Chapter 2 Falla
FALLA
Ishouldn't be thinking about Ressa.
The mortar scrapes against the pestle in my hands, rough stone grinding yarrow leaves into paste.
The rhythm's meditative—crush, turn, crush, turn—and normally I'd lose myself in it.
Today my mind keeps circling back to that cabin on the settlement's edge.
To red hair and brown eyes that look right through me like I'm just another threat she's cataloging.
The yarrow's almost ready. I add dried mint leaves, crushing them until the sharp scent cuts through the earthy smell of the yarrow. Mix them together and the paste eases muscle aches better than anything else I've tried. I'll leave a jar for Ressa when I visit next.
Not that she'll use it.
Strong. That's the word that fits her best. Not physically—though she's tougher than she looks, considering what she survived.
But strong in that bone-deep stubborn way that makes people refuse help even when they're drowning.
I've treated hundreds of patients over the years.
The stubborn ones always heal slower because they won't admit when something hurts.
Ressa admitted her ribs were at a three when they were clearly closer to six.
I pour the paste into a clay jar, scraping the mortar clean with practiced efficiency. The motion keeps my hands busy while my thoughts wander where they shouldn't.
She needs to get out of that cabin. Needs to move, interact, do something besides sit in self-imposed isolation. But I can't force her. Tried suggesting it once—gently, because I'm not an idiot—and the look she gave me could've peeled paint. She's not ready. Maybe she'll never be ready.
Not my problem to solve.
Except it feels like it should be.
"—absolute nonsense, that's what it is."
Kai's voice cuts through my thoughts. I glance up from my work to watch him and Ursik sparring near the edge of the training grounds, just past Kai's longhouse.
They're not going hard—this is playful, the kind of combat practice that keeps skills sharp without risking actual injury.
Kai blocks a swing from Ursik, pivots, sweeps low.
They insisted I join them. This is as close as I get.
Ursik jumps back, grinning. "You're distracted."
"I'm annoyed."
"Same thing with you." Ursik circles, looking for an opening. "What's got your tusks in a twist this time?"
"Drogath found another human tradition."
That makes me pause, jar halfway capped. Another one. The Valentine's Rites were barely a month ago, and the shaman's still recovering from that particular obsession. I'd assumed he'd take a break before diving into the next misinterpretation of human culture.
Apparently not.
"What is it this time?" Ursik sounds more interested than concerned, which tracks. He enjoyed the Valentine's Rites despite—or maybe because of—how ridiculous they were.
It was quite enjoyable to watch for me and him. For Kai… Well, he has a mate now.
Kai blocks another strike, grunts with the impact. "St. Padraig's Week. Or something like that. He's been poring over those texts again, the ones we salvaged from the human settlement ruins."
"And?"
"And he's convinced it's some ancient prosperity ritual involving serpents and rainbows and—" Kai breaks off to dodge a particularly enthusiastic swing from Ursik. "Will you focus? I'm trying to complain here."
"I can listen and spar." Ursik's grin widens. "Multi-talented, that's me."
I return to capping jars, listening with half my attention. Drogath's enthusiasms are usually harmless, if exhausting. The Valentine's Rites ended well enough—Kai found Saela, several other couplings happened, nobody died. Could've been worse.
"So what's the problem?" Ursik presses. "Week-long festival, prosperity blessings, sounds fine to me."
"It's partners again." Kai's voice carries an edge of exasperation. "Everything's about partners, though I hear the couples don't have to be romantic this time. Cooperative challenges, shared trials, bonding exercises. He's making it mandatory for practically the whole clan."
Ursik's laugh booms across the grounds. "You're complaining about spending a week with Saela? Really? That's your grievance?"
"I'm complaining about Drogath deciding what traditions we follow based on his extremely flawed interpretations of human culture."
"But you'll do it anyway."
"Of course I'll do it anyway." Kai sounds resigned. "Because if I don't, he'll make speeches about clan unity and honoring ancient customs and I'll have to listen to that for months. And Bronn will show up at my home, over and over."
I finish with the jars and start cleaning the mortar. The conversation drifts over me, familiar and mundane. Partners. Competition. Week-long festivals. None of it concerns me directly—I didn't participate in the Valentine's Rites, and I won't be participating in whatever Drogath's planning now.
Too much work to do. Always is.
"What about you, Falla?" Ursik calls out. "You joining in this time?"
"No."
"Come on. Might be fun."
"I have patients."
"You always have patients." Ursik blocks a strike from Kai, counters with one of his own. "When's the last time you did something that wasn't work?"
I don't dignify that with a response. Work is what I do. Work is what matters. People need healing, I provide it. Simple.
"Leave him alone," Kai says, though there's amusement in his voice. "Falla's allergic to fun."
"Not allergic. Practical." I set the clean mortar aside and start organizing the jars by type. Muscle salves on the left, infection treatments in the middle, pain management on the right. Order matters. "Someone has to be."
"Mm." Ursik lands a hit on Kai's shoulder that makes the bigger orc grunt. "That's what people say when they're avoiding something."
I'm not avoiding anything. I'm maintaining standards. Keeping the healing house running. Checking on patients who won't check on themselves.
Ressa's face flashes through my mind again—pale skin, careful distance, that specific tension in her shoulders whenever I get too close. She's trying. I can see her trying, measuring out trust in microscopic doses. But she's not getting better locked in that cabin.
Still not my problem.
"So what does this St. Padraig's Week involve?" I ask, partly curious, mostly wanting to redirect the conversation away from my participation or lack thereof.
Kai groans. "Everything. Drogath's got seven days planned. Each one has some symbolic meaning tied to prosperity and partnership. First day is markings—green paint, apparently, for good fortune."
"Green?"
"Shamrocks," Ursik supplies helpfully. "Three-leaf clovers. Represent strength of body, heart, and clan. Or something. Drogath explained it but I stopped listening after he mentioned the serpent symbolism."
"Serpents?"
"Hidden enemies. Emotional obstacles. We're supposed to hunt carved tokens as a bonding exercise." Kai sounds like he's reciting from memory, resignation thick in his voice. "Day two. The Serpent Track."
I process this, trying to find the logic. "And day three?"
"Reflex training. Apparently St. Padraig—whoever that was—valued swift hands." Kai dodges a particularly vicious swing from Ursik. "Hey, save it for the festival."
"I'm warming up for a week of this nonsense."
"I'm the one who should be."
"You love Saela. You'll survive." Ursik's tone shifts, becomes more genuine. "Besides, the competition aspect sounds good. I'm absolutely winning."
"You're partnering with someone?" I ask.
"Working on it." He grins, all confidence. "Plenty of interested parties. Week of glory, showing off my superior problem-solving skills? Everyone wants a piece of this."
Kai snorts. "Your humility is inspiring."
"Humility's overrated." Ursik lands another hit, lighter this time. "What about you, Falla? Really. No interest at all?"
I consider the question seriously this time.
Seven days of festivals and competitions and partnership trials.
Green markings, serpent hunts, reflex games.
Day four is apparently drinking and honesty—Kai mentioned that with particular dread.
Day five involves rainbows, which seems improbable but I've stopped questioning Drogath's interpretations.
Day six is gift exchanges. Day seven, the Leprechaun Trail.
"No," I say finally. "No interest."
"There's got to be someone you'd—"
"No."
Ursik holds up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Just asking."
I return to my jars, double-checking seals. But something niggles at the back of my mind. The structure of the festival. Partners working together, facing challenges, building trust through shared experiences.
Ressa needs to get out of that cabin.
I shut the thought down immediately. No. Absolutely not. She can barely stand being in the same room as me for fifteen-minute medical examinations. Suggesting she participate in a week-long partnership festival with an orc would be—
Cruel. Stupid. Counterproductive.
I'm a healer, not a miracle worker.
"Day four worries me," Kai admits, and I tune back into their conversation. "The Brew of Honesty. Ceremonial drinking while elders ask relationship questions."
Ursik laughs. "You and Saela drunk, answering invasive questions? That'll be entertaining."
"For everyone else, maybe." But there's fondness in Kai's voice beneath the exasperation. He loves her. That much is obvious to anyone with working eyes. The Valentine's Rites gave him that, at least. Whatever else Drogath's interpretations accomplished, they brought Kai and Saela together.
Sometimes traditions work despite themselves.
"When does this start?" I ask.
"Four days." Kai blocks, strikes, retreats. "Drogath wants everyone paired and marked by the first evening"
"Sounds dramatic."
"Everything Drogath does is dramatic." Kai lands a solid hit on Ursik's ribs, making the other orc wheeze. "But the clan expects it now. After Valentine's, they're invested in these human traditions. Prosperity festivals, bonding rituals—it gives them something to focus on besides survival."
He's not wrong. The clan's been lighter since the Valentine's Rites ended. More laughter in the communal halls, more energy in training. Hope, maybe. The sense that life can be more than just getting through each day.
Ressa doesn't have that. She's still in survival mode, locked in her head and that empty cabin.
I shake myself mentally. Not my concern. I check her injuries, make sure she's healing physically. The rest is beyond my expertise.
Except it's not, is it? Healing isn't just setting bones and treating infections. It's creating conditions for recovery. And isolation isn't recovery—it's slow deterioration dressed up as safety.
"You're thinking too loud," Ursik says, and I realize I've been standing motionless, staring at my organized jars without seeing them.
"I'm thinking at appropriate volume."
"That's what I said. Too loud." He grins, dodging another strike from Kai. "Something on your mind?"
"Work."
"Always work with you." Ursik shakes his head, but there's no judgment in it. Just acceptance. "You should try relaxing sometime. Participate in a festival. Meet someone. Live a little."
"I'm living fine."
"You're existing." Kai's voice is mild, but the observation lands with weight. "There's a difference."
I don't have a counter for that, so I don't try. Instead, I gather the jars meant for Ressa—the yarrow-mint paste, the shoulder salve, the bitter tea for sleep she probably won't drink—and pack them carefully into my bag.
Four days until St. Padraig's Week begins.
Four days of relative peace before Drogath unleashes whatever chaos he's planned.
I'll use the time to stockpile supplies, prepare for inevitable festival injuries.
Someone will overdo it during reflex training.
Someone will drink too much during the Brew of Honesty.
Someone will twist an ankle on the Leprechaun Trail.
I'll be ready.
That's what I do. Prepare. Respond. Heal.
Not solve unsolvable problems like how to help someone who doesn't want to be helped.