Chapter 3 Falla
FALLA
Ressa's cabin sits at the edge of the settlement like a thought someone wanted to forget.
I approach along the worn path, bag of supplies weighing familiar against my shoulder.
The structure's sound enough—Kai made sure of that—but there's something hollow about it.
Like the wood knows it's sheltering someone who'd rather be anywhere else.
I knock twice, wait.
Nothing.
"Ressa. It's Falla."
A long pause, then: "I'm fine."
"I'm coming in anyway."
The door opens before I can reach for the handle.
She stands there, backlit by the cabin's single window, red hair escaping from a braid that's seen better days.
The freckles across her nose stand out stark against skin that's too pale, even for a human.
Brown eyes meet mine with that careful blankness she's perfected—the expression that says she's cataloging exits, weighing distances, calculating how quickly she could move if she needed to.
She's been up all night. I can tell from the shadows beneath her eyes, the particular tightness around her mouth.
"I know you told me I didn't need to keep coming," I say.
"But you said someone needed to." She steps back, allowing entry. Doesn't offer it warmly, just... permits it. "So here we are."
The cabin's interior matches its exterior—functional, sparse, empty of personality. No trinkets or personal effects. A small table with two chairs. The jars I brought last time sit unopened on a shelf, next to the ones from the visit before that.
I don't comment on them. Not yet.
"How's the shoulder?"
"Fine."
"Let me see."
She hesitates, that familiar war playing across her features. The part of her that knows cooperation gets me out faster versus the part that recoils from proximity to any orc, even one who's only here to check her injuries. Finally she turns, lifting her arm with careful precision.
I move closer, professional distance only.
My hands know this routine—palpate the joint, test range of motion, watch for pain responses she'll try to hide.
The shoulder's healing well, better than expected given how badly it was dislocated.
But the muscles are tight. Tenser than they should be at this stage.
"You're not using the salve."
"I am."
"No, you're not." I release her shoulder, step back to acceptable distance. "The tissue would be more pliable if you were applying it twice daily like I instructed."
Her jaw sets in that stubborn line I've come to recognize. "Maybe it doesn't work as well for humans."
"It works identically for humans. I've treated enough of them to know." I cross to the shelf, pick up the unopened jar of yarrow-mint paste. "This would help. If you used it."
"I forget."
"You don't forget anything." The observation is flat. "You're in pain, you're not sleeping, and you're lying about both because you think I can't tell the difference."
Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, that I called it out directly. She recovers quickly, wrapping arms around herself in a gesture that's half defensive, half self-soothing.
"I'm using the other one. The one for the cuts."
"Are you."
"Yes."
I wait, letting silence do the work. It's a technique that works with stubborn patients—give them space to fill the quiet, and sometimes truth slips through. But Ressa's had practice with interrogation, the bad kind, and she simply stares back at me with those too-careful eyes.
"The ribs?" I ask.
"Better."
"Pain level."
"Two."
"Liar."
Her mouth twitches, almost a smile. Almost. "Three."
"Closer to five, from how you're holding yourself." I set the jar down, pull out the bitter tea she also hasn't been drinking. "This helps with sleep. You'd know that if you'd tried it."
"I don't like tea."
"You don't like admitting you need help.
" I meet her gaze directly, no softening.
She responds better to blunt honesty than coddling—I figured that out within the first week of treatment.
"Staying locked in this cabin, reliving everything that happened, not sleeping, not treating your injuries properly—that's not healing. That's just slower deterioration."
Her arms tighten around herself. "I'm fine."
"You keep saying that word. I don't think it means what you think it means."
This time the almost-smile makes it a fraction further before dying. She moves to one of the chairs, sits with the careful precision of someone whose ribs still hurt more than she's admitting. Looks at her hands instead of me.
"What do you want me to say?"
"Nothing. I want you to use the damn salves.
" I pull the yarrow-mint paste from my bag, the fresh jar I made this morning.
Set it on the table between us. "This one's better for general muscle aches.
The other's specifically for shoulder stiffness.
You need both, used consistently, not gathering dust on a shelf. "
She picks up the jar, turns it over in her hands. "Why do you keep coming here?"
"Someone has to."
"Saela visits."
"Saela coddles you. I don't." I lean against the wall, arms crossed. "And you respond better to not being coddled."
Her lips press together, but she doesn't argue. Can't, probably, because we both know it's true. Saela brings comfort and reassurance and gentle encouragement. I bring blunt assessments and medicinal supplies and refusal to pretend things are fine when they're clearly not.
Ressa needs both. But she only tolerates me.
I should leave it there. Make my assessment, deliver my supplies, go. But the thought from earlier resurfaces, insistent, and apparently I'm enough of an idiot to voice it.
"There's a festival coming. Week-long thing. St. Padraig's Week."
Her whole body goes rigid. Small movement, barely noticeable, but I've spent enough time reading her reactions to catch it.
"I heard," she says, voice carefully neutral.
"Drogath's making it mandatory for most of the clan. Partnerships, bonding exercises, trials." I keep my tone factual, clinical. "Seven days of activities designed to promote cooperation and prosperity or whatever interpretation he's pulled from those old texts."
"Sounds..." She trails off, doesn't finish.
"Ridiculous. It sounds ridiculous." I shift my weight, watching her carefully. "But he'll drag everyone into it regardless. Including me, if I don't find a partner first."
Her gaze snaps up, sharp and wary. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I don't have a partner yet."
The silence that follows carries weight, understanding dawning across her features with something that looks like panic. She stands abruptly, pain flashing across her face from the sudden movement.
"No."
"You haven't heard what I'm suggesting."
"I don't need to. No." She backs up two steps, puts the chair between us like a barrier. "Absolutely not."
"You need to get out of this cabin."
"I go out."
"When? When was the last time you left this building?" I don't move, don't advance, just keep my voice level and reasonable. "You're isolating yourself. It's not helping your recovery."
"Being around orcs isn't helping my recovery either." The words come out sharp, defensive. "I can't—" She cuts herself off, jaw clenching.
"Can't what?"
"I can't be around them." Her hands grip the chair back hard enough that her knuckles pale. "The training grounds, the communal halls, even just walking through the settlement. They're everywhere and they're huge and they—" Another cut-off, this one more forceful. "I can't."
I process this, filing away information. The way she's looking at me now, cornered but not quite terrified. Wary, yes. Defensive, absolutely. But not the same visceral fear I've seen flash across her face when other orcs get too close.
"What about me?"
She blinks. "What?"
"Can you be around me?"
"That's—" She stops, confused by the question. "That's different."
"How."
"You're..." She struggles with it, searching for words. "You're just here to check injuries. It's clinical. Professional. You don't—" Another pause. "You don't feel…dangerous."
Something in my chest does an uncomfortable twist at that admission. I shove it aside, focus on the practical problem.
"Then partner with me for the week."
"Falla—"
"Hear me out." I keep my voice steady, reasonable.
"Drogath will pull us both into this regardless.
You because you're Saela's friend and he'll decide you need prosperity blessings or whatever nonsense he's invented.
Me because I'm part of the clan and he has no concept of personal boundaries.
We participate together, or we get dragged into it separately with partners we don't choose. "
Her grip on the chair tightens. "I can't spend a week—"
"Yes, you can." I hold her gaze, unflinching. "You can be around me. You just said so yourself. And if you're with me, I can run interference when it gets too much. Make sure no one else gets in your space. Give you exits when you need them."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because watching you deteriorate in this cabin is counterproductive to my job." The answer comes out a little brusque, but softening it now would undermine the point. "You're healing physically. Barely. But mentally you're getting worse and we both know it."
She opens her mouth, closes it. Can't argue because it's true.
"I don't..." Her voice drops quieter. "I don't know if I can do a whole week of whatever Drogath's planned."
"One day at a time." I straighten from the wall, but don't move closer. "The first day will be easy. Just try it. It's some kind of painting. You can handle that."
"And the other days?"
"We'll handle them as they come." I keep my tone matter-of-fact, stripping emotion from the proposal. "They are supposed to be fun. Something for you to do and focus on instead of being trapped in your head."
She processes this, I can see her mind working through what I've said, weighing impossibility against necessity. Her hands loosen slightly on the chair.
"If I agree to this..." She stops, starts again. "If I agree, you have to promise that when I say I'm done, we're done. No pushing, no 'just one more thing,' no trying to convince me to keep going."
"Agreed."
"And you stay between me and other orcs as much as possible."
"That's the plan."
"And if I need to leave—"
"We leave." I meet her gaze directly. "No questions, no arguments. You say the word, we're gone."
She searches my face for something—deception, maybe, or ulterior motive. Whatever she finds must satisfy her because some of the tension bleeds from her shoulders.
"This is insane."
"Probably."
"I'm going to regret this."
"Maybe." I pull out the bitter tea again, set it next to the yarrow-mint paste. "But you'll regret staying in this cabin more. Trust me on that."
Her laugh comes out bitter, humorless. "Trust. Right."
"You don't have to trust the situation. Just trust that I'll keep my word about the exits and interference." I head toward the door, giving her space. "Think about it. Festival starts in two days. Let me know."
"Falla."
I pause, hand on the doorframe.
"You're really willing to spend a week babysitting me through Drogath's nonsense just to get me out of this cabin?"
"I'm willing to spend a week ensuring my patient doesn't deteriorate further due to self-imposed isolation." I glance back at her. "Call it professional obligation."
She studies me for a long moment, something shifting in those brown eyes. Not trust, exactly. But maybe the beginning of considering it.
"Okay."
The word comes out quiet, almost reluctant. But it's there.
"Okay?"
"Okay." She straightens slightly, wincing at her ribs. "I'll partner with you for this ridiculous festival. But the second it becomes too much—"
"We're out." I nod once, satisfied. "Use the salves. Both of them. Twice daily."
"Bossy."
"Practical." I step through the door, pause on the threshold. "And drink the tea. You look like hell."
"Charming bedside manner you've got there."
"I save charm for patients who follow instructions." I close the door behind me, leaving her with her supplies and her agreement and hopefully some small measure of relief that she won't have to face Drogath's festival alone.
Two days to prepare. Two days to figure out how to guide someone through partnership trials when she can barely stand being in the same settlement as the partners.
I head back toward the healing house, mind already working through logistics. This is going to be complicated. Possibly disastrous. Almost certainly a terrible idea.
But watching her rot in that cabin was worse.
At least this way she'll be moving. Interacting. Living instead of just existing.
And if it all falls apart spectacularly, well. I've handled worse disasters.
Probably.