Chapter 39: Whispers of Plague
The days following Sherry's tumultuous arrival and revival settled into a new, albeit slightly more complex, rhythm in Elowen.
Sunlight streamed down onto fields that looked greener than ever before. The gentle thud of hammers echoed from the rising frames of two nascent churches taking shape side-by-side – one bathed in morning light, the other designed to welcome the dusk.
The scent of baking bread often mingled with the cool, sweet aroma of Riku's chilled drinks shared during midday breaks, and occasionally, the distant sound of Lysaria and Sherry engaging in spirited debate over stonework placement drifted on the breeze.
Riku found himself falling into a pattern he hadn't realized he craved. Mornings were often spent near the expanding herb gardens or checking the simple irrigation channels. Afternoons involved overseeing the church constructions, mediating the theological (and sometimes personal) disputes between the two newest residents, or tinkering with Gnord on refinements for the coolbox and turbine designs. Evenings were quiet – sharing meals, watching the stars emerge over a village that felt more like home than his old world ever had.
The peace felt fragile, perhaps, but deeply cherished.
It was roughly ten days after Sherry had begun tentatively integrating into village life, under a sky painted with lazy white clouds, that the rhythm broke.
A frantic shout came from the boy perched in the makeshift watch post near the southern gate. "Cart approaching! Fast! Looks... looks troubled!"
Villagers turned quickly, shielding their eyes against the sun. Riku, who had been discussing timber supports with Barou near the church site, exchanged a quick, serious glance with the chief before heading towards the gate. Lila, Lysaria, and Sherry, who had been sketching layout adjustments nearby, followed close behind.
The cart that rattled into view was small, battered, drawn by a single, exhausted-looking pony whose coat was matted with dust and sweat. At the reins sat a figure slumped with fatigue, her silver hair escaping its usually neat bun in dishevelled strands, her simple robes torn at the hem and stained with dirt.