Page 222 of Alchemised
Helena had never been very good at gifts.
Her singular success had been a map she’d given Luc, upon which she’d marked a route to all the places they’d travel someday.
She hadn’t given anything last year, but this year she’d thought of making medicine kits, with some basics that were good to have on hand in case the field medics weren’t nearby. But Ilva had made no mention this year of her seeing Luc or anyone else for solstice, so she’d discarded the idea.
After a few minutes, she went over and opened a cabinet, pulling out vials from various shelves, laying them out on a strip of waxed canvas, making marks on the fabric as she arranged everything to fit, blinking hard every few minutes.
She had a job. She had to do it.
THE ICY, MISTING RAIN MADE it hard to see when Helena crossed the bridge the next week. She gripped her foraging knife close as she walked through the Outpost. It couldn’t be transmuted without losing its edge, but it was still serviceable.
It was going to be a while before she had an alchemy knife again.
A person couldn’t lose an alchemical weapon and expect to get a new one without an explanation. If Helena said she lost it, she’d be subject to discipline and, as a noncombatant, be placed at the bottom of the wait list. If she attributed the loss to an attack, she would have to specify which attack.
Until Ilva or Crowther could find an unaccounted-for alchemy knife, Helena would have to make do.
The tenement was so cold that day, her breath condensed into a wisping cloud in the room. Kaine entered a minute later, shoving a hood back from his face. She looked away but couldn’t help but notice his black uniform was drenched.
“Where is your knife?”
Her heart sank. She’d hoped he wouldn’t notice immediately.
“Oh.” Her voice lifted in an awkward attempt at casualness. “Well—” She swallowed. “I lost it.”
“You—lost it?” He said it slowly, and she could hear the implied use of the word idiot punctuating each word. “When?”
She was still staring at the floor, watching his feet. He moved lightly, almost like a cat, making very little noise.
“Last week.”
His feet stilled. “You were attacked?”
He came towards her very quickly, and his eyes had that intense gleam to them, looking her up and down.
She shook her head. “No, I broke it. I needed tools for surgery when you wouldn’t wake up. So I made them.”
She risked glancing up then to gauge his expression, and rather enjoyed the stupefied look on his face.
“I’ll get a new one,” she added hurriedly. “There’s just some—logistical delays. Anyway, I brought you a present,” she said, forcing her voice to be bright.
She rummaged through her satchel, finding the wax-cloth case, and hurriedly held it out.
“It’s—it’s an, um—it’s an emergency healing kit,” she said, trying to explain herself quickly before he could refuse it. “I made it with things that will work with your regeneration.”
This seemed to catch him fully off guard. He stopped short and took it, then—realising that she was waiting expectantly—he sighed and flipped it open. “You realise I can buy medicine, and I don’t particularly need it.”
“Not these. I developed them. They’re designed to work with vivimancy—or regeneration in your case.”
She took a hesitant step closer, pointing at the various vials.
“They’re all labelled, and I added notes about exactly how to use them on the waxed paper here. These are made to support transmutational healing. Traditional medicine can interfere, so I’ve been developing things that complement a regenerative healing process.”
She pointed to the nearest vial. “This is yarrow powder infused with copper, to slow bleeding. You pack it around the wound before bandaging. I know you’re used to just letting yourself regenerate, but slowing blood loss is still a good idea. This”—she tapped a blue-green bottle—“will support blood regeneration; it has a high concentration of the components your body needs, so you’re not giving yourself a deficit of crucial minerals and other things your body requires to function. This is the salve I developed for your back, for topical pain. If you have a wound that doesn’t heal, you can at least numb the area until—”
“Until what?” He looked sharply at her then.
She knew he expected her to say something like, Until you can come to me, and I’ll tenderly nurse you to health.
