Rainath and Rogar's Ghosts

By the standards of any port city, Rogar was a tame fellow. He rarely got drunk, didn't gamble much, and he wasn't one to fight if given a choice in the matter, which he often wasn't, but nevertheless, Rogar did a fine job of staying out of trouble in the city.

On the mountain, things were different. He could only throw axes and smoke the pipe with his brother in law, convince his nephew to skip lessons and go fishing, help his ma untangle her yarn and shape her iron so many times, before he started to get stir crazy.

Dice was his weakness. Cards were too slow, with too much sneak and deception involved. Rogar liked the rattle and roll, fast paced fate of dice. But rolling dice was thirsty work, and once he got in the whiskey...

He knew this, but by his fourth day home, with Rainath tucked securely under his mother's wing, his sister on home-confinement and the stone gray sky making it feel as though the world was a soap bubble only as big as their valley, Rogar was up for some dice.

He had the habit of keeping his hat pulled low and walking as small as he could manage, when he was back. Everyone here knew him, if he showed his face he couldn't get five paces at a time without stopping to tell the next person that no, he wasn't home, just come to visit, aye, someday.

The falling snow legitimized his haste, and a heavy fur cape kept him relatively anonymous as he descended the ridge and followed a well-worn deer track away from the village.

The hunting lodge was just as he remembered it, though the fellow at the door was too young to have reciprocal memory of Rogar. He held him up just long enough to draw attention, and as recognition dawned the room erupted around them.

Rogar endured the shoulder-pounding and battle-crying with good humor and patience, but he was most happy to see a frothy mug of ale and an empty seat at the dice table, which had moved closer to one of the great hearths that dominated each end of the structure.

Given time, the room settled and the gaming got going again. Rogar breathed a massive sigh, feeling the closest he'd been to home since he arrived.

***

"Where's uncle?" Asked Joran, the voice of curiousity. No one answered, perhaps no one knew.

"Cort saw him after tea, headed toward the lodge," said Cathon after a long time, jeopardizing his son's queen with a lowly pawn. The boy tsked in frustration.

Jade was smoking her husband's pipe- the one from his pocket, Rainath noted, apparently she was back in his good graces- and Opal was at work on her knitting. Rainath was taskless, watching the game of chess and the family with rapt fascination and the dulled tact of the very tired.

At the mention of the lodge, Jade had looked to her mother with concern on her face. Opal showed no sign of having heard, though Rainath had noticed no deficiencies in her hearing.

"Beeswax," she'd told Rainath, before sending her to the forge with Mina. She accepted the misshapen lump, and Opal showed her how to warm it in her hands and jam small balls of it into her ears. "a deaf warrior, is a dead warrior," she'd concluded simply.

"Ha," Cathon announced, laying Joran's queen on the board. "Off t'bed with ye, mate." The boy said his goodnights, hugged his grandmother, and disappeared. Like ranks of soldiers fallen in battle, his father and Opal admitted defeat and retired as well, leaving Rainath and Jade alone in the den. The look Cathon gave his wife suggested she didn't have long to dawdle.

"I owe you an apology," Jade told her, businesslike, as soon as their privacy was secured. Rainath started like a spooked rabbit.

"Me?" She stuttered, "um, I don't think-"

"No, I do," Jade assured her wryly, eyebrow lifted in the direction of her husband, "I should have mind my own business, about you and Rogar," Rainath blushed at the mention of their names so.

"It was wrong of me, too, to expect you to want to marry my cod-head of a brother," Jade went on, warming to her subject, "and I don't blame you in the least."

What she wasn't being blamed for, Rainath didn't know.

"And I forgot myself because you are a sister of the mountain, whatever your affiliation to the great lunk," Jade concluded, seeming sincere and as though she'd been told what to say, somehow at once.

"You are welcome at my hearth, sister," Jade inclined her head in loose formality and passed the pipe, streaming smoke, to seal the pact. Rainath accepted it and puffed tentatively, the fragrant heat making her lungs seize at once. Gasping, she almost missed what Jade said next.

"I owe you a forfeit," she told her without shame, accepting the pipe back. Rainath choked again.

"Oh, no. I couldn't," she croaked, shaking her head. Jade laughed at her mortification.

"You will, or Cathon will decide what I'm to do for you," she rolled her eyes, face lit with amusement.

"He won't want to make you uncomfortable, so I'll have to bake you a cake or something," she assured, at Rainath's stricken look. She offered the pipe again and Rainath accepted, taking the tiniest of draws. Once she got past the burn, and the cough, there was a feeling of calm, a kind of separation that Rainath wanted to lean into.

"I don't know what I'd ask," she confessed to Jade, handing it back.

"Well I'll tell you what Cat asks for, but we'll have to modify-" she broke into giggles at Rainath's horrified expression.

"A cake seems nice," Rainath offered. Jade gave her a look of mild disgust. "I'd rather lick your boots and get it over with," she told her. "I hate baking."

"How bad could it be?" Rainath asked, mood lightening.

"He's creative," Jade assured her grimly.

"Well, I'd ask you to make a weapon for me, but that seems an unfair price," she told her, and Jade's face brightened.

"I'd be honored for you to carry my steel," she told Rainath, "but ma will have her say, in that," she added in a knowing tone.

"What will she say?" Rainath asked her, confused.

"What kind of weapon and how to make it for you, in the very least. If she doesn't say you should make it yourself, that is-" Jade might have said more, but there was a soft creak down the hall and her husband said her name, just loudly enough to be audible. Jade started guiltily, hurriedly tamped out the pipe and packed a fresh pinch of leaf into it with her thumb on her way to heed him.

The hour had grown late, and there was still no sign of Rogar. Rainath added a log to the hearth and watched the fire rise up to claim it.

***

Rogar loved dice, whether he was winning or losing. He made a mountain's fortune on a day of work in the city, and up here there was little else to waste coin on. He was going easy on the drink, and for a time it seemed he may have grown more temperate in his age, might make it home at a reasonable hour, even.

"Rogar, they said you were on the mountain," purred a female voice, sweet as honey. Rogar's heart sank. He had stayed too long.

"Karla," he greeted, butterflies in his stomach as though he was a lad yet. She leaned in to kiss his cheek, smelling of jasmine, and he knew he was done for.

She wagered against him, and he lost. Someone brought them drinks, and he lost again. He gave up his dice to sip his beer and collect himself. Karla stayed in, and soon had more wagers for her than against. Someone started a book, and Rogar laid gold against her, just for the sport of it.

Rogar lost track of the game, but when the odds were squared up, more looked happy than not. She called for a round and the table cleared as though she'd explicitly dismissed them. Rogar supposed she had.

"Walk me home, Rogar." It wasn't a question.

"But you've just arrived-"

"And now I've something else to do," Rogar scrubbed a hand over his face and finished his drink, unsure whether he wanted to be more drunk or more sober. He jammed his hat on his head and held her cape, offering his arm to her. Catcalls and whoops heralded their departure.

"I've missed you," she told him, as they walked through the snow.

"Aye," he said, vaguely.

She lived in the same home she'd always had. The furnishings had changed, and yet it felt unmistakably hers.

"Whew," she exclaimed in relief to be out of the cold, hanging her cape and shedding her boots. Rogar followed suit, resignedly. She made her way around the room, turning up the lamps, and ended at the hearth. There, she stoked the fire and dragged a matched set of armchairs to flank it, beckoning him to join her.

"Brew us some kaf, will you, Rogar? You always made it so good..." she gestured at the pot on the mantle.

"Bit late, isn't it?" He muttered. Karla laughed huskily.

"I'm planning on staying up awhile yet," she assured him in heavy tones.

The kaf was good, even if it did sharpen the edges on reality for him. When he passed her cup she took a careful sip and moaned softly in appreciation.

"As good as I remember," she sighed softly, appraising him with a warm look. "That wasn't the only thing I recall you doing well, either," she added, voice climbing to a suggestive pitch.

"Karla," he protested, "we're grown, now-" her eyes sparkled, all daring and mischief. She stretched out a foot and stroked her toe along the inside of his leg, making his cock jump to attention. He sat back in his chair, retreating fractionally, and gulped his kaf for fortitude. Her laughing eyes teased him over the top of her cup.

"What's wrong, Rogar?"

"Your husband-" he began immediately. She cut him off with a laugh. Easy for her to laugh, perhaps. Rogar was a handy fighter, but there would be no question of matching Tyron, unless he'd lost at least two limbs since Rogar had seen him last, preferrably on opposite sides.

"Let me worry about Ty," she soothed, coming closer. "He knows I've always had a soft spot for you." The very opposite of what he had for her, he thought ironically, wishing his manhood wouldn't make the nature of his conflicted feelings about her so apparent.

"I know he scares the hell out of me," Rogar told her frankly, "and I respect him for that, and I've no stomach for interfering in his marriage-" she laughed again, reaching for his belt.

"Karla," he protested, knowing the battle was already lost.

"Hush, Rogar. It will be fine," she knelt and unclasped his belt, pausing to tilt her head and look up at him with eyes that sparkled naughtily.

"Who do you think told me you were back on the mountain?" she asked, mouth close enough for him to feel her breath dance across his exposed skin. As Rogar puzzled her riddle, her mouth engulfed him in molten velvet.

"Gods," he groaned, succumbing. Memory served him just as well as it had her. Though he'd had a dozen partners or more since the last time she'd knelt before him, there was always a moment in the experience that took him back to nineteen years old, slouched against the wall in Karla's own woodshed, astonished by her shameless sexuality and feeling like he could go and conquer the world when she'd finished, if only his knees would stop wobbling and carry him.

He'd all but convinced himself that the pleasure in his memories was magnified by time and fantasy, but her technique was as familiar to him as the house had been and it made his mind reel to verify after so many years that it was her mouth in his dreams, that there was something uniquely potent about the way she wrapped her lips around him and grazed his shaft with her teeth, it hadn't been his imagination after all.

The sound of the door opening sometime later was the sound of Rogar's worst nightmares come alive. Tyron turned from the door to find his wife's lovely chestnut head bent over his lap, and Rogar felt quite sure he was about to die. He pushed Karla away in a panic, frantically fastening his belt as though there could be any denial of what she'd been doing. He knew all too well that her home had only one entry, and Ty had it throroughly occupied.

Karla sat back on her heels, calmly raking her hair away from her face with graceful fingers. She rolled her eyes at Rogar's terror and sighed. Tyron barked a laugh.

"Got off to a slow start, eh? Is that Kaf?"

"Aye," she answered, reaching to pour him a cup, still on her knees. Rogar thought he might shit himself as Tyron kicked the second chair to a less intimate distance and sat down heavily. His wife climbed into his lap and handed him the cup of kaf she'd poured.

"You've scared him," she pouted sensually. "He won't be any good, now." She nuzzled her husband's neck, seeking consolation. Tyron chuckled deeply, meeting Rogar's eye over his wife's shoulder.

"You had her first, mate," he told the younger man, taking a drink of the kaf in mock salute. "Mm," Tyron said, smacking his lips. "Did you make that?" Rogar nodded stiffly. What he'd said was true, but Rogar hadn't the slightest interest in exercising clan laws, or having his bones rearranged.

"Tyron, I'm not here to challenge-" he started, hoarsely. Ty gave him a flat look and laughed heartily.

"Of course you're not, you just about pissed yourself when I walked in." Even Karla had to laugh with him. Rogar smiled uneasily.

"She's right, though, you do make a good cup of kaf," he told the younger man with a nod of honor. Rogar didn't recall him being a part of that conversation. His fear spasmed when he imagined what else Tyron may have heard. On the other hand, both sides of the couple were in remarkably good humor, to be looking at a dead man.

"It's her that has the claim on you," he went on, shrugging and rubbing his wife's hip absently with a broad palm. Rogar sat, dumbstruck.

"When I married her, there were certain... conditions," Tyron explained to Rogar, as his wife arched against his hand. "You were one of hers." Karla flashed him a mischievious grin from her husband's chest, and let her eyes close in pleasure at his touch.

"Me?" Rogar asked in a fear-cracked voice.

"Not just you," she murmured, without opening her eyes.

"Aye," Tyron agreed, eyes darkening. "There were some things I wouldn't stand for," his voice briefly took an edge, and the stroke of his hand down his wife's back became longer, subtly more possessive. She responded in turn, cooing softly and murmuring something so low that Rogar couldn't make it out. Whatever she said, Tyron's face never shifted and he made a mental note never to play against the man at cards.

"But I never minded ye, Rogar," Tyron continued more cheerfully, holding out his cup for more. Rogar willed the pot not to tremble in his hands, feeling he was awake in a bizarre and terrifying dream. He sat in pained silence while Tyron savored his kaf and his wife grew languid under his hand, softening to his touch like warm wax.

On the second refill the pot ran empty and Rogar feared he'd be told to brew more.

"A pity, that," Tyron lamented, tossing back the last of it and straightening. Karla reluctantly unfolded her legs and stood, freeing her husband. Rogar stood, too. The larger man held out his hand for Rogar to shake.

"I've stolen your kill tonight, cub, and let that be a lesson to you," he said with a chuckle, clapping Rogar on the shoulder. "But she'll be sore with me if she doesn't see you before you leave," he added conspiratorially, rolling his eyes. Rogar's guts lurched guiltily.

"I'll let you say goodnight," Tyron told his wife, voice pitched to stay between them. Her fingers danced an erotic ballet on his collarbone as she whispered in his ear. As Tyron kissed his wife's temple and departed for the bedroom, Rogar couldn't believe he was leaving the two of them standing before the fire, alive and in one piece. At the door to his room, Tyron paused.

"Rogar?" He called, turning back to them.

"Aye?" Rogar answered hesitantly, expecting to feel the punch of a thrown blade burying itself in him at any moment.

"Maybe next time y' see me, ye face me like a man, aye? Make me a cup of kaf, instead of running off w' your tail tucked," Tyron's laugh was muffled by the bedroom door clicking shut.

When Rogar turned back to Karla, marveling at his survival, she'd been watching him and her husband with an amused smirk.

"What in the seven hells was that?" He whispered in a ferocious growl, gesturing at the space Tyron had occupied. Karla lifted an ironic eyebrow and chuckled, steering him toward the door with a warm hand tucked in his elbow.

"I told you it was arranged," she excused, shrugging.

"I don't know what that means," he snapped, realization dawning as he said it. "Has it always been... like this?" Her guilty smile was answer enough.

"All the times I climbed out that window, thinking he was going to skin me like a rabbit!" Rogar accused. "I lost at least three pairs of boots, too scared to go around front and grab them-" Karla giggled.

"I know, the last pair almost got me flogged. He couldn't believe you'd be stupid enough to keep leaving them," she recalled mirthfully. "He always asked why ye wouldn't just leave your boots out back, if ye insisted on using the window..."

At the door he wedged his feet into his boots and turned to consider her in full panorama, framed by lamplight. Her pupils were wide in glassy eyes, her skin slightly flushed. She didn't seem terribly disappointed by the turn the night had taken, her body angled toward her bedroom as though drawn by a magnet.

She looked like a fiery seductress, a wild-haired succubus from hell, and if she was then Rogar was a consummate, unrepentant sinner. It made him feel sick to reflect on the shameful way they'd carried on and realize it was part of an even greater, more twisted game. Yet to look at her there, faintly radiating sexual heat, made Rogar seethe with jealousy.

Feeling reckless, burning with shame and regret and aflame still, he seized her impulsively and dragged her to him. He felt steeped in lust and loathing, a dirty cuckold, shot with fear that her husband was in the next room and yet incensed by the knowledge that he wouldn't interfere, Rogar kissed her until he feared he'd lose whatever rationality he was clinging to. Karla purred and met him, lunge and parry, wholly unconflicted by the twisted fate she wove. When they broke apart she smiled seductively.

"Ty will be asleep in a few minutes," she said, glancing over her shoulder and looking back at him with an upward-canted brow, "if you want to stay a little longer," her voice was as innocent as the devil selling real estate. Aghast, Rogar fled, stumbling over the threshold and into the night.

***

He should have gone home, then. Slept it off by the fire, forgotten, and stayed the hell away from the lodge. But when he walked down the path away from Karla's cabin, ironically noting Tyron's massive prints headed in the opposite direction, his treacherous feet retraced their steps and carried him back to the hunting lodge.

The longer Rogar sat at the dice table, the more old comrades and former brothers in arms came to toss a round and reminisce. The more that came to sit, the more he drank, and the more he drank, the less Rogar remembered why he oughtn't drink in the first place. The dice rolled so fetchingly against the aged oak of the table, after a while he forgot to care what number they turned.

He must have dozed off; the lights burned low and most that had been in the lodge left while he slept. The shouts and screams filtered into his dreams so he found himself back in time, sweating in the heat of battle, shoulders aching from wielding his too-heavy axe and scared shitless that he'd lose the strength to lift it at the moment that would cost him his life.

By the time he came aware that the screams were in the waking world, the lad at the door had a knife in his belly. The attackers and hosts were more or less even in number, but the latter was warm, drunk and up for sport while their invaders were hungry, weary and numb with cold.