The Exorcist Doctor

To my dearest Maeve,

I still see it as though it were yesterday: that quiet room in the shoddy quarter of the City of Splendors. The cracked plaster, the thin curtains, the smell of rust and incense, and then you—sitting all alone on that narrow bed, a small shadow with no name, no history, nobody who dared to claim you. You were a mystery dropped into silence.

It was still chaotic in that neighborhood when I dropped by your clinic. Of course it was. A Raven had wrought his ruin there, transfigured bodies into glass and salt, and an entire neighborhood became preserved in grotesque crystal tableaux. The Church hurried to cover it all up. The Ravens are mad dogs, yes, but they are the Church's mad dogs, so I did not doubt that whatever research he was trying to conduct ended up feeding their power. The slaughter was silenced, and in that silencing, your past became folded, too. It was pure coincidence that I found you where you were while I was checking up on one of my injuries.

I stepped into that room expecting only another lost child, but no. Your eyes betrayed you. They were not blank.

I followed your gaze and saw the mural painted upon the wall. The War God and Saintess Severin, swords drawn, leading their Seventy-Two Demonic Plagueplain Doctors in ascent upon the Plague God himself. The doctors painted with fire around their heads, cloaked in holy light. Oh, how you had glared at them. How you had bared your little teeth at the painted saints. Such fury… such hatred in a child so young, and it chilled me.

You reminded me of someone else.

It was only months prior, in Bharncair, when I had exorcised a Myrmur. The beast had cornered a man and his son in their little shack of a home, and I struck it down—too late. The father had perished by then, and while the boy lived, his face was cut deep, carved with a ruin even a Vharnish clinic would not be able to heal.

I promised the boy safety. I placed him in a nearby orphanage and told him I would check up on him soon.

I meant to. Truly, I meant to.

But when I returned a month later, I found him sitting upon a bench in the yard, beneath the shadow of the Splendors. His bandages were red and raw around his face, but his eyes lifted upward, and they were filled with a hatred so sharp it seemed to shake the air around him.

It was the very same glare you had, only he hated the City of Splendors.

I could not approach him. My feet froze. My hands would not lift. I told myself I was a coward, and it was true, for I knew his pain was my failing. If only I had been swifter, braver, and struck harder, then his father might have lived and his face been spared. But I was not. I had failed to protect him, and… the shame of it crushed me.

I turned away. I left him there, telling myself silence would hurt him less than my presence ever could. And I have lived with that shame gnawing me since.

And then there you were. With the same eyes. The same wrath. For a breath, I almost fled. You were too similar to him, too sad, too angry, but… something stopped me.

I thought to myself 'not this time'.

'Not this child'.

I could not run.

So I stayed. I told the Purity Tribunal I wished to train a successor. That was my pretext for taking you in, but the truth… was simpler, and far more selfish.

I wanted to keep you near, because I could not bear to abandon another child who looked at the world with such fire.

And oh, Maeve, how glad I am to have done that. Glad, that I did not run. Glad, that I brought you close. Those years teaching, guiding, and watching the diligence with which you seized every lesson of mine were my brightest years. You were quick. So terribly quick. You worked harder than any of your peers. You stood serious when others played. You may not have made many friends, but what did that matter? We had each other, and in you, I found…

…

It has been three years since we last met. Seeing you again has filled me with a joy so sharp it almost hurts. To find you healthy, standing tall, surrounded by companions who care for you… how strange it is that I feel both so weak and yet so grateful.

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I am glad the world placed me in that clinic room with you. I am glad I did not run from you as I ran from him. You became stronger, more radiant, and more steadfast than I ever hoped a fate daughter of mine could be.

I could not be more happy for you.

But now, I must write something that burdens my hand and weighs upon my heart heavier than any relic I have ever borne. I do not wish to wound you, and perhaps these words will feel like betrayal, yet to keep them locked away would be the greater cruelty.

Maeve.

You cannot stay with the Plagueplain Doctor.

It is not because I despise him, nor because I think him a wicked man. Quite the contrary. I spoke with him briefly when the moment allowed. He seemed thoughtful enough. Composed, steady, and even polite. He does not carry himself with the wild brashness that so many of his kind flaunt… well, maybe he does a little bit, but he struck me as a man of intent, and one who means well. If life were simpler—if the world were kinder—I might say he would make for a worthy comrade.

But it is not the measure of the man that matters here. It is the mask.

Those black beaked masks are magnets for calamity. Plagueplain Doctors are storms given human form. They attract challenges, vendettas, old wars, and new schemes alike. Their power is both beacon and blight. And as he grows stronger—as inevitably he must—the Church will no longer be able to ignore his existence. They will name him one of their number, officially or otherwise, and with that recognition will come hunters from every darkened corner of our world. Some of them will not be merciful, Maeve. Some will not be human in heart or in form.

And Ravens do not get happy endings.

You know this. You know it better than I. Their lives are short, their falls are spectacular, and anyone who ties themselves too close to them is pulled into the same spiral. You have already been scarred by one Raven's havoc. You have lived through a catastrophe that claimed all others and left you a lonely shadow on a clinic bed. I cannot… no, I will not bear to see you burned again.

…

There is silence in me as I write these words. I almost stop here—almost crumble into ash upon the thought of your face reading this—but I force myself to go on.

You are no longer a girl. You are a lady, grown, with your own mind and your own will. Perhaps I am selfish to think I may still guide you, but truth is truth. Three years I have been parted from you, and what I see upon my return convinces me you do not need my instruction any longer. You live with conviction. You have built a life of your own. If you choose to remain in that clinic, under that roof, alongside that Raven, I will not try to drag you away like a child.

I only beg you weigh the dangers.

And as for me, I must confess something further.

The man of wealth and collection whom I mentioned… he saved me when I was scattered, when I was crumbling into nothing. He gave me life. He gave me a roof. He gave me dignity I thought I had lost. And though I may only serve him as one of his retainers, he has treated me kindly. He has made it clear, however, that he despises all connection to the Ravens. He will not tolerate such a shadow tied to his name or to his house or his collection business.

And I cannot abandon him. Not until the debt of my life is paid.

So this is the condition laid before me, and before you, should you wish to come live at my side once more. You must sever ties with the Plagueplain Doctor by tonight.

I do not write this with joy. It feels cruel even to shape the letters. But my employer insists upon it, and even if he did not say it, I find… I agree with him, though my agreement is wrapped in trembling shame.

If you choose to cut ties with the Raven and come with me, he is willing to welcome you into his household, to employ you not only as servant but as assistant in his works. You will have a bed, food, clothing, stability, and you would be granted leave to use the Blood-Draining Knife. You would not have to be an Exorcist any longer.

That, at least, I know will stir some ember within you.

…

Forgive me that these words come not by my lips but by this ink. I had meant to linger in this fine noodle store, but duty calls me back already. My employer has summoned me, and I dared not refuse.

So I leave only this letter, pale shadow of the words I wished to speak in person.

At the back of this letter, you shall find the address to my employer's estate. If you decide upon my path—if you wish to stay with me and work alongside me once more—you must come tonight. Not later. Tonight. My employer cannot keep the vacant position unfilled for much longer.

If you choose not to come, I will not hate you. I will not even be angry. I will simply pray that the Raven proves strong enough, wise enough, and gentle enough to hold you safe in the storm that ever circles his kind.

I leave the choice to you, my dearest Maeve.

Know only that wherever you go, whatever you choose, you have already given me more joy than I thought this ruined life of mine could hold.

Love,

Alana Valcieran