Lately, I’ve been thinking about how much he does for others, and how little I’m able to help. He spends hours, sometimes days, mixing tonics and remedies, researching new methods, and tirelessly caring for the sick. Meanwhile, I’ve been… well, baking pies and chasing Blizzard around the tower.
That’s why I decided it’s time to change things. I want to help him—not just in small ways, like fetching herbs or boiling water, but really help. I want to learn how to make tonics, tinctures, and elixirs that heal and soothe. After all, magic is wonderful, but there’s something special about crafting something tangible, something physical, that can ease someone’s pain.
When I told Father about my plan, he looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded and said, "If you’re serious about this, it won’t be easy. Potion-making requires patience, precision, and a lot of trial and error. Are you ready for that?"
I nodded—though, to be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure if I was ready. But I knew I wanted to try.
The first thing Father taught me was the importance of ingredients. We spent an entire morning in the apothecary, identifying dried herbs, powdered minerals, and bottled extracts. Some smelled sweet, like lavender and chamomile, while others—like valerian root—smelled like wet socks. (Father assured me it was worth it for its calming properties, but I’m still skeptical.)
He explained how each ingredient has its own unique properties. Some are calming, some are energizing, and others are outright dangerous if used incorrectly. "Potion-making isn’t just mixing things together," he said. "It’s understanding how they work together."
After a long lecture on safety (which included a particularly vivid warning about mistaking powdered nightshade for ground cinnamon), Father let me choose a simple recipe to start with: a basic health tonic meant to boost energy and vitality.
The recipe was straightforward enough—boil water, add dried nettle leaves and ginseng root, simmer, and stir in a few drops of honey. Easy, right?
Well, let’s just say my first attempt didn’t go quite as planned.
I misjudged the amount of nettle and ended up with a brew so bitter it could’ve doubled as paint remover. Then I accidentally left the pot boiling too long, reducing the tonic to a thick, sticky sludge. Blizzard sniffed it once, sneezed, and promptly ran out of the room. Not exactly the glowing success I’d hoped for.
Father, to his credit, didn’t laugh (much). Instead, he guided me through the process again, this time emphasizing the importance of precise measurements and timing. "Potion-making is a lot like cooking," he said. "But with far less room for improvisation."
On my second attempt, the tonic actually turned out drinkable! It wasn’t perfect—the flavor was still a bit strong, and the honey didn’t quite mask the bitterness—but it was a start. Father even took a sip and said it was "adequate," which, coming from him, felt like high praise.
I’m still a long way from mastering potion-making, but that’s okay. Each batch teaches me something new, whether it’s how to balance flavors or why you should never grind herbs near an open flame. (The smell of singed rosemary still lingers in the apothecary.)
Most importantly, I’ve learned that healing isn’t just about the end result—it’s about the care and effort that goes into it. Every tonic Father makes is infused with his dedication to helping others, and that’s what I want to emulate.
I’m not sure what my next potion will be—Father says I’m not ready for anything too complex yet, which is probably for the best. But I’m excited to keep learning, to keep trying, and to eventually create something that can make a real difference.
For now, I’ll stick to the basics, but who knows? Maybe one day, I’ll be the one crafting the remedies that save lives. Until then, I’ll just keep practicing—and maybe keep a bit of extra honey on hand to mask the bitterness.
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