Field Between Us

🌾 CHAPTER 4 – GOLDEN’S POV

The ground was not meant to be trusted.

That was the first thing I learned.

Not because it was dangerous, but because it refused to behave the way I expected. It was uneven, slightly damp in places, stubborn in others. Every step felt like a small negotiation, like the earth itself was testing whether I deserved to stand on it.

I didn’t.

At least, not yet.

“Walk properly,” Yseldous said from a few steps ahead of me, not even turning around.

“I am walking properly,” I replied, trying not to sound as irritated as I felt.

“You’re fighting the ground.”

I stopped.

“I’m not fighting anything.”

“You are,” he said. “You’re trying to control how it feels under your feet instead of adjusting to it.”

I stared at him.

“You’re telling me how to walk now?”

“I’m telling you how not to fall.”

“I’m not going to fall.”

I took another step.

And immediately slipped.

It wasn’t dramatic. I didn’t fall completely. But I stumbled enough to lose balance, arms flailing slightly before I caught myself.

Silence followed.

Not loud. Not mocking.

Just… there.

I straightened up quickly, brushing imaginary dust off my clothes.

“I didn’t fall,” I said.

“You almost did.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It does here.”

I exhaled sharply.

“I hate this place.”

“No, you don’t,” he said.

I blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“You hate not being good at it.”

That landed.

Too directly.

Too accurately.

I looked away, focusing on the rows of crops ahead of us. They stretched in long, neat lines, everything in its place, everything where it was meant to be.

Unlike me.

We reached a section where several workers were already busy. They moved with a kind of rhythm I didn’t understand yet. Not rushed, not slow. Just steady.

Like they knew something I didn’t.

They glanced at me, some curious, some amused, but none of them said anything.

That somehow made it worse.

“This is where you start,” Yseldous said, handing me a small bundle of tools.

I stared at them.

Then at him.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Work.”

“That’s not helpful.”

He stepped closer, crouching slightly near one of the plants.

“Watch,” he said.

I did.

Because for once, I didn’t have anything else to say.

His movements were simple, but precise. He handled the soil like it mattered. Not gently, not carelessly. Just… correctly.

“There’s a way to do this,” he explained. “Not fast, not slow. Just enough.”

I frowned slightly.

“Enough for what?”

“For it to grow,” he said.

I watched his hands for a moment longer, then looked down at mine.

Clean.

Unmarked.

Useless here.

“Your turn,” he said, stepping back.

I hesitated.

Then crouched down awkwardly, trying to mimic what I had seen.

The soil felt strange against my fingers. Not unpleasant, just unfamiliar. Like touching something alive without understanding how it worked.

I moved carefully.

Too carefully.

“This feels wrong,” I said.

“It feels new,” he corrected.

I tried again, adjusting slightly.

Then again.

Still wrong.

“This is harder than it looks,” I admitted quietly.

“It usually is,” he said.

I exhaled, pushing a strand of hair away from my face.

“I don’t think I’m doing it right.”

“You’re not,” he replied.

I looked up at him.

“Could you at least pretend to encourage me?”

“I am,” he said.

“How is that encouraging?”

“You’re still trying.”

I paused.

Then looked back down.

I tried again.

This time, I moved a little faster. Less thinking, more doing.

The result was immediate.

Messier.

Worse.

I leaned back slightly, frustrated.

“This is impossible.”

“It’s not.”

“It is for me.”

“It’s not,” he repeated. “You’re just not patient.”

I let out a small laugh, though there was no humor in it.

“Of course I’m not patient. Why would I be?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he watched me.

Not critically.

Just… observing.

“You’re used to things responding quickly,” he said after a moment.

“Yes,” I replied. “Because that’s how things should work.”

“Not everything,” he said.

I looked at the rows in front of me again.

“They just… sit there,” I said.

“They grow,” he corrected.

“Slowly.”

“Yes.”

I shook my head.

“I don’t understand how you can stand this.”

“Stand what?”

“This pace,” I said. “This waiting.”

He crouched again, this time closer to me.

“You think this is waiting,” he said. “It’s not.”

“Then what is it?”

“Building,” he replied.

I frowned.

“It looks like nothing.”

“It always does at first.”

That made me quiet.

Not convinced.

But… quieter.

I tried again.

And this time, I slowed down.

Not because I wanted to.

But because I didn’t know what else to do.

A few seconds passed.

Then a minute.

Then another.

“I think I did that right,” I said carefully.

He leaned slightly to look.

A pause.

Then, “Better.”

I smiled.

Just a little.

Before I could stop myself.

“You could say ‘good job,’ you know,” I said.

“I could,” he replied.

“And?”

“And ‘better’ is more accurate.”

I rolled my eyes.

“You’re exhausting.”

“You’re improving.”

I sat back on my heels, letting out a breath.

“That felt… different.”

“Because you stopped fighting it,” he said.

I looked down at my hands.

There was dirt on them now.

Not a lot.

But enough to notice.

“I’m getting dirty,” I said.

“Yes.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You will.”

I shook my head.

“No, I won’t.”

He didn’t argue this time.

He just stood up.

“Continue,” he said.

I watched him walk a few steps away, then looked back at what I had done.

It wasn’t perfect.

Probably not even good.

But it was… something.

I leaned forward again, hesitating only for a second before continuing.

The sun climbed higher.

The air grew warmer.

Time passed in a way I wasn’t used to noticing.

And somewhere between frustration and effort, between failing and trying again, something shifted.

Not dramatically.

Not enough to admit out loud.

But enough to feel.

“I’m still bad at this,” I called out after a while.

“Yes,” he replied from a distance.

I smiled slightly.

“But I’m not as bad as before,” I added.

There was a pause.

Then—

“No,” he said. “You’re not.”

I didn’t realize it then, but that mattered more than I expected.

Not the work.

Not the dirt.

Not even the effort.

But the fact that someone noticed.

And said it.

Without making it bigger than it was.

I looked at the land again.

Still wide.

Still unfamiliar.

Still not mine.

But for the first time…

It didn’t feel like it was pushing me away.

And I didn’t feel like leaving.

Not immediately.

That was new.

And I didn’t know what to do with it yet.