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countbarov · 2 years

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A Flower Journal #1: Malva

“Will it hurt?”

Eastre set down her censer by the bed, smiling at the child in front of her. “Not one bit,” she said, holding his hand.

“You promise?” he rushed to say, his voice barely a whisper.

“I promise.”

He glanced at the censer before nodding and taking a deep breath. Eastre tried not to disturb the bandages as she unwrapped them, peeling off layers of red cloth. It was a nasty wound. She could see a mixture of dirt and blood staining his cheeks, still wet and fresh. “How did this happen?” she asked while removing the last chunk of wool.

“I fell,” he said. When she tried to meet his eyes he looked away toward the fireplace, its dancing flames warding off the cold. A warm glow illuminated his mangled arm. “I was playing in the forest and she--” He looked at her again. “I fell.”

“Are you sure, Iain?” Eastre set down the bandages and began to clean the wounds with warm water, watching his face. “That must have hurt. Looks like a pretty hard fall.”

Iain recoiled when the water touched his skin, pushing back some tears. “You won’t believe me,” he muttered, “like my mom.”

She winked. “You can trust me.”

Iain’s eyes glimmered as he focused on her face. He looked at her up and down, pulling away for a moment, but taking a step forward when she collected more water. “It was Thili,” he said, gasping a little when she poured the warm liquid again. “She’s a fairy. She’s my friend, but sometimes she’s mean to me.”

Eastre hesitated, eyes open wide, only resuming her duties once he tried to sit down. “She’s mean?” she asked, hiding her frown from view. “Then why are you friends with her?”

“Because she can do magic,” he said.

“I can do magic too.”

“Yes, but it’s different!”

Eastre’s heart stopped for a moment.

She gave him a chuckle, though her smile faded in an instant. “She pushed you, then?” He nodded as she set his hand on the bed and produced a match from her purse. “You should get better friends. Why don’t you play with Wylie? He’s about your age.”

His face soured, though she had a hard time repressing a giggle. He was a very expressive child. “Wylie’s worse!” Iain stomped on the ground. The wooden floor creaked, and he was taken aback by his own strength. After a brief moment, his face grew red, stomping once more. “He calls me names,” Iain yelled. “I don’t like him!”

“I see.” Eastre kneeled by the fireplace and lit the match with a swift motion. Unhurried, she approached the bed. “Then I’ll be your friend. I won’t call you names,” she said after lighting her censer, “and I definitely won’t push you.” She smiled from ear to ear, nurturing the flame with a piece of parchment.

Thin smoke rose from the silver censer, its delicate frame riddled with inscriptions. Eastre grabbed it by the chain and began to swing from side to side, filling the room with a sweet aroma. “Can we really be friends?” he asked, watching the silver cage move. “My mom says I shouldn’t talk to you.”

Her smile faltered, returning only after she took a deep breath. It wasn’t as placid as before. “She says that?” Fumes began to envelop her figure, and each time she inhaled them she could feel the energy reaching deep. Distant voices made themselves comfortable in the confines of her mind. They almost pushed his comments down where they couldn’t hurt her. “Why?” she asked, gathering more floral fumes.

“She says you’re a traitor.” He lowered his gaze, playing with his thumbs. She coughed. He is also honest. “That you can’t do real magic.” Her breath cut short for a moment, stopping the flow of energy, and returning her to the moment. Pain flooded her chest right away, forcing her to inhale as much incense as she could. That felt better, but not enough.

The room fell silent. All Eastre could muster was a slow nod. Real magic, she thought. Only the soft crackling of fire remained as the censer swung, spreading more energy with it. Iain followed it with his eyes, throwing glances at Eastre and opening his mouth as if to speak but cutting short each time. She knew what he was thinking. Why didn’t she go to the academy and get a certificate? Why was she incomplete?

If only it worked that way.

Smoke continued to pour out of the censer, permeating everything with its vapors. Iain’s lips quivered, but he wore a gaze that wouldn’t relent. “I didn’t mean that,” he said. “And mom doesn’t mean that.”

Eastre tried to smile. It didn’t work. “Don’t think about that, Iain,” she said with a calm voice. “She's right. I’m not half as good as Thili, am I?”

“Don’t say that!” He almost crossed his arms in a rush, but the pain from his injury forced him to relax. What little light painted him revealed a swollen, red face. “You’re so much better than Thili, Eastre. You’re nice to me, she’s not!”

“You’re so sweet, Iain.” Eastre could feel the power growing within her, whispering sweet nonsense inside her mind. Every voice was different and spoke in incomprehensible languages, but she knew what they wanted. They wanted Iain. As the curses called for him, Iain examined her with intent. A frown bloomed where hesitation once stood. “Don’t worry about me,” she continued. “Come now, be still.” Another swing of the censer covered the room in white.

Despite being surrounded by incense, Iain was safe from its influence. Only a practitioner could harness its power with careful inhalation exercises and meditation. Eastre knew very well the energy’s tempo, breathing to its beat, and murmuring the commands she needed. No, the commands it wanted to hear. Curses were powerful magic, capable of healing or harming in equal measure. Magic needs an outlet, it needs to consume, and it would stop at nothing to achieve its goals. If the Weaver wasn’t careful, the whimsical energy could corrupt everything it touched.

And corrupt it would be if she didn’t Weave it correctly. No magic knew how to pierce the veil of reality and eat flesh like curses. The festering wound on Iain’s arm could turn necrotic or fall off entirely if she stopped focusing on the spell. Curses wanted to consume and devour everything they could reach, and it was her job to control them. This is for you, Iain, she thought while staring at his face, still swollen.

“You hate me.” A voice echoed in her mind, lost to the sea of magic. Was it hers?

It spoke again. “I don’t hate you.” Was it Iain’s?

“You’re disgusted by me.” It was soft, melodic, like a shy song.

“I’m not.” It was comforting and warm.

“Are we friends?”

It was sweet.

“We are.”

She extended her hand toward him, and he offered his wounds. Heal, she whispered to the curses in her mind. Leave no trace of injury. Using her index finger, she caressed every bit of swollen skin, skipping no crevices or folds, drying blood as she murmured. May fate forgive him, she continued, and may the flesh forget its pain. Iain recoiled each time she reached a new area. Holes sew themselves shut, and rifts turned to plains. Eastre wielded the essence with grace, keeping its hunger at bay, never allowing it to escape her influence.

Don’t let him suffer.

The smoke cleared. Not a hint of the floral incense remained in the room, and when Eastre grabbed the censer, she found it cold. The spell consumed everything inside it, even the flame. Typical, she thought. Iain hadn’t moved from where he stood, arm still stretched toward her. His expression was neutral, almost vacant, tears adorning his cheeks. She gave him a dry smile and stood up, caressing his arm.

“All better now, isn’t it?”

Her tone was soft, but her dull eyes betrayed her. Iain frowned, grabbing his coat from the hanger next to the bed. “Don’t do that,” he said, raising his voice.

“Do what?”

He scoffed. “Lie to me.”

She smiled again. This time she meant it. “I would never.” Iain approached the door with quick steps, stomping a little and making the wood cry out. Eastre gathered her instruments and set them on her table. Incense, censer, matches, pitcher; doctors would be jealous of such a simple ensemble. Then again, doctors want her gone. “So, are you leaving now?”

He opened the door. Icy wind blasted through it, swallowing what little warmth remained in the cabin. The sky was dark, uncaring, where not even the moon dared shine. The old Crone was a coward like that. “Of course I am,” Iain said, stepping outside, welcomed by the snow.

“Just don’t get in trouble!” She took the coat off his hands and covered him with it, dusting off stray snowflakes. “And don’t play with fairies. They’re dangerous, Iain, you know it. Try to make new friends.”

He wrapped himself in the fur coat and stepped backward, further into the storm. “Eastre,” he said, still frowning, “what’s your favorite flower?”

She giggled. “Why do you ask?”

Iain sighed, looking away. “Mom says that flowers make people happy. I don’t think I get it,” he said while taking a step into the cabin. “But I think you do. So what’s your favorite flower?”

“Mallow,” she responded without hesitation. “I think you’ll know it when you see it. You’re very familiar with it already.”

He nodded. “Mallow.” He made a fist and punched the palm of his other hand. “I’ll get you some mallow.”

“Don’t worry too much about it, Iain. It doesn’t grow here.” Eastre poked his forehead, making him stumble a little. His face grew red, though she could tell he was holding back laughter. That made her smile. “But thank you. I appreciate it.”

“No, I’ll get some!” He brushed her off. “I said I would, so I will!”

Iain sprang up and rushed through the blizzard, kicking snow as he ran across the street. He banged on the door directly in front of hers. “Mom, what’s mallow like?”

The wooden door opened with a squeal, allowing a bright glow to escape. Snow charged into the building as the figure of a woman appeared, her features obscured. Eastre recognized her in an instant when she knelt to hug her son. Although Iain yelled everything, his mother was inaudible from where Eastre stood. “No mom, not money. Mallow!” It was hard for Eastre to suppress a giggle seeing Iain’s glee and delight, though she knew it wouldn’t last. No good thing ever lasts.

Iain’s mother looked at Eastre. It was hard to tell what expression his mother bore, but Eastre felt the same chill she did every morning. Eastre thanked the old Crone for being merciful and not showing her face that night. If she had, her moonlight would’ve illuminated the disgusted frown she knew from the marketplace.

Repulsion, hatred, contempt, fear – it all converged in a single moment, a single second, when their eyes met. Eastre felt it all the way across the street. How couldn’t she? That was all it took to put Eastre back in her place. The town freak, they called her. Some said it with a mocking smile, some spat it out. Iain’s mother whispered it behind her back, loud enough for all to hear, quiet enough to pretend she didn’t say it. Judging by Iain’s expression, she was doing that right there and then.

It all happened in a few seconds. After a short delay, Iain’s mother ushered him inside and slammed the door shut, plunging the streets into darkness. A lonely, quiet darkness. Even the snowflakes abandoned Eastre, leaving behind only the cold stillness of winter. She followed suit and closed her cabin. The fireplace roared behind her, but she couldn’t feel any of the heat. Layers upon layers of fur couldn’t shield Eastre from the icy glare of her peers, piercing even the toughest of leathers.

She was a traitor, the filthy reflection of their oppressors. A relic of an era they’d rather forget. Some people even suspected she was developing a compulsion, forced to call upon essence like an addict. It didn’t matter how many times she used her gifts to heal them, nor how little she asked in return, because they would always see her as an outsider.

A mistake.

As she lay on her bed, Eastre wondered what life would’ve been like if she refused to learn Weaving. Her parents would’ve been disappointed, she knew that much, but they weren’t around to judge her anymore. Perhaps she could’ve picked an artisan profession and moved to Gelachan. Maybe, if she spent her nights singing instead of learning how to Weave, she would’ve traveled the world as a minstrel. She imagined herself as Eastre Songweaver, an allusion to her heritage, performing for all kinds of crowds. They’d thank her. They’d appreciate her. They’d be kind to her.

But I wouldn’t have saved that man’s life, she recalled. Eastre found him lying on the floor, seconds away from dying. The smell of blood overpowered her when she approached. Attacked at night, left for dead, forgotten by the city. It was the first time she used her talents to heal. She remembered his face relaxing as she closed his wounds, and color returned to his face when blood flowed through him again. Were humans meant to work that way? Her mother comforted her, saying that she’d get used to it in time.

And she was right. Watching people recover from mortal injuries became a usual affair. Their clinic was bombarded with patients day and night and filled with disgusting scents, but the young Eastre joined her parents in their practice. Her eagerness to learn was only matched by her patience with Weaving. No one masters it with ease. The whispers, the need for action, the call of the unknown – they’re too powerful for most people. If they don’t succumb to compulsion, they abandon the practice entirely.

Eastre didn’t. She wanted to be a compassionate healer like her mother and a skilled surgeon like her father. They saved lives, helping everyone they met. Clan weavers were an old tradition. A dying tradition. Once respected, now reviled. Her parents always reminded her of their sacred duty, but as much as they consoled her, they could never explain to her why the man she healed ended up running away from her.

He screamed as soon as he regained consciousness. He cursed at Eastre when he stood up and called her names while fleeing. Eastre was nine years old at the time.

She punched her pillow. It had less resistance than she expected. She struck again, using more strength this time, only to get the same result. Her heart accelerated as she continued to assault it. She panted, her chest ablaze. Hit after hit, all she got in response was a muffled sound. She tried to make it hurt. Each attempt carried more strength than the last. Of course he’d run away. I’m a freak. She threw the pillow across the room, using her bed as the next target. I should know my place. I should know better.

Eastre almost missed it, but she heard the faint sound of knuckles banging on wood. Howling winds almost drowned it out completely. The storm returned, Eastre thought as she stood up. Anger melted away into indifference, though her face was still red. Perhaps an unlucky traveler. She took a moment to stabilize her breathing, conjuring the best grin she could muster, and readied a tray with an ale pitcher and a mug. “Hey!” A voice called from the other side. It was hard to make out, but audible. “You there?”

“Yes,” Eastre rushed to say, walking up to the door. “Sorry to keep you waiting!” She grabbed the tray with one hand, comfortably warm, and swung the door open. Her voice trembled slightly, but she pushed forward regardless. “My name is Eastre. How may I help?”

She saw a single pink flower. That musty smell was impossible to mistake. Eastre used its incense in her daily practice, but nothing could compare to the real thing. Mallow, the flower of curses, the flower of healers. Its five petals, so simple yet so beautiful, moved up and down each time Iain jumped.

“I already know your name!” He took a step into the cabin, not waiting for an answer. Snow-covered, his footsteps crunched on wood. “We’re friends, so of course I know your name!”

The dull expression she bore melted away as she lay down the ale. Her chest tightened in an instant. “Iain,” Eastre managed to say despite the knots forming in her throat, “where did you get that?” Her breathing was shallow, irregular, interrupted by long sighs.

“Mom bought flowers yesterday,” he said while closing the door. “She didn’t tell me which one was mallow, but you were right!” The flower wiggled again. “I knew as soon as I smelled it.”

Eastre knelt beside him and pulled him into a hug. “You didn’t have to, Iain.” She tried to be careful, but her hug was rougher than intended.

He pulled back. “You don’t like it?”

She nodded. “I do.”

“Then why are you crying?”

Eastre’s smile blossomed. “It’s not important.”