Little Goat Mountain the poem that took place of a mountain

Prior to speaking, he hadn't stopped to really think about the meaning of his words. He'd offered to do something that he knew he wasn't capable of, as herbs and plants in general were things that he knew nothing about. There was a time when he'd been interested in nature, but it'd passed him by long ago and without any useful knowledge having been left behind. Herbs had not once ever interested him, however, despite having spent a portion of his life within a den that was filled with them. He'd always despised the various scents, having deemed them to be overpowering and bothersome. There was no way for him to assist, and he knew it.

"I'm not a healer," he'd been forced to admit, looking away as he spoke. "I don't actually know how to fix it, but I want to help." Never had he looked back towards either of them, embarrassed by his own words, as well as by the fact that he'd made an offer that was impossible for him to follow through with.