The Rabbit Dies

The blood sprays up my arm, imparting that visceral warmth through the chain and the plate. I drive the spiked end of my hammer deeper and get another arc. The body goes still, so still, so dead and cold, eyes open and glossed over, never to close again. Shame, such a shame. Pointless, all pointless and wrong and I pull the hammer free with a deep gurgle. My arm is sore and that keeps me grounded. No point in pontificating the man I just killed. No point in letting the hollow in my chest grow and mutate into sorrow over the loss of life. Better to just pull the hammer free and keep moving. I turn from the corpse. He will be counted once this all ends. Once everything ends.

An arrow comes from the hill. My shield catches it and sends the dull pain up my arm, settling in my chest. Another comes and I smother a yell. I’m on the hill. I’ve been on the hill. I am working my way to the summit to route an archer’s nest and I’m amazed I’ve only gotten bruises for it. Something’s probably nicked me, found a gap in the plate, but I don’t feel it. I will. Once the plate is off and I am in front of a mirror, taking the grand tally of the battle on my skin, then I will feel it, the dull ache of everything in me protesting its sensation, the fact that the mind keeps pulling it into these battles. Shield up, strapped tight to my forearm, hammer raised, I march.

Rain, bruising hail rain down onto me and I keep marching up, through blood and dirt and slick grass that almost, almost makes me stumble every other step. I start counting the arrows. I get to fifteen before one of them knocks me back, makes me falter in the march up the hill. Not my best, but not my worst. And it still takes me up the hill, still to the summit where the archer’s lie and I keep marching. I will not stop. I cannot stop. Otherwise, the thoughts from the valley below will reach me.

“Verlaine,” someone shouts, just an edge of panic in their voice, “Its Verlaine.”

I smile and it hurts. My helm has matted my hair down to the follicles and every movement I take upsets them. Another ache to the endless list. Another pain to deal with once this is all over. A rush, arrow after arrow after frantic arrow against the towering hunk of iron and wood so called as my shiel. Heavy, so heavy and something cracks in my arm. I do not yell. I am Verlaine and I need to get to the top of the hill.

Something breaks the line and runs away. The smart ones, I have found the smart ones, says some dark part of my mind, laughing at the inevitable pain, the spilling blood and the cracking bone and dented iron. It’s all a terrible joke and I happen to be the one telling it. Something crunches underneath my boot. A bow discarded and forgotten, but not indicative of all of them as another arrow hits my shield.

I am at the top of the hill, the small garrison of archers standing before me as I cautiously lower my shield. There is a hesitance in them, unwilling to try again. They have failed to stop my march and now I am here. Another arrow won’t change that. Another slash or nick or even a full gash wouldn’t stop me now. I am at the top of the hill. They know that. They knew that would happen, and yet here we all are.

“One last chance,” I say, not even bothering to hide the pain in my voice. It gives the words some amount of menace, I’ve found, if I let the rasp at the edge of my throat out just a little bit. I have to be careful though. Inches to miles and all that.

“One last chance to run. It’s the smart thing to do.”

And once more, I am saddened to learn that people, on the whole, are not all that smart. Sure, some of them run, toss down the bow and bolt. Although, I think that speaks more to panic than anything else. It’s always smart to have a weapon close by just in case the world proves itself to be truly dangerous as it really is. So scared little animals, instead of rational beings faced against the juggernaut judgement.

The front most one, regalia a little more fanciful, a little cleaner, helm stuck with a massive red plume drops the bow and reaches for the short sword. Not panicked, at least not unduly so, but also not smart.

He bellows some grand call to the king he serves, the drawn line on the map that nobody should cross. But he does it and he charges me, and I get a good look at him. Bottom teeth jutting a little over his lip, skin a little more brown black than mine in murky splotches. Kuhrk blood in him it seems. Good for him. It will spray up my arm in a moment or two.

He does get a very good hit in, right on my sternum. I will give him that. The shield arm hurts. The hammer arm hurts. The whole body hurts as the endless weight of molded steel on my body sinks into the soft earth, carrying me with it. He gets the blunt end to his chest, the thin leather doing nothing.

I love it. I love the dark pulse in me that screams with the crunching bone, the collapsing ribs as he falls back into the mud. He screams, he yells in pure distress as the body he inhabits tells the mind that everything is shutting down. Light and tunnels and clouds and endless sunlight and fields, everything pleasant and good rolled into a lazy afternoon with just the right amount of breeze. But he is scared of the fact that it could all be wrong. That there is some eternal torment on the other side, or even worse, nothing. Nothing at all. And he finds out.

All gone now. Fled, or bleeding out, on the hill and I am alone. The battle still continues. No more raging, too late in the day for that, too late where all the sword arms are sore and burning, the first injured have passed on. It drags, slogs through the mire of the valley, with only those like me left. Only those that are tired and sore and exhausted from the bloodshed remain to carry it out for the glory of the colored banner. It takes me a long moment to remember that I am fighting for the gold one. Not the red one. I have fought for the red one, or at least a red one. Maybe not that one per se, but a red cloth.

The red one’s new. This one has a chaff of wheat beneath a silver sickle on it. Never seen that one before. Some brand-new reign clawed from the heavens, or just someone getting bored with the old livery. I’m not sure. But it’s new and I’ve never seen it before.

I allow myself to sit. The duty is done. It’s all done. The order has been carried out perfectly, and I have earned a moment to sit down and survey the landscape. I am owed the grandest of all luxuries, a moment to myself to let the world carry on without me.

The gold one’s winning. The ebb and flow of the masses in the field show that. River on river, crashing in the middle, but never flowing together. I went to the sea once, where a great marsh stood, and right at the mouth, right where the two met, there was a line. Not the clearest, but distinct enough to point out. Odd thing, it was, very odd. Water mixes with water, becoming the full shape of whatever it is poured into, but not there, not here either. The banners do not mix, and the odd one that crosses the line is immediately torn down and torn to shreds. Splinters and shards and tatters. Souvenirs for the other side. I’m not getting back on my feet unless I have to. The boots they gave me were small, too small and they’ve been cramping all day. Still better not take them off.

It’s always hard to tell when a battle actually ends. Skirmishes will still break out, remnants hanging on, the message won’t quite reach those in the back. My favorite is the people who clearly slept in through the morning finally managing to rouse themselves. Every army, no matter how disciplined, has a few of those always tagging along, and the immediate bureaucratic hassle of cutting them free is always more than the long-term nuisance of their presence.

Music, there is music carrying over muddied valley. Meandering music that carries a tune balanced and spinning on an outstretched finger. My gut clenches and my feet burn as I roll upright. My arms still scream and sag with the weight of hammer and shield. That’s going to hang around for the next few days. I try to take a deep breath in, and only manage about halfway before I have to stop. But I’m still up and I’m still marching.

I don’t have to follow the music. There’s no order to do so. There’s no message from the colored banner to tell me what to do, but I know the music. I know what’s playing it, letting it wander and shift and dance through the grass and hill. Something clicks in my arm and I have to click it back into place, letting the bone grind back to whole. That’s its own problem. Later, I will deal with it later.

Step after step, back up hill, back into the trees lining the valley and I feel the song grow stronger, mixed in with the earthy scent of fresh leaves. I don’t think it’s quite spring, but its close. Close enough for the braver things to start poking through the lingering chill, to get a head start on embracing the heat and the light of the world. I step over a body, another Kuhrk by the shape of him and I keep moving forward.

The music grows louder, picking out actual words that carry true meaning and I set my face. Its already worming its way into my mind, picking apart the folds, spreading open the thoughts to make room for itself and nothing else. I don’t even know if its good music. It insists that it is good, that it is right to be in my mind and take over everything from me. That it is the natural way of the world to be in my mind, to slip down my spine and into my limbs to control the body for the mind. It will be fine, good even. Better than carrying the weight in my shoulders. Better than letting the mind make its own thoughts. Better for me. Better for the world, everything really to have the meandering harp take the thoughts, stow them safely in a cellar, and lock everything up with iron bars thick as my wrist.

My arm clicks again, and the pain shoots up to my shoulder. Broken, maybe. Fractured, definitely. Bruised and scarred and burning, barely able to keep the iron slab from scrapping in the mud. The hammer at least has my shoulders to support the weight, even if it makes the threat of teetering over a little too like for my preference.

“Why were we there, back-to-back?

Why were we there, face to face?

I must be the light when you`re in the dark,” sings the forest wind, accompanied by the gliding rustle of leaf harp strings.

There’s more underneath it. Drums and strings turned sideways, carrying more range than the harp has. I smell smoke drifting through the wind. Despite everything, I let the time slip into my steps. I am marching through the forest at the edge of the battle, getting further and further away from the station. It’s what she wants.

I pass the first victim after a handful more steps and I am envious of the look on his face. Bliss, pure bliss. Unfiltered calm and gentle acceptance of the world. His helmet sits at his side, sword forgotten and alone just out of his reach. With dull red eyes he looks to me and smiles, before turning back to the leaves and the vacant space beyond. Something interesting, although I’m not quite sure it’s anything real. It’s all in the music, and I feel the swirl and collide of colors in the notes and rhythm. The arm hurts and the pain keeps me focused. The colors try to blot out the pain, make it gone and blissful. The world can be rainbows and sunshine and cool silk on hot days, if I only let it in. I do not like the joy in the world.

More soldiers, both sides, oblivious and content to listen to the singing and the forest. Unarmored and I do not blame them. The plate’s heavy and hot and pinches in the worst places. I do not blame them at all. But it’s still foolish. Even in the hypnosis, even in the blissful world of soft music and blending colors, there are monsters prowling about. One of them steps over a body that’s picking at grass and letting it fall on his leg and my boot comes down on the far side. The music pauses and the world takes a breath.

“The light in your eye is an angel up high

Fighting to ease the shadow side

Hearts will grow though having to bend

Leaving behind all things in the end,” the song dreams, and I finally falter down to one knee.

My chest shakes and the colors, deep crazy crimson, dark controlled blue swirling and clashing and shaking my mind. I am crying. Actual hot salt tears fall from my eyes and sting my cheeks. The walnut in my throat grows and chokes me and I cannot breathe. I choke out a sob and then another. Through the wavering, I see soldiers break and fall to the floor, sobbing and crying and calling out names that might offer them some comfort from the words. Something grabs at my shield arm and the pain pierces my mind, chasing away the music and the color. A young woman, broken and destitute, claws at my arm, begging for some release in half choked words that only mean pain. She will get it. In a moment or two. I rise. I have to rise. The stab in my arm and the ache in my soul will not let me stay here.

And I see the source of the grand concert. A woman sitting on a stump surrounded by soldiers, wavering back and forth in time with the music. Skin as black as charcoal embers, hair starlight white and pure, lips and fingers a sickly yellow green. A horn, just as black and tipped just as green, pierces her forehead, and stands proudly in the chilled afternoon shade. She is smiling as the lyre in her hand shakes the world. No more singing at least and the wave of despair has faded. She turns her eyes to me, and I grip the hammer tight.

“Afternoon Cottontail,” she says. Even without the music, even without a wavering inflection of ringing bells, the colors come back to my sight.

“Annette,” I manage to growl, “Fights over. Go home.”

“Is it really though? I mean we still got a decent number of boys and girls here. Although, I think this counts as captured. So, I guess this means it is time for negotiations.”

“Fair. Let them go and I don’t bash in your skull.”

“I do prefer my skull unbashed. So that’s definitely a point in your favor. But the question remains, can you bash in my skull? I don’t know if you can.”

She strums the strings again and it is joy this time that hits me. Nothing matters but the warm glow in my stomach that says everything is good and alright and nothing bad can happen. The captive audience starts laughing, crying once more, reduced to the earth, and rolling, clutching, and choking at the best moments in their collective lives. First kisses, best kisses, very rarely the same thing, songs and circuses and festivals rolled into one glorious ecstatic moment. I can’t quite see mine. Times I’ve laid with others, certainly, and the amount of it. Food and wine and dancing. I’m amazed at how simple it all can be really. Just delighted sugar coatings, just a bit of sweet to coat the bitter medicine and it all seems so wonderful.

The joy races through me, finding odd nooks and crannies to dwell and writhe into. Some things worry me. Others do not. Some honestly surprise me, just like every other time this particular song hits me. I am glad she is not singing, mainly because we both know what that would do to me.

But unfortunately, I force the joy to settle on a particularity and keep it locked. Violence. Pure violence housed within and the carnal rapture of inflicting it on others. And serendipitously, there is a target right there, with a grin that I will personally enjoy turning to grimace and scream.

I take a step forward and the music gets louder.

I take another step and the music grows with me, the violent urge growing too manic high. Something stirs in my gut and one of the things that trips a slight worry in my becomes forefront. I lick my lips and my eyes grow wide.

The music grows louder, and I break into a run.

The hammer comes down and Annette does not move. Not a twitch, not a flinch, not a slight tremor to give it all away. The sounds stop and the hammer runs straight through. Smoke, curling black smoke of campfires coils from the head. Annette disappears and the whole form vanishes into thin air. A mirthful chuckle cuts the wind.

“I know the fight’s over Cottontail,” the wind says, “But I still wanted to see you. Is that so bad?”

I sigh and huff and let the joy slip away from my core. There’s frustration and rage and bottled bloodlust, but that’s my problem now. Something shimmers in the trees and I get a faint glimpse of darkest black slipping between green and its gone. She’s gone. I am left in the midst of a forest surrounded by a group of soldiers slowly backing away from me.

—

I toss the coin pouch up and let it land heavy in my palm. I like the little jingle it makes. I like the weight too, and the arc in the air. Nothing I really don’t like now that I think about. Nothing I’m even apathetic towards either. Really, this little leather pouch containing a handful of shining metal discs is all around a good time. Everyone should have something like this, if only for the simple pleasure of tossing it up and letting it fall back down. I’m just glad I can do this whole ritual with one arm. My shield arm’s done up in a sling. All the blessings and prayers and voodoo that could be spared for a humble mercenary couldn’t fix it up right. But they did a good enough job, and I am glad to part ways.

Sure, they tried to get me to hang on for another leg of the campaign, but the wonderful hierarchy of command did not account for one simple thing. I did not want to go on. From what strategy meetings I bothered to attend, they were going to the Sepia and I have no interest in a grand desert kingdom with salt and spice and camels as a conquest. Good food, or so I’ve heard, but I’d prefer to experience that without a banner to march under. May they enjoy the bloody game of war and return victorious and heroes. Or villains. Hard to tell in war, really. Still not quite sure what I am.

My feet still ache and throb and pulse with each and every step, but that’s what endless walking does, and despite my hefty payment, it was not enough to invest into a good horse. And those tend to not like me anyway. Most animals don’t. Except rabbits. Always seem to turn up wherever I go.

Speak of the devils, I seem to have a bit of a following. Three of them, snow white and cautious, trace my wake down the path, and have done so since morning. They think they’re being clever, trailing me so sneakily, but they’re not. I know about them. I know they’re following me. I know that they are carrying some message, probably, of some great importance. If it’s not the location of the nearest bath, then I do not care. I only want hot water and soap and soft beds, and the bunnies are looking softer and softer every single moment. I could probably get enough of them to lay out on, and my weight would be spread thin enough so that none of them get crushed, probably. It would be fine. And worst-case scenario, their numbers spring back fast enough to not be an issue.

One hops in front of me and blocks the way, this one with a perfect circle of black covering its eye. It twitches it nose at me and I am frustrated that it keeps moving to cut off my wonderful forward progress.

“If I go with you for a moment, will you let me pass,” I ask of the wonderous creature.

It twitches it nose again and an ear swivels for a moment before settling back down. It looks at me with its beady little eyes and scampers off into the brush, rustling leaves and branches and making it all too easy for the scary things in the woods to track. Case in point, I readjust my arm sling and follow the winding tracks and broken twigs. The rear guard takes up their position in case I decide to wander off and find some other grand distraction. But I chase the rabbit, catching glimpses of its tail, or an ear, darting from hiding place to hiding place.

A root comes from the underbrush to trip me and I happen to land right on the bad shoulder. I scream into my shirt. Pain, sweet terrible pain, is such a different thing when the rush of blood calms and everything is levelheaded. Summoning all of my dignity, I move to my back and gaze at the canopy of leaves. Through them, I see the drifting clouds, amorphous and flowing. Another snow-white rabbit appears in their shape, just for a moment and I curse my bastard patron and his grand designs. A stone digs into my side for that and I am sure that it wasn’t there a moment ago. Still, not enough to spur myself back upright. That can be in a moment or two. Right now, I am pretending that I am not in pain and there is something comfortable and warm right around the corner. There is a certain nobility in just lying somewhere and thinking things are different then the way they are.

The trio finally catches up and nudges my core. They try. They really do, but I vastly prefer the embrace of gravity and all that comes with it to the force of three soft foreheads trying to pry me from the grass. And the world prefers it that way as well. For if it were meant to change, the rabbits would be stronger, the grass less soft, the breeze les enticing and enchanting and the pain in my ribs not so terrible and horrendous. It is the world’s fault that I am like this, staring up at the trees and the leaves and the endless shifting clouds.

I count to ten and I slowly let the rabbits push me to my side. Like the bastards they are, they just happen to pick the bad side and leave me to shift and move and sway back to my feet on my own. The pretense of assistance faded, and I was left to my own power and will. Terrible, just terrible. All three of them wait and ponder my form as I stand, before running off into the woods. Once more the chase beings.

The roots become less mangled, less tripping, and snagging as they lead me deeper and deeper. A game trail forms from the gaps in the trees, just wide enough for us all to coexist comfortably. I let my thoughts wander and wonder at the idea of dinner. They might be amenable to it, but there are the unfortunate implications that transgress. But it wouldn’t hurt to ask when we get where we’re going. Probably. It is getting to that hour and I do not plan on missing a meal if I can help it.

The path turns left and the trees part to a clearing, a small hill covered in wildflowers, a lone oak standing at the top. My guides disappear into the grass and leave me to my own devices as evening comes orange and gold. I march up the hill, feet aching and throbbing, all of the strength, the momentum carrying from the day, leeching out of me with each and every step. Heavy, everything is so heavy.

Something has made a nest for me in the roots of the great tree. Matted grass and leaves and flower petals scattered. I huff at the pile of roots and nuts resting on the center. Appreciated, but not desired. Enough to keep me going, but not enough to make me wish to keep going.

I can feel him in the breeze, the one I share my path with. He’s on the wind, slipping though the gaps in the forest, the silences in my thoughts, letting me feel still and calm and safe in my little nest in the roots. Still can’t quite reach that little knot in my stomach that says I should not let go. I should get up from the nest and leave, keep going down the road until I find something actually resembling civilization.

And the conundrum strikes again, the push and pull of the thoughts that tell me to leave and tell me to stay in equal measure. Ideas split down the mind until the argument breaks through the skull. And it’s all useless. I will stay here in the bed of soft worn grass because that is where he wants me to be and fighting it will only send him after me again. All the thoughts, arguments, wonderful logical hoops that my mind concocts simply fade and fall as the pain in my arm numbs. It is safe here, even though it does not quite feel that way. It is warm and that is more less consistent. The night is bringing a bit more of its chill, but the wood keeps the worst of it out. Honestly, he did the best he could and that’s pretty damn good. Despite everything, I feel my eyes grow heavy and weary and slowly start to fall to dreams.

I smell pipe smoke and whatever peace of mind I have is ruined.

“Leave,” I manage to groan.

“Doesn’t work like that,” Warren says, “For the record, I was in a burrow on the other side of the world before I was called. But here I am. How are you doing Claire?”

Sitting, stretched out and lackadaisical as anyone could possibly be, is a man, shorter and thinner than myself, perched on a branch above me. Clothes disheveled and ratty but fine, a long thin pipe in his hand and a top hat of dark felt, with two snow white hare’s ears poking underneath the brim. I am always surprised by how young he looks. Warren doesn’t look at me. He prefers to keep his eyes trained on the full moon and the scattered stars.

“What are you here for?” I growl through the grogginess in my throat.

“Nothing right now, other than a routine social call, and a grand reminder for the duties and oaths you have taken. You are but a thread, but a thread can still be pulled and unravel the whole design. The Loom of the Endless Tapestry always grows and something, something, something… Want a puff? It’s not just pipe weed. Heads up.”

He holds his pipe out to me, just barely glancing over in my direction before going back to the moon. Golden dust glimmers like starlight in the bowl. I shake my head and he puts it to his lips before a short inhale. Of course, he puts a ring in the sky.

“And well, I guess there’s also something to warn you about. Battle high’s wearing off tomorrow. Can’t make it last as long as the others, but I’m getting better. Longest I’ve done so far. So, tomorrow’s going to be just awful. Get ready for that.”

“Bastard.”

“Yes, yes, we both agree on that. Heavens forbid I just let you suffer in surprise when its gone. Sure, you don’t want a little bit? Probably help you sleep. Although I can think of a couple things for that as well. You know how to pull from me.”

“I’m not doing that. And I’m alone. Kind of hard to do that when I’m alone.”

“Beg to differ. Some of the best ones I’ve had were when I was alone. People can get in the way sometimes. But you know that. Still, I feel like I should do something, right? Can’t just leave you like this tomorrow without something to take the edge off.”

“You better not.”

“And that’s not quite in my control either. You know how they have those metals that just stick to each other? Can’t help it. And if you try and part them, they just snap right back. You needed me and I needed to be needed and someone else needs needing. So here we all are, on that wonderful collision course that none of us can stop. That’s all I have, Claire. Really. And unless you got something for me, then I’m gone. Take care of yourself.”

For a moment, the air fills smoke, before the grass and the flowers and the fresh breeze whisk it away And I am alone again, in my little hollow. My eyes grow heavy, and I finally fall asleep.

—

I do not like the dreams I have, and the odd amount of awareness that comes with them. I am conscious, I am feeling, but there is no control, but I do not know that I do not have control. I am me and not me and something else. Automatic, habit, the dreams filter in and I do not have the will to stall them any longer. And they always come when I see him.

I am naked and that’s alright. Certainly not the worst feeling in the world, especially when there’s a nice breeze about and the temperature is just so. Grass to skin, wind to hair, and everything golden and warm and soft. I’m not the greatest fan of the warm, to be honest. Just a little bite, just a little nip that comes when my mind wanders away, just to make everything clear and concise and apparent once more. But the dream doesn’t have that. It just has the benign pleasant warmth of sunshine and blooming flowers against my skin, my chest, my stomach.

But the need that comes with the dream, the need that comes with the presence of Warren, the need in my core that burns and chokes and clenches against my entire body, forcing my face flushed and skin red. This is always the part I hate, always the part that doesn’t sit right in my body. The heat knows where to go, knows where to settle, and excite and I do not want it there. I want it gone from my body, but it stays and grows and slowly takes the mind. There is only the need it carries, and I feel it start to weep from my thigh.

Sex. I want sex. No other way to put it. A mate to fulfill my needs as I satiate theirs again, and again, and again, as many times as our bodies allow. A mate to couple with until our bodies bend and break. Strong and virile and potent, enough to swell my stomach with child and progeny to continue the grand legacy of sentience down through the ages. Just a presence to pour into me, see to nurture and grow as I round.

Even through the half daze of dream, my longing weeps through the grass in the waking world and I curse the fact that I am immobilized in fantasy. Half in one, half in the other so many things I feel, and I can do nothing about it. I try to fight the urges. I try to just go into some amount of restful repose and brace for the oncoming days of even more tired aches and pains that would surely decimate me. But now, I have to have a sex dream where every single need is attended to in an open field like a goddamn beast.

I do not see the source of further stimulation, the ghostly hands crawling up my side, the cold fingers tracing the lines in my stomach, the digits digging into my breasts and lighting my skin with storm thunder. Hunger, raw angry hunger that I do not get the fulfillment I need from simple hands and digits digging into me. I growl and snap and try to rise from the bed, from the grass, from the half dream that I like and do not like in equal measure. But the fog, the need of lust and mates keeps me pinned. Some final part of my impartial mind wonders who it’s going to be this time.

The hands, though, the spirit hands that are mine and not mine, touching me where I want to be touched, finding the lines in my stomach, my back, my arms, all the little places that need a digit pressed in. One finds the small of my back, right as the spine turns to tail bone and strokes down. I melt, and sigh. I sigh and shudder as the hands do what they want with me, open and willing. I am not fighting. I cannot fight any more. I only lie there in the warm sun of dream afternoon and wait and wait and wait. One of the more adventurous hands goes to my breasts and starts softly pulling at the nipple. I snap and shiver and growl into the air. So many noises that come from me. So many noises that I can make with the ethereal band of ghostly fingers.

Something blurs in the dream world and the real as they align for a brief moment once more. The half daze of consciousness pulls music, soft meandering music from the wind. Strings, or horns, or a fife, I’m not quite sure what it is. Or even if it is one thing entirely. I can’t tell where’s it from, the dream or the forest and the hands, the hands of soft breeze do not aid in my concentration. The more I fight, the more they hold me down. Neither body can move. Neither body stirs or shifts or finds any freedom in their existence. There is only the hands and their touch.

And to their credit, they are good. Good at finding the soreness and the ache and gently hauling it away through my flesh. Cool and soothing and soft, lulling me into catatonic stillness, smoothing the folds of my thoughts and just letting me be. Not yet, they are not quite hitting the spots yet, but that is the one knot they won’t work out. It’s the knot they are designed to tie.

Slowly, slowly, it grows within me. And the frustration with the hands as the only tour my chest. Their outright refusal to do anything more makes them cowards. Plain and simple cowards who do not want to do anything actually worthwhile with their lives. Content layabouts who do not care for the fruits of hard labor. I take a deep breath in and try to smother the need growing in my core. I do not want this. I just want the dream to be over so that I can get on with my travels and hopefully find a soft enough bed to collapse on.

The hands keep feeding the hunger with soft caresses, further and further goading me to take part in the communion. It’s what they’re supposed to do. It’s what I’m supposed to do. It’s the only thing that I am required to do. I am being prepared. That’s what all this is. I am being prepared for the ritual springtime and I do not want to be. I’d prefer a nice restful night of quiet sleep, but as the hands keep touching me, that keeps getting farther and farther away. It keeps boiling the blood, sending storm lighting through my skin, and lighting me on fire.

Something will come up the hill. Something will come up the hill with a confident swagger and magnetic attraction to come and sate me. I can feel the ground shake already. I can feel the footsteps travel through the earth, softly, so softly. Definitely a man. Definitely, the stride and cadence of the steps. Maybe a gargan or a Kurhk if I had to guess, but I could be wrong. Hard to tell what someone is by the footsteps.

And it’s Amaru again. Never met him in person, always in the dreams, always in the moments when every glare I give him is really a smolder and every movement I take only draws him further. He certainly is attractive. I will not deny that. A gargan, skin a deep blue like the bottom of a lake, a light pale of sky ink crosses his form. Thick lines tattooed to his skin, winding and runic and absolutely fascinating. I look to his legs and my core jumps in raw eager anticipation. That is mine and mine alone and no one else can have that.

“No,” I say, and a look of confusion passes across his face and I’ve lost count of the times we’ve had this interaction. His broad chest drops and the smile fades, all though his rather impressive hardness does not. Nor do I expect it to. He saunters over, letting his muscles turn and flex and hopefully persuade some forgotten part of my mind that I actually do want this. That’s the problem. There is a part of me that wants this. That wants the rut and the press and the warmth in my belly, that wants the hours if not days of body-on-body contact, all the moans and whimpers and screams of joy that come with the act performed well. But there is also a part of me that does not want it. That does not want the scent of another filling my mind, the taste of another in my mouth.

“Good to see you too, Claire,” he says in a voice that melts stone and turns the insides into some fluttering mess. I can do it. The hands have left, and I am free to pounce and take what belongs to me. But I stay still, fighting every urge that is mine but not mine.

“I know you’re here for a reason, but alright,” he continues, “I’m here for the same reason. I’m not going to push it. Learned that lesson.”

Unfair really, my treatment of him. Although he should really learn by now that when he sees me in the shared dream, it’s not what he thinks. He goes to the other side of the tree and sits, plopping himself down and staring at the sky.

“I never get why though,” he asks no one in particular, “I mean, sure, times and places and what not, but here is designed for it. Designed for us. And it’s not like I’m going to judge you. And we’ve talked enough for it, but… never mind. You said no and that’s that. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize.”

I get it. I really do. We’re here. That means we both want it, and we both need it to an extent and to have the other party just flat out deny that need must be confusing for someone who’s delved into the whole aspects of the path so enthusiastically.

“Who’re you with now?” I venture.

“Madame Dantea’s House of Carnal Indulgences. Honestly, not the best gig. For a succubus, kind of a prude. Usually just one night or so a week and I don’t think she has a summoner attached. Somehow got unchained, but she’s vetted. And it’s a traveling affair. We’re about a day or so from the Thistles at the moment. You?”

“Just ended a contract with a Don Saavedra and his campaign. Stopped before they were headed towards the Sepia. Got a broken arm and couple cracked ribs probably. Talked with the glorious bastard just now and hinted that there’s a lot worse coming in the morning.”

He laughs and it’s like an avalanche inside me as every muscle twitches and shakes at the voice. Its short, the momentary lapse of will that makes me want to go over and straddle him, but the wall holds. The wall holds steady and all I want to do is go to bed and not deal with this. It will end. It has to end at some point.

“You’re insane, you know that? Absolutely insane.”

“Yeah. I’ve been told.”

He grunts and shifts, and I feel the rumble travel through the ground and settle in my chest. The will knows he’s there. There is a perfectly acceptable partner within arm’s reach, and I am not straddling him, taking him inside, crashing against him until our hips turn to powder. Instead, we are making benign small talk looking at the sky that isn’t real.

The hunger pangs through my body again and starts the mind doing some simple math. Tomorrow will be terrible, absolutely miserable, and I know that. There are certain steps I can take to alleviate that terribleness. And I have been presented with an alleviation to that terribleness in the form of a muscular blue man, who is twitching and frustrated. I sigh, ugly and rasping and even then, in the field of flowers and blue skies and shady trees, it manages to come out husky and whining. He looks over and I manage to beckon him over.

“Just tongue,” I say, and he smiles. Not quite the cock sure grin of something about to mount and press and claim. Gentle, acknowledging and more than content. His member twitches and pulls at him to go for the whole thing, but I do not allow it and so Amaru will not either. It will have to be quiet.

“Are you sure?” the gentleman asks.

“It’ll be good for me. Probably. And I can think of worse people to cater to me.”

“Such a ringing endorsement. Ok, Claire. Whatever you want.”

Too good for me, really. Better than I deserve for the moment.

He starts at my breasts, first the left and then the right. Gentle soft kisses and I feel the sparks in his core, the soft tinge of sea salt. He swirls his tongue, and the kick hits once I realize how long it is, the control he commands of the wet muscle. The imagination says that it will feel amazing, and I am inclined to agree.

Of course, he is skilled in the art of pleasure. Of course, the lips and the tongue linger on all the parts that matter. Of course, the fingers dig and alight the soft flesh exactly as they should. And of course, my own body cries out to respond in kind, to envelope and fold over the twitching length, the savor the seed, the gift his body produces, on every inch of my skin. He trails lower, letting the lips and the tongue trace an arrow to my weeping entrance. Needy little thing sometimes. Heat, raw heat from my thighs and he moves his arms under me, squeezing my ass before going to the small and lifting me. Strong, godsdamn is he strong. Dream him at least. The half fog of sleep still calls, but through it runs the various couplings that come with that strength. And I am no slouch their either. Bending and breaking each other, again and again, twisting and writhing together until annihilation ends the whole world.

The tongue finds the thigh and he licks and kisses and strokes, finally adjusting our bodies. My legs rest on his shoulders as the hands wander my back to my chest. He circles the palms, and they are so soft, so wonderfully soft, beaten cotton clouds and hot winds. He shifts a little and suddenly there is callous, and I shudder and spasm.

“You are an eager little bunny aren’t you,” he murmurs into my thighs, “Naughty. You should really get more of this. Claire, do you need me to go on?”

“I will crush you head in my thighs like a ripe melon if you don’t shut up.”

“Not the worst way to go really.”

Just to illustrate my blood lust, I wrap my legs around his temples, and pull him in. Luckily, he takes the hint. I gasp and hiss and spasm as he kisses me. Wet heat of hellfire and forest blazes roars within me and I might just do that if I am not careful. He doesn’t mind, finally deciding that I am not to be trifled with.

A very smart tongue he has, and a very clear picture of the world for me. That long, wide, impossibly nimble muscle waves and writhes and shifts the folds, parting them and opening me and letting my every inside on the outside for the worship of the world. Amaru though, he is my foremost discipline for the moment, conducting his eager sermon at my altar. He knows some hymns at least, the patterns he draws make me clench and tense.