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Epitaph of Anguish: The Migratory Sort

The dream is ending.

Warnings: SCP 714 typical weirdness, toxic relationships, mentioned hate sex, ritual sacrifice, mentioned mob violence, major character death.

_-_-_

The Doctor's wandering, Cure-led path was one Dýo found himself following with a particular zealousness that, for a very long time, had been lost to him after he'd allowed himself to stagnate in his manor. It was an uncertain sort of wandering, guided only partially by wide roads and the more well travelled trails. Hosts, unfortunately, were not a guarantee. All things considered, however, there were times the Mask would much rather scorch through the flesh he was sat upon than drag legs heavier than led along  the rough path his dearest friend marched down with such ardent determination. The Doctor's hands were a far more comfortable way to travel anyhow even if Dýo did sometimes long for the freedom of having a proper body.

The travel took up weeks.... Sometimes months worth of time. It was beyond difficult, especially at first. The path the Doctor walked was not one that most would dare follow and, of course, the professional wasn't used to having any less than durable company along. Inevitably, though... the quiet stretches of uninhabited wilds would give way to civilization. Sometimes that civilization would only be a house or two off in the middle of nowhere. Other times, it would be a village... a town... a city. That was, in the beginning, what had been most interesting. Dýo would convince the Doctor to rest for a day after all the hard travel. The thespian would fetch a host and wander the town. Sometimes he'd help the surgeon work, other times he'd support his friend by performing for some extra coin, rarely, he'd even build up a small network of loyal followers. It would be peaceful for a while. The Doctor would be wearing himself down to the bone, working to cure the masses until either he decided the town was free of Pestilence... or, more commonly, until either the professional or Dýo managed to cause enough trouble and garner enough negative attention that fleeing was a necessity.

It was exhilarating from the get-go... There was something about the sense of adventure and uncertainty after the Mask had spent so long pursuing the safety that was so tied to wealth. Something empowering knowing that they'd lost their status of their own volition rather than due to the wishes of the gods. Most of all... there was something beautiful about being settled down upon the craggy stones of a mountain's peak to stargaze with the man that was once his, treating him to story after story until he could feel the Doctor's cool breath against his porcelain evening out as the surgeon drifted to sleep. Something enchanting about cutting through an overgrown field hand and hand with his dearest friend - his once-Wandsman - watching how dewy, grey green grass browned then blackened with death at a mere brush of the Surgeon's skin, stopping only when the sky dimmed and spending hours weaving flowers and grass into braided crowns so he could watch the rings of flora artfully twist and shrivel against his dear Doctor's hood.

The first twenty years or so had gone on peaceably like this. The novelty of the arrangement had faded after a while... but the Mask's desire - no, need - To stay by their doctor's side never did falter. They could remember as clear as day the first time he'd asked for more from them. They regretted saying yes. It had been too soon, the memories of that first town where they'd damaged their dove so unforgivably still festered strong in their gut, swimming and turning rotten at each little inkling of inadequacy they dared display. It had left a sense of misery between themself and their love that they, even after centuries, still hadn't forgotten. A great debt and a grave mistake pouring equal amounts of resentment into a dual hearted cast like molten led until both Dýo and their Doctor were declaring loud enough for the gods to hear that they should never meet again.

That time just after had been miserable... but it hadn't lasted long, at least. The Doctor had gone one way, trekking down along the silk road one way, and then the other for the few years it took at his meandering, Cure-slowed pace. Dýo had gone a different route, taking out their ire on the people of Europe and stirring up enough new drama and old abhorrence to spark up a nice, seven year long war. The war had been.... fine. It hadn't held their attention for long. Especially not when their surgeon returned.