[Yami no Matsuei/Boardwalk Empire] "Final Diagnosis: Revenant" (PG-13)
Author's Note: Written for < lj user="tamingthemuse">'s "prompt 393-overwhelmed". Featuring "Kensington Mudgett", the Team Albany AU version of Kazutaka Muraki, and a young Hyacinth
The boy's family had come down from Canada, leaving behind their small town on a tributary of the St. Lawrence River in order to find a better education for the boy's elder sister, but in doing so, they had walked into the influenza epidemic. According to the boy's father, a man who shared Mudgett's family's ethnic heritage and who went under the name "Nathan Kane", the girl had passed already and the boy may have contracted the disease while helping tend her.
"And the boy's mother?" Mudgett asked, jotting all this for the record.
"I've sent her back to Mayflower," he replied. "She is... with child and needs to be with her family." He lowered his voice slightly, darting a look to the office door. "Her people are Irish, and... folk in this country might not understand."
Mudgett nodded. "There's far too much animus against the people of the Far East who came to this country: the Europeans seem to forget that they too are strangers and sojourners here as well," he said, shifting to Japanese.
Kane blinked, and replied in the same tongue. "You wear a similar mask?"" he asked. "I thought so, but..."
"You thought it wise not to ask," Mudgett replied, understanding.
"But you're so ...light-skinned," Kane noted, carefully.
"A case of hypomelenosis, better known as albinism," Mudgett replied.
Kane bowed his head. "I see, I hope that I did not offend."
Mudgett raised one hand disarmingly. "No harm done: I'm accustomed to being asked about my complexion," he said. "Some white people have even envied my pallor.
"But, to return to the matter of your son: my grandfather and I have set up a quarantine ward for influenza patients. We have a bed free for your son if you wish," Mudgett offered, shifting back to English.
"I don't know: money has been tight," Kane replied. "I made some unsound investments and while the family finances haven't plummeted, we need to budget our money."
"I can bill you at a later time, if you wish," Mudgett replied. "The boy needs a place in which to recover, if he is to survive."
"Is he that far gone?" Kane replied. "He always had a robust constitution, though he might look delicate."
"I've seen patients in even better health fade more quickly than your son: it's hard to predict the course of the illness, from patient to patient," Mudgett replied. "The pathogen can overwhelm even the most robust constitution."
"I see," Kane replied, his face grave. "Whatever you think is best for my son, Doctor. But first, let me contact his mother, to let her know her son will be away till he recovers."
"Whatever you need to do, Mister Kane: in the meantime, I'll see that the boy is settled in the ward."
* *
Mudgett could sense something about the youngster that most people could not detect, something not of this earth. The youth fascinated him, both as a being and for his looks. The youngster had just come of age, but he had retained a boyish freshness about his face and form: with his reddish blond hair and green eyes, he favored his Irish mother. *Easy on the eyes to say the least, and Mudgett's "type", though he would never admit to it.
All those thoughts he had to set aside, as the youngster's prognosis worsened. The lack of air getting to his lungs causing his skin to take on a bluish cast, marring his beauty. Add to this, Mudgett caught one of the nurses administering the youth too frequent doses of aspirin.
"But his fever isn't going down," she argued, when Mudgett pulled her off the influenza ward.
Mudgett regarded her over the lens of his eyeglasses. "Yes, but administering too much of a good thing is as bad as administering a poison."
"Then how is he supposed to recover?" she said, spreading her gauze-gloved hands helplessly.
"With patience and care," Mudgett replied, looking into her eyes, pushing a hint of his will into his words. "See that he is fed, hydrated, his linens are changed and the aspirin regimen that I have laid out is adhered to." She looked at him, transfixed, then nodded slowly. "Now, return to your post: your patients need you."
He hated to have to resort to that means: he had to tap into his energy reserves in order to exert that persuasion, and while he had absorbed the ambient energy of the dying on the influenza ward, it came as scraps of nourishment.
That night, the youth's color had improved somewhat, but the damage had occurred: his energy abated and he slid into a coma. He could not let a beautiful young angel like this slip through his fingers, and so, at three in the morning, when the night nurse had passed through on her rounds, Mudgett slipped into the ward, approaching young Kane's bed. The youth lay on his side, curled up, his breath coming in slow, tired wheezes. Mulhare's acute pseudo-asthma had set in, and with the shortage of drugs they had -- thanks to the over-zealous use on the part of that one nurse -- the youth might not last the night. The influenza microbes would overwhelm his system at this rate.
Mudgett leaned over him, lifting the covers and pulling up the back of the youth's pyjama jacket. He reached into the youth's soul and pulled on some of the scant energy there, drawing it to the surface. Taking an indelible pen from the pocket of his laboratory coat, Mudgett set to work etching two characters on the youth's skin on the small of his back, the kanji for red moon. As he wrote, he drew the youth's spirit energy into the ink, binding it to his being, binding the soul to its body. It would not make a perfect seal, but it would hold him to this world, even if his body passed.
By dawn, the night nurse had found that the young man showed no signs of life. Mudgett had the body removed and under the cover of shipping him back to his family in the north, he had it shipped to the carriage house behind his own mansion.
* *
The youth felt himself awaken, feeling cold, finding himself in darkness, except for a soft light falling over him. Moonlight, he realized, looking up at the moon framed in a window. "What... where am I?" He felt no trace of illness.
"Steady, steady now," Doctor Mudgett's voice soothed, and the pale doctor who had tended him moved into his sight range. "You're just coming back to consciousness and you might feel shaky."
"Doctor... what happened?" he asked.
"You died, the Spanish influenza took you, but I brought you back from the dead," he said.
"But you brought me back?"
"I have my skills," Mudgett said, holding out a thick, soft-looking robe. "Put this on: it's cold and I need to bring you back to the house."
"Does my family know?"
Mudgett looked at him somberly. "I'm sorry, but they died: they went back to their village, but they took ill not long afterward."
"And so I'm alone in the world," Hyacinthe replied, bowing his head.
Mudgett put a hand on Hyacinthe's shoulder. "No, you can stay with me," he replied. "I brought you back, I was your physician, and so I have a place for you in my home. I couldn't let you die, and that was why I bound your soul to your body, so that you could not slip away."
"But why me? Why would you do that?" Hyacinthe asked.
Mudgett leaned in, touching his forehead to the youth's. "Because beauty like yours should not be allowed to fade."
Hyancinthe sighed. The first time that someone had called him beautiful, and the words came from a man. Very well, he owed something to this man who had saved him, and the man could ask what he would of it: his father had told him that if you saved someone's life, you owed them your life, and he had a feeling, the way that Mudgett looked at him, the way that would pay out.
He hoped this second life would prove worthwhile...
The boy's family had come down from Canada, leaving behind their small town on a tributary of the St. Lawrence River in order to find a better education for the boy's elder sister, but in doing so, they had walked into the influenza epidemic. According to the boy's father, a man who shared Mudgett's family's ethnic heritage and who went under the name "Nathan Kane", the girl had passed already and the boy may have contracted the disease while helping tend her.
"And the boy's mother?" Mudgett asked, jotting all this for the record.
"I've sent her back to Mayflower," he replied. "She is... with child and needs to be with her family." He lowered his voice slightly, darting a look to the office door. "Her people are Irish, and... folk in this country might not understand."
Mudgett nodded. "There's far too much animus against the people of the Far East who came to this country: the Europeans seem to forget that they too are strangers and sojourners here as well," he said, shifting to Japanese.
Kane blinked, and replied in the same tongue. "You wear a similar mask?"" he asked. "I thought so, but..."
"You thought it wise not to ask," Mudgett replied, understanding.
"But you're so ...light-skinned," Kane noted, carefully.
"A case of hypomelenosis, better known as albinism," Mudgett replied.
Kane bowed his head. "I see, I hope that I did not offend."
Mudgett raised one hand disarmingly. "No harm done: I'm accustomed to being asked about my complexion," he said. "Some white people have even envied my pallor.
"But, to return to the matter of your son: my grandfather and I have set up a quarantine ward for influenza patients. We have a bed free for your son if you wish," Mudgett offered, shifting back to English.
"I don't know: money has been tight," Kane replied. "I made some unsound investments and while the family finances haven't plummeted, we need to budget our money."
"I can bill you at a later time, if you wish," Mudgett replied. "The boy needs a place in which to recover, if he is to survive."
"Is he that far gone?" Kane replied. "He always had a robust constitution, though he might look delicate."
"I've seen patients in even better health fade more quickly than your son: it's hard to predict the course of the illness, from patient to patient," Mudgett replied. "The pathogen can overwhelm even the most robust constitution."
"I see," Kane replied, his face grave. "Whatever you think is best for my son, Doctor. But first, let me contact his mother, to let her know her son will be away till he recovers."
"Whatever you need to do, Mister Kane: in the meantime, I'll see that the boy is settled in the ward."
* *
Mudgett could sense something about the youngster that most people could not detect, something not of this earth. The youth fascinated him, both as a being and for his looks. The youngster had just come of age, but he had retained a boyish freshness about his face and form: with his reddish blond hair and green eyes, he favored his Irish mother. *Easy on the eyes to say the least, and Mudgett's "type", though he would never admit to it.
All those thoughts he had to set aside, as the youngster's prognosis worsened. The lack of air getting to his lungs causing his skin to take on a bluish cast, marring his beauty. Add to this, Mudgett caught one of the nurses administering the youth too frequent doses of aspirin.
"But his fever isn't going down," she argued, when Mudgett pulled her off the influenza ward.
Mudgett regarded her over the lens of his eyeglasses. "Yes, but administering too much of a good thing is as bad as administering a poison."
"Then how is he supposed to recover?" she said, spreading her gauze-gloved hands helplessly.
"With patience and care," Mudgett replied, looking into her eyes, pushing a hint of his will into his words. "See that he is fed, hydrated, his linens are changed and the aspirin regimen that I have laid out is adhered to." She looked at him, transfixed, then nodded slowly. "Now, return to your post: your patients need you."
He hated to have to resort to that means: he had to tap into his energy reserves in order to exert that persuasion, and while he had absorbed the ambient energy of the dying on the influenza ward, it came as scraps of nourishment.
That night, the youth's color had improved somewhat, but the damage had occurred: his energy abated and he slid into a coma. He could not let a beautiful young angel like this slip through his fingers, and so, at three in the morning, when the night nurse had passed through on her rounds, Mudgett slipped into the ward, approaching young Kane's bed. The youth lay on his side, curled up, his breath coming in slow, tired wheezes. Mulhare's acute pseudo-asthma had set in, and with the shortage of drugs they had -- thanks to the over-zealous use on the part of that one nurse -- the youth might not last the night. The influenza microbes would overwhelm his system at this rate.
Mudgett leaned over him, lifting the covers and pulling up the back of the youth's pyjama jacket. He reached into the youth's soul and pulled on some of the scant energy there, drawing it to the surface. Taking an indelible pen from the pocket of his laboratory coat, Mudgett set to work etching two characters on the youth's skin on the small of his back, the kanji for red moon. As he wrote, he drew the youth's spirit energy into the ink, binding it to his being, binding the soul to its body. It would not make a perfect seal, but it would hold him to this world, even if his body passed.
By dawn, the night nurse had found that the young man showed no signs of life. Mudgett had the body removed and under the cover of shipping him back to his family in the north, he had it shipped to the carriage house behind his own mansion.
* *
The youth felt himself awaken, feeling cold, finding himself in darkness, except for a soft light falling over him. Moonlight, he realized, looking up at the moon framed in a window. "What... where am I?" He felt no trace of illness.
"Steady, steady now," Doctor Mudgett's voice soothed, and the pale doctor who had tended him moved into his sight range. "You're just coming back to consciousness and you might feel shaky."
"Doctor... what happened?" he asked.
"You died, the Spanish influenza took you, but I brought you back from the dead," he said.
"But you brought me back?"
"I have my skills," Mudgett said, holding out a thick, soft-looking robe. "Put this on: it's cold and I need to bring you back to the house."
"Does my family know?"
Mudgett looked at him somberly. "I'm sorry, but they died: they went back to their village, but they took ill not long afterward."
"And so I'm alone in the world," Hyacinthe replied, bowing his head.
Mudgett put a hand on Hyacinthe's shoulder. "No, you can stay with me," he replied. "I brought you back, I was your physician, and so I have a place for you in my home. I couldn't let you die, and that was why I bound your soul to your body, so that you could not slip away."
"But why me? Why would you do that?" Hyacinthe asked.
Mudgett leaned in, touching his forehead to the youth's. "Because beauty like yours should not be allowed to fade."
Hyancinthe sighed. The first time that someone had called him beautiful, and the words came from a man. Very well, he owed something to this man who had saved him, and the man could ask what he would of it: his father had told him that if you saved someone's life, you owed them your life, and he had a feeling, the way that Mudgett looked at him, the way that would pay out.
He hoped this second life would prove worthwhile...