The Alchemist's Apprentice

1 - Cold Beginnings

I still don't know the Alchemist's name. It's been a little over a year that our sad, misguided souls crashed into each other and found safety in the awkward, jittery support, but our conversations have remained short and empty. Mostly out of necessity and never out of camaraderie.

I don't think we've been in the same room for more than an hour.

He squints at my work, shoulders almost touching his ears and his beard tucked into his heavy buckle belt. My rejuvenation potion simmers under a thick cloth hanging from odd ends of the workshop to provide a screen. The green potion simmers and lets off a thick, low-hanging smoke that the Alchemist disperses with his gnarled and arthritic fingers.

"You did something different," his low voice is a rumble, something barely audible but full of life his wizened face lacks.

I nod and point to the row of vials and jars lining the shelves and clustered on the wooden work tables. "Kona nut. But half as much and steeped in boiling water for several more hours before adding in."

The Alchemist takes a big whiff of the stuff and ladles an ungodly amount into his flask.

I wonder if he takes it all at once or if he rations it. Or if he shares it with his imaginary friends I hear him talking to at night. His books say this particular potion shouldn't be taken more than once every two weeks. And even then it recommends against extended usage, but I've been making this for him every week for almost a year now.

He tucks the flask away in his robes and I have to physically stop myself from grabbing his shoulders and cracking the answer out of him. "Good. Very good. Good."

I once swapped out the basic ingredients for this rejuvenation potion with nightlock and he didn't even notice. He nodded in the way that he does and took it to his flask just like always.

He was passed out for four days. I recorded what happened to him and any changes in his vitals but there was no real change and he woke up seemingly even more refreshed for it.

That was one of his favorite batches.

"Is. Is that it?" I pace around the Alchemist and avoid the tail end of his robes dragging on the ground. It looks like he's dragged in a mountain of dirt in after him and that irritates me, knowing that I'll have to sweep the floor and scrub the grooves for hours to get it to some sort of clean. "I've been making this for the past year. You've been saying that the annual examinations are coming up and I have to present our best remedies and potions and all we've been doing is this. What are we going to showcase?"

"That isn't for another two years," The Alchemist smooths down his beard and settles on the edge of a table to smoke his pipe. It's the length of his arm and the small pot attached to the end burns an acrid smoke that makes my eyes water and my head light. "The year of 862 in Norrgan's Reign. We have time."

"It is the eight hundred and sixty second year of Norrgan's Reign," I reply. I point to a shabby calendar nailed to the wall with the number at the top.

The Alchemist blinks at it. "Would you look at that."

The feelings for manslaughter are strong.

He continues to puff on his pipe and I have to take deep breaths to tamp down the feelings of violence growing in me until I can think more or less rationally. I've always had a temper, but I've been meaning to work on it and killing the one man who gave me any sort of chance in this world doesn't seem like the best of ideas.

"I'm thinking a crash course," I begin. I clear the tables and avoid looking at his face, already in a hazy cloud of smoke. Seeing his blank yet lucid look might make me violent again. "Something fast and easy but that I can learn since I'm a quick learner and then we can pull it off."

"Nothing is ever as plain and easy in the studies of Alchemy," he sighs. Already his eyes have this glazed look in them and the smoke makes me want to vomit. It's everywhere and it sticks to you, it almost feels like a blanket of yuck. And it lingers. Absolutely disgusting.

"So what do you suggest? We can't just walk into the examination room empty-handed and expect no repercussions, they're expecting results!"

"Let me think," he mutters. He leans back against the wall and looks up. We have a broken skylight that his rancid smoke is escaping through. The sky peers in with a gray eye and I imagine it blinking back tears and turning red with his fumes. "I had a plan for this, so there's no need to worry. Go across town. Meet with Galin. We're running low on Allspice and Angelica root."

I watch as he completely blanks out and catch his pipe before it falls from his grasp.

I dampen the fire in our brick and mortar hearth (the newest thing we have in our shed of a workplace) and toss a hemp blanket on him. I don't plan on coming back anytime soon and I need to blow off steam so I don't do anything I'd regret.

Stepping outside is refreshing.

The air is crisp and cool in comparison to the mugginess of the workshop and I can still see villagers going about their day.

Not that they'll interact with me. Already they're ducking back inside and throwing me furtive glances. Some even pull the scarf around their necks tighter and others make the sign to ward off evil.

Which is fine by me. Them thinking I'm the devil incarnate means I don't have to talk to them which is great on so many levels but does make buying bread a pain in the ass.

All these people are afraid of outsiders, and my grand entrance in the middle of the night was definitely the wrong first impression. Their natural xenophobia and fear of me being some sort of blackguard has kept us at a distance.

I'm also assuming that they've had to interact with The Alchemist for years before me, and that reputation is beyond repairs so my lot being thrown in with his is definite social suicide.

This town is nothing new, neat, or interesting. It's like every other island I've ever temporarily lived on, where the people feel like they're exceptional and unique and that they can do no wrong in the eyes of whatever god they worship.

I will say, the weather here is actually kind of nice. Gray and cloudy most of the time, so I never have to take off my layers and a hood is ideal for everyday wear.

I stroll through the town and the sparse crowd parts for me with the reverence of a celebrity or a plague.

All the buildings are built up haphazardly like some kid with a bucket of twigs and too much free time.

They spear into the sky, grasping for the suns that never show in this part of the world.

The Alchemist's abode is at the farthest edge of Wristeten Town. It droops and sags in comparison to the rigid structure and ambition forcing this place into the sky, but as small and dingy as it seems to the uncommon passerby, it's homely to me.

At least the streets here are cobbled and the townsfolk are embracing the communal update to technology.

I've seen some places revolt against just the concept of electricity, but here they've accepted it with open arms.

You can tell by the dingy lights advertising random shit.

Fast-acting weightloss!!! Really works

FRESH fish, no smel

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I honestly don't give a damn about Wristeten Town. I've seen these buildings in different shapes and different heights across hundreds of islands; these people are echoes of their distant relatives with the same careers and aspirations; everything about this island screams boring and gray and unoriginal and I don't know why I'm so hellbent on remembering every little detail of this godforsaken place.

Except...I do know.

Because I see her. And for the first time since I crawled into this town on rags and a trail of blood, since I saw those hazel eyes full of genuine concern and warmth— she says hi.