Chapter Text
YOU WATCHED HELPLESSLY as the deathly pale hand of a patient dropped beside them lifelessly.
“Alius victima,” the hushed voices of your fellow doctors fill the suffocating silence. “Another victim to disease.”
Your hands clench into a fist by your sides, a troubled frown etching your tired features. You worked so hard on this case, for Mikhail, the now deceased patient.
Yet there's nothing you can do as the egg shell colored blankets are pulled over their head, a sight you've seen one too many times. Yet, it ruins you on the inside grievously — each and every single time, even worse than the last.
They were not even your assigned patient. You, as one of the orderlies in the Senatorium, had many to look after, and that went beyond the average patient care. Building maintenance, administering patient records and plague related documents, funeral services, and so on… and on.
Nonetheless, you had put so much effort into taking care of them. You helped them eat with your own hands, sat by their side in your breaks and listened to them talk about their passion for painting their lover back at home — tucked them into bed after a long, solemn day of watching them vomit onto the pale sheets, running around for any kind of pain relievers you could find for their chronic pains. You'd collect whatever herbs you could find from the overgrown garden, mixing them together for an effective formula; often adding touches of magic in it secretly.
You remember the way their entire face lit up when you came in with the empty canvas and art supplies in your arms, the way their motivation and spirits lifted up like a moth's true beauty emerging from its cocoons. A rebirth of the soul, no matter the environment, it seemed to you.
… … ..
Life wasn't fair. But then again, so was nothing really in a world such as this. It didn't have to be perfect, if only a little less painful, you thought to yourself, as you carted the body to the preparation room for burial — refusing to look anywhere near their covered head. Everything that they were and could be; ending so easily — right under your nose.
It was sickening.
You left the room after settling them to the human-sized table, where they'd be washed and prepared to be interred into their grave. It was increasingly becoming a serious problem — the senatorium was running short on both medical and hygienic supplies, especially pain-killers and otherwise.
“Suus non venditionis,” you paused near the doorway when you came back, hearing someone speak in a low voice. Your eyes knitted together into an uncomfortable frown, listening closely. Another voice, but it's much quieter.
You push the door open, stepping in and closing the door without turning around, a suspicious expression on your face. “Is everything alright?”
Another doctor — your superior, the ones who lead the operations. You don't remember his name. A priest stands beside him, rather tall — yet smiling quite gently at you.
“Yes, yes,” The doctor waves you off, although seeming to be in a less better mood since you entered — or more like interrupted their hushed conversation. “Be quiet, he is giving them their blessings.”
You do quieten down, watching the two of them as the unnamed priest clasps his hands together into a prayer, uttering his blessings with a small sigh. Both of them leave soon after, leaving you alone in the room.
You pull on your gloves and mask, standing in front of the table. Slowly, you peel back the blanket, trying not to wince at the ghastly pale color of their face as you set down the blanket completely. Taking a deep breath, you spend a few seconds in silence — praying a little first out of respect. It's more to the universe than anything, that they pass on — that they're hopefully happy now if such a thing as afterlife exists, that they reunite with their loved ones now.
After that, you do the usual procedure of taking off a few layers of their clothes, cleaning the body with lukewarm water and mild soap gently. You brush their hair one last time. You dress them in silk and white. You carefully place their hands to rest over their chest.
For a moment, they could be mistaken as just asleep, the way they look so peaceful. They're in a deep sleep now, you'd hear the adults assuring children. In a very, very deep sleep.
Pulling down your mask, you press your lips to your palm, briefly — then slowly place it over their temple. “Rest in peace, Mikhail. You're in safe hands.”
Then, along with another orderly — you cart them to the cemetery behind the left side of the Sanatorium.
It all feels very lucid as you help them into a wood coffin, murmurs surrounding the grim area with a few patients that knew them briefly watching with sympathy from afar. A thunder strikes above, a sign of incoming rain — and perhaps an omen to some, yet you all continue with the funeral process.
Little drops of rain splatter upon your form, but it's yet to storm. You still have the time to help them dig up the ground, to transfer the wooden coffin carefully into the solemn soils. Picking up the shovel, you take a small breath, adjusting your mask.
Then, you make your way to the grounds where they're supposed to be buried, taking the cemetery employee's turn — who looks a little ill upon finding out how fresh the body is. They step back to allow you some space, pulling down their mask slightly to breathe in the rain, what little audience to the service unsurprisingly silent as you raise the shovel — and bring it down into the dirt.
You dig, and dig, and dig — another thunder. And another. And here's another.
After that's done, you and the other employee carefully settle the coffin in the hole. You step back a little as the employee picks back up the shovel to throw the same dirt upon the coffin, filling up the square space. People pay their respects quietly in hushed murmurs, a little uneasy to even inch closer to the gravestone.
And one by one, they all leave the cemetery until it's just you, the sky turning darker, the clouds crowding together closely. You barely notice the rain even starting to downpour, getting heavier by the minute.
You just stand in front of the grave, gazing at their name written on the gravestone, uncaring of the cold rain pouring upon you at this point. Does it really matter at all? If even magic or love isn't enough to save them from limited medical resources — then what's the point of trying at all, being here at all?
What is left of your purpose here at all?
… …
… … .. …
You see a shadow appearing slowly, while you're looking down at your shoes blankly. You barely lift your head, too engulfed by the suffocating embrace of grief and helplessness to even be surprised that someone's still here.
Your eyes meet blood red ones, swirling with unknown emotion. There's a certainty there, an old experience and calmness in their expression that's strangely a little soothing.
Valdemar. The head physician of the Sanatorium. Their hand is raised slightly by their side; they're holding an umbrella over your head. Why, you don't know. Why they've stayed behind with you.
“......”
Neither of you speak. You don't need words to understand each other right now — quite unnecessary now it all is. Especially considering the amount of the people losing everyday.
Sometimes, without reason, you feel guilt; you feel unworthy to speak after they've passed away. What right do you have to continue speaking throughout your life without a care, when they no longer can, when they struggled so much to utter a few sentences?
The faint, intrusive thoughts ruin your mood further — yet, you still manage to stay sane somewhat. And — oh, they're still standing next to you wordlessly.
… … …
You sigh deeply. Then, their smooth voice nearly startles you when they speak up, breaking the silence. “They’ve left you a little something.”
… Mikhail? What could they have left for you? You have an inkling of an idea what it is…
“Where?” Your voice comes out more hoarse and tired than even you expected. They turn their head to the side, looking off somewhere with that eerily lack of regular movement in their form.
You can barely see if they're breathing, perhaps. They remind you of a living statue. “Check your office.”
“......” You focus on steadying your breathing, still feeling that pit in your heart and stomach. “Okay,” you hesitate, then, with a choked breath, “—Thank you.”
They don't respond. But they stay by your side for a while in the rain, still holding the umbrella over the both of your heads. The earthy smell is strong, especially in the cemetery, mixing with the faint metallic scent of blood. You can't tell if it's the Quaestor's, or Mikhail's from their grave.
You feel utterly miserable either way.
But with someone's presence next to you — even if it's the one person you've least expected, you feel a little less miserable. A little less of an abomination that watches others wilt and die — with gloves and rosemary in your hands.
Eventually, you part from them, going back inside the Sanatorium, lest you get yourself, or even them, sick. They escort you until you're inside the main halls, leaving your side without a farewell and striding away to the patient wards. They never take a break, do they?
… …
… .. …… … …..
You close the door tiredly once you're inside your office. You barely have any physical strength left in you to properly close it, doing it twice and almost getting your finger stuck.
You lock the door and lit the candles on your desk with a little match, dragging your feet towards the window while you shed your uniform — dropping them by your feet as you pull the curtains slightly to look outside. A thunderstorm. How just… lovely for a day like this.
You turn your head, about to head back to your desk when a small noise catches your attention sharply. It's not an unfamiliar one, alas. You see something small fluttering by the bookshelf, as if wanting to fly down, but too shaken up by something.
“Oh, my little heart,” you sigh softly as you take slow steps over to the bookshelf, outstretching your arms a bit enough for it to climb down onto your arms hesitantly. “You were all alone in here?”
It croons quietly, nestling into your neck. You pick him carefully to hold him against your chest, running your cold hands over it's ruffled feathers. Your heart twists inside your chest. This was Mikhail's bird, and they've left it for you to look after, it seems. The pigeon was so attached that it flew through the windows of a safe home, followed after them all the way here, determined not to leave their side — even if the threat of disease and illness loomed over their heads.
“I'm sorry, Meleph.” You place a gentle kiss upon its tiny head. It's beady eyes stare up at you, unusually quiet and docile in your hands. You swallow thickly, your voice quiet and weak. “They didn't make it.”
It only twists its head this way and that, looking around for something you know you can't ever bring back.
… .. ..
…
You spend the next few hours of the night finishing up on your reports, the sound of the rain splattering against your window filling the otherwise dead silence. Meleph is not very talkative tonight. You pause your writing to place down your quill, turning your head to look to your left. It's perched by the window, quiet and still.
“......”
You turn back to your papers, taking a deep breath and resuming your duties. Right now, you just want to finish these reports and go to sleep immediately, even if you're growing unbearably overwhelmed by sadness, grief and exhaustion.
You go to sleep late. Meleph doesn't leave the window.
The next day, as you put on your uniform and open your office’s door, you let Meleph fly and settle on your shoulder as you make your way downstairs. Unlocking the unused garden's entrance doors with your keys, you walk in and close the doors after yourself. Fresh air full of sorrow and melancholy fill the overgrown, neglected garden.
You lift your arm, allowing Meleph to fly off to perch on a tree branch. It's their decision now, whether they'll stay or fly back home, where Mikhail's lover would take care of him.
You watch for a few moments as it turns it's head, still silent. Then, you turn and go back inside the senatorium, locking the doors after yourself.
You do your usual duties. Checking in with the patients, cleaning some of the hallways and assisting some of the doctors in their operations. You feel nearly dead inside as you make your way back to the gardens by noon. An unexpected sight greets you; emptiness.
Meleph's not here.
“.....” You lower your head with a small sigh, going back inside the halls and locking the door on your way. It shouldn't surprise you so much. Of course it'd want freedom, a life, a chance for itself.
… …..
…
…
You find your steps fastening into a full run towards the cemetery, bumping into some doctors who look flabbergasted — then a knowing look flashing in their eyes at your state as you pass by them, your heart beating erratically in your chest. You push the doors open haphazardly, breathing heavy. Please don't let it be this way, please don't. Not like this.
Your knees nearly collapse by the time you've stopped in front of Mikhail's grave. You feel your heart leapt to your throat, a lurching nausea in your stomach at the sight atop their grave.
Life is unfair, and sometimes more painful than it ever has to be, Mikhail would say, sitting on the lonesome bed they've been stuck in for months. But it's beautiful no matter what — when there's someone to share it with.
Laying by its side and unmoving is most definitely Meleph. You come closer, your shaky hands reaching out to feel their pulse.
… ..
… .. … . .
Nothing.
So this was your decision, you think to yourself, kneeling by the grave. You choose to stay with your kahu to the end.
… … …
…
The days feel slower. Sometimes too fast for you to catch up on.
You go back to your usual duties. Ignoring the poisonous aching in your heart that you suspect may never leave. Long-term sadness, along with grief, feels like an infection spreading through your veins. It makes home on your back, your heart, your guts and in your hands.
Too heavy to carry, too strong to pull off of you. (Sadness has become your second skin. How could you ever pull back the layers of your own flesh?) You can't tell exactly how many hours or days you spent crying, grieving and depressing over something that was never yours.
However, you notice a recurring pattern with a certain someone in the senatorium. Valdemar.
The unapproachable, dangerously eager doctor in your team, whom you've opted to stay away from for your own sanity, would not let you out of their sights lately— for some unknown reason. You know you met them a few times before, but you're not sure a brief shared moment is enough to warrant such persistent attention.
It was beyond bizarre. Everyone knew better than to get close or rational with the bloodthirsty Valdemar, their sharp and crimson eyes always wide and morbidly curious — even in a gruesome setting. Their neat uniform was almost most often bloodied whenever you saw them. They didn't seem even remotely close to being bothered by the molting body tissues that get stuck on their uniform, or the decaying smell that follows them around everywhere.
They were like death, death itself that walked among these diseased halls, as if knowing how the story behind every patient's door ends.
That strikingly viridescent hair of theirs that was usually pulled into a bun, those dangerous eyes and sharp lips always set in a too wide smile. They made you.. uncomfortable, to say the least. For the first time in your life, you were afraid of someone's sheer aura, to the extent that you avoided them on purpose, memorizing the whole senatorium grounds just to not bump into them.
… …
… .. . . .. …
A part of you felt guilty, hesitant. You still remember that night. They were the only one who stayed behind with you for Mikhail's funeral, held an umbrella over your head. That momentary connection that happened between the two of you — you couldn't deny it left you more than a little curious as to why they were there at all. You knew and heard a lot about them, how uncaring they usually were with the patients and their fellow doctors.
You remember the way their eyes would zoom in on you through the autopsies, head lifting and eyes searching. Those lips of theirs, painted into a dark shade, would twitch into a painfully wide smile when spotting you — as if saying there you are, there you are. Watching me.
One night in particular — you were standing beside them, hands clasped behind your back as you were dragged to the dimly lit morgue room once again. Tensely, when you attempted to question them about their unethical methods, they just glanced over their shoulder at you.
Even though they were wearing a safety mask, much like you — you still managed to understand that they were smiling, from the way their eyes crinkled up slightly.
“Sine doctrina vita est quasi mortis imago.” they hummed coldly, an odd tune, wiping their blood soaked hands across their apron. “Now hand me those forceps, mi ocelle.”
They always made sure you watched the most gruesome surgeries, even when you pulled all the stops and excuses to not be present. It made you feel a little mortified, tense, an unexplainable curiosity swelling up within you. It was in no way a good or a healthy thing, especially after the recent events. It always made your hair stand on end and your heart beat out of your chest in loud thrums each time you stood behind the operation doors, half convinced to fake a cardiac arrest to escape the circ*mstance.
You couldn't understand — why, what did they want from you ? Why you, of all the doctors and assistants here? You did your best to fade away into the background. That's what you were best at, after all. Unnoticed whenever you wanted to be. You didn't feel particularly negative about that feat, no no. It was useful in many, many ways.
But now , you've caught the eye of someone least safe around the whole facility. They were practically what one would call a 'mad doctor', in the stories you used to hear and read about, their dark fascination with crossing the line between science resembling quite strongly of Frankenstein. Even if they were usually witty, morbidly cheerful and most intelligent out of everyone combined in the department — people were unsettled. For good reason, you admit.
And thus, most doctors in your team steered clear of Valdemar, often turning the other way or talking behind their back. You didn't approve of such foolish gossip, but minded your business in general, although you often found yourself hiding an irritated twitch on your lips, as you passed by them. After all, Valdemar wasn't thickheaded. Quite the opposite — too aware of what's going on, all the time.
You'd step only if things got out of hand, which you doubted it would — by the look of things. You doubt anyone would try to mistreat the Valdemar, who would ruthlessly skive a being very much still alive — into strips and scraps on an operating table — with a sad*stically delighted smile.
But you still didn't like the way they spoke of them.
One time, you've been unintentionally glaring at one of the employees for so long that they awkwardly dropped their current gossip about Valdemar's appearance.
You. You were grateful to them. That's all it was. For keeping you company in that difficult time.
It was totally not because you've already had an eye on them, too. Completely not because of how they sparked a peculiar curiosity, a poetic interest in wanting to understand how and why they were the way they were.
You swallowed thickly.
Still, somehow, it seems that they had something out for you. Almost in a cruel, teasing way. You thought they were perhaps messing with you at first, for being antisocial in similar fashion as them. But it didn't make much sense, as in the last few days, they kept cornering and harassing you unprompted.
Harassing how? They kept either dragging you down to the deeper parts of the facility to perform their autopsies, asking you too personal questions, or just.. being Valdemar in general. After getting to know them a little, whether it was willingly or not — you started to feel a little…
Sympathetic.
Valdemar didn't seem outwardly evil in any way. Just mostly apathetic to the value ofa human's life, morbidly curious about the human body and being off-putting in general. After you've built an invisible rapport with them, you offhandedly asked them about their reputation.
“Aren't you concerned, in the least?” You were both walking towards the operation room, midday. “if something happens to the senatorium, you won't be on the favouring side.”
They chuckled mirthlessly in their stride, as if what you said was something most derisive to their ears. “Oderint dum metuant, assistant.”
You frowned a little. You weren't even their assistant. Neither officially, nor willingly. “Erit ruinae tuae.”
“Why, worried, are you?”
“Not in the slightest.”
They reminded you of an excited child explaining their favourite story when they'd go and on through their autopsies on a fresh cadaver. It was a little endearing, if you were to be honest. They just looked so… alive in those moments. To think someone could smile so widely in a place like this. It left you astounded, mystified — your heart starting to pick up pace in rare occasions.
You didn't understand why your body started.. malfunctioning near them like this. You were too much of a coward to think deeply about it. Ignoring and pushing these feelings aside was easier in your work.
The very notion itself felt selfish to even acknowledge in the despairs of your mind. You were still often blanking out in the midst of your duties, remember all the faces that you'll never see again.
Remembering Meleph's little body laying right beside their one companion for life.
… … .
Even if you found them strangely endearing at times,it didn't make you any less afraid of them. You didn't know why they were targeting you in the first place, out of every doctor in the sanatorium (not that you’d wish this upon someone else). You did not talk actively, or speak to them all that much. It made your trust issues trigger, your suspicion arise. What were they after? Why did they stay behind that day, why they bothered with you…
… . …
You had no idea.
Not yet, at least.
That.. day. You were changing in your room, you were sure you locked the door, but it opened just as you began to unbutton your shirt. What?
You could recognize that unsettling aura everywhere. It was suffocating, horrid, uniquely theirs. There was something a little inhumane in their eyes, behavior and actions, but tonight, you were proven exactly why and how, when you turned around in shock.
“Don't come in —” you nearly hissed the words in irritation at the intrusion before pausing. “Valdemar?”
“How did you.. come in? The door was locked.” you slowly say, heart thumping like it's in a race against the cages of your ribs, but they don't seem interested at all in your words. Instead, their blood red eyes fix on your chest. Or, what's little of it is showing through the shirt. You didn't even unbutton it all the way down, so you did not see any issue. But perhaps you shouldn't have turned around in the first place.
“Ah, so you were changing.” They speak in that strange voice of theirs, long fingers clasping together. Their sharp lips turn up into an ominous smile, abruptly looking gleeful about something unbeknownst to you. Your skin burns under their shameless scrutiny. “I was wondering why you weren't coming down, so silent in your little sanctuary.”
You avert your eyes, moving your shoulders to the side slightly to hide your chest — subtly buttoning it up while they talk. “I locked the door —”
“I have a spare key to every room in this department.” Their smile widens, rolling a key around their index. Their head tilts in your direction, as if noticing your hand drifting. Something shifts in their eyes, displeased at what you're doing.
Before you can respond, you feel a cold, thin hand on your own. Your shoulders tense up, eyes wide in confusion and alarm. “What—”
They pull down your hand slowly, leaning into your personal space, revealing that little view of your chest again to them. The atmosphere is exceedingly turning malevolent.
“Valdemar, you're a bit close —” They hum in approval, slowly backing you up against your work desk. Your breath hitches. You don't know why, but your skin starts to burn — all the way from your neck, ears and cheeks, to your torso and arms.
“Now, now. I am just.. taking a look.” They tut when you try to pull your hand away, gently pressing you against the edge of the desk.
Your heartbeat quickens. What are they doing? This is.. inappropriate. And completely against work protocols. If someone sees, disgraceful rumors would spread around like wildfire... You can't keep away the absolutely dumbfounded look on your face as they unconcernedly unbutton your shirt.
“Valdemar!” You harden your voice, grabbing their hand. They pause thankfully, sharp eyes flitting up to yours questioningly. “... What are you doing? You cannot just —” they interrupt you, looking almost bored of your constant queries. “I told you, didn't I? You witless fool. I'm taking a look.”
“At what? There's nothing to look at!” You protest, your voice choking in your throat at the sheer speed they're using to unbutton your shirt all the way down, pushing it a little over your bare shoulders without an ounce of care for your panicking. “Valdemar, this is unacceptable —”
They place their ice cold hand over your mouth, giving you a warning look. You can't breathe. The air is damnably restricted in the room.
… .. .. ..
They're not human.
They can't be. No human eyes should look that way. The narrow pupils, the unnatural red of the irises.. From this close, you —
You're petrified.
Because everytime you see their hands, especially now that they're on you, you're reminded of the way they so easily move around the operation table, how calm they are as they cut into live flesh and bone, as if it is second nature to them.
And…
They're —
Arcanas be damned — but they're beautiful, you admitted, with scorching shame and fear. Their eyelashes are so unnaturally long, like a.. oh, you could make so many fine examples that go beyond the beauty of a handmade doll. You are, more than anything — scared of the sheer volumes you can drown yourself in without a regret, all the while feebly trying to write down everything that confuses and keeps pulling you to them, like a moth to a flame, a starving butterfly that sees rotting blood, an unguided firefly that flies around a light source until it is completely blind, until it can no longer move it's wings to chase after the merciless rays.
Their silken lips part slightly, revealing those sharp teeth (although you have a feeling that they'd be very cold), those arched brows and sharp canines. Especially their hair. Why is it so — wait, you need to get a hold of yourself. This is no time to get distracted by how elegant they are.
Then you're reminded once again of that damned, inhumane, excited gleam in their eyes, only when there's something as dead as a doornail nearby —
“Stop shaking like a newborn lamb, assistant.” Their cold voice cuts through the tense moment like a knife, pressing you harder against the desk. You wince as they completely push the shirt out of their way, discarding it on the floor unceremoniously.
They hum in satisfaction, tracing invisible lines across your chest, their eyes narrowing to slits. Their hands are unbelievably cold. They hum to themselves while they lean closer for a closer inspection, gripping your side ruthlessly into the desk. It hurts a little, the way their sharp fingers are digging into your sides — just to stop you from quivering.
You can hear your heart thumping loudly in your ears. You might be having a panic attack. Or is it something else? All the words are stuck in your throat. You try to call out their name, push them away, demand an explanation, and yet...
All that comes out are narrow, shaky breaths from your lips.
Your body is paralyzed.
Ah. Lucky you. Having the worst fight or flight response — freezing in your spot. If only you could just snap back into reality. But where to find that will to fight? Why aren’t you, in the first place? You don't know, don't know, and have no idea — because it feels like all rational thoughts are blurring into a dull numbness, an unexplainable fascination and fear controlling your psyche and nerve.
You can only stare at their forehead with those stunned, troubled eyes as their long fingers trail down — they grip and drive around your stiff, tremulous body. Your muscles clench tightly whenever their cool, strangely clawed fingertips press against your abdomen, their gaze focused and clinical.
Your whole body keeps shuddering and flinching at the contact. It’s a hollow touch, they're not looking at you, they haven't looked up even once since they entered this room. Their eyes are dead set on their interest, the abnormality. Not only are their hands freezing cold, you feel like death itself is brushing all over you.
Their hands, tainted with the blood of the dead…
(But so are yours, mi ocelle.)
You can't unsee the things these hands are capable of.
(So do you.)
You recognize that look in their eyes. It's when they're in their element, around that vivisection table, holding up a bloody scalpel… The foul smell —
“Val…” You choke on your breaths, shoulders quivering. Your voice is muffled against their icy hands. “Valdemar — what are you looking for?”
“Your heart.”
...
… ..
What?
They lift their head slightly to meet your gaze.
“And how unusual it is,” they continue poking, prodding, pressing and exploring your trembling skin, torturing you with their ghost-like, invasive touches. “Despite your age, there are signs of hypertrophy here, likely due to chronic stress and elevated cortisol levels... Hmm?” They lean down right up into your face, that unsettling smile stretching gleefully.
“Yes, yes..” They tap a finger under your eyes, then slide it down to your chin. “Your fatigue.. that you so desperately try to hide,” Their other hand busies itself by tapping at the center of your chest, right where your heart should be. “Often with that irregular heartbeat palpitations, even when your silly little mind thinks I'm not there. How you're always skipping lunch meals with your gormless little peers..." They hum indulgently, pressing you roughly back against the desk, their focus on your chest — heart again, not minding that they're about to give you a heart attack if they continue.
“Ahh..” They press their stone cold cheek against your sternum. “Just listen to that. How awfully wonderful. I would.. love to study it more closely... In my own hands.”
They grin sharply, all but corrupt — leaning back to get all in your panicked face once more. “Feeling breathless, are we?” They chuckle condescendingly, their cold breath hitting your face — as if this is mere morbid pleasantry, a grim joke. How could they look so eager, so elated, while such twisted lyrics continue to flow past their velvety lips?
They show their teeth. Your hands grip the edge of the desk tightly enough to bruise. Sharp.
God, what are they even — a reptile? You need to leave, you need to escape this situation, but how? Especially in your paralyzed state? You can only imagine what any passerby would think, if you ran out of your office, topless, and having the head physician coming out after you. Gods, no.
“Quaestor, you're.. making me uncomfortable.” You speak up finally with as much sternness as you can muster up, your legs feeling horribly numb. “Please back up.”
“No, no.” They smile contently, eyes closing briefly in some internal activity, as if you aren't utterly terrified to your core right now. You feel the chilly, heavy weight of their palm pushing your back onto the desk. “Now, none of that. Stay right where you are, so I can take a more detailed look. Hmm?”
“Quaestor!” Your voice comes out more panicked this time. This is getting out of hand really fast. What if they just start dissecting you right here? It wouldn't be the first time... “You can't do that. I’m perfectly healthy.”
Your hands reach out to grab the cuff of their uniform, trying to keep some distance. By the Arcana — did they bring any sharp instruments with them? Your eyes dart around frantically, but they wave your panicking off — sighing deeply, like they're listening to a toddler's wail. “Cease your struggling. It will make things much easier, and, cleaner, for me.”
You can't push them off. There's no way they can be that heavy. They may be a little tall, but they're quite bony. If you push hard enough, you can get them off of you, surely — right?
Your arm swipes over the front of their neck, gripping onto their shoulder to block them from leaning any closer. Thank the Arcana that you at least remember a thing or two about the martial arts and defending oneself.
Their arched eyebrows furrow, a rare look of impatience beginning to cross their countenance. They're tiring of your struggles, clearly. “Why must you make this harder than it has to be, hm?” They're trying to push you back down, their other hand retreating back to pull out a scalpel from their apron's pocket.
No . You should have been more prepared. You should have kept something, anything in your office, just in case. Now look at your predicament. But...
But…
… ..
Even as those unnerving eyes of theirs bore into you, that piercing, lithe body leans into you, and their hand gets closer to your heart —
You can't take your eyes off of them. There's something mystifying about them, just as much disturbing it is. You know something is off about them, always have felt it, ever so clearer from this close — yet despite that, you're..
Gods, you must have gone utterly insane.
You can't even bring yourself to fight back. And they have the nerve to look amused at your state.
The tips of your ears are burning scorching hot, and you are pinned against that damned desk like a cornered rabbit — unsure if you are about to die, and maybe if it would be worth it, as long as you can keep this sepulchral, deific proximity between you.
And notice they do. Those slender hands of theirs — they pause, almost gently pressing the scalpel against your thorax. There's a curious gleam in their eyes. “Hm. Not resisting anymore? How curious.”
They're not just questioning you with that gaze now. They're drinking you in, in the sense that they're seeing and reading right through your soul, your emotions and your thoughts shiftings. For a long, long minute. They stand impossibly close and flush against you, examining and doing remorseless calculations behind those bloody-red eyes.
Your heart hammers in your chest, eyes widening further and your body stiff, almost in anticipation as your eyes dart between the sharp edge of the scalpel, and then back up their face. Everytime you can certainly take a look at their face, all words — without fail, leave your body. Your usually disorganized mind turns blank for only a moment, suddenly so quiet and lucid.
They tilt their head, tracing something on your stomach. Then, they unemotionally slide the scalpel down your chest.
It's... absurd. Absolutely absurd, to feel this way. Why you do feel this way eludes you, but, however — it may be with how different they are, compared to everyone else here. You've never met someone so unsettling yet beautiful, although most people steered clear from the first part. You, though...
You're caught up in everything about them, like a fly in the spider's web.
You doubt they'll be interested in you in any way... You know their interest lies only in death and decay, science and experiment, knowledge and control.
And yet,
Their scalpel slowly drags across your abdomen.
And yet...
It doesn't cut through the skin.
They're... doing this on purpose. They must be, from the way they're smiling at you. It's not a gentle smile. There's no warmth or love behind it.
But they're smiling at you.
An all too wide, sharp toothed one. They seem pleased about something, examining you up and down. Their plans must have altered, because they soon lackadaisically step back, slowly putting the scalpel back in their uniform's pocket. They do it agonizingly slow too, those maroon irises almost glinting in the dimly lit room —
Making sure you watch, acknowledge their actions.
You almost let out a choked noise, the reality crashing back into you as the cold air grazes your bare skin. You quickly pull your shirt back over your shoulders, watching them warily with confused eyes.
Why did they pull away so suddenly? You didn't expect that at all. Not at all. Because once Valdemar gets their hands on something they can potentially dissect, they won't hesitate or let go of it until they've picked apart every bone, every piece of limb and teeth till they're satisfied.
There's no way in the Arcana that they're satisfied with.. whatever just happened. You were just looking into their eyes, reluctant, and suddenly they look like they've discovered a new something, appraising you as though you are a pathogen they want to study.
...
Oh.
Your breathing slowly steadies, although your heart is still beating uncomfortably fast. Are you satisfied now? Look what you've gotten yourself into. You can die. No, you'd be lucky to get a quick, painless death in this case. Oh, Arcanas, they're still smiling at you —
“I knew I wouldn't make a mistake in keeping an eye on you, mi ocelle.” the ends of their mouth is as sharp as their ever serrated teeth, twitching up maliciously. “Now, with all possible haste, dress yourself and come to the operation room. And do not keep me waiting.”
Just like that, they're gone as quietly as they came, leaving you absolutely flabbergasted on the desk.
...
What the hell was that?! Who just barges into a locked room and invades their employee’s personal space like that? Your shirt is nearly ripped at the edges from how carelessly they tugged it open. Your face flushes a deep, scarlet red again. You were so sure that your work desk was going to be your deathbed. So insensitive they are, to what they do to you.
You press a shaky hand against your heart, your head drooping exhaustedly. It's still beating so fast. You take deep, meditative breaths, opening your eyes again.
They told you to come down, but your nerves are so jittery. You really need a moment to process the moonshine that just took place, but you know they won't be lenient to let you waste any minute. Not now, and certainly not in the future either.
…
… … .
You bite the inside of your cheek, getting on your feet again. Just as you pull your folded uniform coat from your chair, a book falls down underneath it onto the floor. You sigh, your nerves aggravated, as you kneel down to pick it up, but pause midway as a particular sentence catches your attention in its unsealed, old pages.
“Death is the mother of beauty,” said Henry. Your eyes squint, roving onto the next words, as a pit forms in your stomach. “And what is beauty?”
… ..
“Terror.”
YOU WALK into the nearest restroom in a dazed manner, washing your hands, wrists and upper arms thoroughly. You notice your reflection in the mirror above the sink, the small space eerily quiet other than the distant sounds of the other doctors occasionally moving about in the hallways.
You look like death.
Your head swims. God, your skin looks a little sickly. You aren't sure if that complexion was present before or after today's events. You’ve been avoiding the mirrors. No wonder they've kept an eye on you in particular.
You gingerly touch your dark eye circles. You need to remember to eat more, even if you don't like your colleagues — and get those vitamin D's from the sun. Perhaps you should keep an apple nearby on your desk. You constantly forget to refill your water bottles due to your stress and workload. Maybe looking healthier will keep them away from you.
...
....
Away.. from you.
By the Arcana — not this again. You splash your face with ice cold water, trying to snap yourself out of whatever madness you've found yourself in. Alright, so what if they're creepy and unsettling? So what if they're the most unusual looking person you've set your sore eyes upon? So what if you've shared quiet moments of very brief, mutual understanding?
They're the morally questionable head physician of this place! You shouldn't forget; that their goals and interests lie strictly in science and dissection, not human connections or anything closely emotional. Well, they do love playing mind games and terrorizing you, but you suppose everyone needs their own plate of daily entertainment.
You need to get a grip. Why are you suddenly so flustered, anyway? Perhaps you were just running from your own innermost feelings all this time. You put your heart on mute, too focused on your job and worrying over the patients in your care — and now it's bleeding all over the place as soon as they touched you, acknowledged you, and you don't know which emotion belongs to what roots, what belongs to whom.
Now that you think about it, you were often desperate, trying to convince yourself that there's nothing you felt towards the enigmatic physician — other than fear and wariness, but look where it got you, as soon as they took a step into your turbulent space.
You lift your head to stare into your reflection, holding your hands against your sides. It's been nearly five minutes. You can't afford to waste any more time. You'll think and.. figure this out later. After you're done assisting.. Them.
You feel a chill crawl upon your spine, just from the implication of their name on the tips of your tongue. You're nervous. Terribly so. But you need to push all these nonsensical emotions back, because you have work to do. You have duties to do. People to help and tend to.
But you're just vexed, too. Their ego knows no bounds, truly — to barge into your office without permission — and nearly dissect you right on your desk, without hesitation. You always loathed that part about them, as much as it mystified you — that cool attitude of theirs, always acting as though everything will always go their way.
It irritated you enough to flush your neck, feeling a scorching indignation at their guts today — no, everyday.
Couldn't they see from other perspectives at all, how much they scared you to nearly death today? No, what are you saying? They wouldn't care either way. If they did, all those times you spent with them, thinking there was a sliver of rapport between the two of you — they wouldn't have thrown that under the dirt as soon as they saw something interesting, something new to test upon your mortal, mortal flesh.
You grit your teeth so tightly that you can hear them clattering against each other. It makes your head hurt. You stand hunched over the sink, breathing unsteadily — deep in your turmoil. Your mind feels like it's going to explode. You need to cool down.
You splash some freezing cold water over your face again. And again. And again. And again. Then run your wet hands over your hair, push them back, hold your palm over your burning throat.
You stare at your unforgiving reflection.
They stare back.
You pull on your gloves and safety mask, sighing deeply before turning, swiftly leaving the desolate restroom.
… ..
… . …
Someone behind the door leans off the wall, watching them disappear into the halls.
“....” They watch you for a long moment, before slowly turning away, disappearing into the deeper parts of the sanatorium. “There's only so much time…”
