Page 12 of Death’s Gentle Hand

What We Do With Silence

Damian

T he morning market felt different now, as if someone had amplified every sound and scent until they bordered on overwhelming.

The cries of vendors hawking their wares seemed louder, more desperate.

The rattle of time-debt coins changing hands had a sharper edge.

Even the whispered prayers of those who couldn't afford tomorrow carried with painful clarity on air that felt charged with supernatural attention.

Damian navigated the familiar chaos with practiced ease, his white cane tapping out the rhythm of his passage while his other senses mapped the world around him.

But underneath his routine movements, he felt constantly observed.

The attention didn't feel malicious, but it was so focused it made his skin prickle with awareness.

“Morning, healer,” Old Henrik called out as Damian approached his stall, recognizing his footsteps from dozens of previous visits. “You look like you slept poorly. Here, take some of this.”

The vendor pressed a bundle of dried moonflower into Damian's hands, the herbs known throughout Veil Row for their calming properties. The bundle felt properly dried, the stems brittle under his fingers, the flowers releasing their characteristic sweet scent when he squeezed gently.

As Damian’s fingers brushed Henrik’s palm, sensation hit him like a lightning strike.

He staggered, vision blooming behind his eyes—a dying girl in a cold tomb, desperation thick as blood, the hollow clink of time-coins traded for hope.

Henrik’s fear, sharp and metallic, threaded through every image.

Damian gasped, stumbling back from the stall.

The world spun; sound became muffled, distant.

He clutched the moonflower, trying to anchor himself.

He’d always been sensitive, but this was different—raw, invasive, like someone else’s suffering had punched a hole through his chest. The echo of it lingered as he moved away, trembling.

“You all right, boy?” Henrik asked with genuine concern.

“Fine,” Damian managed, though his voice was shaky. “Just tired. Thank you for the moonflower.”

He hurried away from the stall before Henrik could ask more questions, his cane tapping frantically as he sought distance from the overwhelming vision.

His mind reeled from the implications of what had just happened.

His Paincraft had always been strong, but this was new.

Something amplified and guided by an intelligence that understood suffering in ways he never could.

Turning a corner, Damian collided with a body—taller, broader, colder than any he’d met that morning. The impact should have been nothing, a simple jostle in the crowd. But the stranger’s presence jolted him—cold radiating out, not just on his skin but in his bones.

The apology was smooth, too smooth, as if shaped from practiced memory rather than true feeling.

Even the man’s breathing sounded off—too steady, too measured.

Air grew sharper, charged with a static that made Damian’s skin prickle.

For a heartbeat, he felt an urge to run, but curiosity tangled with his fear, holding him still.

“Excuse me,” the stranger said politely, steadying Damian with hands that felt like winter given form.

The touch jolted Damian—too cold, too familiar, the chill sinking all the way to his bones. For a split second, he almost whispered a name.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” Damian said quickly, pulling away from the contact that burned with cold. “I’m fine.”

The stranger’s smile was audible in his voice, and something in the cadence made Damian’s skin prickle. “You’re the healer from Veil Row. I’ve heard interesting things about your work.”

Damian’s defenses bristled, but beneath that was a flicker of recognition—a presence he’d felt in his darkest dreams.

“Have you?” he managed, wary. “I’m just a street medic. Nothing interesting about that.”

“Of course,” the stranger agreed, the words carrying an undercurrent that sent shivers down Damian’s spine. “Still, be careful, healer. The city is full of dangerous things these days. Things that don’t follow the usual rules.”

The stranger vanished into the crowd, his footsteps oddly silent. The cold he’d left behind lingered, crawling up Damian’s arms. He hugged himself, heart pounding. It shouldn’t be possible, not here, not now—but some part of him already knew who it had been.

As he made his way home through the familiar streets of Veil Row, Damian realized that something fundamental had shifted in his magical abilities.

The moonflower in his hands seemed to pulse with energy he could read like text, telling him stories of where it had grown, who had harvested it, what intentions had guided its preparation.

Every person he passed registered in his awareness with unprecedented clarity.

The desperate hunger of a time-debt worker three days from Hollowing—he could taste the man's fear like copper on his tongue.

The fierce protective love of a mother carrying a sick child—her emotions crashed over him in waves of desperation and hope.

The bitter resignation of an old man who'd outlived everyone he'd ever cared about—his grief settled in Damian's chest like a stone.

It was overwhelming and exhausting and utterly beyond his previous capabilities.

Back in his clinic, Damian began a quiet ritual he rarely allowed himself: speaking aloud to the souls of his patients who had died. It was a form of grieving he usually kept private, too intimate to share even with Corrin, but tonight felt different. Tonight, he hoped for an audience.

Damian lit candles by touch and memory, each one a familiar weight in his palm.

Wax softened under his fingers, wicks resisting until they caught, tiny flares warming his cheeks.

He whispered each name into the quiet: Mrs. Chen.

Marcus. Sarah. Letting memory and grief linger in the air, letting the candles knit the dark with their gentle heat.

For once, he did not hurry, did not hide from the intimacy of mourning.

“Mrs. Chen,” he said softly, lighting the first candle. “Who died clutching a letter from her grandson she never learned to read.”

The flame took hold with a soft whoosh, and he moved to the next.

“Marcus the time-debt worker. Passed quietly in his sleep after years of struggle, finally at peace.”

Another candle, another small flame joining the growing warmth.

“Sarah the flower seller. Succumbed to magical exhaustion after too many nights healing her own wares so others could afford beauty.”

He continued the ritual, each name spoken with reverence, each candle adding to the gentle heat that filled the room. The familiar weight of grief settled over him, but tonight it felt shared somehow, witnessed by more than just empty air.

“You all deserved better,” he said to the assembled flames, feeling their warmth on his face like small suns. “You deserved more time, more hope, more of whatever makes life worth living. I'm sorry I couldn't save you.”

It was therapeutic in a way that surprised him, this public acknowledgment of private grief. For years, he'd carried the weight of lost patients alone, never speaking their names aloud except in the coded entries of his journal.

As Damian spoke the name of Mrs. Kess—the elderly woman who'd died peacefully last month, her final words a blessing rather than a curse—a voice responded with gentle curiosity: “Why do you talk to the dead?”

The question was asked without judgment, but with genuine interest, as if the speaker had never encountered this human ritual before.

Damian's hip struck the examining table as he stumbled backward, sending instruments clattering to the floor.

The sound of metal hitting stone echoed through the small space, followed by the splash of spilled water from an overturned basin.

“Shit,” he gasped, more awed than afraid. “You're really here.”

“I have been here for some time,” the voice replied, and Damian could hear something that might be amusement in its otherworldly tone. “But you have never spoken so freely before. Your ritual intrigues me.”

Damian felt around for the fallen instruments, using the familiar task to ground himself in reality.

His fingers found the cold metal of a soul-needle, the smooth wood of a mixing spoon, the rough texture of a dropped bandage.

“It's not really a ritual. Just... remembering. Honoring them, I guess. Making sure someone speaks their names.”

“And you do this alone?”

“Always alone.” The admission came easier than expected. “Death is private. Grief is private. People don't want to hear about the ones who didn't make it.”

“But you want to speak of them.”

“Yeah.” Damian sank into his chair, the familiar creaks and gives of old wood welcoming him. “I want to remember them as more than failures. They were people with stories, with dreams. They mattered.”

“You speak of death as if it were defeat,” the voice observed. “Is that how you perceive my work?”

The casual reference to “my work” sent chills down Damian's spine. “Your work?”

“Guiding souls across the threshold.”

Damian’s breath caught. “So it’s true—every patient I lost...”

“I was there,” Cael said quietly. “It’s what I do.”

Fear prickled at Damian’s skin, but curiosity won out. “Do you ever… regret it?”

Cael was silent a moment. “I do not choose. I only ease the passage.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The weight of that honesty hung between them, heavy as grief.

“But?” Damian prompted, hearing hesitation in the ancient voice.

“But observing you work has made me question that logic. You do not end suffering by ending the sufferer. You absorb it, transform it, redistribute it. The pain continues, but it becomes bearable.”