The Rabbit Dies

I do not kneel. I refuse to kneel. It’s a matter of pride, mostly. It’s also a matter of being stubborn and obstinate to a group of people I dislike. I like being that to the people in long flowing robes that look to me through smooth masks from on high. They glare at me. I think they do. They have to be, because I am not kneeling. My hammer is sitting somewhere outside of my hand and that is concession enough for the room and the people in high chairs.

They want me to kneel and I have to admit that the soft fabric covering the floor probably would feel alright. The masks certainly make it easy to kneel, offering every incentive to do so. Mostly the oppressive awkward silence that comes off them in waves over my refusal. Will of iron, spine of stone, it all refuses to bend.

“Burrowmaiden Claire Verlaine,” says the one in the center, “The Weavers of the Grand Loom welcome you.”

I win. I smile, because, once again, I win this idiotic engagement once more. Petty and childish, but then again, I am not the one in opulent robes and golden masks, making pretend that my wisdom is of any import. I do bow, though. I am a graceful winner, and that is a trait that I have noticed is lacking in the world around me.

The one who spoke sits under the banner for Greaycrow, sullen and silent, gazing down upon the ash pooling at his feet. I feel a shiver crawl under my skin as my gaze goes back to the faceless mask. Always the same bit with that banner. It’s not even that bad, but just the clash always shifts something in me.

“As always,” I say, “It is a pleasure to be a sharpened needle to use as seen fit.” That particular analogy might have gone out of favor since my last visit, but I am not corrected.

Eleven of the faceless shapes of long flowing cloth sit on the thrones under each and every one of the banners. Greaycrow of dark and time, Cout of death and earth, Vermil of fire and metal, Treblex of music and color, Finchwing of air and weather, the nameless one of silence and light, Gluhna of drink and hearth, Zeamays of field and grain, Longwalker of travel and commerce Soddal of cold and water. And halfway through the set on my left is my favorite. Warren of growth and fertility, laying on a tree branch, hat pulled low and pipe in his hand. It’s a beautiful tapestry. They all are, blending into the same massive sheet that covers the room. Despite the efforts to mask the shapes of people, it’s a woman that is chosen to represent him. It’s in the chest and that spark blossoms between us. Fun thoughts at least, and I can see the sheet flutter as the acolyte tries to repress the nudge and push as I do. That, I can’t tell if I’m winning at the moment. I am still clothed at least, but that could change at any moment.

“Your assistance to your fellow Burrowmaster Amaru Blackmountain has been noted. His enslavement to the demon Dantea has been known for some time, but we were unable to find the wagon. You have my and our thanks for securing another of the herd back to safety,” said the woman underneath Warren. She shifts again and her voice drops to a purr on his name before jumping back up to what is a supposed normal tone.

And I doubt my assistance is all that worthy of note on the grand scheme of things. The demon had its fill, Amaru had a lot of sex with said demon and I got to commit violence. All in all, it was a rather beautiful trinity of fulfilling need. But if it gets a good checkmark in the box, then I’m not complaining.

“We have been made away of the nature regarding your current task,” said the person underneath the Long Walker. Too muffled for me to be sure, and the stature hides most everything else. And I hate to assume with so little information.

“That is why I am here,” I say, “My association with Don Saavedra has ended and in the travel to seek new opportunities, the Man of the Burrow spoke to me. I am destined to receive a key, although to what, I am not certain. But, in his wisdom, he told me to seek out Goldenrod. I trust his guidance was not in vain.”

And the Burrowmaiden shifts again, although more from awkwardness than anything else. I realize she’s new, or at least new to me. Last one with that honor was a sylvo man if I recall. Had a very musical voice from what I can recall. Don’t see horns, so I doubt it’s a hellion and the size isn’t indicative of a gargan. But what do I know?

“That is somewhat of a delicate matter,” she says, “the key in question is a… secured artifact. And despite the wisdom imparted, the fault of our own interpretations of that word does not leave for any misinterpretation. We will need to some additional time to consider the implications of handing over such an important item.”

“So, you are acting in direct opposition to the will of a Thread?”

“We are not,” says the one under Cout. He, fairly certain in that call, moves and I can tell he wants to jump from his chair and get to my face to do some more screaming. The cloth gets in the way of the movement and the words of another stop the tirade.

“We are simply taking our time in determining the true meaning behind the words,” said the cloth under Greaycrow, “This is a grave matter, and while you have proven yourself to be a trusted acolyte of your path, and a dutiful needle for the Loom and the Threads, there is still wisdom in treating this request with caution. Surely, you do understand?”

“I do understand. I would just like to remind the gathered Weavers that this is his will direct. I was told to get the key. And I think it best that I do as I was told.”

“Loyalty and obedience are commendable,” says the one under Soddal, “But there is more to the authority than the Thread. Remember, you are part of the tapestry. While one thread can unmake the weave, it is only in tight knots that the full piece comes together.”

I want to grasp the hilt of my hammer. It’s comforting to give my hands something to do, something to fiddle with. Tends to wear out the leather grips quicker, but it’s worth it. Keeps the hand busy and tricks the mind into thinking everything is ok.

“And now I have to cut this off,” says the man under the Long Walker, “Circles, just circles. Burrowmaiden Verlaine, we know. We know that this is something you’re supposed to do. We know that this is something Warren wants you to do. We just need to mull it over. We’re not handing over the key now, no matter what you say. Your reputation has done a lot for you. Don’t get me wrong. The fact that we are even considering it is proof of that. But time. We need to take some time to make sure that this is the best course of action. You will get an answer within a week.”

“Weaver,” says the one under Greaycrow, “You are speaking for the collective as one- ”

“I’m giving her something so she at least has an idea. We can keep playing this game of grand words that mean nothing on the next one. Not Verlaine. Not her. She’s earned that. Burrowmaiden Verlaine, I apologize on behalf of us all because the rest never will. I know that this isn’t what you wanted, but despite my respect for you, I do have a duty to the rest of the council.”

And once more, the Long Walker’s man pulls through. Good man and frankly what I had gathered from the rest of the pomp and circumstance. I would like to buy him a drink at some point, but that would require for me to know who he is underneath the cloth. Now that I think about it, that must be a fun time, getting situated for this. The sheet goes wall to wall, so I imagine they all have to crawl underneath, blindly fumbling for the right seat. And there’s always the one that doesn’t get it right and then it’s a whole thing of who should go where. Fun, it all seems so fun.

“Burrowmaiden Verlaine,” says the one under Greaycrow, “The Weavers have spoken. We require addition time to consider the Threads’ will, make them intertwined so the tapestry does not unravel. You will have the answer to your request in one week. Thank you and may the path always be clear.”

As one, they all bow as deep as their thrones allow. I give a slight tilt of my head, a little bit more to Long Walker’s lot, and turn on my heel. I wait until I’m on the other side of the door to let my body go slack. A decent part of me just wants to collapse on the cold tile. That would probably feel good. And help with the headache forming behind my eyes. But that would be a little too uncouth. So, instead, I decide that I would like to be drunk.

—

I do not immediately get drunk as soon as the thought comes to me. I have to go out and get drunk somewhere with drinks and there are no drinks in the hall just beyond the doors to the Weaver’s audience chamber. The attendants struggle to close the door as the bunched-up fabric catches in the gaps. With practiced ease, they smooth the wrinkles and piles into something glidable and easy and the doors slam shut once more. I take a moment to look at the engraved metal. Same figures, same faces etched and carved and sculpted from the cloth. Some take the transformation easier than others. Soddal’s curves lose the flow and bounce but gains a shadow and sheen that’s not entirely unpleasant. Vermil benefits the most. Metal is his hair, his nature, his essence.

My particular bastard sits on a corner, gazing at no one in particular, nothing in particular, same long-stemmed pipe in hand. I do not see his face underneath the brim of his hat. The ears still poke down the back of his neck. The clothes are wrong though. Too tight, to well cut, too unsullied and crisp. He needs to look hungover and proud of that fact. Frankly so do I and the men standing on either side of the door are starting to stare back at me. So, I turn around and keep moving through the gilded halls.

Corners and turns and all sorts of winding things that turn me around and keep me moving forward. I miss my hammer. It’s still not in my hand as I turn and twist and shift. It needs to be there and it’s not and my hand feels simply empty, grasping at nothing. Gold, everything is golden and glittering and wonderfully bright. All of the gold turns to thread in the ceiling, turning into the blankets and curtains and tapestries and textile. They flutter in the breeze of the open windows. So much weight in hung in the air, supporting everything else, many from one. And none of that weight is in my hammer. That’s in some closet over there on the ground floor.

One flight and then another and then one more, slowly making the earth come to me. Granite flecked with the same gold dust eclipsing the white rock, polished to a mirror sheen. The people are just as bright and glowing, decked in color cloth. I see a flash of rose pink mixed with green every so often that says another one who walks with Warren is in the crowd. Technically, I should be wearing the same. I am not. Rough off-white cotton and brown leather. Too plain for anything here. But no one stops me and tells me to be something different than what I am. I do like the colors though. I really should invest in something a little livelier and upbeat. Maybe not pink, but I’d settle for a deep green at least. I let my eyes wander to the floor. It’s so shiny I can see up the various ladies’ dresses. Nobody else seems to pay that detail of the world much mind.

The man at the desk gives me my hammer with minimal fuss. A decent show to make sure that I’m the person I say I am, but the glare I give him makes a decent case to my identity. It finds the straps and settles down nice and quiet, hanging at my hip and swaying with my steps. It should never leave that special place. Always there, always by my side. It feels so much better. Everything’s lined up as it should be and I am calm once again.

The sun burns overhead in the midday heat. Summer, too much summer for my liking. Only spring. There should only be spring in the world. Maybe some of fall if I want a change of pace. No summer and definitely no winter. It smells like rain at least. It should break sometime in the night by my guess. With any luck, I’ll wake up tomorrow to the sound of raindrops and rolling thunder, holding Annette and being held by Amaru. And we’ll have breakfast together and complain about the world and the council and the Weavers. It will probably be a good time. I hope it’s a good time.

The streets are just as crowded as the halls. More so, even. Bodies pressed and shifting, a sea of faces seen and forgotten in an instant. It all falls away, into the cracks of memories. A Kurhk, a gargan, two sylvi and a handful of hellions all manage to stick for a moment before they too fade into nothing but a general sense of body and space. I do not like the cities. I do not like the press of bodies all around me, moving and shifting and colliding. It’s simply too much, too much noise and rattle and din. I can’t hear myself think through it all.

I don’t know where Amaru and Annette wandered off to. She said something about buying new strings for her not lyre thing, maybe having it tuned and refurbished if she could swing it. Amaru needed clothes unfortunately. The ones provided by his previous mistress didn’t seem to be adequate for more civilized company. I thought they were perfectly acceptable, but then again, I’m not exactly qualified to say what is civilized or acceptable. Still, the less clothes Amaru wears, the better off the world is in my opinion. The less clothes we all wear, the better. It’s too damn hot for anyone to keep the thoughts straight and even. And I am still not drunk. Something else that doesn’t make the world a good a place as it could be. Naked and drunk all the time, that’s what the world needs. Better than clothed and sober.

The crowd moves away from one spot in particular, a rock in the stream. And like all blocks in a river, it accumulates the things better left behind. People start collecting there, slowly growing the tumor into the path and choking the flow till it stops. I hear someone laughing. Someone else mutters some dark curse against the world and its people. And through it all, there is sobbing, deep choking, sputtering sobs that stall in the chest. I push aside the collected debris. I still need something to drink and the people blacking the way are not making that particularly easy for me.

I grip my hammer as I part the last line. One of my fingers cracks and the blood in my veins boils and throbs. Three people, kids really, are kicking a beggar. I can’t see much of what he was supposed to look like from the flurry of limbs battering into him. I assume he looks like a beggar at least. But the kids, the kids look much too fine to be doing something so crass. Two boys and a girl, one Kurhk, two hellions. I don’t know what makes me madder, the cruelty for cruelty’s sake or the collected gawking apathy of the crowd. I take a deep, deep breath, tainted with the heat of the summer.

“Scum,” spits the Kurhk boy.

“Worthless,” hisses the deep red hellion.

The pink one just laughs.

“You shouldn’t do that,” I say.

As one ball of condensed arrogant rage, they turn. I finally get a good glimpse of the man. Bloody and bleeding, huddled and hunched, bruises already forming on his skin. Nose is definitely broken, and I don’t like the way his arm bends. He shifts his body as much as he can, huddling up against the wall of buildings. Smells like a bakery with good honey cakes. I should probably get one once this is over. Makes a good walking snack and it’s been a while since I’ve had anything sweeter than nectar sucked from flower buds. Or Annette.

“And who are you,” says the Kurhk. Puffing himself up all the way, he actually manages to eclipse me. The hellion boy does the same, with the horn. Not sure if that counts.

“Doesn’t matter. Just keep moving. Don’t and I’ll shove my boot so far up your ass you’ll be able to taste the road.”

The pink one snickers, and I decide she’s my favorite. She sways a little and links arms with the red one.

“We’re just doing our civic duty,” says the red one, “This gentleman here was behind on his taxes. We all pay our fair share to this wonderful city of ours. Naturally, we got a little upset when we found him. If we took it too far, we apologize. But we only had the best of intentions.”

“You’re kicking a beggar because it gets you off.”

“Bullshit,” says the Kurhk, “My father pays out the nose to your asinine Loom. And you just let this scum sit outside good places of business, free of charge. We at least contribute something. Not like this pathetic little worm.”

“So, you’re a businessman’s brat right? Tell, how do you get a profit?”

“Make your income greater than your expenses.”

“In my opinion, that man there is smarter than all of you. What’s his expenses? Zero? Everything he makes is profit. Its not a big profit, but it’s the same equation. You’re the ones that keep spending shit.”

“He’s just sitting there hoping for handouts like a parasite. That’s not an honorable way to live.”

“Neither is whatever the hell you’re doing. And parasites do what they’re supposed to do.”

“Sucking every bit of money they can? Wishing that some big fat beast comes along so they can drink they’re fill? Dreaming of the day some knight in shining armor comes along and saves his life? It’s pathetic. Worthless. My father worked for everything he got. Not like this piece of shit.”

“It works. It got me involved. Now leave him alone, or you’ll find that I’m a lot harder to put down than a parasite.”

“You’re really going to take this from some rabbit whore, Milton?” says the pink one. She’s no longer my favorite. That honor goes to red. Terrible moustache though. Not thick enough to be anything refined, just that terrible scruff that looks like dirt across his lip. The Kurhk juts out his lower lip, showing large flat teeth. He puts up his hands. Formally, stiff, but at least he knows not to tuck in his thumbs. That’s an easy way to get something broken.

But he rushes. He runs with his hands up and looks like a godsdamn fool doing it. I have a nice moment to myself though, taking in the scent of fresh bread. I really am going to have to get something from there, assuming they’ll let me in and carry on with my business. Maybe that’s what their father’s run, although I doubt it. Baking tends to be a humbling practice that gets passed down to the sons and these three missed all of that completely.

I raise my knee right into his gut. I don’t even put much of my own strength into it. His speed, his weight, his force does most of the work for me. A hawked-up ball of phlegm lands on my thigh as his eyes bug out and pop. With languid ease, I snake my arm around his neck. Soft, doughy, but covering a dense layer of muscle. I’m somewhat surprised. The boy cares a little bit about the strength he could wield with his own two fists. But its overwhelmingly clear it was never actually honed and tempered without a cool towel and a hot meal waiting from him the moment he was done for the day.

Feeling rather lazy myself, I let his weight carry us both down to the street. His head hits like a bass drum made of kindle. The crack echoes up and into the reigning silence. A sigh and a heave and I am back on my feet. My traveling companion is not. He’s all tuckered out, lying on the stone, completely still.

I turn towards red and pink, fear wide in their eyes. I loosely grip my hammer. I’m not going to draw on an unarmed kid, but it makes me feel better, and whatever conclusions red and pink may come to, well, that’s on them and their powers of deduction. The pink one with her white horn curling up back over her skull looks terrified. So does the red, with his black little nub. Whatever they see me as I stand before them is monstrous. And they finally see clearly.

They have at least enough compassion in them to pick up their mutual friend and carry him off. Stronger than they look at least, if they can move that fast with that shared weight. My glare finds the crowd, one by one, and it breaks them. They move once more, finding their own business to attend, or another side show to gawk at that I am not breaking up.

The beggar still has him frail beaten body huddled against the side of the building, protecting his head. Another sylvi, judging by the ears, although the hair keeps any fine detail away. I can’t tell if his skin is dark from the sun or the encased dirt of the city. He shudders as he hears my feet go past him and into the bakery. It’s everything I wanted from life as the scent washes over me. A very nice blonde man with strong arms and a sweet smile hands me two honey cakes, while I hear someone else singing in the back room.

He’s still there, huddled against the brick when I come out. He hasn’t dared to extend his hand again, hoping for someone else to come by and spread the economic joy of the city. I sit next to him and all I care about is the honey cake.

Sweet and warm and so flaky, butter still running down the top. Honey and cinnamon and almonds maybe. No, it’s walnuts baked in. Slowly, he comes out of his defensive posture, eyes red and nose still bloody.

“Rough day?” I ask as I hand him the other cake. I don’t want to. I’m halfway through mine and I already want another one. But that would go against the spirit of the whole interaction, and I’d prefer to keep my end of the interaction as pleasant as possible.

He snatches it with gnarled hands. His arm seems fine, but it’ll probably be swollen in a day or two.

“Why,” he rasps. The voice rings in the din of the crowd, parting the noise like a knife.

“Why not,” I say. The honey cake is gone and the deepest, darkest part of me wants to snatch the one I gave back. I paid for it. The laws of the world say that it is mine and I could certainly take it back and the only recourse would be from myself. Its already half gone by the time I finish contemplating the moral boundaries of such an action, so now it’s all too late and I’ll just have to live with my one honey cake self. Might go for a skewer later. From the scent there’s a stall a little way down the road and that should work out okay. I’ll buy three.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he mutters. He’s missing teeth too.

“Don’t mention it.”

“You’re very nice.”

“I slammed a kid into the street. That’s not nice. He deserved it, but the nice thing to do would a gentle talk down and a promise to be a good boy.

I can’t quite get a good look at his face beneath the shaggy hair that hands down to his chin. I see the eyes, the mouth, the broken nose with pooling blood, but in bits and pieces. Never as a whole. He’s too interested in the cake. I don’t blame him.

“I can’t remember the last time anyone bought me food,” he says as he draws his knees up to his chest.

“If they hadn’t done this in front of a bakery, then that memory would stay lost. If you’re still hurt, the Loom should look after you. Don’t know if they will, and you’ll have to sit through a sermon afterwards, but it’s an option.”

He shakes his head. Ratty matted hair dances back and forth, back and forth. The cake is gone and the thoughts of my sin disappear. It’s gone and the moral weight of reaching into a man’s stomach to retrieve a gift freely given is too much from the hedonistic benefit of something I can easily turn and buy another one.

“I don’t think I will,” he says.

“Suit yourself. I don’t know any of the Ways of Inside Red, so you’re just getting cakes out of me. Can you stand? Probably be a good idea to find a different place to panhandle for a spell.”

“I can. I’ve had worse. Not many, but a few. Once tried ask a good lord who was riding in a carriage. Bastard ran me over, then backed up and did it again.”

I bark out a bitter laugh. Don’t know why. Slowly, he unbends himself, letting more and more of the gangly angles become smooth and straight. He seems like a pretty big guy now that he’s not huddle.

“Mind if I ask your name, ma’am?” he says.

“Claire, and yours?”

“I’ve had many of those. Almost too many. They let me change it when I got older and now, I don’t like it anymore. If you have to tell someone about me, then I guess Mr. Cake would work well enough. Not one of my favorites, to be honest.”

“Would you prefer Mr. Beatdown?”

“No, Mr. Cake. One of the better ones now that I think about it.”

I wish I had a drink or something to go with my cake. Its dried out my throat and the lips take a bit too much effort to make words now that they’re glued together.

“Will you be okay?” I ask.

“More or less,” he sighs, “The way people are nowadays. Shame really. I understand if people don’t want to help, but to go and do that, it’s just disappointing.”

“We’re all monsters. Just in different ways.”

He shrugs and leans back into the way, gazing through the matted hair into the sky. The clouds are a little thicker now, blotting out more of the sun. It helps with the heat, just a bit. I stand, bracing myself on my hammer. I stretch and feel something in my legs give in the good way. I turn and offer my hand to the good Mr. Cake but he’s simply not there anymore.

I roll my eyes. Annoying, all of them. Each and every one. My rising temper is muted by a small stack of coins where he sat, just enough to cover the cost of the cake. I decide that I have earned another one and there is nothing in the world that can stop me.

—

“I once had some sweet memories

It’s worth remains all the same

How can I remember those moments, sweetheart?” sings the voice beyond the door to the Tyrant’s Beer Garden.

The sorrow hits me deep in my chest and I almost collapse against the door and burst into tears. Fat, hot, rolling salt tears that refuse to stop. That terrible knot in my throat that makes it impossible to breath. My chest heaves in deep breathes, trying to control myself and actually get the door open and go inside. I count to 5 and then I find the will to open the door. The salt leaks from the edges of my eyes, stinging like little insects.

Sobbing, wrecked messes of people sprawled over tables, gazing into cups and glasses and mugs. So many broken things, broken people, trying to face the absolute despair that is existence. I step forward and my knees almost buckle. Through the tears, I try and find the source. On the balcony, in the corner, is a black skinned woman with a horn that comes to a needle point of emerald green. Annette croons to the sad state of being alive. Amaru has his head to the table, his sobs rocking the whole floor above.

More deep breathes to steady the nerves, another five count and then one more to get my hand to a table, searching through the scattered debris. It finds a cup, mostly empty. I line up the shot as best I can and huck it, nailing Annette right in the head.

“Ow,” she says, breaking the song. She runs her own hand up the length of her horn, searching for any chips or nicks.

A wave passes through the gathered faces as the sorrow of song passes and leaves them with the unaugmented sorrow of drinking while the sun is still up and shining. I feel none of that, but the remnants of waving sadness still bounce in my head. The stairs creak and spill empty threats of collapsing with my progress. Annette still rubs at her horn as I join then. Amaru’s head lets the wood of the table slowly grow up around him, refusing to move.

“Your horn’s fine,” I say. All the cups scattered on the table are empty, but the kellnerin are starting the rounds again. I have a few minutes to collect myself and hope that Annette’s little breakdown doesn’t come around once more.

“But it could be chipped or hurt or something,” she whines. Her cheeks carry a deep emerald green through the black. Blushing and warbling and swaying, she’s drunk. Don’t know how many of the cups on the table are hers. She’s still going on though, eyeing the glasses in the vain hope that something would move to fill them.

“It’s still fine. The glass didn’t even break. And you were causing a scene.”

“Its not my fault all my favorite songs are slow and sad. Happy people need to make better music.”

“Art is sadness. I don’t I’ve ever seen a happy person make anything. If you were happy, why would you do anything, right?” murmurs Amaru.

She nods and comes dangerously close to skewering Amaru with the needle-sharp tip.

“Is he alright,” I ask.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles to the wood, “Just thinking about some stuff. Drinking and sad songs don’t mix well. How’d the meeting go? You were there a long time.”

“Had to do some teaching on the way over.”

“Did they learn anything?”

“Doubt it. Also got some very nice honey cakes.”

“You got honey cakes?” yells Annette, “Why wasn’t I there? I should have gotten a honey cake.”

I reach into my pocket and produce a small lump of pastry, roughly half of its originally size. Once more, it is cut once more and both of the drunken messes before me have a piece of cake. Annette’s is gone before it my hand grabs the passing kellnerin and starts the process of getting a cup of my own. Amaru’s sits there for a long moment, and I watch the same moral dilemma play out through Annette’s face that I went through. Even drunk, however, with the mind of a child and the promise of food, she does not snatch it. She instead turns to me with wide eyes and pouty lips in a vain attempt to persuade me to give her more food. Solid tactic, and it might have worked, if I had any more. I didn’t want to buy the shop out and deprive the next poor soul in need of a sweet thing. And I wouldn’t have any money left over for a drink afterwards.

“You’re not getting another,” I say. My drink comes and its everything I ever wanted from life. Bitter and crisp and carrying just enough of that dull burn to make me think of nothing else other than the burn and the taste. I sigh and I join Amaru on the table. It’s a smart move. Really, the only way to drink. Head down, cups scattered, in a dark corner away from everyone. The two companions I have aren’t necessary, but they are welcome to stay there for as long as they want. I might want to be alone later, but that is later, not now.

“Did you get the key,” the table asks in Amaru’s bass rumble. More felt than heard.

“No,” I say to the table. It carries the message dutifully.

“I can’t hear a damn thing either of you are saying,” Annette says, “And I’m not coming down there. The horn has already had a rough day and I don’t want to risk anymore harm coming to it.”

With great regret, we both peel ourselves up from the comforting embrace of cool, worn wood and gaze at the tavern at large. The wave of sadness from Annette has faded completely and left the hall light.

“I didn’t get the key. Council made a big show of it, saying its super important and that I should consider my actions carefully. I don’t even know where the key goes and it’s supposed to be a big thing. I was told to do a thing, so just let me do the thing.” I collapse again, back into the chair.

The thrum of the crowd enters my mind again and I can’t get it out. Too much, too much noise and people and bodies all swirling and mixing, all of it colliding in my head. Table next to us has three people, two men, one lady, sitting and talking, trying to process the sadness that was in them so suddenly and stopped just the same.

“You still got to meet with the Weavers,” says Amaru, “I haven’t don’t that. I’ve only met with the Warren one.”

“Was it always a lady,” I ask.

“No, that must be someone new. And we’re not supposed to talk about that. They’re supposed to be anonymous.”

“Someone should have told her tits, because I’ll remember those for the rest of my life.”

Annette snickers and I have a new glass in front of me that does not hold enough. It’s gone too quickly.

My cheeks redden as the heat starts to run back up from my core. The world starts to swim and I start to lose what little reason I have. Somewhere along the line, I decide that my chair isn’t quite comfortable enough, so I migrate the Amaru’s lap. He doesn’t complain. Annette does continue her pout though. There is not enough lap to go around unless we stack three tall. And that’s just a good waste of table. I think I have another drink. My mouth tastes like beer, too much beer. Which isn’t enough beer. I could just fall asleep right here and then someone would have to cart me home.

My hand moves to find my hammer. Instead, it finds Amaru. He goes completely rigid with my touch. Well, not completely rigid. Some of him still needs a bit of work. Annette’s started singing again. More humming, really. She’s learned her lesson about a full-on performance here. I don’t know the words, but the melody hits me again in soft thrumming ways. The thing I intended to grasp has once more been checked at the door. As much as I love the idea of naked drunk people, naked drunk people with weapons is not the soundest of crowds.

“Claire,” he whispers to me. Annette doesn’t seem to notice, lost in her own world of color and music.

“I can stop,” I say, “If you want me to.”

He grunts and shifts, almost throwing me off. Not quite the same as my hammer. Too soft, and a little thicker. And it has a heartbeat, a wonderful steady bass drum that travels up my hand. Wonderful syncopation between us, wonderful beat and rhythm as it snakes down his thigh. I’m poking near the root, where he’s thickest. The other end is poking around my knee, getting closer and closer with each and every moment.

“Annette’s right there,” he hisses.

“She also had front row at the theater.”

He whines a bit as I throw on a smidge more pressure through his trousers. Crisp ones, they must be new. It would be such a shame to ruin them.

The warmth of him rises up into me, mixing with the warmth already imparted. I stroke up. He’s still getting fully hard. Such a wonderful event, and I savor every single moment of it. He huffs and the air tickles the back of my neck, sending chills down into the warmth.

I move my hips a little, settling into a different position. Balanced on one of his thighs, free hand on the other, I start to actually work on him. One finger, through the cloth, trailing up and down with the slightest of touches I can manage. To his credit, that isn’t enough to send him into a blubbering mess on the table. A little redder maybe, that dull blue gray getting a slight tinge of purple as the blood entered his cheeks, but he remained more or less cognizant. He even ordered another round for the three of us when the kellnerin did the requisite pass.

“So, what do we do now,” asks Annette, “I mean, we didn’t get the key. Quest failed right? Just talk to Warren and tell him we suck. I’m thinking about a hiatus honestly. We met, what, four times on this campaign? I did 4 more jobs outside of that. I’m thinking we go to Solglow for a bit. Spend some weeks on the beach, change colors. I don’t know if tan, by the way.”

“I haven’t been to the beach in forever,” I sigh.

“Never been,” says Amaru.

“Well, when we’re all finished, I think that’s in order. But we still have a week here or so. Weavers say they’ll need that long to come to an answer. So, we stay here. Might as well use the barracks they provide, save some money.”

“Oh nice. I heard they installed a new set of bath houses,” Annette says.

“I haven’t had a good bath in so long.”

“And whose fault is that? Dantea’s place had a full set up. You really missed out. Had this one soap that smelled like the best vanilla I’ve ever had.”

“They were good,” Amaru says.

He’s fully hard now, attention fighting in his mind between the conversation and my hand. I dig my palm into his shaft, feeling, relishing the heat filtering through the fabric. Its poking hard against my own leg. I steal glance down and I can almost see the fabric stitches straining and coming apart. Poor things, they’re just doing their job. And then I came along and made their lives so difficult.

The nice lady with the cups comes back and sets down another set. Amaru thanks her like the gentleman he is. I notice his gaze lingers a bit too long on her walking away, and I have to admit, that is something to keep the gaze lingering on. I run my hand up his length and he turns back to me. Before I grab the cup set in front of me, I use my free hand to guide one of his to my thighs. He grips and strokes and touches and pinches. I hide a sigh within a swig and move my seat into something a little more comfortable.

His breath hitches and catches as I keep on teasing him. Everything he does twinges and twitches inside of me. I’ve ridden him once before, jus the once, and that broke something in my core. Part of me wanted to rip him nude right here and now and have him bend me over the table in front of the world. This is mine, completely mine, and the gathered masses may marvel at him. But he is mine, claimed and owned. But the noise and shifts he makes, as well as the touches he gives me offer a counterpoint that this is something to keep up as long as possible.

“If you keep this up,” he says through gritted teeth, “I’m going to ruin these pants.”

“Good. You and clothes don’t agree.”

I move to his other leg, straddling him through the layers of rough cloth. I steal a glance down and almost moan with the sigh. Down to his knee, the lump twitches and throbs. Already, a dark spot forms at the end, growing the pulses.

“Part of me liked you better when we didn’t do this,” he hisses. He is good at pretending at least. His face is still blank, for the most part. Another sip passes his lips and he sighs. Annette continues humming a song. Think it’s a different one from the first one, and it’s starting to get to me. The edges of the fatigue from copious amounts of beer are fading.

“Oh, I’m sure.” I press my palm to his tip and circle the pressure. He holds his breath and the arm moves to encircle my stomach. Such a strong grip he has. Perfect for touching and stroking and caressing, ramping up and down as he sees fit. My core twitches at his touch and the free hand takes his up to my chest. Just for a moment.

He freezes stone still as he touches my soft flesh. Breath held in his chest, eyes burning into my mine, I feel his muscles twitch and jump and pulse. I circle my hips, back and forth, side to side as the warm glow of sunlight realization hits me.

“Go ahead,” I say to him, “I dare you.”

He does. He lets that one held essence of his soul out, deflating, crumbling like a mountain over the eons. It’s a calm thing, not stolen and robbed from him, but teased and coaxed. My hands keep stroking him, keep up the rhythm and the motion so that keeps the action going. He holds the empty void in his chest for a long, empty moment. Like a forge’s bellows, he starts breathing again.

I feel the pulses up his length travel through my leg, in time with the practice breath. He knows how to ride it well. He rocks his hip with me, finding some replacement for the tight warm confines of me.

So many pulses, so many throbs, and I feel his seed start to soak through the poor fibers. I hum with satisfaction at his prodigious output. Still a good choice, he is still the best choice for me and my tastes. Long, long moments of release escape from him, closed eyes and deep breathes, hidden in the corner of the second-floor balcony of the Tyrant’s Beer Garden. In that little nook for the world, Amaru reasserts his claims and mine of our compatibility. He releases so much, just for me, just to show me. His entire pant leg is dark and dripping. Through the scent of beer, I catch the hint of him, that dark murky aroma of release and it lights my core. That should have been in me, on me. Doing something more productive that running poor clothes that did nothing wrong in the world. His large hands grip into my thigh again as his release finishes in a long-drawn-out ebb that fades into one final push. My hand comes away sticky and dripping. I look back over my shoulder at him with half lidded eyes. His are still a little unfocused, riding the glow stick ricocheting in his body. I wait until he focuses back on me and I make sure he sees the pool of seed resting in my palm.

I fill my mouth with the bitter salt of his seed, letting it sit heavy on my tongue. My core twitches as it heads and my mind stops working. Naked. We both need to be naked and writhing and touching and kissing and the heavy seed should be in my womb, filling me. The taste of him dancing on my tongue, filling my mind with his scent is nice, euphoric in its own way, but not what we were made for. Both of his arms move to my waist as I feel the wet patch of his release soak into my skin.

“Are you going to drink that,” Annette asks. She doesn’t wait for a reply. She decides that Amaru’s cup has gone untouched long enough to enter the space of commons. Unfortunately, she has to get up and reach over the table and in her current state, that demands that the arm bump against the table and knock over the cup, sending now warm beet spilling across our collective lap.

The spell is broken and I want to break something else. I reach for my hammer and find Amaru again. He grunts in pain as my grip is a little too tight to be pleasurable and the newfound sensitivity makes it pain. I let go and finally move from my throne.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, “I’ll go get a towel or something.”

“It’s fine. It’s fine,” he says, “I was honestly thinking about heading to the barracks anyway. I need a bath or something.”

—

I shed the soaked clothes as soon as I enter into the bath house. Apparently, I am important enough to get my own private set. A depression the size of a horse stable sits in front of me, steam rising from the water. The storm broke as we passed the halfway point from the beer garden. Might have missed the rain if Amaru had the ability to move a bit faster, but his incessant erection made any quick movements a bit of wishful thinking at best. Still, helped hide the inevitable stain and might have made washing the thing a bit easier. That’s a servant’s problem now, though, and they have my sympathy. More honey cakes should soothe any ill will. Those things could solve any problem.

I stand for a moment and stretch, the cold rainwater still clinging to my skin. Stone, so much stone in the room, all polished and mirror. How many hands, how many hours spent on that simple task? For something that I barely even register and that the others wouldn’t even notice at all. I suppose it’s one of those things that it’s not supposed to be noticed. If you notice the floor, then it’s a bad floor. Gritty or dirty or sticky in the bad way never seems to go over well. I shuffle over to the water. I almost trip on the stone. Too polished to give my bare feet any grip. But I don’t fall. I never fall.

I sigh as I slip into the warm, let the water flow around me and start to seep into me. Better, so much better than the cold rain seeping into me. Almost as good as feeling Amaru’s seed on my skin while its hot. But warm water, completely immersing is also acceptable. My feet find the floor of the stone basin and I spread as far as I can. Mine, all of this is mine with the pattering of rain and the distant rumble of thunders, full of beer and honey cakes and I really need something more substantial in my stomach before too long. My arms wind long along the lip of the bath, the cold stone contrasting wonderfully with the warm water.

I hear the soft click of the latch and the heavy footsteps of Amaru bounce over the stone.

“Took you long enough,” I sigh. I have no desire to open my eyes and break the dream of warm water at the moment. Just another handful of seconds to soak and ease and wash away the long day, the long weeks of travel and blood. The warm sea takes it all and drags it to the deepest black abyss where it will never, ever rise again.

“You’re terrible,” he says, suggesting nothing of the sort, “At least Dantea kept it to a bed.”

“You need to open your mind. So many other places. Bar, river, inn, hilltop under the trees, battlefield.”

“I don’t think a battlefield would be a good place.”

“I agree, but it’s something I’ve thought about. And if I can pull it off, I’d imagine it would be amazing.”

He slips in the water next to me, letting that same sigh come from his chest.

“They put something in this water, right? They have to.”

“No clue. Don’t think so. Don’t really care either way.”

I shift over to him and he takes the cue to put his arm around me. I feel the dense muscle settle across my neck. Well defined and hard, so good and strong and dense, its all so wonderful.

“You’re so much better naked,” I say. That gets a deep rumbling chuckle from his chest.

“I am aware. And you’re better naked too.” I hum and lay my head his shoulder. His heartbeat thumps in my mind and I could just die here in peace and let the world turn forever and ever. He takes his lips to the top of my head and it sends tingles down my spine. I lean my head up and find his lips. He still tastes like beer and the way it mixes with the taste of his mouth makes drunk all over again. He pulls away and smiles soft and sweet and warm and I melt into the water.

“Why am I the last to join cuddle puddle,” Annette says. She joint use in the warm water, immediately dunking herself and letting the drops roll down her skin. The clear black tears sparkle like molten onyx. Her own sigh of wonderful release is ugly and grating and primal and I can’t help but appreciate it against the measured rumble and soft wind.

She moves to the center of the pool, lying on her back, letting the water take her weight. Her breasts stick above the water and flow to the side. The horn of obsidian and emerald juts arrogantly to pierce the ceiling.

“Is this as good for you as it is for me,” she asks. We all agree.

“I should also get a thank you, by the way,” Annette continues, “Saved your asses back at the bar.”

“You knew,” Amaru sputters.

“Of course, I knew. He was panting like a mutt and you had that look on your face that you always get when you’re horny.”

“I don’t have a horny face.”

“Yeah, you kind of do,” Amaru the traitor says, “You kind of clench your jaws and your eyes kind of close and your gaze just goes, I don’t know, dark? Annette, is that a good word?”

“I’d say more vicious, although dark works. You look hungry, like ravenous, eat the whole cow raw and then the horse and the entire hen house hungry. I like it. Amaru, you have something similar, although it’s a little more angry. I like that too.”

She floats to the other end of the pool, nudges her foot and comes sailing back. Her horn almost pierces Amaru’s heart.

“See, you both have it right now.”

I grab her wrist and pull her into our shared space, wedging a hold between me and Amaru. He doesn’t object and neither does she. She immediately comes to kiss my collar and neck.

“And now its even worse,” she hums, before nipping the skin.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking,” Annette continues, “I’ve been kind of left out for a bit, haven’t I? I mean, I get it. Some big reunion between the two of you and that stage play was kind of a two-man act. But how long since we’ve had some fun, Cottontail?”

“Cottontail?” Amaru asks.

“No clue. She started after we ran into each other on a job and now she won’t stop.”

“And since I think I want to play with you now, Amaru, I need something to call you. Any suggestions?”

“Mom calls me Ammy.”

“That is a lot to process. And not calling you what your mom calls you. I think I have it though.”

Her hands dart under the water and I watch as Amaru freezes once more. Her fingers find his length at rest. A moment of fishing, and she hefts him free from the bath, letting the weight drape over her outstretched palms. He hangs limp, although I can see the pulse through the veins slowly changing that.

“Lop Ear. I mean look at this thing. I’m surprised Cottontail can take it. Even when its like this, its so heavy. I can’t even wrap my hands around it. Look.”

She hefted it. Vein and pulse the heartbeat of drumming life in her palms. I feel the dark hunger in my core start to rise. And my teeth are clenched. Never noticed that fact. I don’t see a reason to unclench them. Annette likes it. She also marvels at his size, that slow growth of flesh taking the weight from her palms. My own hand reaches out and joins hers, finally giving him enough to be encircled. I look to him and there is that look. And it is a bit angry, but a puppy dog angry. Doesn’t have quite the confidence behind it to be threatening. I lean up and kiss him while his length jumps and twitches.

“I think he likes that, Cottontail,” Annette says, “Do it again.”

I interpret that as a suggestion, not an order. And either way, it is a good idea. I move a bit closer, drawing myself up his body. Hard, so hard and line, everything about him is chiseled and sculpted perfectly. Just the slightest give to him though, my hands sink an inch into him. I can feel the twitch of his length, his width travel through his body and I taste him again. I taste him deep down into my core and I am drunk on him with bloody lust. I bite his ear and the final twitch stammers his breath cold and still. Annette takes a sharp inhale.

“Wow,” she whispers. In the silence of the bath, it echoes like a church bell.

She looks to me and the question is asked with no words. She has to know. She has to try. Frankly, just asking is enough. I have the key to the gates that lead to him and she knows better than to try and force her way through.

“I have to try,” she whispers again. It’s almost to convince herself. Something so immense and so massive had to be tried and experience, if only because it is there.

“One rule,” I say, “Amaru, this is more your deal. Don’t finish inside. That’s for me.”

She lets a low whine escape, her disappointment plain and apparent. I understand. I really do. Which is why I have made that concession. That knot, that ugly vile knot of hatred, isn’t there. That was reserved just for Dantea and her smug, halfhearted conquering. As this is now mine, I may divvy and parse as I see fit. And if she wants any of it, then she will have to accept those terms.

“Can I swallow it?” she asks, and that is a very good retort. I ponder the terms.

“Yes, but you have to share.” She nods and breaks out into a wide eager grin. Amaru doesn’t seem to have much to say about this. I slowly break from Amaru and let Annette take my place. For the moment I watch. I let her straddle him, lacing her arms around his shoulders and she steals his lips for a moment. That knot does not make its appearance. Only a dull glowing warm from the water seeps outside in and inside out and everything starts tingling and lighting up and shimmering within me.

“Are you going to choke me out,” she asks.

“Not planning on it.”

“You did threaten to bash my skull on several occasions.”

“Mainly because that was an active fight. And that’s what you do in fights. And you were on the other side of the fights. And now you’re not. You’re supposed to be riding him. Are you stalling?”

“No.” A little crack as the voice fades determines the lie, bold and plain, plastered in the air.

“Good. He’s ready. Right, Amaru?”

He nods and huffs and I am looking at a prize stallion leashed and tamed in the stable. I move, rippling the warm water in glorious circles.

“I think you need a little help, Annette.”

She nods and trembles. I grasp his length and it feels hot, boiling hot, burning singing blazing hot, while her entrance weeps in terrified excitement. I line them up and Annette gasps and shudders as his head plays with her lips. She hugs his neck tight. Her back tenses and locks into place. I take my hands to her hips and start pushing down as Amaru bucks upward.

Slowly, glacially, we work him into her. Immediately, she starts shaking and trembling, hissing like a tea kettle at the spread and open part of Amaru’s invasion. It takes her several minutes, but he gets past the head and waits for the shaking to stop and her mind to become all her own again.

“Claire,” she moans, “You’re insane. Amaru, you’re insane. How did you do that? How did Dantea do this? Part of me wants to say halfway, but I know that’s just the head.”

She moans deep in her chest as she twirls her hips, trying to work more and more of him inside. I watch the weeping tears of pleasure bead down his shaft, tracing veins and bends like rivers through mountains. She settles down again and her breathing steadies once more to a gentle rise and fall. She pulls her hips up an inch and starts the descent on her own once more.

Every bit of territory gained is a slaughter against her. Spread so wide, spread so open and shifting, Amaru keeps advancing. He keeps it slow, as slow as he possibly can. And my hands go to her stomach as I trace his path on the outside. I trace the shape he makes in her belly, distending her stomach. One palm glances up to her breast and starts circling, trying to get her mind away from him, however slightly. She goes down past the head, past the fringe, still gliding herself down.

She hits the quarter mark and stops once more.

“I hate you both so much,” she groans. That pulls a chuckle from Amaru.

“You’re the one who hopped on,” he says.

“You’re ruining me. It’ll never be the same. And you laugh, you jackass.”

Against my wishes, she rises a bit, letting the stretch sink into the shallows of her. Both palms go to her chest, pinching and twisting and pulling. She cannot escape the delicious agony of our existence crashing into her.

“We haven’t even started,” I purr, “Do you want to stop?”

“Oh gods no. If I can walk after this, I will never stop rubbing it in. Give it to me, Lop Ear.”

I sigh and smirk and look to him. I nod and he returns and his hands go to her waist, lifting her up just a bit more. Like an avalanche, he pushes her down, more and more and more and more of his length disappearing into her. I feel the bulge in her stomach crawl ever upwards, ever high, past her navel, almost to her rib cage, where it simply hits a dead end.

“Mistake,” she squeals, “Big mistake. Oh gods, worst idea.”

She’s just past the halfway mark, just past the claimed line of someone else. Still not all the way. That is still just reserved for me and me alone.

“I think that’s her limit,” Amaru growls. Must be frustrating in its own way. He knows, he knows that there can be more for him. Not with this one though. Another failed attempt to claim him.

“Don’t be like that,” I say, “She’s doing so good. Better than I thought she would even. So, you bottom out a bit before you want to. That’s no reason to stop.”

“Mistake,” Annette gasps, “but I didn’t get to where I am by making good choices.”

He shrugs and lifts her again, taking that wonderful protrusion of her stomach and letting it lie flat again. With a smooth turn, she flips around and faces me. As she descends, he gets a bit deeper. Worth it probably, but I think that is just her limit. There might be a way to train her more, but that’s for later. Now, there is work to be done.

Amaru starts his dance in earnest, simple up and down, in and out again and again, picking up the pace as gradually as his instincts allow. Annette tries to help and I admire the effort if nothing else. She tries to match the rhythm the out and in with her own rise and fall, but its weak, amounting to nothing more than a soft suggestion of more to come. But she keeps trying, face scrunched and teeth gritted against the invasion.

I like this new position for her. I watch her face contort and stretch, just as her stomach does. I can play with her now, pinching and fondling, kissing and stroking, adding devilish texture to the battering ram bass drum rhythm. Harmony and melody over tempo, all concepts she knows so well. And it all works so well against her.

She can’t find the tempo. It rushes or drags and she wants it to be steady and clear. Once the foundation is established, then flourishes can be built on top. But there is not art here. Brutal destruction and the simple joy of desolation, that is all we are and she is falling down into it. The gritted teeth soften and the lips part and open. Its laughter, its pure and simple joy at the world so much larger than her.

The tremors start in her stomach and rise up to her chest. Her arms go to me and pull me from the water and to her lips and I drink of her from her. It tastes manic high and rainbow pastel as the lust from her own release pours into me. Amaru does not stop. He cannot stop. Only half of him is accepted and he has to compensate. As she climaxes and her own release sprays to my stomach his quakes grow faster and faster and faster, putting more and more strength into his hips. Water spills over the lip of the bath.

More and more of her weight falls on me as her climax ends and even when he keeps thrusting, she lets out a dreary eyed sigh that sounds like a death rattle. I kiss her again, turning the noise to a muffle moan.

“Why,” she whines.

“Why what?” I ask, biting her lips, her ears, her shoulder, her neck.

“I don’t know. I just have to ask a question. Why would the world be like this?” each word shifts between a laugh and a sob, a snicker and a cough, breaking the syllables down into staccato snares.

“I think she likes you, Ammy,” I say. He grunts and settles into his final rhythm.

A little bit faster than the previous, strokes going a bit deeper than she can handle. This is for him and him alone. Her pleasure, her pain doesn’t matter. Her eyes lose focus and her grin turns lopsided and drunk. The shakes of another release pour through her. I occupy myself with her lips, her tongue with my own, tasting everything, taking everything through her. When she stops responding, I move on. Amaru is focused on her, the dark, dark skin of charcoal and ash, beading sweat and noise hammered from the core of this creature. His is not much more sophisticated than that. A rut, a simple rut of a female that isn’t quite enough for him. His mind is still present enough to taste me as I taste him. Wild and raging, a storm housed in pale blue skies, he tastes like a mountain range collapsing into white water rapids.

With a heavy sigh of disappointment, I sense his own quakes through her. It’s inevitable and they will both break that one rule I set. But it just seems cruel to deprive them of that. And while I may be vicious, I am not cruel. And I don’t think I could muster the strength to pry him off without hurting one or the other more than they would care for. So, I let them at it.

He grunts and chuffs like a beast, hands pulling Annette close. He almost crushes her. Bone pressed distention of flesh, gritted teeth and clenched jaws, both use every bit of their remaining energy to bring out one more trip over the void.

With one final thrust, still stopped short only halfway and a half, Amaru moans with the deep bass rumble that threatens to collapse the ceiling on top of us. Annette just laughs, manic and high and winding as her mind fails to understand that her body is going through all of this and reaming in one piece. Her own release joins her first, running rivers down my stomach, through the lines of my hardened muscles. She collapses into me. All of her strength is gone and only the remaining movement is pathetic twitches of the body trying to prove itself as still alive.

Amaru’s takes a bit more time to become evident. The waves start to build for the tidal wave collision from his core. I watch the pulse travel up his exposed length. I savor the shocks of his seed hitting depths and it finally ignites some strange version of that bitter knot that the demon tied. Not that it happened, but that it happened before my turn, that the rules I set were broken. The idea of sending Amaru out to pasture does tickle something within me, but that is for later. Right now, I just content myself with the show, watching pulse after pulse detonate within her and try to keep her upright. The shape of him through her stomach blurs and rounds as more and more of that heavy seed settles in her depths.