Warren is smart. As much as I am loathed to admit it, he knows things and has enough experience to know what ties into what else. The many, many, many pieces of the world aligned and stitched together in the right way, and he can see the way they would all come together.
Pain, just raw unfiltered pain from every single inch of my body. Inside and outside. Every muscle fiber, every ounce of bone, every pore on my skin aches and throbs and pulses. I can’t ever speak. I can’t even breathe without an urge to just stop and let it consume. So easy. Just stop breathing for a bit and the pain will all end, and everything will be quiet and dark and nothing bad could possibly happen to me ever again. I would just cease to be, and the pain couldn’t find me in the darkness beyond.
I can only think pain. The thoughts of pain, the continued existence of pain, the fact that living until the next moment will only bring more pain. Not anguish, not strife, for those require some amount of activity on my part. Pain is inflicted upon me, and there is not a thing I can do to remedy it. I can only sit and endure as the world punishes me for the simple act of existing. I do not want to exist. That was not my idea. That was thrust upon me and I do not think it fair to pay for my parents’ grand mistake. That is their sin to bear, and I am just an innocent bystander who did nothing wrong whatsoever.
My arm twitches, the bad one and I finally make a noise. Not a scream, not quite a yell, really a rasping mewl of a cat being dashed against a brick wall in a bag, sharing the space with rusty nails. Rusty nails. My throat bleeds and I cough and that just makes everything worse. I can’t breathe. There’s just the terrible existence in the clinging fabric that smells of sex and sweat. 10. I will count to 10 and then I will get up and deal with the day.
I get to 5 before a branch cracks and bolts me upright. By the time 6 is around I am on my feet, shoving the pain down to the bottom of the world and I have my hand on my hammer. Singing, someone is singing, and I can’t quite make out the words. A dull thump and a crack pierce the silence of the forest. And then blessed silence once more.
I am still in the clearing where I laid last. I am still under the tree in a matted heap of grass and flower petals dyeing my clothes. The green will never come out and I fear the same for the light blue and the pink and the yellow. I lean on my weapon and drive the head deeper into the earth, letting it turn the dirt to mud. Something’s moving at the edge of the forest.
“There is no mountain
Too tall to overcome.
For we will be as one,” sings the forest’s edge. The voice cracks and sputters and shifts, trying to make the words sound right in a voice that doesn’t quite match the body. Young, the singer is young.
“There,” the leaves and the trees say, “That should be enough.”
The rabbits are gone, scared off by the noise of the falling trees and I hope that’s really all they wanted for the moment. I have no interest in some grand design at the moment. The good lumberjack’s in for a good fright at least, when a wild woman dirtied and injured comes traipsing through the forest, but I shall hope that means whoever is making the noise also is amenable to giving directions. And I have a hammer and a coin purse to make the whole affair whatever flavor I desire.
The memory of the dream makes the legs steady as I slowly pick my way down the hill. No snagging roots, or wayward rocks or hidden holes to catch my foot and send me tumbling. The hammer helps. The hammer helps the feet and the weight not crushing my joints. It hurts. It hurts to walk, and it hurts to breathe and it hurts to think. The singing gets louder and louder as I keep getting closer.
In the trees, I see a figure hunched over in the brush, rooting like a truffle pig. A boy, a young boy, absorbed in the task down in the earth, wearing clothes stained with dirt and twigs.
“Hey,” I shout, and he turns. My voice scrapes open my throat and freezes him solid.
“Do you know the way back to the road?” I ask.
—
The boy walks in silence and I see no reason to break it. No reason at all. He said he and his family ran a rest stop along the main road and I trust him. I trust him to know what will happen if he is lying to me. I trust him to make mostly rational decisions with women. Foolish, probably, given them way he keeps looking at my chest, but it’s always a line to toe when that threshold to a man is nearing. So, he can look and shyly glance away as much as he wishes, so long as there is an inn with a bed and a bath like he said. And the night did take the worst of it, once I started moving.
“What’s your name,” I ask as I shift the bundle of wood in my good arm. Hard to balance, really, but I can make it work. He looks away, fumbling with his own.
“Lionel,” he says, “But ma calls me Leo.”
“What do you want to be called?”
“Leo works ma’am. I like that name more than Lionel. Nothing wrong with it, I suppose, but I don’t know. Just sounds better I guess, ma’am.”
“Call me Claire. I’ve heard of worse names. Not a fan of Timothy. Or Thomas for that matter. Anything with a ‘t’ in it I suppose.”
“Any reason?”
“None whatsoever.”
Leo glances at my chest again and quickly looked away.
“Are you with the Loom? There’s that symbol on your necklace.”
I smirk. Likely story really, but I will give him the benefit of the doubt.
“I walk with Warren.”
And he blushes, deep crimson blush that goes from the tip of his pointed ears all the way down to his toes.
“I don’t mean to pry, ma’am, but is it true then? What the followers of him do?”
“Not me. Took a slightly different approach with his ways and he doesn’t seem to mind. But yeah. There are certain… acts that are performed in his name. And I do dabble.”
“There’s another one at home,” he says, almost as if he’s eager to change the subject, “I don’t know who she’s with. But she has that same symbol from a locket she wears. She taught me that song I was singing earlier.”
I sigh and shift the bundle of wood in my grasp again. Unruly little pile. Jostling and moving as it like with no regards as to how it is handled. I am too old for chores and the like, especially when I have to help with someone else’s. And I’m injured too. Leo fumbles with his own stack of kindling, trying to tame the sticks and twigs. A moment passes as he gathers what he’s dropped, and I wish that this will be the last time. I hope it’s not another Warren waiting there. Certain things always seem to go on when we gather, but I’d prefer not to deal with that. I’d prefer a quiet night or two, actually see to my arm and then move on. Not really any particular path I wish to cross at the inn, for that matter. But they’re already there and no point in looking for anything else. My arm spikes and spits because it’s a spiteful little bastard.
Leo bursts through the tree line and we are back on the main path, holding as many branches as his slender arms can manage. We have actual signage lining the road. Goldenrod, Xanth Town, The Lilac Frontier. All good places probably, but Leo takes the one leading away from all of them. Before long, I smell what might be some sort of pie. My stomach rumbles and the wise young man decides to hurry his steps as much as he can. Even through the fading afterglow in my core, I am losing every little bit of strength I have with each step.
Leo starts humming again, lost in his own little world of song and tempo and notes and it is nice. He will have a good voice once it settles into its proper range. A knack for it really. And it makes the steps a little bit better. Not quite manageable, but I can do this. I tell myself I can do this through the labored breath and the sore muscles and the burning inside of me that just needs a bed. A soft bed with a thick quilt and a nice fire in the corner and I hope, I hope that the promised inn will have all the amenities and several more that I did not care to ask for. Peeled grapes would be nice and maybe an older son that could carry a bundle of sticks properly. Not fair to the kid. He’s doing his best and I’m not having a good day. But I hope he doesn’t drop his bundle anymore because I cannot deal with anymore walking. My chest burns and aches and I cannot get enough air to my lungs.
It’s a squat little thing, sticking from the woods. The roof sags and bends but remains strong and sturdy. Ivy and vines climb the walls and a thin whisp of smoke trails from the chimney in the back. A horse and a cow sit tied up in a side pen, blankly gazing at the world passing them by. In flowing script, much neater than I thought it would be, the words ‘Riverbend Waystation’ sit in calm pride. I do not see a river in any close proximity, but names are an odd thing.
I almost drop the wood I have so carefully carried when the music starts up again and I hear that wretched sweet voice ring through the beams. But I don’t because I am calm and controlled and there is still a warm bed waiting for me inside and that can outweigh a lot, and I mean a lot, of unpleasantness. Unfortunately, not all of it. The steps hurt and the chest burns and the eyes fade as I fall. The edges of my visions go black, once my face is pressed into the cold earth.
—
Annette does not stop singing. It’s all she does. It’s all she wants to do. If she’s not singing, she’s humming. If she’s not humming, she’s tapping a foot, a finger, some part of her body in some constant rhythm. And the worst part is, I don’t even mind. I do not mind the constant music. She’s good. Really good. Really, really good. I find myself humming along, matching the rhythm and pace she sets with every waking moment. I tap and hum and march to the beat of her life and she’s not even putting any effort.
There are no colors to the music, no color at the edge of my vision, not a thing worming into my mind to make me feel like something I’m not. It’s just the music.
So, I lie in bed, listening to her croon about the world and its woes and all that comes with it and I feel good. I feel calm and smooth and tired and heavy. The splint doesn’t even rub my arm at all anymore. Everything’s settled and quiet and peaceful and I am just hovering in the nonexistent place at the edge of sleep, and I couldn’t be calmer.
The mind drifts and wanders. I know I am on a bed. I know that I am under a blanket and I have missed several meals. Shame. That is a shame. I would like to eat something, but the rest of the body has too many other things to deal with. Broken ribs. Definitely. I don’t know how many, or how bad and once more I have to be thankful for Warren for letting it fade on someone’s doorstep instead of the middle of the forest. Amaru probably helped too. I pant and heave, not enough air getting into me. Not enough air in the world to get into me and I am choking and shaking and trying not to think about it too much. I cough and I want die. The music stops and I want to die.
Someone knocks at my door. I say something that means go away, but the translation doesn’t carry and the worn wood creaks open.
Its Annette. I groan and cough and spasm and just want everything to stop and bury myself into the sheets and never come out from them. Exhausted, she looks exhausted and tired, like the joints aren’t quite strong enough to slot the bones back where they belong. She’s back to gray now, and the green is almost yellow. Hellion pales always look so odd. The horn though, the horn is still sharp and pointed and polished like fine ivory. The green sits oddly on her lips and her fingers. She eyes me with, finding the odd hills and dips in the blankets from my body.
Annette, to whatever credit it means, does not laugh. She just stands in the doorway, smiling and trying to piece together what happened.
“Holy Hell Cottontail,” she finally says with a low, low whistle, “You look terrible.”
She’s not wrong and I do not see a reason to contest that assessment.
“What happened? I brought you in yesterday and you didn’t look good, but you didn’t look like this.”
“Water,” I finally rasp.
Everything I know about her is wrong as she disappears and comes back with a hefty jug, all for me. She nurses me, clearing the grit and glue from my mouth, every drop sliding through and chilling my core. It hurts. It still hurts. But my throat does feel a little better. That gives me hope, terrible, awful hope that everything can be better. I cough and rasp again as the jug goes away and I cannot drink anymore.
“Lost the rabbit,” I say, “Warren pulled out.”
She snickers a little.
“Thought you would like that. Kind of hard to fight when, y’know. But you’d go for it.”
Annette sashays away for a moment, pulling the chair to my bedside. The green at the edges of her body has faded a little. Still vibrant, still vivid, but more and more black has seeped into the veins and wrinkles. I let my eye wander to her hips and the dance they perform. I am grateful she has a taste for tight cloth.
“And I know what you mean. Apparently Treblex did the same to me two nights ago. Jackass didn’t bother to tell me. Still not as bad as you. Gods, you really are something.”
Talking hurts. Listening hurts. Thinking hurts.
“I’ll go tell that you’ll be staying for a little while longer. You’re good for it right?”
I nod.
“I’m sticking around for a few more days myself. Still not back to full and I’d rather hole up somewhere safe for a bit longer. I’m kind of done with battles for a bit. Need some peace and quiet.”
I groan and shift and she takes it as the body rejecting the current series of physical sensations. That’s what it is, mostly. But I’ll deal with it. I can deal with it. I’m stronger than that at least.
She leaves and I am left alone with the pain once more. Every drop of blood I have within me is aching from inside my veins. Every bone shakes and rattles the joints and the muscles tear and break with every tiny shift I can manage.
I can smell flowers and trees and grass filter in from outside. Sleep, wonderful sleep is eluding me, the hateful spite of my broken body not feeding into rest. The only left for me is the slow crawl of sunlight across the wooden planks.
—
No dreams. I have no dreams the second night. I just have a wonderful, silent night and the knowledge that the stars and twinkling and shining above the trees, dancing with the moon. I cannot see them, but I know they are there. I know that the moon slips between them, giving the world as much light as it could afford. But I sleep and the second day comes and ruins it with terrible consciousness.
I can finally move, at least. My own power. My own strength. I can shift off the bed and stand on my own two feet. Unsteady, and shaking and only a few steps, but it’s better than watching the sunlight cross the floor at least. I go to the window. The forest is fine. It doesn’t care about the torment I’ve endured. It only cares for sunshine and rain and it has those in plenty.
Its slow going, the door, the hall, the stairs. I take the walls for every inch I gain in the ground. But I manage. I manage to level out my feet and shuffle forward, using my best impression of a corpse to keep moving forward. The scent of bacon does wonders for motivation.
Annette is already up and dressed and doing a fine job of actually looking like a person. Dark rings under her eyes though, almost imperceptible with the color of her skin. But she smiles at me and I sit, slowly, before every fiber collapse in on itself. The chair protests and I tell it to shut up. It can handle the weight, and I am fine for sitting.
“Sleep alright, Cottontail?” she says, “You look better at least.”
“I look like I’ve been sleeping in a ditch for a week and then got trampled by a horse. But, yeah, I slept alright. Didn’t dream.”
“Wait, those are real? I thought that was just a rumor.”
I sigh and groan and try to convince the chair to let me slink down and prop my feet on something. Nothing’s within reach though, so I settle for just taking my head to the table. It works. The body doesn’t have to support itself as much this way and I am free to make whatever face I want to the wood in exchange for it swallowing my words.
“They’re real and they’re terrible. Always get the worst sleep when I have them.”
“But what are they like?”
“What do you think?”
Annette snickers again and slaps the table in some grand fit of joy. It shatters my skull and I groan. I need to ask Warren to stop amping me up in fights. If this is the end result, then I don’t want the initial dose.
“So, seas of studs, hung to the knee, all at your feet. Maybe some fine sluts to add some variety. But just an endless orgy. I’m talking some real hogs between the legs. Thick and throbbing and veiny and drippy. I bet that’s your type. You go for the real horse like ones. Big fat balls too. And I know, I know that it gets messy. That’s the whole deal, right? Just breeding the world with huge tracts of land. That’s how you got yours. Cow tits and horse dicks and emissions like donkeys. Isn’t that the whole creed of the bunny boy?”
A bowl or a plate settles at my head and I look up to poor Leo, as he looks down to the floor, once again red as the setting sun.
“Morning Leo. Taking about fun dreams Miss Verlaine here had last night. Did you have any fun dreams? I know I did.”
Leo, like an actual gentleman, pretends he has heard nothing at all. He gives Annette her food and trundles back to the kitchen. No doubt to tell his parents that the guests have just been served breakfast and he will be in the forest for the foreseeable future. Alone. And don’t come looking for him.
“If you’re that curious,” I say as I try to peel myself from the wood, “Just one guy. And he gave me the lord’s kiss.”
“That’s the worst name for oral I have ever heard.”
“Bite me.”
Annette snickers again and fortunately decides that eating breakfast is more important than our current conversation. I am glad that she is finally acting reasonable. The bacon and hash and I don’t know what else helps with the pain. It fills the stomach and clears a bit of the fog from my mind. I don’t remember forks and spoons being this heavy, but I manage. My arm doesn’t feel anything, just sore and blank numbness. Salty and greasy and filling, I somehow find some grain of satisfaction from the simple meal.
“He was packing down there,” I say, “I’ll give you that much.”
Annette chokes on something and I smile. Some modicums of my discomfort have been transferred and that’s alright.
“You can’t just give me that. C’mon. I’m dying to know.”
“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”
“Good thing you’re not a lady.”
Saw that coming a mile away and still decided that it was a good use of my time.
“Guy’s name is Amaru. Gargan and he keeps his head shaved. And he has those tattoos they all have. Staple follower. Chiseled and muscular, but with enough softness and give to make him comfortable. Shaved smooth, or just never grew in. And yeah, he’s a big guy. Like really big.”
“Like how big we talking?”
I hold up my forearm and make a fist. She just laughs and laughs and laughs.
“Wouldn’t that kill someone? Like big stuff feels good, but there’s a limit.”
“Two things. He’s with Warren so the sizes and numbers can get a little fudged and no one gets hurt. And I’ve never seen him in person, only the dreams. So, I’m not quite sure how he measures up in real life. Never gotten that far with him though. Two nights ago was the most we ever did.”
“Really? Like really, really? Cause from everything I know, dream sex doesn’t count. Like at all. Warren dreams might be a bit different, but I think that would still apply.”
“I don’t like the lack of control in the dreams. I have to fight for it to stop. It’s too easy.”
“You might be the only person I know that says it’s too easy to have sex. Even the other Warren brood that I know don’t complain about it. They just enjoy it.”
“I just do things a different way, I guess. And he has a very, very good tongue.”
She laughs again and even that has music laced in every note. I can almost pick out the rhythm, too. Just another song she makes, and I can’t quite make the name of it appear. Its good though, soothing. She looks tired. Not as tired as I do, but I have no pride in winning that particular contest at the moment.
—
A nap without dreams later and I am still sore, still working the kinks and the tough calcified muscle free. Everything still hurts to move, every breath laborious and trying. The light dancing across the floor, though, that’s the most entertaining thing. I don’t want to think about how that first day back with a hammer in my hand is going to go. All it takes is one day without practice and the muscles lose all semblance of familiarity. And everything’s going to be stiff and awkward. The sooner I can stand for more than a handful of minutes, the better.
I didn’t have dreams, not entirely, but there was something weaving through my mind, almost as if I wouldn’t notice. But the recollection of the hours spent with my eyes closed bring odd sensations. Restless, sure that was to be expected. But less of a frustration to it, more enthusiasm and anticipation of movement that I thought would be normal. More excitement than impatient, mixed with odd flavors suggesting dance. While I dozed, Annette played doing her own specific worship and game, pulling at the strings of the soul, tuning them tight and high and clean until they all sounded just the way she wanted. It was still a good nap, really, but not one of my better ones. It also took me through lunch and that was unappreciated.
Its early evening from what I can tell from the light. Warm orange, almost red sun, whip-poor-wills in the distance, and the something bubbling from the kitchen. Dinner, probably parsnip soup from the scent, maybe with some chickens tossed in for a bit of extra staying power. That does sound nice. Very nice and welcome and I would like to have some in my stomach as soon as possible. But the bell hasn’t been rung so I am stuck in my room watching the ceiling and going through the thoughts of hammer motions, just to keep something sharp and ready in case.
Knocking, someone is knocking at my door. Knock, knock, knanock nock, knock. Knock, knock, knanock nock, knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Annette is the only one I know who would put that much effort into the act.
“Come in,” I say to the worn wood and I am right. She stands there, lyre in hand and shuts the door just a bit to enthusiastically for my tastes, but I am still in bed and find myself preoccupied. She almost stumbles over her feet as she pulls a chair to be my bedside. A kick sends the offending party soaring through the air to the fair side of the room. My shirt lands in a crumpled heap, defeated in the corner.
“How are you holding up?” she asks as if the answer isn’t obvious.
“Still terrible. It hurts to think, and I didn’t have lunch. Dinner isn’t ready yet, so I’m pretty much in hell. You?”
“Doing a lot better. More or less got my mojo back and I’m thinking of heading out in the morning.”
Something odd kicks in my stomach that I did not expect to be there. It’s gone a moment later as the next heartbeat brings another spasm through me.
“Which is kind of why I wanted to stop by,” she continues, “I’ve dabbled with the white magecraft and while I claim no expertise, I can at least take a look at you and see what I can do. Probably not on the Way of Inside Red’s level, but I can at least stitch up some of the smaller stuff.”
Magecraft healing always leaves me itchy in the worst way, but compared to the current state of affairs, I’ll take itchy and scratchy and the general feeling that my skin is trying to crawl away from a greener pasture over the grand revolt of my existence.
“What’s in it for you?”
“I know for a fact you got paid more than I did, so cover my last night. That should be enough for now. Deal?”
I sigh and groan and try to sit up before my shield arm cracks and breaks and sends me back down to the mattress for my arrogant thinking. I am not a thing made to sit up. I should just lie here like a worm and be thankful for the sensation. The bone shifts out of alignment and there is a bump in my forearm that turns my stomach.
“Yeah, I’m doing this.”
She takes the blanket away and she is evil and terrible and absolutely vile. A low whistle, almost like a loon, slowly burbles from her lips.
“Claire,” she whispers, “Claire, why do you do this to yourself?”
My entire left side has turned purple and swollen and pulsing. Warm, it is warm and throbbing and aching. The bones on my arm are shifted out of place. Scabs and scars criss cross my body, x’s and gashes and lines, doing a fair job of healing, but the wounds need more than fair. Even three days later, even given the time, it all hurts and having it laid bare and open brings it all back to the forefront. Tired. I am so tired and sore and aching and naked in the soft woolen blankets and sheets and pillows and I just want something to eat and then I can go to bed and maybe tomorrow it will all be a little better.
“It’s what I am,” I manage to grunt. She holds a black hand over the pain, taking in the heat that wafts from my body.
“Yeah, but… is this worth it? Most people who do this aren’t like you. You have options. You can do other things.”
“I’ve heard the talk before. Just do your thing.”
She shrugs and sighs and starts humming again. Always music, always something with her. But slow, so achingly slow, drawing the noise from the air and crystallizing it in her throat, her lungs, dancing at the back of her tongue. The world hums with her. Wood grain and mortar and stone and the very air itself shifting to align itself with her will. The bed creaks under me and the soft motion knocks a clipped gasp from me as something takes the heat and drives a spike of ice into my core. The cold melts and shifts and boils against the insides of my ribs, forming around the bone.
And she still hums nonsense words that fit into a melody that I cannot quite grasp. Too slow, too drawn out, too everything against the pain to squash and stretch the nerves. Colors dance in the room with her song. Blue and red and yellow. Orbs of sensation that dance and whirl and spin together and make the music visual. I cannot look away. They are just shifting and dancing and having their own world to take and control and make something new and it hurts. It hurts, the numb cold and the dull heat and the voice in my ear that says absolutely nothing but makes noises that are soothing and loving and caring and I do not want them in my ear. I want to lie down and sleep and have soup and my hammer and then this will all be over, and the world will stop, but no, the horn and the dark skin hum within me and I cannot make it stop.
Her hands wander and caress my body. Soft, so soft and tender and gentle. Even then it hurts, the light butterfly wings still stab and ache and pierce into me and I cannot make it stop. It just keeps finding new areas to poke and prod and nudge inside me. She stays on my chest almost exclusively. A trip down to the hard lines of my stomach, occasionally the thigh or the arm, but she stays on my torso, running her hand up and down between my cleavage. Some strange part of me through the pain notices and likes it. It likes the touch of another and the music that soothes and aches and makes the whole world terrible. Some part of me that is still stuck in the dream of muscular virility crashing and slamming into me and sowing seeds in my womb. A woman’s touch is still nice. A woman’s touch still boils the blood and clenches the core and promises pleasure and euphoria if only I would take the next step and let go of the sacred control.
The bone snaps back into place and I yell as the feeling sharpens and shreds and pierces my stomach.
The pain makes me cough and shake and spasm together and I can’t quite make myself think straight anymore. At least my misery is shared. Annette staggers back and collapses in the protesting chair, almost breaking the wood and splintering the seat. At least it’s not my weight that’s the issue. Whip thin as she is, I doubt she could snap a sapling in that matter.
“So,” she coughs, “So you should be dead. Or at least unable to move. But you’re not and I’m chalking that up to Warren.”
“How bad?”
“I do not know how you got here. I do not know how you were able to even walk after that fight. But hey, that’s alright. Stranger things have happened. Broken arm, but that’s set now, and I’ve started some bone growth, but it’s still fragile. I say a new splint or something. Your ribcage is just splinters. Like just powder at this point. No wonder you’re having trouble breathing. That’s more than I can deal with. You need a priest or a sage or something. That’s bad.”
“I have plate mail for that.”
“Until you get one dent in it and suddenly your heart is now pulp.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I doubt that. I really, really doubt that.”
A bell rings from below us and that means the soup is ready and suddenly the world doesn’t seem so bad. Amazing how simple we all are. Warm food and soft beds and a shelter to keep out the darkening sky at night and the whole of existence doesn’t even matter. That simple sound makes me forget the pain.
I wobble a little as I come to my feet. But I remain standing as Annette looks me over, eyes trailing and lingering and swooping over my injuries. Incredulous, simple and plain. I should not be standing, but there is soup to be had and I will not be denied two meals in one day. She tails me down the stairs once I have dressed myself in case I should fall. I don’t think it will happen and I am proven right.
—
The bones and the joints still move in the right way. Everything still has its slot and pivot and place, however painful that may be. Certainly not fighting fit, but I could probably get one or two good swings in before the rest of me crumbles. And that’s all it takes sometimes really. Probably enough to get me to a real town with a real mage and some real betterment. Not that Annette did a bad job, just not her area of expertise. Despite my skill with my hammer, I doubt I could build a house that way, even with the similar tools. Probably could learn to do it, given enough time and assistance. But not now, and definitely not tonight. The simple jaunt down a floor and then back up has left me exhausted and in pain.
I gaze at the ceiling, recounting the number of whorls I can see in the wood. 157, from my current viewpoint, and probably another couple dozen in the rest of the room. I will say even 200 for the sake of my thoughts. Even numbers are better than odd and especially if it ends in zero. Zeroes are nice.
The knock at my door is also somewhat nice. Not the nicest it could be, but acceptable. The best knock would be no knock at all, but that seems to be out of the question from the sound hanging in the air. Three quick taps and a hesitant forth.
“Come in,” I groan as I turn to face the intruder. Not worth my full attention. I am full and tired, and the evening sky is just low enough to make it acceptable to turn of the day and will it to be tomorrow.
Annette again, dressed and cleaned and sharp. She’s filed her horn again, letting it come to a needle point. Always looked so fragile like that, so thing and wiry. Like I could just reach out and snap it to the base. I imagine that would be incredibly rude and offensive.
“Hi,” she says. I grunt and lie back down. The arm is doing better, more or less. Still swollen and throbbing and painful, but it doesn’t threaten to slide and snap and break on me again. It can take a little weight. Probably not a hail of arrows, or a good sturdy block, but it could probably pick up a shield and rattle some sabers if it came down to it.
“Just checking up on you,” she says, “Healing’s not my good point so I want to make sure nothing’s backfired on you.”
“Honestly,” I manage to sigh, “It’s holding up alright. You did good.”
She smiles, and I realize how vivid her lips are. Not sickly, not really. Deep vivid green, like forest leaves and long grown grass. And the skin, always so dark, black dark, charcoal ember, and scorch marks. A forest in the aftermath of a fire, an all-consuming blaze. She does not stumble as she pulls up what has become her chair so easily. I do not remember her shirt being that tight across her chest and I can’t help but let my sleepy eyes linger for a heartbeat or two.
“Thank you. Probably not sage level, but enough to get you through the worst of it. I actually came by with a bit of idea. Not quite sure if it will work, but that’s why I wanted to run it by you.”
I huff and shift. The bed feels cold all of a sudden. Not the good cold of the pillow’s dark side or the first moment slid into silk sheets. Winter cold with icicles and blizzards and all sorts of illness. I don’t like it. I like spring chill with a slight bite to it to keep the senses sharp and open and alert. She is going to propose something to me, and I know what it is.
“I sang to recover from the battle, right? I used up a lot of juice and I needed to get it back, so I offered my talents to Treblex. And I got to feeling better pretty soon. So… I was wondering if…”
“If sex would help me heal.”
“Basically. Worst case scenario, you just have sex with me. And I think that’s a pretty good deal. I would have sex with me if given the chance. Good things. They say good things.”
“Who is they?”
“Y’know, they. Them. People. People I have had sex with. They seemed to like having sex with me. If you’re not into ladies, that’s fine. Just a thought. Just an idea.”
I want to sink into my bed even farther, but I can’t. The feathers and the straw are already matted and compressed into a thin mat in the shape of my back. She’s fidgeting, rubbing her thighs together. Even that, even that simple rustle of cloth going back and forth carries a tune in it. Almost like a cricket walking on violin strings, a meandering thing that keeps going around and around the central point hit too soon.
But it would work. I know it would. It would make me feel better and worse case scenario, it would let me have sex with Annette. Even if she’s bad, I would have had sex and bad sex is better than no sex.
The bed is still cold.
I sigh and look at the ceiling. Still the same number of whorls and planks and knots in the wood. I smell the spirits hanging in the air and even that simple act shakes my chest and another shot of pain in my ribs, and I lose what little breathe I have.
“Fine,” I say, “Just fine. Let’s go.”
She brightens into that same smile again, the green lips split and there are white teeth, so white and clean and bright. I do not know what she does to get them that way, or if it’s just a natural thing. Amaru has fairly white teeth, but I’m not sure if that’s natural. The dreams are not reality and I do not care to find the discrepancies.
Annette pounces, clearly much more eager than I am at this point. The reverberations shake the bed, and it still protests. One person maybe, but two, it was not designed for two. But she is on me, lips to mine, filling my mouth with her tongue. And it is long, long, and slender and nimble as it dances and twirls. I can taste her. I can taste everything in. Wine, there is wine in there somewhere, probably a deep pull to steel the nerves. Smoke too, her own stash maybe, hidden and faint. Maybe last night or the night before, something to change the mind and make it be a little different than usual. Something to help with the music and make is sound a little more disconnected from reality. It’s an odd taste, one that I’m not quite sure I like.
But she is good, skilled, dexterous in the fine muscle control.
Oddly enough, the wandering hands do not hurt. They caress and fondle my breasts, covering the massive bruise on body and they do not hurt. The pain is there, but muted and dulled and diffused. More of a conscious realization than a visceral feeling. There should be pain and thus there is, but it is not there. Too many steps between the feeling and the thoughts. Too many other things in the way for me to care really.
She’s warm, so warm, so incredibly warm, trapped sunlight and heat of the earth in her skin through her clothes. She is a needy little thing, eager and willing and open. She pants into my lips, some grand pull in her core that leads her to me and me alone. Despite everything, it is still bitter work to get my arms to respond the way I want them to. There is a body here, in my blanket, in my sheets that I wish to caress and touch, and the motions are slow and lagging.
But the hands get there. My hands get there. They find her neck, her shoulders, her spine and feel the music in her core as it thrums against her skin. She shudders as her mouth continues to meet my own. My hands rise and rise interlacing behind her neck, letting her silky hair drape over my digits before flowing to her chest. Springy and supple and full, filling my palm as I grind my thumb over the cloth. She shudders and shakes again, the tremble starting in her core before slowly eking out to her limbs. A soft spasm and a gasp and she collapse into my form, her weight still not triggering the bruises.
A long, long, long moment together like this, only joint through the mouth and the tongue, tasting each other, wrestling, and playing with the wet flesh. Annette breaks away and I am surprised at how she blushes. The green comes to her cheeks, dancing in the lines, the little freckles that dot her face and crawl up to her forehead. Never noticed those before.
Her eyes, though, wide, and eager and hungry as they gaze into my own. Lips parted and a panting breath and a silent reverence for my body.
“What was that,” she huffs.
“Pretty sure that was a kiss,” I say.
“No, no, I, um, I came with that.” The blush grows deeper and deeper as she buries her face into my neck, horn scraping my skin. I chuckle, deep in my chest. My lips find the point where the skin collects on her head and juts into the air. That could put an eye out if we’re not careful. An eye at best. So many little nooks and crannies in my body where I do not want a needle horn shoved. Annette seems conscious of it at least, careful to put it where I can do minimal damage to anything soft and squishy.
“That’s what it’s like,” I murmur into her night sky skin, “It’s easy, right? And do you want more?”
She nods and the horn comes dangerously close to my eye.
“Be a good girl and use your words.”
“I want more, Claire. I want, I want everything.”
“That’s a lot more than you can handle.”
“I don’t care.”
I take a deep, deep breath, filling my chest with the lingering muggy heat of the afternoon. I smell rain and fresh grass. There is a storm coming in the night. Probably passing by morning. I sigh and let the tension leave. Even now, I cannot feel the splinters of ribs poking at my muscles. It was never there. Never there at all.
I pull her back to face me and I take her. More clean spirits and flowers and grass and rain and fresh wood. I pour the senses into her. She spasms and stutters and shakes the room as I make her cum with a thought. And she whines and gasps and stammers nonsense words to my lips that only drive the sensation deeper into my skin. She breaks again and sets her head on my shoulder.
“I am having second thoughts.”
“Should have had those first. Get between my legs.”
Annette is slow to obey, but she does, trailing her lips across my injuries, right where the healthy flesh meats the bruised and broken. She lingers on my breasts, tender kisses and licks and stagnating my needy hunger. My hands go to her head and push her down. She is the one that wanted to do this, so she has no right no complain when the natural occurs. And she does not. Annette gives in to the push of my will against hers as she continues her trek. She lingers again on my stomach, nuzzling and tracing the hard lines of muscle with her tongue. I allow it. I am not so cruel as to deny her acts when they are in service of me. The tightness in my core enjoys it as well, the soft ministrations through the flesh. She sits her chin at my navel and snakes her tongue forward, pouring from her lips and slithering down, past her chin.
The tip reaches my weeping entrance and I shudder and spasm and gasp. She still sits there, eyes locked to mine as she teases me. I groan and the bed rattles with me. As long as the tongue is, it is not quite long enough to actually satisfy, only tease and prod and ratchet the knots in my core tighter as they demand some form or release. I push against her scalp and she does not move. She just keeps circling that long, licking, wonderful tongue in circles, tracing runes and spells and pure unfiltered magic into my open body.
The release will not come this way and despite the purpose, the body refuses to keep pushing against her. No pain, just tired collapse. Such a shame that so little will be needed to break my own. Not that this is unenjoyable. She wanders to so many places, so eager and exited to explore now that my guiding hand has relented. My chest in particular, groping and squeezing and needing, her palms to my breasts, circling and rubbing. It’s simple, her touch there, nimble and dancing and meandering. She rises and touches and kisses everything soft and buries and aching on me. And it lights fire and smoke and snaking tendrils into me, the touch of the bard. She writes into me her own song, her own music, and I am lost to the orchestra.
It takes me moment, but I realize I am the instrument. Pulls and pinches and licks let me make noise and that noise always falls on the beat. Sighs to start the measure, gasps, and moans to close it out. Every so often the breath hitches and catches in terrible silence, only to bring the next beat more impact. I am the instrument she plays, music and song and melody brough to a singular soft form. Just to throw a wrench in the whole thing, I growl when I should sigh. I am not pliable and compliant and my own little rebellion, that I savor.
She starts and pulls away from her craft. My good arm brings her back down. So little strength, but jus the touch is enough to keep her going. If she wishes to administer pleasure unto me, then she will do so and not stop and leave me unsatisfied. She takes the hint and continue on my chest. I sigh and the song continues.
Her hands reach lower, until they slip between my thighs and I gasp as she slips inside. Her hands are so warm and soft, and her fingers play and spread and open as the find the folds and turns and all the little spots inside that so desperately need attention. It is good to be full again, to have something giving me warmth and pleasure. And just as she was with the tongue, her fingers play me again. A drum, I am a drum against her, thumping out a primal rhythm that she decides. I look down and see her eyes, her terribly green eyes gaze into me. Through the flesh filling her lips, she smirks and bites, just a little. I yelp and I cannot stop the noise. Another instrument enters the orchestra.
She draws my release quickly from inside my core. More from my own eagerness than her rather formidable skill My breathing slows and hitches in the corners not quite reaching the full of my chest. But she grinds, Annette grinds into me, hammering and playing and spreading me open to the world and I feel no pain.
“C’mon Cottontail,” she purrs, “You’re almost there. Just a bit further. Just a bit more. You can do it. Cum for me.”
She snickers and laughs and keeps going as my face grows flush and red. Still sing song and light, the birds outside joining in the chorus to revel in my rapture. It’s a slow thing as it slithers from me, slowly undoing the tension in my core before tightening again. Wax and wane like the phases of the moon, slow and deliberate and clear, each stage bleeding into the next. As the knot loosens, a short pause later, it tightens again. White, my mind is white and blank and clear as the soft release courses through me.
It ends. It has to end. No matter how skilled the tongue, the fingers, how willing the receiving flesh, it has to end. And I sink into the mattress as Annette stops and lays on top of me. A moment. I have a moment for myself and the calm stillness that floods my mind and warms my core and turns my cheeks apple red.
I breathe deep, deeper than my lungs can hold. I smell spirits and trees and leaves, fresh grown grass, and flower buds. More than anything, I smell Annette. Soap and perfume, careful to wash and clean and freshen herself for me and the act. Beneath it all is something sour, bright sour, like oranges or lemons. Sugar almost, something exciting and cloying and eager to keep going as I rest here and slowly take stock of my body.
“Are you done,” she asks, “I thought it would take more than that Cottontail. Not really putting up your A-game.”
It’s so easy to ignore the words as they flit about the room. Meaningless little things that settle and fly like insects. I know where they are supposed to land, that little pit in my stomach. It still twinges a few miles away. I notice, put it down in its little box and sigh out the breath that I had been holding.
“Warmup,” I say as I move to kiss her forehead, “Just a warmup. You’ve seen the damage. You’re the one with unrealistic expectations.”
I extract myself from underneath her frame and swing my feet onto the floor. A nice cold shock to the system, gets the nerves firing and open. I stand and stretch, the sore sedentary muscles tearing and popping. The joints along my spine crack as I twist. Same with my knuckles as I apply a little pressure. I rip my neck back and forth as something deep within me gives.
Annette is still there lying on the bed, coyly watching my every move. I show off, flexing what is meant to be flexed, straining what is meant to be strained, lapping up her adoration of my form as I in turn devour her with my gaze. Lithe and wiry, certainly some roundness on her chest and hips. Every little tremor sends a ripple across her skin only stopping once the movement slows to molasses. I can see the path her heartbeat takes, outline in the wobble of her chest. Despite that lopsided grin she keeps pasted to her lips, she is nervous.
Good.
I lunge and grab her ankle. The arm protests and whines from that action but once the result reaches the nerves, suddenly the bruise doesn’t matter. There is only the acct and the partner to it and the partner is not being drawn closer and closer. Light, she is so light and weightless and pliable, open to the will and exertion. She yelps and snickers as the real panic sets in and turns her heart rate jackrabbit.
I lift her. I lift her like she weighs nothing at all, holding her ankles above my head, aligning her mouth, her wonderfully skilled mouth and tongue to my hips. She is open in front of me, legs spread. There is a pesky matter of her trousers still in the way, but I see the dark spot formed from her arousal. I kiss the seam and get another wonderful yelp as the sensation dances through her.
“Eat,” I order.
“Yes ma’am,” she manages to squeak back. She braces herself on my thighs, arms snaking through my legs and gripping the muscle and the soft skin and the lined toned strength. Her nails dig into me and I shift to give me more leverage.
I am now convinced that all hellions have wonderful tongues and the necessary training to make incredible use of it. Long, long, and thin and winding snake of wet, wonderful pleasure shifting and writhing and shaking through me. So many fun twitches she gives to me, fondling and stroking and licking. The slow rumble of my chest, my breath, my rhythm given to me. I weave the noise into me, into her, shifting my grip and keeping her steady and still. The altar is open to her and she will worship, and she will give her tithe to me.
Her hands join the conduction of the orchestra, spreading and opening and filling my core. She tucks and fills and pokes and prods and I hear the song she plays with me and it feels so fucking good. Just like the tongue, she finds and hammers into my, rocking my core and rocking soul. The injuries fade. They don’t matter anymore. There is only the warm body in my grasp, and it is devoted to me.
I am hungry now, the will in my core and the urge to devour grows. My other hand goes to the seam again, damp, and willing and needy. I rip it open, and I am greeted with the same cerulean green, wet, and dripping and twitching. Annette whines and moves her hips, trying to find my own mouth. She feels the heat through my lips, my teeth, and seeks it out. I keep pulling away. I keep the dance live and her hips shaking and my mouth just far enough away from her to keep the chase going.
“Claire,” she whines, “Please. Please I need it.” She has stopped licking and folding and touching and that is the greatest sin she has available to her.
I relent and let her down, back on the bed, back to the welcoming softness and the divot of my body. I still pin her down, still keep her trapped, still keeps her mouth to me.
Voracious, simply voracious, I dive into her flesh. Salt, bitter salt of wet meat fills my mouth and Annette trembles and shakes and screams into me as I start. It’s easy, so easy the map of her body and my domination of it. But she is fun, she is beautifully fun to spread and open and rip apart. The color, the black and green and the glisten of her arousal and her need, the rainbow shift in her body and I do not care of her music. There is no song I make with her, no grand bardic inspiration through my mouth and my lust. There is not a single mote of art in my attack. Just brutal pleasure and ecstasy rocking through her.
She yelps and goes silent and once more she stops. I allow. I allow it for the moment, as her body tries to break itself with her attempts to move through the rapture. Her back arches and lifts me up and tries to buck me off. I refuse. I refuse to let the onslaught stop as she climaxes. I will draw this out until the sun grows cold and dead and the stars fade. She fills me with the release, shaking the bed and straining the frame of the mattress.
“I didn’t tell you to stop,” I say. Calm, despite everything I am calm, the tone and pitch of my voice oddly level.
“Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stop.”
I take myself away from her entrance, grinding my hips on her mouth. Apparently, I need to help her along with this. Otherwise, I will never get what I want from her.
I set the tempo. I set the pace at which I ride, and she holds on, using that superbly long tongue to touch and caress where I tell her to go. I throw my head back and sigh and moan and shake the room with the rattle of my core.
It tightens again, that knot of rope in my stomach, that wonderful knot that stretches and creaks and rips into me. It feels good, to ratchet the knot tighter to press myself deeper into Annette. One of her hands wanders down between her legs and I snatch it back and take it between mine. She will get another when she has given me mine.
I roar as the knot snaps and breaks within me and every fiber of my being tears apart, and I finally lose some of my strength. I collapse into her belly to belly and filly my sight with black skin, blacker than moonless nights and dead charcoal. I ride with it, the push and pull of the cord at my core. My skin dances with thunderstorms and forest fires as her hands pull more out of me, pull more of the endless thrum that sits inside and I scream. I scream until my throat hurts and the earth shatters and there are only stars in my vision.
Through the blank of my mind, something taps at my leg, anxious and pleading. I sigh and I let the lights linger at the end of my vision for a moment longer, that warm glow, settle a little deeper, before I relent and roll off and away. Annette gasps and sputters and then laughs, laughs deep in her belly. The bed shakes and rattles and protests and finally announces to the world that it has had enough. Finally, finally it gives up and falls to the floor.
A moment of silence out of respect, and then I laugh too. No tension, no knots, no lingering ache at my side. Just pure endless light release over me.
“That was your fault,” she says, “Totally your fault.”
“Yes, I take all the credit for breaking the bed. You certainly didn’t do your part.”
“I’m the one that made you do it. I get the credit. You get the fault.”
Her laughter devolves to the lingering snicker, hopping and jumping and for once I cannot find the tune she makes. Her hands find my side and trace the lines, the bone the muscle up and down.
“Claire,” she hums, “Look.”
The bruise is still there, still angry, and purple and sore. But it is lighter, by a shade or two. I breathe deep and easy and calm. But slowly, gathering speed the bit of knots and cords come back together to tie again at the building need. My eyes flutter close as the sky darkens, and it begins to rain. Really only one thing to do when it’s raining outside.
“Again,” I say. And she obeys.
—
Heavy, still so heavy, the hammer across my shoulders. Shield and armor were left behind to pay for the damage rendered by the act of putting myself back to some amount of whole. But its fine. It’s really fine. I’ve trekked with more on me, and despite everything I am relaxed. I am content to put one foot in front of the other and I am confident that it will take me somewhere. All paths lead somewhere, even if it’s not somewhere good.
But I find myself standing at the crossroads, that last juncture that I took on my way here. The path is still muddy, still splattering up my boots and staining my trousers. Grass and rain and fresh turned earth. I like it. I really do. The scent decides and I agree that I should probably stay in the forest for the time being, surrounded by trees and grass and flowers. That takes down two of my options.
I could go back the way I came, back past the inn and down that way. A moment’s awkwardness as I once again face the wonderful couple and the red face Leo who had no choice by to hear my concert last night. Good education for the boy, maybe. I don’t know. I just know that he probably can’t go any redder. Otherwise, he’d turn into a tomato.
For the life of me, I cannot decide which way I would like to go. I can think of the ways that I do not want to go, but I prefer choosing my ways based on my preferences. Going the ways you don’t want to go only make your life less bad. Not better. Slight distinction but an important one.
The forest goes still and silent as the leaves and the trees wait for the show to start. I sigh and roll my shoulders.
“Turn around stay away
Laughing so hard, oh here it goes again
Time will wait for us, so I thought,” sings the wind and the footsteps upon sodden grass.
Annette has recovered quicker than I thought she would. Or she is working on it with a song that I can’t recall. Its good, just like always. Just like last night and the night before and every single other time I’ve heard her.
A moment and then another, about a verse and a half from what I can figure, on the precipice of the chorus, it stops and the normal forest song resumes.
“Hi, Cottontail,” she says. Despite the tiredness in her voice, her stance, her face, she starts to pick up just from seeing me. I grunt a greeting in response.
“Where you headed now?”
“Nowhere in particular.”
“Really? Me too. Come on. I know a short cut.”
She turns and starts singing again. I think for a long moment and I follow after her. I let her lead the march.