The Petal Accord

The Petal Accord is a sacred text, kept by the Order of Drava in every Garden of the Endless. It is not a rigid doctrine, but a living set of tenets—guidance for tending to those who come to lay down their grief, to bury their dead or fragments of memory too painful to carry.   Composed in the earliest days of the Order by its first grief-tenders, the Accord was written during seven days of silence, after Drava planted the first sapling in sorrow. It is said that grief had carved its mark upon them—a wound time could not mend—but in the quiet sanctuary of the garden, hope had not yet withered.   The original Accord was written on pressed leaves and bound with braided strands of hair from mourners who had lost children. That first copy lies sealed beneath glass in the Under-Sanctuary. Each garden now carries its own hand-transcribed version, gently altered over the years—because no two griefs are ever the same.   The Accord is both guide and reflection, shaped by the understanding that heartache cannot be mended like a broken bone. The gardens themselves are quiet sanctuaries where sorrow may be laid to rest: streams trace soft paths through the trees, butterflies and fireflies keep silent vigil, and the wind carries whispers of memory. Within each garden, grief is honored, not hurried.   All are welcome here. The Petal Accord reminds those who tend the gardens that loss does not keep to hours—and neither does healing.       Though the Petal Accord was born from silence and mourning, it has echoed far beyond the gardens.   Nelous’s priests regard the Accord as a sister-text to their own death rites. Even in places where the Order of Drava holds no sway, these priests keep copies of the Accord tucked beside their sacred scrolls, honoring it as a companion to the soul’s passage. In some temple annexes, readings from the Accord are offered alongside funerary prayers—particularly for those who died young or far from home.   By contrast, militarized factions sometimes view the Accord with suspicion. They call it dangerous softness—a document that dulls the edge of duty with sentiment. Still, even among them, quiet contradictions emerge. There are whispered stories of commanders laying bulbs at midnight in secret, hands trembling from battles lost, or from names they can no longer speak aloud.   Within the Order of Drava itself, not all interpretations align. A handful of renegade healers have broken away over what they believe is the Accord’s greatest failing: its gentleness. These dissenters claim the Accord should go further, forbidding any comfort offered by the living. No tea. No words. No touch. Only solitude—grief left unshaped, unsweetened, raw as it comes.   And yet, in every garden, the Accord endures. Copied by hand, passed between caretakers, whispered in moments when language fails. It changes slightly with each telling, as it must. Grief, after all, is a living thing—and no two paths through it are the same.