Healing Hands
She fled. With no purpose, no real destination, green skirts gathered, boots slamming against the ground. Tears coursed down her cheeks and sobs escaped her as she fled from her home and violent father. He had been drinking again, over her mother's death, and Gracia knew he would try and beat her as he did so many times before.
Red curls flying and rain pouring down her face, she stumbled through the shoddier streets of Corus planning to seek refuge at the castle. Her parents had been a duke and duchess, and well-known in court until bandits attacked and killed the duchess when Gracia was a young girl. Her father then took his money and spent it ruthlessly on brandy and fine wines, sinking the remaining family to the borderline of poverty.
The young woman, at the age of five, knew there was something wrong with her. Every time she would be playing in the grass, a tingling would shoot up her hand and the grass would perk up. She remembered her mother would sometimes go to pick herbs from her garden when ever someone was sick, and bring them medicines. In a sense, her mother wasn't a duchess, but an herbalist, sent from the Green Lady to heal. That's how Gracia liked to put it.
Now her mother was dead, and with her Gracia's childhood dream of following in her mother's footsteps. Gracia also remembered her mother's kind blue eyes, her laughing smile and soft golden hair, and more tears came to her bright green eyes as she ran through the rain.
She saw a stable near the castle and forced tired limbs to reach an open stall. Upon reaching it, she tripped and dragged herself to the warmth of the hay, falling asleep immediately.
What now?