The Rabbit Dies Pt. 02

Warren is smart. As much as I am loathed to admit it, he knows things and has enough experience to know what ties into what else. The many, many, many pieces of the world aligned and stitched together in the right way, and he can see the way they would all come together.

Pain, just raw unfiltered pain from every single inch of my body. Inside and outside. Every muscle fiber, every ounce of bone, every pore on my skin aches and throbs and pulses. I can't ever speak. I can't even breathe without an urge to just stop and let it consume. So easy. Just stop breathing for a bit and the pain will all end, and everything will be quiet and dark and nothing bad could possibly happen to me ever again. I would just cease to be, and the pain couldn't find me in the darkness beyond.

I can only think pain. The thoughts of pain, the continued existence of pain, the fact that living until the next moment will only bring more pain. Not anguish, not strife, for those require some amount of activity on my part. Pain is inflicted upon me, and there is not a thing I can do to remedy it. I can only sit and endure as the world punishes me for the simple act of existing. I do not want to exist. That was not my idea. That was thrust upon me and I do not think it fair to pay for my parents' grand mistake. That is their sin to bear, and I am just an innocent bystander who did nothing wrong whatsoever.

My arm twitches, the bad one and I finally make a noise. Not a scream, not quite a yell, really a rasping mewl of a cat being dashed against a brick wall in a bag, sharing the space with nails. Rusty nails. My throat bleeds and I cough and that just makes everything worse. I can't breathe. There's just the terrible existence in the clinging fabric that smells of sex and sweat. 10, I will count to 10 and then I will get up and deal with the day.

I get to 5 before a branch cracks and bolts me upright. By the time 6 is around I am on my feet, shoving the pain down to the bottom of the world and I have my hand on my hammer. Singing, someone is singing, and I can't quite make out the words. A dull thump and a crack pierce the silence of the forest. And then blessed silence once more.

I am still in the clearing where I laid last. I am still under the tree in a matted heap of grass and flower petals dyeing my clothes. The green will never come out and I fear the same for the light blue and the pink and the yellow. I lean on my weapon and drive the head deeper into the earth, letting it turn the dirt to mud. Something's moving at the edge of the forest.

"There is no mountain

Too tall to overcome.

For we will be as one," sings the forest's edge. The voice cracks and sputters and shifts, trying to make the words sound right in a voice that doesn't quite match the body. Young, the singer is young.

"There," the leaves and the trees say, "That should be enough."

The rabbits are gone, scared off by the noise of the falling trees and I hope that's really all they wanted for the moment. I have no interest in some grand design at the moment. The good lumberjack's in for a good fright at least, when a wild woman dirtied and injured comes traipsing through the forest, but I shall hope that means whoever is making the noise also is amenable to giving directions. And I have a hammer and a coin purse to make the whole affair whatever flavor I desire.

The memory of the dream makes my legs steady as I slowly pick my way down the hill. No snagging roots, or wayward rocks or hidden holes to catch my foot and send me tumbling. The hammer helps. The hammer helps the feet and the weight not crushing my joints. It hurts. It hurts to walk, and it hurts to breathe and it hurts to think. The singing gets louder and louder as I keep getting closer.

In the trees, I see a figure hunched over in the brush, rooting like a truffle pig. A boy, a young boy, absorbed in the task down in the earth, wearing clothes stained with dirt and twigs.

"Hey," I shout, and he turns. My voice scrapes open my throat and freezes him solid.

"Do you know the way back to the road?" I ask.

---

The boy walks in silence and I see no reason to break it. No reason at all. He said he and his family run a rest stop along the main road and I trust him. I trust him to know what will happen if he is lying to me. I trust him to make mostly rational decisions with women. Foolish, probably, given them way he keeps looking at my chest, but it's always a line to toe when that threshold to a man is nearing. So, he can look and shyly glance away as much as he wishes, so long as there is an inn with a bed and a bath like he said. And the night did take the worst of it, once I started moving.

"What's your name," I ask as I shift the bundle of wood in my good arm. Hard to balance, really, but I can make it work. He looks away, fumbling with his own.

"Lionel," he says, "But ma calls me Leo."

"What do you want to be called?"

"Leo works ma'am. I like that name more than Lionel. Nothing wrong with it, I suppose, but I don't know. Just sounds better I guess, ma'am."

"Call me Claire. I've heard of worse names. Not a fan of Evan. Or Ethan for that matter. Anything with a 'e' in it I suppose."

"Any reason?"

"None whatsoever."

Leo glances at my chest again and quickly looked away.

"Are you with the Loom? There's that symbol on your necklace."

I smirk. Likely story really, but I will give him the benefit of the doubt.

"I walk with Warren."

And he blushes, a deep crimson blush that goes from the tip of his pointed ears all the way down to his toes.

"I don't mean to pry, ma'am, but is it true then? What the followers of him do?"

"Not me. Took a slightly different approach with his ways and he doesn't seem to mind. But yeah. There are certain... acts that are performed in his name. And I do dabble."

"There's another one at home," he says, almost as if he's eager to change the subject, "I don't know who she's with. But she has that same symbol from a locket she wears. She taught me that song I was singing earlier."

I sigh and shift the bundle of wood in my grasp again. Unruly little pile. Jostling and moving as it like with no regards as to how it is handled. I am too old for chores and the like, especially when I have to help with someone else's. And I'm injured too. Leo fumbles with his own stack of kindling, trying to tame the sticks and twigs. A moment passes as he gathers what he's dropped, and I wish that this will be the last time. I hope it's not another Warren waiting there. Certain things always seem to go on when we gather, but I'd prefer not to deal with that. I'd prefer a quiet night or two, actually see to my arm and then move on. Not really any particular path I wish to cross at the inn, for that matter. But they're already there and there is no point in looking for anything else. My arm spikes and spits because it's a spiteful little bastard.

Leo bursts through the tree line and we are back on the main path, holding as many branches as his slender arms can manage. We have actual signage lining the road. Goldenrod, Xanth Town, The Lilac Frontier. All good places probably, but Leo takes the one leading away from all of them. Before long, I smell what might be some sort of pie. My stomach rumbles and the wise young man decides to hurry his steps as much as he can. Even through the fading afterglow in my core, I am losing every little bit of strength I have with each step.

Leo starts humming again, lost in his own little world of song and tempo and notes and it is nice. He will have a good voice once it settles into its proper range. A knack for it really. And it makes the steps a little bit better. Not quite manageable, but I can do this. I tell myself I can do this through the labored breath and the sore muscles and the burning inside of me that just needs a bed. A soft bed with a thick quilt and a nice fire in the corner and I hope, I hope that the promised inn will have all the amenities and several more that I did not care to ask for. Peeled grapes would be nice and maybe an older son that could carry a bundle of sticks properly. Not fair to the kid. He's doing his best and I'm not having a good day. But I hope he doesn't drop his bundle anymore because I cannot deal with anymore walking. My chest burns and aches and I cannot get enough air to my lungs.

It's a squat little thing, sticking from the woods. The roof sags and bends but remains strong and sturdy. Ivy and vines climb the walls and a thin whisp of smoke trails from the chimney in the back. A horse and a cow sit tied up in a side pen, blankly gazing at the world passing them by. In flowing script, much neater than I thought it would be, the words 'Riverbend Waystation' sit in calm pride. I do not see a river in any close proximity, but names are an odd thing.

I almost drop the wood I have so carefully carried when the music starts up again and I hear that wretched sweet voice ring through the beams. But I don't because I am calm and controlled and there is still a warm bed waiting for me inside and that can outweigh a lot, and I mean a lot, of unpleasantness. Unfortunately, not all of it. The steps hurt and the chest burns and the eyes fade as I fall. The edges of my visions go black, once my face is pressed into the cold earth.

---

Annette does not stop singing. It's all she does. It's all she wants to do. If she's not singing, she's humming. If she's not humming, she's tapping a foot, a finger, some part of her body in some constant rhythm. And the worst part is, I don't even mind. I do not mind the constant music. She's good. Really good. Really, really good. I find myself humming along, matching the rhythm and pace she sets with every waking moment. I tap and hum and march to the beat of her life and she's not even putting in any effort.

There are no colors to the music, no color at the edge of my vision, not a thing worming into my mind to make me feel like something I'm not. It's just the music.

So, I lie in bed, listening to her croon about the world and its woes and all that comes with it and I feel good. I feel calm and smooth and tired and heavy. The splint doesn't even rub my arm at all anymore. Everything's settled and quiet and peaceful and I am just hovering in the nonexistent place at the edge of sleep, and I couldn't be calmer.

The mind drifts and wanders. I know I am on a bed. I know that I am under a blanket and I have missed several meals. Shame. That is a shame. I would like to eat something, but the rest of the body has too many other things to deal with. Broken ribs. Definitely. I don't know how many, or how bad and once more I have to be thankful for Warren for letting it fade on someone's doorstep instead of the middle of the forest. Amaru probably helped too. I pant and heave, not enough air getting into me. Not enough air in the world to get into me and I am choking and shaking and trying not to think about it too much. I cough and I want to die. The music stops and I want to die.

Someone knocks at my door. I say something that means go away, but the translation doesn't carry and the worn wood creaks open.

It's Annette. I groan and cough and spasm and just want everything to stop and bury myself into the sheets and never come out from them. Exhausted, she looks exhausted and tired, like the joints aren't quite strong enough to slot the bones back where they belong. She's back to gray now, and the green is almost yellow. Hellion pales always look so odd. The horn though, the horn is still sharp and pointed and polished like fine ivory. The green sits oddly on her lips and her fingers. She eyes me with, finding the odd hills and dips in the blankets from my body.

Annette, to whatever credit it means, does not laugh. She just stands in the doorway, smiling and trying to piece together what happened.

"Holy Hell Cottontail," she finally says with a low, low whistle, "You look terrible."

She's not wrong and I do not see a reason to contest that assessment.

"What happened? I brought you in yesterday and you didn't look good, but you didn't look like this."

"Water," I finally rasp.

Everything I know about her is wrong as she disappears and comes back with a hefty jug, all for me. She nurses me, clearing the grit and glue from my mouth, every drop sliding through and chilling my core. It hurts. It still hurts. But my throat does feel a little better. That gives me hope, terrible, awful hope that everything can be better. I cough and rasp again as the jug goes away and I cannot drink anymore.

"Lost the rabbit," I say, "Warren pulled out."

She snickers a little.

"Thought you would like that. Kind of hard to fight when, y'know. But you'd go for it."

Annette sashays away for a moment, pulling the chair to my bedside. The green at the edges of her body has faded a little. Still vibrant, still vivid, but more and more black has seeped into the veins and wrinkles. I let my eye wander to her hips and the dance they perform. I am grateful she has a taste for tight cloth.

"And I know what you mean. Apparently Treblex did the same to me two nights ago. Jackass didn't bother to tell me. Still not as bad as you. Gods, you really are something."

Talking hurts. Listening hurts. Thinking hurts.

"I'll go tell that you'll be staying for a little while longer. You're good for it right?"

I nod.

"I'm sticking around for a few more days myself. Still not back to full and I'd rather hole up somewhere safe for a bit longer. I'm kind of done with battles for a bit. Need some peace and quiet."

I groan and shift and she takes it as the body rejecting the current series of physical sensations. That's what it is, mostly. But I'll deal with it. I can deal with it. I'm stronger than that at least.

She leaves and I am left alone with the pain once more. Every drop of blood I have within me is aching from inside my veins. Every bone shakes and rattles the joints and the muscles tear and break with every tiny shift I can manage.

I can smell flowers and trees and grass filter in from outside. Sleep, wonderful sleep is eluding me, the hateful spite of my broken body not feeding into rest. The only left for me is the slow crawl of sunlight across the wooden planks.

---

No dreams. I have no dreams the second night. I just have a wonderful, silent night and the knowledge that the stars and twinkling and shining above the trees, dancing with the moon. I cannot see them, but I know they are there. I know that the moon slips between them, giving the world as much light as it could afford. But I sleep and the second day comes and ruins it with terrible consciousness.

I can finally move, at least. My own power. My own strength. I can shift off the bed and stand on my own two feet. Unsteady, and shaking and only a few steps, but it's better than watching the sunlight cross the floor at least. I go to the window. The forest is fine. It doesn't care about the torment I've endured. It only cares for sunshine and rain and it has those in plenty.

It's slow going, the door, the hall, the stairs. I take the walls for every inch I gain in the ground. But I manage. I manage to level out my feet and shuffle forward, using my best impression of a corpse to keep moving forward. The scent of bacon does wonders for motivation.

Annette is already up and dressed and doing a fine job of actually looking like a person. Dark rings under her eyes though, almost imperceptible with the color of her skin. But she smiles at me and I sit, slowly, before every fiber collapse in on itself. The chair protests and I tell it to shut up. It can handle the weight, and I am fine for sitting.

"Sleep alright, Cottontail?" she says, "You look better at least."

"I look like I've been sleeping in a ditch for a week and then got trampled by a horse. But, yeah, I slept alright. Didn't dream."

"Wait, those are real? I thought that was just a rumor."

I sigh and groan and try to convince the chair to let me slink down and prop my feet on something. Nothing's within reach though, so I settle for just taking my head to the table. It works. The body doesn't have to support itself as much this way and I am free to make whatever face I want to the wood in exchange for it swallowing my words.

"They're real and they're terrible. Always get the worst sleep when I have them."

"But what are they like?"

"What do you think?"

Annette snickers again and slaps the table in some grand fit of joy. It shatters my skull and I groan. I need to ask Warren to stop amping me up in fights. If this is the end result, then I don't want the initial dose.

"So, seas of studs, hung to the knee, all at your feet. Maybe some fine sluts to add some variety. But just an endless orgy. I'm talking some real hogs between the legs. Thick and throbbing and veiny and drippy. I bet that's your type. You go for the real horse like ones. Big fat balls too. And I know, I know that it gets messy. That's the whole deal, right? Just breeding the world with huge tracts of land. That's how you got yours. Cow tits and horse dicks and emissions like donkeys. Isn't that the whole creed of the bunny boy?"

A bowl or a plate settles at my head and I look up to poor Leo, as he looks down to the floor, once again red as the setting sun.

"Morning Leo. Talking about fun dreams Miss Verlaine here had last night. Did you have any fun dreams? I know I did."

Leo, like an actual gentleman, pretends he has heard nothing at all. He gives Annette her food and trundles back to the kitchen. No doubt to tell his parents that the guests have just been served breakfast and he will be in the forest for the foreseeable future. Alone. And don't come looking for him.

"If you're that curious," I say as I try to peel myself from the wood, "Just one guy. And he gave me the lord's kiss."

"That's the worst name for oral I have ever heard."

"Bite me."

Annette snickers again and fortunately decides that eating breakfast is more important than our current conversation. I am glad that she is finally acting reasonable. The bacon and hash and I don't know what else helps with the pain. It fills my stomach and clears a bit of the fog from my mind. I don't remember forks and spoons being this heavy, but I manage. My arm doesn't feel anything, just sore and blank numbness. Salty and greasy and filling, I somehow find some grain of satisfaction from the simple meal.

"He was packing down there," I say, "I'll give you that much."

Annette chokes on something and I smile. Some modicums of my discomfort have been transferred and that's alright.

"You can't just give me that. C'mon. I'm dying to know."

"A lady doesn't kiss and tell."

"Good thing you're not a lady."

Saw that coming a mile away and still decided that it was a good use of my time.

"Guy's name is Amaru. Gargan and he keeps his head shaved. And he has those tattoos they all have. Staple follower. Chiseled and muscular, but with enough softness and give to make him comfortable. Shaved smooth, or just never grew in. And yeah, he's a big guy. Like really big."

"Like how big we talking?"

I hold up my forearm and make a fist. She just laughs and laughs and laughs.

"Wouldn't that kill someone? Like big stuff feels good, but there's a limit."

"Two things. He's with Warren so the sizes and numbers can get a little fudged and no one gets hurt. And I've never seen him in person, only the dreams. So, I'm not quite sure how he measures up in real life. Never gotten that far with him though. Two nights ago was the most we ever did."

"Really? Like really, really? Cause from everything I know, dream sex doesn't count. Like at all. Warren dreams might be a bit different, but I think that would still apply."

"I don't like the lack of control in the dreams. I have to fight for it to stop. It's too easy."