Good Intentions Left Unhealing Scars

20260416

Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

I’d set that ward up to warn me when foxes were getting at my compost heap. I wasn’t prepared to step out and find myself face to face with a hooded figure wielding an axe.
As a rule, surgeons don’t learn combat magic. Under shock and duress I could barely muster a basic shield. And then… I see their face. Though I don’t recognise them personally, I’d never forget that combination of haunted, hollow expression and colourless eyes.
My panicked spell gutters out and my hands drop to my sides. I know I’m about to die, and while I can’t say I’m at peace with the fact, it feels right. Even inevitable.
Ironically, that acceptance makes them falter. For a long moment we just stand there. Staring at each other. Lost as to what to do. Where can we possibly go from here? Well, since they’ve given me a chance to think, I feel obligated to apologise. Even knowing that no apology could ever be enough.
“You have every right to be angry. I’m painfully aware of the harm I’ve committed against you, and that it can never be mended. I’m so, so sorry. If…” I falter, gulp, and take a deep breath. “If killing me will grant you peace, then… fair enough? I, um, I s-suppose this was a long time coming, really.”
Silence.
Then the axe lowers. To a position where it could still be swung at any moment, and given how that edge is glinting I don’t doubt it’d cleave through my neck. But I’m no longer being actively threatened with it.
“You know why I’m here.”
Their voice holds far too much weariness and pain for one so young.
I bow my head. “You were born with two shadows, before the guidelines were changed. Back when we thought the second shadow should be removed. Your parents would have brought you to me. I… mutilated your soul. I don’t expect the fact I thought I was doing the right thing, thought I was helping, to mean anything to you. My mistake has cost you too much.”
Their position shifts once more, leaning on the axe and scrutinising me with a… dissatisfied? Expression. I’ve no idea what they were expecting me to be like, but I clearly do not match their mental image. Or perhaps it’s just that the confrontation is going all wrong.
Unlike them, I’m not wrapped up against the chilly night air. Out here in the countryside, it gets cold quickly once the sun sets. When I realise I’m shivering, I offer “Would, um, would you like to come in and… I could put the kettle on, and we could talk?”
I almost add “Since you don’t seem to want to kill me anymore”, then decide I’d rather not push that option, even indirectly. It may still be up in the air. But I hope that talking might do better for giving them peace, as much as they can be at peace about this at least. And I won’t pretend I’d much prefer not being axed down in my own garden, even deservedly.
Another heavy silence. Then they heave a sigh and grumble “I wanted you to be evil.”
“Ah. I suppose it’d be tidier if I was. But no. I was misinformed. And I took far too long to accept that I’d been wrong. Both of which led to horrific suffering. That it was inflicted with the best of intentions means little.”
“Mm.” Their gaze is piercing. “Why did you run from what you’d done?”
“Why did I resign my post and leave the Institute, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Because there was nothing I could do, to undo or even meaningfully treat the harms I had caused. So it was decided the best course forward was replacing me with someone who had suitable qualifications - one of those being a history of scepticism about shadow incisions. A new leadership to guide the Institute through this turmoil, and hopefully regain people’s trust.”
I stuff my hands into my armpits to try and warm them. “I handed in all my licenses, took my pension, and moved out here, to eke out the rest of my life at a safe distance from the Institute’s new image. And here I’ve been ever since. I understand that’s probably not a, a satisfying sentence given the magnitude of my mistakes. Honestly, it’s probably surprising you’re the first to, er, visit.”
They shift their weight from foot to foot. “…Everyone goes on about how what you did wasn’t illegal. In fact, you were ‘just following guidelines’.”
“Well. Yes. That’s why charges couldn’t be pressed. They didn’t want the precedent of physicians being punished for following standards for care. It… I understand if you don’t believe me, but that would cause far more harm than good.”
“No. I believe you.” They sigh and lean the axe against the wall, next to the door. “I… I know you know. But I want to tell you. What it’s like. Living like this.”
I stifle a shudder. Hopefully it’s mistaken for a shiver. “I certainly owe you that.”
“Mm.” Their expression is dissatisfied again. “I don’t know if you do, now. But I can’t bear the thought that nobody owes anything for what I’ve gone through.”
“Then… come in, and I’ll put the kettle on, and listen. Whether it’s ‘owed’ or not.”
Their lips curve in a faint smile. “Still feel you have a duty of care to your patients, huh?”
“As much as I can trust myself to give any care, these days.”
I belatedly try and make it sound like a joke. It would be unfair to lay any of my pain from this mess on them; my scars are so much pettier than theirs.
But the look they give me is startled, then thoughtful, then understanding. They nod. Relax. And follow me into the circle of firelight. To receive what care I can administer for these untreatable wounds I inflicted with my best intentions.

Prompt was “In front of you is someone from your past. Clearly agitated, you can tell that they mean to harm you. You know that this was a long time coming.”