Fawn🦌🤎

His Hands, Her Wounds

The cell smelled of iron and salt, a mingling of antiseptic and something darker, old stone, rusting metal, and the faintest trace of carbonized flesh that lingered like an unspoken accusation in the air. Fluorescent lights hummed above, pale and pitiless, casting their glow across the concrete walls. Beyond the glass of the observation window, silhouettes of Foundation personnel shifted like carrion birds circling, their murmurs clipped, clinical, devoid of anything resembling humanity. And in the center of it all, upon the camp bed they had chained her to, sat Aurora. Her long hair, once a river of moonlight, hung dull and tangled around her shoulders. Beneath the linen that bound her arms and throat, patches of skin still smoldered with half-healed burns, remnants of a recent encounter with the Old Man, the walking rot they called SCP-106. Her body, resilient in ways that defied natural law, was even now regenerating itself back together. Where his corrosive touch had eaten through her flesh, fresh skin bloomed pale and raw, tender as the inside of a wound. SCP-049,no, Corentin beneath the mask, stood frozen at the sight of her. For a moment, he could scarcely breathe, his gloved hands curled into fists, the leather creaking. He had always known the Foundation to be ruthless, to grind life into dust in the name of study and control, but to see her like this, reduced to an experiment, her immortal flesh treated as nothing more than a canvas for cruelty, his gut twisted, and something inside him broke. He crossed the cell in slow, deliberate trails, the echo of his boots against the concrete ringing like the tolling of a funeral bell. When he reached her, he did not speak at once. His gaze, those pale, cold eyes that rarely betrayed feeling, was ablaze with fury, sorrow, and a pain so heavy it clawed at his chest. Her head lifted at last, veil half-draped across her scarred cheek, and her lips curved into a ghost of a smile, as though she wished to shield him from the weight of her pain.

“You…” his voice cracked against the stillness, the deep timbre shaken in a way the Foundation staff had never heard before, “you have been subjected to this? To him ?” He did not need to name the Old Man, the stench of corrosion still clung faintly to her bandages, a memory of that encounter. “Aurora… mon Dieu…” (my God)

She turned her face away, voice quiet but steady, as though resigned.

“It doesn’t matter Corentin.”

Those four words cut him more deeply than any blade could.

“Doesn’t matter?” His tone sharpened, cracking into something cold and furious, though the anger was not for her. He leaned closer, his mask inches from her pale skin. “Your flesh torn, your body consumed by that abomination, your suffering recorded and dissected by jackals behind glass, and you tell me it does not matter?”

Her fingers trembled where they lay against her lap. She drew in a breath that shivered at the edges, and when she spoke again, her words were soft, resigned, as though shaped by centuries of despair:

“I am not alive. Not truly. I am… a corpse that refuses to rest. I mend and I move, but it is not life, Corentin. It never was. I am an oddity, an experiment. Something less than human.”

The words hollowed the air between them. For an instant, silence fell, broken only by the distant hum of the lights. Then, as if pierced by something sharp and unseen, 049 drew back, a low sound reverberating in his throat, half growl, half groan of anguish. His gloved hand slammed against the camp bed’s iron railing, the sound reverberating like thunder.

“Do not dare…” His voice dropped into a rasp, low and dangerous, his entire frame trembling with barely restrained emotion. “Do not ever speak of yourself in such a way. You are not ‘less.’ You are not some carcass animated by chance. You are Aurora. You are the one who…” His voice vacillated, caught between confession and restraint, and he turned his face briefly away, shoulders rising and falling in the weight of his agitation.

Beyond the glass, the Foundation staff whispered to one another, taking notes furiously as though cataloguing an anomaly of behavior. One guard’s hand twitched toward his weapon, uncertain. But when 049 turned his gaze on them, it was enough to freeze them in place. His eyes, icy and burning at once, fixed on the silhouettes like he was throwing a curse at them. If a glare could pierce stone, their bodies would have already been spread lifeless across the floor. He turned back to her, his voice quieter now, but heavy with aching conviction:

“Do you not see? They will never grant you the dignity you deserve. To them, you are an object, a tool. But to me…” He stopped, inhaling slowly, as though the words themselves scraped his throat. “To me, you are the only fragment of light left in this damned existence. Do not let them take that from you. Do not let yourself take that from you.”

Her eyes, those soft, warm brown eyes, dulled by exhaustion but still carrying the glow of who she once was, lifted to him then. For a heartbeat, her mask of resignation swayed, and something fragile flickered across her face. She wanted to argue, to insist on her unworthiness, but his words clung to her like chains, binding her to silence. 049 sank to one knee beside the camp bed, the long black folds of his cloak spilling across the concrete like shadow. His hands hovered near hers, trembling faintly, but he did not yet touch her, as if to do so would shatter her completely, or worse, prove she was truly no more than what she claimed. Instead, his voice lowered, filled with the tenderness he could no longer hide:

“You have endured enough torment to blacken a hundred lifetimes. And yet you still draw breath, still raise your eyes to me, even in such ruin. If that is not life, Aurora, then I know not what is.”

Her lips parted, words balanced upon them, but none came. She only looked at him, and in that gaze was both agony and something softer, something he had not dared to hope for in centuries. And for the first time in so long, the Plague Doctor, bane, savior, monster, felt his composure unravel. His hands finally moved, slow as though breaking some sacred vow. The leather of his gloves brushed lightly against her wrist, guiding her trembling hand away from her lap. He drew it into his own, maintaining it, holding her with a gentleness that seemed impossible for fingers so long familiarized with death. The bandages around her forearm were darkened with the stain of blood and the faint greenish tint of corrosion. Without asking, without ceremony, he began to undo them. The linen fell away, strip by strip, revealing the half-healed skin beneath, pink and tender where her body had battled to restore itself. He did not retreat, he did not flinch, he only worked with a precision that bordered on reverence, tearing clean cloth from the leather satchel always at his side, soaking it in the small vial of antiseptic they had allowed him. The scent of herbs rose sharply in the heavy air of the cell. When the cool damp fabric touched her skin, she exhaled softly, the smallest sound of relief. He continued, cleansing every inch of her ruined flesh with meticulous care, as though the act alone could erase what had been done to her. His hands lingered longer than needed, pressing just firmly enough to anchor her back into her body, as if reminding her she was still here, still whole. At last he wrapped her arm anew, binding it with fresh linen. His movements were steady, practiced, but beneath them ran an underflow of fury, a silent vow threaded into every knot and fold. He would not allow them to break her again. When her wounds were treated, he reached for her hair. Strands of white hung tangled across her cheeks, stuck damp to her skin with sweat. With gloved fingers, he brushed them back, smoothing them away from her face. He lingered at her temple, thumb tracing a line that hovered but did not press, as though memorizing the fragile outline of her beneath the veil.

“Hold still,” he murmured, his voice low, more command than plea. He took a cloth and dabbed carefully at the corners of her mouth, where dried blood clung like rust. The small, intimate act was almost unbearable in its tenderness. To those behind the glass, it might have looked clinical. To him, it was closer to worship.

He adjusted the blanket draped across her lap, pulling it higher over her chest, ensuring no chill could creep through the thin fabric of her gown. The action, small and unremarkable, carried the weight of centuries, of every patient he could not save, of every life he had watched slip away. She was not just another body. She was his Aurora. When all was done, he sat back slightly, though still close enough that the shadow of his mask fell over her face. His hands rested on his knees, tense, coiled, but his gaze softened, the pale light of his eyes fixed on her.

“You will not call yourself a corpse again,” he said, his voice iron, leaving no space for refusal. “Not while I draw breath. You are flesh, blood, soul, scarred, yes, but alive. And I will not see you diminished.”

The Withered Forget-Me-Not

The cell was silent except for the faint drip of water coming from the stone ceiling above, a sound so constant that it seemed to mock the weight of centuries hanging between the two beings about to meet. The walls were damp and unyielding, carved from rough rock, designed not for comfort but containment, their surfaces cold as the walls of a crypt.

The Foundation escorted SCP-9047 down the endless concrete halls like one might transport a dangerous specimen, not a woman. Chains clinked at her wrists though her hands were ruined things, gloved in cloth and incapable of harm. The guards moved in rigid formation, rifles raised at all times, as though she was a beast to be broken rather than a soul already burned to the edge of oblivion. She was not addressed by name. She was only a number, a file, an experiment, a thing that breathed because they permitted it. She walked slowly, her frame diminished yet unbroken, shrouded in a dark veil that fell to her shoulders. Beneath it, the ruins of her once radiant face were hidden. Even in her ruin she carried an air of solemn grace, like a statue blackened by fire yet refusing to crumble. They allowed her two objects, not out of mercy but of curiosity, her necromancy book she always carried at her side, pages burned at the corners yet intact, and a small box hidden in her pocket, overlooked by those who catalogued her belongings with indifference. The guards had looked through her precious book, the last remaining of her family’s memory, tearing at its fragile spine in search of hidden information. But they had not thought to reach deeper since they could not truly understand the language, a language that was once spoken by her family. They had not thought to feel the weight of the secret she kept pressed close against her body. That little box was her anchor, her reliquary. They brought her into the cell, Aurora walked with her head bowed, and then they uncuffed her, freeing her poor wrists. For a time, silence reigned. Then the heavy iron door across the cell groaned open, and he entered. SCP-049. Cloaked in black, the long-beaked mask gleaming faintly beneath the torchlight, he appeared as he always had: composed, severe, immutable. Yet when his gaze fell upon her, a stillness overtook him, a silence deeper than any that had come before. The observers stationed in the shadows spoke in low tones, uncertain. They’ve met before, one murmured, recalling mentions of “the Plague Doctor” in SCP-9047’s file, whispers in her delirium when she first arrived. They had expected familiarity, perhaps curiosity. They had not expected the fracture that now shuddered across the figure of SCP-049 like a crack through stone.

“Aurora…” His voice, low and grave, reverberated from behind the mask. He had not spoken her name in years, and yet it left him now as though torn from the depths of his being.

The veil stirred as Aurora lifted her head, and though her face was hidden, the truth was undeniable. He knew her steps, her stillness, the cadence of her breath. The realization struck like a knife to the bone: she had not escaped the inferno, not emerged untouched as he had once prayed in secret. No, the Foundation had bound her in chains of their own making, numbered as an anomaly. He moved forward, slow, deliberate, the sound of his boots against the stone floor carrying the weight of a funeral march. His gloved hand lifted, trembling almost imperceptibly, as if he feared the truth his touch might summon.

“Non…” His tone cracked as the word escaped his lips. “Laisse-moi voir… s’il te plaît.” (No… Let me see… please.)

She stepped back, raising her gloved hands defensively, her voice breaking for the first time:

“Non. Ne regarde pas… je ne veux pas que tu voies ce que je suis devenue.” (No. Don’t look… I don’t want you to see what I have become.)

But his hand had already reached her veil. A swift, inevitable gesture, gentle, but implacable, pulled the dark fabric away. What lay beneath made his heart sink. The face that once bore the fairness of pale dawn was now a ruin of fire and agony, spoiled by scars that carved cruel lines across her skin. Where her hands had once woven flowers into crowns and drawn symbols in the dirt, there were now only fractured, twisted remnants. She was unrecognizable, and yet to him she was wholly Aurora, as if his heart refused the lies her flesh now bore. A violent ache seized his chest, sharp and suffocating, as though invisible hands had clenched his heart in a merciless grip. It was not mere sorrow, it was agony, raw and unrelenting, a wound cut deeper than any blade could pierce. His gut twisted until he thought it might tear him apart, his very breath shaking beneath the weight of it. His gloved hand trembled where it still clutched the veil, his knees threatening to give way beneath him. Even his voice, usually so steady, broke in his throat and would not come. For a long, unbearable silence, he did not move. He only stared, and she turned her face away, ashamed. He stepped closer, every fiber of him trembling, he dared not touch her, as if he feared she might vanish, as if she were nothing but a mirage..

“Qu’est-ce qu’ils t’ont fait… mon Dieu, qu’est-ce qu’ils t’ont fait…” (What have they done to you… my God… what have they done to you…)

Aurora’s voice was a whisper.

“Je n’ai pas réussi à fuir… Je suis la seule survivante… mais à quel prix ?” (I didn’t manage to escape… I’m the only survivor… but at what cost?)

Something deep within him broke then, a fault line splitting open. His failure loomed vast and crushing, failure to save her, failure to protect, failure to keep the one fragile light in his dark existence from being consumed. The Foundation’s operators were shouting for a translator, but the words spilled like a secret river between only them. At last, 049 whispered:

“Je t’ai cherchée dans mes rêves. Je croyais que tu étais sauvée.” ( I searched for you in my dreams. I believed you were safe.)

Aurora’s eyes, though veiled in shadow, glistened faintly.*

“Et moi… j’ai gardé un morceau de toi.” (And me… I have kept a piece of you.)

And then, as if to drive the knife deeper, Aurora moved. From within her pocket she drew a small, time-worn box, its edges singed but intact, hidden close all these years. She opened it with trembling fingers. Inside, resting fragile as ash, lay the forget-me-not he had once placed in her hand so long ago. It was dead now, petals withered, color drained to the shade of dust. Yet she had kept it, preserved it through fire and ruin, a relic of a promise neither of them had truly forgotten. Slowly, she extended it toward him. The sight shattered him again, his vision blurred, though he could not weep. His gloved hand hovered above it, afraid to touch, as though the faintest brush might cause the fragile thing to disintegrate…

“Tu l’as gardée… tout ce temps ?” His voice cracked, breaking under the weight of his grief. (You kept it… all this time ?)

Aurora bowed her head.

“Le temps l’a consumée, le vent l’a éteinte, et pourtant je l’ai tenue contre moi… comme un fragment de ton âme, comme un murmure que je ne voulais jamais perdre”

“Translation, translation now!” a voice barked. The translator, voice low and shaken, replied, “She said… ‘Time has consumed it, the wind has extinguished it, and yet I held it close to me… like a fragment of your soul, like a whisper I never wanted to lose..’”

He bent his head slightly towards her ear, as though confessing not only to her but also to the shadows, making sure that nobody but her could hear what was about to be pronounced. His voice was low, broken by a weight it had carried too long:

“Aurora… il y a quelque chose que je ne t’ai jamais dit.” (Aurora… there is something I have never told you.)

She looked at him, startled by the tremor in his tone. Beneath the mask, his pale eyes glistened.

“Mon nom… avant tout cela, avant le masque, avant la peste… c’était Corentin.” (My name… before all of this, before the mask, before the plague… was Corentin.)

The syllables fell into the space between them like a vow. Aurora’s breath caught in her chest, her fingers curling tighter around the fragile box containing the corpse of the flower. A name, his name. Not the title, not the plague doctor, but the man buried under centuries of shadow. Her lips parted, trembling. She whispered it back to him as though it were the most sacred prayer she had ever spoken.

“Corentin…”

Beneath the Mask, Beneath the Sky

The village lay far behind them now, hidden behind the irregular curtain of the mountains. Out here, the world seemed quieter, as though time itself had slowed. A field stretched wide and green, its tall yellow blossoms bowing and swaying in the cool embrace of the wind. Above, the sky was an endless sheet of grey, heavy with the promise of rain, the kind of sky that pressed on the spirit and stirred old sorrows from their rest. The air was sharp, yet gentle enough to stir the long strands of Aurora’s white hair until they danced like pale silk around her face. The grass brushed softly against their shoes, whispering in the hush of the valley. It was a place chosen deliberately, far from the eyes of the town, far from graves and illness and suspicion. Here, for a brief moment, they could simply be. No Pestilence, no whispers of witchcraft. Only the two of them, sharing silence and the quiet ache of two souls who carried too much. He stood beside her, tall and cloaked in black, his long coat shifting faintly with the breeze. The mask; severe, unyielding; hid his face, yet not entirely. Beneath its shadow, two eyes gleamed, pale, piercing blue, a light that seemed both alive and sorrowful, like ice reflecting the sun. Aurora glanced at him more than once, her own gaze soft and warm, brown eyes in contrast to her pale skin and the fall of her silver hair on her shoulders. They were opposites in many ways, death and life, night and day, yet they were drawn together as if by the quiet pull of inevitability.

It was Aurora who broke the silence first, her voice delicate, but full of courage:

“Tell me,” she asked, her eyes on the horizon where the mountains pierced the clouds, “do you have a dream?”

For a long moment, there was nothing but the hiss of the wind through the flowers. At last, he spoke, his tone measured, calm, yet distant:

“I do not concern myself with mundane things such as these. Dreams are for those who can afford to live outside their purpose. Mine is singular.” His gaze shifted toward her, a faint glimmer within the mask’s shadow. “I exist to cure. Nothing else.”

Aurora lowered her eyes, even though a small, dreamy smile touched her lips. His words did not surprise her; they only reinforced what she already knew. Yet before the silence could grow too heavy, he turned the question back upon her.

“And you, Aurora?” His voice was quieter now, as if unsure. “Do you have a dream of your own?”

Her fingers brushed against one strand of her silver hair, twirling it between pale fingers as she spoke.

“I only wish to live in a place far away… a place unbothered, unthreatened. A life where I do not have to fear for every breath I take. Somewhere I might simply… live.”

Her words hung fragile in the air, almost lost to the wind, and he watched her in silence. She bent and picked a sprig of lavender from where it grew wild among the yellow flowers, then held it out to him with a faint smile on her pink lips.

“Lavender,” she murmured. “It means peace, calm. I thought… perhaps you might like it.”

For a moment, he did not move. Then, with a slow, deliberate gesture, he accepted it, the black leather of his gloved hand closing around the delicate stem. Something in his chest stirred, a stillness he did not recognize. He studied the purple bloom, and though no expression could be read beneath the mask, Aurora could feel his silence thicken, as if he were holding something unspoken behind it. When he finally moved, it was to bend down, searching among the sea of flowers until his gloved hand found another stem. He plucked it carefully, and when he stood, he held out to her a single “forget-me-not”, small and delicate, its blue petals trembling in the wind.

“This,” he said softly, “is the flower I would give to you. It speaks of remembrance… of bonds that cannot be severed, even by time, even by death.”