Page 154 of Alchemised
She knew it was a sign she was over-expending herself healing, but she’d always healed that way, and it had never bothered her before. She couldn’t understand it. The Toll wasn’t supposed to take effect so suddenly, but she couldn’t think of what else it could be.
She stared stupidly at the bundles of gathered herbs. Eventually, she leaned forward, resting her head on her arms. Her eyes fluttered shut.
The mechanism in the door startled her awake. She jolted upright. How long had she been asleep?
A gear in the door spun, but the lock didn’t click and the door didn’t open. There was a pause.
Helena shot to her feet as she heard the gear begin moving again, grinding slowly, as if the lock were being picked.
She fumbled for her satchel, digging for her knife. As her fingers wrapped around the hilt, the door swung inward. A stripe of red ran down the centre of it, topped with a scarlet handprint.
Ferron stood, swaying in the doorway.
His face deathly pale, his eyes out of focus.
The knife slipped from her fingers. “What happened?”
He looked at her as if confused to find her there. “Ss-nothing.” He waved her off with his right hand as he got clear of the door, more blood spattering on the floor. There was a trail running down the hallway.
“You’re … you’re injured?” It was half a question. She didn’t know he could be injured. Wasn’t he supposed to be instantly regenerative? How could he be bleeding like this?
She started reaching for the clasp on his cloak, trying to see the extent of the wound.
He shoved her away, recoiling. “What are you doing?” No pride now, he moved like a stray expecting to be beaten, the whites of his eyes glaring.
Her fingers where she’d touched him were wet with blood. “You’re hurt.”
He slumped, looking down slowly. “Be fine—” His words slurred. “Jsst—need a minute …”
He slumped against the wall. Blood was trickling in a constant stream from his left sleeve, forming a pool on the floor. Just the sight of it threatened to send Helena into a frenzy.
Blood loss was dangerous. The Resistance lost more people from exsanguination than anything else. Staunching a bleed was something everyone was expected to know how to do properly and efficiently. Too much blood loss and even plasma expanders and saline wouldn’t be enough.
How much blood could Ferron lose? Immortal or not, surely it couldn’t be infinite.
She held her hands apart, palms showing, her voice placating. “I’m a—medic, Ferron. Let me help.”
He stared at her, dazed, as if he needed time to process the information.
“What happened?” she asked, risking a step closer.
Blood was still flowing at an impossible rate.
Finally, he shook his head. “Just lost my arm.”
As if to prove it, he unclasped his cloak. Both it and his grey coat fell off, revealing that there was nothing but scraps of burned fabric beneath, and a haemorrhage of blood where his left arm should have been.
He swayed, his eyes losing focus. “It’ll grow back. But it’s—taking a while.”
Helena had never seen the Undying regenerate in person. Combatants described it as nightmarish and rapid, bones shooting out, muscles and tendons wrapping around, and then pale skin emerging from the raw tissue like mould.
All her time in the hospital testing the bounds of regenerated tissue, it was hard for her to believe that anyone could regrow an entire limb.
She’d tried growing back fingers once, but the amount of spontaneous regeneration it required was simply too much. Healing had hard limits. The Undying seemingly did not.
Ferron’s arm looked as if it had been torn off. She stepped towards him, but he tensed again. She halted, mind spinning. Maybe she’d try talking again first. He seemed responsive to questions.
“I thought regeneration happened right away.”
