Face On
Annil Denno couldn’t put his finger on exactly what – nor would he want to get that close, but there was definitely something wrong with the young woman’s face.
He couldn’t recall her name – she had come to him like all the others, seeking treatment for a disease no one could name, let alone cure. It manifested itself in hundreds of different ways and contained only one unifying feature; a small red circle at the back of the neck.
“Turn around.” Annil spoke the words in a clipped tone. He couldn’t afford to become emotionally attached to any of his patients, though in some cases that distance was easier than others.
She complied, and it was easy to see the angry crimson mark standing out under her hairline. Whatever symptoms she was showing – whatever caused the pale face and too-big eyes – were as a result of the same thing that had been killing citizens across the Realm.
“Please,” she said, and Annil was surprised to find she had a soft, lilting voice, “help me, doctor.”
“I’m not a doctor!” Anger burned through him at mention of an association to the dishonored group. It was widely agreed among his kind – men of medicine – that “doctors” had been largely responsible for the spread of the disease thanks to an inability to share information and admit when they didn't have answers. Because of their arrogance civilized society had broken down, and only clumps of life in the Realm survived, eking out miserable existences in small pockets of hard-scrabble life. They did not see the doctors as their downfall. Annil knew better.
“I’m sorry,” she said, moving to turn around, but Annil pushed her forward.
“Get out,” he kept his tone level. “You have the illness, and there is nothing I can do for you. Remain at home and endure what little time you have left.”
The woman fled, sobbing, and Annil forced down a stab of pity. There was nothing he could have done to help her, no matter her complaint, but still a seed of guilt remained. Though he hadn’t taken the oaths of old he tried to conduct himself as he was told the ancient men of medicine had done. Stepping outside after her, he turned the small sign in front of his hut. It was only midday but he had no patience for further problems – he needed time to think.
***
Evening found him face-down on a small desk, asleep in the middle of the only written book he owned. Almost everything he knew about the illness was collected by word of mouth or hastily copied down onto scraps of paper, and even though he’d amassed a full chest of subject matter he was no closer to finding a cure.
Patient zero was his aim – finding record of the first person to contract the disease or near enough to get some idea of its mechanism of action. He’d hoped to find an answer by ruling out what the disease did and didn’t do, but it appeared completely random – age, sex and medical history appeared to have no bearing on how it operated.
He came awake at the sound of his hut door being opened and was on his feet in a moment, ragged blade pulling from a belt-sheath into his hand. Though Annil hated hurting people, especially those desperate for his help it had been necessary on occasion in the camp and his training gave him knowledge of exactly where to strike.
“Who’s there?” He called out, and then put his back to the main room wall when no answer came. A small shape shuffled into his living area and he pounced, one arm going around the figure’s throat and the other bringing his blade to bear.
“Please,” a melodious gasp was forced out into the small space and Annil released his grip – the woman!
“I dismiss you,” he said, sheathing the blade and stepping away from his malnourished intruder. “So you decide to break into my residence?”
“I’m sorry,” the woman turned to face him and he was struck again by the oddities in her face. They weren’t quite deformations – more like unique features that served to set her apart from any of the others in the camp. Nothing was out of place or off the center line of her frame but her eyes were simply too large, her nose too wide and her skin a pale shade he had never seen.
It took him a moment more to realize the true issue – she was unmarked!
Everyone in the camp bore a scar of some kind, a wound of battle or one left by the disease as it passed through their body. No one escaped without a mark, without a badge testifying to their struggle against an unknown foe – except for her.
“Your neck,” Annil said quickly. “Show me your neck.”
She turned, and he reached out a hand to the patch of redness there, fingers finding a small raised edge. One quick pull and it came tearing free, revealing pale and perfect skin underneath.
“What are you?” His voice was hoarse. “Why have you come here?”
“I did not lie,” she said, turning to face him again. “I need your help. My kind is suffering just like yours, though it cannot be seen as easily. You must come with me – you must help my people.”
Annil shook his head. “I have a duty, here – to those in camp.” There was little he could do for them, but he had to try.
“They are in pain, I know,” she stepped forward and Annil felt a strange lassitude, a calmness at her closeness. “But so are we.” She frowned, then spoke again. “I was told that if you did not agree immediately there were words I must speak.” She met his eyes, blue gaze pinning him to the ground. “One of our number was the first, before the others were affected. He lives, still, though in agony. He is the one you seek.”
Annil was moving before she had finished speaking, diving for his medical bag. “What are you waiting for?” He bellowed. “Let’s go!”
- D
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