Chapter 5 Mara
MARA
The morning arrives wrapped in silence, thick and muffled by the snow that's been falling steadily since before dawn.
I wake to the soft whisper of flakes against pine boughs and the steady rhythm of breathing from our unexpected companion.
The orc—Nelrish, I think Eira called him in her sleep-murmured observations—lies still beneath the makeshift blanket I'd fashioned from my coat and gathered moss.
His fever broke sometime during the night.
I know because I checked, fingertips pressed briefly to his forehead while Eira slept curled against my side like a little fox seeking warmth.
The skin felt cool, normal temperature beneath the coarse dark hair.
Relief had flooded through me then, unexpected in its intensity.
Why should I care if an orc lives or dies?
The question haunts me as I carefully extract myself from our nest of pine needles and borrowed body heat.
My movements are practiced quiet, learned from years of early morning scavenging runs in the bunkers when competition for resources meant the difference between eating and going hungry.
But I do care, and that realization sits uneasily in my chest as I duck out of our shelter into the pearl-grey morning.
The forest has transformed overnight. What yesterday was brown earth and green pine now lies buried beneath a blanket of white that continues to thicken with each passing moment.
Fat flakes drift down through the canopy, each one catching what little light filters through the clouds.
It's beautiful in a way that makes my grandmother's stories feel real—winter as something magical rather than simply another survival challenge.
First snow. The phrase rises unbidden from childhood memory, carrying with it the weight of traditions I'd thought lost forever. Grandmother's voice echoes in my mind: When the first snow falls on the longest night, when the world grows quiet and the stars grow bright...
My breath mists in the cold air as I survey our small clearing.
The fire has burned down to embers, carefully banked to provide warmth without producing telltale smoke.
Our tracks from yesterday are already filling with fresh powder, erasing evidence of our passage.
Good. The longer we remain invisible, the better our chances of surviving whatever comes next.
I need to forage while the opportunity exists. Need to find food, medicine, anything useful before the snow gets too deep for safe travel. The few rations I grabbed during our flight won't last more than another day, especially if we're feeding three instead of two.
The wintergreen grows in patches beneath the larger pines, dark leaves almost black against fresh snow.
I gather handfuls, stuffing them into the pouches I've fashioned from torn fabric.
Wintergreen for pain, for fever that might return.
The sharp scent clings to my fingers as I work, minty and clean.
Chaga proves harder to locate, but I find a promising birch tree with the telltale black growths clinging to its trunk like burned fists.
I chip away what I can reach with my belt knife, collecting the orange interior that will brew into medicine.
Chaga for immune support, for general healing.
Something tells me we'll need all the medicinal help we can gather.
Pine needles come easiest of all. I strip young shoots from several trees, selecting the brightest green growth for maximum potency. These will provide vitamin support through the lean winter months ahead—assuming we survive long enough to worry about nutritional deficiencies.
When I return to our shelter, I find Eira awake and busy with some project that involves arranging small objects in careful patterns.
She's gathered winter berries—the bright red ones that birds love but humans can't digest—along with seed pods and interesting twigs.
Her small fingers work with surprising dexterity despite the cold, weaving and positioning each element with artistic precision.
"What are you making, sweet girl?" I keep my voice low, conscious of our sleeping companion.
"Decorations." She doesn't look up from her work, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. "First snow means decorate the trees for good luck. Grandmother's stories said so."
My heart clenches at the casual reference to traditions I've tried so hard to preserve.
In the bunkers, such practices were considered wasteful superstition.
Resources too precious to spend on anything that didn't directly support survival.
But here, watching my daughter create beauty from forest scraps, I remember why these rituals matter.
"That's right." I settle beside her, sorting my gathered materials. "Your great-grandmother would be proud."
Eira beams at this approval, then returns to her work with renewed focus.
She's creating tiny wreaths from flexible twigs, decorating them with berries and seed pods arranged in pleasing patterns.
Each one is small enough to hang from low branches, bright spots of color against the white-and-green backdrop of winter forest.
"He's dreaming good dreams now," she observes without prompting, glancing toward where Nelrish lies motionless. "Yesterday the dreams were all fire and sharp teeth. Today they're like... like warm honey."
I follow her gaze to study our patient. In sleep, with the harsh lines of pain smoothed from his features, he looks less intimidating.
Still dangerous—the breadth of his shoulders and the weapons within reach make that clear—but not actively threatening.
His breathing comes easy and regular, no longer the labored struggle of yesterday.
"Can you tell what he's dreaming about?"
Eira tilts her head, considering. "Water. Clean water that tastes like sky. And... singing? Like voices calling from far away." She shrugs. "Good dreams. Safe dreams."
The relief that floods through me is inappropriate and unwelcome. I shouldn't care about an orc's emotional state, shouldn't feel invested in his recovery beyond basic human decency. But watching the peaceful rise and fall of his chest, I find myself genuinely glad that his rest is undisturbed.
Perhaps it's because I understand the alternative too well. Nightmares have been my companion for years—dreams of the bunker, of being traded like livestock, of watching Eira grow up in a world that sees her as an abomination rather than a gift. Peaceful sleep is a luxury few of us can afford.
The snow continues to fall, heavier now.
Fat flakes that stick and accumulate rather than melting on contact.
I need to set snares while I can still move through the forest without leaving obvious trails.
Food remains our most pressing concern, followed closely by the question of where we'll go once Nelrish recovers enough to travel.
I select a promising game trail and begin constructing a simple snare from salvaged wire and carved wooden components.
The work requires precise tension—too loose and prey slips free, too tight and the mechanism fails to trigger properly.
My fingers remember the technique from bunker survival training, muscle memory overriding the cold that makes fine motor control difficult.
"Mama, look!" Eira's voice carries quiet excitement.
I turn to find her holding up a completed decoration—a miniature wreath woven from red-berried branches and adorned with tiny pinecones arranged like flowers. It's beautiful in a way that catches my breath, proof that creativity and hope can flourish even in the harshest circumstances.
"It's perfect." I mean every word. "Should we hang it?"
She nods eagerly, and together we select a low branch within sight of our shelter. Eira stretches on tiptoe to position her creation, adjusting it until the arrangement pleases her artistic sensibilities. The bright red berries stand out like tiny jewels against the snow-dusted pine needles.
"One for each hope," she says solemnly, echoing words I've spoken during our private celebrations. "Grandmother said the trees remember winter wishes."
"What do you wish for?"
"Warm beds. Clean water that doesn't taste like metal. And..." She glances toward our shelter, lowering her voice. "For the hurt-dreams to stay away. From all of us."
The simple wisdom of her words strikes deep. She's right, of course. We're all carrying hurt-dreams, all struggling with betrayals and losses that poison sleep. The bunker's cold efficiency. My time with the Broken-Tusk clan. Whatever drove Nelrish to trust the wrong person with his life.
"Good wishes," I tell her, dropping a kiss on her dark curls. "The trees will remember."
We work together in comfortable silence, creating more decorations as the snow transforms our temporary camp into something approaching magical.
Eira's artistic vision guides our efforts—she sees patterns and possibilities I would miss, combinations of natural materials that create unexpected beauty.
I find myself thinking about the poem Grandmother taught me, words that seemed like simple rhymes until this moment: For snow remembers what we have lost, each flake a memory, each breath a cost. But in the silence, the old magic wakes, and winter gives back what winter takes.
Maybe there's truth in those lines beyond mere sentiment. Maybe first snow really does offer chances for new beginnings, for laying aside old hurts in favor of fresh possibilities. The thought feels dangerous, too much like hope in a world that punishes such luxuries.
But watching Eira arrange berries with the serious concentration of an artist, seeing our grim survival camp transformed by her innocent creativity, I find myself willing to consider the possibility.
That this first snow might indeed be bringing us something valuable, even if I can't yet name what that might be.
I complete the snare and move to scout another location, leaving Eira to her decorating.
The forest stretches endlessly in all directions, white and silent and full of hidden threats.
Somewhere out there, the Redmoon clan continues their search.
Somewhere behind us lie the bunkers with their false safety and suffocating walls.
But here, in this small clearing defended by pine boughs and heated by careful fire, we've created something that feels almost like sanctuary. Temporary, fragile, bought with enormous risk—but real nonetheless.
The question remains: where do we go when this shelter can no longer protect us? Winter is settling in with serious intent, and our options grow more limited with each falling flake.