Chapter 10 Nelrish
NELRISH
The morning air carries the bite of approaching winter, sharp enough to remind me that my body still harbors traces of poison's weakness.
I grip the sturdy branch Mara found for me—oak, stripped of bark and worn smooth by her careful hands—and test my weight against it.
My legs hold steady, though I can feel the slight tremor that speaks to depleted strength.
"Don't push too hard," Mara says from beside me, her voice carrying that particular blend of concern and practicality I've come to recognize. She stays close enough to catch me if I stumble, but far enough away to preserve my dignity. The consideration in her positioning doesn't go unnoticed.
"I'm steady enough," I assure her, taking a careful step forward. The branch takes more weight than I'd prefer, but my balance holds true. "Another day, perhaps two, and I'll be back to full strength."
Truth, mostly. The poison worked its way through my system with vicious efficiency, leaving behind weakness that feels foreign in bones accustomed to reliable power. But recovery progresses steadily—each hour brings clearer thought, each meal restores vitality I'd feared permanently lost.
Ahead of us, Eira dances through the forest with energy that makes my chest warm. She moves like wind through trees, following paths only she can see, pausing to touch bark or examine stones with fascination that speaks to magical sensitivity beyond her years.
"Look, Mama!" she calls, crouching beside a fallen log covered in moss bright as emeralds. "The earth spirits are sleeping here. I can feel them dreaming about spring."
Mara's expression softens with maternal pride that transforms her features completely.
Gone is the careful wariness, replaced by open affection that makes her beautiful in ways that have nothing to do with physical attraction.
Though that component certainly exists—the graceful way she moves through undergrowth, the competent sweep of her gaze as she catalogues potential dangers, the few escaped strands of dark-blonde hair that catch morning light like spun gold.
But it's watching her with Eira that truly undoes me.
The infinite patience she shows when her daughter stops to investigate every interesting discovery.
The way she explains things without talking down, respecting the child's intelligence while providing guidance that keeps them both safe.
The fierce protectiveness that never dims, even as she begins to trust my presence among them.
This is what family looks like. Not the clan bonds I've known—built on honor and duty and shared survival—but something softer and more precious. Choice rather than obligation. Love that exists simply because it exists, requiring no justification beyond its own worth.
"What do the spirits dream about?" I ask Eira, genuinely curious about her perceptions.
She tilts her head with concentration that makes her tiny horn nubs catch the light. When she speaks, her voice carries the distant quality that signals her magic stirring.
"Green things pushing up through snow. Flowers that smell like sunshine. Baby animals taking their first steps." Her eyes find mine with startling directness. "They're not sad dreams. They know winter has to come first, but they're not afraid of it."
The observation hits deeper than expected. Dreams without fear, hope that doesn't require guarantees. Faith that cycles continue, that endings lead to beginnings, that patience rewards those who endure hardship without losing sight of what lies beyond it.
"Wise spirits," I say softly, meaning it.
Eira beams at my response before bounding toward the next interesting discovery. Her laughter echoes through trees like music, bright counterpoint to the deeper rhythms of forest life. Watching her explore with such joy makes something in my chest expand until breathing becomes conscious effort.
When did I start wanting this? Not just the woman walking beside me, though desire for Mara burns steady as banked coals, but all of it.
The domesticity. The daily intimacies of shared space and common goals.
The privilege of watching a remarkable child grow into her magical gifts under gentle guidance rather than harsh necessity.
"She's extraordinary," I tell Mara as we follow Eira's meandering path through the underbrush.
"She is." Pride colors every syllable. "Sometimes I worry her gifts will bring unwanted attention, but.
.. watching her discover the world through magic, seeing how naturally it comes to her.
.." Mara's voice trails off, but I hear what she doesn't say.
Wonder wars with fear in any parent's heart when their child possesses abilities beyond normal understanding.
"Magic recognizes magic," I observe carefully. "What she carries connects her to older powers, but it also protects her. The earth spirits she feels, the way animals respond to her presence—that's not random attraction. She belongs to this world in ways that will serve her well."
Mara glances toward me with an expression I can't quite decipher. "You speak as though you know something about magic."
The comment invites a revelation I'm not certain she's ready to hear.
How do I explain that Wintermaw bloodlines carry traces of magical heritage, that my own connection to ancient powers allows me to recognize the strength building in her daughter?
How do I describe abilities that feel increasingly distant from their source, weakened by separation from Protheka but not entirely lost?
"All orcs retain some sensitivity," I say instead, offering partial truth that satisfies without overwhelming. "Enough to recognize power when it manifests, even if we can't access much ourselves anymore."
We walk in comfortable silence for several minutes, following game trails that wind between towering pines.
I note territorial markings scratched into bark—claw patterns and scent signs that speak to various clan activities in the area.
Most are old, indicating these woods see little regular traffic, but a few catch my attention with their deliberate positioning.
"Those marks," I say, pointing toward three parallel scratches carved deep into oak bark. "Clan territorial markers. This forest sits at the boundary between multiple territories."
Mara's shoulders tense slightly. "Multiple territories? Are we in danger?"
"Not immediately." I pause beside the marked tree, reading the signs with experience earned through years of navigation and negotiation.
"These particular marks indicate neutral ground—hunting territory shared by agreement rather than claimed through conquest. As long as we don't establish permanent settlement or take more resources than we need for immediate survival, most clans will leave us alone. "
"Most clans," she repeats, catching the qualifier.
I run my fingers over the scratches, feeling their depth and age. Six months old, perhaps eight. Old enough to suggest stable agreement, recent enough to indicate ongoing relevance.
"Territory disputes shift constantly," I explain, moving toward the next set of markings.
"What appears settled one season might become contested the next, especially as resources grow scarce or clan populations change.
But these woods have remained neutral for considerable time. The agreements here run deep."
"How do you know so much about clan politics?" Mara asks, and there's genuine curiosity in her voice rather than suspicion. "Most orcs I've encountered speak only of their own clan's concerns."
The question I've been avoiding since consciousness returned. How long can I postpone revealing the truth about my identity, my responsibilities, the reason Redmoon wanted me dead badly enough to risk poison rather than direct confrontation?
But looking at her now—the way sunlight catches gold highlights in her hair, the careful attention she pays to my explanations, the growing ease in her posture as she walks beside me—I find myself wanting honesty more than safety.
"I'm from Wintermaw," I say quietly, watching for her reaction. "My position within the clan requires... extensive knowledge of neighboring territories and their political situations."
Her steps falter only slightly, but I catch the moment of tension that flickers across her features. Wintermaw's reputation precedes us, especially among humans who've heard stories of our military capabilities, our role in the larger territorial conflicts that shape this region.
"Wintermaw," she repeats, voice carefully neutral. "I've heard the name."
I stop walking entirely, turning to face her with the honesty she deserves, even if it costs me the fragile trust we've built. "What have you heard?"
Mara meets my gaze directly, those moss-green eyes searching my features for something I hope she finds. "That they're... formidable. Strategic. That other clans respect them enough to avoid direct confrontation when possible."
"Anything else?"
"That their warriors are honorable, by orc standards. That they keep their word once given, even to enemies." She pauses, and I see the moment decision crystallizes in her expression. "That they don't torture prisoners or take trophies from the dead."
Relief floods through me at her words. She knows enough to understand what Wintermaw represents, but her knowledge comes from sources that recognize honor rather than simply fearing strength. Whatever stories reached her ears painted us as dangerous but not monstrous.
"All true," I confirm. "Though I suspect the reputation comes with certain... expectations about my behavior toward humans."
"Does it?" The question carries weight I'm only beginning to understand. "What expectations?"