Note: Right now I'm working on expanding this story into a longer length (possibly novel), but I'm taking a step back to do some major research on medical practices and alchemy. I'm a sucker for accuracy. XD

“The Great Work”


The Doctor was more than accustomed to the filth that was Cheapside; the entire district was a cesspool of all things unsavory. However, this God-forgotten alley was by far one of the most repulsive. Not even the cleansing rainfall had helped. Instead of washing the streets clean, the rain only managed to stir up the dust into a thick mud, a horrible smelling substance that caked itself upon the Doctor’s boots and splattered upon his oilcloth robes. Had he not been wearing his mask, the smell of human waste and rotting food would have undoubtedly assaulted his senses.

A red cross was painted above the threshold, a sign to all that within this dwelling lay a condemned man. There was once a time some might have said a prayer for those who lived here, but the time for faith had long since passed from these people’s minds. Without knocking, the Doctor entered. This patient was expecting him.

Upon entering the small residence, the Doctor found a sitting room that appeared as inviting as the dismal world outside, a place where there was almost no color aside from varying uncoordinated shades dulled with age and grime. The only attempt at gaiety was a small vase filled with what once might have been beautiful wildflowers, now withered and wilting in the windowsill. A lone woman occupied the room, sitting in a weathered old armchair by the window. She was alarmingly thin, her hollowed face skeletal and ghostly. There was something about her features that hinted at a beauty that had long since faded, a vitality that had been worn thin by the cruel realities of the world in which they lived. She was so frail, so still that for a moment the Doctor would have thought this was his patient, just another soul on the verge of departure, if it had not been for her rather impassioned display earlier in the market.

The woman had possibly been the most desperate the Doctor had encountered in some time. Where most citizens wisely regarded him with trepidation, carefully keeping their distance as if he were the sole vessel of this plague, this woman had approached him boldly. She had thrown herself at his feet, clutching at the hem of his robes as a drowning man might grasp for a piece of drifting wood. Through her sobs she pleaded with him to come to her home to save her father. The doctor did not have the heart to tell her that if the man was sick he was already beyond saving.

A minute passed before the woman noticed the doctor standing in the entrance. For a moment she acted as if the Doctor was merely a ghost, an apparition conjured by her own mind. Upon realizing that he was indeed flesh and bone, she blinked suddenly and stood. Within a few strides she was across the room, gripping onto the Doctor’s sleeve as if he were her only anchor in a raging sea.

“You’re the Doctor… the one I spoke to this morning?” Her eyes were wide and childlike, half crazed with anxiety.

The Doctor nodded.

“Then please, do whatever you can!”

The Doctor stepped out of the woman’s reach and turned his gaze down the hall. A thin ray of silver light emitted from a single open door, piercing the darkness and casting shadows. The woman followed his gaze and nodded her head in the direction of the light.

“His is the only door open.” She explained as if sensing the unasked question. Without waiting for further explanation, the Doctor bent to pick up the carpet bag he carried his tools in and left the woman’s side, readying himself to once more come face to face with death.

One of the most unsettling things about dealing with the dead is not the body itself. Coming in contact with bodies was the most basic aspect of his vocation. Jagged lacerations, gaping holes, amputations... The Doctor had seen all of the horrors that could be inflicted upon the human flesh. One became immune to the varying states of a broken body when exposed enough. However, as time moved on The Doctor realized that this was not what death was about. Not truly. Death wasn’t merely the absence of a body. It was the absence of a presence. A body was just a thing, a sack of meat and bones that takes up space, but a soul—a soul was what made a person truly alive.

Looking down at the man that rested on the dirty cot, the Doctor knew he was looking at an empty a shell, a vessel that was no longer truly human. His face was ashen and spotted with age, wisps of his white hair sticking to his recently wetted face. The daughter must have tended to him recently—how could she not have known? Kneeling next to the body, the doctor tentatively removed his glove and placed two fingers where the man’s pulse had once beat. Nothing. The man was cold. The doctor frowned beneath his mask as he thought of the woman downstairs. Had she thought the man was sleeping? How could she not know? Couldn’t she feel it?

A black substance bubbled up from between the man’s lips; his body had already begun to decompose. Upon noticing the purge#, the Doctor removed a cloth from his bag to wipe the man’s lips. Observing the now soiled cloth, the Doctor noticed that this coal-colored syrupy compound was identical to what had secreted from the mouths of his other patients. Had he not been wearing his mask, the Doctor knew he would smell the distinct odor of rotting eggs. Folding the cloth, he placed it in a separate compartment within his bag reserved for the samples he collected.

After observing the body for just a moment longer, the Doctor closed his bag and rose to his feet. There was no point in lingering when there was nothing he could do. His job was finished before he could even start. Turning to leave, the Doctor paused momentarily, mentally cursing himself for being so forgetful. How could he not check for the sign? Returning to the body’s side, the Doctor leaned over and took hold of the man’s left forearm, turning it so that the palm faced upward. Observing the juncture of the wrist, the Doctor found what he was looking for. There was a small brand burned into the flesh, faint enough that it would have gone unnoticed if one were not looking for it. The design was familiar to the Doctor, for it was a symbol the man was becoming more familiar with every time he tended to those inflicted with the plague. It was a two tiered cross resting upon the symbol for eternity, a symbol that the man had never seen before the sickness. He had seen it enough to know that it held some sort of significance, but he could not place why. It was the one question that plagued him as he spend countless sleepless nights pouring over texts in his study, looking for the answer he knew was out there but he could not reach. Letting out a sigh, the Doctor placed the hand over the man’s heart and left the corpse to rot in peace.

Upon returning to the sitting room, the Doctor found that the woman had returned to the chair by the window. Her face was strangely calm as she contemplated some mysterious thing that the Doctor could only begin to wonder about. Turning her attention to him, she rose to her feet, clutching the fabric of her skirt in place of rushing to his side.

“What must I do?” She asked.

The Doctor paused for just a moment before speaking.

“Burn the body.”

The woman closed her eyes and breathed deeply, her fist curling in her skirt till her knuckles were white. The Doctor felt a sudden need to go to her, to place a hand upon her and offer some sort of condolence. It was an uncharacteristic urge, an echo of the sympathy he once held for mankind. Perhaps it was because she had touched him when no one else would.

Shaking his head, the Doctor tipped his hat to the young woman and left her to mourn.

They called him Doctor.

The man remembers a time when the word meant healer, a time when he brought hope to those to those that fell under his care. Now he was nothing more than a harbinger of death, a walking reminder of man’s fragile mortality.

Very interesting story! This is only the first chapter, but I'm already intrigued. I wonder if that woman will have a bigger part to play later on.

I have a fairly good knowledge of medicine (although not perfect of course) but feel free to ask me if you need help!

This is the first chapter, and I'm already looking forward to seeing more! :D

I loved how you described the Doctor's surroundings. You painted quite the picture with your words. What really piques my curiosity is the 'sign'. It raises quite a lot of questions for me, and I hope that you'll post more so I can find out more about this mysterious brand.

Your story has no obvious spelling or grammatical errors, which is a big plus. The paragraphs are spaced well, too. There's nothing worse than seeing a story all squished together. x__x

Overall, your story has a huge amount of potential. I do look forward to seeing more! =3

Thanks for the comments, you guys!

Since this chapter was mainly a brain dump to get the story out there, I've taken a bit of a step back and have reverted into my research mode again. The more I read, the more I'm finding inspiration! I'm also debating whether or not to change the scene to something more "fantastical" (nothing too out there, but slightly different than what's already described).

fairywaif: I've been trying to find some stuff on the more traditional methods (stuff like pre-Victorian era). If you know of anywhere I might have luck finding stuff, I'd be very appreciative! :3
And originally the woman wasn't going to return, but the longer I knew her the more I realized I wanted her to stay.

Crowfeather: The symbol actually has a name, but because of what it represents I feel like it would be too much of a spoiler to say what it actually is. If you were feeling adventurous you'd probably have some luck finding it online somewhere... haha.

A/N: I guess this thread will become where I post my random scenes. I don't know how to change the title of the thread to reflect this change, so if anyone knows I'd appreciate the help. ^^; This is a random scene that I started writing. Warning: One use of a curse word.

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Charlotte knew she would never get used to waking up from her past, never completely. Closing her eyes she forced herself to breathe. In and out, in and out, the steady rise and fall helped her focus on calming her overactive mind. Even so, the woman knew that it would be useless to attempt falling asleep again. Rolling her head to the side, she looked at her alarm clock to see just how little sleep she had managed to get this time.

5:03 am

A little over three hours then. This week’s record. Slowly, as not to disturb her bad leg, Charlotte sat up in her bed, moving her legs over the side and flinching against the cold. As she stood she stretched in an attempt to shake off the feeling of weariness from her muscles. It helped, if only a little. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Charlotte could hear the clatter of pans knocking against one another and the soft thuds of someone rummaging through a cabinet, the sounds so faint as if their maker wished not to disturb the silence at all. Jason was awake.

Walking to the kitchen of their shared apartment, Charlotte sat at the small, well-loved (as Jason put it) dining table and reached for the mug that Jason had already set out for her. Taking a long sip, Charlotte could taste cinnamon. Shit. Placing down the mug, Charlotte looked up at her roommate who had shown no sign that he had noticed her presence.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” Charlotte asked.

“Nope,” Jason replied too quickly, giving her a smile over his shoulder that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Charlotte glared at him. Jason always put cinnamon in her coffee whenever he knew that she had woken up from another one of those dreams. Her roommate’s grin barely twitched downward as he returned to scrambling some eggs.

“It’s been a while,” Jason said after a while as he placed a plate in front of Charlotte. Looking down at the eggs, Charlotte thanked him before digging in. She didn’t want to admit to Jason that the only reason why she hadn’t been having dreams was because she hardly slept at night. Telling him that would only make him worry more.

“Must be all that vigorous paperwork,” Charlotte rolled her eyes.

Jason smiled at that, this time it was genuine.