"Every night, I tell myself tomorrow will be better. That I'll sleep more, eat more, go outside." She stares at the flask. "And every morning I wake up and the idea of doing any of it feels impossible. Like there's this weight pressing down and I can't..."
She trails off, but I understand what she's not saying. The way trauma sits on your chest like a physical thing, making every small task feel insurmountable.
"The cabin feels safe," she continues quietly. "Even though I know it's not healthy, even though I'm just hiding. It's the only place I don't feel like I'm waiting for something terrible to happen."
"That's normal."
"It doesn't feel normal. It feels like I'm broken."
"You're not broken." I keep my voice clinical, factual. "You're injured. There's a difference."
She looks at me then, really looks, her brown eyes searching my face for something. Pity, maybe, or judgment. She won't find either.
"Injuries heal," she says.
"So will this. Just takes longer than bones."
"How much longer?"
"However long it takes." I shift slightly, finding a more comfortable position against the tree. "Bodies have predictable healing timelines. Set a bone correctly, splint it properly, it knits back together in six to eight weeks. But this—" I gesture vaguely at her head, her chest, the space where invisible wounds live, "—doesn't follow neat schedules."
"So I just... wait?"
"You heal. Which means sometimes pushing forward, sometimes staying still. Listening to what you actually need instead of what you think you should be able to handle."
She's quiet for a long moment, processing that. The tea flask turns slowly in her hands, metal catching scattered sunlight through the branches above.
"I've been drowning," she finally admits, so quietly I almost miss it. "In the memories. In everything that happened. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back there. And during the day it's only slightly better because at least I can keep my eyes open, keep watching for threats even though I know there aren't any here."
The words come faster now, like a dam breaking.
"I can't sleep more than an hour at a time. Food tastes like ash. The cabin walls feel like they're closing in but going outside feels worse. And Saela keeps visiting with that worried look and I can't tell her because she's been through enough and she's finally happy with Kai and I won't be the thing that ruins that for her."
She draws a shaky breath.
"So I've just been sitting there. Alone. Waiting for it to get better and knowing it won't. Not like this. Not while I'm hiding."
I let the silence sit between us after she finishes. She needs to hear her own words, process what she's just acknowledged out loud for the first time.
The valerian has done its work. Her hands are steady now, breathing even, the sharp edges of panic smoothed into something more manageable. Still hurt, still struggling, but present in her body instead of lost in memory.
"The marking ritual triggered something," I say after a while. "What was it?"
She flinches, her grip tightening on the flask. For a moment I think she won't answer, that I've pushed too far. But then her shoulders drop, defeat or relief, I can't quite tell.
"Watching them smear the paint on each other's skin…" Her words come out raspy. "They would cut my skin to make me bleed. Then, they would smear it along my skin, play with my blood like I was a toy, and seeing a group of orcs laughing while they—" She shakes her head sharply, cutting off the memory. "The paint. The spirals. The laughter. It was too similar."
I nod, filing that information away. There's nothing I can do to take it away, but I want to help heal her from it. "You should have told me before we went."
"I didn't know it would be a problem." Her voice carries frustration, mostly at herself. "I thought I could handle paint. It's just paint."
"Your body doesn't care about logic."
"Clearly."
I pull another flask from my belt—water this time—and take a drink before offering it to her. She accepts it, swapping out the empty tea container. The routine of it seems to help, giving her hands something to do.
"Are you okay?" I keep my tone neutral, genuinely asking rather than pushing. "Or do you think it made it worse?"
