The Rabbit Dies Pt. 01

The trio finally catches up and nudges my core. They try. They really do, but I vastly prefer the embrace of gravity and all that comes with it to the force of three soft foreheads trying to pry me from the grass. And the world prefers it that way as well. For if it were meant to change, the rabbits would be stronger, the grass less soft, the breeze less enticing and enchanting and the pain in my ribs not so terrible and horrendous. It is the world's fault that I am like this, staring up at the trees and the leaves and the endless shifting clouds.

I count to ten and I slowly let the rabbits push me to my side. Like the bastards they are, they just happen to pick the bad side and leave me to shift and move and sway back to my feet on my own. The pretense of assistance faded, and I was left to my own power and will. Terrible, just terrible. All three of them wait and ponder my form as I stand, before running off into the woods. Once more, the chase beings.

The roots become less mangled, less tripping, and snagging as they lead me deeper and deeper. A game trail forms from the gaps in the trees, just wide enough for us all to coexist comfortably. I let my thoughts wander and wonder at the idea of dinner. They might be amenable to it, but there are the unfortunate implications that transgress. But it wouldn't hurt to ask when we get where we're going. Probably. It is getting to that hour and I do not plan on missing a meal if I can help it.

The path turns left and the trees part to a clearing, a small hill covered in wildflowers, a lone oak standing at the top. My guides disappear into the grass and leave me to my own devices as evening comes orange and gold. I march up the hill, feet aching and throbbing, all of the strength, the momentum carrying from the day, leeching out of me with each and every step. Heavy, everything is so heavy.

Something has made a nest for me in the roots of the great tree. Matted grass and leaves and flower petals scattered. I huff at the pile of roots and nuts resting on the center. Appreciated, but not desired. Enough to keep me going, but not enough to make me wish to keep going.

I can feel him in the breeze, the one I share my path with. He's on the wind, slipping though the gaps in the forest, the silences in my thoughts, letting me feel still and calm and safe in my little nest in the roots. Still can't quite reach that little knot in my stomach that says I should not let go. I should get up from the nest and leave, keep going down the road until I find something actually resembling civilization.

And the conundrum strikes again, the push and pull of the thoughts that tell me to leave and tell me to stay in equal measure. Ideas split down the mind until the argument breaks through the skull. And it's all useless. I will stay here in the bed of soft worn grass because that is where he wants me to be and fighting it will only send him after me again. All the thoughts, arguments, wonderful logical hoops that my mind concocts simply fade and fall as the pain in my arm numbs. It is safe here, even though it does not quite feel that way. It is warm and that is more or less consistent. The night is bringing a bit more of its chill, but the wood keeps the worst of it out. Honestly, he did the best he could and that's pretty damn good. Despite everything, I feel my eyes grow heavy and weary and slowly start to fall to dreams.

I smell pipe smoke and whatever peace of mind I have is ruined.

"Leave," I manage to groan.

"Doesn't work like that," Warren says, "For the record, I was in a burrow on the other side of the world before I was called. But here I am. How are you doing, Claire?"

Sitting, stretched out and lackadaisical as anyone could possibly be, is a man, shorter and thinner than myself, perched on a branch above me. Clothes disheveled and ratty but fine, a long thin pipe in his hand and a top hat of dark felt, with two snow white hare's ears poking underneath the brim. I am always surprised by how young he looks. Warren doesn't look at me. He prefers to keep his eyes trained on the full moon and the scattered stars.

"What are you here for?" I growl through the grogginess in my throat.

"Nothing right now, other than a routine social call, and a grand reminder for the duties and oaths you have taken. You are but a thread, but a thread can still be pulled and unravel the whole design. The Loom of the Endless Tapestry always grows and something, something, something... Want a puff? It's not just pipe weed. Heads up."

He holds his pipe out to me, just barely glancing over in my direction before going back to the moon. Golden dust glimmers like starlight in the bowl. I shake my head and he puts it to his lips before a short inhale. Of course, he puts a ring in the sky.

"And well, I guess there's also something to warn you about. Battle high's wearing off tomorrow. Can't make it last as long as the others, but I'm getting better. Longest I've done so far. So, tomorrow's going to be just awful. Get ready for that."

"Bastard."

"Yes, yes, we both agree on that. Heavens forbid I just let you suffer in surprise when it's gone. Sure, you don't want a little bit? Probably help you sleep. Although I can think of a couple things for that as well. You know how to pull from me."

"I'm not doing that. And I'm alone. Kind of hard to do that when I'm alone."

"Beg to differ. Some of the best ones I've had were when I was alone. People can get in the way sometimes. But you know that. Still, I feel like I should do something, right? Can't just leave you like this tomorrow without something to take the edge off."

"You better not."

"And that's not quite in my control either. You know how they have those metals that just stick to each other? Can't help it. And if you try and part them, they just snap right back. You needed me and I needed to be needed and someone else needs needing. So here we all are, on that wonderful collision course that none of us can stop. That's all I have, Claire. Really. And unless you got something for me, then I'm gone. Take care of yourself."

For a moment, the air fills with smoke, before the grass and the flowers and the fresh breeze whisk it away And I am alone again, in my little hollow. My eyes grow heavy, and I finally fall asleep.

---

I do not like the dreams I have, and the odd amount of awareness that comes with them. I am conscious, I am feeling, but there is no control, but I do not know that I do not have control. I am me and not me and something else. Automatic, habit, the dreams filter in and I do not have the will to stall them any longer. And they always come when I see him.

I am naked and that's alright. Certainly not the worst feeling in the world, especially when there's a nice breeze about and the temperature is just so. Grass to skin, wind to hair, and everything golden and warm and soft. I'm not the greatest fan of the warm, to be honest. Just a little bite, just a little nip that comes when my mind wanders away, just to make everything clear and concise and apparent once more. But the dream doesn't have that. It just has the benign pleasant warmth of sunshine and blooming flowers against my skin, my chest, my stomach.

But the need that comes with the dream, the need that comes with the presence of Warren, the need in my core that burns and chokes and clenches against my entire body, forcing my face flushed. This is always the part I hate, always the part that doesn't sit right in my body. The heat knows where to go, knows where to settle and excite and I do not want it there. I want it gone from my body, but it stays and grows and slowly takes the mind. There is only the need it carries, and I feel it start to weep from my thigh.

Sex. I want sex. No other way to put it. A mate to fulfill my needs as I satiate theirs again, and again, and again, as many times as our bodies allow. A mate to couple with until our bodies bend and break. Strong and virile and potent, enough to swell my stomach with child and progeny to continue the grand legacy of sentience down through the ages. Just a presence to pour into me, see to nurture and grow as I round.

Even through the half daze of dream, my longing weeps through the grass in the waking world and I curse the fact that I am immobilized in fantasy. Half in one, half in the other so many things I feel, and I can do nothing about it. I try to fight the urges. I try to just go into some amount of restful repose and brace for the oncoming days of even more tired aches and pains that would surely decimate me. But now, I have to have a sex dream where every single need is attended to in an open field like a goddamn beast.

I do not see the source of further stimulation, the ghostly hands crawling up my side, the cold fingers tracing the lines in my stomach, the digits digging into my breasts and lighting my skin with storm thunder. Hunger, raw angry hunger that I do not get the fulfillment I need from simple hands and digits digging into me. I growl and snap and try to rise from the bed, from the grass, from the half dream that I like and do not like in equal measure. But the fog, the need of lust and mates keeps me pinned. Some final part of my impartial mind wonders who it's going to be this time.

The hands, though, the spirit hands that are mine and not mine, touching me where I want to be touched, finding the lines in my stomach, my back, my arms, all the little places that need a digit pressed in. One finds the small of my back, right as the spine turns to tail bone and strokes down. I melt, and sigh. I sigh and shudder as the hands do what they want with me, open and willing. I am not fighting. I cannot fight any more. I only lie there in the warm sun of dream afternoon and wait and wait and wait. One of the more adventurous hands goes to my breasts and starts softly pulling at the nipple. I snap and shiver and growl into the air. So many noises that come from me. So many noises that I can make with the ethereal band of ghostly fingers.

Something blurs in the dream world and the real as they align for a brief moment once more. The half daze of consciousness pulls music, soft meandering music from the wind. Strings, or horns, or a fife, I'm not quite sure what it is. Or even if it is one thing entirely. I can't tell where's it from, the dream or the forest and the hands, the hands of soft breeze do not aid in my concentration. The more I fight, the more they hold me down. Neither body can move. Neither body stirs or shifts or finds any freedom in their existence. There are only the hands and their touch.

And to their credit, they are good. Good at finding the soreness and the ache and gently hauling it away through my flesh. Cool and soothing and soft, lulling me into catatonic stillness, smoothing the folds of my thoughts and just letting me be. Not yet, they are not quite hitting the spots yet, but that is the one knot they won't work out. It's the knot they are designed to tie.

Slowly, slowly, it grows within me. And the frustration with the hands as they only tour my chest. Their outright refusal to do anything more makes them cowards. Plain and simple cowards who do not want to do anything actually worthwhile with their lives. Content layabouts who do not care for the fruits of hard labor. I take a deep breath in and try to smother the need growing in my core. I do not want this. I just want the dream to be over so that I can get on with my travels and hopefully find a soft enough bed to collapse on.

The hands keep feeding the hunger with soft caresses, further and further goading me to take part in the communion. It's what they're supposed to do. It's what I'm supposed to do. It's the only thing that I am required to do. I am being prepared. That's what all this is. I am being prepared for the ritual springtime and I do not want to be. I'd prefer a nice restful night of quiet sleep, but as the hands keep touching me, that keeps getting farther and farther away. It keeps boiling the blood, sending storm lighting through my skin, and lighting me on fire.

Something will come up the hill. Something will come up the hill with a confident swagger and magnetic attraction to come and sate me. I can feel the ground shake already. I can feel the footsteps travel through the earth, softly, so softly. Definitely a man. Definitely, the stride and cadence of the steps. Maybe a gargan or a Kurhk if I had to guess, but I could be wrong. Hard to tell what someone is by the footsteps.

And it's Amaru again. Never met him in person, always in the dreams, always in the moments when every glare I give him is really a smolder and every movement I take only draws him further. He certainly is attractive. I will not deny that. A gargan, skin a deep blue like the bottom of a lake, a light pale of sky ink crosses his form. Thick lines tattooed to his skin, winding and runic and absolutely fascinating. I look to his legs and my core jumps in raw eager anticipation. That is mine and mine alone and no one else can have that.

"No," I say, and a look of confusion passes across his face and I've lost count of the times we've had this interaction. His broad chest drops and the smile fades, although his rather impressive hardness does not. Nor do I expect it to. He saunters over, letting his muscles turn and flex and hopefully persuade some forgotten part of my mind that I actually do want this. That's the problem. There is a part of me that wants this. That wants the rut and the press and the warmth in my belly, that wants the hours if not days of body-on-body contact, all the moans and whimpers and screams of joy that come with the act performed well. But there is also a part of me that does not want it. That does not want the scent of another filling my mind, the taste of another in my mouth.

"Good to see you too, Claire," he says in a voice that melts stone and turns the insides into some fluttering mess. I can do it. The hands have left, and I am free to pounce and take what belongs to me. But I stay still, fighting every urge that is mine but not mine.

"I know you're here for a reason, but alright," he continues, "I'm here for the same reason. I'm not going to push it. Learned that lesson."

Unfair really, my treatment of him. Although he should really learn by now that when he sees me in the shared dream, it's not what he thinks. He goes to the other side of the tree and sits, plopping himself down and staring at the sky.

"I never get why though," he asks no one in particular, "I mean, sure, times and places and what not, but here is designed for it. Designed for us. And it's not like I'm going to judge you. And we've talked enough for it, but... never mind. You said no and that's that. Sorry."

"No need to apologize."

I get it. I really do. We're here. That means we both want it, and we both need it to an extent and to have the other party just flat out deny that need must be confusing for someone who's delved into the whole aspects of the path so enthusiastically.

"Who're you with now?" I venture.

"Madame Dantea's House of Carnal Indulgences. Honestly, not the best gig. For a succubus, kind of a prude. Usually just one night or so a week and I don't think she has a summoner attached. Somehow got unchained, but she's vetted. And it's a traveling affair. We're about a day or so from the Thistles at the moment. You?"

"Just ended a contract with Don Saavedra and his campaign. Stopped before they were headed towards the Sepia. Got a broken arm and a couple cracked ribs probably. Talked with the glorious bastard just now and hinted that there's a lot worse coming in the morning."

He laughs and it's like an avalanche inside me as every muscle twitches and shakes at the voice. It's short, the momentary lapse of will that makes me want to go over and straddle him, but the wall holds. The wall holds steady and all I want to do is go to bed and not deal with this. It will end. It has to end at some point.

"You're insane, you know that? Absolutely insane."

"Yeah. I've been told."

He grunts and shifts, and I feel the rumble travel through the ground and settle in my chest. The will knows he's there. There is a perfectly acceptable partner within arm's reach, and I am not straddling him, taking him inside, crashing against him until our hips turn to powder. Instead, we are making benign small talk looking at the sky that isn't real.

The hunger pangs through my body again and starts the mind doing some simple math. Tomorrow will be terrible, absolutely miserable, and I know that. There are certain steps I can take to alleviate that terribleness. And I have been presented with an alleviation to that terribleness in the form of a muscular blue man, who is twitching and frustrated. I sigh, ugly and rasping and even then, in the field of flowers and blue skies and shady trees, it manages to come out husky and whining. He looks over and I manage to beckon him over.

"Just tongue," I say, and he smiles. Not quite the cock sure grin of something about to mount and press and claim. Gentle, acknowledging and more than content. His member twitches and pulls at him to go for the whole thing, but I do not allow it and so Amaru will not either. It will have to be quiet.

"Are you sure?" the gentleman asks.

"It'll be good for me. Probably. And I can think of worse people to cater to me."

"Such a ringing endorsement. Ok, Claire. Whatever you want."

Too good for me, really. Better than I deserve for the moment.

He starts at my breasts, first the left and then the right. Gentle soft kisses and I feel the sparks in his core, the soft tinge of sea salt. He swirls his tongue, and the kick hits once I realize how long it is, the control he commands of the wet muscle. The imagination says that it will feel amazing, and I am inclined to agree.

Of course, he is skilled in the art of pleasure. Of course, the lips and the tongue linger on all the parts that matter. Of course, the fingers dig and alight the soft flesh exactly as they should. And of course, my own body cries out to respond in kind, to envelope and fold over the twitching length, the savor the seed, the gift his body produces, on every inch of my skin. He trails lower, letting the lips and the tongue trace an arrow to my weeping entrance. Needy little thing sometimes. Heat, raw heat from my thighs and he moves his arms under me, squeezing my ass before going to the small and lifting me. Strong, godsdamn is he strong. Dream him at least. The half fog of sleep still calls, but through it runs the various couplings that come with that strength. And I am no slouch there either. Bending and breaking each other, again and again, twisting and writhing together until annihilation ends the whole world.

The tongue finds the thigh and he licks and kisses and strokes, finally adjusting our bodies. My legs rest on his shoulders as the hands wander my back to my chest. He circles the palms, and they are so soft, so wonderfully soft, beaten cotton clouds and hot winds. He shifts a little and suddenly there is callous, and I shudder and spasm.

"You are an eager little bunny aren't you," he murmurs into my thighs, "Naughty. You should really get more of this. Claire, do you need me to go on?"

"I will crush you head in my thighs like a ripe melon if you don't shut up."

"Not the worst way to go really."

Just to illustrate my blood lust, I wrap my legs around his temples, and pull him in. Luckily, he takes the hint. I gasp and hiss and spasm as he kisses me. Wet heat of hellfire and forest blazes roars within me and I might just do that if I am not careful. He doesn't mind, finally deciding that I am not to be trifled with.

A very smart tongue he has, and a very clear picture of the world for me. That long, wide, impossibly nimble muscle waves and writhes and shifts the folds, parting them and opening me and letting my every inside on the outside for the worship of the world. Amaru though, he is my foremost discipline for the moment, conducting his eager sermon at my altar. He knows some hymns at least, the patterns he draws make me clench and tense.