Holes in The History of The Universe

11: In Which Hope is Handed Out, then Taken Away

Samual had been staying in Alastair's home for a couple of weeks now, and things were going swimmingly, at least, as well as they could go, considering the time period. They were currently spending some time after lunch working in his garden, allowing themselves to calm down a little before returning to their duties. Occasionally, he would be handed some food, a bunch of turnips perhaps, or a weed that could be used in their medicine, and he would deliver it into the house.

And then, while he was picking up a series of particularly unruly vegetables from the floor, there was a knock at the door, a respectful knock, but still containing a hint of impatience and pensiveness. He considered his options, and then ran off to fetch Alastair, who simply stood up cordially, and stepped to the door.

It was the first person Samual had seen Alastair treat, though it took him a moment to recognize it. When they had seen him, Samual had naturally assumed that the man would be dead within the day, but here he wasnow, standing upright, with no sign of illness in sight.

"Excuse me, are you Dr. Leigh?"

Alastair held up his mask, realizing that the man had never seen him without it, "yes, indeed I am, and this is Samual, my apprentice, you may not remember him, I'm afraid you seemed a bit delirious when the two of you met, so I wouldn't be surprised.

Samual waved, murmering out a quick hello.

The man scrambled over to them eagerly and shook each of their hands, one by one, despite Alastair's explanations on why he risked infection, "bless you sirs, I know it's not much, but I brought some things as a thank you." He held out a basket, and shook it slightly, urging them to take it."

Placing on his gloves as a weak precaution, Alastair did so, and set it down on the ground beside the wall, "That really isn't necessary, the patrician gives me all the resources I need, but thank you all the same, you're very kind. I am very glad to see you're feeling better, my good fellow."

"Thank you," he looked outside, "I'm afraid I can't stay long, my family's expecting me."

"Yes, I understand. Well, goodbye then, I'll be sure to pray for your health."

They then gave each other a bow, and Alastair waved as he left, leaving them alone in the comfortably silent house.

"You know, it never really occurred to me that people could get better," Samual muttered

Alastair lifted a hand and used it to grip his shoulder, almost lovingly, "Yes, people do, there may not be many of them, but it means that there's still hope for us, now put on your mask, we have patients that need tending to.

They did their duty proudly that day, even Samual, in fact he watched his mentor's work with intense interest. It reminded him that there had always been a method of his that bothered him, even if it had been covered by a thick layer of apathy over the past few weeks. Now it had been dusted off, and he felt the audacity to protest against it. As Alastair explained the blood letting process to the already grieving family, and raised the knife, for just an average day in this career, Samual dared his mouth to open.

"You shouldn't do that, it's not good for people," he winced at the pathetic nature his words came out with.

The room simply stared at him, and then each other, shocked, perplexed, and quite mortified at the words which had been said. "I'm sorry?" Asked Alastair, appearing purely embarrassed for possibly the first time in their troublesome relationship.

Still, he had no choice but to continue, "just don't, people can't handle losing that much blood when they're sick."

Alastair placed his hand, and by extension the knife, back at his side and took a breath, "my dear boy, you must know how fevers work by now, I've explained it when you were present countless times."