Chapter 11 - Parting
Dawn crept softly over the estate, pale and cool, washing the land in a violet half-light. During Samuel's recovery, lean season had finally handed itself over to early lush season. The air was still, the morning poised—waiting for something to begin. Tirzah moved slowly beside another servant, her hands resting over the fullness of her belly, the child within shifting with the day's first light. They carried bread wrapped in cloth, skins of water, and a small parcel of dried fruit for the road. The scent of dew and clay mingled with faint smoke from the cookfires that were waking to flame.
Linora had already packed her satchel—her familiar bundle of salves, bandages, and herbs—each vial and linen strip neatly arranged, ready for whatever the road might demand. The weight of it comforted her; it was the same kit that had steadied her through sickness and siege alike. As she checked the straps, a warmth rose in her chest at the thought of home. Oren's proud, wordless nod; Keziah's soft laugh as she welcomed with open arms. The memory filled her with joy that made parting feel like returning.
At the center of the yard stood Gud, the appointed guard—broad-shouldered, with a dark beard and a long staff capped in bronze. He held himself at ease but alert, watchful for any shadow that might test his readiness. A short sword hung at his hip, its hilt polished smooth from years of use. He gave a brief nod to Samuel in wordless respect.
Loshim was there too, leading a horse with reins of woven flax. The animal's breath misted in the morning chill. "Last chance for a little sense," Loshim said, holding the reins out. "You'll regret it by the second hill."
Samuel smiled and tapped his cane. "I've had my fill of beasts these past weeks. My legs need remembering."
He carried little else—a small pouch of silver, a small loaf of bread, and Ann at his side. His stance was steady, though a faint tremor shook his leg when he shifted his weight. The scars on his calves caught the early light like pale seams in tanned leather.
Nahala arrived last, wrapped in a dark shawl against the morning chill. She walked to Linora with a composure that only deep affection could steady. "You've given this house its peace and brought Samuel back from the brink," she said, taking Linora's hands. "Whatever path lies ahead, know that you have a place here—always."
Linora's mind flooded with memories of all the love and wisdom she'd received from Nahala. "You've shown me more kindness than I deserved—and more patience than most would have offered a stranger. I won't forget it."
Turning to Samuel, Nahala drew him close in a brief embrace. "Return with your answer, or send Gud," she said. "Either way, the gate will be open. And may God watch over you."
Wondering what question needed to be answered, Linora made a note to ask him about it during the day's journey.
Loshim stepped forward, grasping his brother's forearm in farewell. No words passed between them, only that familiar exchange of pressure—one that spoke of all they had survived and all that might still come.
Gud lifted his pack, and the three travelers turned toward the gate when Linora froze. Her gaze dropped, confusion tightening into alarm.
"Tirzah," she uttered, "your feet..."
The words stopped everyone. Tirzah looked down—and only then saw it: bright blood, fresh and vivid against the dust, spilling quietly over her sandals and pooling in the earth. For a second she only blinked, her mind unable to match what her eyes saw.
Nahala gasped and moved first, supporting her by the arm. "Fetch cloths!" she shouted. Gud dropped his pack and steadied the other side.
Tirzah swayed, still bewildered. "I didn't even feel—"
Linora was already kneeling, her hands working fast, her voice low but firm. "Don't move. Stay still—do you hear me? We need to get her to a bed, quickly."
The courtyard burst into motion, the still morning breaking into shouts and hurried steps. Loshim took Nahala's spot, he and Gud moved together, each taking a shoulder and a knee to keep her level as they lifted. Samuel cleared the path ahead, pushing the doors wide. Linora followed close behind, pressing linen to the bleeding as they carried Tirzah through the corridor and into her room.
Lirit stood in the corner, silent, eyes wide—watching her mother carried into the room. They laid Tirzah gently on the bed, her pulse fluttering rapid and thin at her throat, the sheets already catching red.
Linora worked quickly, her movements guided by instinct more than thought. The first cloths came red and heavy, then lighter with each exchange. Loshim cleared out the stained sheets, moving with urgency. Samuel brought a basin of warm water; she wrung the linen until it steamed and pressed it gently along Tirzah's legs, wiping away what remained. The smell of iron hung heavy, sharp at first, then fading as the bleeding slowed.
The bleeding slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether. Linora leaned back on her heels, her trembling hands finding their calm as the danger subsided. Around her, the room returned to order—the low hiss of the brazier, the creak of a shutter as dawn wind brushed through. Loshim fetched more clean linen, folding it over the soiled bedding.
Tirzah's lungs steadied. Her eyes fluttered open once, dazed, caught in the haze between sleep and waking. Linora spoke softly, barely audible. "You're safe. Don't move. The danger's passed."
She felt for the pulse at Tirzah's wrist—faint, but even—then rested her palm lightly over the swell of her belly. Lirit approached, quiet as a mouse, and mimicked the touch. At first there was nothing—no tightening, no rhythm beneath the skin—and then a sudden flutter, gentle but sure, rolled under their hands. Lirit's eyes widened.
"He moved!" she whispered, a smile breaking through.
Relief washed through Linora so suddenly her shoulders dropped and it nearly buckled her. "Yes," she said softly, the corners of her mouth trembling. "He's still strong."
She bowed her head for a moment, steadying herself before reaching for another clean cloth.
Across the room, Nahala stood motionless by the door, one hand against the frame, the other pressed to her lips. The matriarch's composure had returned, but her eyes shone. "Is she...?"
Linora nodded. "She's all right for now. No contractions, no pain. The bleeding's stopped completely." She wiped her hands on the cloth she'd been holding, her voice calm but firm. "She can't be left alone, Nahala. Someone needs to sit with her at all hours—day and night."
"I can do it." Lirit straightened, her small hand lifting before anyone else could speak.
Nahala stepped closer, her shawl brushing the floor. "Yes, of course you can," she said, her voice softening. "But not the only one. We'll make sure your mother is never unattended." The last words came out half as promise, half as prayer. "I'll see to it."
The house slowly exhaled. Outside the open window, the estate had begun to wake again—the soft bleat of goats, the distant call of a worker to another. Dawn had fully broken, but the brightness remained subdued. Servants returned to their duties as the sharpness faded, replaced by the subtle murmur of recovery.
Linora approached the bedside and adjusted the blankets. She handed Lirit a fresh cloth, guiding her hand. "Watch carefully. A soft dab—not hard... that's it." The girl followed each motion with grave attention. When Linora was certain the bleeding had ceased, she stepped back and rubbed her eyes, exhaustion catching up to her at last.
After changing into fresh clothes, Linora stepped back into the courtyard. The morning scene had re-formed as it was before—calm, expectant, washed in early light. Loshim held the reins of a horse; Samuel stood ready, his pack slung over one shoulder; Gud waited a few steps behind, patient as ever. All three turned toward Linora, who met their eyes with a small smile of gratitude and relief. The men's shoulders eased, and a quiet sigh passed through them together.
"I'm glad Tirzah's all right," Samuel said at last, his voice quiet but steady. "Are you ready to go home now?"
Linora turned toward him, her face pale but composed. "I was," she said. "But I can't leave her. She's stable for now—likely for days—but if the bleeding starts again, or if the child comes early, she could die before anyone reaches me. I have to stay, at least until we find an experienced midwife."
Samuel stepped closer, the weight of her words settling between them. "And your parents?" he asked gently. "They'll be waiting."
She hesitated, glancing toward the trees as a breeze stirred. "They'll understand," she said softly. "Tell them I'm safe, and that I love them. And I'll see them as soon as I can."
He looked at her, saying nothing. Then his expression eased. "Keziah will be proud," he said. "Of all you've done here."
Linora was touched by the sentiment. Gud cleared his throat—not impatient, but practical. "The light's rising," he said. "If we go, we should go now."
Samuel adjusted his strap and looked back one last time. "Keep her stable," he said—not as a command, but a hope.
"I will," Linora answered. "Go carefully."
"Go Carefully!" Loshim repeated with a big grin.
Samuel gave a small bow of farewell and followed Gud out. Their footsteps faded through the forest path, past the quiet hum of servants resuming their work, until the figures drifted out of sight.
The courtyard was mostly empty after their departure. The hum of morning chores replacing the hush of farewell. Linora lingered longer than she meant to, meandered toward Loshim and placed one hand lightly on the horse's neck. The animal flicked its ears, uneasy without motion.
"He could've taken Eshka, you know," he said, giving the horse's flank an affectionate slap. "My brother's legs aren't made of steel."
Linora smoothed the animal's mane. "He wanted to prove his strength," she said. "And he has, more than once."
"Mm." Loshim's low chuckle marked a half approval. "Pride makes strange medicine. It can mend what herbs cannot—and kill twice as fast."
He started toward the pasture, gesturing for her to bring the horse along. The early sun had reached the tops of the palms, catching in the dust of his hair.
They walked in the grass, the earth still cool beneath their steps. Then he said, his tone casual, "You ride much?"
Linora hesitated. "I've... walked beside plenty."
He stopped mid-stride and turned to her, eyes wide with mock astonishment. "You? The woman who tamed my brother's temper, stitched half this estate back together—have never been on a horse? That won't do."
She laughed softly, defensive but amused. "I've been busy with the wounded, not galloping through fields."
"That ends today," he said simply.
Before she could object, he was already tightening the saddle straps, checking the girth, and tossing the reins into her uncertain hands. "Lesson number one: best hold on tight—Eshka doesn't wait for permission."
The horse shifted, sensing her nerves, but Loshim steadied both beast and woman with little effort. His voice dropped to something calm, instructional. "Don't fight her. Feel where she moves, and move with her. You'll both end up better for it."
Linora exhaled, finding her courage somewhere between fear and trust. Then, with a small, incredulous smile, she allowed Loshim to hoist her up as she swung her leg over the saddle for the first time.
The next few minutes were hectic.
Linora gripped the reins too tight, her posture stiff as the saddle jostled beneath her. The horse snorted, unimpressed by her effort to control it, and Loshim tried—unsuccessfully—to hide his grin.
"Relax your knees," he said, stepping beside her. "She's not a plank. You are joining a stride."
"That's easy for you to say," she replied, bouncing unevenly as the horse took two impatient steps forward.
He caught the bridle, steadying the beast. "And harder to do with your shoulders locked like a bowstring. Breathe. Eshka already knows where to go."
"I'd rather I know," she muttered.
He laughed then, low and warm. "That's your first mistake. Horses hate certainty. They'll test it every time."
Her next attempt went better—until the horse decided to scratch an itch against the fence post. Linora yelped, clutching its mane for balance, and Loshim doubled over laughing. "She likes you already," he said between chuckles. "Never seen her share that post with anyone."
"I'm glad someone's enjoying this," she said, fighting a smile that betrayed her.
By the time the sun lifted above the ridge, she had begun to find the rhythm—moving not against the animal but with it, the sway of the gait carrying her like a slow tide. Loshim gave fewer instructions now, walking beside her, his voice calm and approving. "That's it. Don't think of control—think of trust. She's a creature, not a tool."
Her grip softened. Her shoulders lowered. For the first time in weeks, her laughter carried freely across the pasture. A few stablehands stopped to watch, leaning on their pitchforks, smiling at the sight.
They walked the horse to a barrel by the fence. Linora cupped water to its muzzle; it drank, warm breath wetting her palm. Loshim stood beside her, hand resting lightly on the horse's neck, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles through the coarse mane.
She found herself studying his hands—how they moved with care, never force. He spoke softly to the creature, words she couldn't hear, and somehow that made her listen closer. "They trust quick, if you're steady," he said. "Animals know before people do when a heart means no harm."
Linora smiled faintly. "That's a language I'd like to learn."
He turned his head, eyes bright beneath the shade of his brow. "You already speak it."
The words lingered. She wanted to look away but couldn't. All her life had been smoke and iron and noise; frantic needs for healing or clamoring metal that bent to a man's will. But this—this was strength of another nature. The quiet, sure sort that coaxed life to trust it. Here, even silence held weight and presence. Loshim smelled faintly of hay and cedar and open air—everything her father's forge was not. She wondered what work existed beyond the ring of the anvil.
By late afternoon, Linora was back on the horse, trotting in wide, careful circles, her hair wind-tossed and her cheeks flushed with pride. The horse slowed at her cue, obedient at last. Loshim stood in the middle of the ring, arms crossed, grin unguarded.
"There," he said softly. "Now you can officially say you've ridden a horse."
She dismounted, her legs shaky but her smile steady. "Yes! And it won't be the last."
They led the horse to the shade of a tamarisk tree at the field's edge. Linora smelled grass and warm hide. Loshim poured water from a skin, offering it first to the horse, then to Linora. They drank in turns, neither speaking for a long while.
The silence was comfortable—the kind earned through shared effort rather than need. The sun had tilted west, painting their shadows long across the ground. The heat softened, and the horse grazed lazily between them while they lingered beneath the tamarisk's shade.
For a minute, Linora only watched the animal's slow chewing, the steady rhythm of its jaw. The world hung suspended, hushed after the morning chaos. Loshim glanced her way, and she caught his look—gentle, curious, content. She smiled, but a thought came: there was still work waiting beyond this calm.
"I should check on Tirzah," she said at last, her voice soft but resolute. "Make sure she's still in bed and following Lirit's orders."
Loshim nodded, the faintest trace of disappointment crossing his face before he hid it with a smile. "Then I'll see to the horse," he said.
They lingered one moment longer before parting—two figures in the lengthening light, the scent of grass and sun still clinging to them both.
The path back to the servants' quarters was lined with low clay walls and the faint scent of baking bread drifting from the kitchens. Linora followed it slowly, brushing her hand along the cool plaster as the sky dimmed to amber. The hum of the estate softened behind her—hammers, voices, the distant call of animals—until only her footsteps remained.
Inside, the air was warm and still, steeped in the smell of linen and herbs. Lirit sat beside the bed, her legs tucked beneath her, animatedly telling a story. Tirzah's laughter came light and sudden, startling its way out after too many heavy hours. Linora paused in the doorway and smiled; it was the sound of real joy and she didn't want to interrupt.
Lirit noticed her and jumped to her feet. "She's doing great. Never left the bed," she said quickly, pride gleaming in her eyes. "I've been keeping her company."
"Well done, Nurse Lirit," Linora joked. "Why don't you get something to eat? Bring back something for your mother, too—maybe broth, if the cooks still have any on the fire."
The girl nodded eagerly. "I'll hurry." She squeezed her mother's hand, then darted out, her sandals slapping softly down the hall.
The room quieted. A faint gust slipped through the window, moving the curtain enough to stir the light. Linora drew a stool close and sat beside the bed. Tirzah's face looked rosey now, color returning to her cheeks.
"How do you feel?" Linora asked.
"Oh, fine. Tired. Bored," Tirzah murmured, her hand resting over her belly. "This little guy's still moving, that's what matters. Or maybe 'little girl'. I called Lirit a 'little guy' too before she was born."
Linora smiled, her gaze softening. "Well, he's in good hands." She hesitated, weighing her next words. "I know you feel like you can get up and help around here, but you really need to stay still for several days—no walking except what's needed. Have you experienced bleeding before?"
"Only light blood a couple times," Tirzah responded. "Maybe after I lift something heavy. Nothing like today."
"Well, if the bleeding starts again," Linora continued, "or if you feel pressure, even a little, call for me right away. Don't wait for anyone else."
Tirzah's brow knit, but her tone stayed gentle. "If it happens again?"
"Then we do everything we can to stop it," Linora said quietly. "If it means staying at your side through the night, I'll do that. Whatever it takes to keep you two safe."
Tirzah studied her a moment, her expression both grateful and heavy with understanding. "I know you mean that," she said softly. Her gaze grew distant for a moment. "I lived in the city, I saw my share of issues. I know what can happen. When the child comes—if it comes to choosing—promise me you'll save the child."
"Don't say that," Linora pleaded. But she knew exactly what the possible outcomes were. Many come down to making those impossible decisions.
"Promise me, Linora." Her voice had strength in it now, though her fingers trembled against the blanket. "You do anything you must to save this baby. Anything. I can move on knowing that this house will take care of my precious little ones."
Linora bowed her head, refusing to believe, yet accepting at the same time. "You'll see him yourself," she said quietly. "I'll see to it."
"You already have," Tirzah whispered, closing her eyes.
A silence settled between them, peaceful this time—the kind born not of fear but of shared resolve. Outside, the low hum of the estate carried on, steady as a drum.