A Doctor Without Borders [Healer | Slow-Burn | Medical Fantasy]

Rægnor took a bite of the mash, eyes widening as a complex mix of sweetness and earthy tones burst in his mouth. He closed his eyes, savoring the high-tier food that he didn't have access to. It made the betrayal sting that much worse.

He had lived his life by his father's principles…until he couldn't.

For the good of the tribe.

His father's favorite saying. He probably had died repeating them as he threw himself in front of the high-tier monster that would have slayed the rising star of the tribe, the now-Sæmdarskati.

The food became ash in his mouth, just as it always did when he failed to push the memories away—his mother falling to her knees when the Sæmdarskati approached alone. The Sæmdarskati's mouth moved, but his words were lost as his mother's wails filled the air.

He took a breath, centering himself. It had taken him years to shed his hatred of the Sæmdarskati, but the man had worn him down. Whenever food became lean, he always appeared with supplies for him and his mother. As he grew older, he came to teach what his father could not.

He had rejected his help once—and only once. Even then, the man said nothing at the disrespect. He left, promising to return before another of Teja's cycles. His mother had not kept quiet when she had learned of her son's actions. She saw the Sæmdarskati action for what it was—amends when none were needed. He could not walk for days after the switching his mother had given him. He squashed his anger, attending lessons from the man responsible for his father's death.

Over the years, his anger diminished but lingered until he could confirm the truth: monsters of that caliber did appear on hunts. Every [Hunter] warned him of it. It was rare, but it happened, especially on ranging further from the tribe, and he couldn't even blame the Sæmdarskati for even that idea. His father had suggested a longer hunt.

The tribe always favored those with the greatest Potentials, and if one of his brothers or sisters demonstrated the drive to match their talent, they moved mountains. What better way to train a gifted [Hunter] with the Potentials for far greater than long hunts with the most skilled in the tribe?

For the good of the tribe.

He chewed his food, swallowing it without tasting. The Human in that longhouse was special, and he had kept it a secret.

Father would have tanned his hide for hiding what he knew, but "you would need to be alive to do that."

His whisper floated away on the wind.

Things had started to change after his father's death—subtle at first, but more apparent later. The Sæmdarskati's [Hunters] became better equipped. While other hunting parties returned with wounded and empty hands, the Sæmdarskati returned with greater bounties. His team survived and flourished.

Back then, the tribe was small. Rumor spread, but he still didn't learn the truth until his first true hunt, when they left the bounds of their tribe's [Scouts], when his father had died.

Someone pulled him aside and gave him a small wooden vial. He could still feel the texture of the wood vial in his hands. Rough, poorly finished…

Not one of ours.

The Sæmdarskati didn't even deny when he confronted him. "I will not lose more of our own because of dogma."

One implication was clear. The Sæmdarskati counted Rægnor's father in that list of avoidable deaths. He didn't need to say it, not after the years when he'd shown up with food as hunger gnawed at Rægnor's belly. But dogma?

A small smile crept onto the Sæmdarskati's lips. "Where do you think these come from?"

"How would I—" He ran his finger once more over the vial. So rough. So brittle. With a bit of channeled Energy, he could crack it in half. That could only happen with very low-grade wood…low-grade.

It clicked. Humans. Rægnor's eyes widened. "Do the Elders know?"

"Not yet. But they will."

"They will never support it."

"Times are changing. But even then, I will not wait that long to protect the ones under my watch." The Sæmdarskati put a hand on Rægnor's shoulder. "I see your doubt, but I trust you understand the reason to keep this quiet."

For the good of the tribe.

So many ways to twist that motto, but Rægnor had kept it secret. He had given the man who cost him a father the benefit of the doubt. It hadn't taken long for the wisdom in the Sæmdarskati's choice. He never had to use it, but others had. [Hunter] after [Hunter] survived wounds that would have killed or maimed.

The potions themselves paled in comparison to what the [Shamans] could craft, but numbers had their own power. Humans traded well for high-grade materials that his tribe could obtain. Each [Hunter] carried a few of the low-grade potions, letting them save the stronger potions for when they needed them most. By the time the word got out to the rest of the tribe, the Elders couldn't argue with the Sæmdarskati's results.

The leadership struggle that followed better fit a Volksi pack than an Ættarask tribe, but the Sæmdarskati was the tribe's prodigy. The outcome wasn't a question. The Sæmdarskati won his title…and split the tribe. A rare event, but not unknown.

Horrified by the Sæmdarskati's action, most of the Elders had left, but enough remained. The tribe continued and flourished. Some of those Elders crawled back, heads bowed in shame.

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He took a last bite of food and failed to recall any of its flavors.

A waste.

He looked up toward the darkening sky. Already, Teja had made herself known. In a few more hours, her veil would shine bright.

Alva, are you also looking up at her majesty?

His chest grew tight. When would he see her again?

Every night, he dreamed of her. Before he could close his eyes and conjure her—her bright smile, her wicked humor, her sensuous form, but now the details waned. It had been too long.

What would she say of his predicament?

He snorted. She would have slapped him on the side of the head and called him a fool. Then she would have grabbed his cheeks and stared into his eyes to ensure he had heard every word she had said. "Remember what this trade has done for us. Our tribe is large and well-fed. Our [Hunters] return home safe. I am going to be a [Spearweaver]. And we will be together." She would have ended any dissent with a long kiss on his lips.

Few things would have made him end that moment early. Arguing with her? Not one of them. Their union could never have occurred without the Sæmdarskati changes.

Rægnor had proven himself a skilled hunter and a warrior and required a partner to match. She would never become a [Shaman], but even a [Spearweaver] was a stretch.

A dalliance. A favored lover. But nothing more.

His finger traced his bare wrist.

The loose knot of grass had unraveled long ago, but the memories of that night would always persist. She had always found a companion during the Mother's Bloom Festival, but that year, she found her way to his bed once more on the last night.

Her full lips had hushed with his exclamation of surprise, and when she pulled him to the ground, she had whispered, "I want more of what we had. One night isn't enough."

She had risen to her knees and had held strands of grass woven into an unfinished band before him.

"My mother, the Elders—won't accept it," he had warned.

"I don't care. I won't hide in the grass. I will be worthy of—"

He had clasped her shoulder. "You already are. I'll help you convince them."

"You always see the best in everyone. But this? I'll do on my own." She had held up the band. "Will you be my favored?"

He had bared his wrist, and together, they had pushed their Energy into the band, weaving the ends into a loose knot.

His mother hadn't been wrong. Weaving revealed much about a person. Alva had a delicate touch and a fine attention to detail—which carried into the rest of that night.

Rægnor hadn't bothered to hide his wrist from his mother when he had returned home the following morning. He had entered the age where such claims were expected. Of course, like everyone else in the tribe, she could only guess at his partner, and despite her constant needling, he kept Alva's secret.

Of course, she had found out who called him her favored. While he had proven himself worthy of a home of his own, he had chosen to remain with his mother, lest she be alone. Marrying into a tribe had risks; being left alone after a husband's passing was one of them. As the band had promised, Alva had made calls, but even the most skilled [Hunter] could only pass through a flap unnoticed so many times.

His mother had not hidden her distaste when she had discovered the other pair in the weaving. Alva's smug expression as she had lain next to him in his furs had only increased it. However, Alva had the right to it. She had managed to sneak in and out of his bed six times unnoticed. That earned her some respect from his mother, enough that his mother held her tongue and gave his Favored a chance.

What Alva lacked in Potentials, she made up for in determination.

She helped the older [Hunters] to learn the ways of the spear. She wheedled out time for Elders to teach her healing. That wouldn't have been enough if not for the changes the trade with Humans brought.

Where he had been reluctant, she dove in. She began to add to his pack before a hunt. A spoon here, a firestarter there—small things, cheap and simple. "Too many scoff at what the Humans offer. Their creations are simple, but they do what is needed." Eyes sharp. "You know this, Rægnor." She tapped the small vial with a finger. "This is weaker than what the Sæmdarskati gave you, but it works about as well as I can manage."

She did herself a disservice, but he didn't correct her. Instead, he didn't argue with her continued additions before each hunt.

It had raised some eyebrows among his fellow [Hunters], but he said nothing when one of his brothers rolled the smooth twine between his fingers. Rægnor squatted next to him. "Not the finest, but it holds. I wouldn't dare use it for a snare, but for this," he gestured to his pack, "it is good enough."

Not much later, he had found Alva handing a roll of rough twine to an older hunter for some advice on following prey. Small pouches full of small wood vials soon followed.

[Crafters] devoted their skills to more complex tasks. Weapons improved in quality. [Hunters], better equipped, risked longer hunts in the Grass Sea. Though [Healers] dismissed the low-grade potions, the results spoke for themselves. Smaller wounds no longer ended a hunt early.

The tribe's reserves grew as did its numbers. In this, Alva found herself a niche. She facilitated trades, helping her elders find what they wanted—and what they didn't even know they needed.

She could have earned a place as a [Trader], living a life of ease, but with little respect. However, that would have kept her heart's desire out of reach. She forsook that life for one of pain and danger.

Before the break of day, he found her moving through spear forms. When she sliced open her palm, he grasped her hand, holding it steady as she wove Energy to seal the wound. Her eyes blazed whenever he urged patience. "Growth cannot come without pain."

Some nights, they could only lie next to each other, her body too bruised or tired to do anything more. He almost questioned her, but he never dared dishonor her. And as that lanky girl he knew as a child had transformed, turned into something far more, her skills grew.

She had earned her place among the elite as [Spearweaver], just as she had promised—and just in time to be sent off.

She had raged against the Sæmdarskati's decision, as did all of her sisters. They fought with the men, shoring up the line as the enemies broke against it. They healed wounds. They brought death. But they never cowered. And they weren't wrong.

Without them, his people were far weaker. The outcome of that last battle against those abominations would not have rested on a knife's edge. Rægnor's hands clenched into fists, knuckles white. Their power would have wrapped them in a cocoon, shielding them from that horrid despair, but the fragile peace in this camp could shatter at any spark—one wrong move, one insult too many—and the bloodshed would drown them all. The [Spearweaver] may forgive one Volk daring to lay his dirty hands on her? But two? Three? Their honor would demand nothing less than a rotting corpse on the ground.

He ran his fingers across his bare wrist. As with life and love, that loose grass band had withered, waiting for a renewal. Another would take its place. He just had to get home.

His eyes rested on the solitary longhouse down the slight hill.

Daniel was important. Every fiber of his being screamed it. How often did someone at his level—much less a [Hunter] or [Warrior]—get a skill like [Enduring Echo]? Alva would scream with mock jealousy before smothering him in endless kisses in celebration. It was a skill fit for [Spearweaver] or a verndari. Yet, as he stood watch while Daniel worked on his brother, lying broken on the cavern floor, the beginnings of the skill came to him. He empowered the calm and deliberateness that exuded from the young Human.

The Mother blessed those who followed Daniel's path.

He took in Teja's majesty once more.

"I am ready for your trials, Mother," he whispered.

He would keep Daniel's secrets, even if it cost him his honor.

For the good of the tribe.