Chapter 5 Falla
FALLA
The shift in Ressa's breathing is so slight most people wouldn't catch it. But I've spent weeks cataloging every indicator of her panic responses—the way her chest goes shallow, how her hands curl into fists, the exact degree her pupils dilate before she spirals.
She's going under.
I move without thinking, stepping into her line of sight and blocking her view of the crowd. Her eyes lock onto mine, wide and unfocused, seeing something that isn't here.
"We're leaving." I keep my voice low and matter-of-fact, the same tone I use when setting broken bones. Clinical. Steady. "Now."
She doesn't respond, but she doesn't resist either when I angle my body to create a corridor between her and the nearest exit. I don't touch her—that would make it worse—just position myself as a barrier and start walking, trusting she'll follow.
She does.
We move through the crowd, my bulk clearing a path without needing to ask. The other orcs part naturally, most too absorbed in their own painting rituals to notice. Those who do glance our way see my expression and wisely look elsewhere.
I catch Kai's eye as we pass. He reads the situation instantly, shifting to block Saela's view of our departure. Good. The last thing Ressa needs right now is her best friend's worried face making her feel worse about leaving.
The noise of the gathering fades as we put distance between ourselves and the settlement center. Ressa's steps are unsteady, her breathing still too quick, but she's moving. That's what matters.
I lead her past the residential area, away from curious eyes and well-meaning clan members who might stop to ask questions. There's a small clearing near the eastern edge of the settlement—quiet, secluded, with a fallen log that makes for decent seating and a view of nothing but trees.
Private. Calm. Exactly what she needs.
Ressa sinks onto the log without being told, her whole body trembling in a way she's probably not even aware of. I give her space, settling onto the ground a few feet away where she can see me clearly but doesn't feel crowded.
The shaking gets worse before it gets better. Her hands clench and unclench against her thighs, breathing ragged, eyes fixed on something I can't see. Memories, most likely. Whatever the Stonevein did to her that involved blood and marking and cruelty I can only guess at.
I wait.
Rushing her won't help. Neither will platitudes or false comfort or trying to talk her down. Panic doesn't respond to logic. It has to burn through on its own timeline.
So I sit, solid and present, a fixed point she can orient herself around when she's ready.
The forest settles around us—wind through the branches, distant birdcall, the creek running somewhere east. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. Nothing that screams or laughs or hurts.
Gradually, incrementally, her breathing starts to even out. The trembling lessens. Her eyes lose some of that glazed, faraway look, focus returning to the present moment.
I reach into the pouch at my belt, pulling out the flask I've taken to carrying when I visit her. The same bitter tea I leave at her cabin—valerian root, chamomile, a few other herbs that quiet the mind without dulling it completely.
"Here." I hold it out, not moving closer. Making her reach for it if she wants it.
She stares at the flask for a long moment before her hand extends, fingers still shaking as they close around the metal. The cap comes off with practiced ease. I was halfway expecting her to reject it like she normally does.
The first sip makes her wince. She's never liked the taste.
The second goes down easier.
By the third, some color has returned to her face.
I stay quiet, letting the tea do its work. The herbs will take the sharp edge off her panic, smooth out the worst of the adrenaline spike. Won't fix anything, but it'll make breathing less of a battle.
She drinks half the flask before lowering it, cradling the container between both palms like the warmth grounds her.
"I thought I could do it." Her voice comes out rough, barely above a whisper. "Thought if I just pushed through..."
"Pushing doesn't work with this."
"It should." Frustration bleeds through the words. "It's just paint. It's just spirals. It's not—" She cuts herself off, jaw clenching.
"Not what happened before," I finish for her.
She nods, not looking at me.
I lean back against the tree behind me, giving her space to speak or not speak as she chooses. The valerian should be kicking in now, loosening the tight grip of panic enough for words to come easier.
"You were right." The admission sounds like it costs her. "About me not sleeping. About being locked in that cabin."
"I know."
"You could be less smug about it."
"I'm not smug. I'm your healer. Knowing things about your condition is literally my purpose."
Her mouth twitches, not quite a smile but close enough. The tea's doing its job then.
She takes another sip before continuing, her voice steadier now but carrying a weight I recognize. The particular exhaustion that comes from fighting battles no one else can see.
"Every night, I tell myself tomorrow will be better. That I'll sleep more, eat more, go outside." She stares at the flask. "And every morning I wake up and the idea of doing any of it feels impossible. Like there's this weight pressing down and I can't..."
She trails off, but I understand what she's not saying. The way trauma sits on your chest like a physical thing, making every small task feel insurmountable.
"The cabin feels safe," she continues quietly. "Even though I know it's not healthy, even though I'm just hiding. It's the only place I don't feel like I'm waiting for something terrible to happen."
"That's normal."
"It doesn't feel normal. It feels like I'm broken."
"You're not broken." I keep my voice clinical, factual. "You're injured. There's a difference."
She looks at me then, really looks, her brown eyes searching my face for something. Pity, maybe, or judgment. She won't find either.
"Injuries heal," she says.
"So will this. Just takes longer than bones."
"How much longer?"
"However long it takes." I shift slightly, finding a more comfortable position against the tree.
"Bodies have predictable healing timelines.
Set a bone correctly, splint it properly, it knits back together in six to eight weeks.
But this—" I gesture vaguely at her head, her chest, the space where invisible wounds live, "—doesn't follow neat schedules. "
"So I just... wait?"
"You heal. Which means sometimes pushing forward, sometimes staying still. Listening to what you actually need instead of what you think you should be able to handle."
She's quiet for a long moment, processing that. The tea flask turns slowly in her hands, metal catching scattered sunlight through the branches above.
"I've been drowning," she finally admits, so quietly I almost miss it.
"In the memories. In everything that happened.
Every time I close my eyes, I'm back there.
And during the day it's only slightly better because at least I can keep my eyes open, keep watching for threats even though I know there aren't any here. "
The words come faster now, like a dam breaking.
"I can't sleep more than an hour at a time.
Food tastes like ash. The cabin walls feel like they're closing in but going outside feels worse.
And Saela keeps visiting with that worried look and I can't tell her because she's been through enough and she's finally happy with Kai and I won't be the thing that ruins that for her. "
She draws a shaky breath.
"So I've just been sitting there. Alone. Waiting for it to get better and knowing it won't. Not like this. Not while I'm hiding."
I let the silence sit between us after she finishes. She needs to hear her own words, process what she's just acknowledged out loud for the first time.
The valerian has done its work. Her hands are steady now, breathing even, the sharp edges of panic smoothed into something more manageable. Still hurt, still struggling, but present in her body instead of lost in memory.
"The marking ritual triggered something," I say after a while. "What was it?"
She flinches, her grip tightening on the flask. For a moment I think she won't answer, that I've pushed too far. But then her shoulders drop, defeat or relief, I can't quite tell.
"Watching them smear the paint on each other's skin…
" Her words come out raspy. "They would cut my skin to make me bleed.
Then, they would smear it along my skin, play with my blood like I was a toy, and seeing a group of orcs laughing while they—" She shakes her head sharply, cutting off the memory.
"The paint. The spirals. The laughter. It was too similar. "
I nod, filing that information away. There's nothing I can do to take it away, but I want to help heal her from it. "You should have told me before we went."
"I didn't know it would be a problem." Her voice carries frustration, mostly at herself. "I thought I could handle paint. It's just paint."
"Your body doesn't care about logic."
"Clearly."
I pull another flask from my belt—water this time—and take a drink before offering it to her. She accepts it, swapping out the empty tea container. The routine of it seems to help, giving her hands something to do.
"Are you okay?" I keep my tone neutral, genuinely asking rather than pushing. "Or do you think it made it worse?"
She's quiet for a long moment, considering. I can see the war playing out on her face—the part of her that didn't want to face this warring with the part of her that knows she has to.
"I don't know," she finally says. "Ask me tomorrow."
"Fair enough."
We sit in comfortable silence after that, the woods quiet around us. Ressa drinks the water slowly, color gradually returning to her face as the panic fully recedes. She'll be exhausted later—adrenaline crashes always leave you wrung out—but for now she's stable.
Good enough.
Eventually I stand, brushing dirt off my trousers. "Come on. I'll walk you back."
She doesn't argue, rising carefully like she's testing whether her legs will hold her. They do, though she's steadier after a few steps.
The walk back to her cabin is quiet. Not uncomfortable, just... settled. We've said what needed saying, and anything else would be unnecessary filler.
I see her to her door but don't go inside. She needs space to decompress, to process everything without me hovering.
"Thank you." She says it quietly, not quite meeting my eyes. "For getting me out of there."
"It's my job."
"It's not, actually. You're my healer, not my keeper."
"Someone has to keep you from doing something stupid."
That earns me an almost-smile before she slips inside, the door closing with a soft click.
I stand there for a moment, making sure I don't hear anything concerning from inside—no immediate breakdown, no sounds of distress. When I'm satisfied she's not about to spiral again, I turn toward the healer house.
The settlement center is still active when I pass, the marking ritual apparently concluded and everyone moving on to whatever other ridiculous activity Drogath has planned. I avoid it, taking the long route that skirts the residential area.
"Falla!"
I stop, suppressing a sigh. Saela jogs up, slightly out of breath, concern written clearly across her features.
"Is Ressa okay? I saw you two leave and—"
"She's fine." I keep my voice flat, discouraging further questions. "Home now."
But Saela doesn't take the hint, falling into step beside me instead. Her grey-green eyes search my face with uncomfortable perception.
"Thank you," she says after a moment. "For getting her out. For trying with this festival thing. I know she's been..." She trails off, struggling for words.
"Struggling," I supply.
"Yes. That." Saela's shoulders drop slightly. "She won't talk to me about it. Says she's fine but I can see she's not and I don't know how to help her."
"You can't."
The words come out harsh. Saela blinks, taken aback.
I soften my tone fractionally. "What I mean is, you're not equipped to help with this. You're her friend, not her healer. The best thing you can do is exactly what you've been doing—checking in, bringing food, giving her space when she needs it."
"It doesn't feel like enough."
"It's not. But it's all you can do."
Saela absorbs that, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. The silence stretches before she speaks again.
"Do you think she'll be okay? Eventually?"
"Yes."
The certainty in my voice surprises even me.
But it's true. I've seen enough trauma cases to recognize the ones who'll make it through versus the ones who won't. Ressa's fighting, even when she doesn't realize it.
The fact that she agreed to come today, that she's letting me help however minimally, that she's still trying despite everything—those are good signs.
"She just needs time," I add. "And pressure might make it worse."
Saela nods slowly, understanding settling across her features. "The festival. Do you think it's too much for her?"
The question I've been asking myself since I left her at the cabin.
"Probably," I admit. "But staying locked in that cabin definitely is."
"So you're trying to find the lesser of two evils."
"Something like that."