The Rabbit Dies Pt. 02

"You might be the only person I know that says it's too easy to have sex. Even the other Warren brood that I know don't complain about it. They just enjoy it."

"I just do things a different way, I guess. And he has a very, very good tongue."

She laughs again and even that has music laced in every note. I can almost pick out the rhythm, too. Just another song she makes, and I can't quite make the name of it appear. It's good though, soothing. She looks tired. Not as tired as I am, but I have no pride in winning that particular contest at the moment.

---

A nap without dreams later and I am still sore, still working the kinks and the tough calcified muscle free. Everything still hurts to move, every breath laborious and trying. The light dancing across the floor, though, that's the most entertaining thing. I don't want to think about how that first day back with a hammer in my hand is going to go. All it takes is one day without practice and the muscles lose all semblance of familiarity. And everything's going to be stiff and awkward. The sooner I can stand for more than a handful of minutes, the better.

I didn't have dreams, not entirely, but there was something weaving through my mind, almost as if I wouldn't notice. But the recollection of the hours spent with my eyes closed brings odd sensations. Restless, sure that was to be expected. But less frustration to it, more enthusiasm and anticipation of movement that I thought would be normal. More excitement than impatient, mixed with odd flavors suggesting dance. While I dozed, Annette played doing her own specific worship and game, pulling at the strings of the soul, tuning them tight and high and clean until they all sounded just the way she wanted. It was still a good nap, really, but not one of my better ones. It also took me through lunch and that was unappreciated.

It's early evening from what I can tell from the light. Warm orange, almost red sun, whip-poor-wills in the distance, and the something bubbling from the kitchen. Dinner, probably parsnip soup from the scent, maybe with some chickens tossed in for a bit of extra staying power. That does sound nice. Very nice and welcome and I would like to have some in my stomach as soon as possible. But the bell hasn't been rung so I am stuck in my room watching the ceiling and going through the thoughts of hammer motions, just to keep something sharp and ready in case.

Knocking, someone is knocking at my door. The rhythm dances and bounces and syncopates and phlams in some terribly esoteric time signature. Annette is the only one I know who would put that much effort into the act.

"Come in," I say to the worn wood and I am right. She stands there, lyre in hand and shuts the door just a bit too enthusiastically for my tastes, but I am still in bed and find myself preoccupied. She almost stumbles over her feet as she pulls a chair to be my bedside. A kick sends the offending party soaring through the air to the fair side of the room. My shirt lands in a crumpled heap, defeated in the corner.

"How are you holding up?" she asks as if the answer isn't obvious.

"Still terrible. It hurts to think, and I didn't have lunch. Dinner isn't ready yet, so I'm pretty much in hell. You?"

"Doing a lot better. More or less got my mojo back and I'm thinking of heading out in the morning."

Something odd kicks in my stomach that I did not expect to be there. It's gone a moment later as the next heartbeat brings another spasm through me.

"Which is kind of why I wanted to stop by," she continues, "I've dabbled with the white magecraft and while I claim no expertise, I can at least take a look at you and see what I can do. Probably not on the Way of Inside Red's level, but I can at least stitch up some of the smaller stuff."

Magecraft healing always leaves me itchy in the worst way, but compared to the current state of affairs, I'll take itchy and scratchy and the general feeling that my skin is trying to crawl away from a greener pasture over the grand revolt of my existence.

"What's in it for you?"

"I know for a fact you got paid more than I did, so cover my last night. That should be enough for now. Deal?"

I sigh and groan and try to sit up before my shield arm cracks and breaks and sends me back down to the mattress for my arrogant thinking. I am not a thing made to sit up. I should just lie here like a worm and be thankful for the sensation. The bone shifts out of alignment and there is a bump in my forearm that turns my stomach.

"Yeah, I'm doing this."

She takes the blanket away and she is evil and terrible and absolutely vile. A low whistle, almost like a loon, slowly burbles from her lips.

"Claire," she whispers, "Claire, why do you do this to yourself?"

My entire left side has turned purple and swollen and pulsing. Warm, it is warm and throbbing and aching. The bones on my arm are shifted out of place. Scabs and scars crisscross my body, x's and gashes and lines, doing a fair job of healing, but the wounds need more than fair. Even three days later, even given the time, it all hurts and having it laid bare and open brings it all back to the forefront. Tired. I am so tired and sore and aching and naked in the soft woolen blankets and sheets and pillows and I just want something to eat and then I can go to bed and maybe tomorrow it will all be a little better.

"It's what I am," I manage to grunt. She holds a black hand over the pain, taking in the heat that wafts from my body.

"Yeah, but... is this worth it? Most people who do this aren't like you. You have options. You can do other things."

"I've heard the talk before. Just do your thing."

She shrugs and sighs and starts humming again. Always music, always something with her. But slow, so achingly slow, drawing the noise from the air and crystallizing it in her throat, her lungs, dancing at the back of her tongue. The world hums with her. Wood grain and mortar and stone and the very air itself shifting to align itself with her will. The bed creaks under me and the soft motion knocks a clipped gasp from me as something takes the heat and drives a spike of ice into my core. The cold melts and shifts and boils against the insides of my ribs, forming around the bone.

And she still hums nonsense words that fit into a melody that I cannot quite grasp. Too slow, too drawn out, too everything against the pain to squash and stretch the nerves. Colors dance in the room with her song. Blue and red and yellow. Orbs of sensation that dance and whirl and spin together and make the music visual. I cannot look away. They are just shifting and dancing and having their own world to take and control and make something new and it hurts. It hurts, the numb cold and the dull heat and the voice in my ear that says absolutely nothing but makes noises that are soothing and loving and caring and I do not want them in my ear. I want to lie down and sleep and have soup and my hammer and then this will all be over, and the world will stop, but no, the horn and the dark skin hum within me and I cannot make it stop.

Her hands wander and caress my body. Soft, so soft and tender and gentle. Even then it hurts, the light butterfly wings still stab and ache and pierce into me and I cannot make it stop. It just keeps finding new areas to poke and prod and nudge inside me. She stays on my chest almost exclusively. A trip down to the hard lines of my stomach, occasionally the thigh or the arm, but she stays on my torso, running her hand up and down between my cleavage. Some strange part of me through the pain notices and likes it. It likes the touch of another and the music that soothes and aches and makes the whole world terrible. Some part of me is still stuck in the dream of muscular virility crashing and slamming into me and sowing seeds in my womb. A woman's touch is still nice. A woman's touch still boils the blood and clenches the core and promises pleasure and euphoria if only I would take the next step and let go of the sacred control.

The bone snaps back into place and I yell as the feeling sharpens and shreds and pierces my stomach.

The pain makes me cough and shake and spasm together and I can't quite make myself think straight anymore. At least my misery is shared. Annette staggers back and collapses in the protesting chair, almost breaking the wood and splintering the seat. At least it's not my weight that's the issue. Whip thin as she is, I doubt she could snap a sapling in that matter.

"So," she coughs, "So you should be dead. Or at least unable to move. But you're not and I'm chalking that up to Warren."

"How bad?"

"I do not know how you got here. I do not know how you were able to even walk after that fight. But hey, that's alright. Stranger things have happened. Broken arm, but that's set now, and I've started some bone growth, but it's still fragile. I say a new splint or something. Your ribcage is just splinters. Like just powder at this point. No wonder you're having trouble breathing. That's more than I can deal with. You need a priest or a sage or something. That's bad."

"I have plate mail for that."

"Until you get one dent in it and suddenly your heart is now pulp."

"I'll be fine."

"I doubt that. I really, really doubt that."

A bell rings from below us and that means the soup is ready and suddenly the world doesn't seem so bad. Amazing how simple we all are. Warm food and soft beds and a shelter to keep out the darkening sky at night and the whole of existence doesn't even matter. That simple sound makes me forget the pain.

I wobble a little as I come to my feet. But I remain standing as Annette looks me over, eyes trailing and lingering and swooping over my injuries. Incredulous, simple and plain. I should not be standing, but there is soup to be had and I will not be denied two meals in one day. She tails me down the stairs once I have dressed myself in case I should fall. I don't think it will happen and I am proven right.

---

The bones and the joints still move in the right way. Everything still has its slot and pivot and place, however painful that may be. Certainly not fighting fit, but I could probably get one or two good swings in before the rest of me crumbles. And that's all it takes sometimes really. Probably enough to get me to a real town with a real mage and some real betterment. Not that Annette did a bad job, just not her area of expertise. Despite my skill with my hammer, I doubt I could build a house that way, even with similar tools. Probably could learn to do it, given enough time and assistance. But not now, and definitely not tonight. The simple jaunt down a floor and then back up has left me exhausted and in pain.

I gaze at the ceiling, recounting the number of whorls I can see in the wood. 157, from my current viewpoint, and probably another couple dozen in the rest of the room. I will say even 200 for the sake of my thoughts. Even numbers are better than odd and especially if it ends in zero. Zeroes are nice.

The knock at my door is also somewhat nice. Not the nicest it could be, but acceptable. The best knock would be no knock at all, but that seems to be out of the question from the sound hanging in the air. Three quick taps and a hesitant forth.

"Come in," I groan as I turn to face the intruder. Not worth my full attention. I am full and tired, and the evening sky is just low enough to make it acceptable to turn of the day and will it to be tomorrow.

Annette again, dressed and cleaned and sharp. She's filed her horn again, letting it come to a needle point. Always looked so fragile like that, so thin and wiry. Like I could just reach out and snap it to the base. I imagine that would be incredibly rude and offensive.

"Hi," she says. I grunt and lie back down. The arm is doing better, more or less. Still swollen and throbbing and painful, but it doesn't threaten to slide and snap and break on me again. It can take a little weight. Probably not a hail of arrows, or a good sturdy block, but it could probably pick up a shield and rattle some sabers if it came down to it.

"Just checking up on you," she says, "Haven't played full white mage in a while, so I want to make sure nothing's backfired on you."

"Honestly," I manage to sigh, "It's holding up alright. You did good."

She smiles, and I realize how vivid her lips are. Not sickly, not really. Deep vivid green, like forest leaves and long grown grass. And the skin, always so dark, black dark, charcoal ember, and scorch marks. A forest in the aftermath of a fire, an all-consuming blaze. She does not stumble as she pulls up what has become her chair so easily. I do not remember her shirt being that tight across her chest and I can't help but let my sleepy eyes linger for a heartbeat or two.

"Thank you. Probably not sage level, but enough to get you through the worst of it. I actually came by with a bit of an idea. Not quite sure if it will work, but that's why I wanted to run it by you."

I huff and shift. The bed feels cold all of a sudden. Not the good cold of the pillow's dark side or the first moment slid into silk sheets. Winter cold with icicles and blizzards and all sorts of illness. I don't like it. I like spring chill with a slight bite to it to keep the senses sharp and open and alert. She is going to propose something to me, and I know what it is.

"I sang to recover from the battle, right? I used up a lot of juice and I needed to get it back, so I offered my talents to Treblex. And I got to feeling better pretty soon. So... I was wondering if..."

"If sex would help me heal."

"Basically. Worst case scenario, you just have sex with me. And I think that's a pretty good deal. I would have sex with me if given the chance. Good things. They say good things."

"Who is they?"

"Y'know, they. Them. People. People I have had sex with. They seemed to like having sex with me. If you're not into ladies, that's fine. Just a thought. Just an idea."

I want to sink into my bed even farther, but I can't. The feathers and the straw are already matted and compressed into a thin mat in the shape of my back. She's fidgeting, rubbing her thighs together. Even that, even that simple rustle of cloth going back and forth carries a tune in it. Almost like a cricket walking on violin strings, a meandering thing that keeps going around and around the central point hit too soon.

But it would work. I know it would. It would make me feel better and worse case scenario, it would let me have sex with Annette. Even if she's bad, I would have had sex and bad sex is better than no sex.

The bed is still cold.

I sigh and look at the ceiling. Still the same number of whorls and planks and knots in the wood. I smell the spirits hanging in the air and even that simple act shakes my chest and another shot of pain in my ribs, and I lose what little breath I have.

"Fine," I say, "Just fine. Let's go."

She brightens into that same smile again, the green lips split and there are white teeth, so white and clean and bright. I do not know what she does to get them that way, or if it's just a natural thing. Amaru has fairly white teeth, but I'm not sure if that's natural. The dreams are not reality and I do not care to find the discrepancies.

Annette pounces, clearly much more eager than I am at this point. The reverberations shake the bed, and it still protests. One person maybe, but two, it was not designed for two. But she is on me, lips to mine, filling my mouth with her tongue. And it is long, long and slender and nimble as it dances and twirls. I can taste her. I can taste everything in. Wine, there is wine in there somewhere, probably a deep pull to steel the nerves. Smoke too, her own stash maybe, hidden and faint. Maybe last night or the night before, something to change my mind and make it a little different than usual. Something to help with the music and make is sound a little more disconnected from reality. It's an odd taste, one that I'm not quite sure I like.

But she is good, skilled, dexterous in the fine muscle control.

Oddly enough, the wandering hands do not hurt. They caress and fondle my breasts, covering the massive bruise on body and they do not hurt. The pain is there, but muted and dulled and diffused. More of a conscious realization than a visceral feeling. There should be pain and thus there is, but it is not there. Too many steps between the feeling and the thoughts. Too many other things in the way for me to care really.

She's warm, so warm, so incredibly warm, trapped sunlight and heat of the earth in her skin through her clothes. She is a needy little thing, eager and willing and open. She pants into my lips, some grand pull in her core that leads her to me and me alone. Despite everything, it is still bitter work to get my arms to respond the way I want them to. There is a body here, in my blanket, in my sheets that I wish to caress and touch, and the motions are slow and lagging.

But the hands get there. My hands get there. They find her neck, her shoulders, her spine and feel the music in her core as it thrums against her skin. She shudders as her mouth continues to meet my own. My hands rise and rise interlacing behind her neck, letting her silky hair drape over my digits before flowing to her chest. Springy and supple and full, filling my palm as I grind my thumb over the cloth. She shudders and shakes again, the tremble starting in her core before slowly eking out to her limbs. A soft spasm and a gasp and she collapse into my form, her weight still not triggering the bruises.

A long, long, long moment together like this, only joint through the mouth and the tongue, tasting each other, wrestling, and playing with the wet flesh. Annette breaks away and I am surprised at how she blushes. The green comes to her cheeks, dancing in the lines, the little freckles that dot her face and crawl up to her forehead. Never noticed those before.

Her eyes, though, wide, and eager and hungry as they gaze into my own. Lips parted and a panting breath and a silent reverence for my body.

"What was that," she huffs.

"Pretty sure that was a kiss," I say.

"No, no, I, um, I came with that." The blush grows deeper and deeper as she buries her face into my neck, horn scraping my skin. I chuckle, deep in my chest. My lips find the point where the skin collects on her head and juts into the air. That could put an eye out if we're not careful. An eye at best. So many little nooks and crannies in my body where I do not want a needle horn shoved. Annette seems conscious of it at least, careful to put it where I can do minimal damage to anything soft and squishy.

"That's what it's like," I murmur into her night sky skin, "It's easy, right? And do you want more?"

She nods and the horn comes dangerously close to my eye.

"Be a good girl and use your words."

"I want more, Claire. I want, I want everything."

"That's a lot more than you can handle."

"I don't care."

I take a deep, deep breath, filling my chest with the lingering muggy heat of the afternoon. I smell rain and fresh grass. There is a storm coming in the night. Probably passing by morning. I sigh and let the tension leave. Even now, I cannot feel the splinters of ribs poking at my muscles. It was never there. Never there at all.

I pull her back to face me and I take her. More clean spirits and flowers and grass and rain and fresh wood. I pour the senses into her. She spasms and stutters and shakes the room as I make her cum with a thought. And she whines and gasps and stammers nonsense words to my lips that only drive the sensation deeper into my skin. She breaks again and sets her head on my shoulder.

"I am having second thoughts."

"Should have had those first. Get between my legs."

Annette is slow to obey, but she does, trailing her lips across my injuries, right where the healthy flesh meets the bruised and broken. She lingers on my breasts, tender kisses and licks and stagnating my needy hunger. My hands go to her head and push her down. She is the one that wanted to do this, so she has no right to complain when the natural occurs. And she does not. Annette gives in to the push of my will against hers as she continues her trek. She lingers again on my stomach, nuzzling and tracing the hard lines of muscle with her tongue. I allow it. I am not so cruel as to deny her acts when they are in service of me. The tightness in my core enjoys it as well, the soft ministrations through the flesh. She sits her chin at my navel and snakes her tongue forward, pouring from her lips and slithering down, past her chin.