Wash hands. Grind up the herbs, boil the medicine, prepare the doses – as many as are needed. The rounds – the suffering, so much of it that she’d run out of magic a long time ago trying to ease it.

The city is quarantined, but it’s hardly of much help. People still need to eat and work, people still go out despite the fear of the plague, people still end up in the crowded monastery unless more die at the hospital.

The choker around Remi’s throat protects her against the sickness. Why couldn’t she share it with everyone else?

Wash hands. Prepare the medicine. Do the rounds.

The cycle seems to have no end, the dead and the cured being quickly replaced by new patients. Remi tries treatments, exhausting her books and her imagination. Some of them seem to work. Most don’t.

It doesn’t stop her from trying.

Hands. Medicine. Rounds.

Again and again, day in and day out, she does the duty of the priestess of Death. She heals and she says the last farewells, prayers and prescriptions mixing in one painful litany. She sees those who have made peace with their end and those who go out kicking and screaming, faces the grief and the wrath of those left behind.

Hands.

Medicine.

“You need to stop.”

Molly’s deep voice sounds concerned, but Remi brushes it off.

“You need to stay inside. I know you’re bored, but we can’t leave until the quarantine is lifted.”

“You need sleep and rest.”

“I get enough.”

Molly’s hug catches Remi off guard, her face suddenly squashed into Molly’s unfairly comfortable cleavage. “You can’t save them all,” Molly says into Remi’s hair. “And you definitely can’t save them if you don’t save yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Remi only escapes the embrace because Molly lets her. She touches her choker, “I’m immune, remember?”

“Not to fatigue,” Molly brushes a rough finger against the aching skin under Remi’s eyes.

“Not to nightmares,” a line is traced along Remi’s forehead.

“Not to the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Molly drops her arms and looks Remi in the eyes, frowning. “You need rest,” she repeats. “I mean it.”

“They need me more,” Remi murmurs. Giving in would feel like a betrayal – to the people of the this town, to her ideals, to her gods.

Her hand reaches for the brooch on her dress, the symbol of her faith and her convictions. It gives her strength to go on, if not the strength to save people.

She can only let out a small gasp when Molly sweeps her of her feet, never one to scream. She tries to struggle as Molly carries her to their shared quarters and drops her onto the bed, Kat already waiting inside with the key to lock the door.

Molly holds her down when she tries to get up. Smiles sadly, sharing an unreadable look with Kat.

“People will die,” Remi protests, and Molly’s smile fades.

“Then I’ll burden the responsibility for you,” she says. “I follow no gods but my friends. I will not bury you.”

As Remi drifts off to sleep – frustratingly, helplessly easily – there are two pairs of hands holding her, massaging the exhaustion out of her muscles, brushing off her tears.

Whatever tomorrow holds, she falls asleep surrounded by warmth.