#herbalist reader

If you cannot find a fanfic guess you have to write that shit yourself, part 2 of me drinking beer and writing fanfiction... This time its a beer from Munich I found in my grocery store, Italy has good beer imported<3 Better for my American beer taste :P Gonna be a longer one because I have like hours and hours instead of a solid 45 minutes and when I start something I like to finish it

another note: I'm making reader with a small attitude also not super violent because i don't feel like writing gore:( light yandere until I feel more violent

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(Note: I believe this art is from Hidekaz Himaruya himself, correct me if I'm wrong)

The village of Trelleborg (I think that's an actual village) hidden withing the valley by the sea secret kept by the mountains. Pine forests stretched out in hills and mountains in the hills, dark silhouettes rising behind timber longhouses with sod-covered roofs, some of them puffing smoke into the brittle evening air. It is late autumn—the ground is cold underfoot, The sky is golden and the smell of cooking meats from the markets and some homes fill the air.

Near the edge of the village, tucked between the blacksmith's forge and the goat pens, stands your little shop a modest building of rough-hewn logs, moss-chinked and timeworn. A carved wooden sign swings above the doorway, marked with runes Dried herbs hang in bunches rattling softly like bones in the breeze.

Inside, the air is thick with the earthy perfume of dried flowers, tree resin, and smoked roots. Bundles of juniper, lavender, and angelica hang from the rafters, casting long shadows in the golden candlelight. Clay jars and carved horn containers line rough shelves, each marked accordingly this is your system of knowledge passed down from generation to generation. Mortars and pestles of stone and wood sit atop a central worktable, stained with the colors of crushed berries, leaves, and bark.

This is your shop, your little world quiet but never still. The door opens often: a fisherman with a swollen knee, a mother cradling a fevered child, or a warrior seeking treatment for wounds not yet earned. You trade whether that be with silver bars or something to eat or perhaps something to build with. You were someone villagers often came to in times of need or perhaps some kind of wisdom before an adventure.

Like usual, The door swung open with a gust of cool wind and the smell of sweat and blood. You looked up from the mortar you were grinding it was marshmallow root and crushed willow bark, meant for a man with a winter cough. You looked up at the three young men in your shop.

They were young probably barely past their first raids, by the look of them. Leather armor still half-buckled, cheeks flushed from exertion, and fresh cuts glistening on their arms and shoulders. One of them was pressing a blood-soaked cloth to the side of his neck, more annoyed than alarmed. Another limped slightly, and the third grinned as if he just returned from Valhalla itself. You recognized these men; Mathias the village chief's son, Lukas the fisherman's boy, and the tallest yet the youngest Berwald, The blacksmith's boy.

“(name),” Mathias said, wiping his boots on the threshold without asking. “We’ve come from the training ring. Got a bit too carried away with our axes.”

"A bit?" muttered Lukas with the neck wound.

You set down your pestle and stood slowly. You didn’t need to ask what had happened. You could smell iron in the air and see their torn tunics.

You moved without another word, reaching for a jar of comfrey salve and a roll of linen. Your fingers worked with precision, practiced and patient. let them sit in their own silence for a while.

The men looked around at the shop as they waited, eyes flicking from bundles of dried nettles to jars of pickled mushrooms and sealed clay pots. Berwald whistled softly, low and uncertain.

“Feels like a witch’s den in here,” he muttered under his breath.

You finally looked up, your gaze sharp. “You came here bleeding, not praying. Keep your tongue if you want your leg to keep moving.”

The room went silent.

You began with the neck wound. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was dangerously close to the vein. Cleaned it with a cloth steeped in yarrow and mead, ignoring Lukas' wince.

“If you swing your axes like fools,” you added, binding the linen tight, “you’ll end up in Hel before you ever see a real battle.”

Mathias chuckled “Better here than dying in the dirt with no one to find you.”

You gave him a look. “There are worse things than dying in the dirt. Trust me.”

When they left, patched and chastised, the warmth slowly returned to the shop. The herbs still hung unmoving from the beams, the fire crackled softly, and the scent of crushed roots lingered in the air.

You thought that would be the end of it, just some warriors on their way out the door. You couldn't be bothered with village politics or marriage because you had a shop to run and you wouldn't let that go to waste.

You had assumed it was the last you'd see of them. Warriors came and went. But barely a week passed before one of them was at her door again.

This time it was Berwald, though the limp was mysteriously gone. He claimed he’d been cursed by a draugr in the forest and needed a charm of protection. You gave him a pinch of dried elderflower in a leather pouch and told him it worked best if he kept his mouth shut for three days. He left looking confused.

Then, two days later, Lukas returned he was holding his finger like it had been nearly cut off.

"A splinter," he said grimly. "From the firewood."

You stared at him. “You’ve swung an axe since you were ten, and a splinter is what brings you back?”

He nodded solemnly. “It’s deep.”

You fished it out with a needle, slapped his hand with a poultice for the dramatics, and sent him on his way. But not before he glanced over his shoulder at the shelves like he’d forgotten something. Or hoped he had.

And then, of course, there was Mathias, that grinning bastard.

He came most often.

At first, he brought vague excuses: a bruised rib, a burn from the forge, a headache that came only in the evenings, after ale. Each time he wandered her shelves with interest that didn’t quite match the wound. He asked the names of her herbs. He pointed at dried roots and asked if they were dangerous, if they were used for killing or healing.

One morning, he brought a bundle of wild mint, poorly tied with a strip of leather. “Found this near the river,” he said, setting it on the worktable like an offering. “Figured you might use it.”

You stared at it. The stems were muddy, half of it already wilted. “You want me to thank you for tearing up the roots?”

He grinned wider. “Just trying to help.”

“Then stop.”

But the next time he came, you found yourself setting aside a piece of bread for him, placing it near the tea you had steeped. And when he or the others didn’t show up for a week maybe off on some border skirmish or maybe just busy sharpening charm with other women in the village.

When they returned they were just as loud, laughing, teasing each other over some ridiculous injury again, You weren't smiling at them. But noticeably your hands moved faster, preparing the salves before they even asked.

It was foolish, maybe. You had healed dozens of warriors, seen them pass through like wind. But these three had the look of strays who’d wandered in from the woods and decided to stay. Especially Mathias, with eyes too bright and questions too curious for a man who claimed to care only about war and politics.

Since the three of them had begun their habit of “needing” Your help, You noticed something strange.

The other men in the village you know the ones who used to stop by your shop for salves or lean too close when asking about herbs had starting avoiding you. They still nodded in passing, but they didn’t linger. Some wouldn’t even meet your eyes.

At first, you thought nothing of it. A woman alone with her work didn’t have much time for gossip. But when even old fisherman stopped bringing you fish on market days, you started to wonder.

Then one day you saw it...three shadows at the edge of the square, leaning on a fence post like they had nowhere better to be. Mathias spotted you first and lifted a hand in lazy greeting. Berwald gave you a nod. And Lukas just crossed his arms, the faintest smile ghosting across his mouth.

They suddenly remembered they had other business.

Later, when the warriors came to your door again, laughing as though they hadn’t just frightened off half the village, You set your pestle down with a thud.

“Did you threaten someone?” you asked annoyed.

Mathias feigned innocence. “Us? Threaten? We’re peace-loving men.”

“Peace-loving,” You repeated flatly. “You carry axes in your sleep.”

Berwald shrugged. “We didn’t threaten anyone. Just talked.”

“About what?”

He hesitated, and Mathias jumped in. “About how anyone who bothers our healer might find themselves short a finger. Or a tongue. You know...”

You stared at them, torn between outrage and(god help her) a flicker of warmth you didn’t want to name.

“You’re idiots,” you said. “All three of you.”

“True,” said Mathias, stepping close enough that you could smell pine smoke on him. “But we’re your fools, aren’t we?”

You glared at them.

“Get out,” you said.

They did not.

They didn’t leave.

You crossed your arms and waited for the usual laughter to fade, but it didn’t. The air shifted. The men were exchanging glances you couldn’t quite read.

“What is it now?” you asked, more weary than sharp. “Another splinter? A ghost in your stew?”

Mathias leaned against the doorpost. “We were talking,” he said.

“That’s dangerous for men like you.”

“Maybe,” said Lukas, his voice like gravel. “But we’ve come to an agreement.”

you raise a brow. “About what?”

Berwald's mouth twitched. “About you.”

Silence hung in the room.... heavier than smoke.

Your world went still, feeling your heartbeat quicken trying to keep your tone even. “You’ve had too much mead.”

“Not enough,” said Mathias softly. “We’ve decided you’d make a fine wife.”

Your hear jumped in your throat. “Whose?”

then all three of them smiled, each in their own way.

“That,” said Lukas, “is what we were arguing about.”

You stared at them, these men who had brought you chaos and laughter and silence in equal measure and realized the truth of it they weren’t joking. Not entirely.

“You think you can make such decisions without asking me?” you said.

Mathias spread his hands. “We were going to ask. Eventually.”

“And if I say no?”

“You don't get that option” Berwald said quietly.

For a moment, the world was closing in. These foolish men who thought the gods had granted them claim over your heart.

" I have rights, you know." You urged, more scared than anything.

" Well, as village chief's son...I kind of wave that kind of thing, Afterall it three of us and one of you are you willing to take that kind of chance?" Mathias smirked, he shifted his weight leaning on the door with his arms crossed.

You cannot escape, you're fucked.

Time skip to like 10 months later~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Seasons turned, and the strangeness became the shape of your life. No one quite remembered when it stopped being a rumor and became truth, that the healer had taken 3 husbands.

It was easier to accept once Mathias, became chieftain. Order followed him. Very few dared speak against the chief’s will. And for all the whispers, the village was well-kept, the winters easier.

You worked alone most days, her shelves lined with herbs and quiet. Yet the cottage no longer felt like your escape, boots by the door, laughter by the hearth, weapons leaning where drying herbs once hung.

Sometimes you caught the women at the well watching you, eyes filled with curiosity or fear or maybe jealousy? The men only nodded, respectful yet distant.

You were caged here, but its not like you'd survive on your own When the three of them returned from the forest or the sea, you'd scold them for muddying the floors, attempting at making something normal of this all.

Still, she never forgot who she was before them, although the struggle for that power was impossible. She had to make this her new normal, she'd freeze to death in the forest before spring.