Rogar and Rainath

He couldn't get on her- or in her- fast enough. He'd meant it to be different the first time, but sixteen hours of watching her sweat and squirm in those bloody pants, being able to smell her lust as they grew damp with her... she'd have to be rid of them, there'd be no getting the smell out. Even laying empty in the corner, they smelled warm and alive enough to draw hellspawn for miles.

She was no virgin, but the cock of a full-grown son of the mountain was unrivaled, in terms of phallic glory. With one thrust he split her open, tearing away any natural barrier that remained in a moment of pain and panic that was over as soon as it began. Then he was beyond anything she'd ever known, expanding and filling her insides, reaching places she'd never been touched before.

He was too long to come unsheathed when he drew back, only the base of him appeared between her thighs and slammed away again with each thrust. It was more like being impaled than penetrated, she thought distantly. Like when you get something stuck in you so far you're afraid to pull it out because your guts might come with it, knowing your life may drain away in a warm red waterfall before your eyes when you finally do. Something that deep, when it's finally out it feels more like a loss than a recovery, she thought, remembering the sharp-dull hurt of a small hatchet lodged in ribs.

When the warm flood of life came, it splashed on her inner thigh and dripped to the floor, copious and sticky enough to actually be blood, recalling her to the moment. Rogar had stood when he withdrew and sagged wearily to the chest. It groaned under his weight like an old mule. He found his shirt and swiped at the wet on her thigh, mumbling an apology.

Rainath lay still, staring up at the ceiling and languidly drifting on the waves of sensation as her body put itself back to proper working order. Rogar's voice and the sounds of him dressing came muffled, as from beyond a thick fog. Before she realized what was happening, he'd left.

When the door clapped shut she sat up like a bolt. She'd known men were notorious for running out, but he'd set a new record. She was instantly furious. She looked around for something of his to smash, somewhere to lash out... but there was nothing. A few books that were probably borrowed, a basin and pitcher that the inn provided. She wasn't quite at the level of rage that called for the destroying public property so she dressed, seething, and left.

He wasn't in the common room, not much surprise. There were quite a few raised eyebrows when she emerged, so his departure had drawn attention. Great.

The next morning she set out to find him, to tell him exactly what she thought of his masculinity, but the wretched heat sapped her temper within the hour.

She decided she just needed to get out of Caldeum, and she told herself that it had nothing to do with him. The place was like being in hell itself. Unfortunately she'd used up most of her resources getting to where she was, she'd need some gold before she could leave town.

The oasis sounded like the most tolerable place to pick up a few bounties, so once her armor and weapons were serviced that was where she headed, emerging from a tangled patch of jungle into a turqoise diamond in a baked rock rough. It was nastily humid and crawling with bugs the size of alley cats, but still represented an improvement over the parched sea of sand that stretched in every direction.

The first job she'd accepted was to clear a farm house that had been overrun with demonic pests. When she got there, it was worse than the man had described; a breeding pair had nested in the basement and they defended their brood savagely.

It took a day to clear the bodies and debris from the house and secure the openings, but in return she had a safe place to shelter between forays. Over the next few days she worked through the oasis, claiming bounties and rewards for exterminating the plagues of hell. The aqueducts provided a soothingly damp and cool escape from the daytime heat, though the work there was mostly unrewarded.

When she caught a glimpse of Rogar again, it was far from how she expected to find him. She'd gotten word of a demonic clan that had constructed a fortified ritual ground in the northeast, and after clearing her bags she made her way there. The reek of demon blood carried for miles. When she arrived it was clear something violent had taken place, though most of the corpses had already been dragged away by scavengers. Her first thought was that he- whoever it was- had been the sacrificial victim of whatever last rites had been performed in the foul place. When she saw that he was alive she took a few running steps before realizing that the man was Rogar, and that he was not bound to the altar, simply kneeling before it. Praying? She wondered if he'd somehow been turned, but before she could get close enough to investigate he stepped through a portal and vanished.

The demons were slaughtered, but the chests sealed. Nothing of value on the armor racks, but she found some trinkets and gold in the strongbox. She'd lost the reward, though, and there wasn't another contract available in the area. Might as well go to town, she thought, but not because she was hoping to see him.

It was the first market day since she'd arrived, and the sign on the city gates warned of what to expect: please leave corpses and dismiss foul smelling minions before passing.

There were several large parties passing through town, and even with the sign the smell and bustle was awful. Zombie dogs, mindlessly loyal, wouldn't be separated from their masters once called, and skeletal entourages had a similar affinity for their mages. Avatars and shadow clones couldn't be said to have a smell, but their presence crowded the alleys nonetheless. Rainath had no respect for the puppeteers, so-called warriors who hid and let others do the killing for them.

She wanted a cool drink, somewhere that wasn't crawling with hellhounds and massive spiders scuttling about. The first three alerooms were tightly packed with humanity, and other things, but the fourth door revealed a blessedly peaceful den; cool, dim, mostly empty, perfect... but for one large, bearded bastard sitting against the south wall.

He gave no sign of noticing her, but logic dictated that he must have. He was sitting; the little taproom was outfitted with sparse but stout furnishings, probably why he favored it. Rainath paid to drink and ladled it herself, retreating to the far side of the room to settle in and glower at him between draughts. His expression seemed to shift at random, and it took her most of the ale to realize he was listening to someone seated beyond his right. A woman so tiny Rainath hadn't even noticed her was perched on a barrel just beyond his elbow, chatting amicably to him, occasionally eliciting a murmured response that rumbled from across the room like falling boulders.

She finished her ale and rose to fetch another, there being no service to speak of. Just as she did, the ashen sprite laid her arm on Rogar's arm and spoke earnestly, as she unfolded her legs and stood to go. He nodded, smiling, and put his hand fondly atop hers. She walked away from Rogar and left without looking around, three or four shadowwalkers slipping out in her wake. Was it her imagination, or did the room grow brighter when they were gone? Rainath took her beer and made her way to sit haughtily across from him. His expression was bland, unreadable. Certainly not the lively persona he'd had with the death fairy on his shoulder.

"What is it, a game for you?" She demanded, leaning her elbows onto the table. He looked over her shoulder, raised a hand, and a barkeep materialized to bring him an ale. Rainath glared.

"I don't know what you mean," he answered softly.

"You made it seem like you were... alone." She tried for tact, but the ring of accusation was still there. He stayed quiet while she, like a fool, babbled on. "And then you left, like all you wanted was..." he silenced her with a look, a subtle change in his brow.

"I'd rather not do this, here." He said reasonably.

"We're definitely going to do this," she shot back, realizing that she might be a bit deep in her cups. He flinched slightly. "I don't get you," she went on, baited. "You seem so... honorable, and then you run out, and I see you acting crazed out in the jungle, and now I find you in here with one of them-" he frowned again.

"Mellisandre? The necromancers always bring their apprentices to the desert. Plenty of bones under the sand to play with," he dismissed casually. "I'm bound to no woman, if that's what you're asking," he told her plainly, "and I don't appreciate the suggestion that I lack honor."

"If not dishonor, what makes a man run out moments after being... carnal, with a woman?" She hissed, not at all quietly. The few heads in the room turned toward them, and he grimaced.

"Shame," he answered, blunt as ever. "Self-disgust. Regret." He took a long pull of his ale while she sputtered indignantly.

"Regret? You! Regret... me?!" She slammed her tankard down too firmly, and he'd had enough.

"Out." He gestured curtly to the other patrons, and after a moment's confusion, the room was empty. He crossed the taproom to drop the bar on the door himself, and pressed a bag of coin to the keep's hand, who promptly made himself as scarce as he was when Rainath's cup was empty. Rogar refilled his tankard himself and returned, sitting at an adjacent table rather than put himself between her and the wall again.

"You're one to talk about games," he snapped, when he was ready. "Aye, I do regret what you dragged me into. I am disgusted wi' myself. Mayhap you like being abused, but I told you, I'm no bloody rapist." He clapped his jaw shut and fumed silently, regaining control. Rainath was dumbstruck.

"Abuse? I don't know what you're talking about. It wasn't rape. I let you-"

"What is it then, when a woman only likes what's forced upon her? When you mount her and her eyes go empty, her body limp like a dead animal?" She stared at him, mouth agape.

"What were you doing in the Khazra circle?" She countered accusingly, with no logic other than to turn the questions on him.

"That's private," he shot back, unabashed. Not the answer she expected, and she wasn't sure how to follow it.

"When you said eastern women were delicate, I didn't know you meant..." she trailed off, looking toward the barrel where the ashen lark had sat and chatted so sweetly to him. Her cheeks reddened, imagining them together. How could she even...? Rogar gave her a stern look, as though he could read her thoughts.

"That is also private, and jealousy is very unattractive in a lady," he advised, rising heavily for more ale, this time bringing a round for both of them. She sipped, begrudgingly grateful for the drink and shamed at the rebuke.

After a few long moments she drew a fortifying breath. "I wouldn't know... how else to be." She finally confessed, quietly, half hoping he wouldn't hear her.

"What, not jealous? Nonsense-"

"No," she interrupted, painfully embarassed. "How else to be, when..." She shot him a desperate look, hoping he'd save her from spelling it out.

"Oh," he said, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. "Women usually... moan and such. Move about, and let on that they're having a good time." It was his turn to redden.

"I didn't know," she admitted, feeling stupid. "I've always just... gone away, I guess. I thought everyone did. Having a good time sounds... whorish."

"Even when you're alone?" He asked, curiousity getting the better of him.

"Alone?" She frowned, not understanding. "No. What would I-"

"May the ancients blind me," he muttered in exasperation, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Did ye not have a mam? Or a sister? No one to teach you-"

"I was battle-born," she cut in. "Left with the midwife, and never..." she shrugged and looked away.

"Ah," he answered sympathetically. There hadn't been a significant clan battle on Mount Arreat for over 200 years. More likely she'd been abandoned, for being born a girl.

They sat in silence for a long time, each drowning their own ghosts. It was Rogar who spoke first.

"For what it's worth, we fought for forfeits when I was in training, too," he shoved his empty tankard toward her, hoping she'd fetch the next one. he was disappointed when she didn't take the cue.

Her eyes flashed dangerously. "Yeah? And what happened when you lost?"

"Usually the lad had to steal a pie, or some of his da's beer," he admitted, waiting a long beat to go on quietly. "But some were crueler than others."

"Were there girls in your class?"

"There were girls around, but in my clan we trained separately," he hesitated over his next words, laying them down as he headed for the alepot. "There doesn't have to be a girl, for someone to be raped." She knew that was true, but it was hard to imagine someone holding him down, and-

He plunked the cups down, sloshing a bit onto the table.

"Is that why you left?"

"Me?" He waved a dismissive hand. "Ah, no. I made my rites and lived in the clan, with my family." Her gut twisted, imagining a wife and child, abandoned.

"Family?" She asked, trying not to sound strangled.

"My da's passed on, my mam lives with my sister now. I have a nephew," he added the last with a note of pride. Veritably prolific, for their kind.

The hour was growing late, and Rainath's appetite for confrontation had waned with it.

"I don't understand what I did wrong," she said plaintively, not sure if she meant the abandoned newborn, or the abandoned lover. Rogar wasn't sure either, and held his tongue. "Were you mad that I didn't beg, like you said?" She asked, suddenly vulnerable. Rogar sighed.

"I was never mad at ye. Maybe a bit, after. Only because I felt tricked, and sick with myself over it." Rogar was loathe to go on, but exhaustion was dulling his sense.

"Besides, you did beg." Her face erupted in immediate objection, and he raised a hand to forestall her protest. "You begged with your eyes until I covered them because I couldn't stand it anymore," he told her, voice gravely seductive. "You begged with your body, and your sounds-" he cleared his throat, realizing he was warming a bit too readily to his subject.

"You were just too bloody stubborn. You wouldn't let yourself bend, you wanted me to break you, instead. I won't do that." He told her, shaking his head to emphasize his objection.

"You-" Rainath was growing indignant. "That's how we are. You were doing it too, threatening to teach me manners. You didn't have qualms, then!"

"Aye, I took charge," he agreed with a nod that somehow yielded no ground. "You misunderstand us, though. You're playing at a version of yourself that's been taught by people who know nothing about the real clans of Mount Areat." It hurt him to see it, but he wouldn't tell her that. He shrugged his shoulders and rolled his head, fatigued muscles growing stiff with the lateness of the hour.

"Lowland women come up learning to speak sweet and mind themselves," not a shame it was, either, Rogar thought to himself, "because they're so small someone's bound to kill them for anything less." He reflected briefly on what it must be like, to live life in a small and weak body. From his perspective it seemed like it would almost be a relief.

"Clanswomen are big enough that there's precious few to put you in your place, especially when you come off the mountain. So yer type tends to be unruly," Rogar grinned wryly. "and yes, men of the clan derive a certain satisfaction from reminding their women that we are accustomed to being treated with respect, for good reason." It was hard to judge how she was taking his explanation, but Rogar went on, meeting her eyes for effect.

"But most of it is just games, Rainath. Flirtation between adults. There should be no harm or hard feelings. In the end, no one is supposed to lose."

"You said you'd whip me-" he gave her a stern look.

"'Whip' and 'whup' is two different things. I won't use a whip on an ox, I certainly wouldn't whip a lady." He told her, affronted.

"I did say I'd whup you, and by that I meant I'd turn you over my knee like the brat you were being. I stand by that. And aye, it would have smarted. But 'hurt' and 'harm' are as different as whip, and whup..." he fumbled, wishing he had the way with words that others did.

"There's room for a bit of pain, between people who trust each other," Rogar finished, reminded sharply of Mellisandre.

Rainath's self-esteem had taken a beating. Her eyes stung with the lateness and frustration of being openly criticized. Rogar gave her hand on the table an awkward pat.

"You have to do some things on your own," he told her. "Forgiving yourself, letting go, learning to trust. No one can force you into it." Rogar groaned wearily and got to his feet.

"I'm a poor authority on character development, though. I'd advise you to find a girlfriend to discuss your personal life with."

"There aren't any girls like me around here," she muttered, looking away.

"Pah. Girls are girls." He waved dismissively. Rainath looked at the barrel where Mellisandre had sat. He followed her gaze and contemplated the barrel for a silent moment.

"She's not like anyone," Rogar corrected, as he lifted the bar on the door and freed them into the rosy dawn.