"Ah..."
She had been at it for quite some time, a sad state of affairs as she did not quite know when she needed to finish, and she still had a journey to make back to Bree-lands... not to mention the time for preparation, bottling, and packaging. This would be the last item on her list, a list that had been growing unpleasantly shorter day by day, as the woods and fields of the Shire, rich and plentiful though they were, yielded little in the wake of the new Spring. Of honey there was none (she managed to trade for some, in exchange for a pouch of powder of rose madder), of nettle she had found only a few small leaves, and of athelas she found but a single shoot without flowers. The last item she had few hopes for, for the winter was late in its waning. Yet, at long last, in the northern parts of Greenfields, she had found it: a spread of young yarrow, sporting its first tiny buds.
Kneeling down, she examined carefully the bounty before her. It would not do to haphazardly tear the plants from the earth, not for the least reason that it would be murder to the plants. Ever was the precious balance of life a critical factor in the Elf's heart; not as wasteful as mortal Men, her healing was not limited to cuts and bruises of the flesh. No, young as she was in the eyes of her kin, she had always wished to see the bigger world laid out before her, ever seeking beyond the horizon, yet mindful of every blade of grass. The Wise would perhaps think of this as a good first step for a student.
Drawing a small knife from her coat, she deftly cut a leaf here, a stem there, one only from every shoot she could find, and only if it was hearty enough to survive the violent theft. Ancient words, powerful beyond her small capabilities, fell like sparkling rain, words of gratitude and respect and apology, and the promise of a spring of healing. By the time she had scoured the grove, she had collected but two handfuls of yarrow... not enough to fulfill the request, but taking more would cause the very injury and murder she was trying to prevent.
* * * * *
A brilliant campfire lit up the northern slopes of Bree Hill, where the Chetwood thinned into a wide plainsland. The Red Elf sat with her mortar and pestle, grinding herbs to powder. She had spent too long in seeking the materials, but the guilt she did not allow to weigh upon her, and poison her heart. No problem could withstand the assault of sustained thinking, and though she would never admit to being clever, her failures in collecting the stock would be balanced by how she prepared it.
Few people indeed wandered into these lands; on rare occasions a shepherd or horse-master would graze their animals close enough to see the subtly-arranged camp, but that was rare. As such, the only creatures who heard her singing were the night-beasts; foxes and wolves on the prowl, wild coneys searching in the moonlight for fresh clover, the occasional bat who lingered long enough. Words sweeter than honey fell from her lips, as soft and warm as a summer's breeze; t'was a spell of old, or so Men would call it, that would bring forth the healing qualities of the dried herb. Such "magic" she made a point to keep close to the chest when she walked among Men; one only wishes to be labeled a 'witch' once in their lifetime.
A pop from the campfire briefly drew her gaze; hidden within the glowing-hot coals were two clay bottles, having been left to dry the past few days while she was away. By late morning she would remove them and clean them, and begin filling them with ointment and tincture. For now, though, she recalled the last time she worked with clay... it seemed long ago, even by the reckoning of Elves. Perhaps it was her recent return from the Shire that made the memory burn so bright. Alas that the gift would no longer sound as it once did.
* * * * *
Though the spring warmth was fighting tooth and nail to push back the bitter, clinging winter, the cozy hearth of the Prancing Pony never went amiss. In her usual spot the Elf sat, but no book on her lap this time; much work she had done to prepare the order and the shipment, yet much had gone awry, and much more needed to be said; words that she would not be their to deliver herself. And so she wrote, detailing the precise methods of collection and preparation for each item in her stock. The dried herbs she had not the time to allow the Sun to bake, and was forced to cheat with the use of an open flame. The tinctures were made especially potent, and should be diluted one part to one hundred. The leaves were young, and so their effects would be mellowed in this area, but not in that. As with any art, every colour had its shade.
Sitting at her side was a squat, peck-sized box of tightly woven reed, reinforced with straight shoots of oak-branch. Twine was used to hold the six sides together, with the top lid hinged and held by a hook and loop fastener, with ample slack to secure it for travel. The contents within were neatly packed with fluffy straw and sturdy vine. Among them were several strips of various barks including willow running the whole length of the box, a number of identical pouches of folded parchment written upon which were the contents both in the Sindarin Tengwar and the Common Cirth as well as a curious 'y'-shaped rune. This rune appeared also on the dozen ceramic vials, each of which also carried labels and a carefully carved bark stopper. The last item to go into the parcel would be the detailed instructions written in triplicate, the ones she was penning this very moment.
Now and then the squeaky hinges of the tavern door would call her attention away from her writing; Miss Halmarna said she would be leaving in a few days, but that was a few days ago... it would be a shame to miss her.
