First rule of Alchemy: Alchemy is a manipulation, not a creation.

The sun barely cracked through the usual dark London clouds; the air smelled of wet grass and soggy Autumn leaves from the heavy rain from earlier that morning, but the atmosphere was crisp and cool. The streets looked eerily dismal; London seemed like a ghost town even through the flocks of people evading large scattered puddles of murky water. London's buildings cascaded high into the sky, their spires forcing themselves into the clouds as if they could puncture the grey and bring out the light.

“Today feels so empty, brother.” His voice shook from vaulting over a puddle, “so long summer.” He stared reluctantly at the sky—nothing but shades of grey and a thin crescent of gold. The boy rubbed at his arms viciously for warmth through his dark peacoat, but the wisps of cool breezes licking at his nose gave him no such pleasure. Defeated, he shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to force himself not to think about how much moisture was in his Brogue shoes or how soaked the ends of his dress pants had become.

“How can you tell the difference?” the other boy shrugged, smirking, “Autumn's cold, winter's cold, spring is cold, summer is slightly bareable.” His brother looked over at him with a furrowed brow. “You know it's true.”

“I don't hate London as much as you do Vincent, so not every day is cold and grey for me.” He said as if he was boasting, but his brother seemed lost in thought with incredulous eyes. He knew what was going on in his head though, he was thinking of any possible way he could remark with something witty and quizzical.

When Vincent finally turned to response, his brother was no where near him, but far back behind; his tense body gave way to petrified eyes. His mouth was agape, his pale blue eyes glossed with horror. Vincent thought that maybe even, he could see his hands shaking. “My God,” He whispered, his voice came out wavering, as if his own life was threatened.

“What?” Vincent stopped too and started towards his brother, but his brother didn't seem to notice at all. When Vincent veered up next to him his stomach dropped instantly. Lying on her stomach with one arm outstretched and half of her face lain on the concrete, was a young woman; her auburn hair mangled around her pale face, and clothes stained with usual London remnants of dirt and oil.

“Oh God,” whispered Vincent, his eyes drooping with sadness, “What should we—“

“I don’t think she’s dead.” Vincent’s brother spoke with certainty and then began cautiously strutting towards her, his heart a lump in his throat.

“Eli—!”

    Eli held up his hand and waved away Vincent’s concern and continued walking forward. His cerulean eyes balanced heavily on the girl, his heart breaking for someone he didn’t even know. Vincent trudged behind him at first, and then made his way up Eli’s side. Standing in front of the girl they quickly realized she was more than likely close to their age; Vincent ran his brawny hands through his flaxen hair, he bent down and as his jaw set a muscle jumped in his cheek.

“What are you—“ Eli watched queerily as Vincent placed his first two fingers on her neck, pressing hard. “Is she dead?” Eli’s voice was almost a whimper, like a small child that had lost their dog. Suddenly Vincent let out a deep, breathless “Good lord” and began sliding his hands underneath her hesitantly. After his attempt failed at picking her up, he rolled her over onto her back, and crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s wrong, brother?” Eli’s heart sank in the hurried moment his brother rolled her over, and her mouth fell open. She looked like an angel that had fallen, he thought, with porcelain white skin and light pink lips and dark, twisting hair. He almost didn’t blame God for wanting her back; he hardly knew her, and already Eli wanted her too.

“Eli, I need your help picking her up.” Vincent looked over at his older brother with helpless eyes, “Please Eli, she’s alive.” Vincent was strong, stronger than Eli, but something about carrying her dying body brought on a whole new terror that struck him weak enough that he felt he might shatter.

Eli curved over her body, trying to help scoop her into Vincent’s arms like an infant. It was unnatural the way she folded lifelessly into his arms, and it made both of the brothers cringe.

Once Vincent had her in his arms, he steadily walked away, knowing absolutely where he was taking her was better than any hospital. Eli stood there alone, studying the spot where she had been laying. There was no blood or dishevilled dirt—so what had happened to her? As Eli began walking out of the alleyway, he noticed just above where the girl was laying were levels of chalk white circles, unworn from rain and new. He knew exactly what these circles and symbols were—alchemy.