Chapter 6 Nelrish
NELRISH
The world returns in fragments—scent of pine smoke, whisper of falling snow, warmth against skin that no longer burns with fever.
I surface from dreams of clean water and distant voices to find myself wrapped in unfamiliar softness, sheltered by walls that smell of resin and earth rather than stone and leather.
My body protests the attempt to sit upright, muscles weak as water after whatever poison coursed through my veins.
The effort leaves me breathless, but my head remains clear.
The fog that clouded my thoughts yesterday has lifted, leaving behind crisp awareness and the uncomfortable realization that I owe my life to strangers.
My memories are muddied, too, and I can’t recall much in the time since I was poisoned.
The shelter around me speaks of skill and desperation in equal measure.
Pine boughs woven between salvaged posts create walls that block wind while allowing smoke to escape.
The construction is clever—human ingenuity applied to forest materials with the kind of efficiency born from necessity.
Whoever built this understands survival in ways that command respect.
Movement catches my attention. A woman crouches near a small fire, tending something that steams in a metal cup.
Her hair catches the light—dark blonde twisted into a practical braid with loose strands framing features that belong in softer times.
She moves with quiet competence, each gesture economical and purposeful.
This must be the one who saved me. The thought carries weight I'm not ready to examine.
"You're awake." Her voice holds careful neutrality, the tone of someone accustomed to measuring words before speaking them. Green eyes study me with watchful intelligence. "How do you feel?"
"Like I've been trampled by a full war party." The admission comes easier than expected. "But alive, which is more than I deserved an hour ago."
Her mouth quirks in what might be amusement if she allowed herself such luxuries. "The poison was nightshade-based. My daughter—" I gesture toward where a small figure sits absorbed in some project involving berries and twigs, "—she helped me identify it."
The words 'my daughter' hang between us, and I watch something shift in her expression. Protectiveness, fierce and immediate. Good. A mother who fights for her child is someone I can understand.
"Eira has... gifts." The careful phrasing tells me more than a full explanation might. "She sees things others miss."
I study the child with new interest. Small for her age but bright-eyed, working with the focused intensity I recognize in craftsmen perfecting their trade.
The hints of orc heritage are subtle—her skin tone, the shape of her jaw, her thick black hair—but unmistakable to eyes that know what to look for.
Half-blood. The realization brings no judgment, only curiosity about her story and grudging admiration for her mother's courage. Raising such a child in this world requires strength beyond the physical.
"She saved me as much as you did." I keep my voice low, respectful. "I'm in both your debts."
The woman—I still don't know her name—extends the steaming cup toward me. "Willow bark tea. It'll help flush the remaining toxins."
I accept the offering with hands that shake more than I'd prefer. The tea tastes bitter and earthy, but warmth spreads through my chest as I drink. Real warmth, not the false heat of fever.
"I'm Nelrish." The introduction feels inadequate given the circumstances, but protocols exist for good reason.
"Mara." She settles cross-legged beside the fire, maintaining careful distance. "And that's Eira."
The child—Eira—looks up at the sound of her name and offers me a smile that transforms her serious face. "You're not dreaming the scary dreams anymore."
"No." I find myself smiling back, charmed despite everything. "Thanks to your healing touch."
She giggles at this, returning to her work with renewed focus. I watch her arrange berries in careful patterns, creating something beautiful from forest scraps. The sight stirs old aches—memories of the children I might have had, the family I chose to sacrifice for clan leadership.
"What are you making there, little artist?"
"Decorations for the first snow." Eira holds up a miniature wreath, proud of her creation. "Mama says we have to decorate the trees for good luck when winter starts. It's tradition."
The concept intrigues me more than it should. Human traditions often mirror older customs, echoes of practices that might have sprung from common roots. "And what does decorating the trees accomplish?"
"Magic," Eira says matter-of-factly. "The snow remembers what we lost, but winter gives back what winter takes. Grandmother's poem says so."
I glance at Mara, noting the way her expression softens when she looks at her daughter. Love, pure and uncomplicated, transforms her features from merely pretty to genuinely beautiful. The realization hits harder than expected.
"Your grandmother sounds wise." I keep my attention on Eira, safer ground than studying her mother's face. "What else happens with the first snow?"
"Oh, lots of things." Eira warms to the subject, setting aside her work to gesture enthusiastically.
"We tie our hopes to evergreen boughs and speak our dreams to the winter.
And there's supposed to be ribbons—red ones for warmth and love and daily bread—but we don't have ribbons so I'm using berries instead. "
The casual adaptation speaks to resilience that impresses me. Making do with what's available while honoring the spirit of tradition. It's a mindset I recognize from my own people's customs, adjusted for survival in hostile territory.
"Berries seem more fitting for forest rites," I tell her seriously. "The trees will appreciate offerings that belong to their world."
Eira beams at this validation, immediately returning to her project with doubled enthusiasm. I catch Mara watching me with something like surprise, as if my patience with her daughter isn't what she expected from an orc.
The assumption stings more than it should. How many of my people has she encountered? What experiences shaped her expectations? The questions burn, but asking them would require revealing more about myself than seems wise.
"You should drink more." Mara refills my cup without being asked. "The purge takes time to complete properly."
I obey, grateful for her knowledge even as I chafe at the weakness that makes such help necessary. Every instinct screams to be moving, scouting, preparing defenses. Lying here helpless while others provide for my safety goes against everything my training demands.
"The shelter is well-built," I offer instead, hoping to convey appreciation without sounding patronizing. "Clever use of materials."
"It's temporary." Mara's tone suggests she's not fishing for compliments. "We needed something quick when the fighting started nearby."
Fighting. The word carries implications that make my jaw tighten. "Redmoon?"
Her nod confirms what I suspected. "Not sure who they were fighting but the settlement was falling. We grabbed what we could and ran."
Settlement. Not bunker, not encampment. Somewhere permanent enough to call home, now lost to orc infighting. The casual way she mentions fleeing speaks to familiarity with displacement that no one should possess.
"I'm sorry." The words feel inadequate but necessary. "Redmoon has been pushing into territories all winter. Their raids grow bolder. I’m not surprised someone is fighting back."
"You know them?" Something sharp enters her voice, protective mother evaluating threat levels.
"By reputation." I choose honesty over evasion. "They're part of the reason I was in these woods. Tracking their movements, trying to understand their patterns."
It's the truth, if not the complete truth. No need to mention clan leadership or the greater strategic implications of Redmoon's expansion. Better to appear as a simple scout than a chief with a target on his back.
"Alone?" Mara's incredulity seems genuine. "That's dangerous, even for..."
She trails off, but I catch the implication. Even for an orc. Fair enough—most humans see us as either unstoppable killing machines or savage brutes. The reality of vulnerability rarely occurs to them.
"I was with a hunting party." I take another sip of the bitter tea, feeling strength creep back into tired muscles. "But a failing soldier becomes expendable in light of gathering supplies and intelligence for the clan.”
Expendable. The word tastes false even as I speak it, but it serves to deflect questions about why I had been left behind.
"Well, your intelligence gathering nearly got you killed." Mara's tone carries dry humor beneath the criticism. "Poisoned water isn't exactly a tactical victory."
"No," I agree, studying her face in the firelight. The shadows emphasize the delicate line of her cheekbones, the curve of her mouth that suggests smiles come easier in better circumstances. "But being found by skilled healers might qualify as strategic luck."
Color touches her cheeks at the compliment, quick and telling. When did she last hear words of appreciation from someone not her daughter? The thought sparks protective instincts I have no right to feel.
"Mama's really good at fixing things," Eira chimes in, glancing up from her decorating. "She fixed the air scrubbers in the bunker and the water filters and now she fixed you."
Bunker. The casual reference explains much—technical knowledge, systematic thinking, the pallor that speaks of too many years underground. Mara came from the eastern settlements, the places where humans buried themselves rather than face orc occupation directly.
"She's very skilled," I agree, watching Mara's expression closely at the scrutiny. "I owe her more than I can easily repay."
"You don't owe us anything." The words come quick, defensive. "We couldn't just leave you to die."