Work Text:
His hands were dirty.
Perhaps he should have worn gloves. It was typical, he knew, when doing this kind of work. A barrier to protect oneself from the elements, keep toiling hands clean. But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to. He needed to feel the earth in his hands, the fragile stems and leaves beneath his fingertips, the sweat on his brown and the sun on his neck.
How long had it been since his hands were dirty of his own volition? Since they were caked in soil, and not blood or other horrible things? How long since he had anything new to *feel?*
Far, far too long. He needed this. Needed to reach down into the soil, like a plant taking root, and know that there was still life to cultivate.
Falling into the rhythm of it was easy. Clear the soil, transfer the young plant from its pot to the earth, smooth over the soil again. Carefully make a place, gently guide the plant to its new home, combine the old with the new to foster its growth. It was meditative, peaceful, yet required focus so he didn’t use too much force and harm the tiny lives he was trying to usher into fullness.
One day, these little plants would flourish, bear fruit and new seeds and shade. But for now, they were fragile and delicate and needed help to survive. Cultivating them would take time, patience, care. But Elze’ith could do that. He knew how to be gentle and disciplined. And part of him needed this, he thought, needed to be able to get his hands dirty and dedicate himself to something and see beauty thrive as a result.