you know i'll take my heart clean apart if it helps yours beat

— The Story So Far —

ch. 0 — the great pestilence

mood music, pt. 1 — alfyn, the apothecary, mood music, pt. 2 — clearbrook, by the pristine waters



Slowly but steadily your body cramps up until you can't even hold a spoon. No one knows what's wrong with you, and Ma looks at you with worry creasing the lines in her face even further, taking your small hands in her weathered ones and rubbing, comforting. It's just the two of you - if one of you loses the other, then what will happen? You think that she doesn't deserve that, after you lost Dad. So you smile as best you can, clenching your fingers tighter and tighter until it's impossible, until you start to rub at these blotches that begin to crop up across you skin.

They darken. They don't itch, they hurt, and it's like a bruise blossoming to life every time you look at yourself. You're already something of a runt, but the exhaustion and inability to really eat much that makes you seem smaller as the purple blotches begin to spread across your body.

Zeph can't even bear to look at them, your best friend's brow creasing in worry as he comes to check on you.

No one can do anything. No one knows if there even is anything that they can do for you. There's murmurs of something called the Great Pestilence, but you don't know. You're just miserably laid out in bed, body tense, as your mother tries to soothe you as best she can.

Until a stranger comes to Clearbrook, blond-haired and dark eyed. You can't really make out his face clearly through bleary eyes, but you do hear him speak with your mother, with Zeph, before it's just the two of you. A soft clink of a bottle being set down somewhere nearby, and then he's gathered you in his arms to prop you upright. Something cool presses to your lips, and he aids you in drinking something as you close your eyes and whimper quietly at the pain of your throat working.

He soothes you, before carefully laying you back into bed.

"... there. That should do it."

His voice is calming, gentle, deep. Not like the rumble of earth, but something softer, soothing, and your eyes flutter shut while he steps away.

"You're a lucky boy, Alfyn. The disease had all but taken over. You had a day or two, at best." Oh, that's what some of the elders were saying, you think. "That I just happened to come along when I did, with this potion in hand... Fate works in mysterious ways. How long did I labor to brew this elixir? And from ingredients that I may never see again... "

But he sighs, something sad, wistful, as he tinkers with something you can't see.

"To tell the truth, it was meant for another... but that hardly matters now. If it saves your life, it will have more than served its purpose. Sleep tight, son. You'll be feeling better on the morrow."



And you do. You do feel better on the morrow, albeit groggy, sense full of cotton from healing. Body sore from all the time you've spent cramped up and tense. Skin itching from the blotches beginning to clear up. Your eyes struggle to open, and you see him - and you see Zeph peering so closely at you, eyes round, worry battling with relief. You see your Ma brushing away tears quietly behind this savior that smiles gently down at you, eyes kind.

"... thanks, mister. But... why'd you save me? We ain't go no money, y'know."

A soft laugh escapes him, and he comes to kneel at your bedside, sweeping back the chicken's nest of hair atop your head, freeing it from your forehead.

"Listen son, and listen well. I saw someone in a bind, and I helped him out. Simple as that."

These words are seared into your memory. More than anything else, they're something that you'll never, ever forget - not for as long as you live, and not for as long as you can stand under your own power.

Softly, awestruck, you say as you close your eyes again:

"... shucks. I hope I can do that, too, someday."



His words, the miraculous potions he made...

He didn't just save my life.

He gave me a whole new sense of purpose.

... and so I became an apothecary.

— The Story So Far —

ch. 3 — the betrayal

mood music, pt. 1 — river of life, mood music, pt. 2 — the trees have eyes mood music, pt. 3 — decisive battle ii



You are on your way to Saintsbridge when you see them - a tired looking, dark-haired man and a man collapsed on the ground, dark red hair matching his injuries. The dark-haired man is walking away from the injured man, and you've caught just enough of their conversation to butt in, incredulous that another apothecary is leaving someone to suffer. Wasn't it bad enough, dealing with the sham you've left to be thrown into the gaol for her crimes? Even from here you can tell that the injured man's wounds could kill him if left untreated.

"A fellow druggist, is it? Well, listen up - I'm a free man, with the right to choose my patients. ... Some lives just aren't worth saving."

The hells? You watch him go, before turning your attention back to the man left behind. He's lucky, but he needs rest, and treatment that you're willing to give. Your friends fan out, Ophilia mentioning that she has some business here in Saintsbridge, as well, so she'll be going on ahead with a few of the others - the rest will stay with you, to help with what they can. Of course you don't mind, you don't want to hold her up when she's got the Kindling to see to. Miguel's in the right hands, anyways, and you wave her, H'aanit, Tressa, and Olberic on while Therion, Cyrus, and Primrose stay with you for now.

You save him, because of course you do, shacking up in the empty cabin that you think is used for miller storage. You promise to have a drink with him once he's around the bend, laughing, even saying to yourself heh, now there's a friendly enough guy! as you step out to go collect ingredients, go see to a few more folks, get a bite to eat, letting him rest in the meantime. Best to bring him something back for when he's strong enough to eat something, too, and it can't just be a few grapes and plums.



Therion is quiet, which isn't unusual, but it's a different sort of quiet from what you're used to. He looks agitated, and everyone else seems to be aware of this too as you make your way into Saintsbridge proper. But he seems alright with a little banter, so you don't think too much of it, as Primrose agrees with him on the allure of taverns and Cyrus goes down the road of explaining the merits of the alehouses that cropped up in every city, town, and village that could house them. It's companionable, and despite the sour taste in your mouth from meeting the other apothecary... things are looking up. Miguel will do well with some rest and eventual food in his stomach, and you and your friends have done a great deal of good on your journey so far.

Of course, things can never stay simple, can they?

The tavern greets you with a panicked mother, the crowd doing nothing to help as they watch her yell and fret over her son, down on the hardwood floor and motionless. Why wouldn't you try to help? But the sham, the man who abandoned Miguel, is the one that helps him - paroxysm, brought on by sweet peas and so quickly resolved when you were stood there running through what it could have been.

(Still not good enough, Greengrass. You've still got a long way to go - what do you think you're doing, trying to help folks when you're still so - )

"And I trust you've learned not to judge a man before you know him," the other apothecary scolds you, for calling him a sham. You think uncharitably, once again, that he's still a jackass, so apparently it takes all types to follow Dohter's path.

Cyrus smiles sympathetically at the noise you make, low and discontented, muttering a shucks to yourself. A hand reaches up to pat you on the shoulder, offering sympathy and understanding - that there may be others that you believe you can't compare to, can't catch up to, but that should be inspiration rather than discouragement.

Of course he's right. "It's time to stop mopin' and get to learnin'!"

Cyrus beams at you, while Therion rolls his eyes, and you're all off again once you've got some food in you.



There are a few elderly women who need tending to, and you do it with gusto. The elderly have always been your most grateful patients, and you think, maybe, they always will be. You think of the folks back home in Clearbrook as you carefully tuck one such woman into bed properly again once her treatment has been completed, advising she get some rest and stay warm. But before you depart for your next patient - Miguel, as it's been a few hours now since you left him to rest - you decide to ask if she knows where to get a good bottle of wine. You have your new friend, Miguel, to share with, after all.

She gasps and flinches back, and you freeze, bemused, concerned.

"You're friends with Miguel, that rotten, no-good thief..?"

...

You exit the woman's house, pensive with this information. Being a thief is one thing - after all, Therion is a damn good thief, one that has most certainly killed to survive, but you've also trusted your life to him on more than one occasion. He's a good friend. A great companion. But killing in cold blood..? You're not sure - you have to see Miguel.

Which means that the gods would see fit for Ogen, the jackass of a genius apothecary, is right there outside of the house.

"So we meet again."

"Sorry, no time to chat," you cross your arms, not interested in butting heads with the man again. "I have a patient waitin'."

"Heh... surely you don't mean to save that scoundrel's life?"

...

"Bollocks!" you reply, immediate. "We're apothecaries, not gods! It ain't our place to judge! We have a duty to help anyone who needs us! Am I wrong?"

He looks at you for a long moment, with those tired eyes of his, before holding out his hand and asking to see one of your tonics. There's hesitation, but not much, as you hand him one - the draught you'd just given the elderly woman in the house the two of you stand outside of, meant to clear her lungs and help her build her strength again. Ogen is quiet as he regards it, taking the cork out and swirling it around, briefly inhaling over the lip of the vial, doing all that you would do, yourself, in his shoes.

"It is unrefined... but adequate. Made with talent and confidence." You frown, but accept the tonic back as Ogen hands it to you and continues. "Hear me, Alfyn. I can see the passion in your eyes, so I'll not mince words. Let that man die."

You can't help but take a step forward, arms going out on either side of you, anger bubbling up. "You can't - !"

Ogen steps around you, cold seeming. It's nothing an apothecary should ever be. "Before you act, ask yourself what it truly means to save a man's life... especially the life of a killer."



Just like that, he's gone - and you grit your teeth, closing your hands into fists as you're left to stand there with the weight of knowledge, of something so unkind as to leaving a helpless man to die, even with the crimes he's committed.

For now, though, Miguel is still your patient. You decide not to wait for Cyrus, Primrose, and Therion, instead heading off to leave Saintsbridge proper to head for the barn where Miguel rests.

For the best that you do, really, as Miguel's condition has worsened from what you thought it would be. His accented words slur together even more like this, begging for good news as you realized that, at this rate, the man will lose his life in only a matter of hours. You lie about the source of the sting to comfort him, and instead set to work on making a stronger medicine for him. You're already putting together the list of ingredients in your head, opening your mouth to tell him that he'll be right as rain in no time, when you hear Ogen's words in your head again - ask yourself what it truly means to save a man's life.

... you have to know, although it sits like a stone in your stomach. Like your heart's taken on more weight and sunken low into your gut, miserable, unhappy, against all that you've known.

Framed, he says. You tell him to give you the truth - you're not like Therion or Primrose, who are used to seeing through lies, but applying a little pressure isn't that hard - and he cracks.

He cracks, but he lies, and you believe him, because your heart aches for every sob story that comes your way.



It's an all-nighter, followed by another, and then - you succumb to a need for sleep. The others are staying in the inn, as they well should. There's not enough room in this barn for all eight of you and an injured man, and you insist upon Ophilia focusing on what she's in Saintsbridge for, much as you appreciate her offer for help. Therion looks back at you before they all go, and all you can do is offer a smile, tired, reassuring. You've got Miguel's word, after all. You're certain that everything is safe as houses right now.

When you wake up - when did you doze off? - you're alone. Miguel is gone, the mat you set up for him empty of his feverish, limp form. You figure that he might've been restless, after all that laying around, so you decide to go looking for him, worried about the man moving around on his own so soon after getting over the hump. Especially if someone is looking for him for the things he's done.

Gods' teeth, if only it were ever easy.

There's yelling, near the wooden bridge leading to the woods nearby. From what you know of time spent here, no one's meant to go in them without a hunter or protection, due to the beasts that dwell there and the monsters that roam between the trees.

It's the woman and her son again, the one that had a reaction to sweet peas. And there, standing with a blade to Timothy's throat - there's Miguel. He's holding the kid for ransom, demanding all that his mother's got, not even hesitating for a single moment or looking remorseful. But he sees you as you stand at the top of the stairs overlooking the scene, and scowls at your presence, pleasantries and comradery gone, dragging the child off into the dangerous woods, followed only by the mother's screams of desperation. The commotion draws a lot of attention, including Therion, Primrose, and Cyrus coming from the inn, looking to you with a variety of reactions. Concern, most of all, but there's something in Therion's face you can't quite place, something that looks bitter and unsurprised.

But they still come with you, as you reassure Miss Daphne that you'll get Timmy back for her.

"... I give. This is my fault for fixin' you. But that's why I'm gonna set things right... by my own hand!"
Miguel isn't exaggerating, but he's also underestimating you, and your friends, when it comes to facing him down. Primrose and Therion dance out of his reach more often than he can hit them, and it makes him sloppier, sloppy enough that Cyrus can keep up with his defenses to strike him down with the elements that he brings to life, chasing every knifestrike or the swing of your own axe. You're not just some - some mollycoddle with a bag of weeds. You're a godsdamned apothecary following Dohter the Charitable, and you have a life to save. Lives to protect, as you take your fair share of hits so that your friends don't have to, spears digging into flesh.

With every successful attack, Miguel laughs and laughs and laughs. But his laughter dies the moment he gets too cocky, thinking that he's run you through, one of his spears driving into you - and deep - before realizing too little, too late, that you've got a grip on the spear. He can't pull away in time.

You've got blood on your hands. You've killed to protect Clearbrook from brigands that have drifted in due to the wars, on the tailend of illnesses that you and Zeph have worked to keep at bay, following the waters into the depths of the Riverlands. You've killed to protect the people you've grown to love as friends and family. You take no joy in it, but you're no stranger to it either - a healer's hands are meant to heal, but they can't do that if they're killed, or those they're tasked with helping are brought to greater harm.

But as you drive your axe into the meat between neck and shoulder, breaking through bone with the force of it and sending the blade deeper, deep as you can to put an end to this, this blood on your hands feels cold and empty as Miguel falls to his knees, eyes so wide it stretches the scar along the left one all the more.