11. 11.
11.
W ood planks plonked to dirt. Men’s voices, hushed in the way they spoke. Socks bellowed into Folke’s ear. He grunted, reaching out from under the blanket to push at her muzzle.
“Afternoon, Precious.” Finlay didn’t sound any more cheerful than Folke felt.
With a pained groan, Folke sat up, clumsily pawing at hay clinging to his hair, tickling his temples.
“I fell asleep.” He cleared his throat, still muddy with. . .
Tears.
A cascade of them, flowing uncontrolled through hiccups and panic. Darach’s hands on him, his murmured words doing nothing to stop his spiralling descent.
Too much, ye’ve been through too much, he’d said. Held his face. Breathed into his mouth, hot and slow. The faintest brush of lips against his the only thing guiding Folke back to the surface.
He ran fingers over his face, noting where grit and dirt had lashed skin, tended to by. . .
Finlay.
Swearing at his stupidity. Rough in the way he’d plucked shrapnel from his face and wiped it with antiseptic. Both men refusing to answer his questions about what had happened.
“You sure did,” said Finlay.
“Thought I wasn’t supposed to sleep.” Folke slumped back against the half wall, still exhausted.
Finlay only hummed in agreement, shifting where he had to be standing on the other side, just above him. More planks thudded to the floor, then feet crunched through hay and the gate to the pen opened.
“Ye’re awake.”
Folke ground the base of his palm between his eyebrows. Both to gather his wits and hide, the dissonance of embarrassment creeping up his neck. Darach’s words of, “Ye’re a mess,” near the brook came to haunt him. Unsure of what to say, Folke grunted in acknowledgement. He found his crook on the ground and forced himself to his feet, taking the blanket up with him to shake it out. It whipped into Darach.
“How are ye feeling?”
Like he was trapped in a dream, lingering between pleasantly strange and nightmarish.
Limbo.
He was in limbo.
“Fine.”
Nothing else to say but that.
He rolled the blanket around his arm and swept his crook about, hoping Darach had the sense to move out the way. Darach did, and said nothing to stop him when he left the barn.
For once, it wasn’t raining. Even the wind had calmed.
Smoothened texture underfoot went ignored. Folke couldn’t think about it. Muscle memory kicked into gear as he shook his boots off, dropped the blanket atop them and sought the lavatory upstairs. Droplets of nigh scalding water pelted his bare back, thundering into the tub.
Thunder, roaring. Cracks of lightning.
Wet snarls of a wolf.
Wolves.
Darach telling him over and over again that they would be alright.
He flung the bandages off his head and peeled the ones from his foot. They stuck to his skin less than last night.
On the mend.
At least one part of him was.
Everything else in disarray, worse than before.
Folke slid over enamel deeper into the water. Uncomfortably hot, but the further he sank, the more tension sloughed off him. Until his shoulders sagged and the breath stuck for an eternity finally freed itself in one, powerful gust. He reached for the soap.
Not in its usual spot.
Groped around for it.
Nowhere.
He groaned, every drop of exhaustion returning. He reached for the towel, unsurprised when that too was gone.
“Bugger it all.” His voice echoed dully against the tiles. “Bugger,” Finlay and, “bugger,” Thomas and, “ fuck !” . . .Not Darach.
He sank until submerged but for his knees.
Maybe Darach, too.
Uncertainty etched itself into his chest, along with the flutter that came with remembered breaths. The brush of lips, so faint he could pretend it never happened. Except he couldn’t. Not when the foggy impression of it sent heat downwards, straight between his legs .
Folke released every bit of air in his lungs, a storm of bubbles whirling upward. Something dug into his armpits. He gasped, inhaling a rush of water, and flailed as he broke the surface. His forearms connected with something hard.
“Ow!” Thomas cried. “You lunatic!”
Folke coughed around another swear.
“Look, I get that you’re blind and sad, but you don’t need to kill yourself over it!”
“I wasn’t—” A gruesome hack stung his throat.
“It’s a sin, you know. To kill yourself.”
More coughs. When they finally settled, Folke snapped, “If you lot keep moving things around, I’ll have no choice but to sin, then.”
“Blimey!” A pause. “What are you looking for?”
“My towel and my soap.”
“Hang on—Catch!” Something hit Folke in the chest, splashing into the water and down between his legs. “Shit, sorry.”
Folke’s lips curled. “Seriously?”
“I keep forgetting! Can’t you close your eyes or something?”
“I could, but what fun would that be?”
Thomas scoffed. “Didn’t think you’re the type to have fun.”
Folke opened his mouth to retort, only to realise he couldn’t refute that.
“Towel’s hanging on the side now.”
He reached out to ensure that it was.
“Close the door.” Something he’d forgotten to do earlier. He would need to change his habits.
Folke bristled at the thought. Focused instead on washing. Now that he’d expelled some of his frustration, restlessness took hold. His routine had been kicked into dust. If Finlay’s jubilant greeting was anything to go by, it would be too late to take the ewes out to their pasture. Mister Hibbett had said bedrest, but there was too much to do.
He let the bath drain, rolling his toes into the tiny whirlpool. Blocking it with his heel, then moving his foot off. Just to feel the swirl resurrect. The chill settling over him with the dwindling of water forced Folke out of the tub. He padded himself dry, groped around for the comb and bit down his anger when he couldn’t find it.
God damn it.
Yet the medical box was where he’d left it, even after Darach had used it.
A frown pulled his brows together, his thumbs running across the wooden lid, tracing the painted cross, its texture faint.
Hot breath.
Soft lips.
Brushing against his. Wrapping around his fingers.
A noise left Folke, akin to a whimper, and he hunched his shoulders. Hopefully no one had heard. He tended to his foot, running his fingers over the bandages and huffing in satisfaction. He could do things just fine on his own.
Securing the towel around his hips, Folke pulled open the door, which had been left ajar, he didn’t fail to notice. He strained his ears for telltale signs anyone was within the vicinity. Faint hammering floated in through the bedroom window down the hall to his right, and someone was downstairs making yet more noise.
So much noise.
Folke slipped into his bedroom, shut the door with a snap and dressed. The laundry pile had gotten too big, occupying a corner of the bedroom. Maybe he could do that today, then.
Walking down the stairs became precarious, his arms filled with dirty clothes. He dumped them on the floor near the kitchen entrance, then pulled out a box of lye soap and the galvanised tub from the pantry. Folke stopped halfway to the tap when he realised brown water was unlikely to clean his clothes very well.
It is what it is.
He swung the tub toward the sink. It bounced back, a pained grunt startling Folke into dropping the thing entirely. His face twisted with a grimace at the ruckus. Apparently, his head wasn’t done hurting.
“Beg yer pardon.” Said slightly strained. “Didnae mean to stand in the way.”
“It’s—” Folke stopped himself from saying it was fine. It wasn’t fine. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
A shift of fabric. “Meant na harm. Ye. . .Ye look lovely today.”
Folke froze, part way bent over, hand outstretched.
Sarcasm, or a genuine compliment?
Meaningless, either way.
“I couldn’t find my comb,” he grumbled, fingers knocking into galvanised metal. “Someone’s moved it.” That someone was likely Finlay. Ill-mannered bastard.
“Ah. Sorry. I’ll make sure the others put things back where they find them.”
“I’d prefer it if they didn’t use my things to begin with.”
Should’ve gotten a new dentifrice tin while he had the chance.
“O’ course.”
This time, when Folke aimed the tub at the sink, Darach wasn’t there to get hit. The tap hissed and puffed, reflecting his own frustration. Dipping his fingers in to check the level, he heaved the tub up with a grunt. He stopped in his tracks, ignoring the way water sloshed over the brim.
Hesitantly, “Darach?”
“Ay, Folke?” Said behind him with equal hesitancy.
Just like that, his anger evaporated. Replaced with a jitteriness that risked a tremble in his hands.
Explain what happened, Folke wanted to demand.
He wanted to ask, are the wolves dead?
And, are they truly wolves, or something else?
Stay near me, Folke longed to say.
I’m terrified, he needed to confess.
Instead, he said, “If you have any washing. . .I can do it.”
“Och, that’s very kind of ye, Folke, but—”
“I’ve got everything out already. It’ll make no difference.”
“Then, thank ye.” Footfalls thumped down the hallway. Shortly returned. “It’s wi the rest.”
Darach couldn’t have added much more than a shirt or two, the pile as big as it was before. Folke tossed it all to the grass near the clothesline eight paces away from the back door.
The hammering came from the barn, luring him toward it. He released Socks and Shawl from their pen, bells ringing eagerly before mellowing into the occasional tintinnabulation outside.
Thomas’ laughter turned squeaky too quickly. “You should brush your hair.”
Folke clenched his fingers around the top of the pen’s wall. “I would have, but somebody moved my comb.”
More banging, each whack delivered straight to his head for what it felt like.
“That was Finlay!”
“Stop using my things,” Folke snapped. “And just what are you doing to my barn?”
The hammering stopped. Something heavy fell to the ground. Crunching footsteps drew toward him. Exhales drifted over his face, of rose and camphor. Folke intended to move away, yet he leant in. His hand connected with fabric, fingernails immediately digging under buttons. Smooth, tightly sewn. Plastic.
“Look at you,” Finlay grumbled. “Pricklier than a porcupine. Should’ve gone to bed, not slept in sheep shit.”
A firm hold caught Folke’s chin, tilted it up. Hot fingertips ran down his throat, ending at the dip between the clavicles. Jerked free a gasp when diving under his shirt next. Traced Folke’s collarbone all the way to the ball of his shoulder, before grasping the curve of his neck. Finlay pulled him close. Enough for Folke to taste the scent of his breath, and his knees weakened.
Both his hands found their way to strong shoulders as high as his own. For support, he thought, but then his traitorous palms snuck to discover the breadth of them. The sweet scent of rose and the musk of talcum powder too heady.
He leant further in, craving Finlay’s exhalations. Parted his lips to draw them in, heart pounding with needy anticipation. That firm hand lifted to Folke’s face, gasped it, thumb just at the corner of his mouth. Holding him in place.
“If it weren’t for that nuisance,” Finlay growled low, “I’d have you right now.”
“Bloody hell, what are you doing to him?”
Thomas’ voice jarred. Not enough to snap the strings with which Finlay ensnared Folke, but enough to stop him chasing after the man’s air.
“Doing my job,” Finlay said. “Your head’s fine, Shepherd. We’re fixing your barn. Is that alright?” Heavy notes of sarcasm.
Folke stammered, too bewildered for coherency. Finlay walked away, snapping the strings with a resounding twang and taking with him that intoxicating scent. The hammering picked up again. Folke wobbled out of the barn, his grip on the crook too loose. It clattered to the path .
He crouched to find it. His trembling fingertips connected with glassy smoothness.