After Saintsday mass, the village hummed with quiet celebration, the air thick with the scent of roasting fish and freshly baked bread--or what appeared to be bread without an oven--wafting from the granges to the infirmary. Wilbur and I worked in silence, sorting the meadow flowers by their properties, the petals delicate under our fingers. “We need to dry these and grind them into a fine powder,” Wilbur muttered, his eyes sharp with focus. “Easier to mix into the livestock feed.”

I nodded, joining him in the careful work. Each bloom was handled carefully, and we tried not to let the urgency of the task hang heavy on us. The promise of healthier livestock made us eager, though. Wilbur’s brow furrowed as he measured and separated the common flowers, his movements methodical. He pressed daisies with his thumbs, pinched the head of the flower away, gathered their seeds, and stowed them away for later.

When we moved on to the ores, Wilbur’s gaze sharpened further. “Iron... copper... let’s see,” he murmured, scrutinizing each mineral with the same intensity. His calculations were careful, trying to find the balance of minerals that would supplement the each goat, sheep, pig, and fowl's needs. When he was done, I set my kindflame under the glass with powdered ore. The sharp scent of burning minerals filled the lab. Wilbur watched it closely, scrutinizing for reactions, his pale face orange near the flame. I left him to his work, the crackle of fire and metal lingering in the air behind me.

In the granges, Woodrow had taken command of the revelry. Laughter echoed in the air, especially from Jerome. The young scout was lively tonight, spurned to action by Woodrow’s teasing. I would have thought that he had transformed from shy scout to blossoming jester, juggling wooden cups with a newfound sense of ease. Agate stood nearby, her arms crossed, a rare smile lighting her face. “I never thought Jerome could be such a jokester,” she remarked when I sat next to her, amusement twinkling in her eyes. “Woodrow’s magic touch, I see.” I noticed she looked at Jerome fondly, like how Wilbur looks at me.

As dusk settled, us monks and villagers gathered for supper, contentedly enjoring the reflection of our week's labors. Freshly-plucked wildberries, warm oats, and yesterday’s catch filled the table, the scent from the brass pot mingling with the low murmur of conversation. I listened as they talked about the grey days and the dark forest, of lost goats and pigs. They talked about us monks and the prayers and the lake.

When the meal was done, Woodrow pulled out his wooden pipes from his belt, hidden beneath his robes, and soft notes drifted through the night. The music carried the spirit of peace, of solace, the notes wrapping around the villagers as they began to sway, feet tapping, hands clapping. Laughter rose in waves, a sound richer than I’d heard in weeks. The settlement had found its voice again, buoyed by a night of shared joy.

---INFIRMARY---

Back in the infirmary, the faint glow of Wilbur’s work greeted me. He had arranged rows of tinctures, and glass vials filled with the crushed flowers, their faint medicinal scent still hanging in the air. Some of the dried blooms lay in a separate jar, mingled with the ores we’d prepared earlier. \

e pointed to the extractions made from common flowers. "It is not as effective as the yellowtongues and shivering maidens, but these will do in a pinch." Wilbur then handed me another bottle half-full of liquid. “Heat this for me again,” Wilbur instructed.

I complied, watching as the mixture turned to ash under the flame’s steady heat. Beside me, Wilbur worked with more of the iron ores, purifying them with a steady hand, his gaze never wavering. Burnt petals mixed with the strong metal scent. He switched between ores and flowers; daisies and yellowtongues, shivering maidens and everbane. Fire opals and copper and iron. When the flowers had turned to fine ash, Wilbur mixed them with distilled water, the liquid changing colors from ugly grey to more appealign hues of pinkish-white and yellow as it absorbed the essence of the blooms. His movements were precise, each step practiced as he added the herbal extract to the purified ores. Together, we formed the supplements for the animals, shaping it into rough pellets. Wilbur showed it to me, eyeing it closely, looking like tiny biscuits.

Hours later, we found ourselves in the cloistered garth, the cool night air a welcome relief after the heat of the lab. Wilbur stretched beside me, sweat gleaming on his brow. “I’m eager to see how this will affect the livestock,” he said, his voice light, though with notes of fatigue. We both turned our eyes to the ancient oak that stood sentinel over the courtyard, its gnarled branches framed by the pale light of the moon. As Woodrow’s music drifted through the night, filling the air with a serene melody, a sense of peace settled over us. It wasn’t just the work or the flowers or the ores—it was the quiet knowledge that we were building something more, something lasting.

For tonight, at least, that was enough.

—GRANGES—

The results of our efforts showed themselves with astonishing speed. Our first test subject, Belle, approached the pellets with a hesitant snout, curious. She sniffed delicately, sampled the offering, and promptly spat it out with a disdainful snort. Undeterred, Wilbur blended in some feverfluke flower essence, and Belle, sensing the enticing shift in aroma, swallowed the mixture eagerly, her petalfolk breed instincts leading her to munch on the pellets.

Within just two nights, Belle’s transformation was striking. She pranced with renewed vigor, her wool softer and almost gleaming under the pale light of the moon. Claude could not believe it; his fingers gentle as he stroked her fur, a spark of wonder lighting his eyes at this change. I smiled as he murmured in her ear, telling her how beautiful she is, that she was th emost beautiful sheep she ever laid eyes on. He smiled at me from atop her fur. He clasped my hand and held it.

Wilbur and I expanded our efforts to the pigs, geese, and goats, each responding favorably. Their energy surged; the geese waddled with a newfound swagger, and the goats leaped with stronger legs. We couldn’t resist sampling the milk ourselves. The moment I tasted it, I could not deny the milk's improved quality; it was richer, creamier, sweeter. Wilbur had an idea, and I watched him pour a splash of this improved milk into his concoctions, the resulting slurry a potent fertilizer for the granges. Even the pig liver found a new purpose, enriching the fields with nutrients and life.

Word of our success spread like wildfire among the villagers. I stood before them, showcasing the new supplements with a sense of pride, explaining their design to enhance animal health. Yet, our supply was limited: it would not be enough to susgain all of the settler's livestock. So, I made a choice: I poured the entire bottle into the pig trough, ensuring that every swine could benefit from the animal supplements. The remaining pellets were crushed and scattered, a generous offering to the sheep and goats, allowing all the animals to taste Wilbur's new creation.

The next few days, we monitored them. Since it was diluted, the effects were subtle and less immediate. It took another week, but the results showed themselves as well. Their pigs snorted and had the energy to sniff the ground to look for food. Under the watchful gaze of the moon, the land hummed with the promise of growth and vitality, the fruits of our labor blossoming in every corner of the settlement.

—CLOISTERED GARTH—

The ancient oak loomed like a dark sentinel under the moonlight, its gnarled branches twisting into shapes that resembled the antlers of some long-forgotten beast. Shadows danced around it, elongating into curious figures that flickered in the night. Curiosity tugged at me as I approached, summoning Gaelmar’s kindflame to wrap around the tree’s sturdy trunk. The flames swirled and flickered, revealing a fleeting vision: the oak in its prime, adorned with lush leaves, ripe fruits, and the cheerful songs of birds. Just as quickly, the vision dissolved into the night.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

A rustle to my right pulled my gaze, and I caught Wilbur staring at me with a thoughtful expression, his brow furrowed as he shifted his gaze between the oak and me. After contemplating, he raised a hand, signaling for me to wait, then retreated to his infirmary. When he returned, he slipped beside me, cradling bottles filled with our latest concoctions. “I believe I’ve found a way to enhance their potency,” he whispered, as if afraid the night itself might overhear. “I need your flame.”

Beneath the full moon’s silver gaze, I channeled Gaelmar’s kindflame into the glass bottles. The liquid inside began to bubble and glow, casting an eerie blue light that faded back into a vivid hue, more intense than before. We left the mixture under the moonlight until midnight, marking the moment the brew transformed completely.

He looked at me. "Are you all right?"

"A little light-heade," I admitted.

"Then I shall rarely ask it of you again." Wilbur laid a soothing hand on my back. A while later, he beckoned for me to follow him back to the infirmary. "It is time for our weekly check-up," he said.

We had collected the villagers’ blood the previous evening, but did not have the time to sample them. I watched as he tasted droplets from their wooden dishes, his eyes lighting up with satisfaction. “It’s sweeter than before,” he remarked, avoiding my gaze, but meaning to show me that almost all of the settlers now were healthier than when they first came to Rothfield. I needed to remind msyelf taht it was the whole community in Rothfield that was sustaining us, just like how a proper monastery was supposed to run. Wilbur healed and nurtured. Woodrow fought and entertained. I prayed the darkness away. And the people fought with dignity, and with renewed vigor. Their prayers fuled my own so that I could continue this warm cycle of trust.

Woodrow arrived shortly after, his green eyes shimmering expectantly. The moment he spotted the dishes, he licked his lips, and when our eyes met, he forced a strained smile before looking away. I touched their arms in silent acknowledgment before slipping out of the infirmary, the night air cool against my skin.

I settled beneath the moon, gazing at the cloistered garden. The flowers Wilbur had gathered thrived in our soil, their vibrant colors a sharp contrast to the encroaching darkness. As I waited for my brothers to consume the dark red blood, a sense of unease settled over me, as though a candle had been extinguished in the church’s nave.

---GRANGES---

The next morning, the source of my unease became painfully clear: one of the elders had passed away in his sleep. Agate consoled the grieving woman, who had lost her father. I approached her, uncertain of my role. She clasped my hands, her tears mingling with my pale skin as she expressed her gratitude.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmured. “I wish we could have done more.”

She shook her head, a mixture of sorrow and relief in her eyes. “You gave my father a few more weeks to live. Before you, I could only pretend not to cry as he suffered. Now, I know he left this world with a smile. You gave him some of his life back, enough to play with his grandchildren. He was back to his strong self, the way I remembered him when I was a lass.” She kissed the back of my hand. "Thank you, Brother Ryne."

Harlan stepped forward, looking at me with an steady, serious gaze, flanked by men carrying shovels. I was confused, until I realized: they were waiting for my guidance on how to proceed with the funeral arrangements. Agate, sensing my hesitation, inquired why Wilbur and Woodrow weren’t with us.

“Surely, there are other matters they need to address. They shouldn’t leave it all to you.”

Her words struck a chord, and I left them, grappling with the knowledge that the elder had passed peacefully but saddened he would not witness another sunrise. I stared into the flames, praying for his soul’s journey.

Wilbur would have known what to do, but he and Woodrow remained in the crypts, sleeping. I racked my mind for funeral customs—food, of course, but what little we had. Today was supposed to be their fishing day. I grabbed the fishing rod Claude had left in the toolshed and made my way to the lake, leaving the preparations to Agate. At the lake, I casted my line into the water. The quiet of the afternoon turned to dusk, interrupted only by the occasional tug on the line. I returned with five silvergill fish, only to find the torches lit and Harlan rushing over, shovel in hand.

“We wanted to wait for your permission,” he said, gesturing toward the body and the ground.

I glanced over at Rothfield, uncertain of where to bury him. Closing my eyes, I tried to recall the vision Gaelmar had shown me—a sprawling green meadow behind the monastery, though no cemetery had been revealed.

“Over here,” I instructed, leading them behind the monastery. “He deserves a comfortable resting place.” I handed the fish to the cooks for the grieving family.

To my dismay, the area was little more than a rough patch of ground, strewn with rocks and twigs, bordered by an ominous forest. I bit my lip, preparing to apologize to Harlan, but saw him already digging. As the dirt fell behind him, he uttered something that made me shiver. “It’s like where we laid our brothers and sisters back in Kent. At least here we know the wolves won’t disturb them.”

They brought in the body, Agate still holding the woman, her hand resting on the woman’s trembling shoulders as she sobbed. I stood by, warmed by Gaelmar’s influence, placing my hand on the cold brow of the deceased, praying softly. “May you find the rest you sought, and be like the light joining the many blessed souls watching over us.”

The daughter continued to cry as Harlan and some of the men lowered the body to the ground, covering it with soil. They all stood in silence until Harlan patted the mound. Agate spoke of the man's virtues, her voice rising like a gentle balm. I touched Ember, who had come from the crypts, sniffing the mound. I instructed her to guard the grave for the next few nights, fending off any shadow direwolves.

She growled in response as I returned to the nave, lighting a few candles and gazing up at Gaelmar’s statue. “Our first burial on these grounds, Saint Gaelmar. I hope all souls find peace here and that the journey to the Great Miracle is made easier.”

I envisioned a boat drifting down a serene river, carrying the man as he smiled at the world he once knew.

When Wilbur emerged, I shared the news. An understanding flickered in his eyes, thought there was something there that I did not quite catch. “I must attend to the bereaved,” he muttered, his cloak swirling around him as he left. Woodrow followed, his usual levity replaced by a more somber demeanor, the weight of responsibility resting heavily on his shoulders.

I felt ill-equipped for such matters, the void of practice evident. Memories of my childhood washed over me, and I tightened my grip on my mask, hiding my feelings from the world. The crackle of the communal fire reached my ears, accompanied by Woodrow’s solemn tune on his woodpipes.

That night, as I made my way to the infirmary, I encountered Woodrow, bathed in moonlight, stance firm and rigid. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, waiting.

“Could you remove Ember from the old man’s gravesite, Ryne?” he asked gently. I frowned, brows knotting together. “Wilbur wants to check on the body,” he explained with a shrug. “He does that sometimes to understand the affliction better. I’m sure you’re familiar with his experiments.”

Strange as it seemed, I bit my lip, pondering the implications. Would it not be improper? But if it could help the living...

“All right,” I relented, returning to the cemetery. I called Ember, rewarding her with pellets and a portion of that evening’s pork supper for her cooperation.

Before retiring, I spotted Wilbur and Woodrow huddled together in the cloistered garden, locked in the infirmary, with Woodrow standing guard by the door. I frowned but felt the pull of sleep overpowering, and so I descended into the crypts, yawning my way to rest.

___

The new supplements arrived at Kent’s settlement, and we watched as their livestock thrived. Harlan and Agate beamed with delight, the children’s faces flushing with color as they played with lambs until the crows called for dawn. A young girl, who had long wished for her lamb to frolic with her, finally saw her wish fulfilled. I allowed them to play in the meadow, and even Agate cuddled with a ram while Harlan lifted the fluffiest ewe. I petted Ember, noting that she was not affected at all by the pellets. Perhaps her otherworldly nature required more potent ingredients.

Claude arrived past midday, admiring the thriving livestock with a radiant smile. “Look at you all,” he exclaimed, then turned to me. “When can I join the men?”

“A week from now,” I said, a pang of sorrow shooting through my chest. But Claude was beaming, releasing Belle from her pen to join the rest of the sheep from Kent. I wanted to send him when Woodrow was tasked to join the men, along with Harlan. Claude would have them two–one fast and agile, and one strong–to keep him protected. I told Woodrow to keep an eye out for him and he saluted me, swearing that he would.

“I like the lad,” he had commented.

As the monastery basked in joy, a growing strain settled within me. Twice now, I had struggled to catch my breath during sermons, with Ember aiding me in focusing on prayers of dispelling and banishment. Blake’s taunts echoed in the dark, his chains clinking ominously.

“It will not work, and you will fail. Look how tired you are. One day, I will break you,” he jeered. I felt the chains slip, redoubling my efforts as I focused on Claude, his family, and the villagers, binding Blake’s mouth to silence his taunts.

“Watch me,” I said, invoking Gaelmar’s name to extinguish his voice.