Dice stems of elderflower into sizable chunks with the intention of maiming to disinhibit the more volatile effects of the plant.
Sizable chunks? Intention of maiming? And the step after is:
Add three drops of Lye and stir until potion reaches luminescenceand thenInvoke essence of the Goddess for maximum potency of the yarrow.
I don’t know how to do any of that! I look down at Sitri, his face is relaxed, peaceful though the color seems to be leeching from his pores again. I have totry.
I wing it, following each step of the potion as closely as I’m able. When the recipe instructs me to switch directly from a roaring fire to low heat, I use my blanket to snuff out the flames. Too afraid if I use water I’ll put the fire out completely. The last instruction is to let the potion sit for two hours before use. Paranoid, I check Sitri’s breathing again, satisfied to find his warm breaths consistent.
Perhaps….it’d be safer if I made the potion again, in case I messed something up. I repeat the entire process over again and again until I have three cauldrons cooling on their hooks. I don’t know if I’m relieved or dismayed they’re all exactly the same shade of murky green. I suppose if something is wrong…then they’re all wrong.
In a daze, I stagger off to the bathroom to find clean towels, wetting them with warm water, and dropping down to mop up the puddle below his body before I begin cleaning him of blood. I carefully wash his abdomen and arms, then his hand before cleaning around my sloppy stitching.
By the time I’m done, all that’s left are his blood-soaked pants. I unlace his boots and tug them off. My face flushes vibrantly as I kneel between his legs to unclasp his belt and work at the buttons. It takes a fair amount of effort to get the pants out from underneath him. With some heaving, I succeed. His braies are soaked in blood, too, and I falter. I can’t leave him covered in blood.
I grab a fresh pair of braies from his drawer and drag his blanket from his bed. I cover him before sliding the fabric down over his hips. Getting the clean braies on him proves more difficult and I end up glimpsing parts of him I shouldn’t be privy to. “I am so sorry,” I mutter out before pulling the blanket up to cover his chest.
There’s no way I’m getting him off the floor. I drag a pillow off the couch and stuff it under his head before retreating to the bathroom to change out of my soiled clothes and wash away any smudges of blood I missed while I wait for the potions to cool. The balm is cold as I smooth it over my fingers, bandaging them individually so I can keep my dexterity to apply the poultice to Sitri’s wounds.
When the two-hour mark finally hits I eye the finished result. The potion turned more paste-like as it cooled. The grimoire hadn’t detailed any illustrations of what the potion should look like, so I’m still blind as to whether it will actually work or not. It states the potion can be ingested or applied externally so I decide on both. Applying a generous amount over the stitched wound, I re-wrap the bandages over his abdomen. Strenuous as it is, I have to shove at his large body somewhat forcefully to get them around his back. He still doesn’t stir.
Once satisfied, I pry his mouth open and dab the thick paste across his tongue, praying I’m not poisoning him by accident. The act feels incredibly invasive and I mutter out apologies.
When it’s done, I blow out a breath that’s been permanently lodged in my chest. I’ve done all I can do, short of screaming and banging on the walls to see if someone will inevitably show up.
The only thing left…is to wait. I clean up my mess, tossing all of the bloody towels and clothes into the tub, and slump down on the floor beside him.
Now, with nothing left to tend to, it’s only then that I realize his scar's exposed. I’d been so panicked I hadn’t even noticed the difference in him. I trail my fingers over the raised edges from his brow to his jaw.
Setting my blanket and pillow on the floor, I camp out beside him. I could do with a hot bath, but I can’t bring myself to move away from him in case his condition changes.
Now, with nothing left to distract my mind, I succumb and cry quietly into my knees. He’s probably been doing something nefarious to receive such a wound in the first place.
He can’t die. Who knows what they’ll do with me then? But I’m only lying to myself, pretending that concern over my own well-being is the reason for my tears. We didn’t even…I haven’t even gotten to…we didn’t get any time. He doesn’t even know that Ilike him. Like him? I let out a sunken snort. No, liking him isn’t causing this grievous, daunting feeling in my chest.
I curl up besidehim with my head brushing his arm, and my hand stretched across his chest. Just in case he wakes and needs me, I justify to myself. I doze off and on in short intervals, jerking awake with the daemon, like bolts of lightning under my skin.
This time, it’s not the daemon that wakes me. It’s Sitri. He stirs, body twitching before he jerks upright.It worked. It worked. It worked.My lip quivers, and a shudder shakes my chest. I want to sob in relief. His shoulders move with his quickening breaths but he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. “Sitri?”
He doesn’t respond, nor when I wrap a hand around his arm. I pull myself up beside him and wave a hand in front of his face. It's like he doesn’t even see me. He stares straight ahead, pupils dilated and breathing ragged. Something feelswrong.
A sheen of sweat dampens his forehead yet the temperature in his chambers drops to an icy chill as a cold breeze stirs, sweeping the ends of my hair. I look around to find the source. Both doors are still shut. The wind continues, whistling louder and more vigorously. And then the scene around me changes. Red drips down the walls.Plop. Plop. Plop.A whimper spills out of me, and I nestle closer to Sitri, who’s still catatonic. Blood. So much blood. It puddles on the floor and begins expanding outward. “Sitri,” I cry, shaking his shoulder.
He doesn’t respond, still staring straight ahead. I follow his gaze out, and my heart jumps into my throat as the ghostly apparition of a woman takes form in front of him.
“Don’t look,” she pleads, seconds before a rope cinches around her throat and lifts her from the ground. I clap a hand over my mouth. She doesn’t struggle against it as her face, already bruised and swollen like she’s been badly beaten, turns an even darker shade of blue. Something about her is familiar to me. Sitri’s Mother. I recognize her from the sketch as her body swings.
Sitri’s Mother is dead.
The blood closes in around us. I scurry back on my palms only to situate myself in the blood behind me. Except I can’t feel it. I lift my hand to find it completely clean. No blood. It’s not real. The wind picks up pace, whipping my hair wildly around my face. Vials rattle on his shelves, and the sound of breaking glass fills the room as they begin to fall. This isn’t real. Sitri’s Mother is dead. It’s Sitri. He’s creating this somehow.
“Sitri!” I yell, trying to get his attention over the whistling wind. He doesn’t respond. His head shakes back and forth, his eyes wild. I crawl over his lap and straddle his legs, taking his face firmly in my hands to still him. His skin is so cold, so clammy. “Sitri.” I place my face inches from his.
He locks on me, pupils huge. I tense when his hands come up to claim both sides of my face but he just lays them there. My hair whips wildly between us “Pet,” he rasps.
“It’s not real. You have to make it stop,” I plead.
He blinks rapidly, and all at once, everything stops. The wind settles, and the ghostly apparitions vanish with the blood on the walls and the floor. He gives a soft distressing groan, and I paint frantic, reassuring strokes over his face with my thumbs. “You’re okay. You’re okay,” I croon.
