Wilbur worked diligently with the seeds Claude had given Ryne, scrutinizing them through his microscope. His unique eyes allowed him to see beyond the surface, noticing details others couldn’t. He observed the fibers in human skin, how youth kept muscles taut, stretching the skin smoothly, while age caused it to sag and lose strength. He glanced at his own skin—unblemished, unmarred, and smooth like marble. Unlike Ealhstan, Wilbur had no memory of his past life, save for the skills and knowledge he had accumulated. He suspected that, in his former life, he was no stranger to failed experiments, constantly in need of bandages and balms to soothe his skin.
Wilbur started with the oats, then moved on to the barley and lentils. He crushed them with the pestle and mortar, experimenting with various combinations to rejuvenate the seeds. His unique sight guided him, offering clues about what to mix. Like the spreading sickness, the seeds needed amethyst—a symbol of the air element in alchemy. It needed to be breathed back to life. So, Wilbur asked Ealhstan to crush more amethysts into fine powder. He boiled, burned, and swirled the mixture, filtering it with spring water, running it through long tubes, adjusting the flames. Ryne watched him during the nights.
After many attempts, Wilbur finally produced several bottles with different shades of liquid. The lilac-colored one, he found, revived the seeds. He dropped a few droplets onto them and watched as they glowed from purple to golden. The withered seeds transformed, rejuvenated with new life. Wilbur handed the bottle and puch of new seeds triumphantly to Ryne, who hugged him and called him a genius.
“Tell Claude to plant these seeds away from their withered crops. Tell me if it works in their field. And bless them, Ryne.”
Now, Wilbur waited for the results.
In the meantime, Wilbur tended to his garden in the middle of the cloisters. The common herbs and flowers were flourishing, their vibrant colors a quiet joy amidst the stone. He kept to the outer edges, nurturing the mint and roses, his own shivering maidens, and the everbanes. He had learned to avoid the center, where the soil was still disturbed, but his gaze finally lingered there. The white roses, growing quietly over the grave, stood in stark contrast to the brutality of the earth that had nourished them. At least the thief, in death, had served a purpose.
Wilbur heard a rustling behind him and turned to see Gabriella standing at a distance, squinting uncertainly. His pale hand waved in acknowledgment, and she relaxed, her posture softening. She approached, offering a small bundle of dry herbs.
“I’m afraid these are the last I can give you,” she said, her voice tinged with both concern and relief. “It’s good to see your patients recovering.”
Wilbur took the herbs and slipped them into his pocket, his smile warm despite the lingering weight of his thoughts. He knelt and began gathering fresh herbs from his own garden, letting the rich scent of the plants rise around him. “These came from you,” he said, carefully selecting the healthiest specimens. “Look at how they’ve thrived. I couldn’t have treated them without your help. Please, take these and plant them in your garden. They’re yours now.”
Gabriella hesitated, her gaze lingering on the herbs in his hands. She then slowly pulled her arms back, her voice soft but firm. "Thank you, Brother monk, but it will not grow in our soil. I am glad it flourishes here, but... do not give it to me."
Wilbur didn't press her further, but he placed the healthiest herbs into her basket with a gentle smile. "Then come and take some from time to time," he insisted before she could protest. "I’ll leave them for you. And here," he added, offering a small vial of glowing medicine, "take this with you as well."
Gabriella looked at the bottle, her fingers tracing its smooth surface before she carefully placed it into her basket. Then, with a warmth that surprised him, she smiled at him and placed her hand on his cheek. The simple touch was grounding, a reminder of kindness that lingered longer than any remedy.
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Wilbur's eyes narrowed as he noticed the mint shrub had been stripped bare, the leaves gone, leaving nothing but the bare stems behind. A flash of anger stirred within him, his fingers tightening into fists. This wasn’t the first time something had gone missing.
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He moved quickly, slipping through the shadowed halls of the infirmary, ensuring no one was left inside. As he snuffed out the candles, the flickering flames died with a hiss, leaving the room cloaked in a heavy darkness. He stood still, letting the silence settle around him like a thick cloak, waiting, watching. His senses were heightened—the faintest rustle of movement in the distance, the creak of a floorboard, all the signs of a trespasser.
Tonight, his hunger had been sated. There would be no danger of him losing control, but his patience had worn thin. If whoever it was proved stubborn, they would find themselves caught by more than just his wits.
The quiet night stretched on, filled only with the soft thrum of his heartbeat.
Wilbur's eyes narrowed, the faint rustle of footsteps drawing his attention. The shadows near his garden shifted, and he saw them—five small figures, creeping cautiously along the path. Their movements were hesitant, furtive, as if they expected to be caught at any moment. The dim light from the moon revealed their faces, pale and strained with fear.
They were children.
The eldest boy whispered harshly to a younger girl, urging her to pick the herbs that Wilbur had carefully nurtured. His voice was sharp with impatience, though his own hands trembled as they snatched the mint and other plants. The girl, her face pale and pinched with anxiety, reached shakily for the bright green everbanes. Her fingers brushed the delicate leaves, the tips trembling as if the very act of stealing made her heart race.
Wilbur stepped forward, his presence unseen for the moment, his gaze lingering on the small thieves. His mind raced with questions—why steal from him, of all people? Why these particular plants, the ones he had so carefully tended?
His hand twitched, the weight of his next move pressing on him like a weight.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Wilbur’s voice was smooth, but there was an edge of coldness beneath it as he stood in the center of his garden, his figure emerging from the shadows like a quiet storm. The moonlight caught his pale skin, casting a spectral glow over him. His eyes flicked toward the little girl, whose hands still hovered over the everbanes, trembling, and then to the boy who seemed to have taken charge.
He stood tall, his chest puffed out. His voice cracked with the weight of his guilt, but he still tried to hold himself steady. “We didn’t mean to,” the boy said, his words spilling out hurriedly.
Wilbur tilted his head, his gaze not leaving the children as they huddled close to each other. The little girl’s lip quivered, and he could see the fear in her eyes as she looked at the plants, then up at him. “Why did you do it?” Wilbur repeated, his tone gentle but unwavering.
He did not answer. Only looked down. Wilbur noted their shabby clothes, torn and burned. These were the ones from the ransacked and abandoned villages. They stole because that was the only thing they were taught. To survive.
Wilbur smiled softly at the children, his pale face warm. "Come with me," he said, his voice gentle but firm. The children shuffled behind him, their small hands grasping each other for comfort.
He led them through the dimly lit halls of his infirmary, the flickering light from a flint casting long shadows on the stone walls. Inside, the air was warm, a faint smell of herbs and the lingering scent of old wood. He gestured to one of the cots, inviting them to sit. As they settled, he moved to the cupboard, pulling out a pot of warm soup. The aroma of broth filled the air as he poured it into bowls.
Wilbur offered the children the soup, watching as they hesitated, their eyes wide with uncertainty. Then, with a patient gesture, he extended his hand. They looked at each other before timidly handing back the mint, the petals, and the herbs they had gathered. Wilbur took them without a word and, from his pockets, retrieved Gabriella’s old shriveled herbs. With a careful touch, he added them to the soup, the brittle leaves crumbling softly.
He stirred the mixture, then placed a spoonful in front of each child. "Eat," he said quietly, watching as they hesitated no longer.
Wilbur's voice remained calm, but there was an unmistakable authority behind it. "You can't take from my garden anymore. The soil here in Rothfield is special. It’s what allows crops and flowers to thrive. If you take more than you need, there won’t be enough for others—children even frailer than you. Do you understand?"
The children, quiet and wide-eyed, nodded as they sipped their soup. Wilbur’s gaze lingered on one of them, his expression softening. “I use these plants for medicine, for food, for people like your grandfather, and your sick friends. I can’t help them without these.”
The weight of his words hung in the air, and the children fell silent, their spoons pausing mid-air. The leader of the group looked down, his face flushed with shame. “We promise we won’t do it anymore,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper.
Wilbur gave them a small nod, his features softening. "Good. Now, finish your supper, and go home to your families."