Page 20 of Bound By Blood
"He didn't need to die," the knight said, not unkindly. "You'd already yielded. The honorable thing was to accept quarter and live to fight another day."
But I understood then, with the clarity that only comes through devastating loss, that honor means different things to different people. To Korvak, honor meant dying before abandoning his blood-brother. To the knight, honor meant showing mercy to defeated enemies. To me, honor became choosing my survival over my brother's life.
The humans ransomed me back to my father three days later, exactly as promised. I returned to find Korvak's funeral pyre cold ashes and his family asking questions I couldn't answer without destroying what little remained of my reputation.
"Where were you when he needed you?" his sister demanded, tears cutting tracks through the soot staining her cheeks.
I told them he died heroically, leading a charge against superior numbers. I told them his sacrifice saved a dozen clan warriors from ambush. I told them everything except the truth—that he died trying to rescue a coward who chose surrender over death.
The lies came easily. Too easily.
The memory fades as I reach the grotto's entrance, leaving me hollow and restless in the present darkness. That battle taught me everything about honor's true cost, about the decisions that echo through generations. Korvak died because I chose pragmatism over principle, survival over sacred duty.
Never again.
Every choice since then has carried his ghost, every moment of mercy weighed against the possibility of betrayal. Trust becomes impossible when you've seen how quickly it can kill those you love most.
But Eirian saved Thrak's life when she could have let him die. The parallel cuts deep when mercy and pragmatism aligned, when choosing kindness didn't demand anyone's death.
Maybe she's different. Maybe some humans understand honor the way Korvak did.
The grotto guard nods as I approach, recognizing my footsteps. "Chief. The human rests, but she requested permission to tend the healing fires. Said our injured might need attention through the night."
Of course, she did.Even in captivity, even facing an uncertain fate, she prioritizes others' welfare over her own safety. The contradiction doesn't escape my notice, our prisoner shows more concern for clan welfare than half our own people.
"Grant her limited freedom within the grotto," I decide, the words carrying weight of precedent and risk. "She may tend the fires, check on our wounded, use the herb stores as needed. But she doesn't leave this chamber without escort."
The guard's eyebrows rise slightly. Extended privileges for captives violate every security protocol we've established over decades of clan warfare. But he's seen Thrak's recovery, knows what Eirian accomplished when our own healers had given up hope.
"Understood, Chief. Any other restrictions?"
"Her movement is restricted to the healing chambers and the main grotto. No access to armory, food stores, or the passages leading to the surface. And post additional guards at all exits, visible but not threatening. She needs to understand that trust is fragile."
The guard salutes and disappears into the shadows, leaving me alone at the grotto's threshold. Through the natural archway, I see Eirian moving among the injured with practiced efficiency, checking bandages and adjusting herb preparations with the focused attention of someone who genuinely cares about her patients' welfare.
What lies behind human eyes?
The question has haunted me since our first encounter on the battlefield, when her gaze met mine across a field of blood and death. No fear, despite being surrounded by armed orcs who could have killed her without thought. No hatred, despite watching her people fall under our weapons. Just... determination. A steel-hard resolve to protect the dying knight beneath her hands, even if it cost her life.
Most humans see us as monsters, mindless savages who raid and pillage without conscience or cause. Their stories paint us as creatures of pure malevolence, existing only to bring death and destruction to civilized lands. But she looked at me—really looked—and saw something that made her pause.
Or maybe I'm projecting hope where none exists.
I settle against the stone wall where shadows provide concealment, watching as she moves from patient to patient with the same gentle efficiency she showed with Thrak. Her hands work independently of conscious thought, checking pulse points and wound drainage while her mind calculates dosages and treatment modifications.
She pauses beside Yareck, Skarn's nephew, whose fever broke two days ago under her care. The boy's mother sits vigil despite the late hour, maintaining the watch that orc custom demands until her child's recovery becomes certain.
"His breathing sounds clearer tonight," Eirian says softly, voice carrying the authority of professional assessment rather than empty comfort. "The infection has retreated, but he'll need careful monitoring for another few days. Fever sometimes returns when we think ourselves safe."
Yareck's mother nods, understanding passing between women who've both watched loved ones dance between life and death. "You saved him. Our healers said..." She trails off, unable to voice the possibility they'd all faced.
"Our healers are skilled," Eirian replies diplomatically. "I simply offered different techniques. Sometimes fresh perspective reveals solutions that familiarity obscures."
Different techniques.The phrase carries implications that stretch far beyond medical practice. Her healing methods blend human knowledge with careful observation of our customs, creating something neither fully foreign nor entirely familiar.She adapts without abandoning her core principles, finds common ground without compromising her identity.
Is that what leadership should look like?
The question troubles me more than any council debate or strategic dilemma. My father ruled through strength and tradition, maintaining clan unity by adhering to the old ways without question or compromise. But the old ways led to Korvak's death, to decades of endless warfare that depleted our numbers and resources without achieving lasting victory.
