"Smart woman." Vaenna's approval carries the weight of someone who understands the deeper truth behind simple statements. "Bread requires planning, patience, the faith that tomorrow will come and bring hungry mouths to feed."
The observation settles something anxious in my chest. These women understand survival in ways that go beyond simple endurance—they've built lives that create meaning from daily tasks, that find joy in the successful completion of necessary work.
Eira finishes her porridge and begins gravitating toward a group of children who've gathered near the cooking fires. Their initial wariness dissolves quickly in the face of her bright curiosity and genuine interest in their games. Soon she's seated cross-legged on the floor, listening intently as an older girl explains the rules of some complex variation on stones and shells that requires both strategy and quick reflexes.
"She's adapting well." The pregnant woman—Rhaka, someone had called her—settles onto a nearby stool with movements made careful by her changing balance. "How old?"
"Five. She's been through too many changes already, but children are resilient." I watch Eira laugh at something one of the other children says, her small face bright with the kind of uncomplicated joy that's been rare in our previous life.
"Children need stability," Rhaka agrees, one hand resting on her swollen belly. "Community. The knowledge that they belong somewhere."
The words carry layers of meaning that go beyond simple observation. She's telling me something important about clan values, about what Nelrish's people consider essential for proper child-rearing. The message is clear—they're willing to acceptEira as one of their own, to provide the stability and community she needs to thrive.
The morning passes quickly, filled with the comfortable rhythm of shared work and gradual conversation. I learn about seasonal preparations, about the careful balance of preserved foods and fresh hunting that keeps the clan fed through harsh winters. The women share information with the generous assumption that I'll be staying long enough to need it, their acceptance growing more comfortable as they observe my willingness to contribute rather than simply receive.
But I feel the undercurrent of curiosity that follows my movements—the subtle attention that marks me as foreign, different, requiring evaluation. Some gazes carry warmth that speaks to genuine welcome. Others hold the careful neutrality of people withholding judgment until they understand my intentions more completely.
As the sun climbs higher, Vaenna begins organizing the midday meal preparation with the kind of practiced authority that suggests this routine has been perfected through years of repetition. The rhythm of chopping vegetables and stirring pots creates a soundtrack that fills the space with productive energy.
"We should head back," I tell Eira, who protests the interruption of her game with the kind of mild disappointment that suggests she's found her morning genuinely enjoyable.
The walk through the settlement feels different now that I've begun to establish connections, however tentative. Warriors nod politely as we pass, their curiosity tempered by respect for their chieftain's choices. Children wave shyly from doorways, already beginning to accept Eira's presence as normal rather than noteworthy.
"I like it here, Mama." Eira skips beside me, her small hand warm in mine as we navigate the packed earth paths between buildings. "The other children taught me a new game, and Kessasaid she'd show me where they find the best berries when it gets warmer."
The easy enthusiasm in her voice makes something tight and anxious finally relax in my chest. She's found her place here with the kind of instant adaptability that children possess when they feel genuinely welcome. No hesitation, no fear—just the simple acceptance of a new home and new friends.
"Do you think we'll stay here?" she continues, her gold-tinged eyes bright with hope. "With Nelrish? I like him. He makes you happy."
The observation catches me off guard with its simple accuracy. She's right—Nelrish does make me happy in ways I'd forgotten were possible. Not just the surface contentment of safety and adequate resources, but the deeper satisfaction that comes from being truly seen and valued by someone whose opinion matters.
"Would you like that?" I ask, though her expression already provides the answer.
"Yes! He's teaching me about orc stories, and he said maybe Vaenna would show me how to help with the cooking when I'm bigger. And the children here know games I've never learned, and they said the autumn festival has dancing and special food and presents for everyone."
Her enthusiasm bubbles over into the kind of detailed planning that speaks to a child who's found something worth treasuring. The casualness with which she envisions our future here—learning clan customs, making friends, participating in celebrations—makes my decision crystallize with absolute clarity.
This is what I want for her. Not just survival, but the kind of rich community life that builds confidence and character. The knowledge that she belongs somewhere, that her future holds possibilities beyond mere endurance.
"Then yes," I tell her, my voice carrying the weight of finality. "We'll stay here. With Nelrish. This is our home now."
Her delighted squeal draws smiles from passing clan members, and she bounces on her toes with the kind of pure joy that makes my heart swell with protective satisfaction. I've made the right choice. Whatever challenges lie ahead in terms of earning full acceptance within clan society, Eira's happiness provides all the confirmation I need.
The longhouse welcomes us back with the scent of pine smoke and the warmth that speaks to banked fires and careful maintenance. But more than that, it carries the indefinable sense of home that comes from knowing you belong somewhere, that someone waits for your return with genuine gladness.
Nelrish's voice reaches us from the main room before we've fully cleared the entrance—deep tones that carry conversation with someone whose response I can't quite make out. I pause, uncertain whether we're interrupting something important, but Eira has no such hesitations.
"Nelrish!" She releases my hand and rushes toward the sound of his voice with the kind of uncomplicated affection that speaks to trust freely given.
I follow more slowly, giving him time to finish whatever business requires attention. But when I round the corner, I find him alone, rising from the bench near the fire with Eira already wrapped in his arms. A collection of small objects sits on the nearby table—carved figures, a set of what look like children's gaming pieces, and something that might be a child-sized knife with a carefully dulled blade.
"How was your morning?" he asks, his storm-gray eyes finding mine over Eira's dark head. The genuine interest in his expression makes warmth bloom in my chest.
"Educational," I tell him, settling onto the bench beside where he's seated with Eira still clinging to his neck. "Vaenna put me to work immediately. I think I passed some sort of test."
His low chuckle vibrates through his chest. "Vaenna's approval is worth earning. If she's accepted you, the rest will follow."
Eira finally releases her hold on him enough to notice the objects on the table. Her eyes go wide with the kind of wonder that belongs to children discovering unexpected gifts.
