Chapter 9 Maps #2
She was large without being cumbersome, calm without being sluggish, and carried herself with the quiet confidence of an animal that had spent years crossing difficult terrain without complaint.
Eira rested her forearms against the stall door, and the mare stepped forward to press her nose into her palm.
A faint smile touched Eira's mouth before disappearing again.
"You'd be a terrible choice for glory," she murmured.
The mare merely blinked at her with complete indifference.
Eira stroked the white marking running down the center of her face.
The horse would never draw attention on a battlefield or become the subject of stories, yet she could travel for days without tiring and remain steady beneath almost any rider.
She was a practical choice, and the thought lingered longer than it should have.
Slowly, Eira withdrew her hand and stood there for several moments, staring at the animal until an uncomfortable realization settled over her.
She was no longer imagining possibilities or wondering whether leaving might someday become necessary.
Without ever speaking the decision aloud, she had already begun preparing for it by considering the route, the supplies, the weather, and now even the horse she would ride.
Each choice had seemed harmless on its own, but together they formed something far more difficult to ignore.
The mare nudged her shoulder again in search of attention, and Eira let out a quiet breath.
Outside, the sounds of the fortress drifted faintly through the stable walls. Somewhere beyond them, life in Ironfang continued exactly as it always had, filled with training, work, meals shared in the hall she rarely entered anymore, and conversations she no longer joined.
For a moment she tried to imagine remaining, but the image refused to settle.
Everything she pictured felt borrowed somehow, as though she were forcing herself into a future that belonged to someone else.
The mare shifted her weight and lowered her head, and Eira rested her hand against the animal's neck.
The decision still frightened her, not because she doubted she could leave, but because part of her had once believed she would never want to.
That realization remained the cruelest discovery of all.
After a while she stepped away from the stall and made her way back toward the stable entrance while the mare watched her go.
At the doorway, Eira glanced back one final time before continuing into the fading afternoon light, carrying with her the uncomfortable certainty that every day spent in Ironfang now felt less like staying and more like waiting.
The infirmary occupied one of the quieter sections of the fortress, tucked against the inner rock where the stone helped hold warmth through the long winters.
The familiar scent of dried herbs greeted Eira before she even crossed the threshold, mingling with traces of smoke, beeswax, and old wood polished smooth by decades of use.
Nothing seemed to change here, or perhaps everything changed more slowly than in the rest of Ironfang.
Bundles of herbs still hung from the rafters, clay jars lined the shelves, and mortars, pestles, and neatly folded bandages occupied the worktables exactly where they always had.
The sight brought an unexpected sense of relief, and for a moment she simply stood in the doorway.
Then the old healer glanced up from the herbs she was sorting.
"There you are."
Varda's voice carried the same calm steadiness Eira remembered, with no hesitation, no caution, and none of the careful neutrality she had grown accustomed to receiving from others—only recognition.
Eira crossed the room.
"I need a few things."
Varda set aside the herbs.
"What sort of things?"
Eira had prepared the answer long before arriving.
"Bandages."
The woman nodded.
"More of the salve you gave me before."
She nodded again.
"Dried willow bark. Something for fever. Something for muscle strain."
Varda remained silent as she moved toward the shelves.
Eira continued.
"And something for cold exposure."
That finally earned a glance that seemed not suspicious but merely thoughtful.
The old woman began gathering the requested supplies without comment, placing them one by one onto the table between them: bandages, a small jar of salve, packets of dried herbs, then another jar and another after that, until the collection had grown into a respectable pile.
Eira watched her hands while the healer appeared to watch nothing at all, or at least nothing openly.
When the last item had been added to the pile, Varda rested both palms against the table.
"You're planning quite an expedition."
The words were delivered mildly enough that they might have meant nothing, and Eira forced herself not to react.
"I prefer being prepared."
"So does every traveler."
The answer came easily—perhaps too easily.
For a moment neither spoke as the healer's gaze drifted over the supplies and then returned to Eira. Whatever she noticed remained unspoken, and for that alone Eira felt grateful.
The old woman eventually returned to sorting the items into a leather satchel.
"You've lost weight."
Eira frowned.
"I have not."
"You have."
Varda tied off a bundle of herbs before continuing.
"You sleep less."
Eira looked away while Varda sighed softly, the sound carrying neither judgment nor frustration but only concern.
"You spend too much time alone."
The observation landed uncomfortably close to the truth.
Outside, a gust of wind rattled faintly against the shutters, and for several moments Varda worked in silence before speaking again without looking up.
"I don't believe Riven died because of you."
The room seemed to grow still.
Eira stared at her while the old woman continued arranging supplies as though she had merely commented on the weather.
"You may be the only one."
The words escaped before Eira could stop them.
Something painful flickered through the Varda's eyes.
"No."
She tied the satchel closed before continuing.
"I'm simply the only one willing to say it aloud."
Silence settled between them, not awkward or strained but honest, and for the first time in weeks Eira found herself unable to look away.
Varda met her gaze steadily.
"People need somewhere to place their grief."
Eira said nothing.
"They want reasons."
The old woman folded her hands.
"They want order."
A faint sadness touched her expression.
"Sometimes they would rather have the wrong answer than no answer at all."
Eira lowered her eyes. Part of her wanted to argue, while another part wanted desperately to believe every word, yet neither seemed possible.
Varda studied her for a long moment before reaching across the table and adjusting one of the herb packets that did not need adjusting, a small gesture that felt unmistakably motherly.
"You cared for him."
It was not a question.
Eira swallowed.
"Yes."
The answer emerged quietly.
Varda nodded.
"I know."
The simplicity of those words nearly hurt more than sympathy would have.
No one else spoke about Riven anymore, at least not directly and never with her. The fortress had moved on in the way living things always did, while only Eira seemed unable to follow.
The healer slid the satchel across the table.
"There."
Eira looked down at it and immediately realized there were more supplies than she had asked for. She recognized several items at once: extra bandages, additional herbs, and a second jar of salve, enough for a journey considerably longer than the one she had described.
Slowly, she lifted her eyes.
Varda was already returning to her work.
Neither woman mentioned the excess supplies because neither needed to.
After a moment, Eira picked up the satchel.
"Thank you."
The old woman smiled faintly.
"Take care of yourself."
The words sounded ordinary, yet something in the way she said them made Eira suspect they meant far more than that.
As she left the infirmary, the satchel felt unexpectedly heavy in her hands, not because of its contents but because it had been a long time since anyone had looked at her and seen a person instead of a problem.