Work Text:
Your eyes stared blearily up at the stone ceiling of your ‘office’ from your cot, one of the many cells of the dungeon where you worked as an apprentice of the plague doctor, Doctor Julian Devorak. Vesuvia, overcome with the Red Plague, was in dire need of doctors who could work to find a cure for the disease that had thus far claimed thousands of Vesuvian lives. Even now, it tore mercilessly through the population, and as the doctors hired to find the cure fell in its wake, desperation for more researchers grew as Count Lucio himself grew ever increasingly irritable with the lack of progress. Of course, the plague only mattered now that it had touched his soul. You wondered how many more wine glasses would be sacrificed before a cure was found.
You were hired to work in the castle under Doctor Devorak’s wing, and, like anyone else assigned to such a gruesome task, every passing day carried a heavier load of sorrow, pain, and regret on your shoulders than the last. You had come into this position hopeful that you and your master, as you called him, could have a breakthrough. You did not doubt his abilities, and as of late, your hope had renewed that a cure was up and coming, as Julian had announced he would be taking a short leave in order to hone all of his focus on a vision that had come to him, what he believed was the cure. Some of your fellow doctors scoffed at this, but the glint of hope in Julian’s eyes filled you with hope, too.
—
When the other doctors had retired to their respective cells for the day, Julian had uttered your name quickly in the dimness before hastily pulling you aside into his cell.
“I’m right on the edge, (y/n), I can feel it,” he had said to you, back turned as he searched his desk, muttering under his breath. “A ha!” He handed you a drawing he had scrawled on a piece of parchment paper. Your eyes squinted against the dim light, immediately recognizing the image. You involuntarily shuddered at the beady eyes of the insect. Despite being forced to acclimate to their infestation of the city, you could never shake the feeling of unease that washed over you when you saw them.
“The beetles?” You asked quizzically, brows furrowing.
“Yes! In my dream, the beetles represented the flow of the plague—wherever they went, the plague followed.”
You rubbed your chin in thought, “If that is true…” your mind drifted in thought, recalling that the first day the beetles had become a problem in the city, some of the first cases of the plague had also been documented. It is possible that there might be some correlation. The thought left you shaken as you unconsciously turned to glance at the stone basin where patients who died of the plague were fed to the aforementioned beetles. You turned your gaze to Julian, who was searching your face, hopeful that you could see what he was getting at. You sighed, “If that is true, then… where do we come in? There’s already so many of them.”
“Indeed there are my dear, but squashing them isn’t the solution,” emphasizing his point when his gloved fist met his open palm. He paced as he thought aloud, occasionally meeting your eye. He paused, “We would need to find the source.”
“Okay… but how exactly?” You put your hands on your hips as you asked. You didn’t see where this was going.
“That’s what I feel that I am so close to finding, (y/n). My dreams have been pulling me to the same place these past nights. I… I can almost feel it. It’s not a something… but a someone.”
“A someone?” You repeated.
“Yes, but… I, I can’t think in of all… this,” he gestured vaguely to the dark cell. You nodded understandably.
“Which is why you’re leaving the palace?” You surmised. You didn’t realize you were frowning until Julian paused, gently placing a hand on each of your shoulders, eyes scanning your features. In the dim candlelight of the room, you could see the storm waging in his mind in those stormy grays you had come to find companionship in, albeit not under the most ideal circumstances. The familiarity calmed your frayed nerves if only a little.
“Yes… is that–will you be okay? Not that I doubt your capability! I wouldn’t want you to feel overwhelmed.” He cleared his throat, sheepishly backtracking on his last statement and simultaneously releasing his grip on your shoulders to take a polite step back, “Err, or more so than you already are. I know how… difficult this has been; the deaths, the sorrow, the hopelessness. I only wish I could have you accompany me.”
You regarded him thoughtfully, feeling something twist in your chest with the gaze he bestowed upon you. There was something more than companionship you saw in his sleep-deprived gaze; a silent and shared understanding between you two. Probably shared trauma, you half-joked to yourself. But beneath the empty coping mechanisms and the constant, bitter bite of death at your ankles, you knew what it was, and you knew the feeling was mutual. You only wished it had been under better circumstances.
From the way he tensed at the thought of having to leave you behind, you realized it was your turn to comfort him now. “I’ll be… fine. It is overwhelming, but I was aware of the consequences when I committed myself here.” You took his own gloved hands in yours, your aura radiating self-confidence and your voice ringing in conviction for the man you regarded as your master, the man you believed could end Vesuvia’s suffering, “If you believe there is even a chance for a cure–even a sliver –it could mean… a chance at life for our patients. A better future for Vesuvia. I’m sure I can hold down the fort until you return.” You gave his hands a reassuring squeeze, surprised to have caught the doctor speechless for just a moment when he stared at you, lips slightly parted.
There was a pink tint to the tips of his ears, and some of the tension noticeably left his shoulders as he sighed and regarded you with the warmth you had come to rely on, “And hold down the fort you will. I promise not to leave you in this darkness for long, dear Doctor (y/n).”
The title caught you off guard given your lower ranking, but you couldn’t suppress a genuine smile, “Thank you, Doctor Devorak. And it won’t be dark, as long as I can accompany you in spirit.”
—
It had been a few days since Julian had departed, and your chest twisted with a vague feeling of dread you couldn’t quite explain. This was often how you found yourself in the mornings, staring at the walls of your stone prison. You hadn’t realized how much of a solace Julian was to you against the overpowering smell of the dead, the lingering sorrow of another soul lost—it was all slowly eating away at you. You didn’t want to be alone anymore.
But duty called. And you signed up for this role willingly. If there’s a chance I’m going to eventually die of the plague, I may as well try to do something good before I’m gone, you had thought, before signing your freedom away to the dungeon beneath the city palace. Strapping on your plague mask and apron, you walked out of your cell, the door creaking on its hinges as you opened it.
You were greeted with yesterday’s patients, who were being cared for by their respective doctors. You did a quick sweep of the room, and noted that many were already worse for the wear. You pushed the thought out of your head for now, and began making the rounds on you and Doctor Devorak’s shared patients, noting any new symptoms or changes in behavior. Though it was your first time working alone the past few days, it came quite naturally to you–an attribute you had to thank your master for.
As much as you tried to dampen your sorrow, the occasional patient always made your heart ache more than you could take. One such patient, a young Vesuvian girl, lay on one of the many cots, her small form wracking with her coughs.
You approached her cot quietly, pushing away the thin curtain meant to provide an ounce of privacy between herself and the other patients. You jotted down a quick note of a worsened cough. You remembered to remove your mask momentarily, recalling that many of the children found it frightening. You kept a cloth mask wound around your mouth and nose, although that did little to stifle the putrid smells as much as the amalgamation of herbs stuffed in your mask did.
“How are we feeling today, Annabelle?” You asked gently. Her parents had already fallen victim to the plague, and she was the only remnant of the family that remained.
Her big hazel eyes stared up at you, frizzy hair sticking to her sweaty forehead. “Tired,” she mumbled. You rested a hand on her face, noting a fever as well.
“Having trouble sleeping? That cough doesn't sound like much fun.” She nodded at that. “I thought so. I have just the thing. Be back in a jiffy.”
You took a brisk walk to your office to prepare her the herbal tea you had in mind. Upon your encouragement, she drank it quickly, and her earlier symptoms subsided. “Thank you… my mother used to make a tea like this, when my little brother got sick.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “How thoughtful. I bet it was delicious.”
She agreed absentmindedly, and after a short pause, she locked eyes with you. “Am I going to die too?”
You tried to ignore the redness seeping into the corner of her left eye. You steeled yourself, then spoke, “No honey, you're going to be fine.”
Her face was blank as she spoke, as if she hadn't heard your response, “Okay, I just don't want to be alone when it happens.” Her eyes fluttered shut as she yawned, burying herself under the tattered blanket of her cot.
Your breath caught in your throat, and you grit your teeth as you tucked her in, removing a wayward lock of hair from her face. Her expression was peaceful as she slept.
You kept yourself together just long enough to get to the washrooms, bracing yourself against one of the stone sinks as you cried. Your sobs rolled out quietly, overcome with the feeling of guilt and shame. Lying to a child, promising them a future that wasn't there? You hated enough that you could do nothing to save these patients, but lying to their faces made you question whether you really were doing anything righteous.
You swallowed your remaining tears, your breath shallow as you gazed up at your reflection in the cracked and musty mirror. In the dim torchlight, sleepless nights and misery stared back at you. You made a silent promise to yourself before you wiped at your eyes and stepped out, maintaining a calm façade as you continued to go about the day’s work.
The end of that workday had especially exhausted you, you noted, as you sat heavily down on your worn cot. As much as sleep beckoned your aching muscles, you couldn’t pry your eyes off the journal on your desk.
With a start, you braced your weight on your hands, pushing yourself up from your knees to instead sit at the wooden desk scattered with papers, notes, and books. More dreadful reminders of the state of this city , you thought bitterly.
You sighed as you searched for your inkwell, opening your journal to a fresh page and dipping the writing end of your quill into the oily blackness.
You dated the page, addressing it to your dear doctor. As exhausted as you were, the sense of foreboding sitting heavily in your mind demanded something. Demanded to be released—somehow. And this was the best way you knew how: through a letter you would never send.
__
The following day was no easier. Today in particular included a vivisection conducted by your superior, Quaestor Valdemar, and given your rank as an apprentice, it was expected that you attend. The vivisections were done in a room adjacent to the patient care room, with an iron door separating the two.
You took a seat near the back, with a paper and writing utensil handy. As much as you loathed this practice, it was a standard form of data collection. Valdemar considered vivisections more worthwhile on a live patient than a dead one, since it allowed for the observation of the live progression of the disease, before it could consume the patient entirely. This would be your first time attending one without Julian.
The other doctors there took turns in explaining the disease’s progression, transmission, and the severity of symptoms. As Julian once went over with you, the disease itself took hold in every major organ system. The very last organ to fail was always the heart. A patient’s feelings upon the arrival of their death dictated certain characteristics of how the heart would appear, which was already documented. Your fellow researchers wanted to see this process happening in real time. You took notes on anything foreign to you, your handwriting nearly illegible as you tried and failed to tune out the groans of pain from the ‘specimen’.
Before you could retire from the session, Valdemar called you over, pulling you aside with a curious look on their face, “Taking the observational approach as your instructor does, hm? It would benefit you to be on the forefront, you know. That is, as long as you don't mind the wiggling. I do recall Doctor 069 being quite squeamish about that.”
You blinked as a feeling of unease washed over you in their presence, a feeling you recall Julian mentioning before. You could tell they were smiling beneath their mask. “I, uhm–the wiggling… just makes it harder to see what's going on.” You tried and failed to return a smile.
Unconvinced but too content in the day’s agenda to press any further, Valdemar wiped their bloodied gloves on their apron, “Hmph, if you say so.” And they walked off, leaving you to your own devices.
You suppressed a shudder, sighing and deciding to make a quick round of all your patients after dropping off your notes on your cluttered desk and grabbing a much needed herbal tea to calm your unusually frayed nerves.
Annabelle’s condition had worsened today, you noted. The crimson red had now overtaken the white of her entire left eye, slowly seeping into the right sclera as the hours passed. You miserably wondered how much time she had left as you tamed her wild locks into two braids. She settled into bed, wordlessly drifting off as you gently patted her head. She had spoken so little today, and your anxiety ate at you relentlessly. You had to see your promise through.
With a choking feeling, you stood from her bedside, attending to the needs of your remaining patients and likewise documenting the progression of their illness.
By the time you were finished, you felt like you could barely stand. You dizzily drifted to your cell, shutting the iron door and lighting a small candle with herbs to ward off the smells outside. It flickered from your desk, filling the room with a light flowery aroma as you tossed and turned on your cot. When sleep overtook you, it was heavy in its darkness.
A sensation washed over your skin as you slipped into a dream. Your skin itched, all over. You could faintly hear what sounded like… slithering? No, your dream-self realized.
Scuttling.
When your eyes could finally pierce the oily darkness, you were covered head to toe in red beetles. You panicked, attempting to thrash around in an attempt to wipe them off, but you were pinned to your bed by some invisible force, paralyzed. More and more of their red carapaces came, beady eyes staring at you, the vile noise of their moving legs and hard backs filling your ears. Just as you thought you would be buried alive, painful pinches came across your skin, and through the redness clouding your vision, you could see new wounds searing across your legs, arms, stomach—anywhere they could find purchase—as the insects chewed away at your flesh, having already torn the fabric of your attire apart.
Your breathing came in shallow, rapid breaths, as you could only try and fail to regain control of your limbs. The familiar sound of tearing flesh—your flesh—filled your senses, and as you could no longer bare the pain of being eaten alive, the redness of your gaping wounds bled into the redness of those insects, until that blood red crimson was all that consumed your vision.
You woke up suddenly with a gasp, your heart hammering in your chest as you forced yourself to sit up. Groaning, you held your head in your hands as a dizzy spell overtook you full force, before stumbling out of bed and tearing your sheets off in a frenzy. No beetles, thankfully, but certainly a bad dream, and worse than your usual night terrors. Your night clothes clung to your skin, and as you touched a cold palm to your face, you realized you had a fever.
You slowly sat down on your cot, wrapping your arms around your torso to hold yourself, trying to catch your breath as your mind raced. In the stifling silence, you could have sworn you heard a low voice past your cell door. It sounded like it came from the patient care room. It wasn't infrequent that a patient died in the middle of the night, but it was rare to hear their final breaths, or moans, in this case, and so vividly.
You swallowed when your mind caught up to you, realizing that the voice sounded familiar. It was one of your patients. Grabbing the candle on your desk, you stepped out of your cell, the door creaking on its hinges in the darkness. You walked sure-footedly to the room, stopping at the entrance and listening for the voice. When they cried out again, it was just as you feared. You pushed past the curtain separating her cot.
The dim candlelight danced on her face as you bent down to her bedside. You gingerly reached out a hand, resting it on her damp cheek. “Annabelle?”
“Mama?” The girl replied. She seemed deep in a hallucination, muttering her family members’ names aloud, speaking as if they were already there. Hallucinations—the final stage of the Red Plague. She spoke again, half-lidded eyes not meeting yours, “I'm coming home, Mama.” In the dark light, you could see that her eyes were fully dyed the deep red that had come to permeate your nighttime dreams.
You steeled your nerves before parting your lips to speak, your voice only slightly shaky, “Yes Annabelle, please… come home. We all miss you.”
“I miss you too, Mama. I’m coming to see you… you and Papa… and Fuad, too.”
You swallowed your tears, “That’s it. We’re all right here… waiting for you, Annabelle.”
Your voice seemed to soothe her in the peak of her torment, and through your blurry vision you saw a calm smile cross her lips, her face serene as she took her last labored breath. Her body relaxed as she passed before your eyes, and while the suffocating air of suffering lifted from your shoulders like a thick fog, your shoulders still shook with your subdued sobs over the girl’s corpse.
You remained at her bedside for some time, the feeling of death heavy upon your heart. When you rose to cover her small form in the bedsheet, you had no knowledge of how much time had passed. You stumbled to your room, candle in hand. You thought you felt the wax moving down your fingers, but the emptiness in your chest wouldn’t allow you to register the pain. You laid on your cot and sobbed until your tears soaked through the thin fabric, eventually slipping into a dark sleep, allowing the subsequent feeling of emptiness to consume you.
__
You awoke the next morning, your muscles aching and your dizzy spell returning only slightly. Yesterday’s grief still lay like a heavy weight on your chest, teetering so close on the edges of your mind, calling you to your sorrow.
You slowly rose out of bed, ignoring your aches and exhaustion and doing your hardest to push the events of last night as far from the forefront of your mind as possible. Warming your itchy throat with a cup of black coffee prepared by the palace staff, you donned your mask and apron for another tireless day.
You made the rounds as usual, doing your best to ignore the now empty bed that you mourned over just a few hours ago. Your heart hammered in your chest, and little you did could quell your nerves. You were trying your hardest to forget—to suppress—the memory of another loss.
You were carrying a small tray of food to one of your patients during lunchtime from the palace kitchen. The man had complained of a cough, so you had requested that a small soup be prepared for him in hopes that the warmth would help his scratchy throat. You had to walk through the ‘laboratory’ as Valdemar fondly called it, the room where all the vivisections and dissections were performed and the lectures given, since many of the palace staff refused to step foot into the dungeon themselves. It was a minor inconvenience at most, and you just needed to cross the room’s threshold to reach the patient care rooms.
You paused in your path to stare at one of the many dissection tables. You couldn’t recall a dissection being on the agenda for today. Valdemar and several other doctors were crowded around the table, Valdemar lecturing about the state of this particular patient’s heart–fascinating, he called it–and how its odd color could be reminiscent of a spiritual acceptance toward death.
From the edges of their hunched over figures, you could make out a familiar braid. Your breath hitched in your throat, and the tray fell from your shaking hands as the realization dawned on you.
Several emotions overtook you at once as the group turned to stare at the source of the loud clatter. You were the first to break the silence.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Your tears pooled in your eyes, blurring your vision, but your rage kept them from falling. Your hands clenched at your sides, trembling, and your ears rang with how hard your heart was pounding.
Valdemar gave you a quizzical look and a tilt of their head, as if it was the most obvious thing on Earth. With a flourish to the small body, cut open, they responded, “Science, of course. And you came at just the right time.”
“She… She was just a little girl. A child. ” You spat the last word out, your face contorted in pain as if it was you being cut into.
Valdemar almost laughed at that, “And we are in a plague, if that was not already apparent.” They paused, eyeing your trembling form from the bridge of their nose with a look akin to pity reflecting in their pupils, “Doctor Devorak failed you, didn’t he? Instilling in you a sense of sympathy, when it should have been medicine, science, observation. An appreciation for-”
“For what? For DEATH?! ” You were yelling, your voice shrill, bouncing off the old stone walls to reverberate back at you, only fueling your rage. Shocked expressions stared back at you from the other doctors, but Valdemar merely looked amused. “You… You’re sick. Being a doctor requires humanity. And Julian didn’t fail me in that sense.” You swallowed the lump in your throat, venom in your voice, “He never did.”
“I see,” Valdemar said simply. They regarded you for a moment more, and a sudden unfamiliar look glinted in their eyes—some kind of revelation had been made to them, unknown to you—but they quickly concealed the slip-up. They cleared their throat before speaking, “How disgustingly kind of you to care so much for the dead. But that’s all they are: Dead. It would serve you best to push these petty emotions aside; that is, if you truly wish to be a doctor.”
They tilted their head, gaze piercing your soul, “Is that still what you desire?”
You couldn’t hold yourself up anymore. You had to get away. The stares, the guilt, the body that you had sobbed over mere feet away from–you could feel your head spinning. Without answering their question, you turned on your heel, running to the safety of your cell, nearly stumbling over your own feet in the process. Valdemar didn’t call after you.
It took you a great effort to keep the bile trying to force itself out contained in your gut, your eyes burning from the effort and from the tears you wouldn’t let shed.
You curled up on your cot in a fetal position, like a child that couldn't be comforted, trying to ward away the images and smells of death that plagued your consciousness. If only your head would stop spinning.
__
A groan escaped your lips as your eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness of the room. Your eyes flickered around, as your surroundings were suddenly unfamiliar. You quickly sat up, triggering your vertigo. Your head spun so rapidly you couldn’t make out anything in front of you, vision blurring as your ears rang.
“Easy now, lest you trigger your dizzy spells,” you heard a familiar voice call. Valdemar parted the curtain to your cot, noting your pained expression. A steaming mug of tea was placed on a side table next to you, and you realized it was the same tea you would give your patients for their dizziness as the herbal scent entered your nostrils.
“What… Where am I?” You asked, panic lacing your voice. The familiarity of the room had you reeling.
Valdemar tilted their head, mildly amused, “Don’t you recall? After your outburst yesterday, you retired to your room after abandoning your work for the day. One of your fellow doctors came to retrieve you, and you were found unresponsive.” They handed you the object they had hidden behind their back, deciding it was better to show you than to waste anymore breath, and you finally noticed the way the dim light of the torches reflected off its surface.
When you brought it up to your face, your tired reflection stared back at you. You pushed away a stray lock out of your line of sight, initially believing your eyes were deceiving you but—no.
There, in your left eye, you could see the telltale crimson slowly overtaking the sclera, those curling tendrils having progressed halfway across your eye. The Red Death would soon have your heart in His hands, and there was nothing you could do.
Your hand trembled as you pulled at your cheek with your nails, digging into your flesh and revealing more of the color you had come to dread, “No…no! I–This can’t be happening!” Your vision clouded as tears glossed over your eyes, and you could feel a sob escaping your throat. Your emotions dared to flood your focus once more, but in an act of final desperation, you gawked at your superior—as if for confirmation. Confirmation that this was, in fact, happening.
Valdemar gave a low chuckle, a glint in their eyes suggesting that they had already foreseen your future. In that moment you knew; you had your confirmation, and your fleeting mind would not allow you to hear the words that followed.
“Don’t look so dreadful. Think of this as your final donation to science.” They paused, turning their back to you with their arms clasped behind their back, regarding you in a sidelong glance, “It was inevitable.” They pulled the curtain aside and walked out, evidently having more important matters to attend to.
The moment their footsteps echoed away, the stifling silence shook you out of your trance. You dropped the mirror in your lap, overcome with emotions as the dam in your mind broke. Your tears trailed down the bridge of your nose before dripping onto the glass in front of you, your pained reflection sharing your misery. Once the doctor, and now the patient. You supposed it truly was inevitable.
__
You spent your final moments of life staring up at the stone ceiling above you from your cot, trying in vain to fall asleep in the suffocating darkness of the room. The coughs and groans of your former patients relentlessly fed your anxiety, and your thoughts raced faster than you could keep up with them; your life before your apprenticeship, your memories of Julian, the decomposing bodies of the dead, fed to those red beetles you had come to despise.
Your heart raced at the stark realization that you would be fed to those wretched insects when it came time for their next meal. The thought made your stomach clench, and when the attending physician came to make their round the next morning, you blankly stared at the tray of food in your lap they had left for you.
The few hours of sleep you had fallen into were littered with nightmares that periodically woke you up, only for the exhausting weight of your fever to drag you back into your slumber. It felt like you were drowning—struggling to keep your head above the sickness that pulled you down into the dark depths, over and over, without mercy. You didn’t want the delusions to come too soon. You still held out a dim candle of hope that Julian would return before that would happen. You just wanted to say your final goodbyes before it was too late, before all that would be left as proof of your existence were your bones picked clean from your flesh.
__
Julian had been correct. His dreams, his feverish delusions, his illegible writing at the earliest hours of the day and the latest hours of the night had not been for naught.
Reaching the outskirts of the city, he had successfully managed to find the origin of the dreaded beetles. A crack in the palace walls leaking a blood red poison into the city’s aqueduct gave him all the confirmation he’d needed of his suspicions, and now all that was left to do was remove the source itself. But, he reminded himself, he had to stop by to see you. He had to be certain that you were managing well without him, especially given how long he had been gone.
As sure of his discovery as he was, something still gnawed at his chest, a feeling he couldn’t quite place. The urgency in his stride only increased when you crossed his mind, carrying him to the place he would come to loathe the most.
His boots clicked beneath the stone floor as he swiftly navigated the winding tunnels of the dungeon, finding himself in the heart of his shared workspace—the laboratory.
Valdemar and several other doctors took notice of his return, but the Quaestor was the first to speak, stopping mid-lecture to regard Julian’s interruption.
“I see you’ve returned, Doctor 069. Have you made any progress toward your… dream as you called it?” Though their eyes squinted with their familiar infamous smile, their voice was mocking. Their steepled fingers emanated a silent confidence in themselves, a silent attempt to undermine their fellow doctor.
Julian unconsciously flinched under their scrutinizing gaze, but quickly found his voice, “Er, yes, I did. If my hypothesis is correct, then it’s likely that there may be an end to all of this death… and suffering.” Taking in his surroundings, he took mental note of the plague’s progression; still a high transmission rate—if not higher than when he were here last. But, beneath his plague doctor mask, his eyes shone with determination. He had found the cure, now all that was left was to set his plan in motion.
Valdemar appeared doubtful, quirking an eyebrow at the word ‘cure,’ but entertaining the doctor’s notion nonetheless, “I see. Well, don’t allow me to distract you.”
Before he could go about his work, a realization struck him as his gaze fell over the other doctors, counting an odd number. “Where is (y/n)? I don’t believe I saw them on my way in.”
Valdemar tilted their head, amusement glowing in their eyes as if they had been waiting for this question the moment you had fallen ill. “Ah, your apprentice. Apologies, Doctor Devorak, but (y/n) has, rather unfortunately, been touched by the plague.”
Julian stopped in his tracks, his heart pounding in his chest at the notion of what Valdemar just said, “W-What? Where are they? Are they still here?” His voice raised in pitch as he panicked, frantically looking around for your familiar face.
Valdemar regarded him pitifully, the way a parent would regard a child who’d fallen and scraped their knee. “You are a tad bit late.”
Julian’s head spun, but before he could fall into a panic, Valdemar continued, undeterred, “You recall our last meeting regarding… the growing issue with the number of the dead, yes?” Their face positively glowed at the mention of the dead and dying, and their sickening joy threatened to make Julian’s knees buckle as his head swarmed with worried thoughts of you.
“Yes, yes. The Lazaret, was it? I-Is that where they are?” His frantic gaze still clung to a sliver of hope that you were still alive, piled among the dead bodies of the Vesuvian populace.
Valdemar gave a short nod, “Indeed. Although, the last ship left the dock over an hour ago. You would be lucky to find your dear (y/n) in their original condition.” Their eyes gleamed with momentary regret, “Unfortunate that I… that is, we , could not dissect the former apprentice. An interesting specimen, they were.”
“O-Oh gods, I… I have to go. Now.” He whips his coat behind him as he turns from whence he came, only making out snippets of Valdemar’s smooth voice calling after him, “Leaving so soon? Your patients… need your help… So many dying…”
__
Your last memory was of your blanket being pulled over your head, your half-lidded eyes barely making out your surroundings before you were buried beneath the darkness of the fabric. As you felt yourself being lifted up, your delusions dragged you back down into unconsciousness.
From the darkness you rose, sitting up suddenly as if you had been summoned. And then you heard it again, a familiar voice calling your name.
You tried to stand up on unsteady feet, balancing yourself on all fours before standing fully upright. Hesitantly, you called out, “Julian? Is that you?”
From the dark void of nothing in which you were suspended, you saw a dim light, coming towards you. It was Julian, you realized.
A white light emanated from his being, illuminating the most brilliantly around his auburn waves like a halo—a crown of light. Julian stepped into your field of vision, calling out your name.
From his wide searching eyes, it seemed like he did not see you. You reached out, gently curling your fingers along his forearm and pulling him towards you. “Julian…”
When his light engulfed you, it was as if you had suddenly appeared before him, like a dense fog had removed itself from his vision. He pulled you flush against his chest, lip trembling as he regarded you. “My dear (y/n). I… I failed you, didn’t I? Left you to fall ill… and die. Alone. You…” He paused in his mournful words, overcome with a quiet sob.
The word ‘failure’ rung loudly in your mind. The vivid memory of your clash with Valdemar came rushing back to you, and you cupped his cheek gently, wiping stray tears. “No, no. You did not fail me. You… you saved me. You will save me, once you release the cure upon Vesuvia. Once the city can be saved.”
“But I couldn’t save you , (y/n).” He held your face in his hands gently, as if you were so fragile that you would break. “I… I could not save the one most dear to me. I’m a monster, and… and all I have to offer as apology for my wretched mistakes are these salty tears and meaningless words.”
You hadn’t realized you had begun to cry until you felt his thumbs wiping your own tears away, his glowing face a slight blur through your tearful gaze. His own mourning left you speechless as you continued to take in what seemed to be his final goodbye.
“If… If you could ever find it in your generous heart to forgive me, know that I will never forget you, (y/n).” His tears flowed freely now, his pain-stricken gaze making your heart wrench painfully.
“Julian…” you uttered. It was all you could do to keep the tears contained. You leaned into his warm touch, the weight of your cold sickness releasing from your shoulders as he wrapped his arms around you slowly. Gazing into his stormy grays, your face mere inches from his, you spoke with a sad smile gracing your face, “I never forgot you. And I never will.”
You sealed your promise with a chaste kiss to his lips, his quiet shock evident before returning the affection. As his light consumed you, you heard his voice for the last time, whispering your name like a prayer before his confession, “...I love you.”
__
Julian’s knees hit the gravel-littered ground hard, but the normally stinging pain did not reach his senses.
He was too late.
In the smoke-filled air released from the many furnaces, your beauty had been lost to him, for all eternity. Your charred bones and the smell of your burned flesh were all the proof that was left of your existence, picked clean of your soul. As he cried out your name through his choking tears, he wished a million times over that it had been him instead of you, as your ashes slipped through his gloved hands, again and again.