Fyskar

Chapter 9

The sun seeped through the seams of the shuttered window and door as Eoin awoke the next morning. He lazily observed the sleeping couple wrapped around each other. Drifting to the realization he had taken them into his dreams and memories, he glanced about the space, free of the peripheral blinders he had worn for months. He released his hold on Fearchar and Seonaid, though he savoured the myriad textures that ran beneath his bare fingers as he did so. Eoin hoped they had not experienced some of his darker memories.

He eased himself from under the warm blankets and stretched in the chill. The leather cloak was warm, but it was heavy, and he had not shed it in ages. He could float away with how light he felt. Glancing around the room, he contemplated a three-foot-long tub propped in a corner. He smiled, anticipating being clean. Sponge baths had gotten him so far in quick furtive moments, but a thorough scrub would be lovely.

Eoin dug through his pack and produced a small bundle of chew sticks of about a hands-width in height. Taking one and a cup of water to which he added rose water and a drop of mint oil, the physician allowed the stick to soften. The doctor procured his pots and jars and cleaning cloths from his pack while he waited on his stick. When it had finished softening, he frayed the end of it and proceeded to clean his teeth with abandon, revelling in the sensation that he could take his time.

Finished with brushing his teeth, Eoin dragged the metal tub over to the fireplace. He had watched Seonaid pull the tub out to the fireplace countless times to bathe and to wash clothing in since he had been a guest in their house. The doctor went and found the massive kettle she kept at the top of her rafters and lugged it to the fireplace.

The bucket was the last thing he'd have to go find. Regardless of his hunting, Eoin could not place it. He glanced back at the sleeping couple. Seonaid was still asleep, but Fearchar regarded him with half-closed lids.

Bucket? Eoin asked.

Outside, right. Fearchar signalled back quietly around his wife's form.

Eoin sighed. Well, he was going to have to emerge into the snow anyway, so it was a good enough time. He dragged on his boots and Fearchar's waxed canvas cloak and gritted his teeth. He dashed out into the tall white powder, his hobnails slipping on the sill stone, sending his heart into his throat. The slam of cold wrapped around his bones and blew the air from his lungs. His eyes stung and watered. Between quickly freezing lashes, he spotted the lip of the metal peeking out at level with the snow. He tugged, breaking it free of the sleet-covered drift, and dragged it into the house. The latch stalled at the door, ice chunks catching in the jam. Eoin closed his eyes, internally cursing at the weather.

Door cleared and closed, he carefully ladled the fluff into the warming kettle. Once the bucket was empty, he retrieved another load, warier of inadvertent ice fall. He poured the hot water into the tub and filled the kettle with the second bucket of snow, and went back for one more load. This one he left near the hearth to heat alongside the kettle.

Digging through his duffel, Eoin extracted several washcloths, a couple of small bottles of liquids, and a carefully wrapped crock. Kneeling, he used the tepid water from the bucket to rinse his hair.

Pulling the cork from one of his bottles, a heady floral scent rippled through the room. Jasmine and rose with spicy notes of citrus and cinnamon, foreign to the Isle, but Eoin enjoyed the fragrance. He relaxed under the smell and poured a small amount of the oily mixture into his hands. He rubbed the mix into his tresses and wrapped it into a bun on the top of his head.

Eoin, turning back to the warmth of the tub, wrinkled his nose in thought. He took in a deep breath, knowing the undershirt that fell to his knees was going to have to come off if he wanted a proper clean. He dearly wished to be clean for once in too many months. It was going to leave him cold, though. He missed his deep baths.