Make it stop…

He was curled into a shivering ball, gritty ash sanding away at his cheek and temple with every tremor. His body twisted with convulsions that bordered on being true seizures.

Please…

Each spasm brought with it a fresh wave of pain that made him whimper. The aching of tight muscles that could not be relaxed, the pounding of steel waves that crashed against the insides of his skull, the searing pain of deep, dirt filled wounds reopening with every ragged breath. But the burning was by far the worse. The over eager flames of fever licked joyfully at his insides; dried him out and threatened to consume him completely.

The gray ash of Vvardenfell's wastelands had, at one time, coated the linings of his throat, mouth, and nose. Now, however, there was no moisture left to adhere to. The sharp grit was free to tear at him from the inside like thousands of tiny razor blades, despite his efforts to cough up the offending particles.

Make it end… I beg of you…

He wasn't begging anyone in particular. He had never settled into a religion. It was an open invitation to anything that was listening to the silent, agonized pleas his throat was too raw to voice.

He had tried slipping into unconsciousness, practically calling the darkness to him like he would have a dog, but the gelatinous senselessness refused to come near the wreck that had once been Vicente Valtieri.

He was utterly alone.

Alone and lost.

And dying…

Yes, he was dying. He couldn't possibly survive this; the violent infection that was rampaging through every inch of him and leaving nothing but scorched debris.

And through the ashes the forceful claws of death gripped him; wrapped skeletal fingers around his fluttering heart. With each passing second he felt the trembling organ slow and falter.

As time passed his limbs ceased their involuntary twitching and turned to cold stone that sank heavily into the ash and sand…

No!

He panicked, his bloodshot eyes widening. A fresh layer of sweat beaded his brow as a new terror filled him.

He wasn't truly prepared to die. The unknown was far scarier than the pain. The darkness he had begged for moments before suddenly seemed treacherous and diabolical as it rushed towards him with eager eyes.

It was too late to fight back, however.

He was barely a shell of himself…

Not even a shadow…

Death wrapped its slender arms around him as if he were a child, cradling what was left of the plagued soul. The fire in Vicente's disease ravaged body faded to a dim ember as the cold seeped into his bones; numbing his feebly beating heart…

I'm afraid.

He thought to the hollow void.

It said nothing in return.

His heart stilled.

He died.