. You are not broken. You are not weak. You are strong.”

Der stood suddenly, turning to face Wren. “I am strong. You really think that? Wren, I ask again. How many have I killed? Not here, not now. Since I was infected, death, destruction, and pain have followed me. How can I be strong except in the worst way possible?”

Wren frowned. “Der…”

Der turned. “Don’t follow me, Wren. It’s only a matter of time before I hurt you.”

With that, he walked away.

Some men could fly. Some women summoned the winds. Everyone has something, same way to command nature, bend it to their will.

 Everyone but me. Offworlders, they call what we do magic, but it isn’t. It’s natural, as natural as water flowing or the wind blowing. What we, or, what everyone else can do, isn’t magic.

 If anything, my curse  is the magical thing.

 My mother can grow plants at extraordinary speeds and my father can adjust the temperature to his needs. I wasn’t adopted or anything like that, there’s no reason for my curse. Offworlders who’ve met me say I’m normal and everyone else, they’re the strange ones. But no, they’re wrong again. I’m the weird one.

 I’m the broken one. The one the elements ignore, nature’s refuse. That’s me.

 Maybe I should be glad I’m different, maybe I’m not truly broken, but no one could ever understand it. You see, just like you, I’m weak in ways no one else can know. They don’t understand what it’s like, to see them do wonderful things. No one gets it.

 No one but you, old friend. Because like me, you’re weak. But being weak together can give us strength.