The Rabbit Dies Pt. 05

The beggar still has his frail beaten body huddled against the side of the building, protecting his head. Another sylvi, judging by the ears, although the hair keeps any fine detail away. I can't tell if his skin is dark from the sun or the encased dirt of the city. He shudders as he hears my feet go past him and into the bakery. It's everything I wanted from life as the scent washes over me. A very nice blonde man with strong arms and a sweet smile hands me two honey cakes, while I hear someone else singing in the back room.

He's still there, huddled against the brick when I come out. He hasn't dared to extend his hand again, hoping for someone else to come by and spread the economic joy of the city. I sit next to him and all I care about is the honey cake.

Sweet and warm and so flaky, butter still running down the top. Honey and cinnamon and almonds maybe. No, it's walnuts baked in. Slowly, he comes out of his defensive posture, eyes red and nose still bloody.

"Rough day?" I ask as I hand him the other cake. I don't want to. I'm halfway through mine and I already want another one. But that would go against the spirit of the whole interaction, and I'd prefer to keep my end of the interaction as pleasant as possible.

He snatches it with gnarled hands. His arm seems fine, but it'll probably be swollen in a day or two.

"Why," he rasps. The voice rings in the din of the crowd, parting the noise like a knife.

"Why not," I say. The honey cake is gone and the deepest, darkest part of me wants to snatch the one I gave back. I paid for it. The laws of the world say that it is mine and I could certainly take it back and the only recourse would be from myself. Its already half gone by the time I finish contemplating the moral boundaries of such an action, so now it's all too late and I'll just have to live with my one honey cake self. Might go for a skewer later. From the scent there's a stall a little way down the road and that should work out okay. I'll buy three.

"Thank you, ma'am," he mutters. He's missing teeth too.

"Don't mention it."

"You're very nice."

"I slammed a kid into the street. That's not nice. He deserved it, but the nice thing to do would be a gentle talk down and a promise to be a good boy.

I can't quite get a good look at his face beneath the shaggy hair that hands down to his chin. I see the eyes, the mouth, the broken nose with pooling blood, but in bits and pieces. Never as a whole. He's too interested in the cake. I don't blame him.

"I can't remember the last time anyone bought me food," he says as he draws his knees up to his chest.

"If they hadn't done this in front of a bakery, then that memory would stay lost. If you're still hurt, the Loom should look after you. Don't know if they will, and you'll have to sit through a sermon afterwards, but it's an option."

He shakes his head. Ratty matted hair dances back and forth, back and forth. The cake is gone and the thoughts of my sin disappear. It's gone and the moral weight of reaching into a man's stomach to retrieve a gift freely given is too much from the hedonistic benefit of something I can easily turn and buy another one.

"I don't think I will," he says.

"Suit yourself. I don't know any of the Ways of Inside Red, so you're just getting cakes out of me. Can you stand? Probably be a good idea to find a different place to panhandle for a spell."

"I can. I've had worse. Not many, but a few. Once tried asking a good lord who was riding in a carriage. Bastard ran me over, then backed up and did it again."

I bark out a bitter laugh. Don't know why. Slowly, he unbends himself, letting more and more of the gangly angles become smooth and straight. He seems like a pretty big guy now that he's not huddled.

"Mind if I ask your name, ma'am?" he says.

"Claire, and yours?"

"I've had many of those. Almost too many. They let me change it when I got older and now, I don't like it anymore. If you have to tell someone about me, then I guess Mr. Cake would work well enough. Not one of my favorites, to be honest."

"Would you prefer Mr. Beatdown?"

"No, Mr. Cake. One of the better ones now that I think about it."

I wish I had a drink or something to go with my cake. It's dried out my throat and the lips take a bit too much effort to make words now that they're glued together.

"Will you be okay?" I ask.

"More or less," he sighs, "The way people are nowadays. Shame really. I understand if people don't want to help, but to go and do that, it's just disappointing."

"We're all monsters. Just in different ways."

He shrugs and leans back into the way, gazing through the matted hair into the sky. The clouds are a little thicker now, blotting out more of the sun. It helps with the heat, just a bit. I stand, bracing myself on my hammer. I stretch and feel something in my legs give in the good way. I turn and offer my hand to the good Mr. Cake but he's simply not there anymore.

I roll my eyes. Annoying, all of them. Each and every one. My rising temper is muted by a small stack of coins where he sat, just enough to cover the cost of the cake. I decide that I have earned another one and there is nothing in the world that can stop me.

---

"I once had some sweet memories.

It's worth remains all the same.

How can I remember those moments, sweetheart?" sings the voice beyond the door to the Tyrant's Beer Garden.

The sorrow hits me deep in my chest and I almost collapse against the door and burst into tears. Fat, hot, rolling salt tears that refuse to stop. That terrible knot in my throat that makes it impossible to breathe. My chest heaves in deep breaths, trying to control myself and actually get the door open and go inside. I count to 5 and then I find the will to open the door. The salt leaks from the edges of my eyes, stinging like little insects.

Sobbing, wrecked messes of people sprawled over tables, gazing into cups and glasses and mugs. So many broken things, broken people, trying to face the absolute despair that is existence. I step forward and my knees almost buckle. Through the tears, I try and find the source. On the balcony, in the corner, is a black skinned woman with a horn that comes to a needle point of emerald green. Annette croons to the sad state of being alive. Amaru has his head to the table, his sobs rocking the whole floor above.

More deep breaths to steady the nerves, another five count and then one more to get my hand to a table, searching through the scattered debris. It finds a cup, mostly empty. I line up the shot as best I can and huck it, nailing Annette right in the head.

"Ow," she says, breaking the song. She runs her own hand up the length of her horn, searching for any chips or nicks.

A wave passes through the gathered faces as the sorrow of song passes and leaves them with the unaugmented sorrow of drinking while the sun is still up and shining. I feel none of that, but the remnants of waving sadness still bounce in my head. The stairs creak and spill empty threats of collapsing with my progress. Annette still rubs at her horn as I join then. Amaru's head lets the wood of the table slowly grow up around him, refusing to move.

"Your horn's fine," I say. All the cups scattered on the table are empty, but the kellnerin are starting the rounds again. I have a few minutes to collect myself and hope that Annette's little breakdown doesn't come around once more.

"But it could be chipped or hurt or something," she whines. Her cheeks carry a deep emerald green through the black. Blushing and warbling and swaying, she's drunk. Don't know how many of the cups on the table are hers. She's still going on though, eyeing the glasses in the vain hope that something would move to fill them.

"It's still fine. The glass didn't even break. And you were causing a scene."

"It's not my fault all my favorite songs are slow and sad. Happy people need to make better music."

"Art is sadness. I don't think I've ever seen a happy person make anything. If you were happy, why would you do anything, right?" murmurs Amaru.

She nods and comes dangerously close to skewering Amaru with the needle-sharp tip.

"Is he alright," I ask.

"I'm fine," he mumbles to the wood, "Just thinking about some stuff. Drinking and sad songs don't mix well. How'd the meeting go? You were there a long time."

"Had to do some teaching on the way over."

"Did they learn anything?"

"Doubt it. Also got some very nice honey cakes."

"You got honey cakes?" yells Annette, "Why wasn't I there? I should have gotten a honey cake."

I reach into my pocket and produce a small lump of pastry, roughly half of its original size. Once more, it is cut once more and both of the drunken messes before me have a piece of cake. Annette's is gone before it my hand grabs the passing kellnerin and starts the process of getting a cup of my own. Amaru's sits there for a long moment, and I watch the same moral dilemma play out through Annette's face that I went through. Even drunk, however, with the mind of a child and the promise of food, she does not snatch it. She instead turns to me with wide eyes and pouty lips in a vain attempt to persuade me to give her more food. Solid tactic, and it might have worked, if I had any more. I didn't want to buy the shop out and deprive the next poor soul in need of a sweet thing. And I wouldn't have any money left over for a drink afterwards.

"You're not getting another," I say. My drink comes and it's everything I ever wanted from life. Bitter and crisp and carrying just enough of that dull burn to make me think of nothing else other than the burn and the taste. I sigh and I join Amaru on the table. It's a smart move. Really, the only way to drink. Head down, cups scattered, in a dark corner away from everyone. The two companions I have aren't necessary, but they are welcome to stay there for as long as they want. I might want to be alone later, but that is later, not now.

"Did you get the key," the table asks in Amaru's bass rumble. More felt than heard.

"No," I say to the table. It carries the message dutifully.

"I can't hear a damn thing either of you are saying," Annette says, "And I'm not coming down there. The horn has already had a rough day and I don't want to risk anymore harm coming to it."

With great regret, we both peel ourselves up from the comforting embrace of cool, worn wood and gaze at the tavern at large. The wave of sadness from Annette has faded completely and left the hall light.

"I didn't get the key. Council made a big show of it, saying it's super important and that I should consider my actions carefully. I don't even know where the key goes and it's supposed to be a big thing. I was told to do a thing, so just let me do the thing." I collapse again, back into the chair.

The thrum of the crowd enters my mind again and I can't get it out. Too much, too much noise and people and bodies all swirling and mixing, all of it colliding in my head. Table next to us has three people, two men, one lady, sitting and talking, trying to process the sadness that was in them so suddenly and stopped just the same.

"You still got to meet with the Weavers," says Amaru, "I haven't don't that. I've only met with the Warren one."

"Was it always a lady," I ask.

"No, that must be someone new. And we're not supposed to talk about that. They're supposed to be anonymous."

"Someone should have told her tits, because I'll remember those for the rest of my life."

Annette snickers and I have a new glass in front of me that does not hold enough. It's gone too quickly.

My cheeks redden as the heat starts to run back up from my core. The world starts to swim and I start to lose what little reason I have. Somewhere along the line, I decide that my chair isn't quite comfortable enough, so I migrate the Amaru's lap. He doesn't complain. Annette does continue her pout though. There is not enough lap to go around unless we stack three tall. And that's just a good waste of table. I think I have another drink. My mouth tastes like beer, too much beer. Which isn't enough beer. I could just fall asleep right here and then someone would have to cart me home.

My hand moves to find my hammer. Instead, it finds Amaru. He goes completely rigid with my touch. Well, not completely rigid. Some of him still needs a bit of work. Annette's started singing again. More humming, really. She's learned her lesson about a full-on performance here. I don't know the words, but the melody hits me again in soft thrumming ways. The thing I intended to grasp has once more been checked at the door. As much as I love the idea of naked drunk people, naked drunk people with weapons are not the soundest of crowds.

"Claire," he whispers to me. Annette doesn't seem to notice, lost in her own world of color and music.

"I can stop," I say, "If you want me to."

He grunts and shifts, almost throwing me off. Not quite the same as my hammer. Too soft, and a little thicker. And it has a heartbeat, a wonderful steady bass drum that travels up my hand. Wonderful syncopation between us, wonderful beat and rhythm as it snakes down his thigh. I'm poking near the root, where he's thickest. The other end is poking around my knee, getting closer and closer with each and every moment.

"Annette's right there," he hisses.

"She also had front row at the theater."

He whines a bit as I throw on a smidge more pressure through his trousers. Crisp ones, they must be new. It would be such a shame to ruin them.

The warmth of him rises up into me, mixing with the warmth already imparted. I stroke up. He's still getting fully hard. Such a wonderful event, and I savor every single moment of it. He huffs and the air tickles the back of my neck, sending chills down into the warmth.

I move my hips a little, settling into a different position. Balanced on one of his thighs, free hand on the other, I start to actually work on him. One finger, through the cloth, trailing up and down with the slightest of touches I can manage. To his credit, that isn't enough to send him into a blubbering mess on the table. A little redder maybe, that dull blue gray getting a slight tinge of purple as the blood entered his cheeks, but he remained more or less cognizant. He even ordered another round for the three of us when the kellnerin did the requisite pass.

"So, what do we do now," asks Annette, "I mean, we didn't get the key. Quest failed right? Just talk to Warren and tell him we suck. I'm thinking about a hiatus honestly. We met, what, four times on this campaign? I did 4 more jobs outside of that. I'm thinking we go to Solglow for a bit. Spend some weeks on the beach, change colors. I don't know if tan, by the way."

"I haven't been to the beach in forever," I sigh.

"Never been," says Amaru.

"Well, when we're all finished, I think that's in order. But we still have a week here or so. Weavers say they'll need that long to come to an answer. So, we stay here. Might as well use the barracks they provide, save some money."

"Oh nice. I heard they installed a new set of bath houses," Annette says.

"I haven't had a good bath in so long."

"And whose fault is that? Dantea's place had a full set up. You really missed out. Had this one soap that smelled like the best vanilla I've ever had."

"They were good," Amaru says.

He's fully hard now, attention fighting in his mind between the conversation and my hand. I dig my palm into his shaft, feeling, relishing the heat filtering through the fabric. It's poking hard against my own leg. I steal glance down and I can almost see the fabric stitches straining and coming apart. Poor things, they're just doing their job. And then I came along and made their lives so difficult.

The nice lady with the cups comes back and sets down another set. Amaru thanks her like the gentleman he is. I notice his gaze lingers a bit too long on her walking away, and I have to admit, that is something to keep the gaze lingering on. I run my hand up his length and he turns back to me. Before I grab the cup set in front of me, I use my free hand to guide one of his to my thighs. He grips and strokes and touches and pinches. I hide a sigh within a swig and move my seat into something a little more comfortable.

His breath hitches and catches as I keep on teasing him. Everything he does twinges and twitches inside of me. I've ridden him once before, just the once, and that broke something in my core. Part of me wanted to rip him nude right here and now and have him bend me over the table in front of the world. This is mine, completely mine, and the gathered masses may marvel at him. But he is mine, claimed and owned. But the noise and shifts he makes, as well as the touches he gives me offer a counterpoint that this is something to keep up as long as possible.

"If you keep this up," he says through gritted teeth, "I'm going to ruin these pants."

"Good. You and clothes don't agree."

I move to his other leg, straddling him through the layers of rough cloth. I steal a glance down and almost moan with the sigh. Down to his knee, the lump twitches and throbs. Already, a dark spot forms at the end, growing the pulses.

"Part of me liked you better when we didn't do this," he hisses. He is good at pretending at least. His face is still blank, for the most part. Another sip passes his lips and he sighs. Annette continues humming a song. Think it's a different one from the first one, and it's starting to get to me. The edges of the fatigue from copious amounts of beer are fading.

"Oh, I'm sure." I press my palm to his tip and circle the pressure. He holds his breath and the arm moves to encircle my stomach. Such a strong grip he has. Perfect for touching and stroking and caressing, ramping up and down as he sees fit. My core twitches at his touch and the free hand takes his up to my chest. Just for a moment.

He freezes stone still as he touches my soft flesh. Breath held in his chest, eyes burning into my mine, I feel his muscles twitch and jump and pulse. I circle my hips, back and forth, side to side as the warm glow of sunlight realization hits me.

"Go ahead," I say to him, "I dare you."

He does. He lets that one held essence of his soul out, deflating, crumbling like a mountain over the eons. It's a calm thing, not stolen and robbed from him, but teased and coaxed. My hands keep stroking him, keep up the rhythm and the motion so that keeps the action going. He holds the empty void in his chest for a long, empty moment. Like a forge's bellows, he starts breathing again.

I feel the pulses up his length travel through my leg, in time with the practice breath. He knows how to ride it well. He rocks his hip with me, finding some replacement for the tight warm confines of me.

So many pulses, so many throbs, and I feel his seed start to soak through the poor fibers. I hum with satisfaction at his prodigious output. Still a good choice, he is still the best choice for me and my tastes. Long, long moments of release escape from him, closed eyes and deep breathes, hidden in the corner of the second-floor balcony of the Tyrant's Beer Garden. In that little nook for the world, Amaru reasserts his claims and mine of our compatibility. He releases so much, just for me, just to show me. His entire pant leg is dark and dripping. Through the scent of beer, I catch the hint of him, that dark murky aroma of release and it lights my core. That should have been in me, on me. Doing something more productive than running poor clothes that did nothing wrong in the world. His large hands grip into my thigh again as his release finishes in a long-drawn-out ebb that fades into one final push. My hand comes away sticky and dripping. I look back over my shoulder at him with half lidded eyes. His are still a little unfocused, riding the glow stick ricocheting in his body. I wait until he focuses back on me and I make sure he sees the pool of seed resting in my palm.