For a Song Pt. 09

Godsdamn, we look good riding. The steed kwehs and I can't help but feel like I've made a good choice. Horses are going to be a hard sell when I get back around to them. Kay called them mammoth birds, but I've also heard ratitian and suprahen. I'm fond of kweh bird. I shall call this wonderful thing I sit high and proud on a kweh bird because it goes kweh every so often. It also smells like dry leaves and the feathers feel incredibly soft.

We all have our kweh birds. Mine is a very nice gray blue, almost speckled river stone. It also likes it when I run my fingers into the little knot over its left wing. It makes a very, very pleasant cry when I do so. Gawain's is the runt of the litter, with a nice flame orange on its plumage. Eliza's stands bone white to our collective rear, I assume to look at mine. The poor bird designated as Kay's is chugging along. I think it might be faster to roll the damn thing along with him, it's so fat.

And that is to say nothing of the riders. With some rather smart fingering, Gawain folded that lovely snuggly cloak of his into a long duster. It pairs nicely with a wide brimmed hat I'm sure he stole from somewhere. Eliza refused most of the offers but did manage to be persuaded to don a kerchief somehow. Kay's dressed to kill, carrying his own ball and chain around like weighs nothing at all. It does weigh significantly more than that. I know firsthand. Poor, poor bird with a spine of steel.

I pull my hat low and keep moving forward, guitar on my back, rapier at my side and the sun hanging high. It just feels right in my soul. This is where I am. Here, then one step forward. There and then one step beyond that. Open sky and rolling horizons, more things to see than could possibly fit in a million lifetimes, but that just makes the few I do get around to all the more precious. And the moment is shared.

That's the bit that strikes me the most. There are three whole other people with me, in the same moment, in the same space, having the same sensations. And they react to all so differently. Gawain's wide eyed and bouncing. Kay's relaxed and flowing. Eliza's tense and rigid. And I'm gliding through it all like a gust of wide. I skim the surface of it all, taking the cream and the cream alone. A rolling existence free of moss and debris, worn smooth and slick by time and terrain. My bird kwehs again and it is the most beautiful music I have ever heard. I dig my fingers into the good spot and listen to the noise repeat.

"We'll stop soon," Kay cries, "Want to make sure the birds are fresh for the getaway if it comes down to it."

That does sound nice. My hips are starting to hurt and that's one definite drawback of riding. It's a hard choice of what I want to hurt. And sometimes I want nothing to hurt at all. Not all that often though. Eliza says nothing about the rest. That does seem like something we all need. Especially his poor overworked bird.

There's an itch in my palm that I can't seem to shake. Not a good one, though. It's energy, anxious and panicked and crying for freedom. I am spent and shot, and I want to keep going.as soon as we stop. There is still more to see, still more to do. My feet don't have blisters and my hips can take a bit more of a pounding. I can keep going. My steed can keep going. But we stop under a small stony outcropping. The water skin makes its rounds and I think I take more than my fair share. No one says anything for a moment. There are stones to dig out from boots, dust to shake free, eyes to close and sighs to heave. The birds settle and ruffle their feathers, taking an instinctive circle to shield their eyes from the sun. They work well together.

Kay pulls a knife and I see Eliza jump. Old habits in her that will never die. I see the way she looks at corners and doorways, eyes open fields and does the math. She tries not to, but all of that is ingrained. Even when he starts drawing simple shapes in the dirt, she doesn't relax. There is still a knife out in the open and that could easily cut anything here. Gawain's fine. He's digging in his pockets for something sweet he nicked a good long while ago.

"We're about an hour out from where Dantea says Safon's hiding out," Kay says, "Shacked up in an old brothel. Someone found fool's gold nearby and that started a minor rush before people got wise."

"We met a few of her gang when we came in," says Eliza, "How many does she have?"

"Little more than a dozen, from what I can tell. A good raiding posse, at least. She's the only one with a finger on a thread, as far as we can tell, but she rents it out. That said, the others have been around a while and they're pulling something from her, so I'm expecting some heavy hitters coming down on us."

"Won't matter."

"You say that, but it's still three to one at best," says Gawain, "That is something that will probably matter."

So many little needles that have to lie in perfect harmony for the plan to be called that. Counter plays, hypotheticals, wonderful little moments where we have to actually think.

"We have to have a spook in this," I say, "Someone to sneak around and ambush to get closer than a full frontal would get."

"Thinking the same thing," sighs Kay, "But the question is who. Gawain's the best at that part, but she knows that the three of you are a matched set. If he's a no show, then he's the first one to come to mind."

"Then it's you," says Eliza.

That does get something a bit more thoughtful from him. He looks to his hammer and does the same math we all do. The hammer is not designed for anything subtle. He is not designed for something subtle. A hammer with a world of nails, bending needles and shattering stars.

"It'll have to be a big diversion," he murmurs with a hand on his stomach.

"And I can be one of those," I say, "Plus I'm sure Eliza can help. She's a big girl."

She huffs in a sort of pride and looks to her own weapon. It can work. Gawain's a bit softer in his affirmations. He's looking to the crude diagram we have. It's a square. There are only four sides to go on, but it's something. We have terrain and shadows and some ringers to go through. He hums something as an idea strikes him, but he doesn't share with the class.

My fingers start tapping a rhythm. It's been a good long while, it feels like, since I've played something that needs strings. And it's right there, right there. Kay looks me in the eye and slowly shakes his head. Deep in enemy territory is a bad time to have an impromptu revue. No music. Just laying low and keeping it quiet. It's annoying to say the least. I could be a lot better. There will be time for it though. And it will be wonderful when it comes around.

---

I must have dozed off in the handful of minutes after our strategy meeting. I think that was a good idea. Nothing to do, so might as well conserve energy.

I am alone though. The desert stretches out to the horizon and a good deal beyond that. I assume. I'm not going to go check.

I hear humming on the wind. Not mine. I take a deep breath and roll over. I think I fell asleep on Eliza. She is a very good mattress.

But it's just more rocks digging into my stomach. That is a good a reason as any to actually get up and see what's making the noise. I go back to my original position. Less rocks there and my spine feels better like this.

"Oh, get up," says Maman, "You're a grown man. I can't keep doing this forever."

"Couldn't you though?" I yawn, "You have the time. Going to outlive me at this rate."

"Don't remind me. That's a thought I still don't want to deal with. Bad enough I had to go through Amaru."

"Warm," says the ground.

I open my eyes and find myself atop a sea of black scales. The gaps take the light and toss it into rainbows. Maman holds a parasol in her hands, keeping the worst of the sun out of her way. Treblex's tail shifts happily behind us. Half of her is gone under the sand. She's humming again. It's been a while since I've seen her get this big.

"Good," rumbles Treblex.

"Terrible," sighs Verlaine, "Don't know why Kay moved out here. And he has terrible taste in spouses."

"I get it, at least," I say, "Can't say I'm not tempted to see if I can find one for me."

"You have an adorable Kurhk and a gargan that can take everything you can throw at her, and you still want more? Good boy. I'm proud of you."

"Shame neither of us could be at the wedding."

"Eh, weddings aren't that great. Lots of sitting around and looking pretty in shoes that hurt. Honeymoons are much better. And he still doesn't know she's pregnant. I'm keeping that bit of info to myself for as long as I can. He's going to be in for a fun ride with that little knot."

"Wouldn't know."

"Yeah, you wouldn't. And I guess I don't either. I don't think any church really does what I had. Not that I would want them too. The Weavers have already interfered with your lives more than I ever wanted them too."

"I can handle that much. Had my own little tussle with them. I'm more worried about Mutti on her own."

"I'm talking to her right now, actually. She's doing good. Expects you to swing by soonish. You get one too. Been a while since you've been in a real scrap. I'm not counting that bullshit in Riverbend. You ran away too much."

"Hey, I wanted to make sure no one got hurt. Blake was swinging for the fences with that damn thing."

"Eliza saved your ass and don't pretend you could have taken him."

"Never said any different. But we're together again. That's something. Plus, we have that lady that saved my ass and said adorable Kuhrk with the most spankable ass I think anyone can have."

She snorts something harsh and twirls the umbrella in her hands. It's too light for her. She needs that hammer again, something heavy and crushing and blunt and terrible. The light fabric is a worthless little toy.

"How come Kay doesn't get a little pep talk," I ask.

"He's getting one. A different one. A Kay one. He's lost a bit of that spark from what I can tell."

"I noticed too. Married life has a way of cooling of some things, I guess."

"She's a succubus, kid. They have a way of taking more than they mean. And they mean to take a lot. Just letting him know that."

"Treblex," I say with a heel kick to a bright, shiny scale, "anything to add? You've been quiet for a while."

"Food," the ground quakes.

"Neither of us have food," Verlaine sighs, "You got to pick the place. That's all your getting."

"Food."

"She doesn't understand the lack of food," I say, "There is always food and if there is no food, then she has to go find food. Or beg for it."

"Food."

"You're hopeless," says Verlaine.

"Green."

"Yes, I know I'm the newest one. That doesn't mean I have nothing to offer. Just give my boy some advice and we'll get you something to eat."

The ground shakes and I am dislodged from my somewhat pleasant perch. I tumble and fall, scraping my arms on Treblex's scales. No pain, though. Dreams carry no pain. It is not in their nature. Nightmares, though, can carry all sorts of things. I come to a stop in the warm sand. Treblex isn't wrong. There is a certain appeal to nestling here. A rainbow eye looks at me and I see the wonderful sounds of the world collapsed into a deep bass rattling in my soul.

"Favorite," she says with the voice of the ancients. There is a tinge of guilt in the word. I don't know where it comes from, but it tilts my head. Her head finds my chest and I feel my body reverberate with hers. It's incredible. I am on the same wavelength as existence and existence is on the same wavelength as me. I am sound. I am noise. I am the deafening silence of the void. She pulls away and I am left alone in the sand.

"You still have some time before you're rolling out," Verlaine says from on high, "I'll give you something to tide you over."

"Kind of weird for my mom to do that," I call back.

"Not wrong, but also not weird for Verlaine to do it. Gotta keep those two things separate."

"I'll try. Love you, Maman."

"Love you too kiddo. Go give 'em hell."

---

I wake up again and I am still dreaming. An odd sense of heaviness in my body, but beautiful in its own right. It's the blanket. It's heavy and soft and holding me down like a friendly stone. There's wind, I think, a good way away, through walls and windows. A storm, I think. How fun.

There's a large warm spot next to me and that means I had a friend last night, in the narrative of the fantasy. How detailed.

I'm in a castle now, in a curtained bed hiding me from the world. I'm okay with that. There's nothing out there for me, save breakfast, and I'm not quite that desperate yet.

A door opens beyond the curtain, and I smile. I know those steps. I love those steps. They are heavy and thudding like a stone door falling flat, a row of gravestones falling like dominoes.

"Morning Eliza," I yawn. I jump a bit more awake at that. My voice is higher than I thought it was. The weight settles on my chest and it's not just from the blanket. I heave a heavy sigh and think about what is going on. I ask myself questions about it and come to a surprising conclusion. I am interested and there is something to play with.

"Not quite," comes the deep reply. There is the same heavy lead slab in it as the steps. It does something to me and that is a fun little ache. Very fun, very novel, and definitely worth a shot in the grand scheme of things. A pull and an urge that is familiar and alien. It's wonderful. It's incredible. It's terrible and then I have to deal with it in the best way.

"So are you Ezra now," I ask.

"That works. And I guess you're Danielle now."

"Maybe. Denise works better, I think. My hair is so long now."

"Mine too."

"Well, don't keep me waiting. I want a show."

Ezra has a wonderful laugh and that is something else I missed. Low and rumbling like distant thunderclouds, rolling tidal waves that can crush towns. It's heavy. Its entirety and collapsing. I watch as a strong hand peaks through the gaps and shows me my wonderful companions.

Part of me is surprised at how similar they both look. She looks. He looks. Whatever my companion is now. They are strong and wide, a mountain range in a person. The lines in the skin are the same, if a bit hazier. They blend a bit more with the gray skin. Lighter too than the real version. Ezra has darker hair than I think Eliza does, down to the shoulders in wavy locks. A finger twirls a stray lock in a playful circle. I like this a lot more than I thought I would. I feel a heat in my stomach and a twitch in my core that is wonderful. It wants a hand, a finger, that wonderful bulge in Ezra's trousers.

"I heard of these," Ezra says, "Verlaine dreams. Never thought I would be in one."

"She always calls them Warren dreams. But this is my first too. And my first time like this. I'm looking forward to this."

"Me too. So why are you keeping me waiting?"

I shrug and that gets my shoulders free. My companion does not understand the value of suspense. I do, but I agree that it has run its course. I take the heavy quilt down my new body and love the way it catches on my new chest. Might be bigger than hers, now that I think about it. Maybe only in the relative sense, because I am absolutely smaller than Ezra, but I think the scale makes up for it.

They bounce free and they are definitely heavier than anything I am used to. Some response in the small of my back is akin to pain, but not right now. Ezra is looking at me in complete awe. All the feelings are new for the both of us. Never had this particular response to such a sight. Never had my hands on a pair of tits that are attached to my chest. They do feel wonderful in both ways I know. Ezra likes to watch them.

The blanket drips lower and I've kept the same lines in my stomach but added a pair of new hips that swell and circle and draw Ezra in closer. I feel the eyes on me, and they are lightning bolts done in paint. I am drawn in her gaze, some incredible art to preserve and cherish. Then I watch the fingers tighten and there is something a bit more destructive in mind. That could work too. I kick the blanket all the way down and I am incredibly cold. Good looking, with legs going on for a furlong, a pretty little slit between my thighs and a wonderfully devious smile to play on my lips. I have no idea what Ezra is playing at. I am just naïve and innocent and nothing at all nefarious is in my mind.

Ezra tackles me into the bed, and I laugh. SO eager, so incredibly hungry, hatred and anger and defiance at the world for keeping me away from the gaze for as long as possible. The hands are strong, bending me and pushing and pawing at me like a wild beast. No control, no hope for control. Lost to the moment, the urge, I think we are both completely lost to the sensations of a new body.

All of me is lost to electricity. Every inch of contact we have is a lightning bolt to my heart. It is hair raising and sharp and cutting. I am awash in a sea of knives, cold steel in every nerve. I am eviscerated in a whole legion of grip. I kiss a collar bone. I think it's a collar bone. A pair of lips with a soft sheen of stubble grazes my cheek. It tickles and I like it. I like it a lot. I will continue to like it as long as it is there. My fingers go to the new long hair, twirling and interlocking it between my fingers. It is fine and soft, easy to play with and rather fun. I get a devilish idea and tighten my grip. Ezra gives a very fun growl. I think I am being somewhat foolhardy against my partner, but we'll seem. Bravery is nothing without a dash of recklessness.

Ezra moves down, planting lips on my skin all the while. My new breasts are sensitive and a nexus for all the sensation. I am given my own little joint of pain as teeth work into the soft skin. I squeak. This new form has so many new fun noises to make. I settle into a deep moan as my legs kick. Ezra is just as weighty in the dream. I am set upon by an avalanche. I am being ravished by a landslide. I can only writhe and protest ineffectually. I don't want to be effective. It's fun to bend and twist and fight the world with an impotent rage. I pull the hair again. The response is the same with a bit more pressure in the teeth. I don't have anything to bite, so this is the best I can do.

The hands find my wrists and pin me down. The rest pulls away and I am gazing at some straining arms, flexed and tight and so incredibly strong. I kiss them and they feel wonderful. I feel everything in them beat and flex and shift.

Ezra shifts a bit more and I feel something hot lying across my stomach. My grin goes wider.

"I think I'm bigger," I say. Ezra does not like that.

It's true though. Probably. Maybe. I would put some amount of money on it. I don't look down to confirm or deny. I'm lost in the burning gaze. I have done nothing but tease and play. This is serious. This is a monument to our shared first time. A relic of an unrepeatable miracle. I'm just here snickering about the dick I don't have right now being bigger than a dream one.

I kiss Ezra's cheek and that seems to mollify some urges and heighten others. The hands slip down my sides as the rest of the body pulls away. I am looking at the edge of the world. Everything cliff face and waterfall, every muscle lined and defined, dark ink swirling in hypnotic loops over them. I am hypnotized by them. I follow everything down to the heat.

I am bigger, when I have one. Not by much, but I can feel it. Right on my navel instead of well past it. Still more than enough to kill. It's probably going to break something in me. I kind of hope it does. This does seem like the right place to find out.

"Do you even know how to use that thing?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"I'll figure it out," Ezra growls, "You use it, so it can't be that hard."

I can't wait to see what happens. I know that there are wonderful little secrets I have now. Ezra isn't ready. I smile so sweetly.