1353, summer time in the windy country of England. A Mr. Arthur Kirkland sat in his round chair, leaning back against the cool faded brown wood. Ice wrapped in thin cloth draped over his eyes as he held them closed. His messy blonde hair was pushed up and fell over the edge of the chair, as his head was leaned back in a relaxing pose. His stained white shirt was unbuttoned, and the sleeves were pushed up to his elbows. Rosey-red lumps scaled up his inner arms in gross patches- they were small, and bright, and the edges looked rather crusted; perhaps dead, or infected skin. Mr. Kirkland only had about 3 of these scabs; one on his left inner arm, one on his left hand, and one on his right wrist. But, it was enough to irritate the brit. He would scratch at them, and then complain in pain as the lumps swelled, and the crusted dead skin built up underneath his fingernails. The skin built up so much, most of the nails on his fingers were black and dirty. Arthur had another cloth wrapped around the right part of his bottom neck; possibly another swelling. Maybe, much worse than that. The young man shifted, gently raising an arm to push at the cloth against his neck. "It burns…"

Alfred was sitting on the ground. His legs were crossed to keep the large wooden bowl safely in his lap, as he looked up at his older brother. The small boy was only 9 at the time, and it was hard for him to hide his concerned look from the older man.
"You mustn't touch them, Arthur! If you do, they'll get bigger!" He picked up the bowl and set it on the floor, before carefully picking up another rag from there; making sure it was cold from the water. "I'm going to set another rag on, ok sir?" Arthur smiled, taking the not-so damp rag off his face to glance over at the little boy, exposing more of his neck to welcome to newer cold rag on his burning skin. He pushed up the kid's hair to expose his forehead, as he lightly kissed the cold skin in comfort.
"I'm okay, Alfred. It's just a little cold… everyone around here is catching it these days." He lied through his teeth; but it made the boy smile as he thought he was ok. "Now, why don't you go play with your toys in your room for a little, okay? I need to get some work done." Alfred nodded and smiled, pulling away from the older man's grasp and trotted lightly to his room. It wasn't Arthur's fault for lying to him, he was simply doing what he thought was best. Even though he tried hard to teach the young boy lying was bad, he didn't want him to worry.
As soon as the small boy was out of sight, Arthur lifted up his left arm and peeled. He peeled the gross scab, and scratched at the crusty infected skin. Anything, anything, to get the horrible burning to disappear. After a second, he moved the rags off from his neck, and placed them over his exposed hand. The lump on his neck was different, though. It wasn't small, or rose coloured, or patchy. It was a big, black boil, resting on the bottom of his neck. It burned, and all the small brit could do was scratch at it. He knew he shouldn't have been, and that Alfred would beg him not to.

Arthur flinched, and jumped up from his chair when he heard the knocking on the door. The knocking was unexpected, and startled him; causing an unwanted nail to thrust against the boil, leaving it to pop. Arthur quickly retracted his hand in a reflect from the pain, as blood poured out from the black lump, leaving a trail down his neck. He bit his lip- not wanting to shout out in pain, having Alfred in his room and someone being at the door. The unbearable pain forced the young man to the ground; tears forming in his eyes as his hand clamped over the boil to stop the bleeding. Even though he did not scream, the 'thump' from his collapsing was loud enough to be heard.
"Angleterre?"

Arthur eyes shot up immediately at the door. It was none other than Francis, probably coming to mention more bad news. What was next? This was spreading? Was Alfred going to catch it too?
"Arthur!" The sound of little feet ran out from the hall, as Alfred ran up to the crouching man on the floor. He noticed the tears in his eyes, and immediately started to tear up himself.
"Arthur! Arthur, what happened? Do you need more rags!" Arthur frowned more than he already was. He felt bad for worrying the small boy- and actually wanted to know what the frog at the door had to say.
"I'm fine, Alfred. Honest. But, we have a guest at our door." Keeping a hand firm on his neck, he used his other hand to push himself off the floor, pushing at the kids back. "Go answer it. " Doing what he was told, Alfred wiped the tears from his eyes and walked over to the door. Without any question, Francis walked into the house. He looked more horrible than Arthur had last remembered and- did he smell worse too?
"Francis, have you been throwing up?"
The French man grinned, walking over to the small man. "Only a little. I think times are getting worse." He had a black scab- much like the one on Arthur's neck, on the corner of his mouth. He was wearing long sleeves, so he must have been hiding something.

"Angleterre… have you been scratching at them again?" Francis sighed, lifting up one of the brit's arm. Arthur thought about protesting; taking his arm back and telling the man to get out of his house! But, no. He in too much pain to do that; and, honestly, he just wanted to lay down with some cold rags over his marks, and a possible story one of the 2 other people in his house could tell. The silent answer from him was a 'yes' to Francis, as he examined the now blood shot marks on his arm.

"I told you, scratching them will only make them worse. You'll never get better if you keep this up!" There was a little sigh escaping Arthur's lips, as he removed his hand from his neck- exposing the split open boil. The look on Francis' face was horrifying; which scared not only Arthur, but the shivering Alfred watching the whole thing.
Francis looked over at the young boy, a warming smile now on his face as he gently pushed the wooden bucket with his foot towards the small boy.
"Why don't you get me some more cold water?" Alfred was hesitate at first; but when he saw the look of pain that crossed Arthur's face, he nodded quickly and picked up the bucket, rushing out the door.

"He's a good kid." Francis finally said, pushing the small brit onto the chair. Arthur rolled his eyes, picking up the cold rags from before and placing them over his neck.
"He's scared to death. Now, stop being a bloody idiot and tell me why you're really here." Francis grinned, leaning back against the wall; unconsciously pushing up his sleeve and scratching at his own rose patchy lumps along his pale arm.
"Ah- You knew. As expected." He closed eyes for a second, and then looked over at the young brit.
"I'm afraid it's gotten worse. I've got word from Russia it's there. Spain, too."
Arthur went wide eye'd, keeping his unshakeable gaze at the French man. "It's…. not getting any better?" Francis just laughed, pulling down his own sleeves to his shirt to stop the scratching.
"It must get worse before it can get better, Angleterre . You know that."

Black Plague which hit Europe in the 13th Century.

there's probably 45634569454 mistakes, but whatever.
goodnight