°Basya°

It was getting late in the day. The sun was setting, painting the sky in crimson hues. The Villagers, having finished their work, were returning to homes. They were eager for dinner and rest. The voices were fading, and the footsteps were becoming less frequent. Only the laughter of children calling out to each other could be heard in the distance. The village was sinking into the silence of the approaching night.

However, the library was still bustling with activity. Candlelight filtered through the windows, revealing two figures hunched over a table.

Alves stood next to Vardy. He rested one hand on the edge of the table, and with the other he pointed to a page covered in ancient runes. His back was straight, despite his age, but his shoulders were tired from the day's work.

"You've messed up again," he said patiently, tracing a line with his finger. "The base of this rune starts here, then curves smoothly, and ends with this stroke. It should be smooth and continuous."

Vardy was sitting at the table with his head down. His glasses had slipped down onto the tip of his nose, and his fingers, clutching the pen, were stained with ink. There was a piece of paper in front of him, excised by unsuccessful attempts. Every time he drew a rune, it turned out to be either too angular, or blurred, or just plain wrong.

"Here..? Or is it?" he muttered, making another attempt.

Vardy ran his pen over the paper, but it came out too abruptly. The ink spread out in an ugly blotch, destroying all his efforts. He closed his eyes for a moment, then removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"I can't do it," he whispered. "Why can't I make it work? I'm trying so hard..."

Alves smiled softly. He also knew that feeling when your soul is burning with the desire to do something important, and your own helplessness is letting you down.

"You're overexerting yourself. Enchantment is not a skill that can be mastered in a month. Some give it years, and even whole decades. Right now, your arm is tense, you're shackled."

He pushed the damaged sheet aside and placed a new, clean one in front of Vardy.

"Try again. But now don't think about failures. Don't be afraid to make mistakes — that's also part of ways."

Vardy chuckled bitterly.

"I don't want to let you down. You've put your faith in me, entrusted me with the library, given me this job, and I..."

Alves sighed and reached out to place his hand on his son's shoulder. But Vardy pulled away. Not rudely or resentfully, but with a sense of shame.

"Hush, son. I understand how difficult it is to learn. I once spent hours repeating runes until late at night. And I was wrong too. You still have time."

Frost sat nearby, in the shade of the bookcases.

He tried not to draw attention to himself. He sat on the edge of a window bench, holding an open book about herbs in front of him. An hour had passed, or maybe more, but he hadn't read a single word. Instead, he listened to Alves' voice, his patient explanations, Vardy's short breaths, and the rustling of paper as the pen fell from his hand.

Outside the window, the sun had almost set. Alves looked up, from the darkening sky to his son's tense shoulders, and removed the quill from his fingers.

"That's enough for today. You're tired, son. Every mistake seems like a disaster right now, but it's not, Vardy. You're an excellent librarian. Enchantment is just a small part of your work. Don't let it overshadow everything else."

Vardy opened his mouth, ready to object, but Alves just shook his head.

"Tomorrow. We'll try again. With a clean slate and a fresh head. Go now. Get some rest."

Vardy exhaled, feeling his anxiety go away. He wanted to insist on his own, to say that he had to, that he was capable. But the fatigue was unbearable.

The former Librarian gathered up the scrolls, picked up a heavy book, and placed them on a shelf. Then, straightening his collar, he headed for the door, but at the threshold, he turned around.

"See you tomorrow, Vardy. Just don't stay up too late, okay?"

Vardy nodded mechanically, not even looking up. His father's words fell on deaf ears as he returned his gaze to the sheet of paper, where a chaotic mess of curved lines awaited him.

The door clicked shut, and Alves was gone. The library fell silent, with only the crackling of the candle to be heard.

Vardy couldn't fight like Frost. He couldn't heal like Maron. He couldn't build like Lumi. But the worst part was that he couldn't even do the thing he'd become a librarian for.

"Maybe," he said softly, more to the ceiling than to anyone alive, "maybe it's just not my thing."

The words hung in the air. Frost looked up from the book he hadn't even read. He knew that Vardy was waiting for an answer. But words were never easy for him. However, now he saw how much his friend needed support and could not stay in place. Frost got up and approached the table, bending over the sheet of paper

"You want to benefit the village, but you're already doing so. Every day. You're keeping the records. You're helping people find answers. I know your father is proud of you. He said you'd try again tomorrow. Father didn't give up, and neither should you."

Vardy blinked. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, but he held them back.

"Thank you," he said, and adjusted his glasses.

Frost nodded and stepped back.

"I'll be going. It's already late at night. You need to rest. Good night."

The door closed behind him.

A cool breeze blew into the room. Vardy took a deep breath and relaxed.

Maron woke up long before dawn. Over the years of his service, he had become accustomed to waking up at this time. Outside the window, the pre-dawn silence reigned. The village was just beginning to come to life, with chickens crowing, and Maron was already standing on the porch, enjoying the fresh air of the taiga.

Old age did not spare anyone, not even the priests. His bones ached, and his steps were difficult to take every morning, but Maron did not allow himself to linger. He had a job to do, and it awaited him.

He walked along the well-trodden path past the houses, peering into the sleepy faces. Basya was already carrying two watering cans, humming softly. The library was already lit up. Frost was nowhere to be found. He must have gone back to the forest.

Everything was going as usual. Maron chuckled approvingly, straightened his cassock, and continued on his way.

•••

As the sun rose higher, Maron returned to the church. It was dim inside, and the air was filled with the scents of incense and dried herbs hanging from the walls.

He lit the torches, adjusted the cloth on the altar, and ran his hand over the book on the pedestal. It was just as old: the leather binding was cracked, the pages were faded. But it still held the secrets of the herbs, roots, and forest potions he had once collected.

He opened the cupboard and took out a mortar and pestle. He laid out the bundles of herbs on the board and began to sort them with a soft rustling sound. His fingers moved slowly but with confidence, like those of a true master.

Suddenly, the door opened without a sound.

Maron did not turn around. He recognized the sound of footsteps even before the door hinges creaked.

Lumi. She burst into the church like a little hurricane. Her tail was wagging merrily from side to side, and her ears were sticking out in all directions. In one paw she held an apple, and in the other a strange stone she had found on the road.

"Maron!" she cried out in her own language. "Good morning! You're up already! I knew it! I thought, 'Maron is definitely not sleeping, because he never sleeps.' It's so weird. Are you even sleeping?"

Maron remained silent, continuing to grind the herbs in the mortar.

Lumi came closer. She tilted her head and studied Maron's hands.

"What are you doing? What is it?" she asked, surprisingly quietly. "It smells... grass and bitterness. Like the bark of a pine tree after a rain. The medicine? For whom?"

Maron didn't react. He knew that if he spoke, Lumi would start talking incessantly, never giving him a moment's peace.

But Lumi wasn't going to back down. She walked around the table, sniffing each pile of ingredients: mint, dried chamomile, dark licorice root. Then she put her nose to the mortar and inhaled so deeply that she almost sneezed.

"Can I eat this?" Lumi blurted out, reaching for a bunch of herbs.

Maron calmly replied:

"Don't touch it."

Lumi pulled back her paw, resentment flashed in her eyes. Her tail whipped up, and she exclaimed:

"You're talking! I knew you were only pretending to be silent! Say something else! Please, please, please!"

Maron looked up and sighed.

"Lumi, I'm making a cold remedy. If you want to help, sit over there on the bench, put your hands in your lap, and don't breathe on my herbs."

"I can help!" she declared. "I helped Frost carry the planks, and no one got hurt. Well... almost no one. Once, a plank slipped and hit him on the leg, but he didn't even cry out. So it doesn't count, right?"

"Lumi."

"What? I want to help! I can... uh... what can I do? How about cutting the root? I'm good at that. I'm very careful when I cut."

Maron looked up at her. Her multicolored eyes were filled with enthusiasm, and even the old Cleric felt a tug in his chest.

"So you want to help?"

"YES!" she shouted so loudly that a bird flew out the window.

Maron moved a little, making room on the edge of the table.

"Come here. Take the mortar. Grind these leaves. Slowly, like you're petting a kitten. Not too hard. Got it?"

Lumi nodded so vigorously that her ears twitched. She carefully placed the apple on his notes, which he had written with a trembling hand the previous evening. Maron crossed himself quietly, hoping the juice wouldn't ruin the ink.

Lumi took the pestle.

"Like petting a kitten" she repeated. She dipped the pestle into the mortar and began to grind the leaves with unexpected care. "I can pet kittens! Basya has a lot of them, I've overworked them all, and they love me. Once, one cat even purred, as if he were talking "thanks"...

Her movements were awkward, and her fingers often slipped off the pestle, but there was sincere diligence in every gesture. Her face, usually carefree, was now so serious, as if she were doing something important.

“Good,” Maron said. “Now take this root and cut it finely."

He handed her a knife. Lumi looked at the root, then at the blade and her fingers, and froze for a moment.

“What if I cut myself?”

Maron smiled. For the first time that morning.

“You won’t.”

Lumi gave him a grateful look and began to cut. It wasn't very even, but it was determined.

About half an hour had passed. She had managed to chop the leaves, cut the root, albeit unevenly, and put everything in a small clay pot, pouring water from a bucket. Occasionally, she would ask questions: "Why is this leaf dark and this one light?", "If I add an apple, will it taste better?" and "Does Frost really drink this disgusting thing?"

Maron stood nearby, resting his hand on the table, and for the first time in a long while, he didn't want her to stop talking.

"Now we need to let it steep," Maron said when the work was done. "Thank you."

"You said 'thank you,'" Lumi breathed in amazement.

"I know how to thank people. I'm a Cleric, not an emotionless rock."

"But you never talk!" She exclaimed, clasping her paws. "You usually keep quiet, nod, or look at me in such a way," she made a stern face, copying him, "that no one knows what you're thinking."

Instead of saying anything, he reached over to the table, picked up an apple that was lying among the notes, and handed it back to Lumi.

"You're free," he said softly.

Lumi took an apple and smiled with only her eyes. She turned to the door, but stopped at the threshold and turned back.

"You're a good old man."

The door slammed, leaving the Elder alone.

He looked at the pot of tincture. Nearby, there were traces of Lumi pads on the mortar.

And also a stone. She left it on the table.

He reached out and took it. Heavy and smooth. An ordinary river stone, of which there are hundreds in the vicinity. But this one seemed different for some reason.

Maron placed it on the edge of the table.

And standing at the altar, looking out at the morning light through the stained glass, he allowed himself another rare smile.

"That's it," he said quietly.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

My first mini-story