Ruahron
Trusted by all at a time of war.
“I no longer visit the gardens I used to work in, but feel drawn to them nonetheless, and in quiet moments I have a favourite place, my back up against a particular red-stone wall that soaks in the afternoon heat and releases it to me gently as evening descends. Beyond the wall to my back are the working gardens, the ones I know so well with their clean lines of onions and potatoes, leeks and carrots and peas. The garden where I now sit is different. A working garden too. But here it is of herbs. Medicinal plants. It is Ruahron’s garden. And having seen him I come again and again until it is inevitable that by wholly contrived accident we meet.
“He acknowledges me but continues his work. In a kingdom of chaos, amidst people in a hurry, Ruahron’s very stillness draws my eye. He is tall. Perhaps 30. His head is shaved, though blonde should he allow it to grow, and his body is that of a warrior and not a priest. A story is there for me to uncover, if I choose.
“I dip my fingertips into the soil, and the soil tells me what I need to know. I need not rush this. There is no pressure here, to change myself or be something new or different. I can take my time and grow towards him naturally, until our relationship is that of seedlings facing the same sun. Over a season, acknowledgements become smiles, and smiles become words. And he becomes my still space. My calm. We sit together, our backs to the wall and our backsides to the dirt. And one day his finger touches mine. And it is the only feeling in the world that counts.”
