For a Song Pt. 07

Gawain turned down the pipe. He smoked, but the pipe wasn't his style. Small little rolls and packed tight clumps all burned down to ash, that would be nice. Estlin shrugged and took another puff and put a long plume into the air.

"I still want to kill you," Gawain said as he sat down, "Just a little bit. I still think that will solve this."

"It might," sighed Estlin, "But I would prefer if you didn't. I like living."

Estlin coughed and took another pull from the pipe. That seemed to ease the pain. Gawain also didn't particularly like the look he gave. A little too eager for the moment and Gawain scooted a bit farther away.

"I don't really care what you want," he said, "I just want to pull my friends out and then you can go back to your peep show. And deal with the Weavers when they come calling."

"Who do you think asked me to try all this," Estlin laughed, "They wanted me to do this. They want me to do this."

"Neat. Tell me how to pull people out of it."

"Can't. You can't. No one can. It's all falling apart. We're trying to bring him back. We're trying to bring Warren back."

"Neat. I'm going to stab you now."

Estlin laughed again and fell into the grass. And then he was gone, whisked away to wherever he wanted to go. Gawain stabbed the ground, and nothing died. Shame. He did not dwell on it, rolling up to his feet and letting it keep all the thoughts down there. He had ideas with Dumile and maybe Eliza. Yeah, Eliza, too. She was a big girl with more than enough to go around. Not like this, though. She had that same intimidation that Dumile had and that needed to come through in full force. Not these glass eyed things that squirmed together.

He kicked one guy and nothing happened. He kicked another guy, and nothing happened again. More kicking, and more nothing. Not even a groan from the pain. They might not even feel pain. That was neat. Gawain felt pain. He felt pain as something in his boot dug into his foot. A rock, just a rock under his heel. He took it out and put his hands on his hips. It was a nice day, really, even if the heat was getting to him. He liked shade and the only shade to be found was in the huts. Those would fall at the next breeze.

"I agree," whispered Estlin on the wind, "Not the best carpentry. Nobody here seemed to have any of the knowhow and then we got preoccupied for the maintenance."

"Could have built anywhere, buddy," Gawain sighed, "Not really much out here."

"That's the point. Just like the first one. Out in the wild, untouched by the creep of civilization. Where we can commune as we were intended."

Gawain pulled his scarf tighter and wove in between the bodies. They were all stone faced and glassy eyed, not even registering the intruder with the knife. None of them wore clothes and thus there were no pockets to be picked. Not that he would trust anything that came out of those pockets. Caked in all sorts of fluids that would never, ever come out.

"Do you have baths here," Gawain shouts to the clouds.

"No need. The world gifts us with her dirt," whispers the wind.

"That's gross. That's just gross. I'm all for au natural, but really? Not even a stream or a river nearby. I'd settle for a dirty puddle."

The wind just laughed at him, and he kept moving. There was a hellion and a gargan going at it, but not his hellion and his gargan.

"Eliza! Gawain! There's a creepy old guy talking to me, and I'm scared. Stop fucking and help!" he shouted, and the wind laughed once again.

Behind one more corner, he found this gargan in the tepid passion. Mechanical, simple, completely lacking in any of the artistry that Gawain has only glimpsed. This was just a bed of cracked earth with nothing to soften and nothing to change.

"Hey Eliza," he said, "You need to stop now. There's this whole thing about a creepy old guy I just shouted about. I will kick you if you don't stop."

They did not so Eliza got a good kick in the ribs from a sturdy boot. Even if she wasn't under whatever spell this was, she'd probably be fine. Her boob jiggled a bit and Gawain did it again. It was fun. She was very fun to kick, and Gawain liked very fun things.

With some reluctance, he moved kicking the other one. A red hellion with a ram's horn curling up his skill. That was less fun. Nothing on him really jiggled our bounced. It was all lost to the endless haze. His entire body was hard. He kicked Eliza again, just for the hell of it.

"They're not coming out, are they?" he sighed to no one at all. The wind laughed and he ignored it. He just meandered to a bit of shade under the line of a hut and put his back against it. His feet still hurt. There were rocks in his shoes and that was a blister just waiting to happen.

"No, no," said Estlin from the grass. He came from the wavering blades and stretched long, wincing as something popped.

"No," he continued, "I'm afraid they aren't. They'll be fine. They won't starve. They have this moment for themselves and that's all they need. They'll keep going and going and going for as long as they want."

Gawain stabbed the ground again and hit nothing but dust and dirt. He slumped over and watched them, feeling almost nothing. Maybe a little bit of something. It was almost like watching two frogs go at it, just passionless coupling with enough movement to make the final bit of it come faster. He could slip in there and join them if he wanted, forever, and all he would have to do was slip the mask down and breathe deeply.

There was no noise, though. The motions were too short and soft for any of the real slaps to happen and nobody said anything. So, he wouldn't be doing any of that. It didn't look fun. It just looked like work. There was another rock in his boot, and he dug it out one last time. Sharp little bastard. Gawain rolled it between his thumb and pondered for a moment. It dug and stung. And it gave him an idea.

---

She sat in the act. She laid on the bed of cool hard flesh, covered in dry dust. There was nothing to wash it off. She's thirsty and there's nothing to drink. She's hungry and there's nothing to eat. She's tired and there's nowhere to sleep. Hours or days or weeks gone by and there was just the thrashing and the rhythm with no strength behind it. Eliza felt tired. She wanted to stop.

There was no reason to stop. There were no reasons to keep going, other than the momentum. That's enough. That's enough for what she was in the moment. It's cool when she laid her head on her mate's shoulder. Her heartbeat's slow and steady. Her hand came up and pushed her away. There needed to be distance for this and any sort of affection they had was just a mindless impulse from the act. Distance and space and time all needed to be as infinite as possible.

Something digs into her stomach and it's odd. Painful, almost. Not large enough to cross that threshold, but it was a reminder that Eliza has a whole body. It's annoying, really. She didn't like it. A hand, her hand knocked it away before returning. She was bored. He was bored. There is another rock between us and that had the same effect as the first. It's all just an annoyance to deal with and knock away. It's to be expected really from doing it out in the open.

More rocks in between them and something gave in her mind. Annoyance, more of that in there, more all the time. Angry now, with the rocks meeting at their hips. Rage and fury when they rubbed up against his length and make the motion unpleasant. Not even grating, just unpleasant. A handful of gravel fell down her thigh.

It's in her way as she gazed up into the sky. There's dust in her eyes and her hands didn't want to wipe it away. She wanted to wipe it away. It's making tears and she felt no need to cry. Things to do, places to burn, people to kill.

A rock found its way into something too sensitive. She shifted and found a new vacancy in her core. Her partner was gone. He never went all that deep, but it was still something. Eliza moved the rocks. She moved the dust and brushed them all away.

"Cut that out," she growled to no one at all. Her partner's confused. The endless blank outside them giggled and she wanted to strangle that stupid voice.

A flash of a smug grin hit her. It's not the hellion's. It's a Kurhk, a stupid annoying Kurhk that she wanted to hit for some past slight. There's a rock under her head. There's a pebble on her clit and that's even worse. Not the good type of pain.

"Stop it," she growled, "Or I will stop you."

Another point of confusion and then void giggled again.

She threw her partner off of her and sat with the open sky. It's blue. She forgot the sky was that blue.

"I bet you really want to kill me now," sneered the void, "First I stole your man, then I shoved rocks up your cunt. That would piss off anyone. So come on. Fucking do it, you pussy."

She growled again. She didn't like the void. She hated the void. The void could burn and bleed and die.

Die. That was a fun word. Death. Dead. Die. Kill. That last one had a certain nostalgic pang. It ignited some black flame in her that the nameless partner simply couldn't match. She needed her scythe. It's not in her hand. It's lying in the dust growing dull and rusted. Can't reap anything with a dull scythe. It needed to be razor sharp down to a hair's width. Needed to be in her hands to spread the fear and creeping graves.

Another handful of gravel and dust slipped into her eyes and she snapped to her feet, wiping away all the grit. Nothing, she saw nothing. There's her partner in the dirt. He's confused, looking for a hole to fill. Unfortunately, he was not big enough to fill the sky. There's something in her that still called to be filled. Eliza did not care. She wanted to kill something, and there was no scythe. She had her hands. That's more than enough. The void laughed.

The back of her hand connected with something, and the other hand connected with pure sharp beauty. It shattered and that's beautiful. She broke it, whatever it was. It's down to dust and dirt and tatters with a minuscule effort. It's all destroyed in a wayward thought. She clenched her fist and something cold rose in her stomach, nice and sharp and barbed. She clenched it and it broke, filling every part of her down to the fingertips.

The fog fell and she was left sky clad under the bright light of noon. A deep breath and the scent of dirt and dust and stale sex. She looked down at the little shit grinning up at her, holding Dumile's bandana. He pointed to his covered mouth. The hint was taken and the bandana filtered out most of the grit.

"What's up?" Gawain asked. Her ribs hurt. He kicked her, probably.

"Dumile's still in there. I'm missing my scythe. Who do we have to kill?" she grumbled. Eliza ached. Felt like she'd been lying down on stones for a week.

"Old sylvo. Smokes a pipe. Some weird trick he's pulling to move in the grass. Can't pin him down."

"Scythe first."

"Figured. Probably the best tool we have. Good for wheat and all that."

Not quite the most prominent application, but it could cut wheat and grass and heads. Mostly heads. She liked cutting off heads. And she would like to cut off the head that made her sore.

Gawain slipped forward. He found the smallest shadows, no larger than a house cat, and poured himself in there like a bottle of smoke. The trail vanished a handful of times, only to be caught with the flutter of his scarf or the light off his knife. Eliza didn't have that luxury. She had her heavy steps and plumes of dust between the sparse dead lawn. She had her aching fists and a lingering glance at the colorful hellion still lost to the world. He seemed nice, but it wasn't hers.

---

Gawain waited for Eliza to say her goodbyes. A real sentimental thing, she could be. Full of sorrows and regrets and rituals. Might as well have laid a bouquet on his crotch.

Eliza had no business being stealthy and she rightfully stayed out of the territory. She was imposing. Her steps killed the grass underneath her feet. Might have been her little gift, might have been the grass itself. Anything that brittle was asking for a shattering.

Each moment he had let the slack go in. Overly cautious, but there was almost never enough of that in general. He had to make up for the fact that Eliza knocked over a house with a back hand.

"COWARD!" she shouted to the sky, "SHOW YOURSELF AND DIE LIKE A VERMIN!"

"Very loud friend you have there," said Estlin from his little side of the shadow.

"Not quite friend, but still very loud," Gawain whispered, "Now where is her stuff. She had stuff when she checked in. We want to check out."

Estlin chuckled to himself and took another pull. Eliza strode forward with murderous intent and Gawain let her go. She needed some leash free time to burn off the energy.

"And stop that," Gawain continued, "It's annoying. Really annoying."

"You wouldn't understand," rasped Estlin, "We're dying."

"Then stop this and go do something else. Riverbend is like a week that way. You could be fishermen or something. Hell, a beggar might even be fun for a bit. Free bread crusts whenever you ask for them. Or a kick in the ribs."

"You are quite a charming little thing, aren't you? Very fun to put back in your place, I imagine."

"Not my type. No, no, no. I tried to kill you remember?"

"A minor hurdle. One I've overcome numerous times. All it takes is a few touches and a careless word or two and they fall."

"I heard a rumor about you and Verlaine."

That simple name and all the confidence fell away. Anger and rage and terrible shame, all the ugly things of a man who failed at the one moment where he could not. Now he was in the dirt writhing in the dried-up old bones of something so much greater than himself. Gawain smirked under his mask and the cloth carried it out into the world.

"Where's the stuff," Gawain asked.

"You will rot here," replied Estlin, "You will rot here and finally the grass will grow long and green again."

"Other side, buddy, all you have to do is go to the other side and see how green it is. And I can guarantee that this is not as green as it can be."

Gawain popped to his feet and did away with the sneaking. No real fun in it anymore if he was found out. No grand reveal or moment to drop on. Eliza's way seemed fun though. At least, it was a nice change of pace.

He rifled through his pockets, shuffling all his junk around. A few vials, a few bottles, some very fun things that didn't have a name, and one last little bit of that he twirled around his finger. A flint and steel marred and scarred and so very reliable.

"Hey Eliza," he said, "I got an idea."

---

I smell smoke. Beautiful smoke. Perfect smoke. Heat and life and pain as it enters my lungs, scratches my eyes and claws down my throat. And I am alone for it all, wanting someone else, anyone else to be here with me. My hands scramble and turn and grope and search. They find nothing, nothing at all. They find dust and dirt and dry dead grass.

And then there's a body and that's nice. It's a little wrinkled and tanned and hard, but that's not a problem. Age is beauty, a testament to the hardships of life and the trials of existence. The eyes are still bright and shiny, or as shiny as they can be. I imagine mine aren't that much better. But they are welcoming and okay with my presence. It's another hellion, I think. A nice deep indigo with flecks of forest green. They, she, I'm very confident it's a she, find my eyes and tilt her head.

"Do you smell smoke," she mumbles. The words fall from her like bits of pottery against a wall. I nod.

"We should move," she yawns. I don't disagree, in theory, but that would require effort. There's nothing beyond the haze and I have a body to play with. There is strength in her form. It pushes against and makes me work.

"We should really move," she murmurs. The eyes are coming around to awake almost. The green is getting brighter and brighter, taking in more of the world, more of me. I see the conflict rise. Fire and smoke fighting whatever she likes in me.

It's her horn that finally gets it all out. It's jagged and rough, unkempt. The serration cuts across my neck and I am given sharp, biting pain. A hand comes away bloody. My hand. I can breathe, so that's fine, but the cold shock of adrenaline brings the world in focus around me. Smoke, there is smoke everywhere.

I am in the eye of a wildfire, surrounded by shattered mud huts and naked bodies. My partner definitely had a few years on me, but that's no reason to stop. Shelby and Maya definitely did too, and I'm betting Eliza has one or two. The thought of continuing slips away with another plume of smoke entering my lungs. Fire, things are on fire, raring blazing burning fire as far as the eye can see. The twenty or so bodies collected and laid out are all having the same effects, however muted and dulled. They are stirring into the real world. It still stops at the tree line, everything beyond that descending into an oil painting smear. I get the colors at least.

I help my former mate to her feet. She leans on me. Her knees pop and I wince. She winces too, out of sympathy. It takes a moment for the feeling to come back for us all. A few others have managed to come to as well, blinking our shared delirium out. It's still hanging on. I feel it too. I feel it call down to me. Another shack shatters and it's gone.

Someone is laughing. It's not me. It's not here. It's none of us. It's manic and low and menacing in with the roar of the flame. There's a second in there too, higher pitched almost like a giggle.

"WHERE ARE YOU COWARD," screams the first laugh. It's familiar. It's familiar and I know it and I love it.

"I'm here," I shout back.

"Not you," says the giggle, "Other coward. Old guy in the grass. We're trying to flush him out."

"Don't hurt him," murmurs my partner, "don't hurt Estlin."

"We won't," says Gawain, "if he actually gets out here and does something."

"Are we going to be good in here," I yell over the roar of the flames, "There's a lot of fire. Like a lot."

"Should be. We moved you to the center and cleared a good bit of brush out. Even dug a fire trench."

"It's still really close. Estlin, whoever you are, please show up and make them stop. None of us want to be burned."

The burning grass laughs and laughs and laughs, melding in once more with all the noises, all the others. Dry and rasping and caked with grit.

"This will pass," it says, "this is all passing. A minor inconvenience really. The people are here again. We can start again."

"It will pass," says my partner in agreement and serenity, "It will all pass. We will bring him back. We will bring it all back."

Something crawls up my spin and I don't have a name for it. I ignore it. I ignore her. I ignore the rasping voice of flames.

"Have you found my guitar or anything," I shout.

"Working on it," replies Gawain, "Found a couple coin purses, so we have money now."

I'll take that. My partner looks a bit peeved by his rummaging, but she's not in a place to act on it. I move away from the dancing flames a bit more. There is a trench, and I don't want to trip in there. All this smoke can't be good for me or my singing voice and the heat can't be good for my skin.

"Tell your friends to stop," says my partner. Fully awake now, fully immersed in the moment. It's all back to her, the stern edge and the cold chip. It works for me and beckons me back down into the haze.

Something hits me in the head, and it slips away. I have a lump now that's much more important.

"Present for you," Eliza yells, "I'm getting tired of silence. I need noise."

"I don't play noise, but I think I can do you something better," I shout back.

She laughs again and something else clatters to the ground. It's my guitar, still string and whole and everything good in the world. A little singed, but nothing a moment of care won't fix. Probably out of tune as all hells with the heat, but that's just a moment's fiddling away. My nameless partner is looking at me in horror as I tune the strings.