Though she'd vowed to flee the heat on the next caravan headed north, Rainath stayed on in the desert. For one, the inns were cheap- though the price of ale was more than enough to make the difference, she didn't drink so much for it to matter to her. The gold was plentiful, too, and once one got accustomed to avoiding the searing daytime heat, it could be nice to live with bare limbs and swim by moonlight, without feeling the bite of bitter cold.
Seeing him, not seeing him, and seeing him again, was a torment and a relief unto itself, like prodding at an aching tooth. One day she'd feel flippant and sashay across the bazaar in his view, the next, she'd hide out, ashamed. At times she wanted to rail at him and pound him with fists, others she wanted to weep on his chest. Mostly she wanted him to look at her, talk to her, tell her what was wrong with her and why things had gone the way they had, the way they always did for her.
He seemed to want nothing from her. He'd meet her eye and nod politely, but otherwise gave no indication he knew her, or wanted to know more of her. She thought she'd almost rather him lord his triumph; at least then she could seethe consummately.
For his part, Rogar did not precisely avoid Rainath, but he did notice particular establishments she was not typically at, and by consequence, spent a lot of the summer in brothels. It wasn't such a trial; they served drink and ran card tables like any other aleroom and generally smelled a bit better besides. Cost a fair bit more, but the company was... upbeat, at least.
Still, she crossed his path every other day, cornered him in pubs to glower at him, and occasionally he caught her watching him with a sort of longing on her face that he was sure he wanted no part of. By midsummer, he knew something had to be done. He even knew what had to be done, but the thought made his stomach knot. She was a sweet girl, and he pitied her mightily... but, gods.
He put it off as long as he could. For most of the summer he stashed extra gold, gems and jewelry, but otherwise made no preparations. None, other than to lay aside a good pair of ice-proof boots. He wished he could talk to Mellisandre about what he had planned, but he didn't see her again that summer, and it wasn't the sort of thing he'd put to writing. Every day he hoped it would go another way, that another man would catch her fancy or she'd hare off on the next adventure, never to be seen again, as so many did. But the next day he'd see her again, even if it was just her silhouette momentarily blotting the light from a scarf-draped window.
Summer in the desert feels as though the world has gone mad, each day hotter than the last, with no end on the cloudless horizon. Wait long enough, though, and there always comes the morning when the world's fever has broken and the dawn brings the fresh breath of the mountain. On that day, Rogar knew it was time. Still he wished he wouldn't see her, up until he saw her.
It was still morning, too early to justify putting it off to another day. Rainath was examining weapons at the blacksmith's forge, and Rogar could find no good excuse not to make his proposal.
"Uh... ahm..." Rogar said quietly, right behind her, and Rainath nearly jumped out of her skin. Her hip bumped a quenching barrel, making the water slosh. She whirled, face burning, to face him.
"Yes?" She demanded, their first re-encounter not going at all as she'd imagined it. How could a man that size sneak around in a crowded market, she asked herself.
"Sorry," he started, nodding at the barrel. "I didn't mean to startle you, I have a, uhm," he looked desperately up and down the road, for inspiration or imminent disaster, he wasn't particular. Rainath gaped at him like an angry-looking fish.
"I have a personal errand that I need to... see... to," he explained, with the fluency of a poet. "I thought you might come along. If you'd like," he wasn't sure what to do with his hands, a problem he couldn't remember ever having in the past.
Before his eyes her skeptical countenance froze, morphed queerly, and organized itself into an expression of surprise.
"Oh," she said, dumbstruck. "I wasn't expecting-"
"That's alright," excused Rogar readily.
"No, I can. I mean, yes. When do we leave?"
It was his turn to be dumbstruck.
"Ah..." he glanced at the angle of the sun, and the pace of the market. Checked the sharpness on his ax, for good measure.
"Have you eaten?" He asked, hoping to buy time. She nodded expectantly. "Good," he fumbled, stomach growling. "Ready your things, then, and we'll set off at noon," she nodded and walked away, back straight, more complacent than he'd yet seen her. Unfortunately he'd only given himself about an hour to pack and find something to eat, and he needed a drink.
He left most of his things in his room, paid for two weeks' rent and put a stout lock on the door for good measure. His cache of gold and valuables he wore on his belt for safekeeping, and he economized drinking and breakfast by dropping in at the brothel. Rainath was waiting for him at the town portal when he arrived. He hoped he wasn't making a terrible mistake.
"I thought we'd head south," he said, unrolling a map, "we can resupply in Tristram, or Wortham if you prefer. Camp in the ruins, and head up the southern slope in the morning." Rainath stared at his map as though she didn't have one just like it. Rogar went on awkwardly. "That's better, really. If you come in at the peak, there's the battlefields to cross, and the first winter blizzards always hit from the northeast. More treacherous, likely to take longer..." he trailed off, Rainath still staring at the ink that marked their destination.
"I didn't know," she murmured, mind reeling. She'd been intending to return to the mountain, exactly never.
"If you don't want to," he offered. Rainath regained herself, squaring her shoulders subtly.
"I meant, I didn't know about the blizzards. In the northeast. Let's travel through Wortham, have some fish stew for supper." She stepped into the portal and Rogar barely made it through before it snapped closed.
They worked a handful of bounties, saving Wortham for last. Rainath knew an inn that served a very good stew indeed, and they arrived at the ruins waypoint with enough time to clear the area of hellspawn before nightfall.
Rogar had the luck to find a corner structure that was mostly intact and fortuitously piled with drifts of autumn leaves blown in by the wind. He scraped them into two piles and threw his blanket over one. When Rainath joined him, she did the same with hers. They debated whether to light a fire, but Rogar was of the opinion that it would draw more attention than it discouraged.
"It's a full moon, and there's a mob of ravens roosting in yonder tree," he told her, yawning wide and settling into his crackling bed, "the noisy bastards will wake us if anything comes calling. They won't be able to contain themselves, w' the intrigue," he muttered darkly, drifting to sleep.
