For A Song Pt 01

I'm running the songs in my head. I know them all, backwards, forwards, sideways, longways, some of them even diagonally. The hard part is the order. Some make more sense at the beginning, but I am still not quite sure I want to put them there. The power behind them could be better used once we all get back in the swing of things. And then the ending ones would have to go up front, but they don't work quite as well there. It's a conundrum. The hay bale I'm using as a bed doesn't help matters either. It's itchy. I don't know why I chose this spot. I could have easily taken a hammock or a cot or something out here for my thinking canvas. But I have a hay bale.

"Laggard," spits a voice. It also spits at me from the sound, an actual glob of phlegm landing a good deal away from my shoes.

"Leave him," hisses another, "Get the needles clean and the sutures sorted. We'll need them."

"He could help. The useless layabout."

"He could. And he will. Or at least, he better. Just leave him. Can't expect everyone to put an honest day's work in. Even here."

I stay silent as the two scurry off back into the medical tent. None of the words they said were technically wrong. I am laying about. The tools need proper care. I could be of more help, I suppose. And expecting the maximum effort from everyone over every little thing is a recipe for an exhausted population. But taken as a whole, there are some irksome things to sift through. I'll open with that one then. It fits in well enough, and I am now in somewhat of a bad mood. I like playing sad songs when I'm in a bad mood.

To be fair, I also like playing sad songs when I am in a good mood. And in no mood at all. They work better on the strings I have, and I never quite figured out why. So, I stopped questioning it. I can't stand the hay bale mattress anymore. It's terrible. From the sounds, I have time to go out and get something different.

"He's not that bad looking," says another voice, a lot more appreciative than the first, "I mean, for a hellion."

"Shush. He looks good, period," says its friend. I look to the source and it's already dipped back into the safety of the tent.

I pass the blacksmith's encroachment, head down and eyes focused. The tools are laid out and I don't want to think about what they will be used for. I wander a bit, not too far. I have a post to maintain, and despite my lackadaisical appearance, I do want to do a good job. I adjust my hat. The sun is bright today. It's a good day for a spot of war.

I am in service of the good blue banner. I'm pretty sure it's blue. It's right on the edge of being called purple, but I've never heard anyone hear referring to it as such. So, it must be blue. There's an endless silver lake with a heron trotting along the surface. I like this heron and I wish it a bountiful hunt. I do not know what banner is opposing this one. That is for the people on the other side of the hill to care about. I am to worry about the people that come back.

They're getting rowdy. I don't hear the words, and it seems that I will have to make do with the hay. Or not. There's a loose stump sitting on the ground, ax still embedded deep in the wood. It's a good sitting height and the tool comes out easily enough. I make sure it's safe and leaning up against the nearest stake. I get to rolling.

They're shouting now and I marvel at the volume of voices. There are so many better uses for mouths and throats and voices than battle cries. But I am not here to contemplate and condemn. I have my orders and I will carry them out, right next to the sawbones and spilling blood. I have my post all situated.

"Look at that," says a voice similar to the first set, "He can move."

"I know, I'm surprised too," says its friend, "Thought he was just eye candy."

"That's the reason the general brought him on. She's a soft spot for pretty things."

So many voices today, so many words filtering in. I think they should focus, but again, I am not being paid to think. The stump rolling is something outside of my outlined duties, but every job has a few things like that. At least I'm not on latrine detail. That tries to wriggle in so many times.

I have my post and I will sit there and wait. My own axe waits where I left it and I think it's time to prepare. The cries have settled, and we all wait for the moment when the horns are blown, and the pigs of war are let loose. No more words find me as I tune the strings and change the tone. Kind of muggy out, and that always makes the noise a bit off. I'll have to pull in a bit more from my partner to compensate. That'll be fun. Tucker me out nice and good.

I strum my guitar and then it starts. Right on time. The harsh brass echoes up int the sky high and clear. Suddenly, no one has time to badmouth me. A few mutter prayers. The blacksmith twirls some rather vicious looking tongs that I do not want pulling or prying or bending anywhere near me. The prybar is also looking at me sideways with some evil eye juju. I strum again. It sounds better. Even good I'd say. I withdraw from the words, from the itchy hay, from the hard wood reforming my ass. I have the strings to play and that's what I am here for.

So, I do. I play. I lay the guitar across my lap and let the music come through me. And I don't know why I set up the list in my head. It never really pans out. The first step always fails at the point of contact.

I start slow, really working underneath the noises. I can hear the world's heartbeat now, each and every being's slight out of synch. There is no pause between. It's just a massive cacophonic thump that never quite quiets down. I play to it, the tempo it sets because that is the only tempo there is. A beat with no notes. A drone that carries its own. I see it form and vibrate the strings through me, through the guitar. All I am is tapped into the formless noise at the center of the world. The ground shifts, ever so slight, a million miles away and I take that noise to the people in the medical tents.

The battle starts, finally, in its full earnest avalanche. The yells, the cries, the basest nature of destruction honed into every being crashes against itself. Steel on steel, the twang of catgut bowstrings, whistling arrows, and the thunder of the scant cannons both sides were able to muster up. There is a harsher crack, a bit sharper than the black powder, and that surprises me. Rare things, those. Someone somewhere has deep, deep pockets.

But I keep playing, soothing the nerves into the numbing calm that allows for work. The one voice that tried to admonish me at first has the most, to my black joy. That's mean. I would be much the same. I have felt the same in other places. The one time I was at the front line, the handful of times at the back, those storms that would come off the beach as the seasons turned. I take it and turn back to the song.

The first comes and that breaks the tension. It changes the song so easily. It changes the tone with just a wayward thought. The man brings pain, simple and raw. It's all he is. The leg's gone. The chest has broken ribs. The arm is bent and twisted. I almost laugh at it. I shouldn't. The poor bastard fell off his horse and got crushed in the first charge. Not even broken down the front lines. It happens. I clear my throat and pull the sickly bruise purple from him, taking the moans down to whimpers. They are words in my throat. I get a name that refuses to leave his thoughts and then start singing.

"Oh, please don't wait for me darling.

Stay out of the cold rain.

For your heart may become rusty

Oh, please don't wait for me darling.

Don't stand there in this heat.

Your soul is drying up," I sing.

Wanted to end with this one, but it works better for this first poor soul. Battles are hard to gauge from a temporal perspective. They'll peter out in sputters and spurts. The rage will carry it for a while, but it can only carry a person so far. The broken ones used to that empty dead brutal rage will carry it all out to the bitter end. That's all that will come at the end. Raw bitterness at the blood and steel spilled and bent.

The surgeons do their best and it's good. Even the nervous nelly. It's good, taking more and more of his pain away, cutting out the broken bits, setting the parts back together, sewing him back up. And it's quick. Barely ten minutes. I don't think it has anything to do with me. It just happens. His pain is wheeled off to somewhere a little quieter. Letting him stew and marinate in the agony until it comes to the other side. I did what I could.

There are more of them, coming in a steady stream. I keep playing. I keep playing, taking the noise of the wounds and turning them into song. I drown out war with somber melody. I drown out agony with meandering melancholy.

I finally open my eyes and watch the process slip by. Some of them can move under their own power, broken bodies helping even more broken things hobble along back to whole as they can be. I take some of the smaller things away. Knicks and bruises and scrapes, piling them into a mound of black dust coating my throat. I should have kept a pail of water near me. Hindsight's clear and I really only had time for the sitting stump.

The sun crawls along, passing into the later part of the afternoon. It was morning when I had my stump rolled over. I think. I'm pretty sure it was morning. I slept in. The music is my time. I keep moving my fingers down the strings and that is the clock I keep. It is my time. It says its afternoon. So, it must be afternoon. I am hungry too. Someone should have brought me lunch as well. It's fine. We're all busy. The stream doesn't show any signs of slowing down. It will keep coming down until the source runs dry. There will always be more blood to spill, more steel to bend, more bodies to break.

Something moves by my side. Almost, I almost get up and bolt like a startled deer, but I have my music to get my nerve calmed. I turn my gaze from the funeral procession. It's another hellion, covered in a dull desert gold, fading to a pale cloud white at the edges, with a small water skin. That's all I get. I nod. My hands are still moving. My savior claps me on the back and brings a pause to the music, a beat and then another. I staunch the silence and keep going. The actual break can come in a bit.

I am wrong. There is no time good time for a break. They keep streaming down in the broken avalanche of hobble things. But I have to. I have to pull away and clean the black grave dust from my lips. So, I stop. I let the field symphony take over with shield line driving the beat. It's cold. I like this water. It does the job well. My hands are shaking, trembling even. Pale blue skies instead of the deep dark midnight, fading to almost an ash gray instead of charcoal black. The water helps put a little more back into me. Not a lot. But enough.

The cries come in the silence. I am not there to take the pain, smooth away the rough edges, numb the soul to the callousness of the world. They are right to cry out against such a monster. Mewling babes against a thing of fang and teeth that destroys for the sake of destruction. It pulls no joy from its act. It's almost bored with its own cruelty. If asked, the world will shrug and continue on, even when presented with the pain.

So, I play. I pick up my guitar again and I play to the lost, the broken, the beaten and the damned. I cannot save them. I can only soothe. I can only sing lullabies to distract them from the ever encroaching dark. I cannot save them from the man across the way in a bone white suit, eyeing them all in the same impassive gaze. He picks them seemingly at random, the ones to come and stand with him in the shadows. He tips his hat to me. I do the same and start singing again.

"Your voice comes to me.

Like crystal clear water

I never want to forget you."

---

It's over. It's all over. Everyone I've pulled back is treading their own water to wellness. Everyone who was going to fade is already well on that path and it would take a man with much more power than me to dam that river. Everyone who was going to pull through without me is on their way to doing just that. I'm not sure which path I'm on. I think it's the second one.

It's evening now, the sky streaked with blood orange and swirling violet. The moon's out in its silver sickle sliver. It's going to be a dark night for once. Feels like ages since we had one of those. I take the water and splash my face. That helps too. Definitely on the second path now. Maybe some whiskey or rum or wine or something too. That would help.

No one calls me a laggard anymore and that is nice. Again, not quite wrong, but still rude and hurtful. My companion for the past little while isn't really the talking type. More of the strong silent dark and brooding. I pretend not to see him. No one else can, as far as I know. He's just counting his tallies, looking up to do some quick math before going back to his count.

"They pay you good for this one, son," he asks with a drawl thicker than honey. Unfortunately, I can't ignore him anymore.

"Eh," I shrug, "bout the normal going rate. The perks, though, those are alright."

He snorts a laugh and I almost forget who I'm talking to. He looks so alive.

"Course you would say that," he laughs.

"Hey, it's your girl doing it to me. You're the blame."

"I didn't tell her to do a damn thing. This is her show to run."

"And she's doing a great job of it."

"Bitter work, but it has to be done. Don't. Don't. I've heard every version of that speech you feel welling up in your gut. And you're probably going to give me the right one. I don't envy you, son. But save it. You got better things to do than argue with an old man steeped in his ways. Did Louis make it?"

"Louis?"

"Kuhrk. Big guy. Had a big old ball and chain. Might have been missing an eye. Slick head of hair. Think he was with sylva, dark skin, red hair. We'll say he made it. My math's off anyway thanks to you. Too damn good at this."

I shrug. Feels odd to be complimented by the man who takes the ones who didn't make it. He stands tall and rail thin, brushing down his coat. There's still a bit of mud clinging to the end of it. I don't tell him. He'll figure it out.

"Pleasure to see you again, son," he says, sticking out his hand, "And word of advice, get to the love nest. My girl had a big day out there. She'll need something to tucker her out."

"Do I look like I can handle that?" I ask. I grab his hand. It's cold. Stone cold. Dry. But strong, almost refusing to let go. He snorts a laugh again and I can almost think he's alive again.

"Honestly? You'll be prowling for more by midnight. Take care. Hope it's a long, long time before we meet for real."

He leaves and something of mine leaves with him. It's all dark and cold. Everything is too close, collapsing in. I shake my head. The shadows aren't as long. The moon's a bit brighter, a bit fuller, the sky a bit more weighed down with stars. I leave, grabbing my guitar and leaving my stump where I found it. No sign of my presence at all.

There's a line I cross a bit away from the medical tents. The weight of blood simply evaporates once it's all in you. The living have no care for the dead and dying. At least, not right now. I'm sure they will. Most of them seem a decent sort. Campfires have broken out, each and every one having their requisite group huddled around dripping down into a drunken revelry with joy borrowed from tomorrow.

The catcalls are nice. The whistles and shouts for all things carnal follow me. I wave them off. Most of them. Some of them get a wink and a nod. A few get a blown kiss. One or two get a moment of intimacy, a hand touching somewhere sensitive. It's a switch in my head. The slightest suggestion of something carnal and the tiredness starts to fade. My color isn't quite back to where it was. But it's getting there.

I'm not the only one. Any excitement tends to pool in the call to another body. The excitement of almost dying even more so. Something that calls deep to the pit of nonexistence also resonates to the call of making more things to fill the actual existence. I pass drunken couples, trios, an odd quartet or two, all trying to do what they need to do with some level of stealth. That level happens to be very, very little. The shadows are not yet deep enough. But that doesn't matter. They have the urge and the will and the other partner. So, there is nothing in the way. I feed on it the same way as the water. I feed on it, just knowing that is there. I stand a little taller and let my steps carry me further. That flutter in my stomach does wonders. I should feel some amount of shame, I think. People are suffering, and I could certainly be of more use. I also spent an entire day doing just that. I have earned this break.

"Hey. Um, excuse me, Mr...."

I let the question hang for a bit before turning to find its source. Yet another hellion, much like myself. She's green, almost fading down to blue at her deepest parts, before her fringes shift to a rather fetching coral pink. Her singular horn spirals a bit, matching the general color scheme. Her eyes, that same beautiful coral look to me in unashamed hunger. She's drunk. There's a flush to her cheeks and the affected nervousness that comes with bolstered self-confidence. I quirk my lips, just a bit, and watch the blush creep deeper.

"Hi," she says, "Um, I'm sorry, but I heard about you. My cousin works with the medical tents. He said you really helped them out. I'm Mayany. I'm with the mage lines. And I was wondering if I could pick your brain on how you did all that."

"Is that all you want to do, Miss Mayany?" I hum. I move a bit closer to her. She looks me up and down again, lingering at my arms, my chest, my shoulders, the dip of my collarbone. She can look.

"Well, maybe share a drink. Or two. And breakfast maybe. But name, I'm sorry. I should have asked for your name first. My cousin, he didn't mention it."

"I'm pretty sure I didn't either. And I'm sure that breakfast with you would be wonderful. But I'm afraid I'm expected elsewhere."

"Oh. Well. I mean. I'll be around, y'know? So seriously, come find me. Me and my friends would seriously love to talk with you."

She turns and tries to have some bit of her dignity remain in her stride. It mostly manages to sway her hips in a very convincing way. Almost more convincing than the mention of her friends and the promise of a free breakfast tomorrow. However, I have a prior engagement that comes from officer's rations. I'm afraid the grunt's hardtack can't really compare. This little conversation further slipped the work of the day behind me. The night has brought promises, it seems. I look back one last time. Those hips are still there. And once again, I have to remind myself of my other obligations.

The tent sits at the top of the encampment, at the summit of a hill, surveying the land with a dissecting eye. I would ride down the valley on the east side, drive the enemy into the river, and pick them off with archers and mages. But I'm not the general. I'm a humble bard assigned to the white tents and sawbones, barber-surgeons and dutiful nurses. My knowledge of war is limited to the songs sung in its glory. Just like the ones slipping up from the myriad dots of firelight dancing along the ground. I walk up the hill, feeling that same slip into something akin to excitement. There is a fluttering in my stomach that refuses to calm down in the slightest. Each step lets it linger and grow, a lost pup to grow fangs and claws and a starving appetite.

It's a grand tent, covered in the same blue banners scattered through the camp. It's a good blue, almost matching my own. I'm still recovering but it will get there. I don't bother to announce my present as I part the seal. There are no guards, so I am the first to slip in. My space, given freely, however spartan I find the insides to be. And they are spartan. A thin mattress over a sturdy cot, a dark wood desk with stacks of parchments and a nifty candle, a table and dresser of the same style. Really, it's somewhat disheartening. I want velvet pillows and scented oils, rose petals and gossamer curtains. I have burlap and planks, tallow and linen. I sigh. It's better than hay.