Chapter Text
Up on a tiny hill in a poppy seed town lived a man with tired eyes and downtrodden shoulders. His hair was dark brown, not quite black, and his eyes were blue like wisdom. He was a quiet man who said very little and he spent most of his days in his bramble-built shack drinking tea and making honey from the bees he cared for out back. He wore many layers of clothing, so many that one could not seen his skin aside from his face and his hands. He had hundreds of herb bushes on his hill and he cared for them plenty and dearly, harvesting them only to sell their sweet produce every Tuesday afternoon in the market square in town.
His hill was a mile away and hidden mostly by thick shrubs and trees of the forest. He would hike down the skinny path with a stable staff to guide him, bundles of herbs upon his back. He sold his herbs fairly cheap and would often give them away free to those whom he felt could really use them, even if they didn't have the money. He’d tell them secret recipes for medicines or how to make a poor meal better. When the sun began to set, he’d pack up what was left and hike back to his hill. He would arrive just at the fall of dusk and make himself a vegetarian stew before playing his flute and going to bed.
In the morning he’d awake just as the sun arose and he’d hike down the back of the hill to the stream where he’d bathe in quiet seclusion. He’d dress before heading back to his home where he’d paint and write. He rarely read, though. He’d come out at noon to pick berries and tend to his bees and his herbs, feeding stale bread to the birds. This was the life of the quiet herb merchant up on the hill. But this now tired and lonely man had not always lived here.
About a decade ago, the man had arrived with barely anything to his name. Thin rags on his back and only 3 bronze coins, he begged the townspeople for a place to stay. He promised he’d bring them grand services for their kindness. They led him through the forest up an abandoned and overgrown path to an empty hill with dead grass and poor soil. They told him if he could produce something, he could stay. And he did.
No one ever questioned where the herb merchant had come from nor how he had managed to make such lovely herbs on what was once a desolate piece of wasteland. In fact, most of the townspeople did not even know his name, just simply as the, ‘Herb Merchant.’ But they should have asked. They should have never let this confusing man into their tiny village, but they did.
His name was Castiel and his life was about to matter.