Page 23 of Bound By Blood
I place my hand on his uninjured shoulder, feeling the fever-heat radiating through his skin. "I'm going to try something different. An old healing technique that might help."
"Different how?"
"Different in that my people would call it heretical if they knew I'd learned it." I dip my free hand into the pool, feeling the water's mineral-rich warmth flow between my fingers. "My mother studied your people's healing traditions, including practices that predate the current conflicts we face."
He turns his head slightly, amber eyes meeting mine with renewed interest. "What kind of practices?"
"The kind that recognize elemental magic as a tool for healing rather than a source of fear." I cup water in my palm, letting it flow back into the pool that follows the stone's pulse. "If you're willing to trust me."
The inquiry suspends itself amid us as trust transcends political boundaries, cultural prejudices, and that I'm still technically his captive. Trust based on nothing more than my demonstrated competence and his desperate need for healing that conventional methods might not provide.
"Do it," he says finally.
I begin with the water itself, cupping it in both hands and allowing the mineral warmth to flow over the infected wound. But instead of simply using it as a cleaning agent, I focus on the pulse I feel, trying to synchronize my movements with that deeper rhythm.
Breathe with the mountain's heartbeat. Let the elements guide rather than forcing them to obey.
The words come from memory with my mother's voice reading from journals she thought I was too young to understand. But the understanding comes now, flowing through my hands into the infected tissue.
I chant low words in a language that predates current Orc dialects but carries the cadence of their ancestral prayers. My mother transcribed these syllables phonetically, unsure of their exact meaning but certain of their therapeutic effect.
"Thek mora valash, stengar thul nara. Valash stengar, thul nara keth."
The words feel strange, but their rhythm matches the pulse flowing in the stone. The pool water swirls in subtle patterns around Drokhan's body, carrying currents of warmth to penetrate deeper than simple heat.
"Mora stengar, valash thul. Nara keth mora, stengar valash."
His breathing deepens, fever-tension beginning to ease from his shoulders and neck. The infection still needs conventional treatment with herbs and careful wound care, but the elemental magic flowing through the water provides a foundation for healing that purely human medicine couldn't achieve.
I continue the chant while cleaning the wound with methodical precision, removing infected tissue and applying herbal poultices. But the actual work happens on a level beyond physical intervention, where elemental forces combine with medical knowledge to create possibilities that neither tradition could accomplish alone.
"Where did you learn those words?" he asks, voice rough with exhaustion but no longer strained with fever.
"My mother's journals. She believed healing traditions shouldn't be lost simply because of political conflicts between peoples." I rinse the cleaned wound with spring water, watching as the mineral content helps seal the treated tissue. "She collected knowledge from many sources, including Orc healers who traded with humans before the current wars began."
"Those words are from the deep caves," he says, settling back against the pool's stone edge. "Blessings spoken over warriorsbefore they entered the sacred depths. I haven't heard them since I was a child."
Sacred depths.More of the cultural context to understand these people properly. The healing grotto connects to something larger, older than the current conflicts that define our relationships.
"Your fever is breaking," I observe, checking his forehead with the back of my hand. "The infection should begin retreating within hours, but you'll need to return tomorrow for additional treatment."
"Will you use the old words again?"
The question carries weight beyond simple medical curiosity. Permission to continue practices that bridge cultural boundaries, acknowledgment that some knowledge transcends political divisions.
"If you want me to."
"I do." He meets my gaze across the steaming pool. "My grandmother would have approved. She believed healing belonged to all peoples, not just those who shared the same blood."
The admission reveals more vulnerability than his fevered state or infected wound. Leaders rarely share personal histories with captives, especially memories that contradict current tribal policies regarding enemies.
"Your grandmother sounds wise."
"She died protecting the healing springs during a human raid twenty years ago." The words carry old grief, carefully controlled but not fully healed. "I've wondered since then whether her death accomplished anything meaningful, or if it simply perpetuated the cycle of revenge that keeps our peoples killing each other."
And now he protects a human healer in those same springs.
The contradiction registers with both of us, but neither mentions it directly. Some truths need time to settle before we can acknowledge them aloud.
