Page 21 of Bound By Blood
Maybe adaptation doesn't always mean betrayal. Maybe changing tactics doesn't require abandoning values.
Eirian moves to the central fire, adding specific herbs to the coals in patterns I don't recognize. The smoke changes color to a pale green with undertones of blue, and carries scents that promotes relaxation among the wounded. Another of her foreign techniques, seamlessly integrated into our healing practices.
"The fires burn differently tonight," I say, stepping from the shadows into the grotto's dim light.
She turns without apparent surprise, as if she'd sensed my presence despite my efforts at concealment. "Chamomile and lavender," she explains, voice carrying the same calm authority she uses with patients. "The smoke helps promote restful sleep, which accelerates healing. Your people's practice of maintaining night fires is wise. I simply modified the mixture."
Modified, not replaced.Again, careful balance between change and tradition, foreign innovation building upon established foundation rather than demolishing it.
"You requested freedom to tend the fires," I continue, moving closer to the central hearth where warmth battles the mountain cold. "Despite being our captive, you choose to spend wakeful hours caring for those who might have killed your people."
"Wounded soldiers aren't my enemies," she replies, stirring the herb mixture with practiced movements. "They're people in pain who need healing. Everything else is politics."
"Politics killed your knight on the battlefield."
"Politics created the conflict. But the knight chose to stand between your warriors and civilians who couldn't protect themselves. That choice transcends politics."
The observation cuts deeper than intended, carrying echoes of my own battlefield decisions and their consequences. How many times have I led warriors into conflicts created by tribal politics, watching good people die for causes they barely understood?
"Your council debated my fate tonight," she says, statement rather than question. "I could hear voices through the stone, though not specific words."
I study her expression, searching for signs of fear or calculation. Instead, I find only quiet acceptance, the steady calm of someone who's made peace with circumstances beyond her control.
"Some argue for immediate sale to allied tribes," I admit, testing her reaction. "Others suggest different arrangements."
"And you? What do you argue for?"
The direct question catches me off-guard. Most captives would plead for mercy, offer ransom, or attempt manipulation through tears and desperation. But she asks about my position as if genuinely curious about my reasoning rather than desperate to influence my decision.
"I argue for honoring debts," I say finally. "You saved Thrak's life when you could have let him die. That creates obligation."
"Obligation." She repeats the word thoughtfully, as if tasting its implications. "Your people take such things seriously."
"Don't yours?"
"Some do. Others believe debt can be discharged through gold or political alliance." She adjusts another patient's blankets with gentle efficiency. "I prefer the former interpretation."
Of course she does.Her actions consistently demonstrate the same honor-bound thinking that drives clan law, the same understanding that some debts can't be measured in coin or convenience.
"Trust is fragile," I say, echoing earlier thoughts. "Easily broken, difficult to rebuild."
"Yes," she agrees, meeting my gaze across the fire's dancing light. "But some things are worth the risk."
The simple statement hangs between us, carrying weight that neither politics nor pragmatism can calculate. Tomorrow's council will demand decisions that shape our clan's future, but tonight I sit in firelight with an enemy who heals our wounded and speaks of honor with the same reverence my people have.
5
EIRIAN
I've been awake since before dawn, methodically exploring every corner of this underground sanctuary while the wounded sleep peacefully nearby. The morning light filters through crystal formations embedded in the grotto walls, casting prismatic rainbows across the healing springs.
Three days of captivity, and I'm still learning new secrets.
The grotto extends further than I initially realized as a network of interconnected chambers carved by centuries of flowing water. Each pool maintains a different temperature, fed by underground springs that emerge from fissures in the living rock. The Orcs have built their healing sanctuary around these natural phenomena, working with the mountain's gifts rather than imposing foreign structures upon them.
I kneel beside the eastern pool, testing water temperature with my fingertips. Warm, but not uncomfortably so. The mineral content creates a slight film on the surface that catches light like oil, swirling in patterns almost deliberately. My mother's journals mentioned similar springs in the deep valleys, waters that carried properties beyond simple heat therapy.
If the old stories are true...
