[CW: depression mention, suicide attempt; summary in episode description]

With as gentle a touch as I can manage, I brush the leaves away from Pop’s cairn. The little white stones are packed densely, able to resist what winds and weather come through for a few years at least. There’s an empty spot on Pop’s, though. The very last stone is his, meant to be held up by all the rest of the stones in the village, each cairn a promise to care for the memories of those lost.

Grieving families often hold on to that stone, at least for the first year. The first anniversary of a death is referred to as the Final Calling, when the departed soul’s stone is laid to rest at the top of their cairn and left in the memories of those who knew them. There's no shame in grieving for more than a year, just delays to that final send-off.

Mom still hasn't left the house, but at least this year I was able to attend the Day of Beginnings. She ate some food in the morning and went back to sleep, where I found her that afternoon. Last year I was too afraid she would try something.

Standing, I roll my neck, pausing with my face raised to the sky to wish a silent curse on Kontis and his shitty blonde servant. I've been seven for a day and I know there is someone in this world I hate with everything that I have. It's obnoxious, really, that such a cruel act performed in passing is able to reach so far into my life, even make me enjoy time away from my own mother's all-consuming depression. If I see that blonde again, I'm gonna tear them to pieces.

I’m barely two steps out of the burial grove when a now too-familiar voice approaches.

“Hey, Kalle,” Parke says, waving nervously. I jump slightly, stopping in my tracks, but immediately regret reacting. He’s a nice kid and all, but there are limits to how much pity I can take from one of the few people my age. I wish I'd made friends before turning five.

“Hi, Parke,” I reply, taking no measure to hide my distaste. It goes right over his head.

“Did Eden kick the stones over again?”

“No, it was just some leaves, probably from the wind.”

He glances around awkwardly.

“So, uh, it’ll be two years today-”

“Listen, Parke, I have a bunch of errands to run. Have a nice day, or whatever.” The 'whatever' is aimed well away from him as I hurry off. I do actually have an errand to take care of, but it’s not exactly urgent or time-consuming. I just don’t want to talk about my dead dad with a seven-year-old in his awkward, must-always-be-talking phase.

Across town I knock on Egg Man’s door, taking a parcel from the satchel I now habitually carry. It hangs to my right side, a wide strap over my left shoulder pinning my loose tunic in place. Another gift from taking care of myself: poorly-made clothes that don't really fit right. Heavy footsteps precede the door opening, and that familiar booming voice greets me loudly.

“Ah, young Miss Kalle! How are you today?”

“I’m fine, Mister Doil, just bringing your order over,” I say, offering the parcel. He accepts it with both hands, eyes lighting up.

“Fantastic as always I’m sure! But please, call me Henni. Medicine makers needn't cling to formalities like titles. Here, come inside for a moment, Dinah’s made a fritter pie for you and your ma. Oh, but don't you go telling her I said so!” He doesn’t wait to see if I follow his beckoning hand before disappearing inside, heading for what I imagine in the kitchen. I step inside the door, leaving it ajar so the gentle breeze outside follows me out of the hot sun.

The Doil household is cozy, all warm leathers and furs on the furniture for sitting, while the rest is some kind of hardwood stained almost black. The walls themselves are painted black proper, and dozens of wall-mounted crafts made from feathers of all kinds of colors gleam as light from the windows glows around them.

It’s a dazzling sight, and I spend my wait time taking in the various patterns made of impossibly colorful arrays of feathers until a quiet cough draws me away. A thin silhouette is peeking out at me from another room.

“Oh, hello Mrs. Doil.”

She waves, ducking a little, then points to the feather pieces and signs to ask if I want one.

“They’re beautiful, but no thank you, I couldn’t,” I say, shaking my head. She gives me a small smile, then signs a longer question I don’t know all the gestures for. Henni returns with a covered basket just as I’m shrugging, fairly clear in my confusion, and he glances at his wife. She repeats the question to him, and there is a notable pause before the lampincker rancher turns to me.

“Here you go, Kalle,” he says, offering the basket. I check under the towel over it to see fluffy yellow with a thick sheen of lard, steam rising from the whole thing. Egg, tater, sausage, pork belly, and seven kinds of spring greens waft up to my nose, and I have to swallow a few times to stop from drooling.

“Thank you very much!” I say, directing my words more at Mrs. Doil than at Mr. The wife swats him on the shoulder, and he sighs, rubbing his head.

“So," he starts again, looking all the more uncomfortable for it. "We were hoping to hear some news about your Mom, maybe? Point of fact is, we know things have been hard for you and your ma, and that charity starts to feel like pity after a while, but with the patrols missing more and more critters as the year wears on-”

“Thank you, Mr. Doil, Mrs. Doil,” I interrupt, giving them both a small nod again. It's all I can do to keep a tight-lipped smile on my face. “I will convey your concerns to Mom. I really need to go now.” If they weren't so predictably persistent about trying to squeeze info about Mom from me, I'd even think they were good town elders instead of remorseless gossips.

“It's not a matter of her responsibilities, Miss Kalle. We're all just concerned, Moell's been a good neighbor for years, and we haven't even seen her since Derran's burial."

I want to hold back. To tell them it's a private matter, a family issue that isn't hurting more than our ability to regularly eat meat. But he has a point; they've known Mom longer than I have. It isn't fair to keep everyone else at arm's length from her just because I'm the odd one out.

“She’s… not great." The words are thick in my throat as if they are heavier than all of the fears I've been carrying until now. "I like to tell myself she’s been better, that she's getting better, but she barely leaves her bed. Lately, she hasn't been sleeping well, either. I’ve made her a potion to help, but there's no magic cure for depression. Pop... he didn't leave a recipe for that." I trail off, then remember where I am. "A-Anyway, I have to go, bye!”

I’m out the door before they can react, not quite sprinting away until I can duck between some houses at the far end of the row. It takes more than a few deep breaths to regain my composure, but before long I’m heading through town, aiming to head for home.

It took almost a year for me to be able to claim Pop's old work. Even now, I know my creations are still largely subpar, no matter how much praise the neighbors heap on me. My fingers are too stubby and small, my arms too short, and my skill too undeveloped to properly measure and mix the ingredients as Pop's instructions describe. That I managed to make a potent enough version of his anti-anxiety poultice to serve as a narcotic was an accident and revelation I'm not keen to repeat, especially in light of Mom's condition.

Especially when I’m still not brave enough to tell anyone Mom’s hardly taken more than broth for meals since the day Pop died. Testing medicines on myself that could result in a coma or worse wouldn't be worth the results they could achieve if the risk is leaving Mom alone. I can't see her surviving that.

The path home in summer is made of brilliant sun, green trees, and grass scattered with rocks where they overtake soil. What dead leaves remain from before the freezing temperatures are hardly composed enough to crunch underfoot, and the sounds they do make are drowned out by the rush of the stream's few falls.

I trudge home through it all, keeping my eyes peeled for precipitous treefalls or washouts in the trail that need shoring up. Not that I'm any good at it, since magically packing the soil down as gently as I can results in a surface akin to polished marble, but it's far better to focus on the search than any unruly thoughts the quiet and solitude might coax from the corners of my mind.

Once the path finally winds far enough from the stream, and the woods start to thin, I run out of hazards to be wary of. My defenses become internal, and I jump to the first thing I always do.

"Three parts 'sim, two parts stone, two parts zini, stomach aches are gone. One part 'sim, one san, one stone, work until the night is dawn. Ziicea, honey, verbathus, and stone, for mending wounds new or old." I speak with the cadence of my stride, trying not to think about why I know them, why I need them. "Two cuts lampleaf in potion and drinks, lilac for poultice and medicine stink."

Twenty-three recitations. Seven hundred and thirty-six steps, from the stone which marks the stream's bend to the front door of our house. The door itself looks good, though it's becoming a bit burned by the sun. I remind myself to break out the nasty oil again as I pull it open.

I step inside my home, repeating the marching cant to myself even as it separates in rhythm from my actual footsteps. The pie goes into the oven, ready to be heated once it's time for dinner. My satchel goes inside the herbs cabinet door, and I give the main room a cursory glance. Nothing seems disturbed, which means Mom probably hasn’t gotten out of bed yet. I try not to feel too disappointed, as she was much the same last year.

I knock on her door before poking my head inside. She’s laid out on top of her bed covers, hands loose on her stomach, and as I pause to take in the odd sight I start to realize she's far too still.

“Mom?” Before my voice reaches my own ears I’m next to her, a hand around her wrist, a finger under her nose. I feel nothing.

"Mom!?" I shake her, to no avail, and put my head on her chest. The faintest thump in the universe floods me with furious purpose.

I’m screaming internally (and maybe externally as well) as I tear through the herbs cabinet, wrenching jars from the shelves. I couldn't feel her breath. The good thing about Pop's storage system is he weighs all of his ingredients, storing them in portions he can fairly guess the use of. I was out too long. Twenty potions and poultices usually mean two jars' worth of allusim, a jar of stone pepper, she felt so cold, and less than that for anything else, and twenty is easily a season's worth of work. Easy to restock while out foraging. Mom is dying I'm moving too slow.

Most importantly, since I'm in a hurry, it makes for easy math. One part allusim, one part sanam root, one part stone pepper. I empty the jars into the biggest bowl in the kitchen, not bothering with the counter, sifting them together with a clawed hand because I don't have time. My fingertips are raw when I stop to pull a bundle of lampleaf from the crate under the worktable, ignoring my aching hand as I wrench whole leaf from the neatly-tied parcel.

I don't really notice how many there are. Why did I leave her alone today? It doesn't matter anyway. I tear the leaves in two and cup them in my hands, heating the torn leaves until my palms are screaming because I was too weak to stay and the blue liquid is flowing over the burns, into the bowl the mix of ingredients.

So much pours from the leaves that the bowl is filled nearly to the brim, far too close to not guarantee a spill if I stir it vigorously with a spoon, let alone my hand. I scream at the unmixed potion, wordless frustration and fury that it's killing her because I'm too slow and I reach for my magic. The liquid whorls, eddies, but refuses to spin, to mix, refuses to fucking deal with breaking the rules and my throat is hoarse, my voice raw, my grip pushing divots into the bowl where my fingers are crushing the long-lived copper. "Just save my Mom already, you fucking asshole plants!"

When it finally breaks, when the resistance shatters and the blue catalyst obeys my will like water, it's almost comical how fast it absorbs the ingredients. As if a moment of contact was all it required. I don't enjoy the relief, too busy grabbing a mug from the cabinet and dipping it into the bowl and rushing back to Mom's side because that took too long, and what if I'm too late and what the hell even happened and that took so fucking long...!

She's flat on her back, leaving no way to give her the potion that wouldn’t put it into her lungs instead, but I hardly hesitate at this point. Seeing me use magic makes Mom visibly worse, so I typically refrain from the reminder, but she's in no position to complain right now.

Air puffs up the covers of her pillows under my direction, stacking them against the headboard high enough to support her head to tailbone, and then I lift the bedsheet wholesale to drag her up into a seated position. It's tricky work, but I don't waste time grabbing loose corners to better catch the updraft.

Everything in the room rattles, the dust flying about. The very moment I finish moving Mom, I’m on the bed kneeling next to her, tilting her head back and pouring the potion down her throat, and please god let this fucking work I'll even start praying I'll even use a capital G just please, please, please...

The thing Pop made sure to mention about potions in his journal, on every single page with a recipe, and twice on pages just filled with his thoughts, is that potions, like magic, are almost more about intent than materials. Knowing what the potion is supposed to do might create a tepid brew, but a strong desire or fierce will can heighten the effects of already potent recipes into unbelievable miracles. His concern was that intent can invert the effects of a potion, especially if the desired effect strays too far from the potion’s designed purpose.

Pop's energy potion isn't exactly meant to drag someone from the brink of death. It’s a terrifying wait to see if she will wake up, and all the more as fears and doubts set in while the moments of nothing is happening!? tick by. I desperately pray I didn’t just poison her more, guarantee the death I’m trying to stop, and my breath catches shorter and shorter as I wait.

And wait.

And wai-gasp. She coughs, takes another rattling inhale, and groans out the air. This repeats, and I put my head to her chest again, sobbing in time with the heartbeat there, irregular but growing stronger, more even by the moment.

I cling to her with everything I have as my heart rate finally starts to slow, and the rushing in my ears dulls to a faint roar. Mom is murmuring something, but it takes too much effort to focus over the sounds of my own slowly-dissipating fear.