He made a grunt and attempted to move his tightfisted left hand, before the gurgle of his final breath escaped his lips in a collapsing sigh, his eyes more cold and lifeless than ever before. His hand relaxed and a slip of paper could be seen.
You're a local healer, a good one, and your people love you. But you do not truly heal wounds, merely transfer them. The people of the valley below know you under a different name. (Kinda like the one's who walk away from omelas)