The Rabbit Dies Pt. 09

The scent hits me first. Then it writhes down to Amaru, with Annette being spared the brunt of it for the next few hours. But it gets to her. It gets to all of us. And we still march forward. My hand is on my hammer and the other one clamors for a shield. Once again, I wish I had one. But I don't. The calculation at the start of all this said no and even now, the equation would come back with the same answer. It would make me feel better, though. It would make me feel a lot better.

I am acutely aware of Amaru and his increasingly awkward gait, Annette's attempts to hide her chest and keep her thighs from rubbing together too much. Not to mention my own little needs and hungers coming to the forefront of my mind. I grip the hammer tighter and tighter, the wood under the leather protests and threatens to shatter.

Flowers, every flower, all the petals and fresh grass, open woods and clean air and clear water, all of it pours from the grass, now waist high. The ground has taken more an artistic representation of flat. I'm sure it averages out to a straight line, but the outliers are doing their best to make the math as hard as possible. The scent, that damn worming floral scent of clean blossoms and lazy afternoons and soft drifting pipe smoke, doesn't help either. It dulls the mind and turns it to a single thought, again and again and again. I roll my shoulder and the grass sways in the wind.

Annette tries to hum a song that will take her mind away from the heat and the grass and the scent, but the notes waver and break down int whines that she shuts off. Not the noise she wanted to make and I'm not sure she wants me to pounce on her again. Not quite the best way to keep moving forward if we spend most of the day horizontal. And we wasted enough time this morning doing that. Despite the insistence of that scent and our collective instincts, there is still the task at hand. I have to see it through. I said I would do it and I will do it and Amaru needs to have a shirt, a phrase I never thought would cross my mind, or I will tackle him and ride him into a crater.

The grass sways a bit as the wind shifts direction. It just smells of dust and dry blades, nothing odd, nothing floral, nothing wooded, nothing heady and laden with lust and desire. Just a scent of a prairie in long need of a real rainstorm.

"This is going to be terrible isn't it," Annette sighs. Her voice drops, just a bit, with longing for the gone thrill in her core.

"Weren't you ever at a Treblex thing?" Amaru asks.

"Yeah, but that was just drinking and partying and drinking. Very little music, now that I think about it. Musicians don't really like to play music. They like to drink."

"That's just the musicians you know."

"No, the musicians I know also did mushrooms. Said it helped free the creative spirit. All they did was make me throw up and then feel really, really sleepy."

"Wrong mushrooms then," Amaru says, "But those look like the ones you're supposed to take. They still make you throw up, but then you start seeing things. Also depends on where you were. You need to be somewhere you feel comfortable in to have a good trip."

"How the hell do you know about all this?" I ask.

"I had a life before I met you. Remember when I talked about Midnight Carnival? They got me into it, but they also went a little too far with. Think it was either two or three gigs before Dantea. Same the Stardust Theater Company."

"Do you have any?" Annette asks.

"Hell no. That's way too expensive and I don't trust my foraging skills to not kill me."

The wind shifts again and cuts off the conversation. I was willing to try these things, if only for my own curiosity. But the wind brings back the floral bouquet of dizzying minds and twitching cores. Amaru huffs and snorts like a beast, shaking his head in an effort to bring back clear thoughts. Annette tries, she tries to keep her hands still, but they trace and wander her own body, consciousness manifesting every so often just strong enough to make them still. Amaru's back ripples with muscles and ink, outlining shapes and paths that I desperately, desperately want to take under heel again.

Clean grass hits us again when the trees start making themselves known. Thin white barked trunks and scarred leaves still reeling from a cleansing wildfire mark the path. They shelter us, finally offering the weary travelers some shade against the cruel sun. No one speaks. No one dares to speak and invite another bout of the floral scented wind. Still, it worms and writhes in our minds, the thoughts planted and seeded and nurtured by our own nature. One foot in front of the other and a hand on my hammer, that is all I need to keep the rhythm going.

The woods laugh as they form around the path. The white trunked ones turn to darker and darker brows, leaves of green and white-pink flower buds poking and dotting the sky. Spring, infinite endless spring of new growth and new life hangs heavy in the air. A noise from the left turns out to be a stag and a doe watching us pass and I can't help but think that they would be a good treat for dinner. But there is an implicit promise of a meal I do not have to make so we keep walking.

"Claire," Annette says with a bounce in her voice, "Hey, hey Claire. Look, look, look. I made a friend."

I turn and see she indeed has. Several of them as a matter of fact, crowding around her feet, pressing their forms to her ankles, and a pair nestles softly against her breast. Rabbits, a full colony, fluffy and cuddly and simply adorable.

"Put them down," I say, "You don't know where they've been."

"This one is Claire Jr. And this one is Amaru Jr. Annette Jr. is around here somewhere. She's the all black one with one ear sticking up."

I roll my eyes and keep moving forward. Birds and vines and flower buds, every inch of existence dripping with springtime revelry. And of course, that comes with the more sophisticated creatures coming out of their dens as well. The moans, the ecstatic primal moans and yells, harder, faster, slower, deeper, right there, yes, and everything else said in the heat of the moment bounce from the trees. I grit my teeth. Some of them would certainly be amenable to a third party. Or fourth, or fifth, or tenth. It wouldn't be all that odd either. And I could see what Amaru promised. That's certainly worth a sidetrack to see. I will see it. Not now, not here, but eventually. Annette snickers to the point where she might burst her sides while Amaru keeps his eyes up to a neutral point. Nothing bad can happen in the sky. He finds a pair of cardinals nuzzling in the branches. Close to the thing he is too polite to see, but not quite. And it is birds, not people.

They get more brazen, more open, more forceful as the long house comes into view. I see snatches of skin and contorted faces through the grass, the trees, the windows in vines. Over the final hill, and we are there. It's a simple thing, designed to withstand the elements and do not much else. A roof, four walls, draping vines and moss from the overhanging trees. The grounds are covered in rabbits, herds, colonies, nests of them. I like this place, the look of it at least. Simple, functional, just enough cover from the forest to be defensible. But my stomach still clenches as the front door is thrown open. A sylvo stands in the middle of the threshold, dark hair peppered with flecks of gray, cloths cut fine and tight along his frame. My heart stills as he comes into view, but the mind comes to the conclusion that I must grimace and grip my hammer. The lust wells in my chest and I chose how to express it. Violence, it will end in violence. Not now. Soon, though.

"Miss Verlaine, Mister Blackmountain and of course, Miss Biedermeier," Estlin says, arms open and smile wide, "Welcome, welcome, and welcome once more, to the illustrious Burrow's magnificent door."

---

I'm going to kill him. I am going to take my hammer and line it up with his skull and bring it down and end this pathetic life that puts the submissive anxious heart into jackrabbit paces. I stab at the tomato in front of me a little too hard and the fork scrapes against the plate. No one hears it, or no one makes a comment.

The food here is too small. There is enough of it, but everything has been made bite sized and manageable. I just have to glance to the hoard to see why. Everyone is feeding one another, lost in gazes, savoring every bite, every single act performed part of the same ritual to heighten the senses and ratchet the tension. It's not bad, not by a long shot, but I just want to eat something and be left in peace.

And there is no meat and that's a shame. Rabbits up to the knees and not a speck of flesh. I sit at the top of the dining hall, at the only real table in the place. Everything else is cushions and trays splayed over the carpet, drapes hanging from the rafters to give just enough privacy so that the rest of the congregation has to infer what is most certainly happening. The tomatoes are good, very good. Fresh, probably on the vine not even five minutes before the plate, and now they are all gone and that's a shame. Now all I'm left with is the cheese and those sweet leaves that are supposed to work in tandem with everything else. The tomatoes were good and I don't know about the cheese.

I'm going to kill Estlin because he won't stop smiling at me like I'm some amusing animal doing a trick for him. I'm going to kill him because he took my friends away from me and made me sit up here as an honored guest, Warren's champion and avatar of the people. They're not paying attention though, the writhing mass of bodies both plural and singular. They are all lost in the act with one another.

"An offseason swallow

So that's me

Nonstop love song

I will follow you

Wherever you go," Annette sings to her corner of applauding and cooing bodies.

They all clap and cheer as the chorus fades to the next verse. Hellion and sylvi and gargan and Kurhk collected around her makeshift stage of teal pillows. I see her making eyes at another hellion, a woman with red skin and fringes that turn orange gold. And that knot is back but I try to push it down. It's the place, the atmosphere, the intoxicating mist of the bodies designed and singing of carnal indulgence that clouds the mind. I have some of the cheese and it's not bad, not bad at all. The tomatoes were better, but I think this was all supposed to be eaten together.

"Next course will be a mushroom curry," Estlin whispers in my ear, "I hope that it will be more to your liking."

"This is fine," I say, "Been eating trail rations for the past while. It's all a bit to get used to."

"Understandable, understandable. I can have the cooks make something simpler if you would prefer."

The purr in his voice, the way the syllables roll into one another with that deep dark baritone, it messes with my head and I should not have given away my hammer. Every problem is solved with a hammer, even the non-nail shaped ones. Especially the non-nail shaped ones. The voice isn't quite as deep as Amaru's but it resonates like a bell, rattling in my chest and seizing the breath and the hammer, I want my hammer back. But I am polite and sophisticated and everyone is calm and cool and collected. Skulls shall remain intact and whole and unbashed.

"I'm fine, Estlin," I say, "I've done harder things than be in a room full of insufferable people."

"Oh, I bet you have. Mr. Blackmountain comes to mind."

"I take it back. Dealing with you is the hardest thing I've ever done."

"That's correct. I am very hard. But do you really have such bad memories of our home?"

"I remember the nights spent in your bed when I would have rather been hunting. I remember the nights spent in your bindings when I would rather have had an open sky. I remember the times you turned my noes to yeses."

"A turned yes is still a yes when the game is played. And you always came back. But then you had your rebellious phase that you don't seem to have quite gotten over. You're here now, though. That's the important part."

I could lift him up. That's not a question at all. So, here's what I would do. I would grab his throat and lift, before slamming him through the table. While he is dazed and getting up, I take the chair and break it over his head. That would send him into the floor, where I would then leap off the shattered remnants of said table and drive my elbow into the small of his back, hopefully paralyzing him. And no one would stop me. I'd collect my companions find the gate the key goes to and then finally decide if I want to kill Warren. I take a drink from my cup. Watered down wine, but not an unpleasant concoction. Just enough to let the edges fall away and dull the senses into a pleasant buzzing numbness.

"I hate you so much."

"And I hate you, Miss Verlaine. But you are here on holy business. I must push aside my personal feelings to better serve my chosen path. We all have to. So, my door has been thrown open and all the amenities rolled out. Enjoy yourself Claire. You've earned it. At least spend the night. Your animosity can't overpower a soft bed and a warm bath, hmm?"

He's right. But he doesn't have to be alive to be right. That would be impolite, however. Amaru's getting doted on by a gaggle of older acolytes, older than him. Compliments and embraces and pinched cheeks and he doesn't seem quite comfortable with it all. I could just walk over and snatch him away and no one would bat an eye. Later, I will do that later. The curry comes and that is actually to my liking. Still needs meat, but that's just the way this little corner of the world has to be.

---

I have a room to myself and that's a surprise. I was expecting another pile of cushions and blankets and curtains scattered in a smoky corner of a dark room, giggles and moans slipping through the cracks in the wall, but no. There is a room, a simple room of worn furniture and a straw stuffed mattress that refuses to let me get up. And I obey. The mattress makes a very good argument for never getting up ever again and just letting the world carry on as it wishes and never, ever acting again.

This place keeps messing with my head. It's like the dreams, those damn dreams of sunny glades and blooming flowers and phantom hands. It lights the fire that I don't want lit right now. It's a good fire and I love it, but I like being the one to light it. And the walls and the ceiling and all of it do it for me. Even in this tiny, cramped room, the scent of flowers permeates every grain of wood. I should not have stayed. I should have barreled through the offers and the suggestions to keep moving forward. But I didn't. That purr and the soft voice suggested the idea to not and I followed. At least I did not kneel.

I hear it through the walls. People, what feels like legions, coming together now that night has officially begun to join in the giving and taking of pleasure. Just like everything, there is always just that level of deniability. What was a caress of the hips could just be someone reaching over to grab a pitcher. The thump and moan of the people on the other side of the wall could just be someone banging their shin on the corner of the bed. The calls for more and deeper and harder and get your leg up, those could be misheard words through the wood, the grains taking the noises and distorting them to something lewd.

But its sex. Its endless hordes of endless people having endless amounts of sex. And it is getting to me. Too long, it's been too long, they all say. I should go over and give a knock at the door. Annette and Amaru are probably getting up to something so I should too. Everyone will be happy and excited and I'll certainly feel incredible for all of it. Estlin is still here and that should be something interesting at least. Maybe a little too much for me, but there is always something to gained from going up against something out of my league. Just like old times, trying to tear down a mountain with a fingernail.

I groan and start stripping. It's the concession the world will get from me. And it does feel good to not be wearing clothes anymore. Nothing clinging to my skin save the soft mattress and the pillows beneath my head, no restrictions, no discomfort, save for that one twig that keeps poking my back when I move a bit to the right. But that's a small thing, such a small thing to be wary of. I start with my chest, just working to soreness of the bindings out, working the soreness of everything out. Walking, so much damn walking and it feels good, so good to just lie there and let the muscles relax. They need help though and my hands do the work.

Knots and tension melting and letting go under my grope. My shoulders, my neck, my chest my arms, my legs, everything slowly starts coming unwound. A knot pulled to the point of breaking the rope isn't a good knot. And it all falls away under my hands. It's cool in my room, pleasantly so, just enough to give the skin something to tingle and bite against without breaking into gooseflesh. And it works with the tension, numbing and tingling and shaking off the trail. I think I will get a bath afterwards. That would be nice. A nice warm bath to soak in by myself. It's going to be difficult to shake off any uninvited guests, but violence tends to do that for me.

Against the chill, the heat grows in my core. Here, it all comes so easy. Just as easy as spilling a jar. Everything flows from that point and takes over until it's all empty. A little nudge at the edge and the whole thing comes crashing down. Shattered and spilled and there is that brief moment where everything is broken and it does not put itself back together. It all remains in scattered pieces on the floor, changed and unchanging until the hands and the will come back to change it once more. To mop up the innards, to collect the shards and take them somewhere else, where they can't slice and cut and stab at unprotected soles.

The hands and the will find my chest again and roll my breasts back and forth, back and forth and the innards keep spilling out, flowing from the lip of the tipped jar. The heat grows and suffuses my body, my skin, my flesh. Warm, so warm and soft and inviting, I lose myself in the simple all-encompassing heat of the fingers, the stomach, the blankets, all slightly different, but finally melding together into something real and mixed. All the warm is one and I am one with the warm.

My hands trace my stomach. Raised lines of muscle and scar. I don't know how many. I know there are 5 more lines across my back that will turn that off color. Some of them won't. They'll turn back to smooth pale skin. But they'll all join the tapestry. The pinched armor, the arrow to the thigh, that one scimitar across my left breast, the myriad of scrapes and cuts too small to actually remember. They all flow into the woven fabric of my past. I trace them. I trace them all, feeling the numb bits of tingling pain still lingering. My shoulder aches from the weight of the shield and the hammer. That will always be there, always on my back and in my grasp. But the heat, the heat of the hands and the fingers and the core slowly let it fade back into nothingness.

The hands move between my legs and I sigh as the lingering pain fully recedes into the mounting joy. The star pinpricks of my actions working my body, one had to my chest, one hand to my legs, tracing the lines, the folds, the soft mounds of skin. Rolling and kneading and slowly growing the heat. Soft, all is soft and warm and comfortable in the walls and in the bed and I cannot escape. I do not want to escape. I am here doing what is right and natural and nothing can stop me. A finger comes away slick and shifts a bit deeper into the mattress. I am here in the Warren and nothing can take me out. I belong here.