Sage winterwood's Arc

Chapter 9 of 29

Sage sat in the dust where the spell had left her. The wide new soil stretched before her, dark and ready. But her hands shook too hard to hold a seed. Her glow had faded to a weak flicker. She reached for her seed pouch and dropped it. Even lifting her arm cost her breath. The earth was waiting. She could not plant a single seed. Footsteps came across the ridge. Sage lifted her head. Aquaria walked toward her, tall, her blue dress moving like slow water. Behind her came Terros, stern-faced, carrying a bundle of light wood on his shoulder. The silver buck trailed at his heel. Sage's oldest friend knelt beside her and touched her cold hand. "Look at you," Aquaria said. Her voice was soft but firm. "You poured your own life into this ground. Now you can barely sit up." "The garden needs planting," Sage said. "I have to—" "You have to rest," Terros cut in. He set down his bundle of wood with a heavy thud. "The soil will keep. It will not run off while you sleep." He crossed his arms, but his hard eyes had softened. "We did not come to watch you crawl in the dirt." Sage stared at the pile of wood. "What is that?" "You will see," Aquaria said. She smiled and helped Sage to her feet. The two gods worked through the afternoon. Terros lifted beams and set posts deep into the earth with his bare hands. Aquaria shaped the walls and coaxed vines up the sides. Purple flowers opened along the frame as she passed. Sage watched from a blanket, too weak to help, her throat tight. By dusk a small cabin stood near her garden. Light wood, flower boxes at every window, a low porch, a warm door. "It's for you," Aquaria said. "So you can stay close to your plants and still have a bed." Terros grunted. "You slept on a cot in a shed. A goddess who feeds the earth deserves a roof." Inside, they had laid out a meal on a wooden table. Roast meat with gravy, green beans, carrots, mashed potatoes, thick slices of bread. Steam rose from every dish. Aquaria filled a bowl and pressed it into Sage's hands. "Eat," she said. "All of it. You gave your strength away. Take some back." Sage ate. The warm food spread through her like sunlight. With each bite her hands steadied. Her glow, faint before, began to brighten at her fingertips. She flexed her fingers and felt real strength return. When the plates were empty, Sage stood. She walked to the door and looked out at the dark, waiting soil. Her glow lit the porch. For the first time since the spell, her hands did not shake. "Tomorrow," she said, "I plant." Terros nodded. Aquaria squeezed her shoulder. Sage had her strength again, and a home beside the ground she would fill.