His hand always seemed to be the wrong temperature, Roy noted dully. Right now the air around him was chilling him to the bone, yet those strange hands held a fire that he and his gloves couldn't seem to emulate. He watched the insane alchemist, as he mixed up some salve from herbs whose names made Roy's mouth feel cut and bruised. He watched, as thin, always underfed fingers mixed it, carelessly losing a drop or two to the thin layer of sand over the tent's tarp floor. Finally, he turned and started to smear it over Roy's cut leg, Roy braced himself for a burning that never came, and was almost grateful when he didn't bother to ask how it had happened. The alchemist licks the excess salve off a tattooed palm, and wipes his hands, walking to his trunk to get another bandage. Roy wonders what color he would wear if he were at home, what sort of people raised a creature like him? He's back suddenly, winding sterile bandages around Roy's leg, tightening them precisely, and humming softly, some tune that seems almost familiar. He wonders what it would sound like if he ever sang instead of humming.

Soon Roy is almost sure that salve had something in it that is making him hallucinate, because the alchemist is leaning over him, kissing the cut that he doctored a week ago, already nearly gone. His mouth is as cold as the air, but his hands are still burning. Roy wants to burn too. He wonders what it would take to get to burn beneath those hands. The mouth leaves his cut. And he directs Roy to his own bunk. He lays down, turning to he can watch him put away the oils and herbs, he watches him carefully scour the pestle and mortar with sand outside the tent flap, then put it in the trunk, along side the cutting herbs and the white, white bandages. He shuts his eyes, and for some reason dreams of bandages wrapped around roaring fires.

The next week, he's injured his hand, a bone sticking through the skin, and he prepares to go to Marcoh, stopping on an impulse to show it to him. He hums, and then walks to his trunk. Roy settles on the alchemist's bunk, and waits, knowing he can't possibly fix an injury like this with cutting herb salve and white, white bandages. He returns with the bandages and salve, but is holding a long strip of leather and a firm, thick piece of hardwood. He wraps the injury thinly and loosely with his bandage, and then puts the leather loop over it, hanging it off his injury and slipping the stick in beneath his hand. A few quick twists and Roy is muffling screams under his other hand, but then comes a coating of salve, and a firm wrapping of bandages. He whimpers as burning hands sooth his pain, wiping unnoticed tears and licking a few drops of blood squeezed down Roy's thumb. Roy soon feels lightheaded and crawls back to his own bed.

In the morning, the alchemist unwraps his hand and bathes it a little water. Roy frowns, looking at the healed skin… it's a little pink, and he can sense its thin enough that he could rip it off with a swipe of his fingernail, but it holds his bone where it should be, and Roy uses it for the day, watching the flames arch out over the bland desert landscape. When he looks over, there's the alchemist, running his scarred palms over anything that comes in his path. His eyes cloud and he touches another solder, Roy tries not to look as the wretched man detonates.

For days after that, Roy ignores his injuries, taking the worst of them to Marcoh and hiding those bandages from his bunkmate. He doesn't like to ask Marcoh for help… he just doesn't know how to help the pain. And his bandages are all wrong. These bandages are not white, they're red… idly, Roy wonders why they aren't white anymore… and why the alchemist's bandages are always white. He hides his hand beneath the blankets at night, unable to admit that perhaps he should show it to him… skin isn't supposed to bubble. He opens his mouth to speak, but the alchemist is looking at him, so he shuts it again, muttering a simple good night. Good Night. He rubs the wound and promises himself he will ask about it in the morning. Finally the pain subsides and he sleeps.

But something, fear, shame or pride, refuses to allow him to show it. The skin continues to bubble, turning dry from the desert sun and bursting. it's a bang that the alchemist would be proud of. Soon its too serious to remain here, and Marcoh bandages it with his dull wraps that turn red, and he is sent home. And he whimpers at night when he happens to brush it. Slowly the injury heals, but cold nights and unusually hot days make it flair up and hurt.

Less than a week after he was discharged, he gets news that the insane alchemist was executed for killing his own men… he wonders if he should have testified. He wouldn't have anyway. He carefully clips around the obituary and execution announcement. He reads the last words, and shivers when he's mentioned by name. Then he pastes them gently into the scrap book, alongside four coveted pictures of him with the rest of the brigade. His gold eyes contrast so sharply with the black, blues and browns of the rest of the solders, even his expression is too unusual. He has that odd half smile, his eyes barely lidded, standing out against the exaggerated grins and scowls that everyone else wears.

Roy lifts the photos to his nose, and swears he can smell the herbs scent, on tattooed palms.