Closed.

-Stay Silent

Clare was finally glad to feel nothing. In her sleep, her head only consumed the darkness and her thoughts were set at ease. But, sometimes, not all the time, she could hear a splash. She could smell gun powder. Most importantly, her heart cried slightly. A death had taken place.

Clare slowly opened her eyes and felt so heavy. She didn't know by what until she looked over at Woodsworth. As soon as she did, she made a weird noise. Then, she started crying immediately. She couldn't talk. She only stared at him as she cried.
 
"The Prince is dead." Woodsworth announceed flatly. "He died of his injuries."

The room was very silent, apart from Clare's sobbing. Woodsworth stared down at his hands, not knowing what to do.

"I've offered Her Imperial Majesty my resignation." He muttered. "She won't accept it. I wish she would. Having her continued trust under the circumstances is... monstrous. It's not your fault." He added, looking up. "You performed admirably, better than anyone else managed to, and you almost succeeded in saving the Prince. It was my office that allowed a Lighteater to become a member of His Royal Highness's staff and I personally authorized the inadequate security on that dirigible. You... at least you tried. You and Finch between you at least avenged His Royal Highness's murder. You salvaged something from this disaster." It was his feeble attempt at comforting her.

David Finch died a hero. That had to count for something. He gave his life in attempt to save the heir to the Empire.

The thought was only so comforting.

--

Clare's leg wound became infected and for several days she was plagued by high fevers. Afterwards, the doctors do not mince words when they speak to her: she was lucky not to lose the leg. This meant her ability to move silently had been noticeably compromised.

Woodsworth's recovery went more swiftly.

One day he came to tell Clare, through gritted teeth, that the Crown Prince's steward had been in the Royal Family's employ for six years. "At that time." He said. "Henry Smythe would have been responsible for conducting the investigation into potential royal servants. He was killed in a carriage accident two months after approving the steward. It was a very good accident, too... I never suspected a thing." He slammed a fist into the wall in a sudden burst of rage.

- Get angry as well.
- Try to comfort Woodsworth.
- Just nod.
- Stay numb and silent.
 
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-Try to comfort Woodsworth

Clare had stayed numb for a while. It would hurt more than her leg to think about Finch's passing. Every thought was a bullet and she found herself wanting to distract herself with Woodsworth. He seemed use her as an distraction as well.

She watched as he talked more about the steward. She wanted him to be quiet about it, but decided to remain silent. However, she flinched when he slammed his fist into the wall. "Woodsworth!" She said loudly for the first time. "Calm down. No one knew. No one would know..." She said attempting to move towards him.
 
"It is still my fault. I have dedicated my whole life to the service to my country. Never having a family of my own, I was a husband to Mercia. I should have known better." Woodsworth's shoulders slumped as he turned toward Clare. "But, it is to late now. I will get out my frustration on the Vlaskesari. This will not happen again." He placed a hand on Clare' shoulder, whether to comfort her, or himself, couldn't be said.

After a brief moment, Woodsworth's eyes met Clare's and he asked, in a completely different tone of voice.

"How are you feeling now? You are being discharged from the hospital today, is that right?"

Clare's wounds had healed, although she still felt a bit weak. However, she had signed her release papers and was free to return to her flat. Without her flatmate.

- Answer.
 
She wanted to yell at him for repeatedly saying it's his fault. Ever since she woke up that's all she's heard from him. She knew deep down though, it was her mistake that cost the lives of two men. She had forgotten her purpose, to make sure another war doesn't happen. But I couldn't fix the war going on in my damn brain.

She gripped the bed under the sheets when he asked her the question. She was being discharged. She should be happy. However, he could see her eyes darken a bit when she thought about it. "I... Yeah. I'm being discharged. I just..." She covered her eyes, trying her best not to cry more. "I don't think I can handle going home alone." She choked out. She eventually stopped herself and finally let her hands fall on to her sides. "I should ask how you feel too. You still look... Not that lovely. Have you eaten, shaven, taken a shower at least?" She asked, glad to talk about something other than herself and Finch.
 
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"I have, yes." Woodsworth nodded, bringing up hand through his grey hair. He had not shaved, however is suit was freshly pressed and he did not look so bedraggled as the last time Clare saw him. He moved to sit on the bed next to her, his eyes gentle, which was not common for this man. "David Finch was a good Detective and a better man. He will be missed." He said in a calm tone. Woodsworth was never the one for condolences and he also did not know of the nature of Clare's relationship with Finch. Or perhaps he did, he usually knew more than he let on.

--

The Empire mourned the loss of the Crown Prince. His younger brother assumed the title.

It proved impossible to call Vlask to account for its crimes. The Prince was killed by his Mercian retainer, after all, Madame Albescu had vanished and the matter of the wine could not be pursued without revealing the secret of the Royal Family. An open reckoning would not be possible.

--

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Clare experienced Finch's funeral as though from within a fog.

It was rather better attended than one might have expected. Everyone from the newspaper was there, as well as everyone from the police station and every member of Woodsworth's irregulars. A number of high-ranking officials and persons of importance could not risk their presence, but sent telegrams of condolence.

The casket was empty, attempts at recovering the bodies having proved absolutely hopeless. Somewhere far beneath the green sea-foam will lie for all time the villain who assassinated the Crown Prince - and the hero who avenged His Royal Highness's death.

And Clare's life somehow had to go on.

- You decide to spend the next months in the clinic.
- You decide to spend the next months trying to figure out your light abilities on your own.
- You decide to spend the next months trying to forget about everything.
 
-You decide to spend the next months trying to forget about everything

Clare had been carved out before. When Pierce died because of her, she felt like a husk. Now, she feels the husk of her settling into her soul again.

She tried to forget. She wanted to badly, not remember her mistake. One stupid mistake. She could have saved the Prince. She could have saved Finch. She could have saved Pierce. Of course, history has a way of repeating itself. Now, she found herself hating making a desison, lest she makes a mistake. A constant tumble of her past and her heartache makes her hands tremble at the possibility of screwing up again.

She has found some peace in talking. She didn't really talk after Pierce died. She had only rotted. She decided to talk to someone, which she choose was Woodworth. She didn't know why, but she assumed it was the way he looked when she woke up. The face of her broken heart. Maybe because she didn't have a partner to talk to anymore.

Even though he was there, she tried her best not to feel utterly alone.
 
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The air shook with the shouts of the protesting crowd three streets over and the ground shook with the footsteps of the approaching mech. Even miniaturized to fit through Kingsford's old and twisting streets, a mech's footfall was still more than enough to make cobblestones tremble and people jerk around in fear.

Clare watched the metal giant stomp along the street, steam pouring from its creases to join Kingsford's ever present fog. It was on its way to support the constables who were attempting to restore order to the crowd in the park - the crowd shouting for Prime Minister Whitefield's resignation.

It was the year 1889 and David Finch had been dead for twenty months.

Clare had not rejoined Woodsworth's operatives during that time. Perhaps she wanted to, but Woodsworth never asked her.

During the first months that followed Clare's discharge from the hospital, she kept on seeking out her old boss. Maybe it was because he was the only one left from her old life, the only reminder of it. Whatever it was, something kept on pulling her toward him.

And after a little while, after the long and often disoriented talks led in Woodsworth's office late at at night, the talks that never had much sense and were always interrupted by longer silences, Woodsworth came to Clare's flat. To check up on her, he said. To make sure she was doing alright in the clinic. That was it. But, it was almost midnight and the rain outside was pouring. Clare could also sense a faint scent of spirits on Woodsworth's breath. It was quite uncharacteristic of him.

- You invited him inside.
- You told him you were good and said goodbye.
- You got angry and told him to leave.
 
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-You invited him inside

Clare had found that she liked coffee and tea a lot more now. Besides the clinic, she would often buy her time with finding new flavors for each. She categorized the flavors sometimes on new and old and other times on favorite and disgusting. It was good distractions. Including the protests.

She watched the protests going on out the window while she sipped on her coffee. It was a nice hobby.

The day Woodsworth came to her flat, threw her off guard. She opened the door and frowned a little before letting him in without saying anything.
 
Woodsworth walked inside, searching desperately for words, but failing to find them. His tie was loose and the first two buttons of his shirt undone.

"Detective..." He spoke after a moment, stumbled and waved a hand to dismiss that beginning. "Rusk. I know it's late. I... You..." He sighed, ruffling his ashen hair like he always did when he was nervous. "I know we haven't always seen eye to eye, but I wanted to tell you that I've always appreciated you as a detective. I am glad that you have been a part of my team." He stopped, waving a hand dismissively again and turning to leave. "Probably shouldn't have come to visit so late, it was inappropriate of me, I apologise."

Woodsworth stepped to the doors again, but turned around in the last moment.

"Thank you." He said, cryptically. It could have meant anything. Thank you for your service. Thank you for the long talks we shared. Thank you for keeping the loneliness at bay, even if it was for just a little while.

The memory of his expression when his eyes met Clare's, was fresh in her memory even after more than a year's time. It was the reflection of her own, the loneliness she felt during the recuperation in the flat that was far too big for her only.

- You let him leave without a word.
- You said goodbyes and let him leave.
- You took his hand.
- You kissed him.
 
-You took his hand

She didn't quite know what to say. She knew something was wrong, by the smell and behavior. But, she felt herself happy about it. It was a messed up feeling, but she felt like she wasn't alone. Despite their past, they are both shaken to the core, not quite sure what to do with themselves. "Wait." She said quickly when he started to leave. She reached her hand out and grasped his sleeve, then made her way to his hand. "Thank you too. I know that before it was business, I had a job and you had a job. I enjoyed the small talks. And I appreciate..." She slowly let go of his hand. "You coming to tell me how you feel. You can stay if you want, or rather I think you should stay." She didn't directly say she was worried about his state, but he was smart enough to figure it out.
 
Woodsworth stopped in his tracks, eyes straying down to Clare's hand which held his own. The look in his eyes was unreadable, but his actions were clear. His free hand took hold of Clare's chin, lifting it up, as he leaned in for a kiss. His kiss was rough and his beard scratched again Clare's soft skin.

"Madam?" A voice brought Clare out of her thoughts. A sorry looking young man stood in front of her on the terrace of the coffee shop, wrenching his hand between his hands.

She did not know his name, but she knew him by his looks, he was one of her patients in the clinic that she still kept running. "I need you help. It's bad." The man said, eyes shifting to the spot where protesters were gathered earlier. They were now gone and only two police mechs stood in the spot. Clare could hear the screams, however. Something happened and it was nothing good.

In the moment before she focused on her work again, Clare remembered the events of that night. The night that could have been the beginning of something.

- You had spent the night with Woodsworth.
- You had spent that night and many others with Woodsworth.
- You had asked Woodsworth to leave.
 
-You asked Woodsworh to leave

Her finger tapped on the desk as she recalled it. She remembered kissing him and thinking of another. It wound was still too fresh. She pushed him back gently. "Woodsworh... I... I love you. But, I also still love Finch. I know it's still been a while." Her voice trembled as she spoke. "I'm still scared. Therefore, I can't. Not now." She sighed and gently opened the door. "I'm sorry."

She groaned loudly and wanted to throw things into the ground. However, she remembered the client and took in a deep breath. She loved the kiss. It was hard and rough. She just wanted to wait a bit. She didn't want to cry whenever they kissed.
 
Perhaps Clare wanted to wait, but Woodsworth did not catch on. He left her apartment that night without a word and still looking as if in a daze and they barely spoke for such a long time after that. Their talks stopped and the letters that Woodsworth sent to as for updates from the clinic stopped as well. She had not found if it was related to her rejection.

But Clare did not have time to contemplate her past further. The life of adventure shes once led, first on the battlefield and then as Woodsworth's spy, seemed to belong to some other universe than the one she currently inhabited. Now she was a general practitioner with a small practice in the poorer part of Kingsford.

And she was hurrying to the bedside of a protester hurt in the mess in the park, in response to a plea for help brought by his young son. The protesters were demanding the resignation of the Prime Minister as there were rumors that he authorised a violent campaign in Loegria, to quell he local populace as there were suspicions they were practicing light eating. There was no evidence of the malpractice, but dozens of corpses littered the Loegrian farmlands now.

- You agree with the protester's anger.
- You try to treat as many protesters as you can to try to encourage them to be less violent in their protests.
- You try to treat as many protesters as you can in order to find out who their leaders are.
- You don't care about the nature of someone's injuries, you are known as a doctor who helps everyone.
- Your duty is to treat anyone who asks for help and the patient's son came to you.
 
-Your duty is to treat anyone who asks for help and the payient's son came to you

Clare still felt saddened by her rejection, even more so when he didn't send letters or allow talks. Of course I made a mistakes, when don't I. She bit her lip, thinking about her infamous mistake. She quickly tried to stop thinking about it all. She had to worry about the injured.

She didn't feel as if violent protests helped anything, but she understood where their anger lied. She wasn't sure where she fell under these political matters, she has just felt hollow to the whole ordeal. Therefore, she wanted to help whoever is injured. It was her new job after all.
 
The boy came to her, the man was therefore her patient, nothing more needed to be said.

Though she would have to be a hopeless imbecile not to know what he was protesting against. Clare saw the photographs three days ago just like everyone else.

Last month, the Loegrian Day of Remembrance was marked by demonstrations, rioting, and looting in Dunleitir. The Day of Remembrance honoured those who died in the horrific famine two generations ago - the famine some say was made worse by mismanagement from Kingsford - and so civil unrest on Remembrance Day was not uncommon.

But that year the Loegrian Viceroy ended it by sending mechs stampeding through the streets of Dunleitir, leaving men, women,and children crushed beneath their feet or pierced by their bullets. One might think the eyewitness accounts inflated, were it not for the photographs.

Rumor had it the Daily Mail obtained the photographs from the group that called itself Free Mercia and that Free Mercia managed to steal them from the home of the government functionary to whom they had been entrusted, the burglars getting away clean except for the bullet wound one took in the shoulder.

- You feel that Free Mercia is not telling the entire story.
- You are shocked by the Viceroy's actions.
- You are sickened by it, the Viceroy couldn't have done it without Her Majesty's, and hence Woodsworth's, knowledge and consent.
 
-You feel that Free Mercia is not telling the entire story

She had seen those photographs, but felt like something was off. The Viceroy couldn't have done this act without Her Majesty and Woodsworth constant. She knew Woodsworth wouldn't order such a thing even if they had disagreements in the past. He wasn't that kind of person. Therefore, there was a story Free Mercia wasn't telling.

Even so, she knew she shouldn't be dwelling on those thoughts. She needed to do her job.
 
The protester, Tom O'Brien, was suffering from a mild fever and reddened swelling of his shoulder.

He didn't receive that wound today in the park. It was a few days old at least.

Clare was instantly reminded of the burglar who was shot in the shoulder as he escaped with the photographs of the Loegrain massacre.

Tom saw her notice and looked up with challenge in his fever-bright eyes.

- Say nothing, you don't care.
- Say nothing, you support his actions.
- Accuse him of stealing the photographs.
- Openly thank him for what he's done.
 
-Say nothing, you don't care

She saw his condition and went to work. She could see the correlation with the shoulder and how long it had been wounded. The data matched with the culprit, but she didn't want to scare him by refusing to help. Perhaps she didn't care. She'll tell Woodsworth, if he cared to talk to her again.
 
By the time she finished treating the protester there was hardly a soul in the park and on the square. It was the last day of summer in the year 1889 and nothing disturbed Clare as she started to walk her evening rounds. Some of the people she treated sometimes simply could not walk to the clinic and Clare picked up the habit of visiting them in the evening. It stuck.

She saw the usual collection of ailments. An injured laborer who was not yet healed enough to return to work, but had no choice. A woman expecting her first child and experiencing some complications, who ought to spend the rest of her pregnancy in bed, but cannot afford to give up her factory job. Children with sicknesses that might be easily cured with a healthier diet and life in clear country air, but such a life was impossible for them.

By far the worst was a woman of about thirty five in the last stages of phosphorus poisoning. The flesh along her jawbone had largely rotted away and dead bone was visible beneath. Earlier in the course of the disease, Clare might have saved her by putting her under chloroform and surgically removing her jawbone, but she refused the operation. A friend of the woman brought one of the Temple healers to see her, but she likewise refused healing. Now there was nothing anyone could do - she will die in agony.

- You feel that your work is not as exciting as it once was.
- You are glad you can be of use to regular people of Kingsford.
- You are depressed by your inability to do anything that really matters.
- You are worried about the tensions in Mercia.
- You feel a suppressed need to get away form that life and do something else.
- You just feel numb.
 
-You just feel numb

Patient after patient. Treatment after treatment. She couldn't take it at times and other times it was a bliss. But, as she got more used to it, she didn't feel anything. Which worried her.

She didn't feel bad whenever she told people bad news anymore. She didn't feel joy when other people thanked her. She eventually stopped organized her teas and coffees. She just kept getting numb as the world around her kept getting more hectic.
 
As Clare reached her flat, the last of the light faded, closing the last day of summer.

--

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The first day of autumn begun abruptly, with a frantic knocking on Clare's door. It was the young man who came to fetch her yesterday for his father the injured laborer. He said his father was worse than he was yesterday. Terribly ill.

She could not get any more details out of him, just a sense of urgency. She noticed that there seemed to be something amiss in other households they passed - a sense of disorder and agitation - but Clare didn't have time to investigate.

Her patient was, as his son said, terribly ill, with something more ominous than fever from an infected injury. When Clare entered the room, Tom O'Brien was curled up on his bed, knees drawn up to chest and arms wrapped around them, groaning. The stench in the little room was terrible.

His skin was clammy under her hand. His face looked waxen, his eyes sunken and glassy. He could not keep down even a swallow of water.

Clare was already harboring a hideous suspicion, but that sight removed all doubt. That particular type of vomiting was characteristic of only one illness.

Cholera.

That was not good at all. There was no cure for Cholera and it was an infectious disease. Not only was it transferred from person to person, but it was also transferred from a universal source to everyone that came in contact with it for even a brief second. It could mean an epidemic.

- There is no cure for Cholera, but if you get the man to the hospital, they might lessen his suffering.
- You must find out where he's been the last few days, the source of the infection had to be found.
- First just look for somewhere to wash your hands.
 
-You must find out where he's been the last few days

As soon as she saw him, she moved back. "He has Cholera." She said quickly as she removed them both from his room. She washed her hands throughly and ordered the son to do the same. She immediately started to quarantine the area, asking the boy where his father may have been. She needed to find the source unless they wanted an epidemic. She was just worried about everywhere the man had been. She had mentioned to the boy the fact Cholera had no cure, even though she said it bluntly.
 
"Doctor?" Before she could move, a voice interrupted her as she washed her hands. She knew that voice. At the doorway was a patient of hers, Mrs Jill Symond.

"I thought it was you going by." She said. Her face was drawn with worry. "I came to say could you call upon Jemima Burke when you've finished here? I've just come from her - she's fearfully ill. And her two eldest with her." Jill added.

Within the hour, it became clear that cholera was abroad in the East End.

--

The disease swept like fire through the poor houses. About one hundred people died in the first three days. Among them are Tom O'Brien and his son and Mrs Burke and all five of her children.

Whole houses were rendered uninhabited, their former denizens lying dead in their own filth, in tenement after crowded one-room tenement.

"It's a curse." One of Clare's patients moaned. Her name was Maggie Wimple, she came to Clare once for the treatment of a hand she injured in Merrill's factory. She was not yet twenty, yesterday she was widowed, and Clare did not hold out much hope for her small daughter's survival. "It's got to be. Nothin' natural comes on like this. Those folk at that Temple down Juniper Street..."

- Explain that Cholera is caused by contaminated water.
- Say that the Temple priests are good people.
- Say you understand her, but that Cholera is not a curse.
 
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-Say you understand her, but that Cholera is not a curse

Clare was worried about herself and the rest of her patients as Cholera grew. This was very troubling. But all I can think of is Woodsworth. I should see him after I'm done. She thought to herself until a voice brought her back again.

"I understand why your upset. It's a heartless disease. But, I wouldn't say it's a curse caused by them. Chlorea is a fast spreading disease. That's all. Once one has it, it's hard to contain." She told her gently, thinking back to that boy's father. She felt sick even thinking about it.
 
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