Rogar and Rainath, on the Mountain

"How long are you staying, uncle?" Asked Joran out of nowhere, crunching an apple and making Rogar start awake.

"Gods, lad!" He exclaimed, clutching his chest. "You'll get yourself killed, waking people up that way."

"I know," rebutted his nephew, unconcerned. "I make sure they're disarmed first." He walked away without hearing the answer to his question, presumably to go and do his chores.

When Rainath emerged, the rest of the family had risen and set off on their respective courses. Only Jade sat in the den, knitting, two pairs of stockings hung to dry near the remnants of the morning's fire.

"How are ye?" Asked Jade, pouring her a mug of tea from a pot on the hearth.

"Tired," Rainath answered honestly.

"Lover's quarrel?" Jade sympathized.

"Er," Rainath said hesitantly.

"Men," Jade agreed, tsking. She set her knitting aside and stretched, relieved to be rid of it. "I'll leave you to settle in, then. I'll be at the forge with ma, but she'll be home for tea soon. Jo has his lessons, and who knows what they're about," she waved a hand that effectively indicated her husband and brother. "Until then, you've got the place to yourself," Jade concluded. "Make yourself at home." She told her with a kind smile, and the shutting door finalized her departure.

Never having had a home to speak of, Rainath had no idea what to do with herself. She drank the rest of the tea from her mug, and refilled it. When the pot was empty she took it to the kitchen to rinse the leaves from it. She looked for something else to wash, but the only thing out of place was a bowl on the stove with a cloth draped over it. When she lifted the cover Rainath found a bowl of porridge, its top glazed with melted butter and honey. Her stomach groaned lustily.

There were spoons in a crock on the counter and she made short work of the breakfast, fervently hoping it was intended for her. When it was gone she washed the bowl and spoon, dried them with the cloth and put them with their mates.

After washing up and having a curious peek around the house, Rainath let herself out the back door, boots in hand. She slipped them on and straightened, barely suppressing a cry of alarm at the sight of Rogar and Cathon watching her with twin faces of curiousity.

"Morning," they echoed.

"Morning," she muttered awkwardly.

"Kaf?" Cathon offered, gesturing to a small copper boiler on the workbench. Rainath nodded, and Rogar reached to pour her a cup.

"Here, have mine," Cathon held his cup out to her. "Now that someone's come to keep an eye on him," he told her in low tones, and jabbed his thumb at Rogar, "I can get some work done," he winked at her, smiling, and exchanged an inscrutable look with Rogar before vanishing around the corner of the house.

"Morning," Rogar started again, unsure where to go from there. Rainath nodded, and they passed some moments of silence staring into the wilderness beyond the dooryard.

"When are we leaving?" Asked Rainath, sipping her kaf. She made a face. "I miss ale," she confided to him, quietly. He laughed.

"Aye," he agreed mirthfully. "There would have been some brewed in the summer, but it's probably all drank by now. Freezes when the weather turns cold, unlike brandy." She grimaced and looked toward the site of the last night's misadventure, but all traces were mercifully covered over with snow. The cup of steaming kaf did bleed warmth into her palms, which was a comfort. He hadn't answered her question.

"I'm paid up for a week yet," he told her. Judging by her expression, she hadn't expected a delay in their return. "I can walk w' yeh back to the ruins, if you'd rather be off," he offered out of fairness, refilling his earthenware mug.

One thing she hadn't taken time to appreciate until just then, was the way the cup fit his hand- hers too, for that matter, and not just the mugs, but everything. The whole house was scaled to accommodate people of their size. Rainath hadn't bumped her head on a low lintel or checked her shoulder on a narrow doorway since they'd arrived.

"I could stay another day or two," she allowed, casually. Rogar nodded. "I wouldn't want to impose," she went on, worrying. "Is there an inn, or something?" She tilted her head to indicate the township beyond the house. Rogar's chuckles echoed in his mug.

"Not at this elevation," he told her, amused. "You could take an empty bachelor's cabin, if you want, or a few folks will take boarders, if you'd rather sleep in a different stranger's home." He chuckled at the irony.

"The cabins?" She asked reticently.

"Tend to be cold, and lonely." Rogar shrugged. "They help w' cabin fever in the winter, for those that need a night to themself, maybe. Visitors from other clans will use them if they travel through." He took a drink, remembering the cabin he'd claimed as a lad- not unlike his room in any inn, now.

"Rebellious youth and young lovers make use of them, but we all got cold and hungry enough to come home, eventually." Rainath's shoulders dropped in resignation.

"My mother and sister wouldn't have it, anyway," he added in a cynical mutter.

"They seem nice, to me," she defended, feeling loyal to the women who had made her welcome.

"Aye, you haven't contradicted them, yet." Rainath rolled her eyes. Rogar seemed younger, here. Less world-weary. She wondered why he left, when he seemed happier here than she'd ever seen him off the mountain.

"I hate the cold," he told her, as though she'd asked aloud. "This," he gestured at the picturesque snowcap the landscape wore, "is just the beginning." His voice conveyed loathing for whatever came after the beginning.

"And I get bored," he admitted. "It's a simple life, everyone is more or less the same. If I sit at a tavern in a trade city like Caldeum, I never know who might walk in the door, what tale I might hear. I like that, I like seeing all the different types of people the world has to offer. Even if most of them are shit," he added pessimistically. Rainath said nothing, her empty cup growing cold in her hands. To her, it seemed a privilege to belong somewhere.

"Shall we go in for tea? It'll be nearly ready," he told her, as though receiving guidance from the ancients.

"How do you know that?" She asked him, frowning, seeing no reliable way of judging the time on the landscape before them.

"I can hear my mother, in the kitchen," he answered simply, tilting his head backward toward the house. Her throat too tight to answer, Rainath just nodded.

Inside, tea was nearly ready. At Opal's direction they laid crocks of butter and cream, the pie from the night before, cold ham and cheese, pickles and apples on the table alongside two large, steaming teapots. Opal brought in a hot pan from the oven, and as if by some supernatural cue one family member after another appeared at the table to join them, eat, and leave again. It was a raucous half hour, with many conversations begun and left at loose ends and plans half-made for the evening. When Joran, Jade and Cathon had come and gone, Opal smiled at the two of them over the crumbs and empty crocks.

"Bread," Rogar said out of nowhere, to no one in particular. "I always miss good wheat bread, when I come home." Opal nodded.

"Grains won't grow this high, so flour is costly," she told Rainath, "and the yeast doesn't like the cold, it takes days to rise." She shook her head sadly, as though she too missed bread. Rainath grew anxious, afraid they were going to discuss the erstwhile romance between she and Rogar, that wasn't.

Rogar cleared the table, apparently familiar with Joran's set of chores. Opal left the table and returned with Cathon's pipe from the den, sharing a joyful, guilty look with Rainath as she puffed.

"Show me what you've brought, my boy," she said to Rogar, when she was back in her seat.

"Aye, ma. Did you want more tea?" She nodded and he set the cup he was holding in front of her, drying his hands on a towel over his shoulder. He fetched his bags and belt, laying them on the table.

"Jade disfavors kanduran steel," Opal said, pointing to the axe on Rogar's belt. "It looks serviceable, though. I don't care for this joining method, personally," she said, more to Rainath than Rogar, "but it rarely fails." Rainath nodded, unsure of how to answer.

Rogar retook his seat and turned out a large bag of jewelry in a tangle on the table.

"Oh, this is nice," Opal said, beginning to sort through the jumble. She turned brooches and amulets face-up and unknotted chains with graceful fingers. Rainath wasn't sure what was happening, but it was fascinating.

"This is good, here," she laid a ring aside. "That has power." She pointed out gems and inscriptions, explaining briefly what made them useful. Rogar placed a bag of gems and another of gold on the table as well, but didn't spill the contents. His mother looked in the gem bag, stirring the contents with a long forefinger. She seemed pleased, though everything Rogar had given her was fairly common in the city. Even the gold was only a few month's worth of saving, just what could be carried comfortably up the mountain.

"Are those things worth more, here? Because they're scarce?" Rainath ventured curiously. Mother and son were twin aspects of puzzlement.

"Not at all," laughed Opal. "We've some fine goldsmiths, on the mountain, and plenty of mines to supply them. Everyone's got something nicer than these," she swept her hand over the jewelry dismissively. "What we'll do is break it all down and use it at the forge," she explained. "We can transfer magically imbued powers, or add quality by socketing gems into the hilts of existing weapons. We'll melt most of the gold down and cast it into hilts and ornamental daggers," Rainath made a face at the idea of a golden dagger.

"Aye," Opal agreed, wearily. "Gold is far from the best metal for weaponry, but fads among the nobles can be very profitable. So golden daggers it is, until everyone wants crystal daggers or glass daggers." She rolled her eyes, and Rainath giggled over nobles wanting glass daggers. Opal indicated that Rogar could clear it all away, and he did.

"Now let's see your weapon, my dear," she said, pinning Rainath with her gaze.

"Oh," Rainath faltered, looking uneasy. "That's quite alright, I hadn't meant- I mean, it's nothing fancy-" Rogar snorted and laid Rainath's mace on the table before his mother.

"Mm," Opal said, inspecting it. Rainath couldn't tell if the tone was approving, or not. She looked over the weapon with a critical eye: the leather binding was coming unwound, and the battered head was caked with blood. Probably not approval then, she decided.

"Not my favorite style." She pointed to the blunt head. "Lacking the grace of a blade and the utility of a hammer, both." Her finger moved down to hover over the wrapping. "Dangerous, this. If you're blooded at all, you know that's liable to get you killed," she gave Rainath a severe look, to drive the message home. The girl nodded guiltily.

"Let me see your grip," she nodded at the shaft, and Rainath reached up to grasp the weapon without lifting it from the table. Opal flipped it deftly, so she could see where Rainath's fingers reached. She clucked in disapproval.

"The shaft's too broad for you," she told Rainath, holding up her own hand to demonstrate. "You want it to be like this, where your thumb and fingers overlap, for the best grip on it. This way, it'll fly out of your hand." Rainath's face was burning. She'd never had such a personal item scrutinized so clinically.

Opal sat back, considering the whole weapon. "We could turn a grip into the shaft, bind it properly for you, and perhaps flange the head a bit, if you're attached to it," she offered, tilting her head to see it in her mind's eye. Rainath wasn't sure when Rogar had departed, but the two of them were alone.

"I'm not," Rainath admitted, grimacing. "I just picked it up, and I've been using it until I find something better," she shrugged carelessly. "I don't have a weapon that matters to me, yet."

"They all matter," said Opal sagely, noting wryly that Rogar had snuck away with the pipe. She laid her hand on the shaft of the mace again, and met Rainath's eyes. "You've fought for your life with this, no?" Rainath nodded.

"And you're still here, so your champion triumphed," she went on, "but this is the honor you give? Sent to bed broken and covered with muck, until you need to be saved again? You should have more respect for this tool, and the life that it guards," Opal told her, not unkindly. To her horror, tears ran down Rainath's face. She swiped roughly at them.

"That's all right, dear," Opal soothed, laying the mace aside and patting Rainath's hand, "the truth is hard to tell and hard to hear, both." She rose from the table and walked away without explanation, returning directly. She laid a bundle of cloth on the table, sat, and folded back the cover, pushing it toward Rainath.

"Try that," she offered. It was an axe, larger than anything you'd find off the mountain but with unmistakably feminine style in its crescent blade and gracile shaft. Rainath palmed the grip; it fit as though made for her.

"It's a blank;" Opal explained, "a form-weapon made for buyers to see what they're ordering." Rainath turned it over in her hand. For a sample, it was finely wrought and exquisitely weighted.

"Borrow it," urged Opal. "See how it feels. You can try other styles, too. You'd do well with a shortsword, I think. A girl your age should have a custom weapon, by now." Rainath accepted it with wordless gratitude, holstering the weapon on her belt. Her mace took its place in the shroud, out of sight. Before she could summon her voice, it sounded as though the back and front doors opened simultaneously, and the house was suddenly occupied on all fronts.

"Buck up now," whispered Opal, "or they'll think I've been torturing you." She gave the younger woman a conspiratorial smile and headed toward the kitchen with her mug.

Rainath fled. She didn't know who she least wanted to see her tear-streaked face, but the idea of being in the midst of the family just then was more than she could bear. She locked herself in Joran's room and lay on the bed, feeling wrung out.

"Where is she?" Asked Joran, bringing in firewood before the sun went down. Rogar brought in an armload as well, and knelt to build a fire in the hearth. Cathon clanged pots in the kitchen, Jade went to the master bedroom to freshen up, and Rainath heard it all, muffled to softness through the walls of the room.

"Rainath is resting," Opal answered her grandson, claiming her chair by the fire to escape the bustle. Rogar gave his mother a suspicious look. She scrutinized her knitting with a frown and began to tear back several lopsided runs.

"You said something stupid, didn't you?" Jade charged, rejoining the group.

"Me!" Shouted Rogar, indignant. "What have I got to do w' it?" Rainath giggled into the pillow.

"You brought her here, and you've been cold to her the whole time, Rogar," scolded Jade. "You haven't kissed her, or touched her lovingly-"

"Jade," Cathon had appeared in the doorway, eyeing his wife sternly. "Leave it alone."

"Well he hasn't!" Jade protested defiantly, eliciting a low warning noise from her husband's throat. "Why should she want to stay and be one of us, if her husband acts like a great ass?" Rainath could hear her foot stomp, but not see the way she was looking angrily from her mother to her husband, and back.

"Seeing as she and I have no designs on one another," Rogar began tightly, lying only a little, "it would be damn disrespectful of me to be kissing and pawing at her, don't you think?" He growled at Jade. She faltered, confused.

"They're not a pair," said Opal with quiet matter of factness, to her knitting.

"So you haven't come home," Jade accused, turning to Rogar, "and I haven't got a sister," she ended, flatly. Opal made a derisive noise. All was quiet, and an external door slammed.

"I'll go with ma," announced Joran, barely audible to Rainath.

"Aye," agreed Rogar, "I'll-"

"Supper is ready," Cathon said, firmly, squashing the recovery mission before it began.

"Jo, go and invite Rainath to the table," Opal directed, backing her son in law. Neither Joran nor Rogar protested.

A light knock came at the door as expected, and Rainath thought the only thing that scared her more than going out to eat with them, would be to refuse the meal.

"Supper is ready," Jo announced neutrally, and retreated without waiting for a response. Rainath emerged timidly, taking stock. Joran looked scalded, Opal looked unruffled. Rogar seemed his normal irritated self, but it was Cathon who made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Typically the most mild mannered of the family, now he was sitting at the end of the table like a wall of thunderclouds. She hadn't known Rogar to defer to another man before, and the prospect was a bit frightening. Only Opal had recovered her decorum, welcoming Rainath to the table warmly and filling her plate.

They ate quietly, without commenting on Jade's absence or acting as though anything was amiss. Rainath assumed it was for her benefit, though this was their house; they must know what could be heard through the walls. When they'd finished, Cathon and Rogar headed out back and Joran began to clear up.

"I'm going to make an early night of it," Opal excused, speaking quite normally to Rainath in the wake of the chaos. "Would you like to come to the forge with me, in the morning?" She smiled kindly, and it seemed terribly impolite to refuse. Rainath nodded.

"Good," the older woman said, as though she'd expected nothing less. "We'll go in early, before the layabouts are up. I prefer to work in peace." She rose from her chair and straightened her joints slowly.

"Don't worry about them," she advised gently, tilting her head in a way that effectively encompassed everyone that Rainath might worry about. "They'll figure it out," Opal assured her with a comforting smile, heading toward her room.

At loose ends, Rainath trailed into the kitchen to help Joran with the washing up.

"You dry," he told her amicably, thrusting a towel into her hands. They worked in otherwise silent comraderie. When the table was wiped down and the towel hung to dry, Joran said "thank you," with a sober nod that minded her of his uncle, and dismissed himself.

Rogar's fire had almost died of neglect. Rainath stoked it up and added wood, sitting back to enjoy the fruits of her labor as it crackled back to life. As though summoned by the interference, the back door cracked open with a rumble of masculine voice, and its creator appeared. Rainath expected Cathon to follow Rogar, but the other man didn't appear and Rogar didn't seem to expect him. He had a nip of brandy without offering the bottle to her, and claimed the pipe from the mantle.

"Everyone acts as though this is Cat's," Rogar said philosophically to the flames, brandishing the pipe, "but he carries his good one in his pocket." Rogar gave her a twinkling sidelong grin, and lit it, puffing contentedly.

"He's the only one can admit that he likes his tabac, and his brandy, though I wouldn't be surprised if even Jo sneaks in here and has a kip and a puff, from time to time," Rogar laughed with himself over the absurdities of people. Rainath eyed the vacant master's chair nervously.

"I told you when I met you, your face was glass," Rogar recalled, and Rainath suspected that hadn't been his first tot of the evening.

"Where does Joran sleep, if I've got his room?" Rainath asked curiously.

"Hell if I know," responded Rogar, with a shrug. "He's a boy, he's expected to fend for himself, when it's needful." Rainath seemed concerned about the boy's wellbeing, for what reason Rogar couldn't fathom.