Boring History For Sleep | Why You Wouldn't Survive The Volcanic Winter of 536 AD

Hey, tonight we're diving into one of the most terrifying moments in human history. Imagine waking up one day to find the sun has gone dark, the crops are failing, and no one knows why. That's exactly what happened in the year 536 AD, what some historians have called the worst year to be alive in human history. But before you get comfortable, take a moment to like the video and subscribe, but only if you genuinely enjoy what I do here. and let me know in the comments where you're tuning in from and what time it is for

you. It's always fascinating to see who's joining us from around the world. Now, dim the lights, maybe turn on a fan for that soft background hum and let's ease into tonight's journey together. Congratulations. You've just woken up in the year 536 AD. The gentle morning light that should be streaming through the tiny window of your one room wooden hut isn't there. Instead, a strange dim bluish glow hangs in the air, as if the sun itself has decided to hide behind a veil. You rub your eyes, thinking perhaps it's just dawn and the full light of

day will come soon. But it doesn't. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not for the next 18 months. Your name is Adella and you live in a small village nestled in the rolling hills not far from the old Roman road that leads to Constantinople, the magnificent capital of the Byzantine Empire. You're part of the vast population of peasant farmers who form the backbone of Emperor Justinian's realm. Your life has never been easy, but it's had its rhythms and certainties until now. Your hut sits among two dozen others in a village clearing. The walls are made of wle

and dorb. You know, a latis of wooden strips smeared with a mixture of clay, sand, and straw. It's a simple technique that's been used for centuries. Your thatched roof keeps out most of the rain. Though during heavy storms, little rivullets sometimes find their way down the interior walls. The floor beneath your feet is packed earth covered with fresh straw that you change every few weeks when it gets too soiled. The air inside is always a bit smoky from the central hearth where you cook your meals and keep warm during the colder months. There are no

chimneys in homes like yours. The smoke simply rises and filters out through the thatch or the single window opening that can be covered with an oiled cloth when the weather turns foul. Your home is sparssely furnished. A low wooden table, a few stools, a chest for your meager possessions and sleeping pallets stuffed with straw. In one corner, your most valuable possession, an iron cooking pot hanging from a tripod over the fire pit. It's been passed down through generations, and without it, preparing meals would be nearly impossible. You share this simple space with your husband, Marcus,

and your two children, Lucius, who's 10, and little Livia, who's just turned six. Your elderly mother also lives with you, her gnarled hands still capable of spinning wool and tending to Livia while you work the fields. On this strange dim morning, you rise and move to the doorway, pushing aside the rough cloth that serves as your door. Outside, your neighbors are also emerging from their homes, faces upturned to the eerie sky, expressions ranging from confusion to fear. The sun, whispers Helena, the weaver who lives in the hut next to yours. It's as pale as a

winter moon. you nod, a knot of worry forming in your stomach. Your family, like everyone else in the village, depends on the sun for light, for warmth, but most importantly for growing the crops that sustain you. Without strong sunlight, the barley and wheat in the fields will struggle, and without a good harvest, winter will bring hunger. Maybe it's just for today, you say, trying to sound more confident than you feel. Perhaps it's smoke from a distant forest fire. But it isn't just for today. The next morning dawns with the same unnatural twilight, and the next

and the next after that. Within a week, a palpable sense of dread has settled over the village like the fine ash that sometimes dusts the ground when you wake. No one knows what's happening, but the older folk mutter about the end of days and signs from God. The good news is that you have stores from last year's harvest. Sacks of grain carefully protected from rats and weevils, dried beans, and preserves made from autumn fruits. You're luckier than some. The bad news is that those stores were meant to supplement this year's crops, not replace them entirely.

As the weeks pass, the crops in the fields grow slowly, if at all. The barley and wheat that should be stretching toward the sky by early summer remain stunted. The vegetables in your garden plot, the cabbages, onions, and turnips that usually provide welcome variety to your family's diet, are yellowish and small. Marcus returns from checking the fields one day, his face grim. The ears are forming, but they're thin, he tells you. If the sun doesn't return soon, we'll have less than half our usual yield. But the sun doesn't return to its full strength. Instead, a

strange cold settles in. Even though it's supposed to be summer, frost appears on the ground some mornings. Something you've never seen in June before. The fruit trees that had blossomed before the darkness came now drop their immature fruit. Small, hard knobs that will never ripen. In the village, the mood grows tense. The headman, Titus, calls a meeting in the small wooden church at the center of the settlement. Everyone attends, their faces gaunt with worry in the light of the tallow candles. We must prepare, Titus says simply. The harvest will be poor. We must conserve what

we have and think ahead to winter. Father Powus, the village priest, raises his hands. We must also pray, he adds, God has sent us this trial and only through prayer and penance can we hope for his mercy. That night, as you lie on your pallet beside Marcus, you whisper in the darkness, "What if the sun never comes back, his hand finds yours beneath the rough woolen blanket?" "It will," he says. But you can hear the doubt in his voice. "It must." The days blur into weeks and the weeks into months. Summer passes without ever truly

arriving. The usual heat replaced by an unseasonable chill. Autumn comes and with it the meager harvest. As predicted, the yield is less than half what it should be. The grain is saved for seed and basic sustenance with little left over for brewing ale or baking anything beyond the simple daily bread. Winter arrives early with bitter winds and heavy snow. In normal times, winter is difficult but manageable. The cold months when families huddle indoors, mending tools and clothing, telling stories by fire light, waiting for spring. But this winter feels different, more threatening, as if it might

never release its grip on the world. Your family eats less to stretch the supplies, but still the storage containers empty faster than they should. Little Livia cries from hunger sometimes and your mother gives her portions from her own meager share. You forage in the frozen woods for anything edible. Nuts missed by the squirrels. Hardy winter berries. Even tree bark that can be ground into flour in desperate times. By mid- winter, the first deaths come. Old Kato, who lived alone at the edge of the village, is found frozen in his bed. Then the twins in the

blacksmith's family, not yet 2 years old, succumb to a cough that their weakened bodies can't fight off. The ground is too frozen to bury them properly, so the bodies are stored in a cold outbuilding until spring thor. That's when the wolves come. Normally shy of human settlements, they grow bold with hunger, venturing into the village at night. You wake to their howls and pull Lucius and Livia closer, your heart pounding. Marcus and the other men take turns standing watch. But it doesn't help when three of Dusius the herders sheep disappear in one night, leaving only

blood stains in the snow. "We should leave," Helena suggests one day as you both break the ice on the well. "Go south, where it must be warmer, where the crops might still grow." But you shake your head. And go where. The roads are dangerous even in good times. And if it's the end of days, as Father Powell says, where could we go that God would not find us? Helena has no answer for that. Spring should bring relief. But when it arrives, the sun remains dim, the air cold. The seeds you plant, precious seeds that could

have been eaten but were saved for this purpose, struggle to germinate in the chilled soil. People grow desperate. You've heard rumors from travelers on the old Roman road. They say it's the same everywhere from Gaul to Persia. The sun is dim, the crops are failing, and people are hungry. In Constantinople, even the emperor is concerned, ordering special prayers in the great church of Hagia Sofia. Some say it's punishment for his wars against the Goths in Italy and North Africa, for his pride in building the magnificent church, for the excesses of his beautiful but scheming wife,

Empress Theodora. Others whisper of stranger things, of fiery rocks falling from the sky beyond the northern forests, of mountains across the sea that spewed fire and smoke into the heavens, blackening the sun. A merchant passing through claims that in the far east in the land of the Chin, it snowed in summer, and people are eating the bark from trees. Your village's food stores are nearly gone by the time True Spring should be bringing fresh growth. A family from the next village is caught stealing grain from your communal storage, and Titus faces the grim choice of

punishment. In the end, he gives them a small portion, enough for a few days, and sends them away with a warning not to return. "We cannot save everyone," he says heavily. "We can barely save ourselves." As the second planting season under the darkened sky approaches, a new worry emerges. With food so scarce, some farmers have eaten their seed grain, leaving nothing to plant for the next harvest. Your village has managed to preserve just enough, though it means even tighter belts for now. Little Livia has grown thin, her once round cheeks now hollow. Lucius tries to

be brave, but you've seen him crying silently when he thinks no one is watching. Your mother's health is failing. She coughs constantly and can barely rise from her pallet some days. Even Marcus, always strong, has lost the robust energy that once defined him. One night, as a rare clear sky reveals stars above your darkened world, Marcus sits beside you outside your hut. We will survive this, he says quietly. We come from strong stock, you and I. Our ancestors endured the fall of Rome, the coming of the Huns. We will endure this darkness, too. You lean

against his shoulder, drawing strength from his certainty, even if you suspect it's partly for show. And if we don't, you ask, he's silent for a long moment, his eyes on the stars. Then we will have lived with courage and kindness until the end. What more could God ask of anyone? It's small comfort, but comfort nonetheless. The next day brings something unexpected. A stranger on the road, a man in the simple robes of a Christian monk. He's traveling from monastery to monastery, he explains, carrying messages and news. Father Powus welcomes him. And that evening the villagers

gather to hear what word he brings from the wider world. The darkness lies over all the lands I have traveled, the monk tells you, his voice carrying in the hushed church. From Britannia to Palestine, the sun is dim and people suffer. But there are places where the suffering is less. He speaks of the great estates of wealthy land owners where stored grain from years of abundance is helping people survive. He talks of fishing villages along the Mediterranean where although the weather is strange, the sea still yields its harvest. And he tells of monasteries where careful

management and charity are saving many lives. The emperor himself has opened the imperial granaries. The monk says in Constantinople, bread is being distributed to the hungry. Not enough for all, but many are saved who would otherwise perish. This news brings both hope and frustration. Help exists, but it is far away, beyond reach for simple villagers like you. The monk stays only one night before continuing his journey. But before he leaves, he gives Father Powus a precious gift, a small pouch of dried herbs. Medicinal herbs from our monastery gardens, he explains. For fever and cough, use

them sparingly. They may save lives before this trial ends. You think immediately of your mother, wondering if these herbs might ease her suffering. As the monk disappears down the road, you stand watching until he's out of sight, feeling strangely bereft, as if a connection to the wider world has been severed once again. That night, you dream of the sun, bright, warm, and full, hanging in a clear blue sky. In your dream, the fields are golden with healthy grain, the fruit trees heavy with ripe bounty, and your children's faces are round and flushed with health. You

wake with tears on your cheeks, the dream so vivid that the dim reality of morning seems even harsher by comparison. Marcus touches your face gently. What is it? I dreamed of the sun, you tell him. The real sun as it used to be. A good omen, he decides, nodding firmly. Perhaps things will change soon. And surprisingly, he's right. 3 days later, you step outside in the morning and notice something different. The dim light seems just a fraction brighter than before. You almost don't trust your eyes, fearing its wishful thinking after your dream. But others notice,

too. The sky, Helena says when she sees you at the well. It's changing, isn't it? Over the next few weeks, the change becomes undeniable. The sun is still not as bright as it once was, but the oppressive darkness is gradually lifting. The sickly blue cast to the light fades, replaced by something closer to normal daylight, albeit weaker. With the increasing light comes a slight warming, not enough to make up for the lost growing time, but enough to accelerate what growth there is in the fields. The stunted wheat and barley begin to mature, though the heads

remain smaller than in normal years. Hope flickers in the village like a fragile flame, easily extinguished by doubt, but carefully tended nonetheless. People dare to plan beyond the next day, the next week. There's talk of what to do if when the darkness fully lifts, but your family has been weakened by months of insufficient food. Your mother's cough worsens despite the monk's herbs. Little Livia develops a fever that leaves her listless and barely eating. And just as the light begins to return to the world, a new shadow falls over your household. One morning, Marcus can't rise

from his pallet. His skin burns with fever, and angry red swellings have appeared at his neck and under his arms. You've heard whispers of a strange illness spreading from Egypt, following the old trade routes north. An illness that begins with fever and swellings and often ends in death. As you place a cool cloth on your husband's forehead, terror grips your heart. The darkness in the sky might be lifting, but a different kind of darkness now threatens to engulf your world. Don't worry, Marcus whispers, his voice cracked and dry. I'm strong. I'll fight this. You nod,

unable to speak past the knot in your throat and reach for his hand. Whatever comes next, you'll face it together, just as you faced the darkness of the dimmed sun. But as you look at his fever bright eyes, you can't help wondering if the worst of your trials is still to come. The fading light of evening makes the interior of your hut even darker than usual. Outside, you can hear the village settling down for the night, a dog barking in the distance, the loing of the few remaining cattle, the murmur of voices as neighbors exchange

quiet words of encouragement or concern. Inside there is only the sound of Marcus's labored breathing and little Livia's occasional whimper as she tosses in feverish sleep. You look around at your family, all suffering, all dependent on your strength, and for a moment despair threatens to overwhelm you. But then you remember Marcus's words. We will have lived with courage and kindness until the end. Taking a deep breath, you add another small piece of precious firewood to the hearth. The flames leap up, casting a warm glow that pushes back the shadows, if only for a moment. It's

enough. For now, it has to be enough. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges, its own small victories or defeats. But for tonight, your family is together, and there is still hope that the sun will continue to brighten, that the fever will break, that life will find a way forward even in the darkest of times. After all, humans are remarkably resilient creatures. Throughout history, we have faced countless disasters, plagues, wars, famines, and natural catastrophes. Yet somehow, we endure. We adapt. we survive. And as you settle beside your family in the gathering darkness, you hold fast to

that simple truth. No darkness, whether in the sky or in human events, lasts forever. The sun always returns, even if it takes longer than anyone expected. The question is only whether you'll still be here to see it when it does. The days blur together as you tend to your sick family. Marcus' fever burns relentlessly, and the angry red swellings, bubos, Father Powus calls them, grow larger and more painful. You've tried everything. Cool cloths, the monk's herbs steeped in boiled water, prayers whispered through the night. Some mornings you find hope in a momentary clarity in Marcus's

eyes. Other days, his delirium terrifies you as he mutters about darkness and flames. Your mother has taken over caring for Livia despite her own weakness. The little girl's fever isn't accompanied by the dreaded swellings which gives you hope that it's a different, less deadly illness. Lucius remains healthy, though his eyes have grown old beyond his years as he watches his father fight for life. Will father die? he asks you one evening as you both sit outside the hut taking a brief restbite from the sick room you consider lying to him offering false comfort but something

in his steady gaze tells you he deserves the truth or at least as much of it as you understand yourself I don't know you admit putting an arm around his thin shoulders the illness that grips him is dangerous but your father is strong and stubborn and he has much to live for. Lucius nods, his face solemn. I've been praying to St. Luke, the physician, he tells you. Father Powus says he's the patron of doctors. You press a kiss to his forehead, heart swelling with love for this boy who's being forced to grow up too quickly.

That's good. We need all the help we can get. On the seventh day of Marcus's illness, the crisis comes. His fever spikes so high that his skin feels like fire beneath your touch. He thrashes on the pallet, alternating between incoherent mumbling and cries of pain when the movement jostles his swollen lymph nodes. You send Lucius to fetch Father Palace, fearing the worst is upon you. The priest comes quickly, his worn woolen robe flapping around his ankles as he hurries across the village. He carries his precious vial of holy oil for the last rights, and your

heart constricts at the sight of it. Not yet, you think desperately. Not like this. Father Powus examines Marcus with gentle hands that bely his advanced age. The swellings, he murmurs, they seem softer. Has he been able to sleep at all? A little, you say, when the pain eases enough. The priest nods thoughtfully. It's possible, he begins, then stops himself. I don't want to give false hope, but I've seen a few recover from this pestilence. Not many, but some. Usually, it happens when the bubos soften and rupture, releasing the poison within. You glance at the largest

swelling on Marcus' neck, noticing for the first time that it does indeed look different, less taught, its angry redness fading to a purplish hue. What should I do? Keep him comfortable. Continue with the herbs and pray. Father Powus takes your hand. Shall I administer the last rights just in case? You hesitate, torn between pragmatism and superstition. Some say receiving the last rights while conscious can hasten death, as if the soul, once prepared, is too eager to depart. But Marcus is too far gone in fever to be aware, and you cannot bear the thought of him

dying unshven. Yes, you decide. Please. The ritual is brief but solemn, the Latin words flowing like water over the sick room. Father Powus anoints Marcus' forehead and hands with the holy oil, murmuring blessings and absolution. When it's done, you feel a strange mix of dread and peace, as if a door has been both opened and closed. That night, as you sit vigil beside Marcus, you notice his breathing has changed. Where before it was rapid and shallow, now it comes more slowly with greater depth. The skin beneath your hand seems cooler. And then, as the first

gray light of dawn filters through the window, the largest booo on his neck ruptures, releasing a foul smelling discharge that you hurry to clean away with cloths. Marcus's eyes flutter open. Hey, tonight we're diving into one of the most terrifying moments in human history. Imagine waking up one day to find the sun has gone dark, the crops are failing, and no one knows why. That's exactly what happened in the year 536 AD. What some historians have called the worst year to be alive in human history. But before you get comfortable, take a moment to like

the video and subscribe, but only if you genuinely enjoy what I do here. And let me know in the comments where you're tuning in from and what time it is for you. It's always fascinating to see who's joining us from around the world. Now, dim the lights, maybe turn on a fan for that soft background hum, and let's ease into tonight's journey together. Congratulations. You've just woken up in the year 536 AD. The gentle morning light that should be streaming through the tiny window of your one room wooden hut isn't there. Instead, a strange dim

bluish glow hangs in the air, as if the sun itself has decided to hide behind a veil. You rub your eyes, thinking perhaps it's just dawn and the full light of day will come soon. But it doesn't. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not for the next 18 months. Your name is Adella and you live in a small village nestled in the rolling hills not far from the old Roman road that leads to Constantinople, the magnificent capital of the Byzantine Empire. You're part of the vast population of peasant farmers who form the backbone of Emperor Justinian's realm.

Your life has never been easy, but it's had its rhythms and certainties until now. Your hut sits among two dozen others in a village clearing. The walls are made of wle and dorb. You know, a lattice of wooden strips smeared with a mixture of clay, sand, and straw. It's a simple technique that's been used for centuries. Your thatched roof keeps out most of the rain. Though during heavy storms, little rivullets sometimes find their way down the interior walls. The floor beneath your feet is packed earth covered with fresh straw that you change every few weeks

when it gets too soiled. The air inside is always a bit smoky from the central hearth where you cook your meals and keep warm during the colder months. There are no chimneys in homes like yours. The smoke simply rises and filters out through the thatch or the single window opening that can be covered with an oiled cloth when the weather turns foul. Your home is sparssely furnished. A low wooden table, a few stools, a chest for your meager possessions, and sleeping pallets stuffed with straw. In one corner, your most valuable possession, an iron cooking pot

hanging from a tripod over the fire pit. It's been passed down through generations, and without it, preparing meals would be nearly impossible. You share this simple space with your husband Marcus and your two children Lucius, who's 10, and little Livia, who's just turned six. Your elderly mother also lives with you, her gnled hands still capable of spinning wool and tending to Livia while you work the fields. On this strange dim morning, you rise and move to the doorway, pushing aside the rough cloth that serves as your door. Outside, your neighbors are also emerging from their

homes, faces upturned to the eerie sky, expressions ranging from confusion to fear. The sun, whispers Helena, the weaver who lives in the hut next to yours. It's as pale as a winter moon. you nod, a knot of worry forming in your stomach. Your family, like everyone else in the village, depends on the sun for light, for warmth, but most importantly for growing the crops that sustain you. Without strong sunlight, the barley and wheat in the fields will struggle, and without a good harvest, winter will bring hunger. Maybe it's just for today, you say, trying to

sound more confident than you feel. Perhaps it's smoke from a distant forest fire. But it isn't just for today. The next morning dawns with the same unnatural twilight. And the next and the next after that. Within a week, a palpable sense of dread has settled over the village like the fine ash that sometimes dusts the ground when you wake. No one knows what's happening, but the older folk mutter about the end of days and signs from God. The good news is that you have stores from last year's harvest. Sacks of grain carefully protected from rats

and wevils, dried beans, and preserves made from autumn fruits. You're luckier than some. The bad news is that those stores were meant to supplement this year's crops, not replace them entirely. As the weeks pass, the crops in the fields grow slowly, if at all. The barley and wheat that should be stretching toward the sky by early summer remain stunted. The vegetables in your garden plot, the cabbages, onions, and turnips that usually provide welcome variety to your family's diet are yellowish and small. Marcus returns from checking the fields one day, his face grim. The ears are

forming, but they're thin, he tells you. If the sun doesn't return soon, we'll have less than half our usual yield. But the sun doesn't return to its full strength. Instead, a strange cold settles in. Even though it's supposed to be summer, frost appears on the ground some mornings. Something you've never seen in June before. The fruit trees that had blossomed before the darkness came now drop their immature fruit. Small, hard knobs that will never ripen. In the village, the mood grows tense. The headman, Titus, calls a meeting in the small wooden church at the center

of the settlement. Everyone attends, their faces gaunt with worry in the light of the tallow candles. We must prepare, Titus says simply. The harvest will be poor. We must conserve what we have and think ahead to winter. Father Powus, the village priest, raises his hands. We must also pray, he adds. God has sent us this trial and only through prayer and penance can we hope for his mercy. That night as you lie on your pallet beside Marcus, you whisper in the darkness. What if the sun never comes back? His hand finds yours beneath the rough

woolen blanket. It will, he says, but you can hear the doubt in his voice. It must. The days blur into weeks and the weeks into months. Summer passes without ever truly arriving. The usual heat replaced by an unseasonable chill. Autumn comes and with it the meager harvest. As predicted, the yield is less than half what it should be. The grain is saved for seed and basic sustenance with little left over for brewing ale or baking anything beyond the simple daily bread. Winter arrives early with bitter winds and heavy snow. In normal times, winter is difficult

but manageable. The cold months when families huddle indoors, mending tools and clothing, telling stories by fire light, waiting for spring. But this winter feels different, more threatening, as if it might never release its grip on the world. Your family eats less to stretch the supplies, but still the storage containers empty faster than they should. Little Livia cries from hunger sometimes and your mother gives her portions from her own meager share. You forage in the frozen woods for anything edible. Nuts missed by the squirrels. Hardy winter berries. Even tree bark that can be ground into flour

in desperate times. By mid-inter, the first deaths come. Old Kato, who lived alone at the edge of the village, is found frozen in his bed. Then the twins in the blacksmith's family, not yet two years old, succumb to a cough that their weakened bodies can't fight off. The ground is too frozen to bury them properly, so the bodies are stored in a cold outbuilding until spring thor. That's when the wolves come. Normally shy of human settlements, they grow bold with hunger, venturing into the village at night. You wake to their howls and pull Lucius and

Livia closer, your heart pounding. Marcus and the other men take turns standing watch. But it doesn't help when three of Deusius the Herd's sheep disappear in one night, leaving only blood stains in the snow. "We should leave," Helena suggests one day as you both break the ice on the well. "Go south, where it must be warmer, where the crops might still grow." But you shake your head. And go where. The roads are dangerous even in good times. And if it's the end of days, as Father Powell says, where could we go that God would not

find us? Helena has no answer for that. Spring should bring relief. But when it arrives, the sun remains dim, the air cold. The seeds you plant, precious seeds that could have been eaten but were saved for this purpose, struggle to germinate in the chilled soil. People grow desperate. You've heard rumors from travelers on the old Roman road. They say it's the same everywhere from Gaul to Persia. The sun is dim, the crops are failing, and people are hungry. In Constantinople, even the emperor is concerned, ordering special prayers in the great church of Hagia Sofia. Some

say it's punishment for his wars against the Goths in Italy and North Africa. for his pride in building the magnificent church, for the excesses of his beautiful but scheming wife, Empress Theodora. Others whisper of stranger things, of fiery rocks falling from the sky beyond the northern forests, of mountains across the sea that spewed fire and smoke into the heavens, blackening the sun. A merchant passing through claims that in the far east in the land of the Chin, it snowed in summer and people are eating the bark from trees. Your village's food stores are nearly gone

by the time true spring should be bringing fresh growth. A family from the next village is caught stealing grain from your communal storage, and Titus faces the grim choice of punishment. In the end, he gives them a small portion, enough for a few days, and sends them away with a warning not to return. "We cannot save everyone," he says heavily. "We can barely save ourselves." As the second planting season under the darkened sky approaches, a new worry emerges. With food so scarce, some farmers have eaten their seed grain, leaving nothing to plant for the next

harvest. Your village has managed to preserve just enough, though it means even tighter belts for now. Little Livia has grown thin, her once round cheeks now hollow. Lucius tries to be brave, but you've seen him crying silently when he thinks no one is watching. Your mother's health is failing. She coughs constantly and can barely rise from her pallet some days. Even Marcus, always strong, has lost the robust energy that once defined him. One night, as a rare clear sky reveals stars above your darkened world, Marcus sits beside you outside your hut. We will survive this,

he says quietly. We come from strong stock, you and I. Our ancestors endured the fall of Rome, the coming of the Huns. We will endure this darkness too. You lean against his shoulder, drawing strength from his certainty. Even if you suspect it's partly for show. And if we don't, you ask? He's silent for a long moment, his eyes on the stars. Then we will have lived with courage and kindness until the end. What more could God ask of anyone? It's small comfort, but comfort nonetheless. The next day brings something unexpected. A stranger on the road.

A man in the simple robes of a Christian monk. He's traveling from monastery to monastery, he explains, carrying messages and news. Father Powus welcomes him, and that evening the villagers gather to hear what word he brings from the wider world. The darkness lies over all the lands I have traveled, the monk tells you, his voice carrying in the hushed church. From Britannia to Palestine, the sun is dim and people suffer. But there are places where the suffering is less. He speaks of the great estates of wealthy land owners where stored grain from years of abundance

is helping people survive. He talks of fishing villages along the Mediterranean where although the weather is strange, the sea still yields its harvest. And he tells of monasteries where careful management and charity are saving many lives. The emperor himself has opened the imperial graneries. The monk says in Constantinople, bread is being distributed to the hungry. Not enough for all, but many are saved who would otherwise perish. This news brings both hope and frustration. Help exists, but it is far away, beyond reach for simple villagers like you. The monk stays only one night before continuing his

journey. But before he leaves, he gives Father Powus a precious gift, a small pouch of dried herbs. Medicinal herbs from our monastery gardens, he explains. for fever and cough. Use them sparingly. They may save lives before this trial ends. You think immediately of your mother, wondering if these herbs might ease her suffering. As the monk disappears down the road, you stand watching until he's out of sight, feeling strangely bereft, as if a connection to the wider world has been severed once again. That night you dream of the sun, bright, warm, and full, hanging in a

clear blue sky. In your dream, the fields are golden with healthy grain, the fruit trees heavy with ripe bounty, and your children's faces are round and flushed with health. You wake with tears on your cheeks, the dream so vivid that the dim reality of mourning seems even harsher by comparison. Marcus touches your face gently. What is it? I dreamed of the sun, you tell him. The real sun as it used to be. A good omen, he decides, nodding firmly. Perhaps things will change soon. And surprisingly, he's right. 3 days later, you step outside in the

morning and notice something different. The dim light seems just a fraction brighter than before. You almost don't trust your eyes, fearing its wishful thinking after your dream. But others notice, too. The sky, Helena says when she sees you at the well. It's changing, isn't it? Over the next few weeks, the change becomes undeniable. The sun is still not as bright as it once was, but the oppressive darkness is gradually lifting. The sickly blue cast to the light fades, replaced by something closer to normal daylight, albeit weaker. With the increasing light comes a slight warming, not

enough to make up for the lost growing time, but enough to accelerate what growth there is in the fields. The stunted wheat and barley begin to mature, though the heads remain smaller than in normal years. Hope flickers in the village like a fragile flame, easily extinguished by doubt, but carefully tended nonetheless. People dare to plan beyond the next day, the next week. There's talk of what to do if when the darkness fully lifts, but your family has been weakened by months of insufficient food. Your mother's cough worsens despite the monk's herbs. Little Livia develops a

fever that leaves her listless and barely eating. And just as the light begins to return to the world, a new shadow falls over your household. One morning, Marcus can't rise from his pallet. His skin burns with fever, and angry red swellings have appeared at his neck and under his arms. You've heard whispers of a strange illness spreading from Egypt, following the old trade routes north. An illness that begins with fever and swellings and often ends in death. As you place a cool cloth on your husband's forehead, terror grips your heart. The darkness in the sky

might be lifting, but a different kind of darkness now threatens to engulf your world. Don't worry, Marcus whispers, his voice cracked and dry. I'm strong. I'll fight this. You nod, unable to speak past the knot in your throat and reach for his hand. Whatever comes next, you'll face it together, just as you face the darkness of the dimmed sun. But as you look at his fever bright eyes, you can't help wondering if the worst of your trials is still to come. The fading light of evening makes the interior of your hut even darker than usual.

Outside, you can hear the village settling down for the night, a dog barking in the distance, the loing of the few remaining cattle, the murmur of voices as neighbors exchange quiet words of encouragement or concern. Inside there is only the sound of Marcus's labored breathing and little Livia's occasional whimper as she tosses in feverish sleep. You look around at your family, all suffering, all dependent on your strength, and for a moment despair threatens to overwhelm you. But then you remember Marcus's words. We will have lived with courage and kindness until the end. Taking a deep

breath, you add another small piece of precious firewood to the hearth. The flames leap up, casting a warm glow that pushes back the shadows, if only for a moment. It's enough. For now, it has to be enough. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges, its own small victories or defeats. But for tonight, your family is together, and there is still hope that the sun will continue to brighten, that the fever will break, that life will find a way forward even in the darkest of times. After all, humans are remarkably resilient creatures. Throughout history, we have faced

countless disasters, plagues, wars, famines, and natural catastrophes. Yet somehow, we endure. We adapt. We survive. And as you settle beside your family in the gathering darkness, you hold fast to that simple truth. No darkness, whether in the sky or in human events, lasts forever. The sun always returns, even if it takes longer than anyone expected. The question is only whether you'll still be here to see it when it does. The days blur together as you tend to your sick family. Marcus' fever burns relentlessly, and the angry red swellings, bubos, Father Powus calls them, grow larger

and more painful. You've tried everything. Cool cloths, the monk's herbs steeped in boiled water, prayers whispered through the night. Some mornings you find hope in a momentary clarity in Marcus's eyes. Other days his delirium terrifies you as he mutters about darkness and flames. Your mother has taken over caring for Livia despite her own weakness. The little girl's fever isn't accompanied by the dreaded swellings which gives you hope that it's a different, less deadly illness. Lucius remains healthy, though his eyes have grown old beyond his years as he watches his father fight for life. Will father

die? He asks you one evening as you both sit outside the hut taking a brief restbite from the sick room. You consider lying to him, offering false comfort, but something in his steady gaze tells you he deserves the truth, or at least as much of it as you understand yourself. I don't know, you admit, putting an arm around his thin shoulders. The illness that grips him is dangerous, but your father is strong and stubborn, and he has much to live for. Lucius nods, his face solemn. I've been praying to St. Luke, the physician, he tells

you. Father Powus says he's the patron of doctors. You press a kiss to his forehead, heart swelling with love for this boy who's being forced to grow up too quickly. That's good. We need all the help we can get. On the seventh day of Marcus's illness, the crisis comes. His fever spikes so high that his skin feels like fire beneath your touch. He thrashes on the pallet, alternating between incoherent mumbling and cries of pain when the movement jostles his swollen lymph nodes. You send Lucius to fetch Father Palace, fearing the worst is upon you. The

priest comes quickly, his worn woolen robe flapping around his ankles as he hurries across the village. He carries his precious vial of holy oil for the last rights, and your heart constricts at the sight of it. Not yet, you think desperately. Not like this. Father Powus examines Marcus with gentle hands that belly his advanced age. The swellings, he murmurs, they seem softer. Has he been able to sleep at all? A little, you say, when the pain eases enough. The priest nods thoughtfully. It's possible, he begins, then stops himself. I don't want to give false hope,

but I've seen a few recover from this pestilence. Not many, but some. Usually, it happens when the bubos soften and rupture, releasing the poison within. You glance at the largest swelling on Marcus' neck, noticing for the first time that it does indeed look different, less tort, its angry redness fading to a purplish hue. What should I do? Keep him comfortable. Continue with the herbs and pray. Father Powus takes your hand. Shall I administer the last rights just in case? You hesitate, torn between pragmatism and superstition. Some say receiving the last rights while conscious can hasten

death as if the soul once prepared is too eager to depart. But Marcus is too far gone in fever to be aware and you cannot bear the thought of him dying unshriven. Yes, you decide. Please. The ritual is brief but solemn. The Latin words flowing like water over the sick room. Father Powus anoints Marcus' forehead and hands with the holy oil, murmuring blessings and absolution. When it's done, you feel a strange mix of dread and peace, as if a door has been both opened and closed. That night, as you sit vigil beside Marcus, you notice

his breathing has changed. Where before it was rapid and shallow, now it comes more slowly with greater depth. The skin beneath your hand seems cooler. And then, as the first gray light of dawn filters through the window, the largest booo on his neck ruptures, releasing a foul smelling discharge that you hurry to clean away with cloths. Marcus's eyes flutter open, clear and focused for the first time in days. Adella, he whispers, his voice a dry rasp. water. You help him sip from a wooden cup. Tears of relief blurring your vision. He's not out of danger

yet. Far from it. But something has shifted. The fever has broken. And with it, the worst of your fear. Over the next few days, Marcus continues to improve. He's terribly weak, barely able to sit up without help, but his mind is clear, and the remaining bubos either rupture or begin to shrink. Little Livia too turns a corner. Her childish resilience bringing her back from illness faster than her father. The good news of their recovery is tempered by the continuing struggle for food. The vill's stores are nearly depleted and the current crops, while growing better than

before, will not be ready for harvest for weeks yet. You've taken to foraging daily, bringing home whatever edibles you can find. Wild berries, young dandelion leaves, mushrooms when you're lucky. Lucius has become adept at setting snares for rabbits, though their meat is scant on their bones, as if even the wildlife is struggling to find enough to eat. Your mother grows weaker despite your best efforts to ensure she gets enough nourishment. She insists on giving portions of her food to the children, and no amount of argument will dissuade her. "I've lived my life," she tells you

one evening. "They're just beginning theirs." The village as a whole is changing too. Three more families have succumbed to the plague that nearly took Marcus with only a handful of survivors among them. Others have decided to leave, taking their chances on the roads in search of places where food might be more plentiful. The headman Titus tries to discourage this exodus, arguing that scattering makes everyone more vulnerable, but desperation drives people to desperate choices. Helena the weaver is among those preparing to leave. My sister married a man from a fishing village on the coast, she explains

as she bundles her few possessions. The illness hasn't reached there yet, they say. And at least there's fish to eat. You help her fold her precious collection of dyed wool, feeling conflicted. Part of you envies her for having somewhere to go, while another part fears for her safety on the roads. Bandits have become more common as order breaks down, preying on travelers and isolated households alike. I would ask you to come with us, Helena says, reading your thoughts. But I know you won't leave Marcus while he's still weak. You shake your head. We'll stay at

least until harvest. If things don't improve, then you leave the thought unfinished. Helena embraces you tightly. May God protect you and your family, Adella. And you, you whisper, fighting back tears. Go safely. The day Helena and five other families leave is somber. The entire village gathers to see them off, sharing what little food can be spared for their journey. Father Powus offers a blessing, his voice cracking with emotion. These are his flock scattering before dangers he cannot shield them from. As the small procession disappears down the old Roman road, you feel the village contract around

you. What once was a community of nearly 30 families has dwindled to fewer than 20, with those remaining drawn more tightly together by necessity and shared hardship. The next day brings an unexpected visitor, a tax collector from Constantinople, escorted by two soldiers whose well-fed appearance stands in stark contrast to the gaunt villagers. The man dressed in the fine linen garments of a minor imperial official seems oblivious to the suffering around him as he sets up at a table outside the church. By order of Emperor Justinian, he announces in a bored voice. I am here to

collect the annual land tax and head tax. Each household will present themselves in turn. A murmur of disbelief ripples through the gathered villages. Titus steps forward, his weathered face grave. Sir, surely you can see that we are in dire straits. The crops have failed due to the darkness that covered the land. Many have died or fled. We have barely enough to survive until harvest. the tax collector's size as if dealing with a particularly slow child. The emperor's wars against the Goths and the great building projects in Constantinople require funding. He says the tax is due

regardless of local conditions. But we have no money. Titus persists. In normal years, we would sell surplus grain or animals to merchants to raise the tax. But this year, there is no surplus. One of the soldiers steps forward, hand resting meaningfully on the hilt of his sword. The tax will be paid in coin or in kind. Those who cannot pay may find themselves working off their debt in service to the empire. You glance at Marcus, who has insisted on being helped to this meeting despite his weakness. His face is dark with anger, but he remains

silent, knowing that protest would be both futile and dangerous. In the end, the village pulls its meager resources. Those few who had managed to save coins from better times contribute them. Others give up precious possessions. A silver brooch passed down for generations. A fine wool cloak that could have provided warmth in the coming winter. From your family comes the one luxury you own. A small bronze mirror, a gift from Marcus's mother when you married. You hand it over with a pang, remembering how you once used it to show little Livia her reflection, making her laugh

at her own tiny face looking back at her. The tax collector accepts these offerings with indifference, noting each contribution in his ledger. When he's finished, he announces that the amount collected still falls short of what's owed. But given the circumstances, he will report that payment has been made in full. Consider it the emperor's mercy," he says, though the words hold no warmth. After he departs with his escort, the villagers disperse in silent anger and resignation. It's a bitter reminder that despite your isolation and struggles, you remain part of an empire that demands its due regardless

of your suffering. That evening, as your family shares a meager meal of wild greens and a small portion of barley bread, Marcus speaks for the first time about the future. When I'm stronger, he says, we should consider following Helena to the coast. You look up in surprise. You've always said this land is our heritage, that we should never abandon it, he sigh, rubbing a hand over his face, now gaunt from illness. That was before all this. The land will still be here if things improve and we decide to return. But I won't watch my family

starve out of stubborn pride. The harvest, you begin, will be better than nothing, but not enough. He interrupts gently. You know this, Adella. We all do. Your mother, who has been quietly listening, reaches out to pat your hand. Marcus is right, daughter. The young need to go where they can thrive. I've seen enough summers to know when one will not yield enough for winter. A lump forms in your throat as you understand what she's not saying that she doesn't expect to be making the journey with you. We all go or none of us, you say

firmly. She smiles, the expression softening the deep lines that illness and hunger have carved into her face. We'll see what God wills when the time comes. The conversation is interrupted by a commotion outside, shouts, and the sound of running feet. Marcus attempts to rise, but is too weak. So, you hurry to the door instead, peering out into the twilight. A group of villagers is gathered at the edge of the settlement, surrounding something or someone on the ground. You hurry over, heart pounding with fresh anxiety, to find Dius, the herder, kneeling beside the crumpled form of

his eldest son, Flavius. The young man's clothing is torn and bloody, his face beaten beyond recognition. He's alive, but barely, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Bandits," Deusius says, his voice hollow with shock. He was bringing the sheep back from the higher pastures. When they attacked, they took the entire flock, every last one. Father Paulus pushes through the crowd, carrying his pouch of healing supplies. "Get him to the church," he orders. "Quickly but gently. Four men carefully lift Flavius, carrying him toward the small wooden structure at the center of the village. You follow, knowing that

extra hands will be needed, and thinking of Marcus's herbal knowledge, which has grown during his own convolescence. Inside the church, illuminated by precious beeswax candles kept for services, Father Powus examines the young man's injuries. Water, he requests, and you hurry to fetch it from the barrel kept by the door. For the next hour, you assist as the priest cleans and binds Flavius's wounds. Some are superficial, but others are deep and worrying. A blow to the head has left him unconscious, and his right arm hangs at an unnatural angle, clearly broken. "Will he live?" Deius asks,

hovering anxiously nearby. Father Palace's face is grave. That is in God's hands now. We have done what we can for his body. Now we must pray for his soul. As if his words are a signal the villagers present bow their heads. The familiar Latin prayers wash over you, bringing little comfort but a sense of shared purpose. This latest misfortune affects you all. Deius's sheep were among the few breeding animals left in the village. A precious resource for both wool and milk. When you return home, you find Marcus waiting anxiously for news. You tell him about

Flavius and the loss of the sheep, watching his face grow more troubled with each detail. This is how it begins, he says quietly. First, hunger makes men desperate, then desperation makes them dangerous. If the Imperial authorities can't maintain order on the roads, he doesn't need to finish the thought. If bandits can operate with impunity so close to your village, nowhere is truly safe. That night, sleep evades you despite your exhaustion. You lie awake, listening to the even breathing of your children and the occasional soft moan from your mother, whose pain seems to worsen at night.

Marcus, too, is restless beside you, his body still fighting to recover from the plague. Outside, the moon rises. You can see its light filtering through the window covering. Brighter now that the strange atmospheric darkness has begun to lift. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls, a sound that raises the hair on the back of your neck. Wolves never used to come so close to the village, but hunger drives all creatures to take risks they would normally avoid. You think about Helena and the others who left wondering if they've reached safety or if they've encountered dangers

on the road. You think about the coast trying to imagine a life beside the sea so different from the only existence you've ever known. Would it be better there? Or would you simply be exchanging familiar problems for unfamiliar ones? Morning comes with no answers, only the pressing demands of another day. Water to fetch, food to find, care to provide for those who depend on you. The sun rises noticeably brighter than it has been in months, offering a thread of hope to cling to. In the village square, you encounter Lucia, the midwife, who has taken on

the role of healer now that so many are ill or injured. She's grinding something in a small mortar. The rhythmic motion of the pestl almost hypnotic. How is Flavius, you ask? She looks up, her lined face weary. He woke briefly in the night. The head wound concerns me most. Such injuries can change a person, even if they survive. You nod, having seen such things before. People who were never quite the same after a serious blow to the head. Their memories fuzzy, their tempers unpredictable, sometimes even their speech affected. And Marcus, she inquires. His recovery progresses

slowly, you admit. The fever is gone, but his strength returns in tiny increments. Some days he seems better, only to exhaust himself with the slightest exertion. Lucia nods knowingly. The plague leaves its mark even on those who survive. Tell him to drink willow bark tea for the aches and to rest whenever his body demands it. You promise to relay the advice, grateful for her knowledge. As you turn to go, she calls after you. Adella, there's something you should know. Three new cases of plague were reported this morning near the west end of the village. Your

stomach clenches with fresh fear. I thought it was passing that those who were going to fall ill already had. She shakes her head grimly. This pestilence comes in waves, it seems. Just when you think it's finished, it finds new victims. She hesitates, then adds, "You might want to keep your family close to home for a while, especially the children. Limit contact with others as much as possible." You thank her for the warning, mind already racing with the implications. How can you isolate yourselves when daily survival requires interaction? Drawing water from the communal well, foraging in

the same woods where others hunt for food, attending church where the whole village gathers. Complete isolation is impossible, but you resolve to be cautious. Your family has already suffered enough. You cannot bear the thought of the plague taking one of the children or returning to claim Marcus just as he's beginning to recover. As you walk home, a movement in the sky catches your eye. A V formation of geese flying northward. It's a common enough sight in spring, but today it feels significant, as if the natural world is gradually returning to its normal rhythms despite human

suffering. Perhaps you think that's the way of things. Nature continues its cycles regardless of our trials. Seeds grow, birds migrate, seasons change, inexraable processes that remind us of our own smallalness in the grand scheme of creation. There's something both humbling and reassuring in that thought. Life goes on with or without us, which means that even this terrible time must eventually pass. At home, you find Marcus sitting outside in the weak sunshine. Little Livia curled up asleep in his lap. His face, though still gaunt, has more color than yesterday, and his eyes meet yours with a

clarity that makes your heart lift. Any news? He asks. You hesitate, weighing whether to share Lucia's warning about the new plague cases. Deciding that knowledge is better than ignorance, you tell him everything, watching his expression grow somber. We'll be careful, he says when you finish. That's all we can do. You nod, sitting beside him on the rough wooden bench. Livia stirs but doesn't wake, her small face peaceful in sleep, untroubled by the worries that plague her parents. I was thinking, Marcus says after a moment, about what you said yesterday about the harvest. You're right, that

we should wait to see what it yields before making any decisions about leaving. Relief washes through you. The prospect of abandoning your home, of setting out on uncertain roads with two children and an ailing mother, has terrified you more than you've admitted, even to yourself. And I was thinking about what you said, you reply, about not letting pride keep us here if staying means watching our family suffer. You're right about that, too. He covers your hand with his. The familiar calluses now softened by weeks of illness. So we wait, we watch, and we decide together

when the time comes. Together, you agree, leaning slightly against his shoulder, careful not to disturb Livia. The moment of peace is shattered by Lucius running toward you, his face a light with excitement. Mother, father, come quickly. Something's happening. You rise. alarm replacing contentment. What is it? What's wrong? Nothing's wrong. He pants breathless from running. It's Helena. She's come back and she's not alone. There are wagons, lots of them, coming up the road. Marcus struggles to his feet, handing the still sleeping Livia to you. Wagons? What kind of wagons? But Lucius is already dashing back toward

the village center, calling over his shoulder, "Come and see. They say they have food." You and Marcus exchange a glance of cautious hope. Could this be the relief you've been praying for? Or is it yet another complication in an already complicated struggle for survival? There's only one way to find out. With Livia in your arms, you follow Marcus as he makes his way slowly toward the village center. His illness has left him weak, and you can see how each step costs him effort, but determination keeps him moving forward. Lucius darts ahead and then back again,

too excited to maintain a steady pace. "Hurry," he urges. before everyone else gets there. By the time you reach the village square, a crowd has already gathered. Through gaps between your neighbors, you catch glimpses of several wagons, sturdy wooden vehicles drawn by oxen that look surprisingly well-fed given the general scarcity of foder. The wagons are loaded with sacks and barrels, their contents hidden but promising. And there, standing on the back of the lead wagon is Helena. She looks different somehow, more confident. Her posture straighter than you remember, though her face still shows the strain of

recent hardship. Friends, she calls, her voice carrying across the square. I bring help from the coastal settlements. The fishing has been good despite the strange weather, and the monasteries along the shore have opened their storehouses to those in need. A murmur of hope ripples through the crowd. Helena gestures to a man standing beside her wagon. A solidly built fellow in the simple robes of a monk, his head taunchered in the Roman style. Brother Thomas represents the monastery of St. John by the sea, she explains. They have organized this relief effort. The monk steps forward, his

weathered face solemn but kind. We have heard of the suffering in the inland villages, he says. Our brothers have been blessed with a bountiful catch from the sea. And our gardens, protected from frost by the coastal climate, have yielded vegetables when others failed. We bring what we can spare. Grain, dried fish, salt, and medicines. Titus pushes through the crowd to stand before the wagon. "Your generosity is God's mercy made manifest," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "How can we repay such kindness?" Brother Thomas shakes his head. We ask nothing in return. Christ commanded us

to feed the hungry and comfort the afflicted. We do only what our faith requires. A cheer erupts from the villages. A sound so filled with relief and joy that it brings tears to your eyes. Livia stirs in your arms, awakened by the noise, her sleepy eyes widening at the unusual scene. What is it, mother? She asks. Are we having a celebration? In a way, you tell her, your own voice unsteady. Some kind people have brought food for the village. The distribution begins immediately. Brother Thomas has a system. Each family receives a portion based on its

size with extra allotments for the sick, the very young, and the elderly. You watch as villagers come forward, faces a light with disbelief and gratitude as they accept sacks of grain, bundles of dried fish, and small jars of precious salt. When your turn comes, Marcus insists on stepping forward himself, though you can see how he trembles with the effort of standing so long. Brother Thomas takes in his gaunt appearance and the lingering marks of illness with a practiced eye. You've survived the plague, he observes. Praise God for your recovery. Take this. He hands over not

just the standard allocation, but also a small leather pouch. Herbs from our infirmary. They will help rebuild your strength. Thank you, Marcus says, his voice rough with emotion. My family will be well cared for, brother Thomas assures him. We've brought enough for everyone with some to spare for the planting. It takes several hours for the distribution to be completed. By the end, every family in the village has received a share of the precious supplies. The mood has transformed from one of desperate endurance to cautious hope. Children who had been listless with hunger now dart about

with renewed energy and adults stand straighter as if a great weight has been partially lifted from their shoulders. Brother Thomas and his fellow monks are invited to stay the night before continuing their journey to other villages in need. A feast is hurriedly prepared, modest by normal standards, but lavish compared to recent meals. The whole village gathers in and around the church, sharing food and stories, momentarily able to forget the precariousness of their situation. Helena finds you during the celebration, her face flushed with the satisfaction of having brought help to her former neighbors. I thought of

you everyday, she tells you, clasping your hands in hers. When I reached my sister's village and saw that they had food to spare, I couldn't rest until I found a way to send some back. You saved us, you say simply. Another few weeks, and I don't know how we would have survived. She shakes her head. It wasn't me. The monks were already planning a relief mission. I just made sure our village was on their route. She looks around, her expression growing more serious. But Adella, this isn't a permanent solution. The coastal settlements are better off

than here. But they, too, have suffered from the darkness. The fish are fewer than in normal years, and the monastery gardens produce less. This food will help, but but we still face hard times ahead. You finish for her. I know. She hesitates, then lowers her voice. There's room in my sister's village for a few more families. Good people with strong backs and willing hands. If you wanted to come, the offer hangs between you, tempting and frightening at the same time. Before you can respond, Marcus approaches, leaning heavily on a walking stick fashioned from a sturdy

branch. Helena, he greets her warmly. We owe you a debt we can never repay. She embraces him carefully, mindful of his weakness. No debt between friends. I'm just grateful I could help. Grateful. As they talk, you watch Lucius and Livia playing with the other village children, their laughter a sound you'd almost forgotten. Your mother sits nearby, a small smile on her tired face as she observes the festivities. For this one evening at least, the shadow of imminent starvation has lifted. But Helena's words echo in your mind. This food, welcome as it is, represents only a

temporary reprieve. The fundamental problems remain. Depleted soil, weakened livestock, the mysterious darkness that has only recently begun to lift and the plague that continues to claim lives seemingly at random. The decision whether to stay or go has only been postponed, not eliminated. As if reading your thoughts, Marcus turns to Helena. Tell us more about this coastal village. What kind of life could be made there? She brightens, eager to share. It's small but thriving. The sea provides fish, and the salt marshes yield their own harvest. There's a Roman dock still in good repair where trading vessels

sometimes stop. The people are kind, if a bit reserved with newcomers at first. She glances at you. They need skilled hands. Farmers who understand crops, even if the soil and climate are different. And the plague, you ask, has it reached there yet? Her expression soers. There have been a few cases, but isolated. The village headman is strict about quarantining the sick, and so far it seems to have limited the spread. The conversation continues with Helena painting a picture of a life different from what you know, but not without its own appeal. Security is the greatest

lure, the relative certainty of food, the protection of a community that has weathered the current crisis better than your own. As the evening draws to a close, Brother Thomas rises to address the gathered villagers one last time. "We must depart at first light tomorrow," he announces. "There are other settlements in need, but know that you are in our prayers, and God willing, we will return before winter with more supplies." A chorus of thanks rises from the crowd. Heartfelt expressions of gratitude that the monk acknowledges with humble nods as people begin to disperse to their homes.

Father Powus calls for a final prayer of thanksgiving. His voice stronger than it has been in weeks. You walk home in the gathering darkness. Livia asleep in Marcus's arms despite his weakness. He refused to let anyone else carry her. and Lucius trudging beside you, finally exhausted after the excitement of the day. Your mother follows more slowly, her breathing labored from the exertion of the evening. Inside your hut, the atmosphere feels different. The small sacks of grain and fish stacked in the corner represent more than just food. There are tangible symbol of hope, a reminder that

you haven't been completely forgotten by the wider world. For the first time in months, your family goes to bed with full stomachs, a luxury so long absent that it feels almost decadent. As you settle beside Marcus on your sleeping pallet, you whisper, "What do you think about Helena's offer?" He's quiet for a moment, his breathing slow and measured. "I think," he says finally that we should wait until after the harvest as we planned. If it's good, perhaps we can stay. If not, he leaves the thought unfinished. You nod in the darkness, knowing he can feel

the movement even if he can't see it. That seems wise. And your mother? He asks softly. Would she be able to make such a journey? It's the question that troubles you most. Your mother's health has been declining steadily, and the thought of her enduring days on the road fills you with dread. Yet leaving her behind is unthinkable. I don't know, you admit, but we'll face that decision when the time comes. Sleep comes easily that night, your body relaxing into the unfamiliar sensation of satiety. Your dreams are peaceful for once, untouched by the anxieties that have

plagued your sleeping and waking hours alike. Morning brings a return to routine, though with a new energy infusing the village. The monks depart as promised, their wagons considerably lighter. Blessed on their way by the entire community, Helena goes with them, promising to return in a few weeks with more news from the coast. The following days settle into a rhythm different from the desperate scrambling of recent months. Though still careful with your food supplies, you no longer need to spend every waking moment foraging for barely edible plants or setting snares for elusive rabbits. Instead, you can

focus on tending the crops in the fields, which continue to improve as the sunlight gradually strengthens. Marcus' recovery accelerates with better nutrition and the monk's herbs, which brew into a bitter tea that he drinks dutifully each morning and evening. Within a week, he's able to walk to the fields without his stick, though he tires quickly and must rest frequently. Lucius proudly takes on more responsibilities, eager to prove himself capable of a man's work despite his young age. Your mother, however, doesn't show the same improvement. The better food eases her hunger, but the underlying weakness remains,

perhaps even worsens. Some days she can barely rise from her pallet, and her cough grows more persistent, occasionally bringing up flexcks of blood that she tries to hide from you. One evening, as you sit beside her while the others sleep, she takes your hand in her frail one. "Daughter," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. I need to speak plainly with you. Your heart tightens with apprehension. What is it, mother? I won't see another harvest, she says simply. We both know this. You start to protest, but she shakes her head. No, child. I've lived

long enough to recognize when my time approaches. I'm not afraid, but I am concerned about you and your family. Tears blur your vision. Mother, please listen to me, she insists gently. When the time comes to decide whether to stay or go, you must not let concern for me hold you back. If the coastal village offers a better chance for the children, for Marcus to regain his full strength, you must take it. I won't leave you, you whisper fiercely. She smiles, the expression softening her gaunt features. My dear one, you won't be leaving me. I'll be

leaving you, as is the natural order of things. My only prayer is that I don't become a burden that endangers the rest of you. You have no answer for that, so you simply hold her hand tighter, as if you could physically anchor her to life through the strength of your grip. The days lengthen as summer progresses. The darkness that plagued the sky continuing to recede. The crops respond to the increasing light growing more vigorously than before, though still not with the robust health of normal years. In the village, a cautious optimism takes root alongside the

struggling plants. The plague, too, seems to be waning. After the small flare of new cases that Lucia warned you about, no others appear. Those already afflicted either recover or succumb. And by midsummer, the village has gone a full month without a new victim. People begin to hope that the worst has passed, though the losses remain keenly felt. Empty huts stand as silent testimony to families entirely erased, and hardly anyone has been untouched by grief. On a bright morning in late summer, a familiar figure appears on the road. Helena returning as promised. This time she travels

alone on foot rather than by wagon, but her step is light and her face animated as she shares her news with the eager villagers. The coastal settlement continues to thrive, she reports. The fishing improves with each passing week as the waters warm and the trading vessels come more frequently now. Brother Thomas sends his greetings and assures everyone that he hasn't forgotten his promise of winter supplies. She also brings more personal news. She's to be married to a fisherman from her sister's village, a widowerower with two young children. He's a good man, she tells you privately.

Kind to his children and respected in the community. I never thought to marry again at my age. But she blushes like a girl, and you embrace her, genuinely happy for this unexpected joy in her life. Does this mean you won't be returning here? You ask. Not to live, she admits. But I'll visit. Especially if, she hesitates. If we decide to join you there, you finish. She nods. The offer remains open. My future husband has already agreed. He says good farmers are always welcome, especially those who have weathered hard times and proven their resilience. The conversation

stays with you long after Helena departs again. Her visit brief but impactful. That night, you discuss it with Marcus as you work together to repair a torn tunic by the light of a small oil lamp. Another luxury made possible by the monk's supplies. I've been thinking, Marcus says, his needle moving steadily through the fabric. A skill he learned from his mother long ago. Perhaps we should send Lucius with Helena when she returns for her wedding. He could establish himself there, learn about the place, and if things go well, the rest of us could follow after

the harvest. You freeze your own sewing forgotten. Send Lucius alone. He's just a boy. He's nearly 11, Marcus points out gently. Many boys his age are already apprentice to trades, living away from their families. But not so far away, you argue. Not among strangers. Helena wouldn't be a stranger, and from what she describes, the journey isn't particularly dangerous, especially traveling with a group. He sets down his sewing to look at you directly. Adella, I'm thinking of his future. If the harvest fails again, if the plague returns, he deserves a chance. You want to protest further,

but part of you recognizes the wisdom in his words. Lucius is approaching the age where decisions about his future must be made. In normal times, he would likely follow in his father's footsteps as a farmer, but these are not normal times. Let me think about it, you say finally. And we should ask Lucius how he feels. He's old enough to have some say in his own life. Marcus agrees and the subject is temporarily set aside, though it never strays far from your thoughts in the days that follow. The harvest begins in early autumn, slightly later

than usual due to the delayed growing season. The entire village turns out for the work, even those still weak from illness. Every able body is needed to bring in the crops before the weather turns. The yield, as expected, is meager compared to normal years. perhaps half what you would typically expect, but combined with the supplies from the monks and careful rationing, it might be enough to see most families through the winter, especially if the promised second delivery of relief supplies arrives for your family. The decision point has arrived. The harvest is in, the results known.

Now you must choose. Stay in the place that has been your home for generations, hoping that next year brings better conditions, or leave for the uncertain promise of the coastal settlement. The decision is complicated by your mother's deteriorating condition. She now rarely leaves her pallet, her breathing labored, and her limbs swollen. You've consulted Lucia, who shakes her head sadly at the symptoms, offering comfort measures, but no real hope of improvement. It's her heart," the healer explains quietly out of your mother's hearing. "It's failing. The strain of the past year has been too much for it."

"How long?" you ask, the words feeling like stones in your mouth. Lucia shrugs helplessly. "It's impossible to say with certainty. Perhaps a few weeks, perhaps a few months. She would not survive a journey to the coast." Adella, the exertion would likely kill her within days. And so the choice becomes even more impossible. Stay with your mother until the end, potentially putting your children at risk if conditions worsen again, or divide the family with some staying and others seeking better prospects elsewhere. Marcus favors the latter option. I could remain here with your mother, he suggests. You

could take the children to the coast with Helena once. He doesn't need to finish the sentence. Once your mother passes, he would join you. But the thought of separating, of not being there when your mother takes her final breath, of Marcus facing that moment alone is unbearable. And what if his health deteriorated again in your absence? What if the plague returned? No option seems without terrible risk or sacrifice. One crisp autumn evening, as the family sits together enjoying a simple meal, Lucius suddenly speaks up. I want to go to the coastal village, he announces with

Helena when she returns for her wedding. All eyes turn to him, surprised by the decisive tone from one usually so quiet. "Are you certain?" Marcus asks. "It's a big step, son." Lucius nods solemnly. I've been thinking about it ever since you mentioned the possibility, father. I'm not afraid. Helena will be there and her sister, and I can learn new skills, fishing maybe, or helping with the trading ships. Then, when the time is right, I can come back for all of you, or you can join me there. You look at your son, seeing suddenly not the

child he has been, but the young man he is becoming. There's determination in his eyes, a certainty that both terrifies and fills you with pride. If that's truly what you want, you say slowly. Then we will consider it. It is, he affirms. I want to help our family. This seems like the best way. Later, after the children are asleep, you and Marcus sit by the dying embers of the fire, turning over Lucius's declaration in your minds. He has more courage than I had at his age, Marcus admits softly. To be willing to go so far,

to face so much that's unknown. He's your son, you reply. Your courage runs in his blood. Marcus takes your hand, his grip firmer now than it has been in months, a sign of his returning strength. Whatever we decide, we'll face it together as we faced everything else. You nod, leaning your head against his shoulder, drawing comfort from his solid presence. Outside, the night sky is clear, stars glittering in their eternal patterns, unconcerned with human struggles. below. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new decisions. But for now, in this moment of quiet togetherness, there is peace. The

days grow shorter as autumn deepens. The weakened sun casting long shadows across the harvested fields. In your village, life has settled into a rhythm less desperate than before, but still precarious. The harvested grain has been carefully stored. Each family's portion calculated to last through the winter if supplemented with whatever else can be foraged or hunted. Your mother's condition continues to decline. Her breathing more labored. Her waking periods shorter. You spend hours by her side, memorizing the contours of her face, the sound of her voice when she's strong enough to speak, the feel of her papery

skin beneath your fingers. These are treasures you're storing against the day when memories are all you'll have left of her. She sleeps more now, but when awake, her mind remains clear. One crisp morning as you help her take a little broth, she brings up the subject that has dominated your thoughts. You've decided to let the boy go, haven't you? She asks. You nod, unable to speak around the tightness in your throat. She pats your hand weakly. It's the right choice. He's young enough to adapt, to build a new life, and he has a good head

on his shoulders. He won't forget where he comes from. But he's so young, you whisper. Younger children have faced greater challenges throughout history, she reminds you. Think of your own grandfather, orphaned at nine and raised by the village, or the stories of saints who were sent to monasteries as children far from their families. Lucius has Helena to watch over him and he'll carry your love with him. Her words provide little comfort, but you know she's right. The decision has been made, discussed endlessly between you and Marcus, and finally settled when Helena returned to announce her

wedding date and confirmed that she would gladly take Lucius back with her. "We've already arranged everything," she assured you. He'll stay with my sister's family until we've established our own household, then join us. My future husband has connections with the fishing fleet. Lucius can learn the trade if he wishes. Or there's a carpenter in the village looking for an apprentice. The boy himself seems remarkably composed about the plan, though you've noticed him spending long hours with his father, absorbing Marcus' knowledge about farming, carpentry, and the natural world, as if trying to pack a lifetime of

learning into a few short weeks. You've caught him crying only once, huddled in a corner of the hut at night, thinking everyone asleep. When you went to comfort him, he quickly wiped away his tears. I'm not sad, mother, he insisted. I'm just I'll miss you all so much. You held him then, this child on the cusp of becoming something else, and felt his thin shoulders shake with suppressed emotion. "We'll miss you every day," you told him. "But this isn't forever. One way or another, our family will be together again." Whether that reunion would happen here

or at the coast remained unsaid, a question mark hanging over your future. Now, as you tend to your mother, you think about how your family is pulling in different directions, even as you try to hold it together. Lucius preparing to leave. Your mother preparing for a different kind of departure. Marcus still torn between the land his ancestors farmed for generations and the promise of a more secure life elsewhere. Only little Livia seems untouched by these tensions. Too young to fully grasp what's happening. She spends her days playing with the other village children. Her earlier illness

forgotten in the resilience of childhood. The darkened sun, the hunger, the fear. These things have shaped her early years, but they haven't crushed her spirit. You pray daily that the worst is behind her, that her future will be brighter than her past. Your mother's voice breaks into your thoughts. You're brooding again, she says with a hint of her old sharpness. I can always tell. Your forehead crinkles just like your father's used to. You smile despite yourself. I was thinking about Livia, actually. How different her childhood is from what I'd hoped to give her. Childhren are

stronger than we think, your mother says. And they don't measure life against what might have been, only against what is. To her, this is simply life. The good and the bad together. I suppose you're right. Of course I am, she says with a faint smile. Now, help me sit up a bit. I've been lying here so long I'll take root like an old tree. You adjust the rough pillows behind her, supporting her frail body as she shifts position. The effort leaves her breathless, her face gray with exhaustion, but she insists on staying upright. That's better,

she says when she's caught her breath. Now, tell me about the preparations for Lucius's departure. Is everything ready? You nod, explaining how you've been mending his clothes, packing a small bundle of possessions, the wooden horse Marcus carved for him years ago, a knife, extra sandals for the journey, a small pouch of barley and dried fish as his contribution to Helena's household. Have you thought about a gift for her wedding? Your mother asks. It's customary and she's done so much for our family. You hadn't considered this, focused as you've been on more immediate concerns. What could

we possibly give? We have so little. Your mother gestures weakly toward a small wooden box tucked in the corner of the hut. In there, my mother's silver brooch. I was saving it for Livia when she's older, but Helena should have it now. It would please me to know it's being worn again rather than sitting in a box waiting for better days. Mother, are you sure? It's one of the few valuable things we have left. What good is it doing hidden away? Helena deserves it, and it seems fitting that it should travel with Lucius, a piece

of his heritage, to remind him of home. You retrieve the box, opening it to reveal the brooch nestled on a scrap of faded cloth. It's a simple piece, a circle of silver with a pattern of vines around the edge. The pin strong and straight. Not valuable enough to tempt thieves, but a meaningful gift nonetheless. A tangible piece of family history being passed to a friend who has become like family. It's perfect, you agree, closing the box carefully. I'll give it to her before they leave. Your mother nods, satisfied, then closes her eyes. the brief conversation

having drained her limited energy. You sit with her until her breathing evens into sleep, then slip quietly outside where Marcus is teaching Lucius how to repair a fishing net, a skill that might prove useful in his new coastal home. They look up as you approach, both pairs of eyes so similar, dark and thoughtful. Lucius has his father's build, too, lean and wiry, promising to grow tall when he finally hits his growth spurt. How is she? Marcus asks softly. Resting now. She wanted to talk about Lucius's preparations. He nods, understanding all you're not saying about her

declining condition. We're nearly finished here. This old net has seen better days, but it should serve for teaching purposes. You watch as he guides Lucius's fingers through the intricate process of knotting the twine to repair a tear in the mesh. The boy's face is intent, his movements becoming more confident with each try. He's always been a quick learner, absorbing new skills with an ease that makes your heart swell with pride, even as it breaks at the thought of his imminent departure. The wedding is set for the first full moon of winter, just 2 weeks away.

Helena has already returned to the coast to prepare, promising to come back with an escort for Lucius. The timing feels both too soon and somehow not soon enough. A painful separation that nevertheless needs to be completed before winter makes travel more difficult. That evening, as your family shares a simple meal, a commotion outside draws your attention. Voices are raised in alarm and hurried footsteps pass by your hut. Marcus rises immediately, gesturing for you and the children to stay inside as he goes to investigate. When he returns, his expression is grim. A messenger has arrived from

the north, he says. The plague has struck again in the larger settlements there. Hundreds are dying. Your blood runs cold. How far north? Just 2 days journey. Close enough that there's cause for concern. He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of agitation he rarely displays in front of the children. Titus has called a meeting at the church. I should go. You nod, unable to speak past the fear closing your throat. The plague that nearly took Marcus has been your constant dread lurking in the back of your mind, even as other concerns took precedence.

Now it's returned closer than before. A shadow that could engulf your village at any moment. Father, what does this mean for my journey? Lucius asks, his voice steady despite the worry evident in his eyes. Marcus places a hand on his shoulder. We don't know yet, son. That's why we need this meeting to decide how to respond. As Marcus leaves for the church, you busy yourself cleaning up after the meal. Your mind racing with possibilities none of them good. If the plague is spreading again, nowhere is truly safe. The coastal settlement might already be affected, or

it might remain untouched. Staying here carries its own risks. Every option seems fraught with danger. When Marcus returns late that night, his face is drawn with exhaustion. The village meeting has lasted for hours with heated debates about the best course of action. The final decision was to limit contact with outside travelers as much as possible while sending scouts to gather more information about the spread of the disease. And Lucius's journey, you ask? Marcus size heavily. That's more complicated. Some argued that no one should leave or enter the village until we know more. Others pointed out

that sending the young to safer places might be wise if such places exist. What did Titus decide? He's leaving it to individual families to determine what's best for their own members with the understanding that anyone who leaves might not be allowed to return if the situation worsens. He takes your hands in his. It's our decision. Adella, ours alone. Sleep eludes you that night as you weigh the impossible choices. By morning, you're no closer to certainty, but the necessity of a decision presses upon you like a physical weight. It's your mother who provides the clarity you

seek. When you share the news of the plague's return and the dilemma about Lucius's journey, she listens quietly, then speaks with a conviction that belies her physical weakness. "Send him," she says firmly. The coastal settlement has remained healthier than most places throughout this ordeal. the sea air perhaps or just good fortune. Either way, his chances are better there than here. But what if he falls ill on the journey? What if Helena's village is struck after he arrives? What if what if the sky falls? Your mother interrupts with unexpected sharpness. Adella, you cannot protect him from

every danger. None of us know what tomorrow brings. All we can do is make the best choice with the information we have now. Her words silence your protests. She's right. Of course, there are no guarantees, no perfect solutions, only choices made in uncertainty, guided by love and hope. And so, when Helena arrives 3 days later with her future husband and his brother as escorts for Lucius, your decision is made. The boy will go as planned, carrying with him your prayers for his safety and the silver brooch as a wedding gift for Helena. The morning of

departure dawns clear and cold. The sky a pale blue that seems almost normal as if the atmospheric disturbance that dimmed the sun for so long has finally begun to dissipate. You help Lucius dress in his warmest clothes, adding an extra tunic that can be removed if the day grows milder. His small bundle of possessions is securely tied, the strap adjusted to sit comfortably across his chest. The final goodbyes are both easier and harder than you expected. Easier because there's a script to follow. Embrace blessing. Lastm minute advice. Harder because no words seem adequate for the

tangle of emotions that choke you. Marcus holds his son tightly, then steps back to look him in the eye. Remember everything I've taught you, he says. Work hard, be honest, respect those in authority over you, and know that no matter how far you go, you carry our love with you. Lucius nods, his face solemn. I'll make you proud, father. You already do, Marcus assures him, his voice rough with emotion. Your own goodbye is a blur of tears barely held in check of whispered endearments and promises to reunite. Little Livia doesn't fully understand what's happening, but

she clings to her brother fiercely when it's her turn, extracting a promise that he'll bring her a sea shell when they meet again. Your mother's farewell is the briefest, but perhaps the most profound. Too weak to rise from her pallet, she beckons Lucius to her side, placing a trembling hand on his head in blessing. You have your grandfather's spirit, she tells him. Bold, but wise, that will serve you well in a new place. She presses something into his palm. A small wooden cross worn smooth by years of handling. Take this. It was his. Let it

remind you of where you come from and of God's protection that goes with you. Lucius tucks the cross carefully into his tunic close to his heart. Thank you, grandmother. I'll keep it always. And then it's time. Helena and her companions are waiting outside, eager to make good progress before nightfall. One last round of embraces, and Lucius steps away, moving to join the small group. At the edge of the village, he turns back, raising a hand in final farewell. You wave until he's out of sight, disappearing around a bend in the road. the future swallowing him

whole. The hut feels emptier that night. The absence of one small body creating a void that seems to expand with each passing hour. You move through the evening routine mechanically, preparing a simple meal, tending to your mother, settling Livia for sleep. Marcus is unusually quiet, his hands restless, picking up tasks and abandoning them unfinished. He'll be all right, you say eventually. As much to convince yourself as to comfort him. Marcus nods, not quite meeting your eyes. Of course he will. Helena will look after him, and he's smart enough to keep out of trouble. Neither of

you mentions the plague or the thousand other dangers that might befall a young boy on the road or in a strange new place. Some fears are best left unspoken. The days that follow take on a strange muted quality, as if the world itself has been dimmed by Lucius's absence. You find yourself listening for his voice, turning to include him in conversations before remembering he's not there. Livia asks for her brother constantly at first, then gradually less often. Childish resilience allowing her to adapt to the new normal faster than you can. Your mother's decline accelerates, as

if she had been holding on just long enough to see Lucius safely on his way. Within a week of his departure, she can no longer rise at all. And eating becomes too exhausting to manage more than a few spoonfuls of broth at a time. Don't grieve yet, she chides when she catches you wiping away tears as you help her drink. I'm still here. I know, you say. I just wish that things were different. She finishes for you. That's a wish as old as humanity, my dear. But we live in the world as it is, not

as we wish it to be. Her wisdom, distilled through a long life of joys and sorrows, continues to guide you even as her physical presence fades. You treasure these moments knowing they are limited. Storing her words in your heart. The winter deepens, bringing early snow that blankets the village in white silence. Food becomes a constant concern again, despite the harvest and the monk's supplies. With games scarce and foraging limited by the weather, meals grow smaller and less frequent. You find yourself reducing your own portion to ensure Livia has enough, noticing that Marcus does the same.

News from the wider world comes sparingly. Occasional travelers brave enough to face the roads in winter bring snippets of information. The plague continues to spread in the north, but more slowly than feared. Emperor Justinian himself has fallen ill in Constantinople, but survived unlike many in his court. The strange atmospheric darkness has indeed begun to lift in most regions, though its effects on crops and livestock linger. Of Helena and Lucius, there is no word which you try to interpret as good news. Surely, if disaster had befallen them on the journey, someone would have brought word back

to the village. As the winter solstice approaches with its promise of gradually lengthening days to come, your mother's life es toward its conclusion. She sleeps most of the time now, waking only briefly and often confused about where and when she is. During her lucid moments, she speaks primarily of her own childhood or of your father dead these many years, but apparently vivid in her fading thoughts. On the longest night of the year, as snow falls gently outside and Livia sleeps soundly on her pallet, your mother opens her eyes one last time. Her gaze is clear,

focused on your face with an intensity that takes you back. They're waiting for me, she whispers. "Who, mother?" you ask, leaning close to catch her faint words. "All of them? Your father? My parents, friends I haven't seen in decades. A smile transforms her gaunt face, making her momentarily young again. It's beautiful where they are. So much light. You take her hand, feeling the flutter of her pulse beneath your fingers. Are you afraid? She shakes her head slightly. No, just sorry to leave you behind, but not forever. Her eyes drift closed, then open again with effort.

Remember joy, Adella, even in the darkest times. Promise me. I promise. You whisper, throat tight with unshed tears. Her lips curve in a final smile. Good. That's good. Her eyes close again, and this time they don't reopen. You sit with her through the night, holding her hand as it grows cooler, watching the last shallow breaths until they cease entirely. Marcus joins you at some point. His solid presence a comfort as you keep this final vigil. No words are necessary between you. This is a sorrow shared, a passing witnessed together. Morning comes. Pale winter light filtering

through the window covering your mother's face in death is peaceful. The lines of pain and worry smoothed away. You and Marcus wash her body with gentle hands. Dress her in her best tunic saved for special occasions that never came and wrap her in a clean shroud. The ground is too frozen for a proper burial. So her body will rest in the church until spring thor allows interment. It's a common practice in winter deaths, but it troubles you nonetheless. This unfinished business, this postponement of final farewell. The village gathers for a simple funeral service. Father Palace

leading prayers for her soul's safe journey. Your neighbors offer condolences and small gifts of food. precious in these lean times, a testament to the community's respect for your mother and their compassion for your loss. That night, alone with Marcus after Livia has fallen asleep, you finally allow yourself to fully feel the grief you've been holding at bay. He holds you as you weep, your tears soaking his tunic, your body shaking with the force of emotions too long contained. I miss her already, you say when the storm has passed, leaving you drained but somehow lighter. And

Lucius, it feels like our family is dissolving piece by piece. Marcus strokes your hair gently. Not dissolving, he corrects. Changing. Your mother has completed her journey, but Lucius is just beginning his, and we're still here, you and I and Livia, holding the center. You nod against his chest, drawing comfort from his steady heartbeat. Do you think he's safe? That he reached the coast? I believe so, Marcus says. Helena would have sent word if anything had gone wrong. We must trust that no news is good news, at least for now. And what of us? What happens

when spring comes? It's the question that's been suspended between you since Lucius's departure. Whether to follow him to the coast or remain here, rooted in ancestral land but vulnerable to the vagaries of weather and disease. Marcus is silent for a long moment, considering let's wait until brother Thomas returns with his promised supplies. He suggests finally if he brings news that the coastal settlements remain safe from plague and if he confirms that the sea continues to yield its harvest, then perhaps it's time we consider joining Lucius there. The admission costs him. You can hear it in

his voice. The reluctance to abandon the land that has sustained his family for generations. But there's resignation too and practicality. The world has changed. Perhaps they must change with it. And if the news is bad, you ask, then we stay and face whatever comes as we always have. His arms tighten around you. Together, you close your eyes, letting that promise wrap around you like a blanket against the winter chill. Together, whatever path you choose, whatever future awaits, you will face it side by side as you have faced all the challenges of this darkest year. Winter

gradually relinquishes its grip on the land. Each day bringing a little more light, a touch more warmth. The snow that blanketed the village for months begins to retreat. First exposing the tops of fence posts, then the paths between huts, finally revealing patches of soggy earth that promise springs renewal. For you and Marcus, these lengthening days bring both hope and anxiety. hope because the darkened skies that plagued the world for so long have noticeably brightened, suggesting that perhaps the worst of whatever strange phenomenon dimmed the sun has passed. Anxiety because with the thoring ground comes the

time for decisions that can no longer be postponed. Your mother's body kept in the church through the frozen months must now be properly buried. The fields must be prepared for planting. And the question that has hung between you since Lucius's departure must finally be answered. Will you stay or will you go? Brother Thomas had not returned with additional supplies as promised, which Marcus takes as a troubling sign. Something must have prevented him, he reasons, as you both work to clear a small vegetable plot beside your hut. Either the weather was too harsh for travel or

he doesn't finish the thought, but he doesn't need to. The unspoken possibility hangs in the air between you that perhaps the plague reached the monastery, that brother Thomas and his fellow monks might be among its victims. Or perhaps they simply had less to spare than they hoped. You suggest, preferring this more benign explanation. The coastal settlements have their own hungry mouths to feed. Marcus nods, accepting this alternative, though doubt lingers in his eyes. Either way, we can't count on outside help. We must make our plans based on what we know for certain. What you know

for certain is limited indeed. Your village has survived the winter, but barely. Five more residents have perished. Two elderly men who simply lacked the strength to endure continued privation. a young mother who never recovered from a difficult child birth and two children taken by a coughing illness. That's