Flasks, Leaves, and Respect

The days that followed Marta's recovery brought with them a rhythm both comforting and revealing. The visits to the healers' house became part of my new routine, not as a patient or apprentice, but as someone genuinely intrigued. My parents seemed pleased with my newfound curiosity for herbs and remedies. They believed I was learning from Ravik and his family. What they didn't know, and perhaps would not believe, was that the learning was mutual.

Marla often welcomed me with a warm smile, offering pieces of honeyed bread or dried fruit. Sometimes she even asked me to stay for meals. Their home, always filled with the scent of drying herbs, had begun to feel familiar. Vicky, still the more energetic of the two daughters, constantly moved around, checking temperatures, preparing teas, and organizing bundles. She had a sharp mind and hands that rarely stopped.

And then there was the room.

The room with the shelves.

Each wall bore rows of wooden planks holding dozens, maybe hundreds, of small flasks, pots, cloth-wrapped bundles, and ceramic containers. Every item was labeled with a charcoal mark, a symbol, or a small string with a knot system I had yet to fully decipher.

"You're early today, Torren," Ravik greeted one afternoon, wiping his hands with a cloth stained in green and yellow pigments.

"Couldn't stay away," I replied, trying to hide my excitement.

He chuckled. "You remind me of someone I used to know."

Over time, our conversations deepened. He began testing my memory, showing me leaves and asking what I thought they were for. At first, I hesitated, giving vague answers. But as confidence grew, I started remembering things my parents used to say in my past life. How my mother would prepare a chamomile compress for headaches. How my father taught me that certain barks, when boiled, could ease muscle pain.

Ravik noticed.

He didn't question directly, but his eyes studied me differently. More thoughtfully.

"You know, this herb," I said one day, picking up a small bundle of pale green leaves with a strong, almost lemony scent, "my father used to say it was good for cooling fevers. He called it 'limontha'."

"Limontha?" Ravik echoed, puzzled.

"Maybe it has another name here," I shrugged. "I just remember the smell."

We began exchanging more. Not just information, but theories. He would show me mixtures and ask what I thought they were for. I would suggest combining two herbs for a gentler effect. Once, I warned about a possible side effect of a flower he thought was harmless in large quantities.

He tested it. I was right.

After that, his tone shifted.

"You're not just curious, Torren. You've seen things. Learned things."

"Only what I can remember," I said honestly.

"Still," he mused, "that remembering has value."

One afternoon, while Vicky organized the flasks by her own obscure system, I offered to help.

"Careful," she warned. "The flasks bite if touched wrong."

"Noted," I grinned, picking one up.

She smirked. "You're lucky I like you."

I fumbled a flask, nearly dropping it.

"Oh no, not the Biteweed tonic!" she gasped in mock horror. "It'll turn your hair green."

I laughed. "Then maybe I'd blend in with the moss."

Even Ravik chuckled from the corner, noting, "He may not be one of us, but he doesn't feel like a stranger."

Respect isn't demanded. It's earned.

And without realizing it, I had earned a little.

By the end of the week, as I prepared to leave, Ravik handed me a small pouch.

"For your sister," he said. "It's mild, but should help with the remaining cough. You remember the measurements?"

I nodded.

He smiled. "Good. Because next time, I expect you to bring your own mix."

I paused. "Really?"

"We all learn from someone. Maybe it's your turn to teach."

The walk home was quiet, but my thoughts were loud.

I hadn't come looking for purpose. But perhaps, purpose had found me.