This one took a little longer simply because I didn't have as many clear ideas as I did for the others; it really is a ramble, since I didn't know what I was doing when I first began, and just let flow. But anyway, thanks for your nice reviews (I keep coming back to read them!) and I hope you enjoy!
Oh, I tell you though, I'd love for all you closet readers to review. I keep seeing the same names, but somehow I don't think they could account for over a thousand hits on their own! (puppy dog eyes) Review?
Guilt.
It warred within him, a different battle to the ones to which he all-too-often saw the frequently bloody aftermath, to the one he so recently fought. Gnawing, stabbing, relentless, it interrupted his sleep, his work, twisting his insides until he felt he couldn't breathe.
People expected so much of him, and they had the right to. He was a doctor; the health, the safety, of everyone in Atlantis belonged to him. And yet… and yet, it wasn't enough. He could set bones, stitch cuts, soothe burns, but there were some things… some injuries… he just couldn't heal.
Let alone in himself.
He felt exhausted; he needed somewhere to go, somewhere to hide for a while. Because if he didn't, he knew he'd be called back to the infirmary. He didn't know whether it was because of his nature, his desire to be involved in every case that walked through the infirmary doors, but somehow everyone turned to him as their doctor, even though he had a skilled staff to take over.
He didn't intend to go there at first, but by the time he'd arrived and stepped inside it seemed entirely natural. Where else had he gone to get a few moments' rest, a friend's ear to bend for a few minutes? And even though the room was now empty he felt himself relax. It was calmer here than outside; somehow untouched, left alone. He needed that. He needed that distance. Because outside… outside was the plague.
The plague that not even he could cure.
It ran rampant through the halls of the city, a disease that the leaders of the city seemed most susceptible to.
Now it was his turn.
And for him, it had come in the form of a struggling, tormented Wraith girl. He had held her hope in the palm of his hand… and he'd taken it for granted, he'd allowed his scientific mind, even his desire to help, to get the better of him. He shouldn't have said anything… shouldn't've…
But he had.
And now it was too late.
He'd turned that girl, that Wraith girl who'd possessed the will and the yearning to become something other than a creature of death, into a monster.
And he couldn't help her.
He couldn't even help himself.
How could he help his friends, his patients, his charges, when he couldn't even save himself?
Not against this plague. Not against others of a mental kind.
But he was a doctor.
He knew better than anyone that sometimes… you have to let a sickness run its course.
And it was hard… so hard. It wasn't something he could cure. He knew better than anyone, now, that he couldn't cure everything. And some things would end in death.
But he could watch. He could care. He could treat the symptoms… and hope that the disease would pass. That's all he could do. All anyone could do.
He hoped it would be enough.
