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There wasn't much said on the walk from the snowy land to Amityville. Mort tried to keep a neutral face up, but the longer the silence spanned the more his brows drew together - for silence brewed not only thoughts but whispers as well, and together they were a dark influence on his already weary mood. Every once in a while his gaze would pass from the path ahead to tennis ball between the two ghouls, one out of concern, the other out of gratefulness. Freya sat heavy and cold in his arms, and he longed to sit down and hold his head in his hands and process everything that had happened - but he was determined to see that they both saw her back to her room first.

And he tried very, very hard not to succumb to that terrible mingling of Insanity and insecurity in the meantime. It wasn't the time or place.

It wasn't long before they entered the reaper dorms, the familiar facade a welcoming face after what felt like a full day's worth of fighting. He paused to take in a breath at the threshold, shook off the chill snow had given, and led them onwards to Freya's room. Where Kettil was and how they contacted him was something he'd tackle once they figured out whether the valkyrie's door was open or locked.

"Would mind, ah . . .?" He wasn't sure if Freya was awake, so the question was posed to Bells to get the door. The zomboil's own voice rang strangely in his ears after the span of silence getting there.

He'd never left Freya's room once he'd settled within it after his brief ordeals, and even after Muka's visit he had stayed. Right there loyal, waiting, and worried. As the trio entered he was about to respond to the text he'd gotten when his head jerked up and the phone fell from his fingers.

What did he want to say? Do? What could he do? What should he do? His dark green eyes flicked from one person to the other, and he knew right then that he felt guilt.

Guilt and perhaps a bit of frustration.

Still he gave Bella a small smile, "I have been staying here, waiting...I..."

There several things he could have said but all of them just fell right out of his head and to the floor. Thoughts shattered like glass as he moved over toward Mort offering to take Freya. Please, let him have Freya.

"What happened...?" It seemed Kettil was full of inquiries and demands both spoken and unspoken.

Confusion poisoned the air, an odd sense of uncertainty made Belladonna finally drop Freya's hand. As the exchange was made, she became an unnecessary piece and therefore removed herself, at least momentarily, from the scene. A step back, closer to the door and no words spoken, almost a shadow in the room. The Valkyrie who had always been so vivacious and alive was nearly catatonic, a sight to instill a familiar melancholy in the witch, along with an odd sense of deja vu, only from a new perspective. The jolt of chill on her hand woke her up, reminded her that she was in fact wanted and broke her train of thought. Mort was absolutely freezing, nearly painful to keep a hold of with her fingers already battered by the ice outside, but she only brought her opposite hand forward and clasped the one around her own. A simple shuffle of hands and the friction would surely warm the two of them, enough that she could concentrate on that and not the look he gave her, the one that asked questions about the hand he held. The one that wanted to pull him close and mark him as hers', the one that made her doubt herself with it coal marks under her skin. They wiggled and begged for attention in her mind and in her heart, but at least were easy to drown out now, with questions about Freya and what to do next.
"She'll be alright..." Belladonna finally offered softly, her hands still shifting against Mort's in a stilted, jittery and cold pattern.

As for blankets and something warm to cover up with, the room was littered with woven blankets and fur coverings, each easily as warm as the next. The squeeze of chill made the witch look up at her zombie, before her face broke into a small smile. That was a terrible joke, absolutely wretched, but he was trying. It was still something.
"Here, lay her down." The witch crossed the room over to where Kettil had previously been on the bed and tossed back the bedspread. "It will do her a world of good to be in her own bed. You can get in with her." She added a little softer with a tiny glance up at the boil. And like a mother, the witch waited to tuck them in, the bed sheet pulled back and an expectant look on her face. Honestly, she'd gotten far too in the habit of doting on people and lavishing affection that any day now she was going to start collecting students in little herds to play mother hen over, but at least it was a fun opposition to her generally child-like ways.
"Mort, will you fetch me that blanket from the couch? Do you know if there's an oven or something to heat up some water with in here, Du-ool-sii? If not, I can run back to my room... But she probably needs something warm to drink..."

Eyes closed and breathing slow, Freya had been the picture of a sleeping figure the entire trip home. Her face remained pinched, tight with stress and discomfort. When she was settled down onto her own bed, her body unfurled, and the tight stress in her expression relaxed just enough. She felt warmth, just as she had before. Warm, all around her. This time, she couldn't think of anything other than the idea of warmth, of being surrounded in a cocoon that shielded her from the outside world. It was quickly too much for her, however, and her eyes started to flutter open. She needed to breathe, to escape, to break free of her cocoon - but Kettil filled her vision, and it was all she could see. She unraveled, her hands reaching out to cling against his clothes and skin, tugging and scratching and pulling until she couldn't tell where he ended and she began. Her eyes turned just for a moment, registering the warmth behind her, and that was when she saw that they weren't alone. The giant, haunted gaze rested on Bella for a moment, and then Mort, before she started to curl in on herself again.

Friends. Memories. Loss. Gone, gone, gone- her body started to shake. And in all this time, not a sound had emerged from her. Her voice was lost, just as lost as-

Gone, gone, gone

It took the witch a longer moment than she would have preferred before she was able to move again. The idea that Kettil had been waiting struck her in a sharp, unexpected way that rooted her to her spot for far too long. It was touching to see how much he cared, to hear his adoration in his assertion of having to fight him to keep him at bay. But it snagged something in her, potentially caught on those nasty little shards in her hands. She shook the appendage, lightly so as not to cause notice, but the feeling did not abate.
The invitation to join the couple was rejected by Mort before Belladonna could even really consider it for herself. On one hand she was all for cuddling those she adores, especially when they offer such to her and especially when they are in need. But the fact that Mort had excluded himself warrants exclusion on her part, mostly because he needs her and Freya already had Kettil. Yet it is the addition of the blanket on her shoulders that at once startles her back into speaking and stills her tongue for a few seconds more. Her initial reaction is to balk at the blanket, to sweep it over the lovers and tuck them in and dote on them. But the hand that rests heavy on her shoulder, as well as the kiss on her cheek, silences her words, coaxes her into only a faint smile that attempts to chase after Mort as he turns away from her. Both hands reached out to grasp at the opposing edges of the blanket and bring them closed around her, so that she looks about as cold as she feels.

A few steps toward Mort is taken, a small "Oh, no, I'll boil the water..." mumbled before she paused, and glanced back at the couple. It is then that Freya chooses to cast her hollow eyes at the witch, one she had not realized she knew as well as she did. Perhaps a few short weeks ago that was the same look she wore, all too well and without the rallying support of others. Once more an angry, bitter warmth floods the witch's hand and for a second she gives into it. How unfair, how cruel and selfish. Freya might have lost, but she she still has. Only loses a quarter where the witch lost a whole.
But the moment the Valkyrie's eyes drift away, Belladonna lets the thought go and instead fills its void with guilt. The circumstances are different, but surely the sentiment in the same. The shards are not everything, the wants and wishes and longing are not the world and the witch quickly steps to the side of the bed and bends down to press a small, tentative kiss to each Reaper's temple, as though, for once, she is not the child in this situation.
"The two of you will be just fine." She whispered to them, gave Kettil a small squeeze of his shoulder and then retreated back to the kitchen.

It really was small, but it was still a momentary separation, a small division of couples. Carefully the witch pushed Mort to one side, away from the stove as she collects a kettle and fills it with water, sets it atop the small flame and then pads back to him. A glance is given, a small pause to peer up into his face before Belladonna closed the distance between them. She placed her head upon his chest and did her best to drape the blanket over him too.
"Are you alright?" It is spoken only above a whisper, so that it won't worry Kettil to hear.

Freya's eyes followed whoever moved the most. When Mort and Bella walked away, she watched them go, carefully eyeing them like a hawk. She couldn't lose sight of them. She had to make sure they remained in her line of sight, every second. She could feel Kettil against her, and her body shifted to keep him close, but her eyes watched the couple in her kitchen, flickering her gaze warily.

She felt Kettil cling and her eyes flickered to him for a moment, keeping Bella and Mort in her peripheral vision as she looked at the boil in her arms. She'd frightened him; she'd frightened herself, if she were to be honest. But she had no words of comfort, or explanation. She had nothing, really, except the soft touches against his cheek, and the shift of her body against his.

Should Mort and Bella join them, she would have welcomed it. If she felt her friends there against her, she wouldn't feel the anxiety bubbling up inside of her that kept her from looking away from them for a moment. She needed to know they were safe. Everyone she loved had to remain safe, and she had to make sure of it. She wouldn't lose anyone anymore.

This indecision and confusion and general lack of understanding was driving the witch up the wall. Even as she stood there in Mort's arm, eyes closed and face pressed into his chest, she just wanted to kick something. Why did they get to know about Herryk and what he had done? Just because she didn't know him didn't mean she should be left out of the loop on what happened to those she cared deeply for. Freya and Kettil were her friends, Mort was her boilfriend, she loved all of them and still she didn't know.
On any normal instance this might have been met with any deal of reticence, but a mostly overarching theme of melancholy. It would have at least been understood as something that was not easily spoken of, that needed time, that trusted the witch's patience. But with those shards in her arm, with hurt fresh in her heart and a chill touch that deemed her less than perfect because of the shards, there was little left to do but wallow secretly in her bitterness. Surely in a few hours time it would fade, but for now it felt stark and lonely. Even the kiss to her forehead only made her close her eyes in inability to properly accept his love, for she was still not an equal. She was still just a child that needed to be momentarily placated before the adults talked about the very serious situation at hand.
As for Mort's question, Belladonna only let her head loll to one side with a roll of shoulders that was the most noncommittal of answers. Whatever he took from that was the only answer given at the moment, for she only let herself rest against him a few ticks longer before she pulled back and away to tend to the tea.

When she turned back around the blanket was on the floor and Mort was by the bed, which left her little else to do but wrap herself back up and shuffle on over with two mugs. While a chair had been pulled out for her, she instead chose the edge of the bed, in between each party so that none could ignore her. Both mugs were silently offered to Kettil, though one was clearly meant for the ghoul who had yet to speak. The witch let her gaze linger on Freya, eyebrows knitted in concentration and worry, but finally she let it go to clutch her hands in her lap.
It was one thing for the battle to have gotten so out of hand, to have lost track of various people in the melee. Hell, she'd hardly even seen Sophie until the end and had lost Alexander the moment she'd gotten there. Belladonna had been lucky she'd been able to keep track of Mort at all and even had left him on the ground towards the end to go shout and help Mengyao. But it explained absolutely nothing and was getting them nowhere.
"Forgive me, but... While that explains how Freya ended up in the wrong place and thus in need of a rescue... What happened between then and now?"
The more important, yet much more difficult to vocalize question, hung just out of range: What did Herryk have to do with all of this?

Freya stared at Mort for a moment, her round and hollow eyes letting his words sink in. All he could think of was hurting Herryk. It all fell into place in her head, and she confirmed what she'd already been suspecting earlier; Mort and her had suffered the same experience with the boil who they'd once loved so dearly. She pushed herself up to a sitting position, her hand reaching up to press against his cheek gently.

"He killed you too, didn't he." She whispered, a ghost of the voice she'd once had. Mort was suffering, and she was only going to make it worse. Bella's question had her looking at the ghoul for a second, before her lip trembled and she dropped her hands around her body. "It was.." Her voice hitched, losing focus as the memories flooded back into her mind. Her eyes unfocused; she saw it all once more, reliving it clearly. "A hunter came. Promised he would forget. Forget this, forget all." Forget me, her shaky, broken voice said without words. "He took it." Freya's arms wrapped tighter around herself. "Left with them. Gone now. Gone, gone, gone."

She rubbed her neck with one hand, before her eyes fell on Kettil. "Or maybe he was already gone. When he dissipated me, it was like looking into the eyes of a stranger."