Things lying on the funeral pyre weren't his family anymore – just dead bodies, corrupted with disease. But Raith still stared at flames, ignoring smoke, or smell of burning flesh or humming of the priest.
The Bloodburn. This disease reached dark elves realm earlier than rumors about it did and started taking lives of the people immediately. Only a few were infected, but the Bloodburn was untreatable and unpredictable, and that was terrifying to the most. Alchemical potions, healing spells, rituals, all of which were to no avail.
Raith knew that better than anyone else.
Many fled to the temples, praying to the wrathful god for mercy, but it turned out to be as useless as medicine. Someone in despair even cursed Nor for letting his children die. Raith knew that Nor simply didn’t care about them, he hasn't brought this disease; it’s foolish to consider yourself special. Rumors were that the Bloodburn infected only those without magic. Raith believed in this – neither his wife nor son had any. Raith regretted for the last week that his son did not inherit his talent. Now he wished that he himself didn't possess any magic.
Raith’s only consolation was that his wife didn’t see death of her child. She lost consciousness earlier and never woke up again.
“Now your beloved ones are in the hands of Nor,” whispered the priest behind the Raith’s back. Raith didn’t even look at him.
“They would have preferred my hands.”