Alaric: The Doctor Named Reaper

The Edge Of Sacrifice

The air was heavy in the square, as if Clara's words clung to the cool evening like a bad omen. Alaric stood stock-still, his heart pounding away at the fearful glances passed around the villagers. A jumble of ideas swirled within his head without managing to unsettle him-it was Clara's grim conviction shining forth from behind the mask of her eyes.

She said again, her voice not shaking, oddly composed, "We must make an offering. The gods require one. It is the only way to stop this plague.

Alaric could feel the weight of every gaze settling on him, and his stomach turned. He wanted to speak, to protest, to tell them that this was madness. But the words wouldn't come. That part of him that had always believed in reason, in science, faltered in front of such desperation. These people were scared, and fear twisted even the most rational minds.

Rowan took a step forward, his voice cautioning. "Clara, we can't just start killing people. There must be some other way.

But Clara did not look away. "How many more must die before we take action?" she pleaded, her voice cracking with emotion. "I lost Thomas. Alaric lost so many. You all lost someone. It's not the course of nature. The sickness spreads faster than any disease we have seen, it is God's punishment. And it is something we must stop.".

The crowd stirred uneasily, torn by fear of the illness and their abhorrence at what Clara was suggesting. Alaric did not utter a word, his legs buckling beneath him at the thought of offering up another life-a revulsion that even now burrowed worms into his mind, planting the seed of doubt. What if she was right? What if this was some unthinkable act, only by which might the suffering be stopped?

Who would we offer?" one of the onlookers asked softly, barely audible.

Clara didn't waste any time. "We offer one of the sick. It would be a mercy, wouldn't it?" Her eyes again sought out Alaric. "He's already granted one mercy, hasn't he? Maybe he can grant another.

Alaric's breath caught in his throat; his mind raced back to the pale face of Elara, that moment he had let her slip away. That had been different, he told himself. She had been suffering, begging for release. But this-this was murder. His hands were shaking with the thought, yet the village's collective fear closed in on him, a tide he couldn't turn his back on.

Who?" Rowan breathed, his voice barely audible, his usual authority faltering in the face of such madness.

"There's Lisbeth," Clara said, her voice firm. "She's been abed for days. She's beyond hope, and we all know it. What life is that? Better let her go to her rest in peace, before the illness takes her."

Alaric felt the ground crumble from beneath his feet. Lisbeth had been one of the first to fall ill, her fever raging for days now, her body ravaged by the sickness. But she was still alive. To take her life now-no, it wasn't right. But even as his mind rebelled, he could feel the weight of the village's expectation pressing down on him. They looked to him, their healer, their mentor, who always led them through questions of life and death. Now, they asked for something more-something darker.

"I can't," Alaric whispered, the words feeling empty. "I can't do that."

Clara stepped forward, advancing on him, her eyes afire. "You must. You know what the sickness does. She's suffering already, and if we don't do something, more will die. You're the only one who can give her peace."

Alaric looked from face to face-the villagers, his friends, his neighbors; all of them in turn were looking to him for salvation, but this-this was not the kind of salvation he had ever imagined giving. Yet he saw their fear, felt their desperation, and in that moment, something inside him snapped.

He nodded, and with every fiber in his body screaming to stop, his legs felt like lead as he walked toward his apothecary to fetch a small, sharp blade. It was the very knife he used to harvest herbs, to prepare medicines. Now it would be used for something far more final.

The walk up to Lisbeth's cottage was but a haze; the village followed him in grim-faced silence, a procession of the damned. At her tiny cottage, Alaric paused at the door, his heart racing so hard it would burst. Inside, Lisbeth lay abed, her face sunken and emaciated, her breathing shallow. Her eyes fluttered open as he entered, and for a moment, she smiled weakly up at him.

"Alaric," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I knew you'd come."

He knelt beside her, unable to meet her eyes. The blade felt cold in his hand, and his stomach churned with nausea. "I… I'm sorry, Lisbeth," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

She didn't seem to fathom a thing; her fever-addled mind moved between consciousness and delirium. "Will it hurt?" she asked, the words slurred.

Alaric swallowed hard. His throat was suddenly dry. "No," he lied, "it will not hurt."

His hand was shaking as he pulled the blade to her throat. Everything seemed to go in slow motion at that moment. The room around him blurred into obscurity. He heard only the shallow, labored breathing and the frantic beating of his heart. The image swam before his eyes, and he felt himself sway, threatening to collapse at any moment. Then, in an instant, it was over.

Blood poured from the wound, hot and slick over his hands. Lisbeth's body spasmed once, twice, then lay still. Her eyes remained open, staring at him with an empty, vacant glaze that would haunt him always.

The villagers stood silent as Alaric rose, his hands red. Clara stepped forward, her face somber and pleased. "It is done," she whispered. "Now we wait."

Alaric could hardly hear her. His head was reeling; the weight of what he had done fell upon him. He staggered out of the cottage into the night, cool air slapping his face. The world felt remote around him, unreal. He had murdered her. He had taken a life with his own hands.

Gone, now, was the healer in him, the man who had dedicated his life to saving others; all that remained was the blood on his hands and that hollow ache in his chest.

The village drew away, leaving Alaric to his darkness; the chill of the stars brittle in the sky overhead. He had done what they asked. He had given them their offering. Yet, deep inside, he knew it would not suffice. Nothing ever would.