For a Song Pt. 05

"No, not yet. I got run out of town on a rail. Messed with a Soddal and a Vermil. Met a Greaycrown that was nice though."

"What did you do? I have my scythe. I can help."

"Remember how the full contract wouldn't work and we had to do the deal under the table? The goody two shoes wanted the full deal. And that kind of broke the Vermil guy. And in the interest of fairness, I think you should know."

"I don't care. I found you again and that's that. Come on. If you really messed up this bad, we should probably leave.

"It's Verlaine."

That does make her stop and stare. That does make her consider every option she can. There is a bit of run away in there. There is a bit of trepidation left in there. And then it's gone.

"It is what you think," I whisper, "I understand if- "

"I found you again," she says, "I found you again and we're going off together. That's that."

"Huh. I kind of expected more."

"I have questions, don't you worry. But pillow talk questions. Do you have a destination in mind, or is it just a get as far away as possible type deal? Wait, what's that?"

I don't hear anything for a long moment. And then I hear something in the water, slipping in the current, against the current.

I move to the bank, keeping low. Eliza does her best, but she's a big girl. It takes a lot of shadows to cover her, and the night has so many of those. Not enough, in my opinion. And the river will see them all.

"HERETIC," screams the water, "HERETIC! SHOW YOURSELF!"

I sigh. I don't want to do this. I really, really don't want to deal with any of this. I look to Eliza and motion that we should move on. We really should. She does not share my opinion, hands going to the long scythe on her back.

I see a lantern dance down river. It bobs in time with the invisible oars, always going forward. I don't hear the sobbing from Gerardine. I don't see any hint of a heavy cloak and a wonderfully soft body within.

"I'll take care of this," Eliza mutters.

"Eliza, please," I whisper back, "Just let this pass. I don't want to drag you into this. There's a lot of heat that comes with bringing down someone with the Weavers. You know that."

"I do. I also don't like his tone."

"I don't either. But he's not worth it. I just want to move on. We're going west."

"Well, West is back towards Riverbend. I'm assuming you just came from there and since he's coming from there, I'm also assuming that you moving on also means moving back through him and her and whatever else wants you to burn."

The boat glides along softly. It looks so small now, so tight and controlled. The river is a mirror. The stars are little dots and I can't see the moon anymore. All new and dark and hidden.

I feel the black start to pool in Eliza, spilling from her soul. Blake has his burning red and I'm not sure what I am right now. I think blue, nice and deep and tired. The purple that comes around the eyes with little sleep, sunken sockets and blood shot veins. I think that's what works with me, even when I just woke up from a very refreshing nap.

"Are you sure you want to do this for me," I whisper. Eliza looks down into me, already thinking of graveyards and cold tombs, bones picked clean and wilting lilies. She's offended, I think. The black grows deeper and there's a shiver up my spine. It traces its way back down and settles in my tail bone.

"I've decided your mine," she says with absolute finality, "I'm not letting this jackass get in my way.

Affection, simple and pink, tinges the swirling black. Her own arousal spikes in the same vein and that's an odd thing to note where it comes in. It started with the name, slowly rising with each and every moment we spend together. And then there's the idea that violence is imminent and something about that excites the whole body. Some of the remnants come to the core. We'll deal with that later.

With the path set in motion, we creep towards the bank, although I am a bit wearier than I should be. There were monsters in the water.

"HERETIC," he screams again, and I think he might be a bit slow. He needs to know more words than just the one. It's good, but still.

And then he reaches under the lip of his skiff and lifts up a form. A form I like. A form I really like. A form in the shape of a Gawain, limp and unconscious and probably bruised and battered all over.

Well, then. That's it. All of that trepidation is gone and there is only action left. Shame it took me this long to get there, but here I am and here we are. Blake's mad, Gawain's unconscious, Eliza is eager and I'm a bit nettled. She looks to me and likes whatever she sees.

"One last chance to back out," I whisper, half to me, half to her. I'm not quite sure the right answer, but I am here, and I will keep marching. A hand taps my shoulder and points to the bank. I look to the gap where the moon should be, and I smile. I almost laugh. I don't We have a bit of a surprise element in our corner, and I am not so far gone to the rage to give that up. The strings are a bit wet and the wood's holding a good bucket full of water. It'll still be beautiful.

Eliza fully takes out her scythe, catching the soft starlight with the black metal. I take a few more seconds to tune the strings. It's going to sound terrible, but I'm not exactly feeling good. I can't really play happy music when I feel the sour acid pit in my stomach. It's going to be angry.

She taps my shoulder and smiles. Her teeth are gleaming, her eyes are shining, and I feel the absolute weight of the end of all things collapse into me. I start playing.

"I know who I am.

The moonlit lake told me.

This is who you are.

My fangs are so long.

My nails are sharper than ice.

That is me

I wonder what that will prove," I sing with the endless fury of the forgotten night. I let my fingers delve into the black fury of gnarled spines, barbed thorns and sickly blood. I find Blakes burning rage and weave it into Eliza's calm abyss of bitter work and grim determination. It all pools into a maddening swirl of color with no name. She lets a low whistle that cuts through my music into a low keen of mourning doves.

Blake snaps to us and tosses Gawain overboard. And now everything he gets he has coming to him with no guilt on my conscious. Eliza leaps, weaving the darkness of her soul and my tones into steps to dance upon. She steps as light as a feather and lands on the skiff with a death knell. It makes him stumble a bit and that's something at least. He draws his blade just fast enough to block the decapitation. Sparks and screaming and endless metal rending towards the heavens.

"You dare to side with the heathen," he roars above the flames of his beautiful creation.

"And you dare to side against me," Eliza says. She's smiling and she's terrifying. She's beautiful and horrific. She keeps her weapon moving. Every joint is loose and chaotic, constant motion and constant flex. Blake is constant and stalwart and ever brilliant against the chaos we cause. I keep playing, letting her take the moment in the spotlight.

She is motion incarnate, bobbing and weaving against the wall of flame, rocking the boat into the current and sloshing the balance into the endless topsy-turvv dive. She keeps close to him, threading darkness through the light, taking his heat and casting it aside. Blake is still good, knowing the full extent of his tools. And with that knowledge comes talent, plain and simple. But it is not enough to fight the knots I tangle him in. The music is infectious and a blessing, wielded by me alone.

I take the colors of the world and turn them into delirious noise of the primal self. I find the core of shadowy black burying the light and give it the end of the world to wield. I take the burning sun and make it grow cold and dim.

I Find the smoky ember shadow drawing away in the curing and stoke the maddening ticking of the clock, turning back until its vessel is whole and good and safe. Gawain chokes in the water and I see the splashes start as he panics. I soothe tat away too. All of the minds we have are shared and held close, through the hatred and love and fear. I don't know where the knot we weave will strangle us. I don't know who will fall through the floor and snap their neck. I feel it. It will not be me. It will not be Eliza. It will not be Gawain.

"BLAKE. BLAKE STOP," cries a woman on the shore. Gerardine, through her tears, through her sorrow, through her endless sadness, slipped her abyssal blue into our rainbow. She sobs a bit and gets it under her control. Just a soft sniffle and a few stray tears melting into the river.

Eliza does not stop. He is distracted and a distracted opponent is wide open. His neck finds some cold bite of metal and then the scythe finds nothing at all. His head goes flying and drops in the water like a stone. The ripples come to land at my feet as Gawain crawls up next to me, soaked and stained with mud.

Gerardine falls back to her sobs and the rain comes back in full. Heavy and cold and collapsing, all from the endless sorrow she can bring. Thunder rumbles off in the distance. It is dark, so dark, so drenched in shadows. The fire is gone. The shadows, the grave, the weaving of soft light remains when nothing grand combines. Eliza stands tall, basking in her glory. Another foe felled down and that is all she is supposed to be. I stop playing and help haul Gawain full onto the shore. He hacks up murky water and shakes. His cloak is quickly drying. That must be handy. He's coughing and panting, but he's alive. Eliza's alive.

"Leave," Gerardine whispers from the opposite bank. The rain carries the words clearly, in the circles they make on the water, the rivers down my skin, the weight that comes from the wet fabric. Eliza stands tall and proud and full of endless satisfaction. The future does not exist. It is a moment lost to the abstract. She is victorious again and that's all that matters. That's all that needs to be. She gazes at Gerardine, eyeing her form and considering it beneath her. Her work is over. It's a simple motion to row her to my shore. She is still beaming as she dismounts on to dry land. The blood is gone from her scythe. The current carries the skiff away to the other side. Gerardine has already found the head. She just needs the other part and then it can all be set ablaze.

Despite my nature, I don't think it would be a good idea to help. Instead, I prop Gawain up on my shoulder and hobble back to town. I get three steps before Eliza plucks him up and carries him like he's a kitten. I don't complain. I just keep walking.

---

"I'm sure he'll be fine," Eliza murmurs to me from her bed, "You did your work on him. And you do good work. I know that firsthand."

"I know. I did all I could. Helping you on the boat took a lot and he got the rest. I guess I'm just drained. Had a hard day."

She scooches over and pats the mattress before her. I don't know why. That's a given. But still, I appreciate it. We were welcomed back with open arms by Riverbend. The butcher has finished his work with the water horses, and they hang proudly from the rafters in a convoluted knot. I admired them for a long moment before turning my attention to medicine. Gawain's off in another room sleeping soundly and all tucked in tight. The burns have some ointments on them, and he's swaddled in soft gauze. I'm done, plain and simple. All of it is over and the next step will come when I so decide. I take off my soaking clothes and dry myself the best I can before sliding into bed. Eliza takes me in her arms. She is cool, not cold. I was hoping for warm, but there is something nice about this.

"Your horn is dull," she whispers. I'm too busy being smothered by her cleavage to give a complete answer. I fight for air and come to gaze into her eyes.

"Haven't had a chance to take it in," I sigh, "There was a whole bit where I was bait for a river monster. And I was a farmer for a bit. And I had to stand in the rain for like a whole day and a half."

She has beautiful eyes, cold gray granite stone, even and balanced, the final tip of the endless scale down to something like justice. They prompt more out of me, but I have none left to give. I'm glad the eye patch is mostly for show. I would have missed this moment.

"Don't you have a country to run?" I ask, kissing her neck softly. She rumbles like an avalanche just beginning.

"Not what I was supposed to do," she sighs, "Just put Don Quiney in power and maybe get a Baroness title. Didn't happen. The second part, not the first. A peasant uprising happened in like a week and they said they'd actually give me the house that was supposed to be mine. And they did. So, I have a house now. I don't think I'm going to use it though. You're not there."

"You really did miss me," I whisper. She hums and holds me closer. Her body is hard. Her body is cool. Her body is endless bedrock stone that can't even be broken. I hold her close and breathe her in. I am lost into the endless avalanche of her being, buried like the rest of everything else she has ever met. Her hands find my back and trace a simple line. I listen to her breathing. It's all quiet and calm and silent now. There is no rain. There is no river. There is no roaring flame. There is only a slow heartbeat and a calm even breath. There is only the sound of nothing at all in my ears and the cold embrace of death. I am tired, but not exhausted. I could just lie here forever and ever and never come back out, never quite awake, but never quite dead. I will sink into the endless death of calming dreams that have no end.

"I did miss you," she says, "and that's why I left the stupid campaign. That and the no castle thing. I worked for you. Pay me."

"Couldn't agree more. Although, if they did pay me, we wouldn't have met."

"We would have. You are mine. Don't you remember?"

"Gawain might have some words for that."

"He can be mine too."

"I think he'll fight for me, actually. But I have some pull with him. We'll figure it out. Later. Not now. I like this. I like these."

I trace a palm over her chest and that little motion is enough to bring her around to me. I still like them. I still lavish them. They swallow my hand, and I am not so different than any other man in the world. I kiss them and they are soft. I knead them under my hand and make her make noises for me. All soft, all encouraging, all gentle and loving and willing to give herself over to her favorite. I work the nipple into my mouth, biting and sucking and coming back to her.

I really did miss her, the sweet hollow in my stomach whispers. So many bodies behind me and I come back to one I know so well. Not necessarily better, although one of the best, but familiar. And that single word alone is more than enough to make up for any of the arbitrary faults I have with her. None come to mind in the moment. I trace a hard line of knitted scar. That was from an arrow she took to shield a pikeman. I find another. That was a duel with another follower of Cout during her initial training. Said she broke his kneecap in retaliation and I believe her. There is one from her stomach and I think that is new. No, that's from a time she slipped on a rock when she was climbing as a kid. She said it came from a griffin, but then she said it was a cockatrice. I pulled the truth from her while working her soft breasts in my hands while our tongues played with crisp wine.

I have memories of her and that's a novel thing. I like it. I like the fact that I pull from our experience to weld a new one out of nothing. She holds me to her tight, running the same patterns that I've found I've enjoyed with her. I forgot about that, the way her entire hand can force my shoulder down and back, how big her fingers feel as they scrub and scratch, how simply strong she is. I work her muscles as they blend into scars, as they flex and creak and bend. I wait for that little bit in her elbow to click and pop as it always does. I am right. It still does that. I kiss the cork and move my attention downward.

Her stomach is still the same, hard lines and deep valleys of work, I feel her heartbeat carry through them, just as it does with the rest of her. It's getting faster. It's working in the rest of her mind to get her to where I'm at. She groans and it sounds the same as I remember. She goes down into a chuckle and it's the same. It's all the same and I couldn't be happier.

She moves her hips as I pass her navel, pass the thin coating of soft hair that tickles my lips on my voyage. I feel her heat enter my mind through her clothes and I don't want them anymore. So, I take them away. Together, we take her down to bare it all and I marvel at how thick and strong her legs are. I forgot. I have forgotten so much in the time we've lost. I almost feel like crying. Almost, but the heat and the want and that rising need drown out the rest. I am here and now and there is only joy and rapture. That can still cause tears in the right moments, but this is not that moment.

I kiss her and she tastes of heat. The only part of her that carries any warmth. Beneath all the cold stone is an endless blaze, a forge, a kiln constantly sharpening and hardening and smithing a new day of trouble. I kiss it at its entrance and marvel at the will beyond it. Eliza throws her legs over my shoulders and pins me to the bed. I am insulted, just a bit. I was not going to leave so soon. I was not going to leave at all.

Despite the difference in our size, I still have a bit of force to me. More than she remembers, it seems, by the surprised yelp I pull from her as my grip tightens and lifts. I get her spine off the softness of the blankets. I get her shoulders to carry most of her weight. I take her legs and make a bridge, nothing uncomfortable, just to make sure that she knows who her partner is. I lavish her with soft kisses, wiping away the beading arousal from her slit. I close my eyes and simply lose myself in her.

It's fun, plain and simple, to have her make noises. They come from deep in her chest, deep in her soul, taking over all of her without a care in the world. There is only the thought of appreciation, of further descent into the sensation. I take her there, making her noises manifest like bells ringing in my ears. She rumbles with the graven cries of the damned. I trace the lines of darkness in her skin as they morph into the lines of scars. They all blend and swirl in soft lines, hard knots, an endless plain of her tapestry woven. Her existence is worn on her smooth skin. I like to kiss and suck and watch her body contort it in waves. The scars ripple as she pulls on my tongue. Just instinct and response, no hope of control.

"That silver tongue of yours," she whines, "Gods I missed that silver tongue. Y'know, I tried to let the edge off with someone else. One of the mages, a hellion. But she just wasn't as good as you."

I hum at the praises and filter through the memories. She likes the Blind Man's Shadow, if I am correct, so I go with that tune for her. And she does like that. I am right. It's a sad song, but those are always the best ones. The sorrow mixes with the rapture and pools into ecstasy. Her legs try and push me down six feet under. I rise, pushing back against her, taking a hand from her ascension and aiding my tongue. In time with her song, in time with my rhythm, in time with the shared will. I find that spot again, the spot she shivers under, and I stay there. I move the hands and circle my tongue and it is enough to keep her on the edge of madness.

Her noises stop and everything goes tense. I keep the emotion, offering no mercy. She would hate it if I gave her any. Her endless black abyss runs pure white in the release, hitting me on the collar bone as she climaxes. It is all madness plain and simple and clear. I keep my tongue on her, pulling more from her. Her legs are heavy. Her whole body is heavy as she slips into the most pleasant little death, she can manage.