"That's right." I settle beside her, sorting my gathered materials. "Your great-grandmother would be proud."
Eira beams at this approval, then returns to her work with renewed focus. She's creating tiny wreaths from flexible twigs, decorating them with berries and seed pods arranged in pleasing patterns. Each one is small enough to hang from low branches, bright spots of color against the white-and-green backdrop of winter forest.
"He's dreaming good dreams now," she observes without prompting, glancing toward where Nelrish lies motionless. "Yesterday the dreams were all fire and sharp teeth. Today they're like... like warm honey."
I follow her gaze to study our patient. In sleep, with the harsh lines of pain smoothed from his features, he looks less intimidating. Still dangerous—the breadth of his shoulders and the weapons within reach make that clear—but not actively threatening. His breathing comes easy and regular, no longer the labored struggle of yesterday.
"Can you tell what he's dreaming about?"
Eira tilts her head, considering. "Water. Clean water that tastes like sky. And... singing? Like voices calling from far away." She shrugs. "Good dreams. Safe dreams."
The relief that floods through me is inappropriate and unwelcome. I shouldn't care about an orc's emotional state, shouldn't feel invested in his recovery beyond basic human decency. But watching the peaceful rise and fall of his chest, I find myself genuinely glad that his rest is undisturbed.
Perhaps it's because I understand the alternative too well. Nightmares have been my companion for years—dreams of the bunker, of being traded like livestock, of watching Eira grow up in a world that sees her as an abomination rather than a gift. Peaceful sleep is a luxury few of us can afford.
The snow continues to fall, heavier now. Fat flakes that stick and accumulate rather than melting on contact. I need to set snares while I can still move through the forest without leaving obvious trails. Food remains our most pressing concern, followed closely by the question of where we'll go once Nelrish recovers enough to travel.
I select a promising game trail and begin constructing a simple snare from salvaged wire and carved wooden components. The work requires precise tension—too loose andprey slips free, too tight and the mechanism fails to trigger properly. My fingers remember the technique from bunker survival training, muscle memory overriding the cold that makes fine motor control difficult.
"Mama, look!" Eira's voice carries quiet excitement.
I turn to find her holding up a completed decoration—a miniature wreath woven from red-berried branches and adorned with tiny pinecones arranged like flowers. It's beautiful in a way that catches my breath, proof that creativity and hope can flourish even in the harshest circumstances.
"It's perfect." I mean every word. "Should we hang it?"
She nods eagerly, and together we select a low branch within sight of our shelter. Eira stretches on tiptoe to position her creation, adjusting it until the arrangement pleases her artistic sensibilities. The bright red berries stand out like tiny jewels against the snow-dusted pine needles.
"One for each hope," she says solemnly, echoing words I've spoken during our private celebrations. "Grandmother said the trees remember winter wishes."
"What do you wish for?"
"Warm beds. Clean water that doesn't taste like metal. And..." She glances toward our shelter, lowering her voice. "For the hurt-dreams to stay away. From all of us."
The simple wisdom of her words strikes deep. She's right, of course. We're all carrying hurt-dreams, all struggling with betrayals and losses that poison sleep. The bunker's cold efficiency. My time with the Broken-Tusk clan. Whatever drove Nelrish to trust the wrong person with his life.
"Good wishes," I tell her, dropping a kiss on her dark curls. "The trees will remember."
We work together in comfortable silence, creating more decorations as the snow transforms our temporary camp into something approaching magical. Eira's artistic vision guidesour efforts—she sees patterns and possibilities I would miss, combinations of natural materials that create unexpected beauty.
I find myself thinking about the poem Grandmother taught me, words that seemed like simple rhymes until this moment:For snow remembers what we have lost, each flake a memory, each breath a cost. But in the silence, the old magic wakes, and winter gives back what winter takes.
Maybe there's truth in those lines beyond mere sentiment. Maybe first snow really does offer chances for new beginnings, for laying aside old hurts in favor of fresh possibilities. The thought feels dangerous, too much like hope in a world that punishes such luxuries.
But watching Eira arrange berries with the serious concentration of an artist, seeing our grim survival camp transformed by her innocent creativity, I find myself willing to consider the possibility. That this first snow might indeed be bringing us something valuable, even if I can't yet name what that might be.
I complete the snare and move to scout another location, leaving Eira to her decorating. The forest stretches endlessly in all directions, white and silent and full of hidden threats. Somewhere out there, the Redmoon clan continues their search. Somewhere behind us lie the bunkers with their false safety and suffocating walls.
But here, in this small clearing defended by pine boughs and heated by careful fire, we've created something that feels almost like sanctuary. Temporary, fragile, bought with enormous risk—but real nonetheless.
The question remains: where do we go when this shelter can no longer protect us? Winter is settling in with serious intent, and our options grow more limited with each falling flake.
6
NELRISH
The world returns in fragments—scent of pine smoke, whisper of falling snow, warmth against skin that no longer burns with fever. I surface from dreams of clean water and distant voices to find myself wrapped in unfamiliar softness, sheltered by walls that smell of resin and earth rather than stone and leather.
My body protests the attempt to sit upright, muscles weak as water after whatever poison coursed through my veins. The effort leaves me breathless, but my head remains clear. The fog that clouded my thoughts yesterday has lifted, leaving behind crisp awareness and the uncomfortable realization that I owe my life to strangers. My memories are muddied, too, and I can’t recall much in the time since I was poisoned.
