For a Song Pt. 04

---

I am shirtless and that's fine. I am shoeless and that's even better. My boots were soaked through and that's a perfect recipe for blisters. Those are never fun, although I have heard of absolute freaks that like to pop them. I don't think about those people if I can help it. I shiver and that's not fine. If only I had pants on me, that would help, but I am down to the smallest clothes I want on my body. I wave to the shore. Gawain waves back. Maya and her gang do not. In their defense, they have a very long rope in their hands.

I move the pulley a bit more and that's more or less in the middle of the river. The water is surprisingly calm, barely any chop, but the surface is still fractured and broken from the endless rainstorm. It's a river, a wide flat river only grown fatter with Gerardine's presence. Fat things are slow. That's just a simple fact of life. I give a thumbs up to the shore and I get one back from a stray hand. I take a deep breath and step out into the drink.

And it is cold. Very cold. Cold catching in my chest, stinging my eyes, holding my limbs in place. I feel the grit and the swirling silt around my legs. It's cold and loving, a corpse's embrace bringing me down into the endless sleep. Just the same as the reaper's scythe, just the same as the last breath, just the same as the coffin and tombstone. I bob up to the surface and I feel something akin to life. It's better up here. If anything, it's actually kind of calming. I'm on my back, floating along the current. The rain is hitting my face and washing away everything I can be. I am just a worm. I am just a useless little bit of nothing, fit only to attract monsters that will inevitably end my pitiable existence. A kick and a splash and nothing seems to be biting.

Maya seemed a bit surprised at how easily I slipped out my clothes. Practice, mostly. There is a bit of natural talent in there, sure, but anyone at all can throw down with me if there's a bit of work behind it. Gawain's getting there. I'll make sure he gets there. All the current gives me is endless mindless thought while I wait.

So, I wait. I wait and I wait and then I wait some more. Part of me thinks this was all just a series of unfortunate happenings where nothing actually went wrong. No monster in the water, just an unusual amount of rain, and that lizard I talked to on the way in was just a gecko that liked fish. I don't even have a horn. It's just a weird bug bit.

"Fool," says the water and suddenly all my thoughts are wrong. I turn to the side and there is a bloated corpse staring back at me.

"I'm not the one you should be talking to," I say, spitting out a mouthful of river water, "Your girl is on the dock crying her eyes out. She needs a shoulder and a hanky or something."

"And you're the one in the river," says the dead eyes.

Soddal is dead. They are all dead, in one way or another. And she just happened to have drowned. Now she is drowning. And she will drown forever more. I don't even know what she was supposed to be, every feature is waterlogged and bloated, glassy and pale, hair strung out and knotted in an endless nest.

"Are you going to get me out," I ask.

"No. You threw yourself into me and I am not in the habit of letting things go."

"Hey, at least I'm doing something with my life. You know how important bait is. And I'm good bait. All I have to do is lie back and think worm thoughts. I can wriggle and writhe. Perhaps even squirm if the fancy strikes me."

A series of bubbles froth from the corner of her lips before spilling out. I'm very cold and I'm just hoping that I get grabbed sooner rather than later. I need more soup and I just got the soup guy to like me.

"It's coming," she says, "I would take deep breaths, if I could. I will tell you you're in good hands. If anyone can pull you away from this thing, then it's your friends on the shore."

"I wouldn't say friends. More like opportunists. If they catch the thing, great. If I die, at least they'll feel better. The kids won't come back, but still, something."

More bubbles and a swell comes to drag her down. I wipe away the single tear stinging my eye. Kind of a pointless gesture when the whole rainstorm is washing all the tears away.

Something brushes my spine and I spasm. All the master of my body and that still happens. It will never not happen. It was sharp and scaly and cold, brushing the water in hypnotic icy swirls. They whirl over my chest, and I take the deepest breaths I can. It does help, if only to keep my calm. I jump again when it grazes my spine again.

Such a timid thing now. The bank one was much more aggressive. I get a lingering trace along my calf and one last lungful of sweet, sweet air.

And then I'm drowning.

Dragged and clapped, the claws pierce my skin and that's enough of to send me thrashing. Strong hands, designed for this, perfected for this simple act, webbed and scaled and grabbing. The plates overlap and sink into my skin like barbs.

The rope tugs at my waist as more hands pile on my body, taking me down. The river is deep, and I have time to think once again. I think of open skies and sunny days. I think of Eliza and Gawain and my mother, not quite in the same contexts. But I am here are the bottom of the world. My lings are burning already. The thrashing was not helpful. It only helped the thing tire me out. I hit the bottom and more hands come to hold me down. More talons, more claws, more barbs into me and the only solace is the softness of the silt at the bottom of the river. The rope tugs at my waist and it's trying. There are seasoned hands pulling me up and pulling me down, an endless tug of war over who is more experienced with the terrible act of yanking things where they should not be yanked.

The rope pulls once more, and something gives. I start to rise, following the bubbles escaping from my lips. Through the murky silt, I catch a glimpse of scales and a mane, sharp teeth in a long muzzle. And eyes, myriad eyes gazing back into me. It appears Maya was wrong. It's not a water horse. It's water horses. Fun.

The armies fight over me, and I continue to rise up into the heaves. My lungs keep screaming and screaming. I should not be down here. I should be somewhere else, anywhere else, anything else, other than bait.

My head cracks the surface, and the gasp can be heard for miles.

Air and water mix and churn in my lungs, life and death. A woman is laughing, and she is not on the shore. A woman is crying, and I think that's only in my head. A hand tightens and I'm not sure who's it is. Through the drops and waves and writhing bodies, I glimpse the shore. The crew is working well together, a shared millennium of practice between them at fighting the nature of the world. And they are good at it. The endless experience is something to bow to and thank.

I am dragged down again, and I realize we are still just fishing. Slack and release, tension and tighten, it all is a rhythm to keep the line whole and the catch on said line. Hope and despair roll, mixing and colliding and doing so many things in me. The colors, I watch the colors at the edge of my soul, some distant part of me trying to take the sensation and weave it into music for when I am warm and dry and safe. A curse really, that endless thought in the back of the mind that can never try to realize the moment for what it is. I am fighting for my life, holding on to life with every fiber of my being, except one.

An odd bit of confusion hits me when I hit both the bottom and surface of the river at the same time. Then I realize I can see Gawain standing over the edge of the docks with a large net. I can watch each vein pop and surge on Maya's arms. I can see the beads of sweat mix and roll with the rain. I look down and watch my blood swirl with the dirty river water. And the bodies next to me, scaly and slinking and long, coiling on me like eels. Eels with claws and teeth and a bloodlust completely alien to me.

The net comes down, bonking me on the head and probably damaging my delicate horn. That's a row with Gawain when I safe. The water horses start to realize their troubles but it's too late. We are rising. We are all rising up into the safety of the open sky. We are all rising into the loving arms of sodden blankets and steady ground, whipping winds and burning suns.

I flop onto the deck like a dead fish, coughing and hacking and crawling as far away as I can from the water. The horses let go, fully realizing their terrible mistake. Then Gawain buries his curvy knife in the neck of the one still clinging to me. The crew descends with fury, hacking and whacking and cutting and slicing. I'm still crawling away, my part over and down with.

"Get that one," Maya shouts. I follow the finger and there's a baby trying to scamper away. Kind of cruel, but a toss-up in the grand scheme of things.

Overkill, plain and simple. A glowing blade of volcanic rage descends, sizzling with drizzling steam, cutting the baby's head clean of. I catch one last glimmer of blackened flesh flying through the air before it sinks back into the water. The body twitches for the last time before going completely still. A crack follows and the dock beneath it crumbles. Ash, from the inside out, the poor wood falls to collateral damage. With a flourish trailing smoke and heat and steam, Blake puts his blade on his back, glowering at us all. I hear sobbing off in the distance, growing closer. Gawain, though, Gawain is nice. He lends me his cloak and it's surprisingly snuggly inside.

---

I smirk at Blake. He does not smirk back. His entire being is collapsed into its endless glower. There is nothing else he can be other than a sourpuss. Even as the party continues to swirl around us. A party might be a bit of a strong word, but I can't think of anything better. The crew decided that we all need to be drunk to celebrate. There's a butcher a few blocks over that's working on mounting the poor things we killed while the flesh sizzles on a grill. It smells wonderful, although I don't think I'll be partaking. It seems odd to eat something that we know has eaten a person. But food is food, and that sentiment is slowly losing to the scents coming from the kitchen. Maya slides another drink in front of me, our eyes meeting for a moment longer than strictly business. I smirk harder and Blake glowers more. Not my fault. There's probably something out there for him if he wants to go and grab it. I watch a pair of Kurhks talk amongst themselves, casting eyes at him. But he only has eyes for me.

I'm still cold, but I'm working on that. Beer and warm bread and soup and blankets and Gawain playing a rousing game of footsies with me is something to keep me occupied. Gerardine is nowhere to be found, slipped away for some official business. I don't mind.

"That was reckless," Blake growls. The poor man hasn't touched his drink. It's going to get warm, not the good warm, at this rate. He can have fun. He can have so much more fun than what he's having right now.

"But it worked," Gawain sighs, "It worked, and the people saw us doing it. That's what matters. Scratch that. It worked. That's the only important part. The only other thing we can do is get out of here as fast as we can, so the rain doesn't wash away the town."

"We'll leave when it's time to leave. Gerardine is talking with the mayor over lifting the river travel. And the consequences of the townspeople going against that lock down."

"They were acting under Weaver authority," I sigh, "I don't see how that's an issue."

"The issue is that a contractor. A. Contractor. Issued orders to civilians without proper representation."

"I was with him," Gawain says, "We did it under my authority."

"You do not have authority," says Blake. I'm surprised my eyes aren't out the door with how far I roll them. Gawain's steaming and I don't blame him. He taps my foot and I tap back, but he doesn't go again. Too much of a bad mood for any more play. Shame. I find that the play is possibly the best way to get out of a bad mood. And Maya is still finding my eyes. That is a good reason to keep them indoors. It must be filthy outside anyway.

Blake and Gawain lapse into a tense silence that I don't think I want to shatter. I tap his foot one last time and he gives me a glance. In that glance is a bit of permission to slip away from the table and let him fight his own fights. I think that's stupid, but if he wants to throw down with something double his size, that's his deal. I think he likes it in a way. I smirk at my own little joke and Blake's glower deepens. That's all I need to get up and leave. Everyone else in the room is happy.

They clap me on the back and say I should get on the hook more often. They'd catch sea serpents in the river if I'm along. Coelacanths and dragonfish and all the mysteries of the deep in their own backyard. They'd pull me back every single time and we'd all grow fat and happy and rich. It's appealing. It really is. I like the rich part out of all of them. But I keep seeing this odd pair of sparkling eyes off in the distance. The gleam in the waves, cresting foam catching the pure sun, giving heat and the white of salt air on my skin. The money can't allure me in the same way. I slip through the side hugs and back claps and chest thumps and all the raucous laughter. I look back to my origin and see Gawain and Blake still fuming against one another in an endless stare down. Gawain gives me a look that gives just enough permission for me to go on. There's also a plead to save him from hell, but that can wait. He has drinks to go through and that's important.

"I never did get a chance to thank you," Maya whispers. I can smell the beer in her breath. She's also been smoking, I think. It melds into something more intoxicating than I thought. Not quite a pleasant aura but encompassing and alluring in its own way. The world pictured as it is, not some fanciful ideal of riches and leisure. Work and vice and glorious pain to forge a person capable of weathering it all. It must be tiring, that crucible, but there are alleviations present when the time comes.

"If I may be a presumptuous ass," I say, "I think you're going to do that now."

"You're right. You are a presumptuous ass."

"Good. Good. I still have some self-awareness. I was worried that me working with the Weavers would take that away from me."

She snorts a laugh and it's ugly. It's harsh. It belongs in a barnyard pen with slop and troughs and mud, and I fight back the urge to tackle her to ground and start in plain view of the whole world. The drinks must have gotten to me more than I thought.

"Is your friend going to be ok?" she asks.

"Probably. He's got some fight in him, buried in those robes. Blake, not sure. He never seems to be ok in the first place. Never can take a straight win."

"I hate people like that. The work is done. No use in bitching about how it was done. How're your wounds?"

"I have those? I must have forgotten. Gerardine may be a terrible fisher, but she is good and stitching things together. Even if her tears sting."

"She cried over you?"

"I know. I'm not worth the effort. But not the weirdest medicine thing I've seen someone pull. Used to know someone who would have sex to get rid of cuts. Worked very well."

"Shame. I would have loved to try that out."

"Ow. Oof. Ouch. There're so many broken bones. All of them. All of the bones are broken and twisted. And don't get me started on my organs. I don't think I have any left in me."

"You don't have a brain maybe," she snorts, "But you look healthy enough."

Two snorts, hook and line, but not quite sinker. The scar on her lips is still pulling into a grimace, but it's softer now. Action, always action, solves problems. Hemming and hawing and waiting only serve the growing anxiety and rage. But we're here now.

"Is anything going to happen with you and the mayor," I venture, "Seems like that might have been a button for him."

"He's not the mayor. Not really. Weaver's came in and installed a post and now suddenly we had to have a mayor. No one listens to him for long. If you four didn't come along, then we would have dredged the river anyway."

"Huh. So, I guess I should have just waited around. Saved me some trouble."

"No. You needed to go in. Builds character."

"Next time though, can we go Dumile fishing with softer rope?"

Third snort, a bit softer this time, but it still counts. She looks to her cup, then looks to me and then looks to a cracked door with a hallway behind it. I put the pieces together expertly. I've seen the puzzle so many times before, but the final push is always exhilarating. Maya grabs my wrist softly. I can still feel the callouses in there. Knots and hooks, guttings and skinnings, so much from a simple grasp. I like it. Skills in those hands, soft in their own way, in a different way. I don't let her pull me, though. I keep pace with her. Snatching two full tankards from a table. I ignore the curses that follow me. There are more coming for them, but I am headed to a place that does not have the same services available.

The door creak fades into the floorboards and that fades int the general milling of the crowd. Maya's steps are heavy, purposeful, not a moment of hesitation in them. There is even less in mine. A corner, and then another, and a set of stairs descending into the earth. The air drops a bit, and I am cold once again. I'm a bit done with all that, but I can deal. I know where I'm going next and that's warm and sunny and dry. It will be incredible. It will be amazing. It will be the best time of my life outside of the next little altercation.

It's a storage cellar, crates and barrels and sacks of potatoes slumped in the corner. Romantic. I've had bland tents and spider infested shacks and thin-walled inn rooms and this gets added to the list of places. I miss plush beds. I miss soft fields of grass. I miss warm sunny beaches. I miss sauna baths most of all. I will get back to them, eventually. Hopefully.

Maya's giggle still carries that ugly rush of air that's almost a growl. Bestial, almost, still beautiful. No frills, no lace, no pillows and canopies. Her movements carry the same base nature brought forth from the simple joy of a successful hunt. Her grip slips to my hips and pulls me close. Her body presses into mine and her lips find my neck. She's a biter, it seems. Not the fondest memory I have right now, but she is slowly scouring that association from me. She will be successful. I will make sure of that.

"You taste like river mud," she hums into my collar bone.

"Two things. One, I know. Two, why do you know what that tastes like?"

She just goes back to nibbling on my neck like a curious fish, slowly working underneath all the best clothes. Those deft hands have wonderful practice undoing buttons and knots, slowly slipping it all away. She snorts again when she sees my bare chest, although this does have more derision than mirth mixed in.

"That's terrible," she sighs, "That's the best the Weaver's tears can do. One wrong move and half your wounds will open up again. I could do better with rusty hook."

"Y'know, not to sound dismissive, but I don't think so. Mainly because you seem to think that a rusty hook is a good medical instrument."

"Oh, and I guess you know so much about that? With all that lovely brain you obviously don't have."

"Believe it or not, just because I am exceedingly handsome does not make me an idiot. I have had other assignments before the useless crybaby and the hothead."

She rolls her eyes and that's that. She has decided I'm useless and that's fine. There are uses for useless idiots. Her lips trail down, very inconsiderate of what she sees as shoddy work that could tear me apart at the slightest provocation. I take her chin and pull her back up. I find her own neck, going up to her cheeks, playing her ears. They flutter when my hands grab the hem of her shirt and start lifting. The flutter when I come to her chest, glancing over the mountains before dropping them. Her hands come up and the shirt is forgotten. We find each other's lips. She tastes like sour beer and fish, but, as a gentleman, I will make no remarks on any of that. I happen to like sour beer and fish when it is concerned with pleasing me in a storeroom next to a surprisingly nonchalant sack of potatoes.