Wind blew through the open windows, ruffling Marley's hair and forcing him to readjust his position. He didn't want the precious willow root he was crushing with his mortar and pestle to get caught in the breeze and scatter. Beside him, his cauldron full of water, sugar, and monk fruit powder steadily heated towards boiling. A spoon enchanted to stir every few seconds.
The room was warm, yet that ever-present chill lingered.
He shifted his grip.
Ms. Sinclair had been prescribed seven different potions by her care team—three for general healing, and four for more specific needs: anxiety, immune support, nervous system, and cardiac.
It wasn't unfamiliar to him. Marley had brewed many of these same potions for himself over the years, trial and error guiding him until he found something that helped. For a moment, a thought flickered—Was that what this is? Could he—?
No. Marley wasn't a healer anymore.
He shook his head, as if nothing more than clearing an old etch-a-sketch. He focused back on the willow root. Both the root and bark were commonly used for their healing properties, useful not only in potions but in rituals as well. This specific batch required a large amount, so he continued crushing enough to fill the entire mortar.
The rhythmic grinding of the pestle against the stone bowl was soothing, almost meditative, as Marley worked.
But....
Despite not being a healer anymore, Marley can't help the curiosity. Besides, it wasn't like he wasn't allowed to look at patient files– he just preferred not to. He wasn't on their care team, after all.
He set down the mortar and pestle– out of reach of the wind– and grabbed the thick binder he'd been sent along with this assignment.
Flipping it open, he leafed through the pages, and– oh, wasn't that familiar. Ms Sinclair, but- not truly a "Ms" at all.
Cerys Sinclair, eight years-old.
Usually, when the files were referred to someone by a title and their last name– it was because they were older, typically much more.
Oh.
The pages listed the symptoms in detail: bouts of fatigue, unexplained fevers and episodes, joint pain...
He flips another page.
Her case had stumped several healers, both magical and non-magical. Marley's fingers trailed over the lines of notes, recognizing the familiar marks of frustration in the margins—comments from her care team grappling with the mystery of it all. No definitive cause – one healer had written – Symptoms suggest an immune disorder, but nothing we've tried has worked long term.
This too, was familiar, this desperation from the crowd. He can almost feel her through the paper.
He sighed, leaning back slightly in his chair. He knew the toll this kind of illness could take. The endless trials of potions and treatments, the waiting, the hope that would flicker and then fade again.
Now, The prescribed potions made sense, but there was an edge of uncertainty in them too, like the healers were reaching for anything that might give her relief.
It was a familiar push-pull, the desperation to try something new, anything that might help.
And eight... eight...
Marley was eight.
Eight years old when things changed, relatively slowly, then worse and worse as he got older– as if instead of ageing his body eroded. His magic had turned against him in a way no one could explain. The thought of someone so young already facing that kind of future filled him with a sense of dread.
YOU ARE READING
Hey, Blue
Roman d'amourPreviously Titled -- The Head In My Hands. Frankly, Marley was tired of being sick. It had become part of his everyday life, sure, but gods- did it ruin everything. He never expected to be spending his late twenties working from home in quiet isolat...
