The Garden of?
Chapter five:
Training and life 3:
By the time Leif turned ten, life inside the small house in the village of Tern had changed. The rain-filled evenings and warm spring days felt the same, but there was one new sound that filled the home—soft cries, laughter that was too small to belong to any of them, and the restless, clumsy movements of a baby. Rufius had been born, and though he was only tiny, wrapped in blankets and mostly asleep, his presence changed everything for Leif. For the first time, Leif wasn't just the son of Airen and Ferexia. He was a brother, and though he didn't really understand the full weight of it, he felt it every time he leaned over the cradle and saw Rufius' little hands reach out, clutching the air like he wanted to hold onto the world. Leif had promised himself something quietly then—that no matter what happened, he would protect his little brother. He didn't say it out loud, but he didn't need to. It was there, in the way he lingered near the cradle longer than needed, in the way he offered to help his mother when Rufius cried.
Training didn't stop. Airen made sure of that. If anything, it grew harsher, because Leif was older now and excuses weren't allowed. "You're not a child swinging sticks anymore," Airen had told him, the same words that burned in Leif's chest. But training wasn't just about fighting anymore. It became about responsibility. His father would tell him, "One day, when I am not here, you'll be the one who needs to stand tall. Not just for yourself, Leif. For your mother, for your brother." Those words always stayed with him, like a stone pressing down, heavy but real. And every strike, every push-up, every sore muscle felt like he was building himself for that day.
Sometimes, though, it was hard. Leif was ten, then eleven, then twelve, and while his father saw a boy who could be sharpened into steel, Leif still sometimes felt like just a boy. There were mornings he didn't want to get up, afternoons when the wooden sword felt heavier than his arms could handle, nights when he looked at his bruises and wondered if this was too much. But then he'd hear Rufius laugh in the other room, that innocent, pure sound of a baby discovering life, and he would keep going. "I'll protect you," Leif whispered sometimes, even if Rufius was too small to understand. That thought was enough to make him get up again.
Ferexia made sure that her son didn't drown under all the weight of training. She was softer, but she was firm in her own way. While Airen taught Leif how to strike, block, and push his limits, Ferexia taught him how to breathe, how to feel the flow of spirit energy in the world around him. "Leif, your fists will mean nothing if your heart is empty," she would say. Her lessons weren't about strength but about balance. She'd sit with him in the fields outside their home, the soft breeze brushing through their hair, and tell him to close his eyes and just listen. At first, he'd fidget, his thoughts racing, but slowly he learned to feel the rhythm of the earth beneath him, the gentle flow of energy in his own chest. He didn't understand it fully, but it gave him calm, something his father's training never gave. And when Rufius was old enough to crawl, he'd sometimes toddle over and sit on Leif's lap during these quiet sessions. Ferexia would laugh, "Looks like your brother already knows where the spirit flow is strongest." Leif would grin, though inside, he felt proud—like Rufius being close meant he was already doing something right.
As the months rolled by, Leif's body began to change. His strikes grew sharper, his steps quicker. By eleven, he could last much longer against his father, even if he still lost every sparring match. But every so often, he landed a strike. And each time he did, the pride in his father's eyes, even if it was hidden under that strict tone, made him feel like he was walking on air. Rufius, now old enough to stand and stumble about, would often sit nearby and watch with wide eyes. He didn't understand what was happening, but he clapped whenever Leif picked himself up after being knocked down. Those little hands clapping felt like applause greater than any the world could offer.
At night, the house was warm and filled with quiet voices. Rufius would sleep in the cradle near the hearth, his small breaths steady and soft. Leif would lie on his bed, body aching from the day, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the future. He didn't know exactly what he wanted to become yet, but he knew one thing—he wanted to be strong enough to never let this peace be taken away. Sometimes, he'd glance at his parents, watching them whispering to each other in the low light of the fire. He heard pieces of their talks, about him, about his training, about how Airen feared being too hard but couldn't stop himself, about how Ferexia worried if their son would burn out too soon. He didn't always understand, but he knew they loved him. And when Rufius stirred in his sleep, sometimes reaching out even in dreams, Leif would get up and hold his little hand until he stilled again. He didn't mind losing sleep—it felt like practice, too, practice for the day when he'd need to protect him for real.
When spring came again, the village of Tern bloomed with life, and so did the brothers. Rufius was learning to run, clumsy but determined, and Leif sometimes left training to chase him across the fields, laughing as Rufius tripped and got up again, stubborn like him. Airen didn't mind those breaks—he said even play was training, because a warrior had to learn to move freely. Ferexia only smiled, watching both her sons grow in their own ways. By the time Leif turned twelve, his sword arm was stronger, his spirit flow steadier, and his heart fuller. Rufius, barely two, adored him more than anyone, following him around, calling out his name in half-formed words. And though Leif sometimes pretended to be annoyed, inside he felt proud every single time. He was no longer just training for himself—he was training for all of them.
The next day….
The market was lively that morning, filled with the usual voices of merchants calling out their prices, the clatter of carts, and the smell of fresh bread mixed with the sharp tang of herbs. Leif walked carefully through the crowd, holding Rufius in his arms. His little brother, barely a toddler, had his tiny hands reaching out for everything shiny or colorful that caught his eyes. A woman selling fruits leaned forward with a wide smile. "Is this your brother, Leif? He looks just like you, only softer."
Leif gave her a calm nod, his voice steady and warm. "Yes, this is Rufius. He's my little brother." He adjusted the small blanket around him as if Rufius were the most precious thing in the world. "He always smiles when he sees new faces. Mama says he's already curious about everything, like me." The people around chuckled softly, and the baker offered Rufius a small piece of sweet bread, which Rufius clutched in his tiny fist with great triumph.
As they walked further, another villager stopped them. "He's adorable, Leif. You must be proud." Leif's lips curved into a small smile, his blue eyes gentle. "I am. He's the brightest part of our home. When I come back from training, even if I'm tired, seeing him laugh makes me feel stronger." He pressed his forehead gently against Rufius's, and the baby let out a soft giggle that drew laughter from the bystanders. In that moment, the busy market felt a little lighter, filled not just with trade but with warmth. Leif carried his brother with the calm pride of someone who already knew his place as an older brother—to protect, to guide, and to adore.