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Staggering through the forest, Cris managed to find the cottage and when he got to the door, he seemed to have a hard time opening it. He jiggled the doorknob several times, over and over, cursing under his breath. His hair was out of place, barely tied behind him. The cloak, hat, and cane were being dragged and then dropped on the ground. "Stupid door," he muttered.
Alaia hadn't gone far, there were too many things to do that day; she'd worked in the garden, tended to the animals, made some new blends of tea and it still smelled of baking. She'd been painting at some point and her things were still outside, not too far from the door he was fumbling with. But no one came to help him with it.
Frustrated with the door, he began to ram into it, trying to pry it open, but because of his current state, he wasn't as strong as he usually would be. "Open, stupid door!" he screamed.
It was a minute or two after the screaming that she reached door. Her hair was wet, hanging in dripping, blood red ropes about her shoulders. A towel was pinned about her like a second skin; it didn't conceal much but it concealed enough. And though she was dry her skin was still heated from her bath, it almost looked as if steam rose from her skin with the scent of the roses that always smelled of. She looked so confused as she opened the door and braced herself in case he happened to be ready to slam into it again.
He was ready to kick it again when it opened. Without looking up, he dragged himself and the items into the home. The cloak and items fell to the floor and he looked at Alaia for what seemed to be a long time. Just staring at her while he tried to hold his balance. He still had a furious look on his face, although his eyes had a hint of hurt.
She bit on her lip as they contemplated each other, her brow furrowing more and more with each passing moment. She could smell the alcohol on him, see the state he was in and she simply couldn't fathom -why-. So for a few minutes she looked him over and shivered a little in the air coming in the still open door. "What happened?" she asked finally, tentative and concerned and entirely uncertain.
He reached out for her wrist and grabbed it, pulling her toward him. He stared at her, every feature of her face, and with a slight slur, he growled, "Don't ever betray me."
Her eyes widened in surprise and she shrunk back, pulling against him the slightest bit though not enough to free herself. Her lips parted but it took a second for her to repeat her question while her eyes shifted rapidly over his face. "What happened, Cris?"
He looked at his grip on her wrist and released her. He staggered to the table and fell into the chair, placing his head in his hands. "She's fucking him." There was a cold chuckle as he shook his head. "She's fucking the man who tried to kill me."
Alaia drew her hand back immediately, cradling her wrist in her other hand her arms raised to keep her towel in place as if she were afraid to let him see her; as if he was a stranger sitting at her table. She just watched him, her brow furrowing yet again in confusion. "Well, I... I'm sure she has her reasons..."
He stared at the table, "She betrayed me..." He couldn't even attempt to look at Alaia as his eyes watered. "I kill traitors..." His hands seemed to shake a little and he tried hard to keep his balance in the chair as he swayed slightly.
"I don't... I don't understand." There had to be something he wasn't telling her, she thought, for him to be so upset.
"She's the damn admiral's lover. That wasn't the damn plan!" He lifted his head and stared at her as he spoke his words. "She was supposed to get me information and await my word to murder the fucker! Instead, she beds with him!" His voice grew louder with each word, to the point of screaming.
She was looking at him in something akin to disbelief and shrinking back a little as he grew louder. "What does it matter? I know you want him dead but there is no point. And a lot of risk. Did she just... tell you she didn't want to bother with you anymore?"
"No." He shrunk back in his seat and looked down again, "She said she was using him, but I saw the way she kissed him." He shook his head, closing his eyes briefly. "She ain't using him."
Again she frowned and her head tilted a little. "Then... you really think he's a horrible person and you're angry at her for being ok with that?"
He glared at her. "He tried to get me killed? Does that not matter to anyone?" He yelled again.
She gave the softest sigh and folding her arms over her abdomen she gripped at the sides of her towel, squeezing as she thought over how to explain things. "Of course it matters. It's just... that it wasn't him. He has a superior. You're dealing with military; there's always someone higher up. This wasn't a personal vendetta; it was a man doing his job. I don't agree with the methods but I also don't know that he did. Do you? Did he, in your presence, tell them to do the things they did? Did he gloat or make fun of you or hurt you himself? Did he ever try to get you to do or say something to save yourself from it? I just... think there's more to it."
He stared at her for a moment and shook his head as he tried to get up. "I should have stayed out there." He stumbled beside the table and tried to straighten himself. "I should have just stayed out there." He headed to the bedroom, looking for his bag, although it was hard to figure out which one was his when everything was blurry in his eyes.
She watched after him with the most hurt and sorrowful expression and cautiously followed him into the room. "Well I'm sorry I don't want you to get hurt again. But answer me this... if she was falling for some random guard... would you be any less angry?" She shifted then, twisting her long, damp hair over her shoulder with one hand.
He smirked as he stumbled on a bag and fell on the floor, his head against the bed. "She's been with others before. I don't care who she fucks." He closed his eyes and his head settled on the mattress behind him. "I don't care," he whispered over and over. He began to go in and out of sleep.
It was the repetition of "I don't care" that made her think otherwise. And she would never in a million years believe he would get this drunk because he was just angry. She didn't say anything else, however, but padded after him quietly and took hold of his elbow so she could try and get him into bed.
With her help, and occasionally waking up, he lifted himself onto the bed and he opened his eyes, catching a blur of copper beside him. "You're mine. Only mine," he muttered, trying to touch her arm and falling asleep.
The most stuttered sigh shook out of her at his muttering and though her eyes filled with tears she blinked them away and did her best to get him settled. She pulled his shoes off and got him tucked in and for a few minutes she watched him before grabbing her robe and some clothes and slipping out of the room.
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