The Head In My Hands

Wind blew through the open windows, ruffling Marley’s hair and forcing him to readjust his position. He didn’t want the precious willow root he was crushing with his mortar and pestle to get caught in the breeze and scatter. Beside him, his cauldron full of water, sugar, and monk fruit powder steadily heated towards boiling. A spoon enchanted to stir every few seconds.

The room was warm, yet that ever-present chill lingered.

He shifted his grip.

Ms. Sinclair had been prescribed seven different potions by her care team—three for general healing, and four for more specific needs: anxiety, immune support, nervous system, and cardiac.

It wasn’t unfamiliar to him. Marley had brewed many of these same potions for himself over the years, trial and error guiding him until he found something that helped. For a moment, a thought flickered—Was that what this is? Could he—?

No. Marley wasn’t a healer anymore.

He shook his head, as if nothing more than clearing an old etch-a-sketch. He focused back on the willow root. Both the root and bark were commonly used for their healing properties, useful not only in potions but in rituals as well. This specific batch required a large amount, so he continued crushing enough to fill the entire mortar.

The rhythmic grinding of the pestle against the stone bowl was soothing, almost meditative, as Marley worked.

But….

Despite not being a healer anymore, Marley can’t help the curiosity. Besides, it wasn’t like he wasn’t allowed to look at patient files– he just preferred not to. He wasn’t on their care team, after all.

He set down the mortar and pestle– out of reach of the wind– and grabbed the thick binder he’d been sent along with this assignment.

Flipping it open, he leafed through the pages, and– oh, wasn’t that familiar. Ms Sinclair, but- not truly a “Ms” at all.

Cerys Sinclair, eight years-old.

Usually, when the files were referred to someone by a title and their last name– it was because they were older, typically much more.

Oh.

The pages listed the symptoms in detail: bouts of fatigue, unexplained fevers and episodes, joint pain…

He flips another page.

Her case had stumped several healers, both magical and non-magical. Marley’s fingers trailed over the lines of notes, recognizing the familiar marks of frustration in the margins—comments from her care team grappling with the mystery of it all. No definitive cause – one healer had written – Symptoms suggest an immune disorder, but nothing we’ve tried has worked long term.

This too, was familiar, this desperation from the crowd. He can almost feel her through the paper.

He sighed, leaning back slightly in his chair. He knew the toll this kind of illness could take. The endless trials of potions and treatments, the waiting, the hope that would flicker and then fade again.

Now, The prescribed potions made sense, but there was an edge of uncertainty in them too, like the healers were reaching for anything that might give her relief.

It was a familiar push-pull, the desperation to try something new, anything that might help.

And eight… eight…

Marley was eight.

Eight years old when things changed, relatively slowly, then worse and worse as he got older– as if instead of ageing his body eroded. His magic had turned against him in a way no one could explain. The thought of someone so young already facing that kind of future filled him with a sense of dread.

Gods– he was thinking too hard about this–

But, He stared at her name on the page, imagining what her life must be like. The missed school days, the doctors and healers, the potions, and the uncertainty that came with waking up each day not knowing if it would be better or worse. The fear of hoping for improvement, only for it to fade as new symptoms emerged. It was a childhood stolen in pieces, much like his had been.

She's getting help though. She’s not being forced to wait.

The cauldron bubbles.

Marley swallows down the lump in his throat, and closes the folder, setting it back down on the desk. Turning back to the cauldron.

He lifted the mortar and watched as the finely ground willows root fell into the cauldron with a soft hiss. The powder hitting the boiling liquid and shifting, mixing and deepening from a pale amber to a dark and rich, almost earthy brown. With a taste that Marley knew intimately was sweet in the way rose petals were, and earthy the way dirt was.

The scent of herbs and roots mingled with the faint smell of steam, filling the room with an aroma that felt as old as time itself. Water guilds behind his eyelids, and he blinks it back.

He stops the enchantment on the wooden spoon with a wave of his hand, taking it into his palm and slowly, methodically, cautious not to disturb the tension, stirring the powder into the liquid. Bubbles rose to the surface, but adjusting the heat was hardly an issue, a wave of his free hand to keep it from boiling over and that was that.

Potions like this one were meant to be treated with care, not unlike people, too much pressure and the ingredients would lose their strength, too little and they wouldn’t fully dissolve– no matter the temp.

When working, it was the only time his hands didn’t shake. Typically due to years of confidence and experience, but this time due to a thickening blankness overwhelming his thoughts.

He swallowed back a heavy weight, one that had been steadily building since opening Cerys files.

This life was surely unfair, to think, to live in a world with so much magic– with so much intermerging technology– and to still suffer. His heart ached for her, in a way he couldn’t put into words.

At least…

At least she was getting help.

He nodded to himself, pulling out the spoon and letting it rest on the side of the cauldron. She was getting help. The fact that she had a care team—healers who had prescribed a range of potions tailored to her needs—meant that someone was fighting for her.

Not every family could, or would care to, afford that. Even with payment plans being a possibility, not everyone could afford the years of financial strain. Hell, he didn’t even know if Cerys' family could afford it, but they were. They were doing it. They were making sure she got the treatment she needed, no matter the cost.

He–

The potion darkened further, settling into a deep, warm hue. The one it was supposed to be. He picked up the spoon and began stirring again, letting the repetitive motion soothe his thoughts, however little. He could– he wanted to–

Marley wasn’t the smartest kid growing up.

But back then… he’d been so eager. With big dreams, dreams of becoming a master healer, of helping people in ways no one else could, of creating worldwide cures and antidotes. He remembered how excited he’d been when his magic first manifested, when he realised that he had a rare gift that set him apart from others.

He’d been something.

He had something.

But the excitement hadn’t lasted long. His illness had crept in slowly, like shadows at the edges of his vision, until it consumed his life completely. At first, it was just the little things: muscle aches that wouldn’t go away, headaches that lingered for days. Then came the exhaustion that no amount of rest could cure, the constant, nagging pain that radiated through his entire body, the tremors in his hands that made it difficult to hold his potion tools steady. He had fought against it, had tried to keep up with his studies at Covenwood, determined not to let his illness define him.

But it did define him.

He thought of all the things he’d had to give up. His dream of becoming a healer had been the first to go. The irony wasn’t lost on him—how could he heal others when he couldn’t even heal himself? The rigorous demands of the job, the long hours, the emotional and physical toll it took… It was too much. He had barely made it through the training, and even then, it had been a losing battle.

Eventually, his body had forced him to make a choice.

Marley felt a pang of regret, thinking of the version of himself he had been, the bright-eyed boy full of potential and hope. He hadn’t imagined a life where his world would be defined by limitations—by the things he couldn’t do. He had wanted to make a difference, to be someone important in the world of magic, not someone who stayed home brewing potions in the quiet solitude of his sunroom. He had wanted to travel, to learn, to explore the depths of healing magic, but those dreams had faded as his body betrayed him, one symptom at a time.

His throat tightened, he swallowed the weight again, stubbornly.

Sometimes, the thought gnawed at him, especially in these quiet moments of waiting, of thinking.

With five children to care for, his parents were always stretched thin. They’d done what they could, he knew that, but the resources, the attention, the money… it had never been enough. There were times, late at night, when he imagined a different version of his life, one where his parents had fewer mouths to feed and could afford better doctors. Maybe they would have caught his illness earlier. Maybe they could have gotten him help before it became something too big, too overwhelming to handle.

Would it have even made a difference?

He liked to think it might have. Maybe if the money hadn’t been spread so thin, he could have seen a specialist. Maybe there would have been treatments available, potions or spells that could have stopped the progression of his condition, before it became what it was now. Maybe he wouldn’t have had to give up so much. His dreams, his future, his health.

But he’d never know. What happened had happened and his family never tried. There had been too many needs and not enough resources to meet them all. And somewhere along the way, he had slipped through, unnoticed until it was too late.

He gave a sharp shake of his head, and turned back to work, stirring away the bubbling of the cauldron. He… couldn't afford to get caught up. He could actually be doing something.

With a focused exhale, he reached for the next batch of ground ingredients – Elderberry, again– carefully measured and sorted into small, organised piles. Something he had done the night before, because unlike willows root, elderberries didn’t need to be prepped fresh.

He poured the finely crushed herbs into the simmering pot, watching the mixture swirl and change colour as it accepted the new additions. The bitter yet fruity scent filled the room, comforting, grounding him in the present.

He stirred slowly, keeping a close eye on the potion’s surface. It was on track—so far, so good. Satisfied, he set the spoon aside and let the mixture settle, timing it in his head. Five to six minutes, no more, no less. Any longer, and the potency could shift, potentially altering the effectiveness of the potion. He leaned back slightly, giving the brew space to breathe as it bubbled softly in the cauldron.

The rhythmic bubbling filled the silence, helping Marley clear his mind. He focused on the task at hand, watching the gentle rise and fall of the liquid. The process was calming, and though his thoughts tried to wander back to darker places, he refused to let them. This was something he could control. This was something he could do right.

As the minutes ticked by, he absently wiped his hands on the front of his apron, the fabric already smudged with dried herbs and potion stains. He checked the mixture again, making sure it hadn’t thickened too much or started to bubble over. Everything seemed stable.

Marley set the spoon down again, and dried his hands off, again, leaning back in his chair. The wood oddly grounding despite its age.

He reached for a sheet of parchment.

Merlin's Rest had always been a place where employees were treated with respect and care, but this request felt... personal. More personal than any potion he had brewed before.

He picked up his pen and dipped it in ink, the tip hovering again for a beat before he began to write. He didn’t need to sound overly formal, but the hesitation remained. He glanced over at the simmering pot, watching the steam rise lazily into the air before he turned back to the letter.

It's not like him to get attached to patients, especially considering he didn’t technically have them, since he no longer worked in office.

But Ms Sinclair… Cerys had a future, and something within Marley wanted her to know that she did, even if it was different than what she dreamed, even if it hurt. He wanted her to hear it from him.

He swallowed, the weight of the words pressing on him. It felt strange to put it out there so openly. He needed the chance.

He set the quill down and leaned back, reading over the letter again. The knot in his chest didn’t loosen entirely, but it was a start. He knew he could trust his boss, even if this request felt outside the boundaries of his usual work. There was something about this girl that stirred an ache in him—a need to help, to see the process through with his own eyes.

A mirror.

And it wasn’t about pity. It was about seeing his work in action, watching the care he put into every ingredient, every step, make a difference. He could almost picture her, this little girl with an unknown illness, maybe scared, maybe hopeful. He wanted her to know that someone cared, that her struggle wasn’t going unnoticed. Maybe, in a small way, he could be a part of her healing journey.

The potion sparkled in the cauldron next to him, Marley slid the letter across his desk. He’d send it with the post in the morning.