A Touch of Death

Chapter 3

Aoife never wanted to be a healer.

She wasn't cut out for it, and everyone knew it. A good healer possessed a kind heart, a soul strong to bear the burden of another person's scars, and the discipline to continue working while knowing that lives rested in their hands every second. A healer required strength of mind, required the ability to pack up and leave everything behind if somewhere else needed you. A healer meant kept the village under their wing, acquired the trust and confidence of their patients with grace and ease.

Aoife had none of that. She was a small, high-spirited child that flitted from one place to the next like a rampaging baby bird, curious about everything and remembering only the bits of information that were the most interesting, but arguably least useful. She was a bad listener mostly because she was a bad talker, and could never figure out when to say something or what it should be. Her mouth opened and words spilled out, and often she couldn't get them in the right order to say what she meant before accidentally offending someone.

She didn't have the strength of character or sense of responsibility to keep a single person under her wing, much less an entire village. Unfamiliar people made her feel claustrophobic and skittish. She wasn't good with most normal plants, and special herbs evaded her skill entirely, even with practice and patience and tutelage.

However, if there was one thing Aoife did have on her side, it was an excellent memory. After much repetition, she became an expert in a wide range of commonly used remedies. Her memory allowed her to produce basic ointments, tinctures, and cures on the spot, and to make them well. After serving for a year in a noble house, she'd also become a little better at advanced potions. It gave her something to do that kept her away from the others, brewing potions out in the garden shed. And if she seemed a little like a fairy tale witch, all the better to keep people away.

It was for their safety, anyhow.

It was simple enough to find her way to the apothecary's shop without running into anyone. The shop was at the edge of the market area and most of the festivities were concentrated in the town square. Though there was certainly a strange, sad irony in the fact that the woman with a Touch of death brought healing potions to town, it didn't stop the shop owner from buying her wares.

After that, she steadily made her way towards the viewing area for the festival performances, taking the back ways and side streets to avoid the worst of the crowds. No need to put anyone in danger as she moved through the wash of festival goers.

Every year, the city blocked off the main area in front of the castle gates to put up a stage for music and theatrical performances, and to create a clear area for dancing. Events took place almost constantly during the festival, and the royal family even sat to watch. Instrumental groups, professional and amateur dancers, and artists from all around the country displayed their works at stalls, performed on stage, and generally did their best to make themselves known in the capital city.

The crowds became dense as Aoife moved closer to the square, brightly-colored rose decorations overtaking the streets as she went— white ones hanging from merchant stalls in artfully arranged bouquets, yellow ones pinned to gentlemen's lapels by their lovers, and pink ones woven into crowns atop little children's heads.

Absentmindedly raising a hand to touch her own hair, she wondered what it might be like to feel that subtle weight, to have ribbons dangling down her back...

Aoife pushed the thought aside, moving to the far edge of the street as she continued walking towards the square. Her skirts brushed against the cold stone of the buildings as she walked, but they did not even whisper against the fabric of another person's clothing.