Hugh shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand. It was a hot summer day in the mountains and the sun seemed to lightly sear everything it touched. Among the endless blue of the sky there was not a single cloud to grant relief from the scorching yellow orb.
"Grandma, it's hot. Do I really have to keep gathering these herbs?" Hugh frowned. All the little green plants looked the same to him. He only noticed the difference whenever he accidentally picked one with thorns.
Niime leaned against her staff. Her old, cragged face was hidden partially beneath her cowl. "You'll pick the ingredients I need until we've got enough," she said.
"But I must have picked half the mountain clean by now!" He sighed in exasperation.
"That's because you keep picking the wrong ones. Hurry up or I'll leave you out here all night." She pulled her cloak further over her crossed arms as though she were cold. Hugh mused that her icy attitude was freezing her from the inside out.
"Would you at least help me out a little then?"
"You're learning to pick herbs because you're pathetic at dark magic, you idiot." Niime growled. "Fourteen and you can barely read a tome. Your father and uncles would be disappointed."
The mention of his father struck Hugh hard and he turned away. Examining some green leaves sticking out from under a rock gave him an excuse to hide his face while he blinked away any sign of weakness. Niime despised weakness, especially when he showed it.
Hugh tried tugging the plant out from under its stony oppressor but quickly let go when he felt a sharp pain. The seemingly harmless stem had been covered in tiny thorns and they'd left a series of shallow punctures along the palm of his hand. Hugh bit his lip to keep from yelping in pain.
"Grandma, could you please heal my hand with your staff?" He looked over at her and smiled warily.
Niime sighed in annoyance and hobbled over. She grabbed his hand roughly and held it close to her face so she could see the wounds properly. "You want me to heal this? Why would I waste my staff on something so small? Pathetic boy, complaining about silly little wounds that won't kill you." She threw his hand back at him and wrinkled her nose in disgust. "You're completely useless then, aren't you? Off with you."
Hugh blinked, not understanding. "Wait, are you sending me home?"
Niime scowled. "Of course I am, you idiot! You can't even do a simple task like this. Go home before you embarrass yourself further".
He sighed, dusted his hands and walked away. The sun was still high in the sky and the heat distorted almost everything in sight. Hugh looked down at his hand and saw that the edges of the punctures were starting to turn purple. That plant must have been poisonous.
Would my father have healed me if he were here? Would he really be disappointed in me?
Hugh didn't remember much about either of his parents. Usually they were just slivers of memories, dancing at the edges of his consciousness and always just out of reach. His most prominent memory was the smell of parchment and faint voices, but he could never understand what they were saying.
Niime was rarely helpful. She preferred not to talk about his parents if she could help it and usually avoided the issue by hitting him with whatever she had handy, usually her staff or a broom.
Straining his mind as much as he could there was still only parchment and dust. Sometimes there would be a floral scent but it was always gone before he could recognise it. He reasoned this must be his mother, there was no way that cold Niime would have ever smelled like flowers.
Hugh kept an eye on his hand as he walked down the mountain. Behind him, in the distance, Niime knelt down and gathered the last of the herbs she needed. Before she got up she pulled a wispy plant with a weed-like appearance from the ground. It was dotted all over with the tiniest blue flowers, each no bigger than the head of an ant.
"I'll have to slip this into his dinner tonight," she mumbled "that'll fix his hand right up. Wouldn't want the idiot to think I was coddling him."