Post by Mikhail Akahi on Jun 20, 2007 20:16:56 GMT -5
[[Saturday, June 23rd, 11:30-ish]]
Mikhail could no longer remember how long it had been since he had last held a gardening trowel. It must have been during early childhood, pre-adolescence. His father had never been particularly thrilled with the fact that his son liked to be amongst the flowers, but by then, the elder Akahi had probably realized that this was just one more of his son's oddities.
The young Headmaster didn't know the answer himself. It wasn't often that he could look inside himself and begin to understand why he felt and acted the way he did. Mikhail wasn't much for analysis; he'd let someone else worry about that.
The twenty-seven-year-old kneeled and, with his bare hands, packed the dirt in around the roots of a fresh rose bush. It had not yet blossomed, but it was the height of summer, and it wouldn't be long before the crimson flowers outnumbered the thorns.
Standing and using the back of his wrist to wipe a trail of sweat from his forehead, Mikhail surveyed his surroundings. The young Akahi was particularly proud of the Fleur Gardens; it held sentimental value. Isabella loved to garden as well, so together, they had planted and cultivated new life, waiting like a child waits for his birthday for the plants to flower into a brilliant array of color.
And many of them had; the tulips were a cluster of merry goldenrod, and the trees provided several patches of cool shade. Gardening was hard work, but always worth the pay off. And the work itself, in some cases, was enjoyable.
Leaving his trowel near the edge of the grass (Sabie always maintained, lovingly, that he was something of a slob), Headmaster Akahi plodded over to one such patch and allowed his six-foot frame to crumple under the generous shade. His beige t-shirt and old jeans were covered in dirt, and he was sure his face was smeared with brown streaks, too.
His head came to rest against the thick trunk. There was something so serene about Chiari. It was this patch of earth near the coast, perhaps one of the only places that would grow roses in Egypt. A few more miles out, it was all sand and pavement. Desert. But this place… it was isolated, and it was a peace he hadn’t seen since Kartara. A faint pang of homesickness washed over him, but he pushed it away. It was just easier not to let himself feel it.
Clear blue eyes flickered to his watch, and his fingers scraped away a bit of dirt, allowing the glowing red numbers to flicker freely. It was nearly noon, about time for lunch. He’d been working for hours, though, and he needed a break before he made the long trek back to the school.
Mikhail could no longer remember how long it had been since he had last held a gardening trowel. It must have been during early childhood, pre-adolescence. His father had never been particularly thrilled with the fact that his son liked to be amongst the flowers, but by then, the elder Akahi had probably realized that this was just one more of his son's oddities.
The young Headmaster didn't know the answer himself. It wasn't often that he could look inside himself and begin to understand why he felt and acted the way he did. Mikhail wasn't much for analysis; he'd let someone else worry about that.
The twenty-seven-year-old kneeled and, with his bare hands, packed the dirt in around the roots of a fresh rose bush. It had not yet blossomed, but it was the height of summer, and it wouldn't be long before the crimson flowers outnumbered the thorns.
Standing and using the back of his wrist to wipe a trail of sweat from his forehead, Mikhail surveyed his surroundings. The young Akahi was particularly proud of the Fleur Gardens; it held sentimental value. Isabella loved to garden as well, so together, they had planted and cultivated new life, waiting like a child waits for his birthday for the plants to flower into a brilliant array of color.
And many of them had; the tulips were a cluster of merry goldenrod, and the trees provided several patches of cool shade. Gardening was hard work, but always worth the pay off. And the work itself, in some cases, was enjoyable.
Leaving his trowel near the edge of the grass (Sabie always maintained, lovingly, that he was something of a slob), Headmaster Akahi plodded over to one such patch and allowed his six-foot frame to crumple under the generous shade. His beige t-shirt and old jeans were covered in dirt, and he was sure his face was smeared with brown streaks, too.
His head came to rest against the thick trunk. There was something so serene about Chiari. It was this patch of earth near the coast, perhaps one of the only places that would grow roses in Egypt. A few more miles out, it was all sand and pavement. Desert. But this place… it was isolated, and it was a peace he hadn’t seen since Kartara. A faint pang of homesickness washed over him, but he pushed it away. It was just easier not to let himself feel it.
Clear blue eyes flickered to his watch, and his fingers scraped away a bit of dirt, allowing the glowing red numbers to flicker freely. It was nearly noon, about time for lunch. He’d been working for hours, though, and he needed a break before he made the long trek back to the school.