5 Lothron (May), Third Age 2995
The air near the ruins of Osgiliath always carries a tang of ash and stone, a bitter scent that speaks of long-fallen glory. Yet among the broken marble and shattered pillars, life stubbornly clings to the edges of ruin.
It was during one of my forays with the Rangers of Ithilien that I found it—a hardy plant with silver-veined leaves and small, violet-blue flowers. It grew defiantly in the cracks of a sun-baked courtyard where once the kings of old might have walked.
Curious, I knelt to study it. The roots ran deep into the fractured stones, drawing unseen strength from the hidden soils below. The plant exuded a faint, spicy scent, unlike any herb I had encountered before. I carefully uprooted a small specimen and took it back to the Ranger’s camp to examine it under more patient conditions.
Over the following days, I tested its properties. Crushed leaves steeped in hot water produced a bitter tonic that slowed bleeding when applied to wounds. A poultice of the petals eased swelling and bruising. Even the roots, when dried and ground, seemed to aid in knitting broken flesh.
The Rangers quickly took to calling it “Kingsfoil’s Cousin,” though it was no athelas. Its power was humbler, but no less vital. In the skirmishes along Mordor’s edge, where orc blades and poisoned arrows took their toll, this resilient herb became a quiet savior.
I cataloged it under the provisional name “Stoneleaf” in my journals, noting its resilience, its preferred environment—abandoned stonework warmed by the sun—and its cycle of blooming in the waning spring months. I pressed several samples between parchment, hoping to bring them north for cultivation in Ithilien’s safer glades once the darkness receded.
Among the ruins where hope had once faltered, something new had taken root. A small thing, perhaps, but in Middle-earth, small things often prove the most enduring.
And so I continue my work, tending the hidden gardens of a world still worth saving.