The year was 1665.
Daniel James Howell was a slightly lonely and quite poor young man living with four other people in a very small house in an awfully untidy part of London.
It was one of those odd days in which if you were stood in the sun, it felt like the height of summer, yet if you were stood in the shade, you might as well have taken a day trip to Greenland in December.
Dan (as Daniel preferred to be addressed as) would usually be outside in the streets, somewhat enjoying the sunlight with his friends, but today 'not feeling well' would be sugarcoating it.
It didn't help his nerves that London was currently experiencing the third Plague epidemic.
The bells rang outside, signalling mid-day, and the sounds of people walking and dragging carts rattled down the streets, through his window and met his ears.
He gazed around his little room and heaved a heavy sigh. It was a scruffy little house and he and his four friends only owned one floor of it. They all lived in a single room on the ground floor that was dangerously close to falling apart: its windows were partly boarded up, the floor was merely floorboards and the only furnishings were five beds and a stove with a cupboard beside it containing but a few pans and cups.
Decorations were almost non-existent, consisting of only one painting that had been found and salvaged from down an alleyway somewhere.
Dan coughed into his scruffy sleeve and his eyes watered from both the smell and the dust. Of course, his 'friends' were outside, hanging about in the outside putrid air instead of helping him out.
Dan wished that his old friend had been there – he would have tended to him. Phil. That's what his name had been. He used to live with the rest of them until he disappeared to go along to some sort of medical university to study disease and the Black Death. Dan hadn't seen him since and had no idea of his whereabouts or what he was doing with his life now.
He'd always been a nice man – four years older than Dan, who was 25 – he was tons of fun and always looked on the bright side of any situation. He and Dan used to do everything together ever since they met at 18 and 22. He'd always loved to help people and his dream was to cure the world of the plague. That was why he went off to train to be a physician.
A doctor was something that Dan greatly needed right now… only… Plague doctors around now were more than disconcerting. Wherever they went, death seemed to follow around, and hardly any of their patients escaped alive.
Though, when you're spitting up blood, covered in black patches and inflicted with a splitting headache, there's not much else you can do.
He'd reluctantly asked his most trusted housemate to fetch a doctor yesterday, but the doctors themselves (of which were mostly barbers who were only allowed to pull teeth and let blood) were too busy with patients that they couldn't quite fit him in.
Today, however, the city had a physician visiting who seemed to favour healing the poor over the rich, which was hardly normal for somebody whom had received education at one of the universities. The physicians carried around 'cures' that were a bit more advanced (even if a tad far-fetched) than simple blood letting, even though they always did seem to favour a jar of leeches over any other treatment. They sometimes carried powdered emeralds to sell to very rich patients that were supposed to somehow cure ailments such as the Plague, but that never really seemed to work.
Dan's friend, Duncan, had gone out that morning to find the physician and had come back with some good news that the doctor would be coming to the house as quickly as possible. Apparently he'd seemed concerned when Duncan came to him and asked him to come to the house…
So now Dan sat, idly, in the room, a blanket wrapped around his legs and his sleeves covered in tiny specks on blood that he'd coughed up.
His hair was curly and messy, tangled in places, and he had great, purple rings around his eyes. Not only that, but he looked deathly pale and his face was marked in places with blemishes and pockmarks.
It wasn't long before he heard the sound of a door creaking open and a doctor wearing a long coat, a leather hat and a mask shaped like a bird's beak entered the room. The sight would usually be foreboding, but there was something about this particular doctor that seemed… familiar.
"Good afternoon, doctor…" Dan started, his voice croaking in his ailment. He felt as if he should be friendly, seeing as the physician would be helping him.
The doctor only gave a small wave back with his left hand, as his right was holding a long cane that he was leaning on.
"So… have any of your patients ever been cured?" Dan asked, awkwardly, with a choke.
The doctor nodded, but he seemed a bit sad as he opened up the briefcase and put it down on the floor. He kept flashing glances up to Dan and the one beam of light from the window behind the bed reflected from the glass lenses in the eyeholes of the doctor's mask.
"It's bad, isn't it?" Dan sighed, shaking his head, sadly.
The doctor cleared his throat and stood up.
For the first time, he spoke,
"I'm sorry to say, Dan, but yes, it is…" he replied.
Dan recognised his voice instantly,
"Wh-" he started, before coughing, violently, in his surprise.
The doctor sighed and reached behind his head to unbuckle the strap around his tanned leather, bird beak shaped mask and slowly took it off.
"Wait; what are you doing? You'll get sick if you take that off! I-… Phil?" Dan exclaimed. He knew he'd recognised that air and that voice, "…I never knew I'd ever be so happy to see you!"
The doctor was, indeed, his old friend: Philip Lester, looking as pale as death and somewhat scared. He had a pair of old, gold-rimmed eyeglasses balanced on the bridge of his nose, covering his tear-filled eyes with dark circles around them. He appeared to have… seen things that he would never be able to banish from his memory.
"Hello there, Dan…" he breathed, a kindly smile on his face, though his eyes were still brimming with tears.
Dan stared up to him with an air of awe and surprise.
"I'd hug you but if I catch something, I'd be out of a job," Phil said, calmly, his voice husky.
"Put your mask back on!" Dan ordered, harshly, "You're going to catch something! I wouldn't want you to get ill, too…"
Phil laughed, slipping his mask back on,
"Yes, alright, then," He said, adjusting the strap at the back of his head, "It's probably too late now… But it doesn't matter, I suppose."
"Of course it does!" Dan insisted before coughing, "I'd care if you caught something. You don't want to end up like this, believe me…"
Phil shook his head, putting his hat back on,
"I might be able to cure you," he said, seriously, getting back to the subject.
"Really? That's great!" Dan chirped, as happily as he could, even though he was in excruciating pain.
"Yes, but it'll involve…" Phil murmured, "The help of my aides…"
"Who?"
"The leeches…"
"Bloodletting? Is it really the only way?" Dan whined.
Phil nodded, his breath muffled within the leather beak full of lavender and spices to block out the bad air.
"Either that or I could give you a medicine of ten-year-old treacle… I don't believe any of it works, but… it's all I can do…"
Dan swallowed,
"I'm not so sure about that…" he uttered, timidly.
Phil span on his heels and leaned over to pick up his bag, where he took out a bowl and a jar of leeches.
"I'm not sure how this works, but it seems to help sometimes… if it doesn't, I have other means… crushed emeralds, herbs and arsenic powder…"
"Phil… I'm not sure this is a good idea."
"Listen, Dan; you were my best friend. Everyone was utterly miserly at the University and all the time I was there I was wishing I was back home here with you – I will cure you if it means trying every method I've learned," Phil snapped back, "I didn't train for years just to let my best friend die on me."
"Phil…" Dan began again, "I know this is difficult for you, but if there's nothing that can be done, you'll just have to leave me."
There was something about his friend's mannerisms that seemed like he wasn't all there. Maybe it was the fact that his face was covered, but he seemed… mad - insane, even.
"I won't let you die," he hissed, rolling his shoulders, putting the bowl down on the bed beside Dan and unscrewing the jar. Dan squirmed at the sight of the wriggling leeches. They were hungry, he could tell, for the taste of human blood.
"I never consented to this…" Dan huffed, but held his arm out anyway. He didn't want to die, of course, and he knew that bloodletting could be painful, but he didn't want to argue. His friend only wanted to help…
Phil flashed him a cautionary glance, took a singular leech from the jar with a pair of tweezers that he'd got from… somewhere… and gently placed it down in the nook of Dan's arm.
"This will only hurt… quite a lot," he warned.
Dan closed his eyes and prepared himself. He could feel the leech pierce his skin and draw at the cut. He could feel the sensation of blood leaving his veins, yet it was mildly comforting to know it to be doing some good… even if it wasn't much.
Only, one leech wasn't enough – a singular one couldn't take out all the diseased blood on its own – so more were needed, piled on every available skin surface.
"It's… it's not working…" Dan struggled to say after a good ten minutes.
"Of course it's not…" Phil hissed, "It never works…"
"You have other treatments… don't you?" Dan stuttered, feeling suddenly very faint.
"I do," Phil affirmed, "But they've never been proven to-… Dan? You look gaunt, you've been though things, haven't you?"
Dan nodded.
"Why did you wait as long as this to fetch me?" Phil asked, slightly irritably.
"You weren't in town," Dan replied with a choke.
"I've been in town all week," Phil retorted, "If you'd have called me earlier, your condition would have never got this bad."
"I'm sorry; I didn't know," Dan said, quietly, his eyes drifting closed.
Phil's eyes (even though they weren't visible) shot open in alarm and he hurriedly began picking the leeches back off of his friend, realising he'd let out too much.
"Stay with me, Dan!" He yelped, throwing off his hat and, panicking, standing up, screwing the lid of the leech jar back on and diving back over to his bag to see what else he could find.
"It's no use, Phil…" Dan murmured, "You can't save me…"
"I can! And I shall!" Phil yelled back to him, frightened, his heartbeat speeding up to faster than it should have been, "I didn't train all this time for this!"
"Phil… my friend… it'll never work."
"Then I will make it work."
"You can't do it…"
"I will!"
"It's impossible to save me now…"
"It's NEVER TOO LATE!" Phil shouted, irritably, flinging his mask off again to improve his vision. He didn't care if he got ill now, at least he'd never have to live too long with the knowledge that he was never able to save his old friend. He knew it was too late, that nothing could be done, but still his determination proved true and he did not fail to keep on trying.
Every remedy he knew, he tried, yet none of them succeeded, only making the situation worse: wormwood and comfrey, crushed emeralds and mint – every single one futile.
"You can't die on me now!" Phil pleaded, watching as his friend seemed to drift away.
"I'm so tired," Dan told him, tiredly, "Just let me sleep and I can leave in peace."
"How could I do such a thing?" Phil snapped, tiny flecks of spittle sputtering from under his tongue as he spoke, "You were the only person who was ever true to me-"
"You did the same for me-"
"I could never let you die like this!"
"You'd be doing me a favour-"
"DAN!" And he threw his fists into the straw-filled mattress underneath him, knocking over the dish of thick, black blood as he did, "Stay with me!"
But his friend never replied, as his eyes were now fully closed, and when a plague victim fell asleep, it was usually for the last time.
Phil was lost for words, his breath catching with every inhalation, the germ-filled air infecting his lungs. How could he have failed so badly as to let this all happen? Just as he'd been reunited with his friend again, he had to go and lose him to the inevitable clutches of death.
It couldn't be real, it shouldn't be, but it was.
Dan opened his mouth to breathe his last breath and, without a care in the world, Phil reached out to hold his hand.
He never got the chance to say any meaningful last words, as his eyelids twitched and that was the last time anybody saw Daniel James Howell alive.
And it's held that the doctor who tried to cure him never gave up until he himself fell numb beside the bed.