Chapter 4 #5
With the fragment removed, the wound revealed itself like a map I could finally read.
There—pockets of tissue that had surrendered to infection, darkened and angry.
And there—areas where the body had tried to wall off the invader, creating barriers that would never heal cleanly. All of it had to go.
The scalpel found my palm again, an extension of my will.
I began to debride with surgical precision, each cut deliberate, each decision weighted.
Too little and the infection would return like a vengeful ghost. Too much and the wound would gape, refusing to close.
The balance lived in my fingertips, in years of training that had become muscle memory.
Morg leaned in, her shadow falling across Ardin's torso.
She watched with the intensity of a student memorizing sacred text, then moved without prompting—a clean cloth appearing in her hand exactly when I needed it, dabbing away blood before it could obscure my view.
We fell into a rhythm, her movements anticipating mine with uncanny accuracy.
When only pink, healthy tissue remained, I irrigated one final time, watching the clear fluid carry away the last traces of contamination. Then I reached for my suture kit, the familiar weight of it grounding me.
"Almost done," I murmured, more to myself than anyone else.
Threading the needle was meditation. The first stitch was prayer. The tissue edges kissed together like they'd been waiting for this reunion, no longer fighting against inflammation and foreign debris. Each suture was a promise—this time, you'll heal. This time, I've given you everything you need.
My hands moved with practiced grace, placing each stitch with the care of an artist signing their masterpiece. The spacing perfect. The tension just right. Room to breathe, room to drain, room to knit back together into something whole.
When I tied off the final knot and snipped the thread, the world seemed to exhale with me. My shoulders dropped, releasing tension I'd been carrying like armor. Exhaustion rolled through my body in waves, now that I'd finally given it permission.
"There," I breathed, the word carrying more weight than its single syllable should hold. "That should do it."
Morg moved like water around me, gathering bloodied cloths and instruments.
She'd done this before—maybe not in a medical tent with sterile equipment, but she understood the sacred nature of the work, the ritual of caring for the wounded.
The wooden bowl sloshed as she lifted it, dark water catching the light, and her voice drifted through the doorway as she murmured something in that rolling, musical tongue to the Orcs keeping vigil outside.
I reached for the clean bandages, my fingers trembling now that the critical work was done. Adrenaline was a fickle friend—steady as steel when you needed it, abandoning you to the shakes the moment the crisis passed.
"Jordan." Ruka's voice wrapped around my name like velvet.
I kept my eyes on the gauze, unrolling it with more concentration than the task required.
"He should be fine now. The antibiotics will handle any remaining infection, and without that fragment.
.." I pressed the first layer over the fresh sutures, watching it bloom red at the edges before the bleeding stopped.
"The wound can actually heal this time."
"Jordan," Ruka said again, and suddenly he was close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him.
My hands stilled on the adhesive tape. "I'm sorry." The confession tumbled out before I could stop it. "This is my fault. I should have found that fragment the first time. Should have been more thorough, should have—"
"Stop." Ryhain's command cut through my spiral. She'd moved to stand across from me, her dark eyes fierce despite the exhaustion carved into her features. "You carry guilt that does not belong to you."
I looked up, meeting her gaze. "But I missed it. If I'd found it during the first surgery—"
"You saved his life." Ruka's hand found my shoulder, and the weight of it anchored me to the present. "The first time, when the wound would have killed him. And now, when infection stalked him like a hunter."
"Twice," Ryhain said, something in her expression softening. "You have pulled my son from death twice, Dr. Jordan."
"I almost didn't save him at all."
"But you did." Ruka's thumb traced a small circle against my shoulder blade, the gesture so gentle it made my chest ache. "You knew something was wrong. You came back. You fixed it. That is what matters."
The absurdity crashed over me. Here they stood, offering gratitude and trust, when back at the hospital, I'd already be drowning in legal paperwork.
Retained foreign body—that's what the incident report would say.
Surgical complication requiring reoperation.
If Ardin had been a human boy in a human hospital, the lawyers would be circling before he even opened his eyes.
Review boards. Depositions. The word "negligent" stamped across my career in permanent ink.
But here, in this impossible world where I'd operated with camping supplies and prayer, they were thanking me. Not threatening lawsuits. Not demanding to speak to my supervisor. Not calling me incompetent.
Just... grateful their boy was breathing.
The contrast carved something hollow in my chest, then filled it with something warm and unfamiliar.
Morg's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, her stilted English soft but certain.
"No healer is perfect." She returned with a clean cloth, her weathered hands moving with practiced care as she bathed the boy's face.
The blanket around Ardin received her attention as well, tucked and smoothed until she was satisfied.
"A good healer makes things right. You are a good healer. "
The sting hit my eyes before I could stop it. I grabbed for another roll of bandages, desperate for something—anything—to occupy my trembling hands. "Thank you," I managed, the words barely audible.
Ruka's voice shifted into their language, the cadence gentle but carrying an unmistakable note of authority as he addressed Morg.
She straightened, her gaze bouncing between Ardin's sleeping form and my face.
Whatever argument formed behind her pressed lips died unspoken.
Instead, she squeezed my hand—once, firm, grounding—before her stiff movements carried her from the room.
When Ruka turned to his sister, his entire demeanor transformed.
The warrior melted away, leaving only a brother's concern as he took in Ryhain's appearance.
She'd collapsed into the chair by Ardin's bedside, her body curled protectively toward her son.
Dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes, and her shoulders bowed under an invisible weight that had nothing to do with muscle and everything to do with a mother's love.
"Ryhain." The gentleness in his voice could have coaxed birds from trees. "Two nights without sleep. Go rest. I'll keep watch."
Her jaw set in that stubborn line I was beginning to recognize as a family trait. "I should stay—"
"You should rest." Ruka's interruption carried the perfect balance of firmness and kindness. "You collapsing from exhaustion won't help Ardin. I'll watch over him. Jordan will watch over him. He's safe now."
The silence stretched taut as a bowstring. Ryhain's hand drifted out, her fingers ghosting across Ardin's forehead with the kind of tenderness that made my throat tight. A shaky breath escaped her, and she nodded.
My own gaze dropped to Ardin—to the pristine white bandages wrapping his side, to the gentle rise and fall of his chest that already seemed stronger, more rhythmic. The fever flush still painted his cheeks, but it would fade. He would heal. He had to.
"Wake me if anything changes." Ryhain's voice scraped raw with exhaustion and emotion.
"I will," Ruka promised, the words a vow.
She rose like someone moving through deep water, every motion weighted with bone-deep fatigue. Her pause beside me lasted only a heartbeat, her hand settling briefly on my shoulder. "Thank you," she breathed, then dragged herself from the room.
The chair she'd abandoned still held the warmth of her vigil. I claimed it without hesitation, positioning myself close enough to catch every subtle shift in Ardin's breathing, every degree of temperature change beneath my fingertips.
Footsteps retreated, then returned. Ruka materialized with a second chair, its legs scraping softly against the floor as he positioned it beside mine. The space between our shoulders measured barely an inch—close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him.
"You don't have to stay," I said, though the words contradicted the relief flooding through me at his presence. "I can watch him."
"I know I don't have to." Those dark eyes found mine, holding steady. "I want to."
I nodded, my attention drifting back to Ardin. My fingers sought his pulse point again, counting the beats like prayer beads. Still elevated, but the rhythm had steadied—no longer the frantic gallop of before.
"I want to stay a while." The confession slipped out quiet and certain. "Until I know he's truly okay. Until the fever breaks and I'm sure the infection is retreating." I risked a glance at Ruka.
His expression transformed—surprise melting into something warmer, something that sent heat spiraling through my chest and made my pulse forget its steady rhythm.
"Of course you can stay." The words emerged soft as smoke. His hand found mine, fingers intertwining with a gentle pressure that felt like an anchor. "You are welcome here. You are welcome as long as you need—or want."
The weight of those words settled between us, heavy with implications that extended far beyond this room, this vigil, this moment.
"I'd like that," I whispered.