The mark of a good bar fight is a bloody nose. I have one, so I guess we're off to a rollicking good start. Someone needs to break a bottle and stick it somewhere soft. Not on me. I'm the bloody nose guy. I've done my part.
Blake's done his part as well by giving me said bloody nose. I press a nostril closed and shoot out the blockage. A bit better, although it's just going to come right back. I'm a bit of a gusher.
"Heretic," he screams, "Heretic. I'll kill you. I'll fucking kill you!"
Honestly, his rage is a bit unfounded, in my opinion. Unless he's playing it up. In that case, he is a wonderful actor. I did nothing, absolutely nothing, to deserve the shouting. I will accept the bloody nose. I deserve that. Keeps my ego in check, gets the blood pumping, filters out the bad humors. It's a good time. Everyone needs to get decked in the schnoz every so often.
My hand goes to my horn and it's fine. Still a little blunted, but that's my fault. Let myself go. Bit of stubble on my chin. I duck and bob and weave. Blake is good, but he's angry. Not thinking. There are ways to use fury, but his is not the best way. It still works, though. A boot goes to my chest, and I am on the floor, the chair that so dutifully kept me splintered and shattered. He likes to do that, I think. It's very intimidating.
"Blake what is wrong with you," Gawain shouts.
"I'm going to kill him," Blake roars, "He's a heretic! He's THE heretic."
"Blake, stop. Stop it. What are you doing?" Gawain screams.
Gerardine's wailing and trying to put damper on everything. The rage will not be quelled, even when the whole sky breaks down.
I do not care about her sorrow, plain and simple. I am against any sorrow that will allow me to be beaten to death. Again, beaten is fine. It's the 'to death' part that is worrying. I don't want to spend an eternity with Uncle Cout.
I move again and hit a wall of flame. We're adding burnt to death it seems and I don't like for several reasons. My legs are still wobbly from Maya and I's little private party, and it just looks like I hit the deck.
"Slippery bastard," Blake growls, "face your execution."
I let the rage come from him in its glorious red inferno. It emanates from him, engulfing his being, staining the wood and blasting down the thoughts of cool reason. Gerardine is still crying. Gawain's against the wall, doing his best to keep the facts straight.
I am a heretic, in so far as that is the label others put on me. I am a heretic, in that my relationship to the Threads is not ordained through them. I am a heretic in all the ways I can think of. I duck again. Really, Blake lets the sword do most of the work for him. Shame. He has a lot more to work with. It could be such a great time. Such little time spent actually using the damn thing. It's all in the making, none in the using. His boot hits my chest and knocks me. There we go. He can actually go with the option of violence. I hit the door and his boot hits me again. I go through door in more splinters and shards. The railing saves me for a moment, but then it gives with a fist across my cheek. I fall. I fall and watch the world spin and dance in the endless candlelight. There is singing that's nice.
I'm on a table now, covered in beer. There are concerned faces looking at me. I think there's Maya mixed in there. There's at least three of her. That's nice. All of them can come save me. I think three Mayas could take one Blake if I helped out a bit.
"Dumile," they say, "What's going on?"
"I'm getting my ass kicked," I groan, "It happens a lot. And just when I was feeling better too. What's your favorite song, by the way? I would like to know that, just for me. Sing it, please."
She helps me roll of the table and come to something like standing. I don't get an answer though. I should. I really do want to know her favorite song. I am trying to think of mine, but my brains all scrambled up. Maybe if I hum a few bars.
"All of you," Blake shouts, "All of you have fallen into the cutches of the heretic."
"Fuck off, you mule's ass," Maya replies, "Get out of my town!"
I cough and that's an agreement. I would like to be out of this town. I would like to be out Blake's way. I would like to be as far as I possibly could from this whole sorry state of affairs. The vison's coming back to me, with everything aligned. Blake has his hand on his bastard of a sword, the flames licking the metal in a low demonic roar. It really is a quality blade. Lots of love and care and whatever else he put in there. I'm just here in my shabby coat, looking for something to strike back with. All I get is a dull fork and a butter knife. And a growing army of fishermen shaking off their drink. I might be able to work with that, honestly.
"I will burn the rot he has set in this town," Blake roars, "The spawn of the god killer stands before us, and you all celebrate him. He will burn. You will burn. This entire town will burn to ash."
"You couldn't even roast a chicken with that toy," someone in the back slurs. That's a fun person. I would buy them a drink if things were better for me. But they're not. They're terrible. It's all terrible. And I don't know Maya's favorite song.
Blake lands on the ground floor, shaking the candlelight chandelier with his presence. He's tapping into the thread, embers and smoke pouring from his impact. The world Is burning, and he is the spark. He is the endless flame crucible to forge the world anew. I am an imperfection to hammer out. I am an impurity plain and simple. There's a cup near me that still sits half full. And then it's empty and my throat twitches with the beautiful sour of good beer. Maya looks at me and I don't mind. It might be the last thing I ever do.
I ask the question again, with a glance and she thinks for a long moment. The blade roars again with blood red flame. It is a masterpiece. I can acknowledge that. I bring down the bottle and now I have my own weapon. It's lighter than I like, but I've yet to meet anyone who wouldn't feel it.
"King's Chair Time to pull them down.
Prove wrong those silver ties.
Cry for the moon and keep being troubled.
World wouldn't change if no one acts.
Don't waste your time on trifles," she sings softly, just for me. That's all I need. I find the tune she carries and part of me wants to laugh. It's a war song, suited for battles and swords and endless rivers of broken bodies. It's an old one too, ages ago from the dusty tomes of history. And it completely fails to slot in with her voice. She is terrible at singing.
But it's still all I need. I pull the threads of reality to align with that tempo and I add my own to it, a foot tap, my own heartbeat, the sway of my body in the drink fog. I weave a net invisible to the fury, and he steps right through. He is in my rhythm.
It's an easy trick and easily broke. A single moment where he drags or rushes, but he can't think that far ahead. It's infections, the dance I weave for the two of us. He falls into it and then I am simply not where he is. The fire is a bit of a problem. It's spreading fast, in all the nooks and crannies of dried out wood. I move and duck and that' only spreads the fire. I fall into the song, singing the words of his trance. I nudge him with me, slowly moving out of the bar. He dashes a few more chairs and tables on the way and that's the best I can do. My guitar is up in my room with my rapier. I have my fists and a broken bottle against the apex of the forge. All it gets me is another fist to my cheek and I am out the door.
The rain is heavy, and it is the dead of night. No sun to filter through, a chill in the air. I can vaguely make out a full moon behind the clouds, its pale light cast aside. A flash of lightning comes in the distance, but the most comes from my opponent. Deep dancing shadows and flickering insanity, smoke and steam and the hiss of rain drops on the heated metal.
"I will make sure you burn," he yells, "It's the only way any of them will learn."
I smirk. He's rhyming. My wonderful trick has wormed its way down into his mind where nothing can escape. Not quite the actual tempo or scheme or pattern, but it's something. It's something. I jump and duck and weave, racking the broken glass over his arm. His blood is boiling as it spills down his hands. Slick and sizzling with the flame, blending into one another and joining with the fire. It's a neat trick. I like it. Tendrils of blood into flame int steel into fury, a complete and utter mess of emotion that can't seem to break through.
"Blake! Blake!" cries Gawain of all people through the rain, "Stop!"
That's enough to break my focus. He gets a good one in before a woman cries out. And then she starts sobbing. Both of us now, lost in the moment, lost to the act.
Gawain's' standing there, in the threshold of the tavern, already soaked through, His knife is to Gerardine's throat, just breaking through the soft swan neck. She bleeds red, just the same as all of us.
"Gawain!" screams Blake, "Heretic! One night with him and you would turn your blade on a fellow. This is why he needs to die."
"You absolute cunt," Gawain swears, "Just let him go. Or I'll do it. I swear I'll do it. He's done nothing. Leave him alone."
"Blake," wails Gerardine, "Blake."
Very, very endearing, really. On all accounts. Gawain, helping me, Blake's hesitation and Gerardine's desperation. I'm still reeling a bit from the fall, steps unsteady and shaky and absolutely frantic. Blake darts his gaze between us, trying to find the path that leads to her safety and my death. Gawain's probably dead too, if everything works out well.
Gawain and I lock eyes and one more wordless exchange passes between us. He wants this. I want this.
I run.
---
I run into the night, out of town and into the wilderness. The surrounding forests welcome me home and it's beautiful. It's home. I feel the rain slip through the heavy leaves. The bandana helps in an odd way. It keeps everything shaped and held tight. I pull my jacket tighter and tighter, hoping that it will somehow warm up in the mean while. It smells like stale smoke and old grass, but it keeps me dry. It always keeps me dry.
It's dark in the endless storm as I follow the river upstream. I slow down from my sprint to a job to a brisk walk. I ran. I always run. It's what's best. Another handful of moments pass, and I take my hands to my knees.
There's that same hollow ache in my chest that always happens when I leave. It will always be there. I carry it on my back with every step. I cherish the absence of happiness. The larger the pit in my stomach, the more I carried with me while it was time. I feel it well and sink. My steps keep growing heavier. Should have had more to eat while I was there. A voice in the back of my head chastise me for bolting like that. Not that I bolted, but I wasn't smart about it. Stashed a pack of rations, a knife, something to make music and fire. But I didn't. I was lulled in by the waters and a set of soft lips that said some rather filthy things.
A rabbit crosses my path, snow white. It twitches its nose at me, and I smile. A line cast down from the heavens has landed squarely in my lap, it seems. It hops away and I follow it.
The coat almost glows in the dimness, like try moon light. It scatters and bounces, thumps at the ground, casting its own shadows up into the trees. I smell fresh grass of open meadows, clover just coming into bloom, endless sunshine and warm days. I follow the rabbit through it all and slowly, ever so slowly, I feel the faintest finger of smoke worm its way into my mind.
I turn off the road and almost trip on a root. I come up laughing, because of course she would do that. Can't quite rap my knuckles, but that's the closest she can. Nothing broken, nothing sprained, just a gentle reminder that the body I have is a physical thing, capable of tragedy. Lightning strikes again and I find a hill.
It's always a hill, unless it isn't. The grass is wet and slick, but not to the rabbit. It hops all the way up to the summit and disappears wherever rabbits go. My feet slip, but I keep climbing. That's always the rule, the one rule. Always keep climbing, or marching, or walking, or crawling through the world as it pummels you. As slow as you want or as fast as you can manage, always moving. Under the harshest hails, under the softest sun. The movement will always put it behind you. The scent of smoke grows stronger and there she is, nestled deep in the roots, dry as parchment, a rolled cigar glowing like a ripe cherry in her hands. I can feel the warm ember start to embrace the world. The last few steps are easy.
"Evening, Maman," I say. I'm surprised by how tired I sound. She doesn't look at me for a long, long moment. The clouds part and she's looking at the full moon.
"Bravo," she says, "Well done. Couldn't have done better myself."
One more moment before she starts chuckling. That sets me off and I tumble into the hollow next to her. Her arm immediately goes around me and pulls me close. She kisses my forehead, just above my horn and lets me go after a long, tight hug.
