Chapter 8 Falla
FALLA
The morning air carries a bite that has nothing to do with temperature. I stand outside Ressa's cabin, hand raised to knock, wondering if I've misjudged this entire arrangement.
Two days. Two panic attacks. Two early exits from festivities that were supposed to help her rejoin clan life rather than send her spiraling into memories of trauma.
Maybe I'm pushing too hard. Maybe the clinical detachment I pride myself on has blinded me to genuine harm I'm causing.
I knock anyway. Two sharp raps that echo in the quiet morning.
Footsteps approach from inside—slower than they should be, evidence of lingering stiffness in her legs that she still tries to hide. The door opens to reveal Ressa looking more rested than yesterday but still carrying shadows under her eyes that speak of interrupted sleep.
"You're early," she observes, not quite accusation but close.
"I wanted to talk before the festivities start." I keep my tone neutral, clinical. "About whether you want to continue this."
Her expression shifts, something defensive flickering across her features. "I said I'd do the week."
"You did." I lean against the porch railing, keeping distance between us. "But that was before two days of panic attacks. If this is causing more harm than good—"
"It's not."
The interruption comes sharp enough to cut. Ressa crosses her arms, a gesture that would read as closed-off except I can see the tension in her shoulders has nothing to do with me and everything to do with her own frustration.
"The panic attacks are because of what happened to me," she continues, her voice steadier now. "Not because of what we're doing. Falla, if I hide in this cabin forever, those memories win. They get to control everything I do for the rest of my life."
I study her face, looking for signs of false bravado or stubborn pride overriding common sense. But her eyes hold genuine determination beneath the exhaustion.
"And if you have another breakdown?"
"Then you'll help me through it." She says it like it's obvious, like my presence during her panic attacks is a given. It does something to me to know she implicitly trusts me like that. "You've done it twice already. Why would today be different?"
Why indeed.
I nod slowly, accepting her logic even as part of me wants to bundle her back inside where she's safe from triggers and memories and the general chaos of clan festivities that seem designed to test every boundary she's rebuilt. As a healer, I know this is good.
But as I've been getting to know Ressa, it's become harder to see her just as a patient.
"Day 3 might be harder," I warn, keeping my voice level. "The reflex challenges involve more physical contact than the previous activities."
"I know." Her chin lifts fractionally. "Saela explained it last night."
Of course she did. Saela worries about Ressa the way I worry about patients with injuries that won't heal properly—constant vigilance looking for signs of deterioration.
"Your shoulder's still stiff," I point out, because if we're doing this I need her aware of the physical limitations. Though I have noticed they have improved now that she’s drinking the tea and using the salve.
It will help speed her recovery much faster than I had initially estimated.
"And your legs aren't back to full strength.
You don't have to push yourself into activities that will aggravate existing injuries. "
"Will you pull me out if it gets bad?"
"Yes."
The answer requires no thought. I've pulled her from two days of festivities already when panic threatened to consume her. Adding a third exit to that list won't change anything to me.
But it might hurt her more.
Ressa uncrosses her arms, some of the defensive tension easing from her posture. "Then I want to try."
I nod. I'll never hold her back if she doesn't think she needs it. I just want to help her heal in her head and heart as I have her body.
We make our way toward the gathering area in silence, my pace deliberately slowed to accommodate her legs without making it obvious I'm compensating. She notices anyway—she always does—but doesn't comment.
The clan has already assembled by the time we arrive, pairs clustered together in anticipation.
Ursik stands with Kerra again, both of them radiating competitive energy that probably started before sunrise.
Kai and Saela occupy their usual spot near the edge, Saela's eyes tracking Ressa's approach with barely concealed worry.
Drogath holds court at the center, dressed in what he probably believes is traditional human festival attire but actually looks like he raided a storage chest of random green fabric. Shamrocks drawn in what might be charcoal decorate his face in patterns that follow no logic I can identify.
"Brothers and sisters!" His voice booms across the gathering. "Today we honor the third trial of St. Padraig's week—the Reflex Test!"
Several pairs exchange glances, some excited, others wary. I remain impassive, already cataloging the various ways this could go wrong.
"The great warrior Padraig understood that swift hands protect prosperity!
" Drogath continues, warming to his subject with enthusiasm that would be infectious if it wasn't based on completely fabricated lore.
"Partners must demonstrate their ability to react together, to defend and pursue, to show the physical harmony that marks true compatibility! "
Ressa shifts slightly beside me. Not panic—not yet—but awareness of what's coming.
"Today's challenges will test your reflexes through playful combat!" Drogath gestures broadly. "Speed, awareness, and the ability to read your partner's movements. The couple who demonstrates the greatest harmony wins today's honor!"
Playful combat. The words settle uneasily in my gut as I consider Ressa's history with orcs and physical confrontation. But she hasn't bolted yet, hasn't shown signs of the panic that preceded previous breakdowns.
Drogath explains the rules—simple pursuit and evasion games where partners attempt to land touches on specific marked points while defending their own. First to three successful touches wins the round. There will be no overall winner. Just a fun competition between partners.
Basic reflex training that any warrior learns in their first season. Nothing inherently dangerous or traumatic about the mechanics.
Except Ressa isn't a warrior, and physical contact from orcs carries weight that has nothing to do with game rules.
I turn to her, keeping my expression neutral. "We don't have to do this."
"Stop giving me outs." Her voice carries unexpected steel. "If I need one, I'll take it. But don't decide for me that I can't handle this."
Fair enough.
I'm not usually like this. I'm not sure why I'm so worried about it making her panic when this was my idea.
Drogath signals the start, and pairs spread out across the gathering area to claim space for their matches. Ursik and Kerra immediately launch into their round with aggressive enthusiasm that makes several nearby pairs scramble out of range.
Kai and Saela move with practiced coordination, their familiarity with each other's fighting styles evident in how they anticipate movements. Saela's smaller size becomes advantageous as she ducks under Kai's reach, landing a touch on his shoulder before dancing back out of range.
I focus on Ressa, noting the tension in her stance that has nothing to do with her injuries. "Ready?"
She nods, raising her hands in a defensive position that's more instinct than training.
The marked points for this round glow with colored chalk—shoulders, forearms, and sides of the ribs. Three touches to any combination wins.
I move slowly, telegraphing my approach so she can track it. My hand extends toward her left shoulder, the movement deliberate enough that a child could evade it.
Ressa steps back easily, her expression shifting from wary to confused. "Are you even trying?"
"Testing your range of motion." The excuse sounds thin even to my ears.
"My range of motion is fine." She shifts her weight, and I catch the slight grimace that says her legs disagree. "You're treating me like I'll break."
"I don't want to trigger you. This has been hard." I know that, and it's hitting me differently than it should. Than my normal assessments do.
"And I'm still standing here." Her chin lifts in that stubborn gesture I'm starting to recognize. "So either actually participate in this challenge or admit you don't think I can handle it."
The words carry an accusation that makes me reconsider my approach. She's right—I am treating her like fragile glass rather than a person trying to reclaim pieces of herself.
I adjust my stance, making my next movement faster but still controlled. My hand aims for her right forearm, the approach angled to give her options for blocking or evading.
She blocks, her forearm coming up to deflect my touch. The contact lasts barely a second but it's deliberate, defensive, chosen rather than endured.
No panic. No freezing. Just reaction.
"Better," she says, and something that might be a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "But you're still slow."
"I'm being cautious."
"You're being boring."
The teasing quality in her voice catches me off-guard. This isn't the frightened woman who couldn't stand being in the same room with me weeks ago. This is someone finding confidence in small victories, in moments where her body obeys her will rather than her trauma.
I like this side of her. The realization arrives unwelcome and immediate—I like seeing her push back, seeing her demand to be treated as capable rather than broken.
I increase my speed, committing to the challenge properly. My left hand feints toward her shoulder while my right aims for her ribs, testing whether she can track multiple threats.
She pivots, evading the shoulder strike but leaving herself open for the rib touch. My fingers make contact with her side—brief, light, over before it fully registers.
"One point me," I announce, stepping back to reset.
Ressa's breathing picks up slightly but stays controlled. No panic. Just elevated awareness.
"You cheated with the feint."
"I adapted to your complaint about being slow."
"Fair." She adjusts her stance, distributing weight more evenly. The grimace from her legs is more pronounced now but she doesn't acknowledge it. "Again."
We reset and continue. The second round goes faster—I aim for her left forearm while she tries to reach my shoulder. We both connect simultaneously, her fingers brushing my shoulder a fraction of a second before mine land on her arm.
"Point you," I concede.
"Keep up, old man."
The nickname makes me raise an eyebrow. "Ursik's corrupting you."
"Ursik has excellent taste in insults."
The third exchange happens faster still. Ressa's learning to anticipate my movements, reading the subtle shifts in weight that precede strikes. She evades my first attempt at her shoulder, and I switch directions mid-motion to go for her ribs again.
She blocks with her forearm, then twists to reach for my other shoulder in the same motion. Her fingers graze the marked point before I can pull back.
"Two points me," she says, satisfaction clear in her voice. "One more and I win."
Around us, other pairs continue their matches. Ursik and Kerra's round has devolved into what looks more like actual wrestling than reflex testing, both of them laughing as they grapple. Kai's claimed his third point on Saela, who concedes with good-natured grumbling.
I focus back on Ressa, noting the flush in her cheeks that comes from exertion rather than panic. Her breathing stays elevated but controlled. No signs of deterioration into flashback or freeze response.
She's handling this. Actually handling it.
The final exchange begins with me testing her defensive awareness—multiple feints toward different points to see how she prioritizes threats. She tracks them well, better than I expected for someone without formal combat training.
But her legs betray her. The stiffness she's been hiding manifests as slower pivoting, reduced range of motion in her evasion. I could exploit it easily, land the winning touch and end this round.
Instead I commit to a direct approach toward her left shoulder, giving her clear opportunity to counter. She takes it, ducking under my reach and lunging for my ribs.
Her fingers connect with the marked point firmly, deliberately. Point three. Match won.
"I won." She sounds almost surprised, like she hadn't fully believed victory was possible.
"You did."
No panic attacks. No breakdowns. No early exits or desperate breathing exercises or bitter herbal tea consumed while she shakes through aftershocks of trauma.
Just Ressa, flushed and triumphant, standing in the middle of clan festivities without fear consuming her.
And she looks…beautiful.