The Rabbit Dies Pt. 09

I start with just one, just one teasing the edges, running the ridges and lines back and forth, letting the star light settle in my crotch. Fondles and caresses and pokes and prods, the simple motions to get slick and wet and damp and open willing to the pleasure. The tupped jar keeps pouring, spilling its contents free and I am left to sit in the presence of the open lid. There is just the pleasure of open and stroke, open and stroke of myself, the slick flesh and tight walls.

It's not quite the same as a tongue or a length, but it works. It works to quicken the blood and set the heart faster, stoking the heat and widening the gaps of the starlight holes in my mind. It sparks and sputters within me, slick and open and twitching in the moment. The hand at my chest keeps moving, thumb and finger, pinching and squeezing and turning, first one then the other as the dance continues by myself. Two in me, spreading me, stroking me, filling me.

Not quite as full as Amaru can make me, but that's not what this is. Spots to find and poke and prod, not to batter and ram against. Exploration and claimant, not conquer and subjugation, rebellion and revolt. Gentle. It is all so gentle and calming and warm. The harsh starlight nodes do not burn, do not pierce. It hangs and twinkles in the sky, the pool of the spilled jar reflecting and refracting the light. Warm and tingling, the core, the crotch, the stomach, the chest, what is my body and is not keeps blurring and changing and swelling inside of me as I open myself to the world. Good. All so damn good.

I move my other hand to join to touch and fondle between my legs. My chest rises and falls and shakes as my breathing becomes quicker and quicker, labored and huffed. Hands to me, so many hands, touching and poking and stoking and caressing, forceful as a gale, gentle as a breeze. And the scent, that overpowering floral scent of clean green wood sprouts, flowers opening for the first warm signs of spring, grass covered in dew, the scent of spring and clean and growth from the earth enter and fill and shake the wooden grains of the simple room. It fills my mind and says that this is good. I agree.

The songs come from beyond the wall. The others and their coupling lose that deniability. There are others, men and women and both and neither, coupled and joined in pairs in trios in quartets in herds doing the same as I. The song of primal creation, natural life given from and to others. The joy of flesh meeting flesh, blood through vein and the scent of another body pressed so close.

And it all turns to violence within me.

As the warmth grows, it becomes harsh and biting and scorching. The stars get needles and saw jagged edges. Pierce and cut and slash and crush and it comes from me and out of me. I grit my teeth and bite my lip. There will be an imprint later. I don't care. There will be marks from my nails, my fingers, but I do not care. The imprints and the pale skin turned red. No one to take the beating other than my own flesh. Marks and imprints and red on pale. I growl and clutch my breast again. Hum and growl and purr, throat rolling and writing and rasping with my fingers moving and pounding and clutching.

There is no little death, no gentle repose, no small little sigh and gasp at the end. It is destruction of myself. The core exploding within me and that is what I want. The soft sighs and giggles and the moans, that is distraction. It wells in my soul with the growls and the chuffs of beasts. The animals are out there with their soft dens and I am not. I have a mattress of rough straw that pokes and scratches, still softer than the trail. But this is mine and I shall claim it on my own corner of the world.

The pins and needles tingle and pierce and cut, cold through the heat, pain through the pleasure as the heat still grows. Barren sky and it feels right.

Nails and talons and scratching at my core and it feels good. It simply feels good as the insides start to shred with the tearing, clenching, tense muscles. Clawing and tear, it rips through me and it feels beautiful.

White, it is all white and sharp and piercing starbursts through me and tight tearing muscle twitches. I hunch over into me, chest to knees and painful, wonderful release and tight knots clashing and breaking and snapping. It feels good to break and bend and snap and it all is what I am, a breaking snapping thing to crash against and it feels good. The destruction feels good.

That one piece of straw still pokes and prods and might break the skin as I come down and the scouring light fades. It's fine. It can stay there for as long as it needs to. Adds a bit of texture to the whole thing in my opinion. Just enough discomfort to make the glowing warmth from the absence of cold something even better. I do not want to get up. I want to move aside the piece of straw and curl into the blankets and fall asleep. I will have nice comfy dreams here, pleasure and sensation and all sorts of niceties.

I roll over and place my feet on the chilled floor. I need a bath. That can be warm. I will allow myself the pleasure of a warm bath.

---

It is still night. I assume so at least. The sprawling maze of the Burrow is mostly underground, chambers and rooms interlocking. There are several spots to pop out and take a peek at the surroundings, but I can't seem to find any. I did find the baths easily, although vacating them to my preferences was a bit of a hassle. Too many offers to wash my back and whatever else might need some attention. Flattering but annoying.

But now, I am sitting in what passes for a library here. Mostly books of tasteful and tasteless nudes, bawdy prose and various euphemisms for genitals. Openings and lengths seem to be the most common, for some reason. Inner goddesses abound and dance with utter abandon, while men turn to rugged beasts with chiseled jaws and rippling chests. Amaru has the chest at least, although the neck tends to creep into the chin when he looks down at me. Granted, that is the most common angle I see him from, so I'm sure his chin is more chiseled when viewed from straight on or above. I will need to get him on his knees at some point.

That wayward thought sends the core tightening and the opening weeping. I huff and grunt and try to maintain some level of dignity. The couple two rows over snickers and goes back to their little tryst between the shelves. It is a library after all and they have to be quiet. It would spoil the fun. My own book does not give any hints as to where the potential gate may be. Despite its claims of cataloging the wonders of the Burrow, it just lists rooms with soft cushions and interesting contraptions to assist in the act of love making.

"This place is terrible," Annette says. She slumps into the chair on the opposite side of the table.

"I am aware," I say. I shut the book. It's useless to me now, and that is terrible.

"Only love songs. They all want to hear love songs. I know a lot of love songs. But I don't know enough of them. And I only like playing, like 3 of them."

"And that's the worst of it?"

"I mean, the sex was nice. But it's not you. Everything here is just, I don't know, soft. You can be soft, but not like this. Remember when we fucked near the river? I tried that, but the water was too warm. Like nice warm. It was terrible. I just wanted to fall asleep."

"You're complaining that the water was too warm?"

"And that damn scent. What is that? I can't think straight with it. It makes me want to play love songs all the time. I want to play sad songs. Those are the good one."

"This place is like that. I've been looking for something to lead us to that damn door. But yeah, that scent isn't actually helpful."

Annette shifts and lays her head down on the table. The dark wood is soft and warm and inviting and she does not want to get up from the surface. I touch her horn and that barely gets a response from her.

"Please don't touch my horn. I already have to repolish it, take in the edges, it's a whole process."

"Have you seen Amaru about?"

"Nope. A gaggle took him away after dinner and he's been missing ever since. Probably having a really good time. Think he's one of the bigger ones here?"

"Probably. I hope so. It would be terrible for his self-esteem."

"I can take it," he says, "I've come to terms with that a long time ago. Claire, can we leave? My parents are starting to ask about you and I figure that's something you'd rather avoid."

"Was that you snagged you away from dinner? Which ones were they? There were like 10," Annette asks.

Amaru takes the seat by my side and puts his feet on the table. Collapsing, every bit of his frame sags and drops with the weight of the earth above him.

"Technically, only two of them. And there are a couple missing. But also, all of them. There was a... festival we'll say, and who belongs to who kind of got lost in the shuffle. So, the solution was a brood that was raised communally. Why do you think I traveled on my own so much? I needed something different."

Annette snickers and the couple two shelves over has the gall to shush us. I want to throw the book at them and make them be quiet. I almost do.

"Big bro? Where are you?" says a voice that is trying to yell and whisper at the same time. It gets shushed as well. Amaru's face goes blank before ducking under the table. For a man of his stature, he does a great job of making himself scarce.

A gargan woman, just as impressively muscled and toned as Amaru, the ink collected and pooling underneath her navel in a heart passes by with a worried furrow on her lips. She squints at me in an ineffective attempt to be threatening.

"Oh. You. Have you seen Ruru?" she says, lips thin.

I meet her with dead eyes a mile away, voice flat as a leaden door hitting stone tomb.

"Haven't seen him."

It's the eyes that always do it, the death in them. Her gaze falters for just a moment, but that's all it takes and she huffs and tosses her hair behind an ear before stomping away, calls to lovely Ruru all the while. There are lips at my feet and I gaze under the table. Amaru does have a surprisingly clean jaw line. I don't mind it, but it's hardly his best feature. And in the light of full senses, I do not find the act of him kneeling and kissing my boots all that enticing. It's better when he looms over me and tries to be tough. I need the competition.

"Thank you," he actually whispers.

"And now you have to explain yourself."

"My sister, Bethel. Don't know if by blood. She's convinced we're not, but I don't want to risk it. She's very clingy."

"Figured. Get off the floor. You're safe now."

He sighs and takes his original position of collapse.

"I forgot how exhausting this place can be. Wanted to get a bath and had to wait like an hour for someone to stop hogging it. And by then the gaggle had found me again, so I had to talk them out of a shared one. And now I'm here. We're still looking for the gate or door or whatever?"

"Yep. The records are no help and I have no desire to start asking around," I say.

"Do you just want to start wandering?" Annette says, "There are only so many rooms around here. Do some coitus interruptus as well. Gods know the men here need a decent break."

"Tell me about it," Amaru says.

"I know how to get the information," I say, "I was just hoping it was somewhere else."

"Estlin?"

"Right. And I don't want to go talk to him because he'll make my skin crawl."

"We could just root around in his stuff," Annette says, "Maybe steal some things too."

"Whatever gets us out of here faster," says Amaru.

I shove the book forward and let my form drape over the chair. One leg goes next to Amaru's, and the other uses the foot to tap Annette's toes. I get a tap back and a hand on my thigh. Good deal all around really.

---

I think I'm the only one in the whole complex who is not smiling. I'm willing to put money on it. Not a lot, but enough for a meal or two. Everyone we pass, even as the worry and the anxiety cross their eyes, they are still smiling at us, some grand invitation to join the group in their play. And I am tempted to do so. They are waiting for me with soft cushions and warm fires and lithe bodies. I could just sink into that pleasure and never emerge. Even Annette has one side of her mouth quirked in response. Amaru does his best to hide his grin at the waves and the fondles he gets, but it is not enough. He is smiling. He is home and for all the frustrations that come with that, it is still his home. I'm not in the market for the pleasures of the flesh at the moment. I am looking for the pleasure of breaking down a door.

Elstin's chambers lay at the center of the tunnels. Spider web strands being plucked so all the little bugs start collecting down, down, down to the nexus. I know that and I will be glad to shatter the knots and the strands. I know this place, not all of it, and it has changed, but I know the way to Elstin's room. Spiraling and circling, we all go down to the bottom of the world. And I get a snicker from a Kurhk for all my trouble once we turn the final corner.

"Knew it," he says, "Going to win some coin. He's not in, Claire. I feel bad for you."

Amaru shoulders past him and knocks him into the wall. He decides to make himself scarce and quiet and as far away from the three of us as he possibly can. Ammy's learning a bit. I'm proud. The scared little thing will probably talk, but we now have time and we avoid a fight with him for the moment.

Double doors, always double doors, of light wood with wrought iron, stand before us at the turn of the hallway. Rabbits and flowers and trees, soft gentle leaves of forests and fur and warm spring days. I knock, out of habit. There is no response, no response at all. Annette starts fumbling with her things. I try the door and find her actions justified. Locked doors, always locked doors and once again, I am not able to do what I am told to do. Annette keeps going, keeps in her bag. I poke Amaru and he nods.

"Got it," she says, holding slender lockpicks up. Together, Amaru and I break down the door with a loud thud. Something broke in the wood and the hinges. That's fine. I don't plan on being around to see the consequences. Annette shrugs and puts away the tools before leaving us behind in the hall. I don't plan on closing the door.

Red and purple and deep earthen brown the colors and the drapes and the walls all so enclosed, so claustrophobic and embracing. I smell cloying perfume and pipe smoke. Much nicer than the room I was given. A bed of goose down feathers, silk sheets and plush pillows, more deep red curtains covering the posts. Several shapes moan and wriggle under the sheets.

"El," comes a breathy voice, "You're too much. Give us a moment to rest."

The others giggle and I throw open the covers. Two men, two women lie in sleepy embraces, still exhausted from the revelry. It takes all of them a good long moment to realize I am not an Estlin. I am a Verlaine. I imagine that is much, much worse.

"Leave," I say. I allow them the moments to apply some modicum of decency before slipping out of the room in a panic.

"Amaru," I say, "Watch the door. Make sure no one else comes knocking. And if they do, make sure they don't knock twice."

He nods. I think he likes the orders, the play at this think being something official and serious. Annette strips the bed and finds nothing but soft and red and plush. Under the bed though, more books of lewd thoughts and naked figures entwined and posing. She snickers and thumbs through them. She finds something to her liking it seems and stashes the book away.

I turn my attention to his vanity, overturning drawers with little care. Paint and makeup, for him, for the people in the bed, for whatever occasion arises, perfumes and dyes, powders and balms, all sorts of tinctures and potions and everything in between, there is a plethora of medicines and cosmetics to aid in the act of union. And they all stink of fresh flower petals.

I find nothing, but a perfume bottle smashes on the ground. That does give me some satisfaction. I think for a moment if I should break the mirror as well. The figure on the other side certainly deserves a punch or two, but the mirror itself has done no ill towards me or anyone else. And a good mirror is expensive, especially all the way out here. Better if someone else uses it. Amaru shouts at someone outside and I grin. For the effect, I put on the best moan I can and let the audience think of whatever best suits the moment.

Annette turns to the cabinet and throws open the doors. Clothes, so many clothes spilling and hanging, soft silks and cottons and lingerie for every skin, every body, every person in the complex to wear and flatter themselves in. Lace and trim, suggesting openings and entrances and lengths and all sorts of fun shapes of the body. She takes some green pieces to her ever-growing stash of ill-gotten things. She takes to the act of thievery well. Very well, the flush in her cheeks, streaks of emerald against black tell me that she is enjoying all of this a little too much.

His desk has papers, so many papers and ink wells scattered. And it's all poetry. Sonnets and ballads to the form of sapience, mountains of breasts and the sea of hips, masculine chiseled rock and its endless beauty, rivers of lined muscles and it's all simply awful. Or maybe its good. I honestly do not know. It is poetry and I do not care for poetry. The letters though, the letters do hold my interest.

Estlin has been in contact with the Weavers in Goldenrod. I am not surprised. As the de facto head of one of the largest conclaves, he would of course have some contact with the council. Specifically with a woman who keeps asking him about how to run as a Weaver. Her name is Meera and I am not really supposed to know that. But I do and I don't really know what to do with that information at the moment.

But he is not always telling her what to do. She is suggesting things to him as well, specifically things about me. Warren did not tell her what I was doing, but the other Weavers said it was bad and I should be stopped. I tear the letter in half. I don't care. Its not a lock or a door and the key around my neck still glows with the warmth of a forge from a man who talks in the clicks of cooling metal and hissing steam.

A hand snakes around my waist and Annette kisses my neck.

"I have a fun idea," she says, "We could do it on his bed."

"No."

"C'mon. A quickie. It'll be fun."

"It's not the inconvenience you think it will be. He'd probably like it."

"But the sheets feel so soft, Cottontail. Just touch them. C'mon. Please."

"No."

I turn over the next drawer. Empty stationery and unsealed letters and his seal. It's a rabbit. Of course, it's a rabbit. It couldn't be anything else other than a rabbit.

Annette keeps her hands on me as I try to move away.

"Annette," I say, "I do not know what's gotten into you, but-"

It hits me. That clench in my core hits me and I almost drop to my knees. I do not. I do not let the pull of the fresh dew grass and warm flower petals take me. I am here to open a door. I am here to turn a key in a lock and meet a god. I am not here to kiss the ebony skin streaked into bright emerald, to feel tongue on tongue and hand on chest and legs interlocked. I am here to bring the hammer down and keep moving onwards.

But the hands, the hands of smoldering embers tug and pull at me, sliding under my clothes and I don't have the strength to fight them. They touch me and caress me, sour sparks linger under her grip. It smells like wildflowers and grass fresh with dew and I keep pushing her hands away. I don't want to hurt her. She kisses me and I taste her and something clenches. The pleasure shoots through my mind and I want to kiss her again. I want her to kiss me. I want to feel every inch of her body on mine and do the same to her.