"Your shoulder."
I close my eyes briefly. The left shoulder—dislocated twice in the Stonevein camp, wrenched hard enough that Falla said I was lucky I didn't tear anything beyond repair. It's the worst of my injuries now, the one that wakes me at night when I roll onto it wrong. The one that makes simple tasks like lifting water buckets an exercise in gritted teeth.
"It's fine."
"Show me your range of motion."
I raise my left arm, feel the immediate pull and ache that starts deep in the socket. I get it about shoulder-height before the pain sharpens. Falla watches without comment as I lower it slowly.
"Better than last week," he says. Not a question.
"Maybe." I rotate my shoulder gingerly, testing. The joint clicks softly, a sound that used to terrify me but now is just... familiar. "It still hurts."
"It will for a while." He pulls out the jar of salve, unscrews the lid. The pine-earth smell grows stronger. "But the damage was extensive. You're lucky it's functional at all."
Lucky. The word sits wrong in my mouth. I don't feel lucky. I feel broken down and pieced back together, a patchwork person who used to be whole.
Falla doesn't wait for me to argue. He scoops salve onto his fingers and approaches. "This will help with the deep ache. May I?"
I nod because refusing seems pointless. His hands work the salve into my shoulder with practiced pressure, finding the knots and tight spots without me having to direct him. The warmth of the salve sinks in, and despite myself, I feel some of the tension release.
"You don't need to keep doing this," I say after a long silence. "Coming here, I mean. I can walk to the healing house if you actually need to check on me."
"I'm aware you can walk."
"Then why?—"
"Because you won't." He doesn't look up from his work, fingers still kneading the muscle around my shoulder joint. "You'll decide you're fine enough and stop showing up. Then in a month, that shoulder will seize completely because you didn't do the stretches or apply the salve."
Heat crawls up my neck. "You don't know that."
"I know patients." He finishes with the salve, wipes his hands on a cloth, and caps the jar. "Particularly stubborn ones who think suffering in silence makes them stronger."
"I'm not—" I stop. Arguing feels like proving his point.
He hands me the jar. "Twice daily. Morning and night. The stretches I showed you—do them even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts."
I take the jar because it's easier than fighting. The weight of it is solid in my palm, grounding.
Falla begins packing his bag with the same methodical care he applies to everything. "Your legs. Any numbness? Shooting pain?"
"Just the aching. Stiffness in the mornings."
"Expected. Keep moving, but don't push it. The walking you're doing is good." He pauses, glances at me. "Though I notice you avoid the main paths."
Of course he notices. Everyone probably notices. I take the routes that skirt the edges of the settlement, paths that don't cross the training grounds or the communal areas where orcs gather. Where Shae might see me and try to have another conversation about trust and safety. Where I might have to pretend I'm adjusting.
"I like the quiet."
"Mm." A noncommittal sound that could mean anything.
He closes his bag, shoulders it. The visit has taken maybe fifteen minutes, efficient as always. He moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the frame.
"You're healing well, Ressa. Physically, at least."
The qualifier hangs in the air between us. I know what he's implying—that bruises and bones are the easy part. That the other damage, the kind that doesn't show up in examinations, takes longer to mend. Maybe doesn't mend at all.
I don't have a response that isn't defensive or dismissive, so I say nothing.
