Saving someone's life is a big part of a healer's job in any story, and it's an important one. But something that can be easy to overlook is that … once the Big Dramatic Moves are done, there's still the recovery process. It's delicate. The human body (so to speak; I know we're talking about elves here) is a miracle, but that doesn't mean it's invulnerable.

And one thing I never want to invalidate in my stories, no matter how fantastical and magical they get, is how hard healing can be.

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Big Olrec got plenty of looks when he lifted up his head from the bench he'd used for both bed and pillow, but he didn't suppose they were dirty looks. Nothing worth cracking skulls over. The innkeeper who'd served him his bowl of kimchee looked more amused than anything else. The druids and guards filtering through the place were making note of him with idle interest.

The old shaman supposed this was about as friendly a reception as he was likely to get in a place like this. Moonglade was clearly isolated and insulated from the outside world. War could break out again right outside the glade's woods and these people probably wouldn't notice. Not to mention the simple fact that Olrec could probably stay here for the rest of his life—however long that might be—and he would never be any less of an outsider here.

He stood up, stretched his creaking muscles, arched his back, and shook his shaggy head. He mused, as he glanced down at himself, that he would have to redo his braids soon; they were getting fizzy and tangled.

The first thing Big Olrec did, before checking in on his company, was to head over to the edge of the pathway heading out of the open-walled inn, glance down at the lake over which it hung, and leap headlong into it.

At one point during his impromptu bath, Olrec reminded himself that he wasn't in the Plaguelands, and he would do well to stand on some facsimile of decorum. Once he'd finished working all the debris and detritus out of his hair and beard, he sloshed out of the water and found some flowers and herbs. These he crushed to coat himself with their pleasant scent.

It took him about three hours to set his braids right. Once he was finished, he thought he looked rather good; almost like he belonged in polite society. Big Olrec grinned his big grin, ran a big hand over his big beard, and headed down to the Sil'nathins with a spring in his step.

He managed to sober himself by the time he reached the others, and he saw that Anathala was still bent over the boy. She was examining something that Olrec couldn't make out. It didn't look like she'd slept much, if at all, concentrated as she was on her work.

"How fairs our charge, Lady Anathala?" Olrec called out after a time, noting with the same color of amusement as Anathala and Austerion the night before, that the three young elves were still sleeping. Sythius had an arm wrapped around his sister, who was cradled against the druid and looked as contented as any infant with their favorite plush toy. Kayli, meanwhile, was sprawled out nearby like she was trying to make herself into a star.

Anathala turned to regard the shaman, and he saw no diminishment of her regal bearing, though he did see that she was clearly exhausted. She did not smile, but neither did she look grim. "I think," she said softly, "that we may just be past the worst of it. If the acorns have worked their spell, and I have guided the magic well enough, then he is mending. Look here." She pointed. "Does the gangrene not look diminished to you? I think that his proper color is beginning to return."

Olrec leaned in close and found that Anathala was right. The black fingerprints of Death did seem to be fading. Kin had been stripped of cloth and cloak, and Olrec finally glimpsed the full, blasphemous toll that undeath had taken on the boy's body. However, though he still looked like a skeleton with skin and hair, he did seem to be regaining his proper color. The tips of his extremities had been a sick, green-leaning black color before. Now, it looked no more serious than a bruise. Still ugly, but not deadly.

Finally.

The only snag in Olrec's good mood was the fact that the flesh on the child's left thigh had died off so much that the bone was visible.

"What kin ye do fer his leg?" Olrec asked, frowning.

Anathala hummed. "If we have, indeed, halted the infection and begun to banish it, I will be able to restore his body to full form. It will take time, but he will be whole again."

"Good," Olrec said. "Poor mite's lost enough meat as it is."

Anathala frowned and rolled her shoulders. "What I can't understand is what has kept him lashed together for so long. Given what you've told me about how long it took you to get here, and the extent of the damage the plague has done . . . he should be dead thrice over." She looked around her, and her gaze settled on the foodstuffs Sythius had brought. "This won't do," she said. "He won't be able to handle solid food for weeks yet. We'll have to start with a light nectar."

"Aye," Olrec said. While healing magic had a great number of uses, it did little for starvation, nor its recovery. The plague had eaten away at every bit of nutrition they'd tried to stuff into Kin since they found him. "Nectar, then some juice. Broth once he can take it in. We'll hafter take it slow. Job's only 'alf done."

"Agreed."

"Now, then." Olrec's tone shifted in such a way that the druidess sent him a searching look. "Don't take no offense, Lady Anathala, but ye look 'bout ready ter keel over. Follow th'example of yer children, why don't ye? Let an old dwarf take a spell. I'm nae much fer miracles, but I know maint'nence."

Anathala's smile returned; it was, indeed, a tired one. She stood, shakily, and took the dwarf's hand when he offered it. "I will," she said. "Thank you, Big Olrec." She put a hand against her left temple. "Do wake me if anything becomes . . ." she paused for a moment, ". . . complicated. Won't you?"

"That I will, Lady Anathala," Olrec said. "That I will."