For a Song Pt. 12

"Hold," shouts the commander. The army holds. We don't have enough glasses, now that I think about it. We don't have enough mugs either. I guess we just pass around the bottle then. WE tried and that's all that matters. There's not going to be enough sandwiches either. Really dropped the ball on the whole picnic thing. Mutti waves. Cout tips his hat, Treblex shimmies down into the sand and Finchwing ruffles her feathers. Gluhna may or may not be passed out in the dirt. She's happy though. Good for her.

"Hi," says Mutti, "Do any of you want food or something? I'm sure we have enough to go around."

"Annette Biedermeier," says the commander, "I am Gordon Keats, enforcer of the Weaver's Designs. You stand accused of heresy."

"I'll save you some trouble. I did all of that heresy. And probably a bunch more you don't have written down."

"You will remain quiet, and you will cease all further attempts at songcraft."

"No, I don't think I will. Keep reading the charges though. I want to see what you have on my friends."

"Dumile Verlaine. You stand accused of grand heresy. Eliza Holioke, heresy and murder of an appointed weaver."

"Do I get heresy too," Gawain says, "Maybe grand heresy? Super heresy? Ultra-mega uber heresy?"

"Gawain Pearl, heresy. We present you this opportunity to come and face your execution in the eyes of the Threads and Those Who Weave the Threads. If you refuse, it shall be carried out here, with nothing but the empty vastness to witness it.

Gluhna laughs and I guess that means she's paying attention.

"I'm guilty of adultery, destruction of public property and public indecency," she says, "What does that get me?"

"Murder, manslaughter, negligence," Cout sighs, "but those are kind of up to interpretation. Finchwing, Treblex, what have you done?"

"Crime," says Treblex. Finchwing stays silent. She's smaller now, about the size of a normal sparrow, from what I know. She flutters and shivers her feathers. A pair of hops and she flies over to land on Commander Keats' helmet. I just realized that his armor carries her sigil. That's fun. Good for him.

"These illusions are a mockery," he snarls, "dismiss them."

Finchwing might be my new favorite. She pecks him on the nose, right through the gap, beautifully parting through the armor. I kick my feet and lean back as I laugh. Some bright industrious soul looses an arrow. An errant gust of wind carries it off to sea, tormenting a poor fish. I see it stick up in the water and something is carrying it to shore. Interesting. That's fun. That's really fun.

"Son," says Cout, "I don't think you're quite getting the picture here."

He takes his hands to his knees and starts the lengthy process of getting up. He rises and the earth comes with him. Sand and dust and grit and so many bits of terribly old things falling off of him. He dusts his suit, beats his hat against his shins and starts as a dead man walking. Eliza starts to join him, but a hand keeps her down. Not mine, not his, a bleached set of bones resting gently on her shoulder. She pats it and it loosens its grip. With a whisp of smoke it disappears.

He stands before the line, looking towards the water's side first. Burly man on that edge, a bit of custom paint on his pauldron. It looks like a stag, wild horns interlocked with a rising son.

"Fever," Cout says, staring the man dead in the eye, "Dead of winter. It takes your sister first. Nieces survive and put you in the family plot."

He moves to the next one.

"Stab wound," he says, "Back alley in Goldenrod. After you try to force yourself on a poor girl with a bit more fight than you're used to."

The man shivers and tries to bolster himself up. The woman next to him breaks her attention and smothers her anger. It's her turn.

"Drink," he says, "It takes you slow. Lot of years and you reach the last straw. Body gives out and the barman doesn't realize it until the next morning."

The commander stiffens. Finchwing ruffles her feathers and pecks at something in her plumage. A smile crosses Cout's face. I see a cold stone wall and I feel weak. Someone is patting my hand and whispering I love you. I look away. I don't want to know right now. Maybe later. Maybe. Probably not.

"Oh, you're fun," he says, "You get a choice. Fall. Old man with a weak cane. It breaks and you hit your head. Not the cleanest, but pretty quick and no pain except that little moment.

He's angry. I imagine that its part of the fun for the man in white. So many reactions that can come with the knowledge. The commander is mad that someone is trying and succeeding to posture over him. It's kind of fun to watch.

"Or?" he asks.

"Or me," says Maman, "Right here. Right now."

I appreciate the set up. It's good. I like it. It makes me want to slap my knees and cackle like a witch. I cackle. Eliza has my hands, so I have nothing to slap. Terrible. Simply terrible. I kick my feet a bit and that gets the motion out.

Maman looks good. Simple cotton and leather, nothing striking, but the army parts around her like a dead sea. Cout smirks. All the discipline, all the drills and she has made the impossible real. Her footsteps bring clover sprouting from the sand before they wither and die. The commander is livid.

"I will not stand for any of these tricks," he screams.

Maman sighs and moves faster than I can track. She catches his arm and turns, throwing him down to the sand. He coughs as a boot crack down on his chest.

"Do you really want to choose me," she says, "I'm fine with it, but I also really want to go make out with my wife right now."

He coughs again and Maman walks away. Mutti's excited. She's standing, all flushed and bothered. She pats herself down, straightens her hair, makes sure all of her clothes are lying just right. I'm surprised she doesn't sprint off and jump into her arms.

"Claire Verlaine," the commander shouts as he rises, "You stand charged of deicide. You will be executed."

"If any of you can actually pull that off," she shouts back, "I'll be flabbergasted. I'm the only one in existence that knows how it works."

"To be fair," Cout says with a shrug, "I have some good ideas."

Maman is gone. She's picked up Mutti like a newlywed and is preoccupied with getting as much of her tongue down her throat as possible. I turn my head. I am glad that my parents can still be so affectionate, but I have my limits. The commander is trying to give orders, but I don't think anyone is listening. The scent of dying clover is getting to them. The lady who falls to drink turns her eyes about three rows back to an archer with a bit of low ink creeping up her neck. Fun. I think I'm up.

I see the sand shift again as black scales part a wake. They come to my shoes and Treblex starts her long climb to sit on my shoulder. Eliza watches me move. Gawain gets up and helps Gerardine find whatever has beached itself. Poor thing looks bloated and cold, sticking with arrows and waterlogged. I don't pay it any mind. It's not for me.

Treblex starts humming and I feel it reverberate in my bones. So wonderfully harmonious. I march in time, and I can only imagine how pathetic I look. Rail thin bean pole in a ratty suit, a lizard on my shoulder, drunkenly staggering through the sand while my moms are openly groping each other. I am the greatest treasure the threads have ever woven.

"Dumile Verlaine," the commander barks, "I'm glad to see you have some sense in this matter."

"Oh, hell no," I say, "I'm drunk off my ass and I think that means I have to fight. I should probably fight. Drunks should fight."

Treblex nods on my shoulder.

"Your existence is a blasphemy to everything the Weavers stand for," the commander shouts. The bluster carries off back down the line and some of the soldiers rattle their sabers. It's good for them, I think. It's an outlet for that aggression. Probably not the best, but what do I know?

"You are a mistake," he continues, "The threads have become tangled and knotted, you have resisted the gentle hand to undo the twine. Now, you will be cut."

I chuckle. Treblex's tail keeps swishing and tickling my back. She's a naughty, naughty thing and I love her. I think she should go annoy someone else for a change.

"You are a mockery of the natural order," he shouts, "You are a blasphemous sin. The world has done nothing to deserve you."

"Not wrong, but not in the way you think," I say, "I'm a goddamn treat, buddy."

"Your dick is a treasure," Gawain shouts from the beach. Eliza nods, begrudgingly. I shrug. They know. They have to know. The drunk looks down to my crotch and agrees in the initial assessment. Probably needs a test to make sure, but she's on the job. Not that it would stop me.

"You have summoned mockeries of the threads to taunt us," the commander says.

"Maybe," I shrug, "Or maybe the real thing. I'd be kind of pissed if my alive mom paraded around my dead mom to scare some people. And tell me, don't you feel a little something from her brushing by. I think a few of the people in the back are getting into it. There's no shame. It's just kind of how she is. Little weird to admit that to her son, I get it, but my mom is hot. No point in denying reality."

I sigh. Treblex nods. I am getting into it. I smell the fresh clover and Maman's excitement is starting to bleed into the water. It shimmers so vividly. The sun turns warming and cozy. The sand feels fine and soft under my feet. I smell the clover and I want to fall down into a bed of its blooms. The drunk's getting into it. The rapist is as well, but I don't particularly like that version. He can be shunned. The sick man just seems sad. I bet he wants to go home and hug his nieces, hug his sister, and see what remedies the local sawbones can come up with. Can't beat chicken soup and bed rest, in my opinion.

"Look," I say, "Just fuck off. You can say you killed us. Tossed our bodies in the ocean because that's what we deserve. Or that you ate us because you're that unhinged. I don't care. I really don't. Spin a tale. Have fun with it. Because what if all those people behind me are really here? And what if, what if, they might be friends of mine?"

It's odd to feel all of them collide and combine. I'm drunk off Gluhna. Finchwing is giving an odd aura of lightheadedness. Cout's a bit more grounding and Treblex gives a rhythm to keep track of. There's an odd sense of tightness on my chest that I think comes from our newest arrival and Maman's is starting to get more and more obvious on my body. The drunk's eyes dart down again and stay there.

"Dumile," Gluhna calls out, "Army jerks. C'mon over. We're doing body shots now."

And that is a wonderful offer that I don't think I will refuse. Gerardine and Cout are fishing Soddal's bloated corpse from the waves. I snicker when I realize there's an arrow sticking out of her stomach. I don't think I like the circumstances of our new activity, but even the worst version of it is still a nice story. I look back. The drunk looks to her line mates and breaks rank in a slow march. The commander yells something and I don't bother to listen. I do listen to the growing number of steps in the sand. That sounds fun. The commander's yelling, less so.

---

My head hurts. Soddal seems to give alcohol a wonderful little kick, although I think I prefer Gluhna's warmth. Eliza though, she can carry rivers of the stuff down her abs, enough for me and Gawain and Gluhna. Cout entertained himself with animals. Maman and Mutti snuck off giggling like teenagers. My head hurts and my lips are glued together. I can't breathe, but I feel Eliza's sternum press into my nose. I bolt up. My horn must be buried in her poor neck. Her poor wonderful, swanlike neck full of tree trunks and stones and so many strong things. She blinks up at me, almost mad that her sleep was disturbed. Her neck remains unmolested for the moment.

"Nightmare," she yawns, "I know how to cure those."

She lifts up the blankets and I gaze down at her body. Cracks in the floorboards from underneath. My bed can't fit all of us, so we've apparently decided to make a nest on the ground. That's fun. The floor is all bed and that means we all can find so many more positions and holdings and configurations. I see a small leg peak between hers. Odd image and it hits something in me that I don't care to explore right now.

"Let me stop being the big spoon if we're doing this," Gawain grumbles, "I tried my best, but I'm not cut out for it."

Eliza grumbles and starts all of our endless avalanche into something a bit more settled. Gawain turns and lays his head on her stomach. I am left to find somewhere to slot in where nothing pokes or prods or breaks anything else. Bit of a stretch to find something, but I sidle up next to her and Gawain goes a bit farther to lay across us both. That's fun. He is not a good big spoon, but a very good blanket pillow thing. I bop his nose and he scrunches his cheeks. Eliza scratches her belly, and she yawns again. Still sleepy and I don't blame her. Not sure how much wine any of us had yesterday. I had a lot. Gawain had slightly less. Eliza had much more. I wish I had more sandwich. I wish there was more sandwich. There is never enough sandwich. There were some good eggs though. I'd do it again.

A hand goes down my stomach and it's none of mine. My first instinct is Gawain, but the callouses prove me wrong. It's Eliza. A rough little circle underneath my navel and she keeps going. She laughs softly as her rocks and stones settle under the riverbed. It's flowing and soft. Gawain has to move again and that's terrible for him. Not for me. He settles on my other side and lays his head on my chest. I stare at the ceiling for a moment before closing my eyes. There's a wonderful little dance happening around my hips and that needs to be there for everything. No more sensations. No more feeling. There's an odd crick in my neck from sleeping on the floor, but it was worth it.

"How are you already hard," Eliza says like she doesn't know the answer.

"I just woke up like this," I sigh.

"Happens to me too," Gawain yawns, "It's fun to get rid of though."

I hum in agreement. My hands start to wander because I'm getting bored. I find Gawain first and he is suffering from the same problem I seem to have. It's a shame. A terrible problem that no one should have. I have a hand creeping down. It's mimicking the same I am getting, and everything is a mirror held to the world. Eliza drums her fingers and does the same to him. He likes it too. I like it when he presses into me like that will get Eliza to go faster. I'm not the one he needs to convince. I'm fine with Eliza's touch. She's the expert. She's going down to my thighs and Gawain's thighs spring back in my hand. So soft, so hard. It's kind of hard to translate the motion with the size difference. I manage. It's a skill I've been developing. And I think I'm getting better. Gawain's started to moan, and I think he's getting overstimulated. The hangover has made every light burning and shining. The noise is deafening and crashing. My touch is breaking and crushing and doing terrible things to him. She grips my thigh and I grip his and he stiffens at the same time I do. Eliza chuckles.

I turn and kiss her cheek and Gawain gets his a moment later. No real preference, but I have to choose one to go first. Eliza's a bit easier to reach. And for my nepotism, I finally get my shaft in full gentle grip. Gawain's get his as well. He twitches in my hand as he nuzzles into my neck. His tusks dig into my skin, and I finally have a bit of fear from him. He could pierce my skin and rip out my throat like a savage wolf. Instead, she kisses and whines and starts shivering harder. Poor little guy. I kiss his forehead. Eliza is getting left out. Her other hand reaches over and forces me to confront the invasive pressure. Her tongue goes up my cheek softly before prying my lips open and suffusing me with her heat. She locks my head in place. I am having trouble multitasking now. My motions I give are slowing down. We can't have the same procedure, Gawain and me. He tries to fill my hand. He bucks and thrusts and he is shivering. I chuckle as he claws on my chest.

Eliza shoves in her presence to me. I am the vessel for her pressure. I am the container for her power. She gives into me. I take it and hold it and give it back to her. She likes it. She loves it. I start rolling my hips and giving her motion the same power, she gives me. I buck and thrust and plow into her palm. I spill over the top of her hand. She loves it. She softly pulls up and rolls my head on her palm. Gawain can't take it. He just gets a handful of strokes and that is enough for his affection to boil over.

"I love you," Gawain stammers, "Both of you.

Eliza and I freeze in our act. The warmth blossoms in chest and spills over every fiber of my being. Eliza hand's stop. She clambers over me and presses that terrible weight into poor Gawain. He mewls and shivers and I watch his hips buck and dance. A bead at first then full shots and ropes. Poor guy can't keep up. Too much, too fast, all of her soul pouring into the moment where it splashes against her stomach. Her knee grinds to him and I get to watch her smirk carry through in little glimpse and crushes. She is laughing. She is smothering him, and he can't smile because everything else is too much.

"I love you too," she murmurs. I smile. It's an odd sentence to hear from her, but it works well. The mountain valleys sing of the little shadows in their depths, and I watch it all harmonize and collide together. It's such a beautiful sight. Elize shifts and opens her body. Gawain is still shivering and twitching, babbling wonderful nonsense together in the moment. I crawl in and feel the warmth carries over my body. The morning sun is bright and burning through my scant window and it warms my room. I see the clouds come from the sea. Whatever magic yesterday had is slowly bleeding out into how the world should really be. It will be cold. There will be rain. The wind will howl and scream and we probably won't be there when it rolls in. Open road stretched before us and the horizon constantly falling away. Dust in our wake and an endless world turning over under our feet. I weave in between their bodies, and they don't have to say anything to confirm what I already know. I am held between them and let Gawain's orgasm ride through me. It weaves through Eliza. It redoubles and rebounds, compounding together in a never-ending spiral that shakes us all. I love it. I move my hips against both their stomachs. Slick and tight and warm and cool. Every sensation and every feeling in my core is alight and tingling.

Gawain shivers and goes slack. He starts giggling and chuckling and shaking. His legs are weak, and he gives a little moan as my length bats against his. Over sensitive, but I have yet to have mine. I need mine. I will take mine. I grin. Gawain blinks and turns to me. I kiss him and he kiss me. Eliza chuckles and strokes my hair out of the way. The hand slips down my back and round my hips until she finds my length. And Gawain finds it as well. Callouses and softness, long fingers and nimble fingers and dancing fingers and crushing fingers. They all work together. They all work in me. I moan and mumble and yawn, still half dreaming of yesterday and the day before and the days that will come after.

My sensations bring me back to reality. Bodies, plain and heavy and physical and here. Nothing off in the distant. Nothing off in the ether. No gods or threads or men in armor saying that things are wrong and bad. Anything this real should be embraced. Anything this real should fall into my existence in a beautiful cacophony.

I'm not sure who does the moment that sets me over. I also don't really care. I am having the lighting ride of warming starts roll through my stomach and down my hips. I keep my hips in the rhythm I want. I keep the hands on me and working me and doing everything in their power to do whatever they want. It's wonderful. It's soft. It's a gentle rolling sea with warm salt flowing from me. I kiss Gawain. I kiss Eliza. I kiss both of them. I kiss none of them. They are both the same thing. I am the same thing. Everything is the same in an indistinct mash of body and soul.