The Bush: Part 2

Content Warning: Insanity, Violence and Religion

It was at this point I had asked the son of the late Count of Armagnac, long may he rest in the arms of our most holy and gracious Lord, what he had found in this unknown cavern. This question seemed to provoke a manner of horror within him, his humours seemed to stir into a both irritable yet also melancholic state, perhaps a greater form of hysteria from his torment. A break in his mask showed to me why he had been sent to our most Beloved mission. His skin had become a flushed pale and it had seemed all colours had been drained out of his body, shakes had taken his whole body in minor forms and his eyes seemed to lose all focus.

The singing grew louder as I travelled down these steps in the rock, the way already lit up from within. It was at that point I had feared another may be within the cavern, that I was perchance about to stumble upon a secret site for the Saracens. But any fear was seemingly washed away as the singing grew louder again, further consuming my entire hearing and seemingly wrapping itself around my mind. As I reached the cavern's main body itself I saw on the steps, what could only be described as a liquid with the consistency and thickness of blood yet coloured a rich blue.

The cavern itself looked more akin to an overgrown garden, the dim and cold lights of the night were no longer visible, instead replaced by these various dancing spots of light that glowed bright like that of sunlight. The surroundings were blanketed by this light fog that stretched across the verdant grass of the cavern floor. A tree stood tall in the centre, raised further up by rocks, though it was dead and the ground around it was covered with small seeds, which I could feel on my feet as I approached it. The branches of the tree seemed, at least to my own eyes, to look as if they were reaching out to me. I reached my arm out to take hold of one, overcome by a somewhat juvenile and petty sense of curiosity and bewilderment. But as I did, the singing stopped. In truth, I had forgotten just how silent the world around me was without it. The singing had turned to a comfort that I was now no longer allowed.The only thing I heard after which was something shifting out the corner of my eyes, some manner of thing traversing through the mist.

It was this point I was required to calm the patient down, for his tortured humours had gotten the best of him and his senses. He backed away from me, choosing instead to attempt to hide himself from me, despite the room we shared being relatively small. He had begun shaking his head and whispering things under his breath, presumably to himself. When I reiterated my questioning, he began to look down at the floor and sway as he hesitantly answered.

It sounded as if it was travelling to a smaller side cavern to my right. I followed it, for no reason other than perhaps instinct, my feet moving of their own desire. Its shifting footsteps sounded as though they were crooked, snapping with each step and being dragged to keep them walking. A low husky panting emanated from it, like that of an aged man struggling for breath. In all honesty I could attest, I could even swear to the heavens that my ears began to hear, coming from this side cavern, a sheep's call.

It was after this point all sense from the patient seemed to leave for the time. I attempted to make him regain focus or composure, at least for a time, but it was for nought as his shaking took over him further and further as his whisperings had increased. I had then realised I could no longer converse with the patient's wits and as such left him within his room for the night. It was then the next morning, almost at the time of dawn's first light, we Medicus were alerted to an incident with the Patient. I myself had arrived and bore witness to an unfortunate sight, but one that had indeed concluded our beliefs about the Patient's state.

It had appeared as though, throughout the night, the Patient had written various phrases on the wall in Latin, in his own blood. He had seemingly bled out from the exuberant amount of his own blood used to write these mantras of a kind. I shall now transcribe them below as a closing of this report.

THE WALLS OF BLUE BLOOD.

THE BUSH THAT HAS DIED, STILL SMOKING.

THE SHEEP HANGING ABOVE ME, GUTTED.

THE OLD MAN, WRITHING ON THE FLOOR, CHOKING.

HIS SKIN THIN AND ALABASTER AS HE HOLDS ONE OF HIS RIBS, REPEATEDLY STABBING IT INTO HIS THROAT AS HE SCREAMS.

HIS SCREAMS, HIS SCREAMS LIKE SINGING. SINGING LIKE CHANTS.

THE CHANTS TELL ME THAT THERE ARE NO MORE WONDERS.

NO MORE WONDERS.

NO MORE SINGING.

NO MORE, LOOK UPON MY WORK. LOOK.LOOK.LOOK.LOOK. PLEASE HEAR THE SINGING.

Count Bernard, of House Armagnac, has refused to take the corpse of his late brother. As such, his corpse shall be buried here upon this sight, under no name and given no marker to his burial due to the excessive numbers of graves necessary for our mission during this time. This report, as given by the Medicus of St Elizabeth's, is created to share insight and bestow and further our righteous and virtuous mission of alleviating the brave souls that have been disheartened or taken by war. God be with us and bless those of St Elizabeth's who art harmed a graceful recovery and return to life from their melancholia or ill humours.