Nothing.
The needle slides in with little resistance, and I pull the thread through. I sew the wound closed, lugging the seams tight to cover the exposed muscle below.
Once done, I careen back onto my knees to survey my work. Sloppy, but I successfully stopped the bleeding. I wipe my bloody hands against my dress before laying a hand across his forehead. His skin is cold, clammy under my touch. “Don’t die you fucking bastard.”
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt if he took more bloodbloom? I study the pallor of his skin for a moment more and find resolve. Will he even be able to swallow anything in his state of unconsciousness? Am I going to choke him to death if I try?
Lifting his head with one hand, I pry his mouth open with the other, whispering apologies to his lifeless form. I pour a small amount of the potion into his mouth. “Please, I need you to swallow this.” It’s more of a prayer than an instruction to his unconscious form.
Disappointingly, some of the potion dribbles out the side of his mouth but then he coughs, throat bobbing. He’s taken some of it.
I repeat that process three more times, and by the end of it, the smallest amount of color returns to his face.
Pushing back to my feet, I look around the room vacantly waiting for instructions to pop up in front of my face. Sitri said he needed to brew…Leaf of Moly. I don’t even know what that is. I sprint to the bedroom and scribble Leaf of Moly into the grimoire.
A long and complicated recipe appears across the pages. Leaf of Moly, antidote to attor. I draw the symbol to empty the pages and then scrawl attor.
Attor, derived from the plant Oleander of the dogbane family native to the lands of Croatoa gained notoriety during the War of Boros. Harvested from the forest of Firewood, Croatoans were infamous for envenoming their weapons with the attor. Widely believed it was the attor that ultimately resulted in their success in the War of Boros.
The attor is a colorless, odorless liquid which makes it virtually undetectable when mixed with food or drink. Rumored to have brought forth the death of King Lysander, healers desperately sought to minimize the attor's devastating effects and in 1932 Galen of line Anubis successfully concocted a viable antidote. Attor was ultimately banned by the council in 1943.
Upon ingestion or direct exposure to the bloodstream, the effects of the attor can manifest within a remarkably short time period. Victims typically begin exhibiting symptoms within as little as minutes. Symptoms generally include dizziness, nausea and weakness but it’s the insidious degradation the attor imposes on a victim's magic that ultimately results in their demise.
The attor gradually deploys magic wasting upon the victim until they succumb to unconsciousness with death inevitably following within six hours unless the antidote is administered. Victims often appear peaceful in death, with no outward signs of struggle or distress, making it a favored weapon among assassins.
The book trembles so hard in my hands, I can no longer make out the words. I snap it shut, set it on the bed, turn around, and scrub my face.
He’s still going to die.
I’ve only prolonged it.
Unless…I pick the book back up, scrawl Leaf of Moly and stare at the long, multi step and highly complicated recipe I have no business attempting.
I have to at least…try, don’t I? There are no other options. Unless Div magically appears between now and then and can summon someone to help? Even then…I don’t know if they’d be able to get past Sitri’s magical barrier. And it might be too late.
I read over the potion recipe three times before I wash the dried blood from my hands, faltering for a moment as I slip back into the living area. It truly is a scene of nightmares with blood soaking Sitri’s pants and puddling underneath his body, ugly stitches decorating his side. It’s not natural to see him indisposed like this. He’s always so…formidable. My heart stutters, but I will my feet to move forward and begin pulling ingredients from the shelves.
I have to make haste. I’m not even sure how long it’s been since he’s acquired this injury. Seeing as this is my first time brewing anything at all…it might take me several attempts…if it works at all. I banish that thought. No, this is going to work. I set my jaw determinedly.
When Sitri’s brewing he spends a lot of time adjusting the heat of the flames and now looking at the recipe I see why.
Boil under a broiling fire for ten minutes and then a low fire for three.
But he has magic and I have none. It’s going to take me ages to try and get the right amount of heat.
I use the metal contraption Sitri bought me to light fires. Gathering the tinder between my hands, I light it, blowing carefully until a small flame begins to devour the logs. Between the flame lighter, the sewing supplies, and the grimoire it’s like he’s given me exactly what I need to save him.
That thought spurs me forward. I collect the necessary ingredients and lay them across the table. I’m familiar with them, at least. I know what they are, and I know what their uses are. Luckily for me, the first step is simple.
Bring spittle of moon, wolfsbane and rue to a boil. Once boiling add saffron, wormwood and dittany and stir vigorously until potion turns a murky green and immediately remove from heat and allow potion to cool.
I add the ingredients and kneel over the cauldron, looking for signs of a boil. As soon as the flames are as close as I’m going to get, I pour the ingredients into the cauldron and stir. I don’t take my eyes off the cauldron for a second, don’t stop stirring until the liquid begins to boil, a murky green.
Stupidly, I haven’t prepared anything to grab the cauldron handle with, and it’s already hot from the simmering flames. I’m not going to risk screwing it up by running to get a towel.
I yelp as the handle burns into my palms. Settling the cauldron on a hook, I flick my hands back and forth. A singed line appears across both palms and my fingers, but I push forward.
My confidence wanes with the next several steps of the potion.
