The Garden Bench

Takes place approximately 1 year after the owlbear attack.
 
It’s a quiet, misty mourning. A small herb garden grows along the eastern wall of the house—simple plants, resilient ones. Euan tends them slowly, kneeling with effort, a carved cane leaning against the bench nearby.
Mairi stands nearby, arms crossed—not in defiance, but to hold something in. She's watching him trim a sage bush, his hands steady today. She doesn’t interrupt.
Eventually, Euan looks up and signs with a smile:
“You’re staring again.”
Mairi steps forward, a small smirk breaking her lips. “It’s not every day I get to watch the most stubborn man in the kingdom conquer a garden before breakfast.”
Euan raises an eyebrow.
“You’re proud.”
She kneels beside him—not gracefully, but close. “I am.” Her voice is quiet, almost reverent. “You’ve done so much… even after everything.”
He starts to respond, but she reaches out and touches his hand—halts him.
“But I wish I could have done more,” she says. “I wish I could’ve taken more of the pain, or stayed longer each time, or—” she breathes in sharply, trying to push the emotion down—“just done something besides come running after the worst was already over.”
Euan studies her. He signs, firm and slow:
“You gave me something no one else could.”
She frowns.
“What?”
He signs:
“A reason to fight through it.”
“A world that was still worth waking up to.”
Mairi can’t speak for a moment. The silence stretches. A bird chirps in the distance.
“I lead people, Euan,” she murmurs. “I can bring down beasts twice my size. But this... I never felt more useless than watching you hurt.”
Euan lifts her hand, presses it to his chest. Then signs:
“You never were. You’re why I’m still here.”