Rainath and Rogar, and Karla

The trudge home was easier with the wind at their backs and the slope in their favor, but that only gave Rogar more space to think. He voted for walking through the night but the others outweighed him, so he lay another freezing, sleepless eternity on the face of the mountain, mind a whirl of past and present, dream and reality.

When they came over the ridge he wanted to go directly back to the lodge and drink himself to oblivion, but he feared what he'd find there. The lad at the door had been alive when he left, but with a wound in the gut there was no telling if infection would set in until it did, and the thought of facing a crowd of curious people just then made him feel ill.

His reckless feet carried him back up the path he'd fled along, vowing never to return, just a few days before. This time there were no prints in the powdery snow before him, and only the one set of his own when he looked back. He raised his fist and knocked at the door impulsively, before he could think about it and decide against what he was doing.

The hour was early but the door opened in moments, as though she'd been expecting someone.

"Have ye got anything to drink?" He asked, his voice hoarse from disuse.

"Aye," she told him soberly, no trace of the teasing flirt he'd left behind as she stepped aside to let him in the door. She closed it firmly behind him and turned the latch, leaving him alone in the entryway to go and fetch a flask of whiskey.

Rogar shed his snow-crusted outer layer slowly, fingers stiff and wits numb. He dropped his belt to the floor, sick of its weight on his hips. It landed in the space Ty's boots would have occupied, and Rogar contemplated whether the other man truly wouldn't wring his neck if he found it there, or if perhaps having his neck wrung was what Rogar had come for.

Karla waited for him by the fire, freshly stoked. He lowered himself into the second chair gingerly, feeling unfit for furniture after a week outdoors, and generally unfit for humanity.

"You make the kaf, I'll pour the whiskey," Karla bantered gently, unstopping the bottle. Rogar nodded wordlessly and completed the task by rote, hands thawing in the heat of the fire as he did. When the brew was ready he poured a cup only for her, leaving the second unturned. When he'd finished she leaned forward and added a splash of whiskey to the steaming drink, standing his cup beside it and pouring in a healthy ration of amber liquid.

"At least drop some ice into it," she implored gently, "you look a wretch."

Rogar ignored her, taking half the whiskey in a single great swallow.

"I've been drinking whiskey colder than the dark witch's cunt for a week," he told her in rough explanation. She only nodded, drinking her kaf with him in silence for a long while.

"Did ye get frostbitten?" She asked, when he'd downed the rest of it. He shrugged carelessly and stared into the flames, minding her of the defiant young man in his past.

She let him sit and warm until the creases in his brow eased and the snow in his hair had melted and dried in the warmth of the fire. By then his shoulders had relaxed, and she judged he could stand to be touched. She rose and poured him more whiskey, scooped some hot water into a basin and fetched some clean ragging from the mending basket.

She combed through his hair with her fingers while the water cooled, pulling bits of twig and leaf loose, tossing them into the fire as she went. She tidied his plaits and unsnagged the beads that adorned them with patient fingers. Rogar sat still and worldless under her ministrations, but by the time she'd finished he was sitting back in his chair, slightly more relaxed.

When the water was no longer scalding, she dipped a clean rag in and wrung it out, sitting on an ottoman so she could reach his hands. She brought them forward one at a time, rubbing the cloth across his palm and cleaning each knuckle individually. She noted that his nails were rimmed with dried blood, though a week had gone by since the killing, and made special effort to scrape away the traces.

When she took the first hand he was stiff, but by the second he'd eased under her hands, like a tempermental horse. He took the cloth to scrub his own face and returned it to her, sitting forward to drag his shirt over his head and throw it to the floor. The water was cooling, Karla added a ladle of hot to warm it and rinsed the rag thoroughly, transferring the grime from his hands and face to the clear water.

She went around behind him to lift his hair and wash his neck, scrubbing over his shoulders and back with broad strokes. By the third rinse of the cloth the water was black and she took it to toss from the doorstep, bringing back the empty basin and setting it at his feet to fill again.

When the water had cooled he eased his feet in, fearful of the pins and needles of heat on icy flesh. He slumped in relief when they didn't come, the warmth on his aching feet such a pleasure that he could have wet himself. Karla pressed a cup to his hands, and this time he was sure she'd cut the whiskey with the last of the kaf.

"Four good men gone, and for what?" He finally demanded of the fire, breaking his silence. "Drink? I would ha' given that freely, as a brother! Why couldn't they just come and ask, in peace?" He looked at her briefly, then away, ashamed of the quake in his voice.

"I'm awfully tired," he admitted miserably, adding more whiskey to his cup himself. She gave him a sympathetic appraisal, heart sore for him.

"Finish washing and I'll turn down the bed," she suggested gently, adding a scoop of hot water after he'd pulled his feet from the basin. He nodded and stood, pausing with a hand at the buckle of his pants.

"Your husband," he said, voice dull, unsure whether he cared.

"Down the slope, on business," she told him, voice even. "We heard of the raid before he left, but you'd already gone." Rogar nodded again, wearily, and let them drop.

She'd turned down the quilt and drawn the curtains, but she stood fully clad beside the bed when he went in, unsure if he would want her company.

"I'll let you sleep," she offered lightly, making to go. Rogar hesitated, equally unsure.

"Will you lay wi' me?" He asked at length, feeling small. She smiled kindly and drew him into the bed, leaving her own clothes on and staying atop the cover.

He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, and thanked the ancients the linens were fresh. If they'd smelled of the man who belonged there, Rogar's self-loathing may have immolated him. Karla propped herself on a pillow beside him and let her fingers drift in an aimless caress over the back of his hand and forearm, and he drifted away far more readily than he'd expected.

Rogar hated dreaming. He'd had plenty of nightmares involving Karla and her husbands, but while his body occupied that particular horror his sleeping mind felt free to explore others. He dreamt twisted fantasies where he murdered everyone he cared for, made love with demons and became a monster in his own right, a mad king, destroying all he reigned.

Karla sat on the bed with him through the day, sewing or reading, stopping to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder when he fretted and tossed. When night fell and he still hadn't woken she donned one of her husband's shirts and climbed into Ty's side of the bed, pulling the quilt up over Rogar's shoulder so he wouldn't grow cold. She lay on her side with neutral space between them but he crossed it within moments, curling in his sleep to lay his forehead against her shoulder blade. She fell asleep with it there, hoping his mind would be in a better place when he woke.

Rogar came awake suddenly, expecting to look up at the frozen sky. He hadn't been warm, or sober, in so long he thought he might be dying. The pale blank of the plaster ceiling confused him, and for a moment he feared he'd been snowed over by a blizzard, or swept away in an avalanche.

The real avalanche came in his mind, when the events of the past days and the reality of where he was dumped themselves on him in a lung-crushing instant. His throat was raw, and the memory of his belt and pants strewn outside the bedroom felt like the noose of his suicide not yet drawn tight.

"D'ye want some water?" Came her voice softly from the gloom, husky with sleep. Before he knew he'd decided, he was on her, hands shaking, face buried in her hair and praying that she wouldn't pull away, wouldn't play games with him just then.

"Mmm," she crooned in sleepy approval, wrapping him in her arms and raking her nails lightly over his back. Her legs came up to welcome him, twining firmly around his hips.

His cock was painfully hard, but he was painfully aware of a lot just then, and as Karla squirmed to one climax beneath him, then another, he feared he wouldn't be able find release of his own. She coaxed patiently, one hand on the nape of his neck and the other between them, stroking and teasing in clever secrecy. She put her lips against his ear to whisper something unspeakably dirty and he erupted like a geiser, tearing away just in time to spill himself on the sheet beside her with a groan.

He collapsed next to her and they lay still for a long time, just breathing, until his tears on her neck had dried and she thought he was asleep again.

"I ache like I fell down the mountain ass over teakettle, and laying here with you makes me feel like a dastardly, shit-swilling beast," he announced with miserably sober clarity.

"Not a very complimentary picture to paint of me," she murmured, wishing he'd leave off his self-hatred until the dawn broke, at least.

"Do you ever think that ye don't have to be so bloody noble all the time?" She asked him testily, early hour getting the best of her. "That ye don't actually have any choice about who decides to kill you, or who yer cock stands for? You're an angel among animals, Rogar. The only one who knows better."

"Aye, and cursed wi' it, that's what I'm afraid of." He told her grimly, swinging his feet to the side of the bed.

"You can't go now, it's the middle of the night," she protested, reaching for him and pulling the blanket close against the chill.

"I've to piss," he told her gruffly, though leaving had been on his mind. The sky was clear and the moon was so bright on the snowy landscape he had to shield his face when he opened the door. He staggered around the corner of the house, naked save his boots, and relished the fresh bite of cold on a body that was warm, for once, as he relieved himself.

Karla was right, it was a stupid time to go out. Too late for carousing and still too early for anyone to rise for work, he'd be the only man about beside the watch and he'd wake his family if he went home. He went back in and shot the bolt, feeling a usurper at best.

His body was weary but his mind turned, and he knew he couldn't sleep if he went back in to lay beside Karla, so he threw a log on the fire. He found a spare set of clothes in his pack and pulled on the pants, leaving the shirt over the back of a chair for the morning. He gathered his discarded clothes and wadded them into a bundle deep in his pack, grimacing at the smell and grateful that Karla had made him wash.

When he'd tossed out the dirty washwater and tidied up the other traces of himself about the hearth, Rogar took liberties with the kaf. He couldn't recall when he'd last had a whole pot to himself, drinking it in solitude felt like a meditation. As the pot ran low he grew weary once more and slumped in his chair, dozing off as dawn blushed at the windows.

Karla doubted sleeping cramped in the armchair by the fire was doing any good for his aching body, but she was nevertheless pleased that he hadn't fled in the night, after all. She fried eggs and boiled porridge for their breakfast, and at same point he came awake; she could smell the kaf he started for them. When she brought their food to the hearth, Karla was mildly disappointed to see his shirt covering his shoulders.

"Your mother has a new apprentice," she told him conversationally, as he dug into his porridge.

"Aye, all the time," he agreed politely.

"Aye, but you brought her this one," Rogar looked up from his bowl to read her face, relief flooding him. At least something had gone bloody right, he thought, hacking at his eggs with the side of his spoon.

"They're saying you'll settle now," she murmured, eyes dancing with amusement. Rogar gave her a flat look; she of all people should know him better. Her wry grin said she did.

"I'll be bloody grateful to get back to the desert, where folk know just exactly how mad they are," he muttered darkly. He finished eating and took her dishes around to the kitchen, giving them a quick wash. When he got back, she'd poured the kaf.

"It's been good to see you, I wouldn't mind if you were around the mountain more," she told him fondly. If anything, his look flattened further.

"Aye, and if I was married seein' me from far off is all you'd be doing,"

"So noble," she agreed, sipping. "It would make for a nice view, anyway." He rolled his eyes.

"If ye leave her here, someone else will have her," she warned him over the top of her cup.

"I hope so," he admitted frankly, slightly ashamed of it.

"I thought it was like that. She's very young," Rogar grunted, mouth full of kaf.

"It was hard to tell how young, until her clothes were off," he told her, rueful. She chuckled lecherously.

"I'm glad to hear ye don't live as a monk when you go off the mountain, Rogar," she told him sincerely, her eyes warm.

"Well, I've heard monkhood is very peaceful," he allowed fairly.

***

When the breakfast things were cleared away, Opal kept Rainath at the table until the rest of the family had gone.

"You and Rogar," she began, instantly staining Rainath's cheeks. She gave the girl a kind smile, and patted her hand.

"I know that you don't love him, nor he you, though there's clearly a fondness between you," Rainath nodded, face stricken. Opal gave her another smile, encouraging, and went on.

"I didn't offer you your apprenticeship because I thought otherwise, and I want to be sure you know that. Rogar will head back down the mountain soon," she must have based it on a mother's knowing, as far as Rainath knew no one had seen Rogar since he'd presumably returned the day before.

"When he goes, I hope you'll stay with us, Rainath." The dining room table was rapidly becoming the center of her mortification, giving her a taste of Jade's youth.

"I didn't mean to mislead you," she began apologetically. The older woman chuckled in response. "I wasn't misled. I could tell as soon as I saw you two in the doorway, that you weren't a match." Rainath blushed again, biting her lip to keep it from trembling.

"There's no shame in it, dear," Opal told her in a motherly voice. "People want who they want, and love who they love. I think he cares for you as a sister, and wanted to help you. Bringing you to his mam was the only way he could think to do it."

"I don't know why everyone thinks he cares for me," sulked Rainath, instantly regretting her disrespectful tone. Her face heated like red iron, but the older woman let it go.

"He left sixteen years ago, and this is the third time he's been back," she told her, simply. Rainath was surprised, the easy familiarity they all shared made it seem like an annual tradition.

"It isn't easy for him to come home," she continued, holding Rainath in a level gaze that made her want to squirm, "he has obligations that weigh on him and ghosts that have to be honored, when he's here. It takes a lot to bring him back. If he put himself through that to bring you to us, it was something he felt was important."

Rainath looked down at the table, accepting the logic reluctantly.

"Now to the terms of your apprenticeship," Opal went on, ever businesslike.

"As a novice you're only expected to learn and train, until you've forged your first weapon. As you progress, you repay your schooling by helping train newer apprentices. You're expected to produce at least one weapon or tool of marketable quality per year, to cover the expense of keeping the forge. Other pieces you craft may be sold on consignment through the guild, though many of the girls gift their work to loved ones." She gave Rainath a moment to let her words sink in, and then went on.

"We keep a house near the forge, for girls who are away from home. Mina stays there, she'll be able to get you settled. We really should give Joran back his room," Opal winked, knowing Rainath would feel the sting of rejection in being displaced.

"The girls at the house take meals together or not as they like, but as a member of the family we'll expect you to be here for supper every evening, just like Jo," she pointed a rigid finger at the table in front of Rainath, mock-stern. She smiled shyly back.

"You'll need to be careful, Rainath," Opal dropped her tone and ducked her head to look the girl in the eye. "I get the impression that you don't know clan law well, and you're too grown for others to excuse you for it. I know Cathon looks a brute, but he's the head of your family now. If you heed him, he'll keep you out of trouble," her eyes twinkled at Rainath, Jade's name unspoken, "but more importantly," she said, hoping the fool girl was listening, "when, and I do mean when, you get into trouble, especially where men are concerned, ye must trust him with it, d'ye hear me? It'll be he that stands for you, as a father or brother would, if any man should make a claim of marriage upon ye, or worse."

Rainath blushed awkwardly and looked away, unsure if Opal's definition of "worse" aligned with her own.

"Now," she told the girl, voice returning to its normal efficiency, "draw your blade and kiss your steel in oath to me, as your weaponmaster." When Rainath's borrowed axe was on the table, Opal told her, "That you'll be a daughter to me. That you'll take your knocks and not run down the mountain at the first cross word," she added sternly, with an inclined eyebrow. "There will be cross words, and mistakes made. Families forgive."

"Aye, on my honor," Rainath agreed in a croaky voice, ducking her head to kiss the iron and hide the tears in her eyes.

"On your honor," she told the girl in formal acceptance.

***

If Cathon was surprised to find his brother in law when he came round the back of his house, he gave no sign. Rogar was hurling the throwing axes, right, left, and right again, as though the devil himself was in his sights. When he retrieved them it took a jarring yank to break them free again and when he turned back to Cathon, he was faintly out of breath. The pepper of deep, fresh gouges across the target suggested he had been at it awhile. Cathon stepped back to load his pipe, as a spectator.

He smoked patiently while Rogar channeled his savagery without acknowledging the older man. After three or four more rounds, he shambled over to the bystander area and sat heavily on a stump, elbows on his knees, thoroughly winded.

"You'll ice over," warned Cathon, of the sweat beaded on Rogar's face and soaked into his shirt.

"Aye," Rogar panted, without looking up. "Brew us some kaf, maybe you can save me yet."

"It's nearly tea," he told him in conciliatory tones, offering his pipe instead. Rogar waved it away.

"Late," commented Rogar unspecifically, fighting to catch his breath.

"Aye," concurred Cathon. "Joran's making it, the women have been... busy. Will ye stay?"

Rogar looked down at his sweat-streamed shirt and weighed the exhausted tremble in his arms. He didn't answer.

"The lad that got stuck, at the lodge," Cathon said offhand, "he's alright. Didn't make it into his guts, wound's almost closed already." Rogar grunted undecodably.