Chapter 8: Spring Activities
Year 0002, XIII-I Month: The Imperium
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The First Spring
Spring had finally arrived, bringing with it the long-awaited thaw. The thick blanket of snow that had covered the world for months now slowly melted away, revealing the dormant earth beneath. With the change in season, new life began to emerge from its winter slumber.
Trees, once barren and skeletal against the gray winter sky, started to unfurl tiny emerald buds, their branches reaching skyward as if stretching after a prolonged, frigid rest. Within weeks, the entire forest would transform into a lush, vibrant spectacle, erasing all traces of the dreary winter that had held the land in its icy grip. The air carried the crisp scent of fresh soil and blooming flora, intermingled with the subtle perfume of new growth—nature's unmistakable signal of renewal.
Small creatures emerged cautiously from their winter hideaways. Birds returned from their seasonal migration, filling the morning air with melodious songs that had been absent for too long. Even the sunlight seemed different—warmer, more golden, stretching longer into the evenings with each passing day. The world was awakening, shaking off winter's shroud and embracing life once more.
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Getting Along Well
In Maya Village, the arrival of spring meant the return of activity. The once-quiet settlement, subdued by the cold's oppressive weight, was now alive with the laughter and light footsteps of the two children who now lived alone in this vast woodland. August and Gel had fully resumed their planned spring activities, their daily routines giving structure to their isolated existence.
August had found himself spending more time with Gel, the young girl who had arrived under tragic circumstances during the previous year, just a couple of weeks before winter's grip had ended around them, welcoming the breath of new life, a new chance, a new future in the unknown vast world. In those dark, cold days, they had been merely survivors sharing a space. Now, with spring's arrival, he felt compelled to build something more—perhaps not friendship yet, but understanding.
He had taken it upon himself to talk to her more frequently, sharing fragments of his own childhood in the village. Sitting by the hearth during cool evenings or walking along the village perimeter during warmer afternoons, he recounted tales of past seasons, of how he and his family had braved previous winters, and how the village would always come back to life in the spring—just as it was doing now, though with far fewer inhabitants.
"Before the raiders came, this place was different," he explained one evening, his voice soft with remembrance. "There were children playing in the square, some merchants from time to time that would accidentally stumble in our isolated and secluded village would be selling their goods in our village, farmers tending to their crops, hunters bringing in their kill, logs that were felled being dragged by men. My mother would bake bread every third day, and the smell would drift throughout our entire street."
Gel would listen quietly, offering small smiles of appreciation or nodding at appropriate moments. Though she spoke little—her voice still a rarity in their shared quarters—August could tell she found comfort in their conversations. Her posture would relax, her eyes would soften, and occasionally, very occasionally, she would ask a question about his stories, her voice barely above a whisper.
They continued this routine for several days, their bond growing subtly with each exchange. August found himself looking forward to these moments, these brief connections that made their isolated existence feel less lonely.
Then, one fateful early morning, as the last remnants of snow melted away beneath the strengthening sun, a tragic discovery was made.
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The Body of Gel's Mother
A human corpse, preserved in the winter's ice, emerged from its cold burial near the entrance of the village. The sight was eerily peaceful—she appeared as if merely sleeping, her body largely untouched by time's usual corruption, protected by the freezing temperatures that had only recently relinquished their hold on the land.
August was the one to find her. He had risen early, intent on checking the perimeter as was his habit, when his eyes caught sight of something unnatural among the receding snow—a shape too regular, too deliberate to be a fallen branch or displaced stone. As he approached, his heart clenched painfully as he took in the features of the frozen woman. A deep sense of foreboding settled over him like a physical weight. Could this be the person who had accompanied Gel that night when she first arrived? The thought sent a wave of profound sorrow through him.
The woman's face, though pale and lifeless, held a certain resemblance to Gel—the same delicate nose, similar cheekbones, hair as white as snow with streaks of silver lining it. Death had not diminished the dignity in her expression, nor the suggestion of strength that must have carried her and the child to their village before succumbing to whatever wounds or illness had claimed her.
After a brief moment of hesitation, August decided he needed to know. He returned to their home, where Gel was just awakening, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
"Gel," he began, his voice gentle but serious, "I need you to come with me. There's something... someone you should see."
She followed without question, perhaps sensing the gravity in his tone. When they reached the site, August watched her face carefully, his own heart heavy with anticipated grief.
"Do you know who she is?" he asked softly, though he already suspected the answer.
No words escaped the girl's lips. Instead, silent tears began to stream down her cheeks, carving glistening paths along her skin. The raw grief in her expression was answer enough—a pain too deep for her young voice to articulate.
August sighed, his chest heavy with sympathy. He understood now. This woman had been dear to her—almost certainly her mother, given the resemblance and the circumstances of their arrival. He chose not to press further. Instead, he gave her time, standing beside her in respectful silence, letting her process the reality of her loss.
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Sympathy for the Aggrieved: A Promise Made
A minute passed before he finally spoke again, his voice steady but gentle.
"We should bury her properly," he said, placing a hesitant hand on her shoulder. "If we don't... nature will take its course."
He did not need to elaborate further. The thought of scavengers desecrating her body was an image neither of them wanted to entertain, and August had witnessed enough of death's aftermath to dismiss the idea of letting her remain exposed to the elements. Gel, though visibly shaken, nodded in silent agreement, her small shoulders trembling beneath his hand.
However, the ground was still partially frozen—a common challenge of early spring. Digging a proper grave would be difficult until the soil had fully thawed and softened. For now, they did the best they could with their limited resources. August carefully wrapped the woman's body in clean fabric he had stored away, ensuring she was covered with dignity from head to toe. The entire time, Gel remained by his side, her sobs quiet but persistent. The sight of her mother—for August was now certain of their relationship—stirred painful memories that she was clearly not yet ready to face.
August felt a profound sense of pity for the girl. He knew from his own losses that words would not ease her suffering, so he offered her a simple promise instead.
"Once the snow fully melts and the ground softens, we'll bury her near my family's graves," he said, meeting her eyes. "She deserves a proper resting place, and she'll have one—I promise you that."
Gel did not speak. She simply nodded, her expression partially hidden beneath her grief, but August caught the flicker of gratitude in her reddened eyes.
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A Paradise of One's Eternal Rest: A Promise Kept
Days passed, and the season continued its inexorable shift. The final patches of snow melted away, revealing the land in its entirety. The grave site of August's own family came into view—a quiet, solemn place at the edge of the village where he had laid his loved ones to rest after the raiders had taken everything from him.
With a heavy heart, he set to work as soon as the ground was workable. The task was physically demanding, but he found a certain solace in the labor, in the rhythmic strike of the shovel against earth, in the sound of soil being displaced. Perhaps this was why ancient peoples had created burial rituals—not just for the dead, but for the living who needed to channel their grief into something tangible, something meaningful.
He dug a deep grave beside his mother's, ensuring it was of sufficient depth that the elements would not disturb it in seasons to come. The task took hours, the spring sun beating down on his back as he worked, but he refused to rush. This was an act of respect, and he wanted to do it right—for Gel, for the woman who had given her life bringing her daughter to safety, and for himself and the values his own parents had instilled in him.
Once the grave was ready, he and Gel returned to where the body had been kept. He gave her a moment of privacy to say her goodbyes before they carefully lowered the wrapped form into the earth. Gel, though visibly drained, did not cry this time. She had no more tears left to shed—only a profound sadness remained in her swollen, weary eyes, a grief too deep for such a young child to fully comprehend.
August covered the grave methodically, tamping down the earth and arranging a neat ring of smooth river stones around its perimeter. It was not much, but it was the best he could offer—a place for eternal rest, marked and remembered, rather than forgotten beneath the snow.
When he had finished, they stood together in silence, the spring breeze rustling through the nearby trees. August wasn't a religious lad, but he found himself wishing for something appropriate to say, some words to mark the occasion. In the end, he simply said, "She brought you to safety. That was her final act. We'll remember her for that courage."
Gel nodded, her small hand finding his and squeezing it tightly.
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A Sudden Responsibility: The Weight of Life
After the burial, as they walked slowly back toward the village center, August turned to Gel with a serious expression.
"Do you have anywhere to go?" he asked gently. "Any relatives who might be looking for you, who could take you in?"
The girl shook her head, her eyes fixed on the path ahead. She did not speak, but her answer was unmistakably clear.
She had no one. Not anymore.
August sighed softly. He had suspected as much from the moment he'd found her mother's body, perhaps even from the night Gel had first arrived. The weight of responsibility settled firmly on his shoulders, but he did not voice his concerns or hesitations. Instead, he simply nodded in acknowledgment of this new reality. She needed time to grieve, and he would not burden her with his own uncertainties about caring for another person when he himself was barely more than a child.
Yet inwardly, he made a promise to himself and to the memory of his own parents—he would not abandon this girl. They were, in a way, the last remnants of Maya Village, and they would have to rely on each other to survive whatever challenges lay ahead.
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August's Plans for the Spring Season
Not knowing what else to do in the face of such overwhelming grief, he shifted the conversation to practical matters—to plans and actions that might give them both purpose in the days ahead.
"Spring is here," he said, gesturing to the budding trees and emerging greenery around them. "There's a lot that needs to be done if we're going to make it through another year."
First, he explained, he would need to set up traps again and search the forest for anything useful—food, materials, medicinal plants, anything that could help them survive. Their food stores were running dangerously low after the long winter. He had rationed what little they had with careful precision, but he had only accounted for himself, not an unexpected companion who would share his resources.
Second, he planned to start planting the seeds he had meticulously collected from the village farm storehouses the previous year. The invasion of raiders had diminished 90% of their winter supply and his subsequent injuries had prevented him from establishing proper crops earlier before the snow had fallen. Now, with spring's arrival, there was no excuse for further delay. The growing season was only a few good months, with the heat of peak summer season to worry about next; they needed to maximize every available day.
Third, he needed to secure the village against potential threats. Perhaps replacing or erecting a new wall, or at least a wooden palisade of some sort. He had made rough sketches of possible defenses on the ground during the long winter nights, planning by hearth while Gel slept. Whether these plans were feasible with just the two of them to implement them was another matter entirely. Only time and their combined efforts would tell.
"It's a lot," he admitted, "but we'll start small. Day by day. That's all anyone can do."
The Days that Followed: Life Moved On
A week passed, and gradually, Gel began to accompany August on his daily tasks. He had gently coaxed her into it, knowing from his own experience that she needed distraction, purpose, something to occupy her hands and mind. Keeping busy would prevent her thoughts from lingering too long on sorrow and loss—a lesson he had learned through his own grief.
She followed him through the village and at times in the outskirts of the forest where the safety of the perimeter is easily reached, helping where she could, watching intently when tasks required skills she had yet to develop. He taught her how to cultivate crops, demonstrating the proper depth for different seeds, how to care for young plants, and how to recognize edible vegetation among the forest's abundant growth. Though she struggled at first, her small hands sometimes clumsy with unfamiliar tools, she showed remarkable persistence. August saw this as a promising sign—a will to survive, to adapt, to grow beyond tragedy.
Eventually, he restored the 8x8 meter garden behind the house, a place his mother had once tended with passionate care. The soil there was particularly rich, having been cultivated for generations. He tasked Gel with maintaining it, instructing her to plant only edible crops—vegetables primarily, with some herbs that could both flavor their meals and serve medicinal purposes if needed.
"The soil here is special," he told her as they worked side by side, breaking up winter-hardened earth. "My mother used to say it remembers the hands that tend it. Treat it well, and it will give back to you tenfold."
The planet's accelerated growth rate—something August had always taken for granted but now recognized as a blessing—meant they would see results relatively quickly. Within days, the first tender shoots pushed through the dark soil, reaching for the sun's nourishment.
It wasn't proper farming—not yet. The village's expansive farmlands lay mostly fallow, too large for just the two of them to manage, and many of the irrigation structures had been damaged during the raider attack. For now, the garden would suffice to supplement what they could hunt and gather.
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Spring, A Winters Promise of a New Life
Their days settled into a rhythm, a pattern that provided structure to their shared existence. In the mornings, August would check the traps he had set in the forest and scour the surrounding areas for additional food—wild berries, edible roots, mushrooms (though he was cautious with these, having learned from previous residents which varieties were safe through hard-won villager experiences). Sometimes Gel would accompany him, learning the boundaries of their territory, memorizing landmarks, developing an eye for useful materials.
Meanwhile, Gel would tend to the garden during the hours of his absence, watering the growing plants, removing weeds that threatened to choke the valuable crops, keeping watch for insects or animals that might damage their food source. She approached the task with surprising diligence for one so young, perhaps finding comfort in the simple, repetitive actions and the visible results of her care.
In the evenings, August would cook their meals over the hearth. He had tried teaching Gel simple recipes, but the results had been less than appetizing—a burned stew here, oversalted porridge there. Food was too precious to waste in these uncertain times, so for now, he took charge of cooking, though he let her practice from time to time under his watchful eye, correcting her gently when needed.
As the days grew longer and warmer, August noticed subtle changes in Gel. She spoke more frequently, though still not abundantly. She began to offer suggestions rather than simply following instructions. Occasionally, he would catch her humming softly to herself as she worked in the garden—a sound that brought an unexpected lightness to his heart.
One evening, as they sat outside watching the sunset paint the sky in brilliant oranges and pinks, Gel spoke unprompted.
"Thank you," she said simply, her voice small but clear, "for burying my mother. For letting me stay."
August was momentarily taken aback by the direct expression of gratitude. He cleared his throat, somewhat uncomfortable with the acknowledgment.
"We look after each other here," he replied finally. "That's how it has always been as an isolated village, and that is how I would like it to be."
She nodded, seeming to understand the deeper meaning behind his simple words—that they were bound together now, not just by circumstance, but by choice. They were, in their own way, creating something new from the ashes of what they had lost. Not a family, perhaps, but a community of two, surviving together day by day.
Little by little, life moved forward. The pain did not disappear—for either of them—but it began to take its proper place in their hearts, becoming part of their story rather than its defining chapter.
Spring had come to Maya Village, and with it, the promise of survival, the promise of a new life emerging from winter's harsh lessons. In the garden, seeds transformed into seedlings. In the forest, new growth replaced what had withered. And in the small house that two orphaned children now called home, something fragile but resilient was taking root—hope, carefully tended and slowly blossoming with each passing day.