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.
