"Forla," she says simply. "And you're in my barn."
Her barn. That explains the hay beneath me, the scent of animals and old wood. But it doesn't explain why she's helping me instead of fleeing. I study her face, looking for deception, for hidden agendas, for the trap I know must be coming. All I see is concern and a bone-deep weariness that speaks of old pain.
That's when I notice the scars on her wrists. Thin white lines circling her arms like bracelets, faded but unmistakable. Shackle marks. This woman knows captivity intimately, understands what it means to be property instead of person. Maybe that's why she helps—kinship between the damaged.
"Why?" I croak, the question scraping my throat raw. It's all I can manage, but she understands.
She pauses, bandage half-unwrapped in her hands. For a moment something ancient and bitter flickers across her features—memory of chains and cages and worse things I can only imagine.
"Because someone helped me once when they didn't have to."
The words hit deeper than any blade. Simple truth spoken without artifice or expectation of reward. I've known warriors who would kill for gold, nobles who'd sacrifice armies for glory, Dark Elves who'd torture children for sport. But this small human woman risks her life for a stranger because kindness was once shown to her.
It's been so long since anyone looked at me and saw something worth saving.
She asks about my injuries, and I find myself talking. Not about everything—not about my brothers or the guilt that eats at me worse than any toxin. But I tell her about the Dark Elves who hunted me, about their cursed blades and sleep magic, about the desperate flight through hostile territory that brought me to her barn.
I don't mention the slave markets or what they planned to do with me. Don't need to see that particular horror reflected in eyes that have already seen too much. But I suspect she understands anyway. Those scars on her wrists tell stories I don't need to hear to believe.
"How long?" I ask as she cleans the wound with gentle efficiency.
"Two days," she says. "You were burning with fever. I wasn't sure you'd wake."
Two days. The Dark Elves could be anywhere by now—searching the countryside, questioning villagers, following my trail to this very barn. Every moment I stay puts her in greater danger, but my body feels like it's made of wet leather and broken sticks.
She brings food next—thick soup that tastes of vegetables and care, bread still warm from the oven. I eat slowly, watching her work around the barn, tending to animals and organizing tools with the kind of quiet competence that speaks of routine contentment.
She's not afraid of me anymore. Or if she is, she doesn't let fear govern her actions. When she passes close enough for me to grab her—and I could, even weakened as I am—she doesn't flinch or hurry past. Just continues her work like having a wounded orc in her barn is the most natural thing in the world.
"You should go," I tell her when she returns with fresh bandages. "Tell no one I was here. When I'm strong enough, I'll leave."
She looks at me with those too-knowing eyes. "Will you? Leave, I mean?"
The question catches me off-guard. Will I? Part of me wants to stay in this peaceful place forever, forget about quests and vengeance and brothers who might already be dead. But duty calls louder than comfort, and honor demands I try to find my scattered clan.
"I have to," I say finally. "People are depending on me."
She nods like she expected that answer. "Then I'll help you get strong enough to help them."
Over the following hours, she brings water, medicine, food prepared with more care than I've known in months. Her movements around the barn become familiar, comforting even. She hums while she works—old melodies that speak of home and hearth and safety I'd forgotten existed.
I watch her with growing amazement. This small human woman who should see me as a monster instead sees someone worth healing. She asks nothing in return, expects no payment or promises or pledges of service. Just tends my wounds because it's the right thing to do.
When evening comes and she prepares to leave for the night, I find myself dreading her absence. The barn feels too quiet without her presence, too empty without her gentle humming. She's become my anchor in a world gone mad, the first good thing I've found since washing ashore on this hostile continent.
"You'll be back?" I ask, hating how desperate the question sounds.
She pauses at the barn door, silhouetted against the dying light. When she turns back, her smile is soft as candlelight.
"I promise."
Something about this woman makes promises feel real. Something about her presence makes the future seem possible instead of just another burden to bear. I believe her when she says she'll return, believe it with a faith I thought the sea had drowned.
As her footsteps fade into the distance, I settle back into the hay and allow myself something I haven't felt in months: hope. Maybe I'll find my brothers. Maybe I'll rebuild our clan. Maybe, if the ancestors are kind, I'll live to see peace again.
But first, I'll heal. And I'll let this remarkable woman help me do it.
4
