Chapter 8 Nelrish
NELRISH
Strength seeps back into my bones like spring melt filling winter streams—gradual but undeniable.
By the next afternoon, I can stand without the world tilting sideways, though Mara watches each movement with the sharp attention of someone calculating whether her patient might suddenly become her problem again.
Smart woman. Caution serves her well in a world that punishes trust too freely given.
I test my balance against a tree the shelter is leaned against, pleased when my legs hold steady.
The poison's grip loosens with each passing hour, leaving behind only the hollow ache of a body pushed beyond its limits.
Soon I'll be strong enough to travel, to track down the hunting party that left me for dead, to make Sareen answer for what her betrayal has cost.
But not yet. And perhaps... Perhaps there are better uses for recovered strength than immediate revenge.
"Stay still," Eira commands from her position near the fire, where she's attempting to braid strips of birch bark into some elaborate pattern. "I'm not finished looking at you."
The imperious tone draws a smile I don't bother hiding. Five years old and already possessing the kind of confidence that could move mountains if properly directed. Her magic sparkles around the edges of her words like frost catching sunlight—subtle but unmistakable to those who know how to see it.
"Looking at me for what purpose?" I ask, settling back down with exaggerated obedience.
"To see if you're still sick inside." She studies my face with unsettling intensity, those gold-flecked eyes seeming to peer past skin and bone toward something deeper. "Mama says poison leaves shadows even after it's gone."
Perceptive child. And a perceptive mother, though Mara's attention feels different than her daughter's—less magical sight, more learned wariness.
She moves through camp-maintenance tasks with the fluid efficiency of someone who's mastered survival through careful observation, noting wind direction and fuel conservation and sight lines that might betray our position to unwelcome visitors.
Everything she does speaks to years spent making herself useful, necessary, invisible.
The way she banks the fire to minimize smoke.
How she chooses the driest wood to reduce telltale crackling.
The unconscious habit of checking escape routes every few minutes, mapping the fastest path through trees should running become required again.
She fascinates me in ways I don't entirely understand.
I've never paid particular attention to humans beyond their utility to the clan.
They serve purposes—labor, breeding stock for those who care about such things, occasional sources of information about bunker locations and supply routes.
Practical interactions with practical creatures who adapt to circumstances beyond their control.
But watching Mara work reveals layers of competence that command something closer to respect.
She doesn't simply endure hardship; she transforms it into opportunity.
Turns a desperate flight into shelter, poisoned water into healing tea, winter's approach into reason for celebration rather than despair.
And she moves like music given form—graceful efficiency that speaks to strength held carefully in reserve.
Her body tells stories I find myself wanting to read: the slight callus on her trigger finger suggesting familiarity with weapons, the way she favors her left ankle hinting at old injury never properly healed, the unconscious protective stance she adopts whenever positioning herself between Eira and potential threats.
Including me. Especially me.
The realization should sting more than it does.
I represent everything that's destroyed her world, everything that's forced her daughter to grow up understanding fear and hunger and displacement as normal conditions of existence.
Of course she watches me with suspicious calculation.
Of course she measures distances and weighs options every time I move.
The surprising part is how much I want to prove her caution unnecessary.
"Your mother's right about poison shadows," I tell Eira, who continues her intense examination. "Sometimes they linger longer than the sickness itself."
"But not in you anymore." She speaks with the certainty of someone who sees truth others miss. "The bad parts are almost gone now. Just tired parts left."
"Tired parts?"
"The pieces that hurt when you think about sad things." Her explanation comes matter-of-fact, as though reading emotional wounds ranks among normal childhood skills. "Mama has those too, but different colors."
Colors. The casual reference to her magical sight sends uncomfortable awareness down my spine. How much does she see when she looks at us? What shadows does her gift reveal that we'd rather keep hidden?
Mara glances up from her work sharpening salvaged metal into arrow points, expression shifting toward protective alertness. "Eira, don't pry into people's private thoughts."
"I'm not prying!" The protest carries indignant sincerity. "I just see what's already there, like looking at clouds. You can't help what shapes they make."
An apt comparison that makes me wonder what shapes my thoughts present to her unusual perception. Nothing too revealing, I hope—though given recent developments, I'm not entirely certain what constitutes acceptable versus problematic emotional territory anymore.
When did I start thinking of humans as individuals worthy of consideration rather than resources to be managed? When did survival-focused pragmatism give way to something approaching personal interest?
Dangerous questions with answers I'm not prepared to examine.
"I should contribute something useful while I recover," I announce, pushing speculation aside in favor of practical action. "More than consuming your supplies and taking up space."
The offer draws Mara's full attention for the first time since our earlier conversation. She studies my face as though searching for hidden motives, weighing sincerity against potential deception.
"You don't owe us anything," she says finally. "We helped because it was right, not because we expected payment."
The response reveals more about her character than perhaps she intended. In my experience, humans—like orcs—operate primarily through systems of obligation and exchange. Services rendered in expectation of services returned, assistance given to create leverage for future negotiations.
But she speaks as though kindness needs no justification beyond moral imperative. As though helping poisoned strangers ranks among basic responsibilities rather than calculated risks.
Either she's extraordinarily naive or operating from principles that shame my more cynical assumptions. Given everything she's survived, naivety seems unlikely.
"Nevertheless," I continue, "skilled hands shouldn't remain idle when there's work to be done."
I lever myself upright and move toward the pile of deadfall wood she's gathered for fuel, selecting a thick branch with good grain and minimal knots. My belt knife slides free with familiar weight, balance precise enough for detail work despite its primary purpose as a weapon.
"What are you making?" Eira abandons her bark-braiding project in favor of watching me work, curiosity bright as winter starlight.
"Something for you." The admission escapes before I consider whether gift-giving might complicate relationships I don't fully understand yet. "A bell, if the wood cooperates."
Her entire face transforms with delight, joy so pure it makes my chest tighten with unexpected emotion. When did a child's happiness begin affecting me like physical force? When did her pleasure become something I actively wanted to create?
"A real bell? That makes music?"
"Real music," I confirm, beginning the careful process of hollowing out the branch's interior. "Though not very loud. More like whispers than shouts."
The work demands concentration that provides welcome distraction from more complicated thoughts.
Wood shavings curl away from the blade in precise spirals, revealing the bell's emerging shape through controlled removal of everything unnecessary.
Ancient meditation disguised as practical craft, muscle memory inherited from childhood lessons in patience and precision.
Mara continues her own tasks but I catch her watching my progress with what might be grudging approval. My knife technique probably reveals more about my background than she expected—nobility tends toward ceremonial weapons rather than tools maintained for daily use.
"Where did you learn woodworking?" she asks, apparently deciding direct questions pose less risk than continued speculation.
"My father." The answer comes easier than anticipated, carrying none of the usual weight that thoughts of him tend to bear. "He believed leaders should understand every skill they might ask of their people."
"Leaders?" Her tone sharpens with new wariness. "You're not just a scout."
The observation hangs between us like a blade suspended over thread—one wrong word and whatever fragile trust we've built dissolves into suspicion and fear.
I could lie, maintain the fiction of being a simple warrior displaced by clan conflicts.
Safer for everyone involved if she continues thinking of me as an expendable soldier rather than a strategic target.
But lies feel wrong here, in this small space where honesty has already saved my life and created something approaching companionship. She deserves truth, even if it complicates everything.
"No," I admit, not looking up from my carving. "I'm not."
The silence stretches long enough for me to question the wisdom of confession. When I finally risk glancing toward her, Mara's expression has shifted into something unreadable—calculation mixed with what might be resignation.
"What are you then?"