I mixed the remaining petals together and watched the steam rise up as I poured the healing liquid into a cup. I walked over to the injured, Mist Tainted, boy and readied myself for anything.
I opened his mouth gently and poured a small amount down his throat. He coughed and spat, rolling over and nearly off the table. I wondered vaguely at that moment why I put him on the table and not the bed— but the bed was an important thing to me.
"Come on, go down," I muttered. "Go down, go down." Eventually, I felt his tightening chest loosen and I removed my hands.
I sighed in relief, knowing with certainty that when he was awake and had drunk the drink my mother used to make—the hyacinth flower stalk in it—he would feel ten times better.