For a Song Pt. 06

So, I turn to Eliza. The metal meets her skin, and she does not flinch. It meets her arms, and nothing happens. It meets her cheek, drawing a thin line of red and it does nothing at all. The gentlemanly options have been exhausted.

I take a few steps back and line everything up. My boot meets the partner's head and something cracks. There's enough force behind it to knock him away into rolling pile. He's still humping the dry air and the part of me still lost to the haze prides myself on the fact that I am bigger than him. Couldn't even bulge her stomach with that.

Eliza takes it poorly, rolling to her feet and staring me down. Her black is pink, and it simply doesn't look good on her. Swirling lines that lead to the grave, not to happy meadows of carnal indulgence. She is trying to look smoldering with 'fuck me' eyes, and all she manages to do is make me afraid for my life. She is made for fear and blood and death. She doesn't belong here.

The scent of rotting leaves hits again and I can't quite get it clear. There is smoke. There is clover. But not enough. The world is dying, and it must be preserved, repopulated. The rut is calling, and the mate is willing. The world will thank us all for the barren exchange.

"You're being very rude," says a shadow on my back.

I turn and there is no one at all, save the endless sea of cracked bodies throwing themselves at one another.

The scent hits me again and all the thoughts of something raging and angry fall away. The world is soft. The world is kind. There is a cool embrace crushing me and I fall into it without a second of resistance.

---

Cool skin on warm skin. Warm sunlight and hard earth. They all meet together in what is me. I am in the cloud nine existence where it does not make sense. It is warm outside, with the sun beating down on me. Then a shadow comes and takes it away. The shadows rise and fall in some metronome pace. Slow, careful, considering each motion before the next, only thinking a step or so ahead, only thinking of the moment that is. The moment behind us is gone. The moment ahead of us does not exist.

There is a face in front of me, staring down with impassive joy. It does feel good, but I don't feel it. There is a part of my mind that acknowledges the sensation, but it's gone too quick for it to have any sort of real effect. The next shock of sensation hits and it is even shallower.

Overall, I am bored. I am bored of the endless monotony of the task. I am bored of the col earth on my back. I am bored of the weight crashing into me. I am bored of the work laid before me.

But I have nothing better to do. I would be walking anyway, and that only leads to blisters and aches. It's much better to do this, whatever this is. It's much better to lie back and think of what it could be in the future. I don't want to move anything else other than my hips and even that is the barest minimum. Curl a toe with this and I'd just get up and walk away.

I am only asked of this, however. I am only asked to have a moment with this person crashing into me. The moment ends and I am asked again. The answer is the same, because nothing else has presented itself. I assume something might in the near future. It's a possibility. But an unlikely one.

That slow shock runs through me, and I feel good. Al that tedium just led to that moment of slight twinge. The person on top of me rolls over and sits in the ground. Her, I think it's a her, grabs a fist of earth before her hand relaxes. We say nothing. We have nothing to say. I'm really feeling kind of tired. I roll over and turn my back to her.

I sleep for a bit, I think. Maybe a minute or two. There's a tap on my shoulder and I guess I have to go again. Not sure why. It did feel alright, and I do like feeling alright. I've heard about feeling good and that sounds even better, but I have no clue how to actually get there. So alright it is.

I mount my partner and catch her eyes. They are very beautiful. For a moment. Then they kind of go back to being tepid and stagnant. They had something in them for a second, but not anymore. Something scary, I think. I might like scary things.

But I don't like this. I don't hate it either, but still. I like to like things. I like to do things I like. So much is lost in the endless motion with no feeling. I stare into the dead eyes and keep going.

That word, dead, stirs something in me and there is a bit of thrill at that. And it's gone, squashed underfoot by a trundling herd. I finish again and there's a fog in my mind that doesn't clear. It's lost, it's all lost. I feel the muscles along my length start to ache. I need a break. I want a break.

We both roll over and go again. It hurts, mildly. Not greatly, but mildly. It's an annoyance. She is an annoyance. I want to be alone but there is no alone. She moves her hips and I move my hips in response. The anger rises and then it falls. Blank and numb and dull, all lost in the endless dry haze.

I wrench my gaze and look at the huts. There are others like me, engaged in the act. The gargan I supplanted has wandered off into the sunset to find someone else. Or his hand. I don't care. I don't care at all. I bring her close and it doesn't really work for her. She wants space and a whole side of the bed. She can have it all, but her hands keep me close. I wonder what its name is, but that thought too is gone back to the act.

I finish and that is not a pleasant experience. Vaguely nice. Somewhat. Not really. I could do without. I need a nap and a drink, and a day spent in a shed on some projects maybe. I should take up woodworking or fishing or something. That would be nice. Better than this, whatever this is.

---

Gawain held back even though it was a fucking stupid idea. Dumile said so and he was the closest thing he knew to a Warren expert, even though that wasn't saying much. No one knew about Warren anymore. He was a guy with rabbit ears who smoked a pipe and fucked. That's it. That's all the Weavers would tell him or anyone else. Any other questions were shot down with a withering stare and a veiled threat that bad things would happen if he continued asking. So, he didn't. He just shoved it in the pocket of things he didn't think about and then moved on with his life.

His jaw hurt. He moved it a couple of times until something popped and that did make it feel a bit better. A bit. Dumile was something else and he would have to get used to all that in the future. And he would. Eliza could only try and stop him. He licked his lips and forced his mind to come back to front and center. This place was getting to him. It really was. In a good way for anywhere else that wasn't right here right now.

He watched Dumile march through the bodies and the urge hit him again. He stood tall, shoulders back, the weight of the world only serving to stomp the next footfall deeper. That was 'sir' energy. It carried that air made him want to kneel down and do terrible things to him so he could pet his head and force him down. It could be so much fun to smile through it all taunting him to go harder. Focus. Not sir energy. Killing energy. Battlefield soldier and bitter work. Blake could conjure something close to that, which was nice, but it was always so angry. Dumile just had it, whatever it was.

The ass he liked moved behind a hut and the spell broke. It was stupid for him to stay. He just wanted to do what he said because his voice was smooth and smoky and husky and promised that he was a good boy if he obeyed. He was a bad boy.

Gawain slipped from the tree and pulled his wonderful cloth over his nose. It made him feel sneaky. He couldn't pull of that wonderful stride, but he could keep creeping and crawling and slipping down in the dirt. It was hard to sneak in the full light of day, but the cloak made shadows for him. He slipped and sneaked and pressed into a wall. His back came away covered in dust.

"I wouldn't touch that if I were you," said a voice. Gawain whipped around and slashed at nothing.

"Rude. But understandable. Down here. We are all down here."

He cast his eyes down and saw an ancient sylvo looking towards nothing at all, a pipe in his hands and long trails of smoke climbing up into the sky. A withered hand patted the space by his side. His skin was dark and wrinkled, ears almost burnt under the sun. His hair was short, and his fingers were long. Gawain was very glad that he could not smell anything through his scarf. The smoke seemed vile.

"Take a seat, would you?" he said, "I think I know why you're here."

"Will killing you end this?' Gawain asked, "Don't answer. Don't care. Killing you regardless."

"That would be fitting, but answers, answers. People seem to like those. Estlin, by the way. I'd shake your hand, but I don't seem to have the determination."

The pipe found his lips easily enough, however. And Gawain found a seat.