By the second week of treatment, Tristan could already tell the difference in his hands.
The numb heaviness had begun to fade, replaced by flickers of sensation that came and went… sometimes dull, sometimes sharp, but proof that life was returning to his fingers. He no longer jerked back when Eira pressed along the joints. His grip had improved significantly. This time, he could lift a mug without spilling, curl his hand around a wooden handle, and raise a teacup without pain.
"Hold this slim stick of sanded wood. It isn't a bow, but it will let us see how your fingers rest." Eira said.
Tristan stared at it. It was so simple. But as he grasped it, something inside him stirred, an echo of old movements, buried deep.
"Feels... wrong," he muttered. "Too heavy. Or maybe I am."
"It should feel different," Eira said gently. "You're different now. Don't chase the old shape of you. Let the new one form."
By nightfall, they watched the stars on the porch. The only sound you can hear is the occasional mate call of geckos.
Tik-tik…Tik-tik…
"This place is too quiet for my liking?" Tristan asked. "It makes me nervous."
Eira smiled. "That's how you know you're still healing. When peace feels suspicious."
That afternoon, they moved indoors. Eira required Tristan to do small tasks repetitively. This involved squeezing clays, picking up pebbles and stringing tiny beads onto a cord.
Whenever he made mistakes, he cursed and muttered insults at his own fingers. Before the session ended, he accidentally knocked over an entire tray of dried thyme.
"Too bad, even the herbs are out to get me," he grumbled and brushed the flakes off his lap.
"They're just upset you don't applaud after handling them," Eira replied dryly.
He paused, brows furrowed. "Do you think I'll ever really play again?" The question came out quieter than intended.
Eira didn't answer right away. Instead, she pressed into his forearm, coaxing the muscles along. "I think you'll do something even better. You'll feel again. That's where the music lives."
That evening, she introduced meditation. Breathe in and hold then exhale slowly and long. Repeat these several times. At first, Tristan rolled his eyes.
"Do I have to hum?"
"You're a musician. Pretend it's a key change."
"What key?"
"Reluctant but willing."
He huffed, but closed his eyes. Ten minutes later, he was still mildly annoyed… but calmer.
Before they parted for the night, he asked, "Do you think Lord Shannon still wants to hear me play?"
Eira paused at the doorway. "I think… he's been listening all along."
The next morning, she surprised him.
"You've focused on your hands. But healing doesn't stop there. Do you want to try full-body treatment?"
Tristan hesitated. "I… don't have any gold coins. Or rare heirlooms. What could I possibly pay you with?"
Eira laughed. "Play for me one day. That would be payment enough. Shannon handles the real compensation anyway."
And so began the next stage.
She guided him through traditional pressure therapy, practices passed down through wolf-born healers, rooted in both instinct and anatomy. It started with his feet. She applied gentle and focused pressure to the soles. This stimulates the nerves that trace invisible pathways up your spine.
She moved the pressure up along the Achilles tendon, calves, and thighs. Eira avoids applying pressure on swollen joints and applies just enough pressure on tight muscles to breathe again. Then she continued to apply pressure on the lower back, the knotty bundle near the base of the spine to release trauma that lay dormant for years.
"Does it always tingle like this?" he asked, eyes closed.
"That's the blood returning," she murmured. "And your nerves are waking up."
"I think my toes are arguing."
Eira chuckled. "They're just excited."
She worked his spine, shoulders, and upper back with slow, practiced pressure to release muscle tension.
By the end of the session, his limbs and his back no longer hunched from pain. His gait was straighter and lighter.
"You look taller," Eira teased.
"I feel… human," he replied, surprised at his own words.
That evening, while folding laundry beside the hearth, he asked, "So what now? After full-body treatment… Do I get a medal or more rules? Am I forbidden from bathing again?"
Eira gave a small laugh. "Why do you think I'm the bath police?"
"Because every time I ask, you look like I'm about to jump into an ice pond."
"The same precautions still apply," she explained. "Warm baths only. No freezing cold water. And definitely no scalding heat. Your nerves are still delicate."
He blinked. "So I'm not banned from being clean? Because in the mining camp, let me tell you, bathing was optional, and the water was mostly shame."
"You poor, smelly thing," she said with a mock pout. "Yes, Tristan. You're allowed to be clean. Encouraged, even."
"What may I drink other than water?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
Eira narrowed her eyes. "What exactly did you drink for the last two years?"
"Water," he said. "One mug. Used for drinking, washing, rinsing… sometimes soup."
She winced. "Stick to warm drinks for now. No icy tea. No frozen juice. Your body's recalibrating, blood flow, nerve signals. Warmth helps."
"Understood," he said. "So, tea, coffee, warm goat milk... but no iced wine cordial."
"Absolutely not."
He mock-sighed. "Another dream crushed."
"And your sleeping posture?" she added, raising a brow.
"Ah, yes. Do I have to sleep like a soldier? Flat on my back with a thousand-yard stare?"
"Flat is ideal. On your back, arms loose. Avoid sleeping curled up or twisted sideways."
He narrowed his eyes. "You mean… like a sad knot?"
"Yes. Exactly. No sad knot. Let the body stretch out. Your nerves, joints, and blood flow need alignment. Think of it like tuning an instrument."
He blinked. "You make even sleep sound musical."
She smiled. "You're a musician. That's all I've got."
As she turned to clean up, she caught him again with the broom, pretending to bow dramatically toward a pile of dust.
"I see we're back to the sweeping symphony," she said, arms crossed.
"It's called Ode to Crumbs in G Minor," Tristan said solemnly. "A moving piece. Very underappreciated."
"Next time, sweep the floor, not the air."
"No promises."
Eira shook her head and grinned as she turned back to the fireplace.
And somewhere deep down inside, Tristan could feel it.