“Shh, shh,” she murmured.
“I’ve never given up before. Not once.… Not even when the Ra’zac took you.”
“I know you haven’t.”
“This fighting has to end. It can’t go on like this.… I can’t … I—” He raised his head and was horrified to see that she too was on the verge of tears. Standing, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.… It won’t happen again. Never again. I promise.”
“I don’t care about that,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
Her reply stung him. “I know I was weak, but my word still ought to be worth something to you.”
“That’s not what I meant!” she exclaimed, and drew back to look at him accusingly. “You’re a fool sometimes, Roran.”
He smiled slightly. “I know.”
She clasped her hands behind his neck. “I wouldn’t think any less of you, regardless of what you felt when the wall came down. All that matters is that you’re still alive.… There wasn’t anything you could do when the wall fell, was there?”
He shook his head.
“Then you have nothing to be ashamed of. If you could have stopped it, or if you could have escaped but you didn’t, then you would have lost my respect. But you did everything you could, and when you could do no more, you made peace with your fate, and you didn’t rail needlessly against it. That is wisdom, not weakness.”
He bowed and kissed her on the brow. “Thank you.”
“And as far as I am concerned, you are the bravest, strongest, kindest man in all of Alagaësia.”
This time he kissed her on the mouth. Afterward, she laughed, a short, quick release of pent-up tension, and they stood swaying together, as if dancing to a melody only they could hear.
Then Katrina gave him a playful push and went to finish the washing, and he settled back on the stump, content for the first time since the battle, despite his numerous aches and pains.
Roran watched the men, horses, and the occasional dwarf or Urgal slog past their tent, noting their wounds and the condition of their weapons and armor. He tried to gauge the general mood of the Varden; the only conclusion he reached was that everyone but the Urgals needed a good sleep and a decent meal, and that everyone, including the Urgals—especially the Urgals—needed to be scoured from head to foot with a hog’s-hair brush and buckets of soapy water.
He also watched Katrina, and he saw how, as she worked, her initial good cheer gradually faded and she became ever more irritable. She kept scrubbing and scrubbing at several stains, but with little success. A scowl darkened her face, and she began to make small noises of frustration.
At last, when she had slapped the wad of fabric against the washboard, splashing foamy water several feet into the air, and leaned on the tub, her lips pressed tightly together, Roran pushed himself off the stump and made his way to her side.
“Here, let me,” he said.
“It wouldn’t be fitting,” she muttered.
“Nonsense. Go sit down, and I’ll finish.… Go on.”
She shook her head. “No. You should be the one resting, not me. Besides, this isn’t man’s work.”
He snorted with derision. “By whose decree? A man’s work, or a woman’s, is whatever needs to be done. Now go sit down; you’ll feel better once you’re off your feet.”
“Roran, I’m fine.”
“Don’t be silly.” He gently tried to push her away from the tub, but she refused to budge.
“It’s not right,” she protested. “What would people think?” She gestured at the men hurrying along the muddy lane next to their tent.
“They can think whatever they want. I married you, not them. If they believe I’m any less of a man for helping you, then they’re fools.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Move. Shoo. Get out of here.”
“But—”