Tincture (131 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 1 review (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Hirilnara (View user info) at 2006-11-07 11:01:04 EST
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The strongest memory of my childhood was that of being beaten by my father. I was told, time and time again, to attend to my lessons in sword and strategy so that I would become a man worthy of bearing our family's name. I was the eldest son, heir to the family tradition, and reputation.
I never thought my place in the world would be something I'd have to question.
It all seemed so simple back then - I would become a great knight, like my father, and his father before him, and the generations before him; do amazing noble deeds, and proudly bear the family colours.
Our history shines in those tinctures - the red and purple, our courage and dignity awarded permanent status, crowned by a gold Griffin bravely clawing at the sky. Our entire bloodline is known for our bravery and our wisdom, in one way or another - and it's not only that. Our family always seems to excel.
My grandfather was a commander in the last crusade; his skill at fighting and dedication to his lord earned us our title, and our family home. If that wasn't enough, my father is strategy advisor to the king! His cunning has ensured our respect throughout the land; our name is said with awed reverence.
It goes without saying; I have a lot to live up to.
So far, I've been nothing but a disappointment. The meagre coordination I have comes from practiced, conscious effort - I had no grace or balance as a boy. I also had no love of the sword - I used to sneak away from my training to go and watch the wise women in the village preparing their herbs and potions. They always held more fascination for me than the dusty tomes filled with ancient, pointless wars I was meant to be studying. And that is why I was beaten. I tried; I wanted to be a good son, but being a warrior never appealed, and I could never see myself excelling at it in any way.
I wish I could say time has changed that, but I still have not found my place. My fighting is just about as good as any man who has trained for twenty years; certainly no better. I have no head for strategy, and my tongue flounders at any attempt of diplomacy. I almost expected to be the first squire in the realm to reach my twenty second year without being dubbed, but I scraped through somehow. I can't even manage to be noticeable in failure!
And now my father is ill; his health has been failing for the past year, but if the latest note is to be believed, he has very little time left. I was given leave from court at once - I would hardly be missed - and I've been travelling hard these past few days to make it back to him. I travel with the well wishes of the court, more advice from physicians than I could ever hope to remember, and a desperate prayer in my heart.
I can't lose my father; I'm not ready to stand alone.
There's a crack of branches overhead, and dark shapes tumble down to surround me; bandits. My horse, a true warrior, rears up, lashing out with hooves and teeth, but I'm too slow to react and an arrow digs into my arm before I can ready my shield. My armour might have protected me - if it wasn't back at court.
Cursing the bandits, and my own stupidity, I draw my sword, but it's too late; they've realised I'm not the easy prey they first thought, and are already retreating into the trees. Saved by a horse! I would give chase, but blood is already soaking across my shirt. I can do something to bind the wound, but I'll need to get to civilisation quickly. Hurling one last insult at their retreating backs, I urge my mount onwards.
It's hard to believe the years haven't rolled back somehow; there's the same smell of sage and lavender in this hut as there was around the wise women of my village. She's already prepared a poultice for my arm... charcoal and comfrey and something else - Lobelia I think - and now she's mixing a tincture to help ease my father's suffering.
I've told her what I know of his symptoms; the unnatural yellow tinge his skin has taken, the swelling of his legs and stomach, the spider webs of veins that have started to spread across his skin and the latest, most worrying development; his sharp wits and energy have all but gone, giving way to confusion and leaving a drowsy man who sounds like a stranger.
The rocking of the pestle is methodical, soothing... I can here her muttering to herself as she crushes the leaves.
"Milk thistle, and dandelion, and thyme. Rosehip syrup to make it easier to take."
It makes a strange sort of sense to me, and I find myself nodding. She looks at me, eyebrow cocked.
"You know apocathary?"
Blushing, I shake my head. Seeing her stare, I mutter to the floor "I'm a knight."
She frowns, and continues to crush the herbs, straining the liquid into a small vial. Then, watching me, frown still knitting her brow, she hobbles over to a collection of small bottles. She takes three of them, and drips tiny drabs into a small bottle of something amber.
She hands the two vials to me.
"This one," she holds up the first, milky mixture "Is for your father. It should help, a little. It would be more of a help if you had convince him to take less alcohol. And this one," she indicates the second "Is for you. It's a simple tincture - Almond, celery, and violet. It'll help you find your way."
Confused, I take them, and offer her a gold coin, but she just shakes her head at me.
"Glad to be of service, m'lord" she croaks, dipping into a surprisingly elegant curtsey. I manage a bow back, and leave, head swimming.
"Help me find my path?" I ask my horse as I wrap my father's medicine and tuck it into the pouch. He stares back, stoically. Potions and lotions don't concern him.
It can't hurt to try it. I twist the lid off, hands shaky and fumbling. At the first taste, I recognise the base - mead. It leaves a warm trail as I drink. I close my eyes and wait.
There's no sudden flash of realisation, no booming voice telling me the answers. I open my eyes sheepishly, and climb back into the saddle. Well, what did I honestly expect?
But, riding along, I can't prevent my mind from turning the list of ingredients over and over in my head. Almond, celery and violet; prosperity, mental clarity and peace. If anything should have cleared my head, and made my future clear, it should have been that. I know it was the right mix...
It's odd - I've always had more of a head for herbs and their properties than any facts or logistics I was meant to remember. The way they could be blended, to bring out their inner strengths, always made sense for me. The right combination could do amazing things - if you applied them correctly...
And it's as easy as that. Half formed thoughts and ideas suddenly match up, and I realise why I've felt so out of place for so long. I've always done as others thought I should; never considered my strengths and how they'd be best applied.
But to turn against my father, my duty, is almost unthinkable. This is all he's ever wanted for me. Can I truly place my own crazy wishes over everything else? As always, when I look for guidance, my eyes fall to the colours on my shield.
The tinctures there spell my family's identity.
But the mix isn't right for me.
I have no idea what lies ahead; maybe I never truly will. But this time, as I ride forward into the unknown, I feel I'm on the right path.
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Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-06-05 12:18:54 EDT (#)
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