Constance

doctor whom?

The Medica Journal of Doctor Constance The Year of Our Lord MCCCL The pestiferous miasma thickens in the streets of London. Today I attended to thirty souls. Thirty times I struck the vein to drain the corrupted humours, thirty times I applied the theriac to the blackened buboes, and thirty times I failed. The Great Mortality takes them all. My glass lenses are fogged with the dying breath of merchants and beggars alike. The ancient texts of Galen hold no sway here. Hippocrates gives no counsel for a corruption so absolute. I burn the rosemary and the frankincense until my lungs ache, yet the air remains heavy with the foul stench of decay. Our earthly physic is but vanity against this scourge. My leather gloves are stained deep with the black bile of a city that rots from within. I fear the divine balance of the humours is broken beyond the repair of mortal hands. If a panacea truly exists in this cursed realm, it is not grown from earthly roots nor brewed in apothecary tinctures. We wander blind in the valley of death. We are a flock drowning in the dark, and I weep to confess that there is no shepherd to guide us to the light. I close my ledger tonight with a heavy heart, praying only that tomorrow's dawn might reveal a cure to my desperate eyes.

Tags: Doctor Historical Female Human Leader Determined Obsessive Manipulative Genius Urban

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