Nitya Xeraic
Character
Nitya lowered herself beside him with an easy familiarity, scarcely giving any thought to the rich earth beneath her as she settled at the edge of the planting hole. She had spent enough years tending these gardens that a little soil on her clothes had long ago ceased to matter. It was simply part of the work, as ordinary as the scent of growing things or the breeze that wandered through the terraces each morning.
For a quiet moment, she watched Marrok instead of the sapling. There was something quietly remarkable about seeing him here, sleeves dusted with earth, hands occupied with something that had nothing to do with battle or survival. Earlier that morning she would never have imagined him kneeling in a garden with such patient concentration, yet now the image seemed as though it had always belonged. Somewhere between tea, conversation, and shared silence, he had begun to fit naturally into the rhythm of the monastery. She found herself unexpectedly glad that she had been there to watch that happen.
It pleased her more than she expected.
Not because he was following her instruction perfectly, though he certainly listened with remarkable care, but because somewhere along the way he had stopped trying to prove that he could do it correctly. Earlier that morning he would have measured himself against an imagined standard, searching for evidence that he belonged here before allowing himself to believe it. Now he was simply present. Learning. Participating. The difference was subtle enough that he might not yet recognize it himself, but she did, and watching it unfold filled her with a quiet happiness that settled warmly beneath her ribs. She could not remember the last time another person's growth had felt so personally rewarding to witness.
His observation about dirt being relaxing drew another soft laugh from her, one that lingered easily between them as she gathered another handful of loose soil. "Gardens have a habit of slowing people down," she said. "There are very few things here that respond well to urgency. Plants are remarkably unimpressed by our schedules." Her eyes sparkled briefly with amusement as they drifted toward him. "They tend to insist that we learn theirs instead."
Together they continued filling the space around the roots, their movements gradually finding an effortless rhythm. She noticed how naturally he now matched her pace, neither rushing ahead nor waiting for instruction, simply responding to what the work required. It was such a small thing, yet she found herself quietly cherishing it. There was an ease between them that had not existed when the day began, something built not from dramatic moments but from dozens of little choices to listen, to trust, and simply to remain present with one another. She realized, with a quiet sort of wonder, that she no longer found herself thinking about what to say next. Being beside him had become enough.
When he looked toward her and admitted that he was beginning to understand why people returned, her hands paused for just the briefest moment above the soil. The words settled gently within her, touching something she had not realized had been waiting to hear them. She lowered her gaze to the young tree for a heartbeat, giving herself a moment before looking back at him again. The warmth in her expression had become impossible to hide now, softened further by a happiness that felt too genuine to disguise.
"I hoped you might," she said, her voice scarcely louder than the breeze moving through the terraces. "People often think they return because of the place itself." She let another handful of earth fall gently around the roots, watching it settle into every small space. "Sometimes they do."
She looked at him then, her smile deepening with an honesty she made no effort to conceal.
"But more often," she continued gently, "they return because of the people who made that place feel like home."
For a moment, neither the tree nor the monastery seemed to occupy her full attention. Instead, it rested quietly on the man kneeling beside her, sharing the simple work of planting something neither of them expected to bear fruit for years. She found herself hoping, with surprising clarity, that those years would indeed come. That he would return to prune its branches, to water it through dry summers, to smile when it finally flowered for the first time. More than that, she realized she wanted to be here when he did. The thought arrived so naturally that she accepted it without argument, allowing it to settle beside all the other quiet hopes this morning had unexpectedly given her.
Only then did she glance back toward the sapling, tilting her head ever so slightly as she studied its position in the slowly filling hole. "We can correct its placement as the hole fills in with dirt," she said, her tone returning to its familiar gentle practicality. "The soil will alter its current setting a little as it settles around the roots, so this is the easiest time to make those tiny adjustments." A faint smile returned to her lips as she brushed another handful of earth into place. "Gardens are wonderfully forgiving in that way. They allow us to make small corrections before asking us to live with them."
Her fingers brushed lightly against the trunk to steady it for a moment, and in doing so they came close enough to his hand that she became quietly aware of its nearness once again. This time she did not hurry the movement away. Instead, she allowed the moment to linger for the briefest heartbeat, quietly savoring the simple closeness before returning her attention to the tree. It was a small thing, almost inconsequential, and yet she found herself hoping that, before too long, such moments would no longer need to be accidental.
Marrok Vorr
For a quiet moment, she watched Marrok instead of the sapling. There was something quietly remarkable about seeing him here, sleeves dusted with earth, hands occupied with something that had nothing to do with battle or survival. Earlier that morning she would never have imagined him kneeling in a garden with such patient concentration, yet now the image seemed as though it had always belonged. Somewhere between tea, conversation, and shared silence, he had begun to fit naturally into the rhythm of the monastery. She found herself unexpectedly glad that she had been there to watch that happen.
It pleased her more than she expected.
Not because he was following her instruction perfectly, though he certainly listened with remarkable care, but because somewhere along the way he had stopped trying to prove that he could do it correctly. Earlier that morning he would have measured himself against an imagined standard, searching for evidence that he belonged here before allowing himself to believe it. Now he was simply present. Learning. Participating. The difference was subtle enough that he might not yet recognize it himself, but she did, and watching it unfold filled her with a quiet happiness that settled warmly beneath her ribs. She could not remember the last time another person's growth had felt so personally rewarding to witness.
His observation about dirt being relaxing drew another soft laugh from her, one that lingered easily between them as she gathered another handful of loose soil. "Gardens have a habit of slowing people down," she said. "There are very few things here that respond well to urgency. Plants are remarkably unimpressed by our schedules." Her eyes sparkled briefly with amusement as they drifted toward him. "They tend to insist that we learn theirs instead."
Together they continued filling the space around the roots, their movements gradually finding an effortless rhythm. She noticed how naturally he now matched her pace, neither rushing ahead nor waiting for instruction, simply responding to what the work required. It was such a small thing, yet she found herself quietly cherishing it. There was an ease between them that had not existed when the day began, something built not from dramatic moments but from dozens of little choices to listen, to trust, and simply to remain present with one another. She realized, with a quiet sort of wonder, that she no longer found herself thinking about what to say next. Being beside him had become enough.
When he looked toward her and admitted that he was beginning to understand why people returned, her hands paused for just the briefest moment above the soil. The words settled gently within her, touching something she had not realized had been waiting to hear them. She lowered her gaze to the young tree for a heartbeat, giving herself a moment before looking back at him again. The warmth in her expression had become impossible to hide now, softened further by a happiness that felt too genuine to disguise.
"I hoped you might," she said, her voice scarcely louder than the breeze moving through the terraces. "People often think they return because of the place itself." She let another handful of earth fall gently around the roots, watching it settle into every small space. "Sometimes they do."
She looked at him then, her smile deepening with an honesty she made no effort to conceal.
"But more often," she continued gently, "they return because of the people who made that place feel like home."
For a moment, neither the tree nor the monastery seemed to occupy her full attention. Instead, it rested quietly on the man kneeling beside her, sharing the simple work of planting something neither of them expected to bear fruit for years. She found herself hoping, with surprising clarity, that those years would indeed come. That he would return to prune its branches, to water it through dry summers, to smile when it finally flowered for the first time. More than that, she realized she wanted to be here when he did. The thought arrived so naturally that she accepted it without argument, allowing it to settle beside all the other quiet hopes this morning had unexpectedly given her.
Only then did she glance back toward the sapling, tilting her head ever so slightly as she studied its position in the slowly filling hole. "We can correct its placement as the hole fills in with dirt," she said, her tone returning to its familiar gentle practicality. "The soil will alter its current setting a little as it settles around the roots, so this is the easiest time to make those tiny adjustments." A faint smile returned to her lips as she brushed another handful of earth into place. "Gardens are wonderfully forgiving in that way. They allow us to make small corrections before asking us to live with them."
Her fingers brushed lightly against the trunk to steady it for a moment, and in doing so they came close enough to his hand that she became quietly aware of its nearness once again. This time she did not hurry the movement away. Instead, she allowed the moment to linger for the briefest heartbeat, quietly savoring the simple closeness before returning her attention to the tree. It was a small thing, almost inconsequential, and yet she found herself hoping that, before too long, such moments would no longer need to be accidental.
Marrok Vorr
