Chapter 10: Settling the Silence

I woke to the pale light of morning stretching across the loft rafters, casting long beams over the folded quilts and the half-open window where a cool breeze whispered through. For a moment, I lay still, tucked beneath the covers, listening to the sound of sparrows fluttering outside and the distant creak of a cart along the cobblestones.

It was the kind of morning that invited lingering.

But I had work to do.

I swung my legs out of bed and reached for my journal first—but not to scribble notes. This morning, I needed to write a letter.

At the small table beside the loft window, I opened a fresh page in the folded stationery I kept tucked in my satchel. Using my best handwriting and the smoothest of my charcoal sticks, I wrote:

Dearest Ma and Da,

I hope this letter finds you all safe and warm. I've decided to winter in a village called Deeproot Hollow—small, nestled at the edge of a forest, with stone cottages and tree-homes and kind people who seem more curious than suspicious of a traveling Fellborn healer.

The local healer passed away just a month ago. They haven't found a replacement, and Old Bitty (the elder who seems to run everything without saying so outright) asked if I'd consider staying through the season. There's a well-stocked cottage, more herbs than I could sort in a week, and enough salves and tinctures to keep the village healthy through the snows.

I don't mind it here. It’s quiet. Thoughtful. The sort of place I think you both would like.

Please don’t worry. I’ll send more letters when I can.

With love,

Elara

I sealed the letter and left it on the table to post at the inn later, then dressed in one of the new sets of clothes I’d received from the seamstress—warm wool trousers tailored for my tail and a thick linen tunic layered beneath a long, hooded cloak.

The satchel slung easily over my shoulder as I stepped into the stillroom. A quick inventory reminded me that I had a good grasp of what was available—plenty of preserved root stocks, dried flowers, and medicinal bundles, though not endless stores. I needed to forage while I could. The forest wouldn't wait for me.

But first, Bitty.

She wasn’t at her home, which didn’t surprise me. I found her instead near the market green, gossiping with a trio of elders while holding a basket full of potatoes and dried beans.

“Going for a walk, are you?” she asked without turning, as if she’d known I was behind her the whole time.

“I am,” I said, stepping up beside her. “Wanted to get a sense of the woods and see what might still be viable for harvest before the frost really sets in.”

She nodded and handed me a small cloth-wrapped bundle. “For your pockets—roasted chestnuts. Good for snacking. Now, come on, I’ll show you the compost pile before you go.”

We walked a short way past the baker’s fence, behind a row of elderberry bushes, where a neat ring of stones marked a low, covered pit.

“Anything too far gone, toss it here,” she said. “Some of the farmers come by to turn it and scoop what they need. Don’t want your stillroom stinking of rot.”

I made a mental note to return with a few bundles of spoiled yarrow and softening roots.

As we turned to head back toward the village lane, she gave me a sidelong look. “You were real generous last night, handing out balm and brew like it was dew off the leaves.”

“They needed it,” I said, a little defensively. “A few dry hands and stiff knees aren’t going to bankrupt me.”

“No, but feeding yourself might.” Her eyes twinkled, but the tone was firm. “Folk here will trade fair. You don’t need to charge a silver for every poultice, but a copper here, a bartered apple there—let people give back. Keeps it balanced.”

I frowned. “I suppose. I just don’t want people to feel like they can’t come to me.”

“Then don’t make it a shop,” Bitty said. “Make it a conversation. You help them. They help you. That’s how we do things here.”

I chewed that over as we walked. She was right, of course. I wasn’t some wandering herbalist trading remedies for coin on the road. I was... here now. At least through winter.

Bitty stopped at the path that curved toward the woods and thumped her cane into the dirt. “You’ve got enough in your cellar to start, but don’t forget—once it’s gone, it’s gone until spring. Better to dry what you can now and pickle what won’t wait. You’ll be glad of it when the snow’s three feet deep.”

I nodded. “I’ll start preserving this week.”

“Good girl. Go on then. I’ll see you at supper.”

With a wink and a rustle of her shawl, she turned and shuffled away, leaving me at the forest’s edge with a satchel on my back, a head full of plans, and the weight of responsibility settling—somehow gently—over my shoulders.

The forest greeted me like an old friend.

Past the village edge, where moss-covered stone fences gave way to bramble and brush, I stepped beneath the canopy with a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. It came out slow and steady, curling in the cool morning air. The scent of damp earth, leaf mold, and the faint sweetness of late-fruiting trees wrapped around me like a familiar shawl.

Birdsong fluttered through the branches. A squirrel chattered irritably from a crooked tree as I passed, then leapt away with a flick of its tail. I paused in a pocket of sunlight, closed my eyes, and let the quiet surround me.

Out here, I didn’t need to answer to anyone. No villagers with hopeful eyes. No expectations pressing in. Just the rhythm of the woods, the hum of small life, the grounding weight of my boots on the forest floor.

I reached into my satchel with a thought and withdrew the first of the large woven baskets tucked inside. It unfolded to full size in my hands with a satisfying snap of stored magic. I brought out two more and slung them over one arm, setting off into the underbrush with a familiar, practiced gait.

The forest in late autumn was quieter, more introspective. Leaves drifted lazily from the canopy above, and the brambles had begun to die back, revealing pockets of herbs I hadn’t noticed before. I moved slowly, with care, fingers brushing through the undergrowth, eyes scanning for color and texture.

Near a rotting log I found violet-stemmed feverleaf—still fresh, surprisingly—and beside it, the silvery fuzz of watermint just starting to fade. Both went carefully into my first basket, separated by cloth wraps to keep them from bruising.

Further on, I stumbled upon a patch of goldenlace seed pods, their papery husks clinging delicately to the stems, ready to be harvested for tea blends. A shaded hollow yielded late-growing mushrooms—smooth-capped, earthy-scented—and I used a small blade to cut each one free before tucking them into a cloth-lined basket.

At the bend in the creek, just where the water narrowed and stones peeked through the surface, I spotted a cluster of wild apple trees. Gnarled, half-leafless, they still bore fruit—small and misshapen, but fragrant and firm. I smiled and brought out the last of my baskets, filling it slowly with careful hands.

By the time the light began to slant through the trees, all three baskets were near full. The satchel at my hip bore the weight easily when I returned each one inside with a whisper of magic. But the fullness brought a different kind of weight—a sense of accomplishment that settled in my chest.

I found a mossy rock near the creek and sat down to drink from my flask and nibble on the chestnuts Bitty had given me. Around me, the forest moved gently—birds chirping, a breeze rustling through the trees, a fox’s distant cry echoing faintly through the hollows.

I took out my journal and opened it across my knees, the charcoal in my hand moving before I quite realized it.

Foraged: feverleaf, watermint, goldenlace pods, wild mushrooms, wild apples.

Feverleaf still viable—good for tinctures and winter steams.

Goldenlace nearly past harvest—dry immediately.

Apples sharp, not ideal for fresh use. Cider? Butter? Maybe both.

I tapped the charcoal against the page thoughtfully, then added:

Better haul than expected. Should come out again before frost.

The sun had dropped lower when I finally stood, brushing moss from my skirts. I made my way back with slow steps, taking a different path just to see what might grow along it. There would be more to do tomorrow—cleaning, drying, brewing—but for now, I’d given myself something I’d been needing.

Time. Space. Stillness.

And the forest, ever generous, had given it back.

The wind picked up as I reached the cottage gate, rattling through the herb stalks and making the drying bundles on the eaves sway like dancers. I pressed a hand to the warm stone wall for a moment before stepping inside.

The door creaked faintly as I pushed it open, the familiar scent of the stillroom meeting me like a greeting—dried lavender, beeswax polish, and the earthy undertone of rootstock left too long in shadow. My boots made a soft thud against the stone floor as I crossed to the table and unslung my satchel.

The baskets came out one by one, still full of the morning’s bounty. I traced a finger over the firm skin of a wild apple, its red speckling more blush than pigment, then set it aside. My stomach gave a firm grumble in protest—I’d worked through the day without a proper meal.

“Well then,” I muttered to myself, brushing loose curls from my face. “Let’s fix that.”

In the kitchen nook, I sliced a few thick slabs of rye bread from the heel of the loaf I’d brought back from the inn. The crust crumbled slightly under the blade, releasing a nutty, toasted scent. I spread one with the soft cheese that had gone just sharp enough at the edge to tingle pleasantly on my tongue, then added a spoonful of the blackberry jam from the innkeeper’s gift. The contrast of sweet and tangy made my mouth water.

The kettle, set earlier over the banked coals, had begun to sputter. I nudged the fire higher and added a generous pinch of dried lemon balm and a handful of chamomile from one of the labeled jars. The steam carried its scent through the kitchen, calming and warm.

I didn’t bother setting a place. I stood at the counter, hip leaning against the edge, and ate with one hand while unpacking the apples with the other. I chewed slowly, thoughtfully, the crust rough in my mouth and the jam sticky at the corners of my lips. A small thing, but grounding.

When the last crumb was wiped from the plate with the last corner of bread, I set it in the basin and rinsed it clean with a splash from the pitcher on the counter. The clink of the ceramic echoed softly in the stillness. I dried my hands on a linen cloth, rolled up my sleeves, and got to work.

The feverleaf came first. It had to be handled delicately—the stems bruised easily if I wasn’t careful. I turned on a small oil lamp in the stillroom to better see the gradient of purple along each leaf. They were still firm, their edges crisp, the way Naerel had shown me to recognize good stock. I moved methodically, laying them in single layers on the mesh drying racks. One by one, I tucked them into place, until the scent of green bitterness filled the room.

Watermint followed, and its aroma hit me in a sudden wave—cool and sharp, slicing through the richer smells. I gathered the smaller sprigs for infusing and cut them neatly, placing them in a ceramic jar already half-filled with golden honey. As I stirred, the sticky-sweet blend coated the spoon, glinting in the low light. The rest of the sprigs I tied into bundles with twine and hung from the wooden rack above the window, where sunlight filtered through the curls of steam from the tea.

Mushrooms, then—earthy, soft, speckled with soil. I used a damp cloth to wipe away the debris, inspecting each one for signs of spoilage. The good ones went into a shallow basket for drying. The softer ones would be pickled in brine tomorrow, if I had time. I didn’t speak while I worked, but the rhythm of it—the slice, the stack, the quiet placement—was enough to settle my nerves.

When I reached the apples, I paused. Their smell had intensified now, warmed by the room. I sorted them by ripeness, setting the bruised ones aside to cook down into sauce. My knife moved smoothly, cutting and peeling, until a pile of spiraled skins lay on the cutting board like ribbons. I tossed them in a pot with a bit of vinegar, some cracked cinnamon bark, and a pinch of salt from the small wooden jar on the shelf. As it simmered, the scent rose like memory—fall festivals and canning days and the soft voice of my mother humming through the kitchen.

I stirred with slow, wide circles, watching the bubbling reduce into a thick, golden preserve.

My satchel, emptied of its baskets, leaned against the leg of the worktable. I caught myself glancing toward it with a quiet sense of pride. It might not have weighed anything heavy in my hand, but now, its contents were slowly transforming into something tangible, something sustaining. Shelves were beginning to fill again. Not as they had been when I arrived—dusty and uncertain—but with my own work.

I jotted quick notes into my journal between stirring, the charcoal leaving smudges on the edges of the page.

Feverleaf drying. Mint infused. Mushrooms prepped. Apples cooking down—should make three small jars. Vinegar-braised, for longevity.

Need to check drying racks tomorrow. Wash more glass jars. Finish herb sorting by week’s end if possible.

I underlined the last line twice.

By the time I wiped down the counter and banked the fire again, the stillroom glowed with the warm scent of herbs and spiced fruit. The jars clinked softly as I set them aside to cool, and a pleasant ache settled into my shoulders.

The forest had given generously. Now, it was my turn to make it last.

The autumn sun was well past its peak by the time I packed my chalk, slate tablet, and small pouch of polished rune stones into my satchel. I slung it over my shoulder, locked the cottage behind me, and headed toward the seamstress’s shop.

The bell over the door gave a cheerful jingle as I stepped inside.

“Back already?” the seamstress called, emerging from behind a curtain with a mouthful of pins and a half-finished tunic draped over one arm.

I smiled. “Here to do your warding, as promised.”

She pulled the pins from her mouth and gestured me toward the back. “Storeroom and workshop are through here. The storeroom’s more important—moths and damp have been making themselves at home.”

The storeroom was small but crammed with bolts of cloth, baskets of thread, and stacks of folded leather. I breathed in the scent of wool, dye, and faint lavender sachets tucked along the shelves. Kneeling beside the stone threshold, I pulled out a piece of chalk and began drawing simple warding symbols—old patterns I’d learned from Nearda’s journals, the kind that pulsed faintly with magic once charged.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

As I moved around the perimeter, I murmured the low, steady phrases that activated each one, layering the wards with warmth and dryness. When I reached the far corner, the seamstress peeked in behind me.

“Do I need to light candles or anything?” she asked, half-joking.

I shook my head. “Just keep the door closed when the runes are new—it helps them settle.”

Her fingers tapped absently against the doorframe as she watched. “You know,” she added, “you’re not at all what I expected.”

That made me pause. “Oh?”

“Well, you’re younger than the last healer. And calmer. Except when you were haggling. Then you were a terror.”

I couldn’t help a laugh. “It’s the tail. Gives me away.”

She grinned. “Good insulation, you said.”

When the last rune flared and faded into invisibility, I stood and dusted off my hands. She reached behind the counter and pressed a wrapped bundle of thick-knit sweaters and the remaining pieces of my winter order into my arms.

“Here. You’ll need these sooner than later.”

“Thank you,” I said, hugging the bundle close. “For everything.”

“Don’t be silly. Half-off for rune work is a bargain—and I can already feel the draft’s gone. You’ll have the whole town asking soon.”

The smithy was louder, warmer, and smelled like metal and sweat and something halfway between singed coal and baked earth. The half-orc blacksmith spotted me as I rounded the corner and set down his hammer with a theatrical sigh of relief.

“About time! I thought you'd forgotten me!” he bellowed, grinning.

“I said afternoon,” I replied, stepping through the gate. “It’s still afternoon.”

“By a breath! Come in, come in—I’ve got three forges and a whole winter of heat to trap.”

He led me through the forge to the main hearth, a monstrous thing set in brick and stone. The warmth rolled off it in waves. I could feel the temperature shift even before I got close.

“I want the wards just inside the stones,” he explained, tapping the base with a long metal rod. “Last one cracked during the freeze last year, and I nearly lost a week’s work.”

I crouched beside the hearth and got to work. The stone was hot, but not unbearably so. As I etched, I could feel the runes drinking in the lingering heat, storing it, echoing it back to themselves. These weren’t delicate house-wards. These were power runes—meant to hold and hold firm.

The smith watched me work in companionable silence, wiping his hands with a thick rag, until I finished the last inscription and stood.

“Well done,” he said. “Forge’ll hold its guts now. And you’ve got my thanks.”

“You’ll owe me in iron, come spring,” I said with a half-smile.

“Deal.”

By the time I made it back to the inn, twilight had fallen, the sky painted in lavender and grey. The windows glowed warmly as I stepped through the door, greeted by the scent of roasting root vegetables and something rich and herbed—maybe lamb or rabbit. The innkeeper glanced up from behind the bar and smiled.

“Back in one piece,” she said.

“Just barely,” I replied, easing myself onto one of the stools.

She slid a plate in front of me without asking—stew, bread, and a chunk of cheese on the side. “For the town’s new rune witch.”

I wrinkled my nose, but took the plate gratefully. “I’m going to end up with a dozen titles by the time winter’s done.”

The innkeeper leaned on the bar, her sleeves rolled up and a smudge of flour on her cheek. “Could be worse. One of the last healers here was known as The Salve Goblin.”

I snorted into my tea. “Why?”

“No one knows. Bitty started it, and it just… stuck.”

We both laughed, the warmth of the food and company easing the ache of a long day. She refilled my cup and didn’t charge me, and I didn’t argue. There was something easy about her, the kind of grounded presence that made silence feel like comfort instead of pressure.

By the time I said goodnight, the inn had emptied of most of the day’s bustle, and the coals in the hearth glowed low and red.

As I stepped into the quiet evening and turned toward the cottage, I found myself smiling. The wind tugged gently at the edge of my cloak, and my footsteps were light on the stone path.

Tomorrow, there would be more work, more rounds. But for now, I had warmth in my belly, a warded village at my back, and the first threads of friendship beginning to weave their way into the world I was starting to call home.

Morning light filtered in through the upper loft window, faint and blue-gray. It was early, but not unpleasantly so—the kind of still hour before the village stirred fully awake. I sat up slowly, stretching arms stiff from sorting and bundling until late into the evening. The scent of dried sage and apples lingered in the air, tucked into the corners of the stillroom and my dreams alike.

I padded downstairs, my feet finding familiar spots on the creaky wood. The cottage was warming up now, bit by bit. A quick cantrip flared across the hearth and brought it back to life with gentle heat while I prepared a simple breakfast—porridge with honey and stewed spindlefruit. The fruit had softened more than I liked overnight, but boiled with a bit of cinnamon and clove, it made for a comforting bowl.

I ate slowly, already thinking about the runes I would need to lay today. The smithy’s forge was larger and older than the hearth at the seamstress’s shop. It would need heat containment, structural reinforcement, and protection from moisture buildup. I sketched the rune layouts in a scrap of parchment while finishing my tea.

After tidying up and tucking a few bundles of chalk and prepared stones into my satchel, I shrugged into my warmer cloak and stepped outside. The morning air was brisk, the sky still streaked with cloud. I took a deep breath—the scent of woodsmoke, damp earth, and the first brittle hints of frost.

The smithy wasn’t far, just past the central square, already clanging with life even this early. I turned the corner and nearly collided with the half-orc blacksmith himself, who was hauling a barrel of slag out to the yard.

“There she is!” he boomed, grinning under a soot-smudged brow. “I was starting to think I’d scared you off.”

“Just wanted to be sure I was awake enough to spell straight,” I replied, offering a small smile.

“Fair point. Come on then, got your tools? I’ve been banking the forge for you all morning.”

He led me inside, and the heat wrapped around us like a heavy cloak. It was nearly overwhelming after the chill outdoors, but not unpleasant—just… powerful. The forge itself glowed steadily, flames contained within carefully shaped stone, already radiating the kind of focused energy that begged to be harnessed.

“I’ll want something that'll trap the heat deep in the stone,” he said, gesturing to the base of the forge. “Last year we lost more energy through the back wall than we burned. I’ve patched what I could.”

I crouched near the base and ran my fingers along the seams of stone. “I can work a binding rune here, a tether here, and a heat loop around the center. It'll amplify retention and reduce bleed.”

“Sound like magic to me.”

“It is magic,” I said dryly, and he laughed—a warm, booming sound that echoed in the high-beamed space.

I set to work in rhythm with the soft clink of hammering in the back of the shop, laying each chalk line with care. The runes flared gold as I whispered their names, one after the next. He watched without interrupting, occasionally pointing out stress points or asking questions.

When the last rune locked into place, the forge pulsed—just once—with a resonant warmth that seemed to sink into the stones and settle there.

“There,” I said, brushing off my hands.

He tested the forge with a piece of scrap iron and grinned when the temperature held steady. “You’ve got good hands, healer. Remind me to bring you a good blade once I’ve got one finished.”

“I’ll trade it for a kettle hook that won’t warp when I boil too many tinctures.”

He laughed again and waved me toward the worktable near the front, where he had a cloth-wrapped bundle waiting.

“Lunch for later,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”

I accepted it with a quiet word of thanks, tucking it into my satchel as I stepped back out into the cooler air. The sky was starting to clear, and a few leaves skittered along the cobbled road behind me. With the smithy done, I had a rare afternoon open—time I could use to preserve more herbs, update my notes, or walk the edge of the forest again.

But first, I needed tea.

By the time I made it back to the cottage, my hands were smudged with chalk dust and my fingertips tingled faintly from the draw of magic. Warding wasn’t physically demanding, but it did leave me worn around the edges—drained in a way that couldn’t be measured in muscle fatigue. Just… hollowed out a little.

The moment I stepped through the door, the scent of herbs wrapped around me like a shawl—warm chamomile, dried mint, the lingering sharpness of rosemary. It grounded me immediately.

I lit the kettle with a flick of magic, just a small, steady flame that curled up beneath the iron base. While it heated, I walked into the stillroom and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The bundles I’d hung yesterday had dried well overnight. The air in here was warm and dry, and the low shelves and hanging racks were lined with little successes—bundled leaves, glass jars of flower heads, and linen pouches filled with seeds or stems.

Once the tea was ready, I poured myself a steaming cup—rosehip, cinnamon, and a touch of licorice root for energy—and carried it into the stillroom with both hands cupped around the warmth.

Time to work.

I slipped into the rhythm easily, laying my tools out in a neat semicircle on the long table under the front window: mortar and pestle, linen squares, beeswax cakes, bottles of carrier oils, clean jars, and carved wooden spatulas for stirring. My first task was to check the drying herbs. I moved along the rack, gently crumbling a sprig of lavender between my fingers to test for dryness. Perfect.

I gathered up the finished herbs—lavender, calendula, sage, comfrey—and sorted them into neat piles on the worktable. Then I selected what I’d need for a batch of salve for chapped skin: calendula petals, comfrey root powder, and a bit of lavender for scent. I measured out beeswax and almond oil into a small pot, then set it over the low flame on the far side of the table. As it melted, I slowly added the powdered herbs, stirring in lazy circles until the mixture thickened and turned golden, flecked with bits of leaf and flower.

Once it cooled just enough to handle, I poured the salve into small jars—each one labeled in careful script:

“Soothing Balm — Dry Skin, Elbows, Knuckles, Windburn.”

Next came the joints salve—something stronger. I used blue arnica, mint oil, and the last of the stinging nettle extract I’d found tucked in a dusty bottle at the back of the cabinet. The sharp scent of mint and pine filled the stillroom as I stirred the blend, and the balm darkened into a deep green as the arnica seeped into the mix.

Every few jars, I paused to sip my tea and jot down what I’d made in the cottage ledger, updating the shelves as I went.

Item Qty Status

Chapped Skin Salve 8 jars Freshly made

Joint Ache Balm 5 jars Cooling on shelf

Wound-cleaning Tincture 3 vials Low

Cough Syrup 6 vials Needs replenishing

Sore Throat Pastilles 12 jars Stocked

The hours passed without me noticing. Light moved from one windowpane to the next, shifting the shadows along the floor. I swept up loose stems and wiped the counters clean, hands a little waxy and clothes dusted with herb crumbs.

At last, with my stock neat and labeled, I stood back and let the quiet of the room settle over me. The hearth hummed with warmth, the shelves were orderly again, and the soft clink of glass was the only sound as I packed away the last jar.

I breathed deep, stretching my arms over my head until my shoulders cracked. Tomorrow would bring more work—but for now, I had done enough.

The stillroom smelled faintly of lavender and arnica as I put the last jar in place. The shelves were tidy. My notes were updated. The tools were clean and lined up in a neat row. But still, I lingered—hands on the edge of the table, eyes tracing the contours of the quiet room.

Outside, the sun had begun its descent. Pale light stretched low over the forest, spilling into the cottage windows in gold slants. The stillness had weight to it now. Not the easy sort from earlier, but something heavier. Rooted. Unmoving.

I padded into the main room, set the kettle to heat again, and curled up in the chair by the hearth with a blanket around my shoulders. The soft crackle of the fire and the rising hiss of the kettle were the only sounds. My tea—peppermint and dried berry—was soothing, but it couldn’t quiet the tangle in my chest.

Was I truly staying?

It had been easy to pretend it was temporary, that I was just keeping things together until the council found a permanent replacement. But already I had routines. A rhythm. Faces I was beginning to recognize. A pantry I was beginning to organize in the same way I had back home. People came to me. Trusted me.

I stared into my mug. The forest called to me still. There was so much I didn’t know. So much I hadn’t seen. But winter was coming, and deep down I knew—I couldn’t leave just yet.

My eyes drifted toward the bookshelf in the corner. The journals.

I hadn’t touched them yet.

Setting down my tea, I crossed the room and opened the cabinet doors beneath the shelf. Inside were several wooden crates, each brimming with thick-bound journals. Their spines were hand-labeled in faded ink, most marked only with dates and quiet notations like “Field Notes – Year 93,” or “Village Illnesses – Midwinter.”

Carefully, I pulled out one labeled First Seasons – Arrival to Deeproot Hollow

The handwriting was narrow, elegant, and deliberate—each line measured, no wasted space.

I’ve arrived. It’s smaller than I thought, but good bones. The forest has depth here. Old depth. The kind that listens. I’ll start gathering tomorrow. First, I need to convince them I’m useful.

I traced a finger along the edge of the page.

Her name appeared in the second entry.

No one can pronounce my name right. Lethariel. I’ve told them to call me Letha. Easier. I’ve written to Naerda to let her know I’ve made it safe. She’d have loved it here. The mushrooms alone are worth the move.

Lethariel. Elven, of course. She wrote like someone with time. With purpose.

As I turned the pages, the village came alive in her words—not just the plants and remedies, but the people too. She chronicled her first cases. Described the construction of the well, the first snowfall she endured alone, the celebrations that followed the planting of the western field. She noted the habits of birds, the flowering cycles of trees, and the exact moment she learned to preserve stonefruit in early frost.

I kept reading until the fire burned low and the journal’s spine softened in my lap. There were drawings tucked between pages. Notes to herself. Lists. Whole entries dedicated to a single plant or a patient who’d refused medicine and gotten better anyway.

She lived a quiet life. Solitary. But not lonely. She belonged to this place. And now, I was in her cottage. At her table. Brewing over her fire. I hadn’t met her, but her presence was layered into every corner, every drawer and shelf and beam. I closed the journal gently and placed it on the shelf. I then banked the fire and climbed the stairs to the loft, curling under the covers as thoughts circled slowly like snowflakes. I wasn’t her. But maybe… maybe I could grow into the space she left behind.

📓 FIELD JOURNAL — LATE AUTUMN, DEEPROOT HOLLOW FOREST EDGE

Date: First Frost Moon, Day 7

Weather: Cool, crisp. No frost yet, but the wind carries the scent of winter. Overcast skies in the afternoon, with filtered light through thinning canopy.

Location: Southern edge of Deeproot Hollow Forest, near old creek bed and fruiting grove.

1. Frostberry Vines

Description: Small clusters of deep violet berries with a waxy bloom. Found trailing along low shrubs.

Use: Mixed into cough tonics or soothing teas for sore throats. High sugar content—excellent for preserves.

Notes: Collected 2 baskets. Some already soft, will need to process these first.

2. Goldenbur Leaves

Description: Serrated leaves with gold-dusted undersides. Grew in shaded glen near fallen tree.

Use: Anti-inflammatory properties when steeped into poultice or salve.

Notes: Best dried immediately. Strong scent when bruised.

3. Bristlecap Mushrooms

Description: Short, sturdy mushrooms with deep rust-colored caps and white gills. Grew near damp roots.

Use: Edible and nourishing, used in broths and stews.

Notes: Double-checked for false lookalikes. Safe batch.

4. Blue Sage

Description: Fuzzy stems, pale-blue flowers beginning to die back. Collected in a clearing near creek stones.

Use: Calming herb for teas, helpful for sleep and mild anxiety.

Notes: Flowers nearly done for the season—gathered what I could.

5. Spindlefruit (late-season)

Description: Small, apple-sized fruits clinging to twisted branches. Skin starting to wrinkle but flesh intact.

Use: Can be preserved for tarts and jams. Tart but vitamin-rich.

Notes: Will need to boil down tonight—fragile. Core and dry seeds separately for planting.

6. Oaksmoke Fern

Description: Dark green, smoky-fringed fronds with curled tips. Grows close to roots of elder trees.

Use: Crushed into liniments for muscle soreness.

Notes: Already drying well by the hearth.

Additional Notes:

Gathering baskets nearly full—thankful for spatial storage or I’d be dragging a wheelbarrow. Forest feels quieter than expected, but not in a bad way. It feels like watching. Not hostile—just… aware.

FIELD JOURNAL ENTRY – EVENING

Date: First Frost Moon, Day 8

Location: Deeproot Hollow – Healer’s Cottage

Weather: Chilly evening, first frost likely soon

Notes:

Began reviewing the personal journals of the prior village healer—an elven woman named Lethariel, known locally as Letha. Discovered:

* She arrived here as a young elf during the village’s founding generation.

* Apprenticed previously, possibly at the same time as Naerda.

* Preferred solitude but chronicled her healing work and field observations in extraordinary detail.

* Journals are methodical, annotated, and illustrate long-term patterns in flora, illness, and community life.

* Personal style leans toward holistic approaches, heavy use of locally sourced plant life, some minor rune use.

Reflection:

There is an immense body of knowledge here, waiting to be read and understood. I feel both honored and daunted by the responsibility.

Personal Thought:

If I stay through winter, I might be able to preserve more of her knowledge. The garden can wait until spring. The hearth will need to be well-stocked.