It was normally quiet on the evening shifts. Most of the attacks- or "tactical advancements" as the brass called them- took place during the day, in the early hours of the morning. The risk of sunstroke was higher then, but the Ishvalans knew the land around them too well for a night time attack to be anything other than a suicide mission for the Amestrian soldiers. So Knox was surprised when, several hours after sunset, the canvas covering of his tent was torn open to admit a group of dirt-streaked, panicked soldiers. They were carrying someone and, from the fear in the soldiers' voices and the blood that stained their uniforms, whoever it was had been seriously injured. Without a word to Knox they lowered the man onto the operating table, a worried murmur rippling though the group as the injured soldier moaned in pain. Knox pushed past several of the young men to get to the table, gazing down in horror when he realised just who it was lying before him. Roy's uniform was soaked in blood, more welling up with every moment that passed. It didn't take long for Knox to locate the injury, a deep knife wound just below his stomach. Knox grabbed a pair of scissors and cut open Roy's jacket and shirt, pulling the layers of soaking fabric off him with as much care as possible. He forced himself to ignore Roy's agonised gasp as he pressed a wad of gauze against the injury, hoping to stem the bleeding long enough to give him time to think. The clean, white fabric turned crimson within moments and, cursing, Knox reached for fresh gauze to replace it. There was blood on Roy's lips, a shocking contrast to the white of his skin and Knox knew what that meant. The blade must have grazed Roy's stomach, making the extent of his internal injuries far greater than they had first seemed.

There was almost nothing he could do. Field medical tents were understaffed and under-resourced at the best of times and no one had expected any serious casualties this late in the day. If he'd been back in the military hospital in the capital then Roy would have had a decent chance of surviving but as it was, Knox barely even had enough anaesthetic to ensure than he would die painlessly. He blinked back tears at the thought, not wanting Roy or his men to guess the truth. It was too early to start mourning the young man before him, Knox reminded himself sternly. While Roy was still breathing, Knox would do everything he could to save him. He reached towards the table for the anaesthetic and surgical thread, grimacing as the blood on his gloves smeared across the syringe. But the glass and the red liquid brought to mind a conversation from a few days before, with another military doctor. An alchemist: Tim Marco. He'd told Knox about his research, how the military had authorised the use of Philosopher's Stones in the event of a life-threatening injury to an indispensable military personnel. Surely Roy had to count for that. The military simply wouldn't let an asset as valuable as the Flame Alchemist die from something as simple as a knife wound.

"You!" Knox grabbed the nearest soldier, spinning him round to face him. The kid stared up at him with wide blue eyes, hesitant hope still shining in their depths. "Go fetch Doctor Marco. Tell him it's urgent. Tell him-" Knox paused, knowing Marco had trusted him to keep the secrets he had revealed. "Tell him to bring what we discussed before, that someone's life depends on it. Hurry!" The young man nodded, bolting out of the door with a panicked look back at his fallen commander. Marco was quartered on the other side of the camp, less than ten minutes away if the soldier was a fast runner. But as Knox watched Roy's eyes grow dimmer and his face steadily paler, he could not say for certain if the young alchemist had even that little time left.


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