For a Song Pt. 07

"Please don't," she says. She's out of it, back in the real world with all those wonderful colors. Greens and blues and a tinge of red from the evening sun. And a glut of flaming red around us. The wind changes and I catch a breeze free from smoke and soot and dust.

I play and my partner shakes her head in defeat. She has her people and I have mine, beyond the wall of flame, wreaking destruction and chaos and absolute joy. Some simple melodies to start, to find the place the strings have taken shape. It's not so very far from wrong. Some adjustments, but I find the place they need to be.

"Stop him," whispers the dying grass, "stop him now."

The flames swallow it all. I'm the only one who gets to hear the pleading. I'm the only one who gets to hear the desperation. It's so sweet and pure. O weave the lilac weakness from it and hold it up to the sky, filtering more of what I want and turning it into something better.

"Oh, he flies through the proud darkness.

Rather than the breathless vastness of the world

And yet she did not reject the light himself.

She believes she's one of a chain," I sing.

The only response is a wordles flame and its endless march of destruction. It's beautiful. It's all so beautiful. I hear another hut shatter and fall. I take the crack and all and turn it into the strings once more, the music grows louder and louder and louder and nothing can ever hope to drown any of it out. A hand tries to stop me, and I shrug it off. It's old and withered and trying to stop anything from changing.

I pierce the chaos of flame and make a path for me. I take it. I take it and leave all of this far behind, one foot in front of the other without a second thought. I catch two black shadows flitting through the alleys and gaps, breaking more things in an endless ransack. I wish I could join them.

I come to the edge of the clearing, and it is flames all the way down. It keeps growing high, higher than the grass, higher than the huts, higher than the trees. It changes color to yellow to orange to red and all the way back. It's hypnotic, in the primaeval power it holds. It's entrancing the act of destruction. My fingers are moving, still on the strings, and I don't know who is moving them. I'm certainly not me.

The shadows come out, arms laden down. Eliza has the rest of my clothes and her scythe. Gawain's hauling the rest. They both come to stand next to me, watching the destruction carry out.

"We will rebuild," says the grass. The wind carries it and then a body comes forth.

It's a sylvo, old, withered, decrepit. I can see his ribs struggling to breathe. I can see the rage in his bloodshot eyes. I can see down into the endless wrinkles along his brow. Even still, there is something there in the gaze that wants me to get on my knees and give him a little bit of a thrill.

"Go for it," I say, "I'm not going to stop you."

Something crosses in his eyes and that urge to serve is gone.

"You're her blood," he whispers.

"Not quite, but close enough," I shrug, "Good luck with all this. I think you're wasting your time, but aren't we all?"

He glares at me as I turn my back on him.

"Tell her she is welcome here," he shouts, "We can make something so beautiful together. I love her and she won't talk to me."

"Can't imagine why. Good luck, my man. Everyone should be alright, if a bit tanned."

He shouts something else, but I keep playing along, not really paying attention. I think Eliza might have a point. We need to put some pep in our step if we want to get anywhere worth going.

---

"God he's an ass," sighs Maman.

"I guess," I say, "Seemed like it. Didn't really talk to him in any real way. Burned down his village so that's something."

"Saw that. You did me proud. Should have killed the bastard. Could have done me even more proud."

"I'm a lover, not a killer."

"You can be both. You certainly can be both."

I shrug and pet a rabbit. It's soft and snuggly, liking its spot on my lap. It makes that little rabbit squeak and nibbles at my fingers. We're sitting in a field today, waist high grass to the horizon and back. We have a soft breeze today, knocking the small blooms of wildflowers together like bell clappers. I miss my shirt though. I have pants, but I want a shirt right now. I'm dark enough as is.

She's smoking again and part of me wishes she didn't. It was a bad habit she picked up late in life. Doesn't matter now as far as I know, but there's still the principle of the thing. Whatever infinity she has before her has to be slipping away while she sends out rings and swirls and plumes from her mouth. She finds me staring and offers it to me. I shake my head. She knows my opinions and has summarily dismissed all of them with her trademark stubbornness. Her hands are wrapped and fidgeting.

"I miss my hammer," she sighs, "Just hearing his name makes me want to break something."

"Can't you make one? Just snap your fingers and get a nicer one than you ever had."

"Maybe. But I don't want to. You never want a brand-new hammer when you want to get down to business. Needs a few days to break it in, get used to the weight, learn how it swings. It's a whole process."

"I bet you could manage though. He didn't look all that tough."

"He never was. Lots of sweet words, but could never, and I mean never, back them up."

She pets her own bunny, a large one with lopped ears. Mine is jet black with green eyes, one ear up and one ear down. Half lop, if I remember my terminology correctly. It's very soft, very eager to press back up into my hand. I find a spot against the ears and the leg starts going. I don't know if real rabbits do that. But this one does and that's enough for me.

"They're trying to bring Warren back," I say after the silence grows a bit too long. She guffaws and almost collapses into the dirt. That one little statement and Maman is in hysterics. Her feet kick and stamp as all the energy in her body tries to find some way to escape into the real world. All she has erratic movement.

"Good fucking luck with that," she laughs, "Oh man. If they manage that, if they actually do that holy shit."

"I mean, if I remember the stories right, you smashed his noggin like a ripe melon, then waltzed back into that douchebag's chambers to fuck Mutti and Papa to death while all the Burrow watched in envy."

"Mutti always had such a way with words, even if there's a sprinkle of lies in them. I didn't fuck them to death. Otherwise, I would have been very cross with myself. And no, he's not coming back. If I can't pull that trick off, there's no way that paltry little clusterfuck can do anything other than chafe a lot of crotches."

She's still giggling a bit at the thought. She's not even bothering to try and gather herself. It's a little worrying, really.

"Should I be worried," I ask.

"About what?"

"I don't know. The Weavers, Kay, Maman, everything. He said that the Weaver's wanted him to try whatever that was. Blake, that sword guy, I mean, you saw how that ended. They're doing something."

"They're always doing something. And no, you shouldn't be. The world is a dangerous place, more so if you have enemies. And you have enemies. But you're my son with two people who love you along for the ride. There's nothing, and I mean nothing, that they can do to stop you."

She turns to me, and her eyes are fully golden, carrying the rays of a new dawn from beyond the clouds. I suppress a shudder. It's unsettling, just a bit. It's her and it's just not quite what I remember.

"They're coming for us," she says, "They're coming for you. They will fail."

Her confidence in me is reassuring. It's a statement of a simple fact. A notice of the state of the world, given without an ounce of uncertainty. It is. It simply is.

I wish I had a fraction of that confidence in anything really.

"Will we be okay?" I whisper.

"No clue. Alive, definitely. Okay, that's a lot more complicated to fudge. I have my pushes and pulls, and I've done all I can. I've pushed the others to do all they want to. You'll be alive and they'll fail. That to me is okay, really."

"You're insane, Maman."

"You're not wrong. But I think I've kept you long enough. I just wanted to check up on the ex. Gods it feels good to hear that more of his stuff is burning."

"Spiteful bitch."

"Oh, you don't know the half of it. Tell Kay and Mutti I love them."

"Tell them yourself."

"I do and I will, but that just feels like something I'm supposed to say. I'm not telling your girlfriend or boyfriend anything. Not yet anyway."

"They're the ones who started the fire. I think they earned something."

"And they're going to get it. Why do you think I made you have a Verlaine dream tonight?"

---

Verlaine dreams are a treat, a whirlwind of terrible contradictions. I feel at peace, a shoulder to cry on from my mother, a friend who understands so much about what I have done, and where I've been. I feel at home, even though I am wherever I am. She is watching and protecting. She is nudging the world as any mother would, given that position.

I also wake up very horny and energetic and itching for either a 100-man army to bring to its knees, or a 100=man harem to throw myself into. There is still the thought that it was my mom that gave me these feelings. It's odd to know that my mom is an unrelenting force of raw sexuality, and I am not immune to it.

I let the morning come to me where I am, as I am. It is cool and invigorating. I feel the breath leave my lips in a light mist. I feel the cold leave my body and come back to warmth. The moment fades and it is warm. It is warm again and beautiful. The ground under my body is cool. And it has a heartbeat. Odd. I stretch up and tap a chin.

"Ow," Eliza yawns, "Jackass."

"I'm lying on you, and I don't remember asking you to be a mattress," I hum, "You are a good mattress, though."

"Is that all I'm good for?"

"Oh no. You're a good tinder box and a thresher. Might be a good butcher if you put your mind to it."

"I am a butcher. You have no idea what I can do."

I turn over and find my head between a heavenly pair of tits. I am engulfed. It's all so pleasantly cool and calming. I feel her heartbeat, slow and strong and heavy. The earth moves with it. I move with it. She rolls her stomach a bit, and I am reminded of how hard I am. She realizes it too, although I think she always figured. Her heartbeat goes a bit faster and mine does the same.

"You lit a whole village on fire," I say as my hands move to trace her neck, "I can't imagine how you would top that."

"That was the little guy. I like him now," she says as she kisses the crown of my head.

"I never burned anything down, but you still like me."

"You have time. I bet you could do it if you really tried. And it was a hovel not a village. If it wasn't burned, it would have been buried."

Her hands go to my back and trace the spine, trace the muscles. The mind is catching up to the body. I am ready. She is ready. I have a bit of fog to chase out with a handful of motions, but it will leave.

There is so much to her, there is so much to her body, with the power she carries. The cold is something else to fight against, to push against and refuse to yield to. She fights against my rising heat.

I look to the left and she, her breasts. I look to the right and see the same, the pale gray expanse reaching to the heavens. It's one of the few things soft about her. It's such a wonderful place to stay, a wonderful place to be held. Her hands push me deeper into her. There is more of her than I could ever sink into.

It's a chore, but the both of us pull me from the valley of darkness. My chest presses into hers as our eyes lock and refuse to budge from one another's. Such a dark color, such a deep abyss, such an endless night that the sun and the stars could never hope to brighten. There is such solace in the darkness. There is such a beautiful world she offers with death and desolation. Endless peace after a moment of terrible torment. Really, that's an entire life collected into one little second. So much sensation that it can't quite have a name.

Her lips seek mine in utter domination while I am still coming to terms with all the dream did to me. She is already there, already wanting me where I will be. I am still catching up.

"Are you okay now," I mumble through her tongue.

"I should be asking you that," she says through my lips, "You're the one that needs worrying."

"I can take care of myself. And you're the one who got caught first. How'd that even happen?"

"Promise not to laugh. I saw a rabbit and I thought it would be a good lunch. I was hungry."

I laugh and she huffs. A bite on my lip and I'm still laughing. Even when she's almost about to draw blood, I'm laughing. It's not my fault. It's hers. She was hungry and Gawain had snacks.

Speaking of, I don't see him around as I peak over to the rest of the campsite. Eliza pulls me back and I stop caring for a moment. Our tongues intertwine and taste and feel one another while the world simply stops. Her hips roll and search for me while I do the same. Something rustles in the brush and that startles me enough to actually look over. Gawain, just him, carrying our waterskins now full to bursting. He's also grinning like a fox as we tussle on the bedroll.

"I honestly thought the whole thing would have done a number on you two," he says, "But I should know better."

"You should," Eliza whines as my teeth find her neck, "Also, leave."

"Don't be like that. You were there when Dumile and I had our fun. So, I get to be here when it's you two. Dumile, any objections?"

"A few, but they're contingent. Eliza, are you ok with an audience?"

The momentum stops while she pulls away and starts glaring once again. I'm the target for a good long while, then Gawain falls under her enmity. He's smiling, but there's a bit of a faltering under the pressure. Natural reaction really. I'm proud of his composure.

"No talking," she says, "And no touching."

"You or me," he asks, "Because I want to touch myself while I watch. I can't really-"

"Just be quiet and stay on your side of the camp."

He smiles again and draws a line in the dirt between our bedrolls. He toes the line for a moment before another sharp glare shuts him down. He will be good. He will respect the rules and only push against them with a playing grin. A bit of a cheeky shit, but that's about it. Eliza breaks from him and goes back to me. My heart stops before her gaze softens. Just a taste of her endless rage and I wilt, just as everything will.

One last kiss together, one least gentle touch to wipe the thought of Gawain away. He is barely thought a spirit in the world, a presence with no weight. All of it collapses into the bedroll. One simple layer between us and the dirt and that's all so much better. She pushes me away and a breeze hits my chest. She growls as I pull off my shirt. Her hands go to my stomach, feeling the shift and clench of my muscles. They go up to my chest, my collar bone, my shoulders.

"Still so scrawny," she whispers.

"Fuck off," says Gawain, "He has some good definition. Not to your level, but c'mon. Really?"

"I thought I told you to be quiet," she growls.

"You did. Good memory."

She huffs and finds me again. An annoying pest that's too far away to swat. I am here. I am right here in front of her and I can make it all slip away. I move down her body. Hands at her side, hands everything I can put them. I can see why she thinks that, honestly, when I'm compared to her. There is so much to her, so much strength and power. It's resting now, for a moment. A little bit peaks out, here and there. The path I take is not quite where I wanted to go. She made me take the detours. A hand to my head here, a nudge from her thighs there, but I find where I want to go.

Her stomach is hard. Scars and lines and deep valleys of muscles, they quake with her rising energy. It is all waking up. It is all coming into the light, a creeping shadow of hunger and desire. I keep going lower on her. I keep finding new little places in her body. Our first reunion wasn't nearly enough for us to have a proper exploration. She is so incredibly vast, so incredibly monumental. I kiss her navel, tease her muscles and move my hands back to her chest. Her breathing deepens and then we are getting more of her up and awake. There is a beast rising up under my hands and I keep pushing it back down.

That's the game. That's the play. We fight like puppies, snarling and growling and barking with bared fangs and sharp claws. They come into contact with a sharp clap, but then fall down before anything gets broken or bleeding. There are lines we refuse to cross, but we always come so incredibly close. I kiss her navel and feel her entire body respond with a soft shudder strong enough to turn mountains into rubble. I go lower, finding her pelvis and the lines of her bones covered in soft stubble.

That's different from her known self. She was always cut smooth like a diamond. I think she even did it with her scythe. How she is not covered in even more scars from that, I don't know. But I like this. I like the way it feels as I run my palm down. It's soft against the stubble of my cheek. She is warm against my lips as I kiss her opening. Her arousal slips over my teeth, and it is heaven. It is her. It is all her and I move her legs apart. She lets me feel strong. She lets me feel like I am something capable of shattering the world.

I dive into her, and it is the same. It's the same as the nights in the tent, a camp around us slowly falling into nothing after a long day's march, the same as when the battle's ended and she came back bruised and bloodied. It's the same as the tavern with the broken bed. It's the same and in that, it is so incredibly unique.

Gawain's making noises. That means he's breaking the rules again, although I think Eliza is too preoccupied to care. Or she can't voice her complaints in the throes of ecstasy. Who knows? I certainly don't. I just know that I fi hum the opening bars to Whiskey Rose Thorn March she makes a high pitch whine like a tea kettle. So, I do that, and she does that, just like I remember. The soft thump on my head that comes after, I remember that too. I know she likes it, because when I do it again, there is no playful hit.

Her entire body collapses on my tongue as I play on her. Her entire body rolls in stormy waves as I lavish her. My hand leaves her stomach and joins my mouth as I play. It's the same as any instrument, in theory. There are songs I know, with cadence and rhythms and harmony, and I know how they sound when I pluck the strings. But I like the endless meandering exploration. The noise changes when I change my grip. The notes sound more aligned when I play them just a bit closer together. The song as a whole works better when I add a few bars and repeat the refrain. She moans my name to the heavens and Gawain goes back to giggling on his side of things.

He's touching himself and I am torn. So many beautiful things in my vicinity, and there is only so much of me to go around. I cannot be with him and with her at the same time. I can only be here on my side of the campfire. He mutters my name and I almost, almost stop. Only the legs on my back, holding me tight, keep me focused on the here and now. Eliza gives another shudder that could topple the sky and there are more words in the noise. I think I hear 'bastard' and 'silver' and 'kill.' I like the first one, and the others give me a pause. Not for long. The legs tighten and some of my bones don't like that. They might snap and break, not that she cares. Together, we can patch me up again and go right back to it. Gawain can keep watching and have his own little secondhand pleasure.