38. Dren
38
DREN
T he wound in my side burns with each step, but I don’t show weakness. Grash and Murok's arms around my waist steady me as we approach the wooden gates of our settlement. The familiar scent of pine smoke and roasting meat fills my nostrils. Home.
Eira walks closer now, her small frame tense. Her eyes dart between the guard towers, taking in the sheer size of our fortress walls. My brave little human looks ready to bolt at any moment.
"The healers will see to him immediately," Murok says to her, his voice unusually gentle.
The gates creak open. The half-day journey has drained what little strength I had left, but I keep my spine straight. Warriors don't show pain.
Eira's fingers brush against my arm. That small touch sends warmth through my body, dulling the agony in my side. She saved me - her love kept me breathing when death tried to claim me. Now she stands beside me, preparing to face her past.
"Looks different than you expected?" Grash asks her.
"I... yes. I didn't think it would be so..." She trails off, staring at the neat rows of houses, the gardens, the children playing.
I want to let her know she's safe here, that this is her home now too, but speaking requires energy I can't spare. Instead, I catch her gaze and hold it, letting her see the promise in my eyes. No one will ever hurt her again.
The settlement's main square opens before us. Torches flicker in the gathering dusk, casting dancing shadows on the packed dirt. Our people stop and stare - three of their finest warriors supporting each other, covered in blood and victory, with a small human woman in tow.
"The healers' hall is just ahead," Murok murmurs.
My vision blurs at the edges. The wound throbs in time with my heartbeat. But I am home. We made it. And Eira is with us, where she belongs.
The healer’s hall smells of crushed herbs and bitter tinctures. Grash and Murok lower me onto a cot, their hands steady but their faces tight with concern. I don’t need their worry—I’ve survived worse—but the weakness in my limbs betrays me. I hate this. I hate the way my body feels heavy, the way my breaths come shallow and labored. I’m not supposed to be weak. Not in front of her.
Eira rushes to my side and her small hand grips mine. Her touch is warm and grounding. "You’re okay," she says, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of worry. "Everything’s okay now."
I nod, just once, because speaking takes too much effort. She doesn’t need my words to know I’m here, that I’ll stay here for her. I’d carve out my own heart before I let her face this world alone again. But damn it, I hate that she’s seeing me like this—broken, bleeding, dependent on others.
The healer, an older orc with weathered hands, kneels beside the cot. Her eyes are sharp as she assesses the wound. She doesn’t speak, just gets to work, her movements methodical. The sting of her salve bites deep, but I don’t flinch. Weakness has no place here, not in front of Eira, not in front of my brothers.
Grash looms nearby, his massive frame casting a shadow over the cot. "He’ll live," he growls, though it sounds more like a question than a statement.
"Of course he will," Murok replies, his voice dry but with an edge I recognize. He’s worried, though he’ll never admit it. "Dren’s too stubborn to die."
I almost smile at that. Almost. Instead, I focus on Eira, on the way her fingers tighten around mine. Her face is pale, her hair tangled and streaked with dirt. She’s been through hell, and yet she’s here, by my side, refusing to leave. I want to tell her to rest, to let Grash and Murok take care of her, but the words won’t come.
The healer works in silence as her hands move with precision. She stitches the wound, applies more salve, then wraps it tightly with clean bandages. The pain dulls to a throbbing ache, my body responding to her remedies. I’ve seen her heal warriors from the brink of death—I trust her skills. But it’s Eira’s presence that keeps me tethered, her touch a reminder of what I’m fighting for.
"He’ll need rest," the healer finally says, her voice low and steady. "But he’ll recover."
"Told you," Murok mutters, though there’s relief in his tone.
Grash grunts, his eyes flicking to Eira. "You should eat. Rest."
Eira shakes her head, her grip on my hand tightening. "Not yet. I’m staying here."
She doesn’t look at him, her focus entirely on me. I want to tell her to listen to Grash, to take care of herself, but I know she won’t. She’s as stubborn as I am, and for the first time, that thought doesn’t frustrate me. It fills me with a quiet pride.
As the minutes blur together, my strength returns slowly. Eira stays by my side and her hand never leaves mine. She talks to me in soft tones, her voice a soothing balm against the remnants of pain. She tells me about the settlement, about the gardens she saw, about the children playing in the square. Her words paint a picture of a life I want to give her—a life free of fear, of pain.
Murok lingers nearby, his sharp eyes watching everything. Grash paces the small length of the room, his impatience palpable. But neither of them try to pull her away. They know better. They know she belongs here, with me, with us.
My breaths are coming easier now and my body no longer fights against itself. Eira looks at me, her eyes searching mine. "You’re going to be just fine," she says, her voice firm now, like she’s convincing herself as much as me.
"With you, always," I manage, the words rough but clear.
She smiles, a small, fragile thing that lights up her face. At that moment, I know I’d bleed all over again just to see it. Her love, her presence, her fierceness—they’ve worked miracles. I’ll never let her go. Not now. Not ever.
The door suddenly bursts open, and Kira rushes in, her eyes wild with hope. I watch Eira stiffen beside me and her hand tightens around mine. The sisters stare at each other across the room, time stretching between them like a thread about to snap.
"Eira?" Kira's voice breaks on the name.
Eira trembles, and I fight the urge to pull her closer. But this isn't my moment. This is her healing.
"Kira," Eira whispers, and then they collide in the middle of the room, arms wrapping around each other, tears flowing freely. The scent of their grief and joy mingles in the air, sharp and sweet.
I shift on the cot, ignoring the pull of stitches in my side. My eyes never leave Eira's face, watching for any sign of distress. But there's only wonder there, and a kind of peace I've never seen before.
"I thought—" Kira starts, her words choked with emotion. "When they took you?—"
"I know," Eira says, pressing her forehead against her sister's. "I know."
Grash and Murok move back, giving the sisters space, but I see the pride in their stance. We did this. We brought her home, not just to us, but to the family she lost.
"You found her," Kira says, turning to look at us with gratitude shining in her eyes.
Eira pulls back slightly, her gaze meeting mine before sweeping over Grash and Murok. "No, they just didn’t find me. They saved me and made me whole again," she says, and my chest clenches at the depth of emotion in her voice.
The words settle in my bones. She is ours, as we are hers, and now she has her sister too. My warrior's heart swells with fierce pride. This is what we fought for, bled for, killed for—her happiness, her freedom, her chance to be whole again.