---WILBUR---

Wilbur’s stomach grumbled. He hadn’t felt this famished since Saint Korbin monastery. He winced and gripped his aching stomach, feeling light-headed and weak. His mind had been prone to wandering lately; without concrete thoughts and projects to occupy him full-time, he had begun wandering the empty halls, passing mysterious bolted doors with metal clasps and observing the flower growing in the cloister garth.

The branches of the oak tree swayed above him, casting shadows that looked like arms pulling his cloak. Wilbur kneeled and checked if any of them had been infected by the miasma that Ryne spoke of. But he had seen him plenty of times by now. Under the darkness, Ryne’s chest and hands glowed, the power in him coursing through those veins that marked his skin.

“He looks like an angel,” Woodrow murmured once. Ryne cast a warm blanket over the crops and flowers, and whenever he did so, checked the air, keeping watch over the blight that only he could see.

The yellowtongues were bright, the color of the sun at its peak before the clouds covered the world. To think Wilbur missed the sun when all his days and nights, he sought only the walls of infirmaries and the coolness of the crypts. He gingerly touched its closed petals, resembling a lady wearing a fine gown. Not long now, Wilbur guessed. It would bloom soon.

The same cannot be said of the other two buds yet deep in the ground. The shivering maiden, its light-blue color, poked from the soil, while the everbane buds slumbered deeply. Wilbur buried his finger in each soil that housed the flowers and traced a circle around the sleeping buds. He held his finger between his eyes, inspecting the dirt that clung to it. He wanted to analyze them in his “lab” days before but thought to give them a little more time to sprout. Maybe they just grew at a slower pace, he thought. But when they did not budge, Wilbur knew they would not wake until their needs were met.

He was a botanist for years, aside from being an alchemist. He knew enough that even though Ryne and Gaelmar may be the flame that brings life into this monastery, the power of their spirit is not a force that grants quick miracles. They still needed practical and tangible steps, formulas, and skills, to keep this place running.

Ryne said it himself one night. “We need to work together. There’s a reason why we’re here, Wilbur.” Ryne pointed to him and Woodrow. “A botanist-teacher-alchemist and a charming soldier. There is no coincidence to all of this.”

All right, Wilbur thought as he brought out two separate glass bottles and took samples of the soil that was trying to nurture the shivering maiden and the everbane, respectively. It’s better than doing nothing and letting Ryne do all the work. The healthy faces of Annette and Joserson swam in his memory. Wilbur felt immense relief to heal them. He would feel relieved again if he could continue healing the sick, but to do that, he needed to figure out how to nurture the flowers.

Loud laughter from the granges rang in the stillness of twilight. Claude had visited again. He has been visiting almost every day for the past week, and he was beginning to stay later. Part of it was that Ryne had asked Woodrow to teach Claude how to defend himself, to Claude’s sheer joy and Woodrow’s amusement.

“Why not?” Woodrow had said, “It would be good exercise.”

Wilbur suspected that Ryne also wanted to keep Woodrow occupied with his own small project. After some basic lessons with Ryne about letters, Claude would go on to train with Woodrow using wooden poles he had fashioned. They grunted and huffed, Woodrow demonstrating the correct stances as Ryne clapped and watched from the church steps.

Wilbur was beginning to get worried. He liked the boy enough. Claude seemed the good, tough sort, but Wilbur could never shake his constant worry: what would happen years from now when Claude grew older while Ryne remained?

“Let them be children,” Woodrow said. “Ryne barely had any childhood. Listen to him talk! Have you ever heard him share his ideas so freely? And the laughter, who knew he had that in him?”

Wilbur’s unbeating heart soared during the times Claude made Ryne laugh, it was true. It was a rare sound, light and carefree. Wilbur wanted it stored in one of his many bottles.

“I like the boy, Woodrow. I am thankful for this friendship and I would never stand in the way of it.” At least not actively, Wilbur thought. “But what happens if Claude realizes that his friend stays small and veined for all time? What then? He would get confused. He would get scared. He would know all of Ryne’s secrets if Ryne told those to him. He could hurt him easily someday.”

“Then Claude will be grown enough to charm,” Woodrow said seriously, arms crossed. Wilbur winced. Woodrow did not like the idea either. His face pinched as if he tasted something sour. Woodrow shivered. “Let us hope that it does not come to that, especially that I am getting fond of him, myself.”

“You’re teaching him how to fight. He could use that against us.”

“I’m teaching him the most basic maneuvers for defending himself. Not enough to kill a man, only disarm. And even if he did, it would only mean that I know all his moves. I do not like it, but as I said, I could charm him, or Lydia, or even Annette when she gets older.” Again, the same uncomfortable expressions. “I never knew charming people would be so distasteful. And awkward.”

“And what would Ryne feel if you do that?”

“He would understand, I hope. And if he doesn’t? Well, we’ve got time enough for his tantrums to cool.” And then he recoiled. “Then again, we didn’t have this holy flame or kind flame or whatever we call his flame thing before. Do you think that means that this new power of his would fuel his rage?” With a look of alarm that was mixed playful and serious, Woodrow asked, “Could he ignite balls of flame from the air to burn me? I don’t know of any stories of Gaelmar where he hurled fire.”

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Before Wilbur could respond, Ryne appeared from the nave’s door. “What about the flame?” His tone was light. He appeared from the shadows touching a nearby pillar and joining Wilbur and Woodrow in the cloister garth. “Claude‘s gone home. He says thanks for the lessons.”

“Only that you are getting good at casting that flame from time to time.” Woodrow spun to meet him.

Ryne beamed and placed his palms out. They glowed faintly before sputtering out. “It is pretty amazing.” He was glowing himself, figuratively. “Oh, Woodrow. This is all I ever wanted.”

He keeps saying this. Though no matter how many times he would say it, Wilbur did not mind. He was glad for it. For years, Ryne was told he was useless. For years, this boy whom he viewed as his brother and charge thought that he was weak and powerless. Now he was finding his power in an environment where that was encouraged. Ryne was starting to learn that he was something more. Wilbur saw that. The confidence in him. He did not look so withdrawn. He did not hide under his cowl. Ealhstan, if you could see him now, Wilbur thought.

“I am glad,” Wilbur kept saying, too. He smiled at Ryne and smoothed his long hair. There was no mistaking it. His hair is growing long, curling over his ears. Wilbur told Ryne to sup and he retreated to the underground to work on the crops.

___

Wilbur stared at the two bottles containing the soil. His equipment was laid out on the faceless sarcophagus he claimed as his bed. Ryne has taken the sarcophagus next to him, while Woodrow slept on the one above him.

Though Abbott Blake has taken most of his past life and memories each time a new monastery has been constructed, he knew it took him decades to craft these rare flowers from the common flora existing around the land. And now that the common flowers were withering, Wilbur thought that perhaps these modified ones would soon replace them.

He tipped the two glass bottles onto two separate glass dishes and viewed them under the only microscope he owned. Now that he thought about it, Abbott Blake and Knox gave these to him when he first awakened into his dark self. They had told him it was a present, but after Ryne’s visions of their origins, maybe Wilbur had owned these tools after all, back when he was in what he thought was a university.

At first glance, the soil looked about the same, but with his keener eyes viewing the microscope, he noticed that the soil from the shivering maiden looked dry, while the soil from the everbane looked dry and loose and odd, like it did not retain its shape. Wilbur’s stomach growled again, breaking his concentration. The soil blurred and he fell to the side of the sarcophagus, lightheaded. He closed his eyes and tried not to focus on the hunger. He gripped the stone surface.

The voice of their dark Abbott stirred in him. “You know you cannot hold much longer. You have always been the weakest of the brothers.”

Wilbur calmly waited for the ghost of his Abbot to disappear. It was this time when Ryne prayed. Sure enough, Blake’s voice faded away. Ryne must have been glowing somewhere upstairs, probably at the foot of the statue of Saint Gaelmar.

When it had passed, Wilbur opened his journals and recorded his findings. In the absence of a quill and ink pot, he used a splinter of charred wood taken from under the cooking pot when they first ate of the animals residing in the dark forest. Scribbles on rough parchment echoed in the empty crypt. He was just about to finish when Ryne opened the secret passage and climbed down the stairs.

He greeted Wilbur with a small voice. He held out a feathered pheasant for Wilbur. “Woodrow already fed. I came to give this to you because I know you’ll forget to eat.”

Wilbur smiled and took the pheasant from Ryne, pressing his fangs to its neck. The warm liquid went down his throat. His strength was not replenished. The hunger was still there, aching, but at least it had been abated somewhat. Ryne looked sad as he discarded the drained bird. Last time, it tasted of broth, now Wilbur felt he was drinking plain water.

“I am sorry, Wilbur. If I can do anything to help you, I would.”

“I know,” Wilbur only said. Then he had an idea. “Why don’t you come help me here? Will your new powers sense what is wrong with the soil?” Wilbur did not tell Ryne about the different qualities of the soil, waiting for his theory to be proven without bias.

Ryne observed the equipment in front of him, and smiled, “It’s nice to see you working again.” He dipped his finger into the glass circular dish and pondered. He pointed to the shivering maiden soil. “This one is parched.” Then, Ryne pointed to the dish with the everbane soil. “This one is curious. It’s like the soil is scared of the flower it is housing and is preventing it from growing. It needs… fire and water. Like it is thirsty and terrified.”

Wilbur nodded. It is just as he deduced. He flipped through his journals and stopped on a page on the diagram and last recording of the types of flowers he had crossbred to produce the shivering maiden and everbane. He looked at the list of ingredients to make them and he saw the ores and the types of flowers he used. The theory holds. He just needed to retrace his steps.

Wilbur hummed. “The shivering maiden is easy enough to fix. We need the element harvested from ice quartz. The everbane is tricky. By my notes here, we need a mixture of one-third ice quartz to two-thirds fire opals. Plus a dash of cinder voids. The difficulty is finding where to harvest them all, especially the cinder voids. They only sprout near dormant pools of lava.”

“Claude says there might be minerals in the mountains near us. Mount Lhottem. I’m just not sure where the entrance is.”

They were about to plan when Woodrow called from the granges. “Brothers, you might want to come look at this.” He sounded worried.

Ryne and Wilbur traded curious looks before Wilbur folded the page of his journals and went out of the crypts and out towards the granges where the new batch of crops had begun to sprout. They saw the thing that concerned Woodrow as soon as they walked out.

Woodrow was in the middle of the granges, directly in front of the arched trees that formed a path from the dark forest to the monastery. He was staring at two different areas on either side of the forest path.

Near the main arched path were two other paths forming. The dark forest was moving, shifting, roiling like the sea as it created these paths. Like the embers of a flame or how fish flop on land. The trees walked eerily, carried by roots that crawled like spiders. Underneath them, the soil rose and fell, like a beast was burrowing underground. Instead of backing away, Woodrow inched toward it, wanting to inspect what was happening. Wilbur held Ryne back as he joined Woodrow, a few steps behind.

The forest suddenly stilled in their new arrangement, the burrowing stopped right at the edge where forest soil met Rothfield grange.

Then long, smooth, thick vines erupted from the ground and wrapped themselves around Woodrow and Wilbur’s waist.

“Oh, not this again,” Woodrow yelped as his hands dug into the vines. The forest carried him underground into the tunnels, voice echoing and growing distant.