"Ouch," cried Tristan.
"Sorry, you will feel every touch I make." Eira cautioned.
Eira examined Tristan's hands with care. The nails were cracked, knuckles swollen and skin covered in cuts. But the deeper damage was presumably in the connection between his hands and his brain. That made it hard for him to move his fingers the way he once did.
"The swelling in the tendons and the blockage in the nerve paths have taken away your control," she murmured.
She placed her warm hands on his arms and began her treatment, a mix of steady pressure and calming energy passed through touch. Her goal wasn't just to ease pain, but to help his nerves 'wake up' and remember how to send signals again.
"This isn't just about surface wounds," she explained. "I'm helping your hands remember how to move. How to play. We're also getting the blood flowing better again."
"It'll take around six weeks. Daily sessions. Some soreness. But no cutting, no needles. Just pressure, rhythm, and patience."
Tristan flinched as she pressed into the center of his palm.
"That spot's important," Eira said gently. "It's been locked up from stress and not being used. We need to remind it what music feels like."
"Do you think that I could still play the violin?" he asked, voice low.
Eira offered a steady smile, not giving false hope. "If you trust me… and trust yourself, yes."
The treatment room smelled of lavender and mint. Big windows let fresh air in, and the walls could slide open when needed. For the next six weeks, this room would be Tristan's refuge.
Eira's hands moved with quiet focus down his forearm, pressing along each tight muscle. Tristan winced from time to time but didn't pull away.
"You're starting to loosen up," she said. "That's a good sign. The swelling's going down too."
Tristan tilted his head. "Do you ever get tired of this?"
Eira gave a soft laugh. "Of healing? Or of stubborn musicians pretending they're not flinching?"
"I wasn't flinching," he said, clearly lying.
"To answer seriously…sometimes. I was born into it. My mother and grandfather were both healers. But I had to train and practice before anyone let me do anything beyond handing out tea."
"So… it's not just magic?"
"No. Magic helps. My bloodline helps too. But healing is something you learn like playing an instrument. You don't just wish for it and expect results. You study, mess up, and keep going. I trained at the Moressan Temple for two years. Then with the Stormhowl Clan for another year.. I nearly lost my own hand treating a poisoned claw wound during my final trial."
She paused, her voice softening. "That's when I stopped thinking healing was a beautiful thing. It's messy. But it's worth it."
Tristan blinked. "Do you get paid?"
She laughed dryly. "Most don't think we should be. But Lord Shannon insists I'm compensated properly. He says even sacred people need to eat."
"Do you live here?"
Her smile dimmed a little. "Yes. It's peaceful and far from prying eyes. No one asks why a wolf-born lives alone, until now."
Tristan's gaze sharpened. "So… you're hiding."
She didn't deny it.
"And you?" she asked, pressing lightly into his palm again. "Where did a merchant's son learn to play like that?"
"My grandfather. He played the harmonica. Said it was the breath of his soul. But when I touched a violin… it felt like finding a voice I didn't know I had."
"Did someone teach you?"
"For a while. A strict tutor. But I didn't last. He wanted perfection. I just wanted to play like the wind. So I listened, to birds, to rain, to street vendors yelling outside our gates. That's how I learned rhythm."
"You learned music from angry vendors?"
Tristan smiled. "You'd be surprised how musical insults can be."
She laughed. "What was that piece you played at the Opera House? Lord Shannon mentioned it."
"I called it Thread of Gold. It was meant to sound like hope winding through a battlefield."
Eira paused. "You're not what I expected."
"Neither am I," Tristan said.
"Can you sing?"
"I used to. My voice cracked at thirteen. Never tried again."
"You should. Your body's healing. Maybe your voice is waiting too."
Her words wrapped around him like warmth. "Do you think I'll really play again?"
"If you don't," Eira said, returning to her work, "the world will be missing something beautiful."
Tristan hissed as she pressed into a tense spot near his elbow.
"That hurts."
"Then it's working," she said calmly. "Pain means your nerves are responding. I'd be more worried if you felt nothing."
"Great. Pain equals progress. I'll add that to my new motto."
"You're more dramatic than I thought."
"Two years in a mining pit with no baths will do that to a man."
She gave him a long look. "Speaking of baths, no cold ones."
"Wait, what?"
"You're healing nerve tissue. Heat helps. Cold tightens everything up. It'll slow us down."
"No swimming?"
"No icy drinks either."
"That's half my will to live."
"You can take warm baths. Soak your hands for at least ten minutes. Use that time to stretch your fingers."
"Sounds like work disguised as self-care."
"Welcome to recovery."
He grinned. "Can I still have coffee?"
"Yes."
"Sweet."
"But no alcohol."
"Bitter."
She smiled at his sulk. "Stick to tea and room-temperature water. No extreme temperatures. Your system needs balance."
"And sleep? Do I have to hang upside down like a bat?"
"No. But don't sleep on your stomach or tuck your arms under you. Let them stay open and relaxed."
Tristan sighed. "Healing comes with rules."
"Do you want your hands back or not?"
"I do," he said softly. "More than anything."
Eira's voice was gentle. "Then follow the plan. I'm working on your nerve paths, loosening the tension in your arms, and guiding energy along channels that affect movement. Some call it pressure healing. Others call it energy flow. It helps if you also sit still and breathe now and then."
"Is that your way of telling me to meditate?"
"Call it what you like. Just listen to your heartbeat and stop arguing with yourself."
"That's harder than it sounds."
"It always is," she said.