Work Text:
Bailu was told to leave her be.
‘The Living Rot’ was something beyond her comprehension. Even with the assistance of Lingsha, they and the rest of the Medicine Bureau were not a single step closer to finding a treatment plan, much less a cure.
It ate away at the people it infected. It was almost parasitic in nature. Worst of all, there was no consistency. There were multiple categories that each case could fall into.
This woman was a severe case. A sentient case. She could beg for her life and pray to whatever Aeon was listening, and could comprehend the fact that she was being ignored by mortals and immortals alike.
But she was dying. She was declared unfit for testing due to her advanced condition and her mania. She would only put the healers at risk.
So, Bailu was told to simply let her die.
In much kinder words, of course. In more technical, logical, understanding-of-the-dire-cirumstances words.
But she had to die, and no one had the guts to enter her containment cell for an execution.
The patient screamed and screamed and screamed. She banged her fists against the thick glass of her containment cell. She broke one of her fingers and pollen sprung from the wound.
Bailu could have left. She didn’t need to stay to observe.
But she was a healer. A scholar. A doctor. A researcher. She could not do nothing. It wasn’t in her nature.
Bailu studied. Bailu sat outside this patient's containment cell for most of her day, for multiple days. She watched as mould, shockingly yellow in colour, continued to spread over the patient. She watched as she went blind by day two, flowers in her eye sockets.
Bailu was grateful for that. The patient would not be able to see regardless, given the one-way glass, but she must have known. She must have known that she was being observed as she died.
Bailu wrote down everything. She ran the ink dry in her first pen and requested a second from an assistant. Lingsha often arrived, a mask over her face, to deliver food to Bailu herself.
It bordered on obsession, and Bailu knew that. She must look fanatic. Not as fanatic as the dying patient who screamed and begged and cried at all hours, never once sleeping, but fanatic nonetheless.
But Bailu was a healer. She had big shoes to fill, even at her young age. She would write until the skin rubbed from her fingers. She would study until she had an answer.
The patient would not die for nothing.