Eon did not know how to hold a shovel.
He tried. Twice. On the first attempt, he held it upside down. On the second, he gripped it like a weapon. Elira watched from the fence, arms crossed, hiding a small smile. He was tall, graceful even, but completely useless with tools.
"Like this," she said, stepping beside him. She showed him how to dig a narrow trench for the carrot seeds, her motions swift and efficient.
Eon watched closely. Too closely.
"You don't have to memorize me," she said, not unkindly. "Just dig."
He nodded, awkward. "Digging. Yes. Digging."
Nivi giggled from the porch, hugging a cloth doll. "You sound like a scarecrow trying to learn farming!"
Eon blinked, unsure whether he'd just been insulted. But her laughter was warm, and something about it stirred a strange tightness in his chest. He liked the sound. He wanted to hear it again.
The trench he made was crooked, uneven, but Elira said nothing. She let him work. Let him fail.
Later, he sat beside the garden, hands covered in dirt, watching ants crawl between roots. Each tiny life, moving with purpose. He marveled at them. Felt a strange longing—not for control, but for understanding. Why did these small lives feel more certain than he did?
That night, Elira handed him a bowl of stew, thick with potatoes and herbs. "Eat slow. You eat like someone who's never tasted food before."
Eon paused mid-bite. "…I haven't."
She looked at him, searching his face for humor. Found none.
"Where are you from?" she asked quietly.
He shook his head. "I don't know."
Nivi leaned on the table. "Then you're from here now."
Eon smiled. It was a small thing—barely there—but it reached his eyes.
And for the first time since falling from the sky, the god felt something soft inside his chest. Not power. Not knowledge.
Belonging.