The Rabbit Dies Pt. 09

I pull away and breathe the closest thing to fresh air I can find. It still smells like floral perfume and smoke. She looks at me with wide green eyes that plead and beg. That emerald lip bends and plumps around her teeth. She wants it and I want it and I don't want it. It is too easy to slip into the fog of lust and pleasure. Especially here, in the nexus of the spider web. I shove her way and my heart breaks at the pain she feels.

I overturn the next drawer and find more poetry that tries to clench the chest and make me swoon. It does not. It does nothing, nothing at all, because it is not a door or a gate or a threshold that needs a key still warm, still warm after travel, still warm from molten metal from the man who speaks in hisses and clicks of cooling blades. And none of that is here.

Last drawer, there is the last drawer on the bottom shelf and it is open. I do not think about the hands on my hips, how they run under my shirt, my pants, fondling and touching and groping all the appropriate things. Something is biting at my ear and that has to be an insect. Shapely insects with skilled tongues and deft fingers that sing songs that make me finally feel loved and cherished, finally imparting some semblance of joy. The drawer is open and there is a scattering of dead golden leaves filling the bottom. In the gaps, I see a hint of cooled bronze shaped for a lock. I turn and pounce on Annette. The last thought I have that is not of carnality is I should mind the horn.

It still scrapes my forehead a bit as I slam her to the floor and press my lips against hers. I taste her and she tastes like Annette. That is how she is supposed to taste and that's all she has to be. My hands are under her shirt and she is toned, hard and soft, just enough soft to give my hands a little pliable thing to pinch and twist, but hard enough to take it. She squeaks and moans and hums with the sensation of my hands, my scars on her. She is naked and I willed her that way. I wanted her naked and now she is and I am kissing her cheek, her lips, her neck, her collar, her breasts. I roll them over my tongue sucking and nipping to get her to sing. And she does. My name comes from her lips as she clutches at me, raking her nails along my back. She laughs and sings and kisses me as I kiss her.

The room smells of smoke and perfume and her as I move down from the chest. Reluctantly I might add. I wish to stay at her breasts, tongue and lip and hand rolling and playing with the black skin and green nipples, but there are greater prizes down. I kiss her stomach and her legs wrap around my body, locking me in, making sure that I do not stray. I come to her pelvis and lay my lips on every inch of warm skin. I nip and bit at her thighs, her navel, her legs, going every where I possibly can. All of her is mine, all of her is laid before me and I will take it as I see fit. There is nothing else other than her in the room of soft cushions and fragrant wood. I taste her and she tastes good and she likes being tasted it.

She screams in ecstasy as my tongue meets emerald folds and ridges. With a touch and a thought, she grabs my hair and pulls me in deeper and deeper into her. I have a hand on her chest, rolling and kneading and rolling and kneading, back and forth back and forth. I tease the pull the song from her in measures and bars, playing her as she does with me. She is a flute, a drum, a piano, a guitar and she does not let me stop. I do not want to stop. I dark in and out of her, worshipping her as every ounce of my being is devoted to the act. I like and bit and suck at her and she does not let me do anything else. I do not want to do anything else.

I force myself to pull away a hand to join in my tongue, drumming against taught tight skin all the while. She replaces it with one of her own, drowning in the sensation of my touch. I push her down into the earth, rising to my knees, her legs on my shoulders. Her hands come to my head again and grip and pull at my hair. Together we lift to standing, her hunched over my head, my tongue, every bit of her concentrated on my mouth. I walk, pleasure spilling from me all the while to the bed. I set her down in a burst of floral perfume, baked into the fabric.

I devour her, the salt of skin and the heat of her core spilling into me and I devour it all. Tight, so tight and clenching and needy, pressing her hips into my tongue. She has lost control. She has lost all control. I make her twitch and clench and curl and grip and moan my name into the air and I love it. I smile as she tenses and curses my name, hates me and loves me in equal measure and I do not stop. I refuse to.

The tension builds in her core, her entire body wrapped around my tongue. And it's all my name, every ounce of her goes into my name. The air vibrates with that one syllable as she climaxes and shatters with that one single word.

Her release arcs high over my shoulder as I hold her down, drawing out the pleasure as best I can. I do not want her to speak. I do not want her to walk. I do not want her to think. There is only the tongue and the hands making her feel good, only good and warm and soft here and she does. She only feels that. She can only feel that. The pride, the savage pride of destruction settles and chuffs in my chest as she continues to writhe and bend, arching her back to where it should snap. And she keeps yelling my name. My name, drawn out, voice rasping and breaking with that one single word, and there is more of it to come. Her scream does not end. Her release does not end. I will it to drag on so it does.

I allow it to fade after a long, long moment of my indulgence. She collapses into weak twitches. Nothing. There is nothing left in her and it is all as it should be. She is spent and satisfied, cocooned in some safe warm place and I shake my head free from those thoughts. I am here for a key and a door and I will see this through.

A different scent perfumes the air. Tea, I smell tea. Oily and perfumed with herbs and dry and chocolate, and it is cold. It settles into me, my muscles, my flesh, my core, slowly unwinding all the knots, all the tension, all the little bits of hard edge. Numb, it is all comfortably numb and deadened. Just as the strength left her, it is leaving me. And I do not mind. I do not mind at all. Something heavy hits the floor behind me and whatever energy is left slowly turns my head.

Amaru has fallen down. From the evidence he fell onto, I assume he was enjoying the show. Stepping over the body, mindful of the mess, Estlin strides in as well, perfume bottle in hand. He sets them down on his vandalized dresser and straightens his clothes. I should have smashed the mirror, in hindsight. It would have made me feel much better if he wasn't able to watch me slip into darkness in the reflection. He didn't even have the stones to look me in the eye.

---

Soft rope chokes my wrists. Even the rope is soft here. One thing, there should be one thing that is not comfortable here and it should be rope. It should itch and scratch and bite and leave terrible red marks on the soft pale flesh, and it is made of silk. To be fair, that is a pretty strong rope.

It doesn't smell of floral perfume and smoke anymore. It doesn't smell much of anything. It does taste of mucous, my lips sealed together, the glue at the back of my throat. I am naked. I enjoy being naked, but I do not enjoy being tied up and naked.

The chair hurts my legs. There's no seat to it. I'm just hanging in the hair, the frame and rope keeping me upright. It hurts. It hurts and I want to break away from the wood and the frame and tear this entire place to ground, burning the ashes to ashes and leaving dust scattered to the winds.

My eyes snap open and see the floor. Thick rugs fill the spaces between my toes, dancing fibers in candlelight. I finally smell the tallow smoke and it clears my mind a bit. There is a moment where the confusion takes over and I am afraid. The moment passes and I remember everything. I turn my head upward and Estlin is there, back towards me, standing before an altar of candles and fur. An effigy of rabbit hangs on the walls. Something else to rip and burn.

He turns around with a soft smile, bare chest and holding a riding crop in his hands.

"Well, well, well. I'm glad'-"

"You are going to die," I say. The growl of the grit comes out nicely. Something else to work into the routine once I am back on a field.

"There's no need for such bru-"

"Let me go and I'll make it quick. Every second I am tied is a day I spend breaking you."

He sighs and if he says something else, I am going to break a bone for every word he says.

"Miss Verlaine. I understand that you are upset and that this isn't how you envisioned all of this happening. I don't want to do this either. But the end goal of your quest isn't what you think it is. Warren has you fooled."

"I know what I'm doing. I'm going to kill him."

And I finally get to see that smiling face do something else. It goes stone still. And I have 42 bones to break. If I just do a hand that's more than halfway there. Toss in some ribs and the rest of the arm and I should be good. I should have let him keep talking. I want to do that to his other hand.

"You knew? If you knew, why would you keep doing it?"

"Because he asked me."

He tuts and shakes his head. The crop swishes back and forth in the air and slaps against his open palm.

"That may be the most lackluster answer I've ever heard. Congratulations Miss Verlaine."

"Bite me."

"I assure you, that is on the docket. But later. Did you ever stop to think what might happen if Warren or any of them for that matter were to cease?"

"I don't care."

Once again, I am rewarded with the stone face glare of a man taken completely by surprise. I think I'm frustrating him. I really, really do. I hope so. I really, really hope so. Anyone who drugs me and ties me up deserves to be frustrated. I tug at the ropes on my wrists and my ankles. They do not move. They do not give. I may need to invest in a good silk rope for myself.

"Miss Verlaine, I have to admit that I am somewhat surprised by your conduct here. I expected some misdirection. I expected some lie that you fell for that could be dissuaded with some gentle nudging. I did not expect this vast chasm of indifference. That is baffling. Simply baffling."

"I am here to kill Warren. He asked me to do it. So, I'm doing it."

"Do you not think for yourself at all? Is there even the slightest bit of agency in your mind?"

I keep working the rope and it does not break. It refuses to break. I will it to break.

"Miss Verlaine. I don't know what to do with you. I really don't. I know that if I let you out of this room, then you are going to try and end to life of the being I've devoted my heart and soul towards since I came into existence."

"And I haven't? I spent years here with you Estlin. I carry the symbol. I walk with him. Just like you do. Just like everyone here does. I have his word that this is what he wants. Why are you stopping me?"

"Because it's insane. I have to take your word that an entity, a god, I have devoted my life to has decided to commit suicide. By your hand, no less. Even if it is true, do you think I would just let that happen? This has been my life, you ingrate. And you just walk in here with that angry glare and claim what should have been mine. You have spoken to Master Warren and defile his word. I have given myself to his arts, his teachings, his canon. You are the corruption of all, Miss Verlaine. I have let you do as you please for far too long. It is time to bring you back in line."

His face is growing red. The words come like hail and I keep working at the rope. It is keeping me still. I cannot be still. I have a door to open with a key. Although, that is gone. I need to find the key first. I will search his room again to see if it is there. If not, then I guess it's back to Goldenrod to get another. That would be annoying.

"Are you done," I say, "I want to hurt you now."

"Luckily for you," he says, "I have practice in pulling those out of line back in. So here we are."

"You need to stop saying stupid things. I'm running out of ways to hurt you."

The calm mask of easy domination slips over the flush and the wide-eyed rage like oil. He smiles at me, sweetly, gently, loving and caring. He brings the crop down over my left breast. And it hurts. It hurts to have my breast hit with a riding crop. For some reason, I thought it wouldn't. But it does. As the pain starts racing down my skin, up to my mind, it gets noted and pushed aside. Its gentle this pain, this terrible thing that should send me gasping and sputtering. All it gets is a tilt of the head and a soft noise of acknowledgement.

He brings it down again and the same thing happens. It hurts. It hurts and I do not care. I know pain and this falls in the same category. This is pain. I know pain. But this is not a pain to avoid. The crop has never drawn blood. The crop does not mean to kill. He won't kill me. He can't kill me.

Estlin moves down and slaps at the flesh from the exposed seat and it hurts. My face is blank and I do not mind. He keeps hitting me. He keeps hitting me again and again and I feel pain and nothing at all. I laugh. I have to laugh because it hurts and I don't mind at all. He hits me harder and I don't mind.

"You have no idea how to hurt people, do you?" I ask.

"I can bring legions to their knees in exquisite agony. The pleasure of pain overriding reason, turning the mind to nothing but embers smoldering of me. Do not talk about hurting people to me, Miss Verlaine. There is none better in bringing that ecstasy."

I laugh. I laugh so hard my chest hurts. I keep pulling at the ropes and rocking in my chair with no seat. It tips and I hit the carpet. That doesn't hurt. That doesn't hurt at all. The carpet is too soft, too forgiving in this den of pleasure.

"Pain isn't supposed to feel good, you idiot. Not real pain."

I can't stop laughing. The carpet tastes fine. The fibers, even the fibers that choke and scratch at my tongue can't even bring themselves beyond benign.

"Can you actually do anything to stop me? Can you? You think you should, but I don't think you can."

I get a foot to the ribs for my trouble, and I am laughing. It hurts to laugh.

"You can't. You really, really can't. You'll have to actually kill me and I know your answer."

"Will you be-"

"No, I fucking won't. Just untie me and give this up."

He sighs and takes the crop back in his hand, swishing it and letting it slap against his palm. Like a gentleman, Estlin helps me back up. This time though, I am facing the other way. He finally succeeds in making me angry, though. I have to give him credit for that.

Amaru and Annette sit strapped to the same type of chairs, just as nude as I am, gagged and struggling. I sigh. I keep tugging at the ropes. They are still strong and knotted tight.

"Really? Are you really going to do it like this? It's not going to work. If you hurt them at all, you're just making me think of new ways to hurt you."

"Oh please. I'm not resorting to such barbarous acts. Clearly our time together has not made any progress in our relationship, so I turn to those who have already put the work in. I don't think they want to see you in pain. Annette, do you have anything to say to your friend?"

He moves before her, standing between her legs. With skilled hands he undoes the knot and lets the silk scarf pool on the floor. She stares at him eyes wide and teeth biting at her lip. Estlin takes a hand to her chin, her cheek, before tilting her up. Her eyes glance back to his crotch and go wide.

"Cottontail," she says, eyes never moving from Estlin, "Lop Ear's bigger."

She gets the back of his hand for that, but just the same, she starts snickering. I laugh harder. My ribs still hurt, but that is no reason to stop.

"Come on, Angora," she giggles, "Is that the best you can do?"

Amaru groans through the gag of silk. He pulls at the ropes just as I have, more frantic. Estlin slaps her again and she just laughs and laughs.

"Your hands are so soft," she says, "What do you use on them? I use chamomile and lavender."

Another strike and I can't stop laughing. I don't want to stop laughing. Amaru keeps struggling, keeps trying to pull free. He should stop fighting it. He is bound and the knots will come undone. We just have to endure. The chairs will turn to dust, silk will fray and snap and we will be free. I will it, and so it shall be.

"Master Amaru," Estlin says, "I apologize for the rough way I've had to handle your companions, but you know better than I that these people only seem to respond to violence. Do you wish to speak?"

He nods. He nods as fast as he can, almost breaking his neck in the process. Just the same, Estlin undoes the gag and tosses it aside. Amaru chokes out sobs that finally make me stop laughing. They break my heart. He is hurt and I do not want him hurt. Annette is fine, she is not hurt, despite the swelling on her cheeks.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he wails, "I'm so sorry. I knew and I tried to stop her, sir."

Estlin smiles and strokes his cheek with the same hand he struck Annette with.

"It is alright, my child," Estlin sighs, "I love you all, even when you cross me. You did your best."

He presses his cheek into the hand at his face like a dog.

"I can talk to her, sir," he whispers, "I can talk to her. I need to hold her. Please, sir, please."

And like that, he's back in control. The ropes don't matter. The chairs don't matter. The shackles have been set. Estlin kisses the top of his forehead and starts to untie him. I am finally made silent. Amaru slowly comes to stand before him, shoulders hunched and head to the floor. Estlin smiles up at him. It's an odd thing to see a man almost graze the ceiling even slouched bend to another man at his chest.

He shuffles over to me, chest hiccupping all the while. He comes to kneel before. His hands stop for a minute at my shins and I have to suppress a smirk. His hands come to my wrists and he looks into my eyes. He is smiling, so wide, so sharp, so savage I want to take him here and now for the world to see.

"Claire," he says. There are no sobs, no tears in the word. He doesn't even need to ask the question.

The ropes fall away.

---

I don't kill him. I want to, but I don't. Too much hassle with the Weavers, the others in their little Burrow, maybe with Warren himself. He might be jealous that he isn't my first one of the day. I don't know. I do break his nose and that was fun. I should have broken more things, but Amaru started getting squeamish after that. So Estlin gets to live as a broken bloody thing crumpled on the floor, finally knowing what pain is. He learned something and that is important. And he gave me my key back. It was in his pocket of all places.

I learned something as well. The gate is out in the forest, past the weeping willows and the oak trees, past the clearing of wildflowers, past the open glade of long grass. I learned that from Estlin in an effort to get the pain to stop. Once he told me, it did not. I stopped hitting him, but the pain continued. Once pain, real pain is inflicted, it lingers and festers and grows under the skin, only dying out once it has been starved and emaciated back to nothing from whence it came. He did not know that. But he knows that now, nursing the aches and the pains and all the discomfort he has to deal with.

I can feel him watching us as we walk through the trees, around the lake, over the grass. The eyes turned to the moon, the sky has finally turned downwards to the ones that carry out his will. I do not mind them. They're mostly overpowered by the snickers and giggles from Annette.