"Old Cout's body sits spinning in his grave.
All from the sins that some say are brave.
But they're from the routes that he newly paved.
We follow all the threads," sings Gawain.
"Greaycrown sits in his little throne of smoke.
With a bunch of gals that all look like blokes.
And his pole of yew, but he says it's oak.
We follow all the threads," Eliza sings.
"Treblex falls and screams that she has been hurt.
Nothing else matters except her thrashing in the dirt.
But there's no help coming, because I'm chasing skirts.
We follow all the threads," I sing.
We each take our turn singing a verse of blasphemy. I liked Gawain's one about Soddal. Very proper uses of the word wet. Eliza had one about Vermil that didn't quite land, but it still had the good taste to cross some lines. All in all, good fun had at someone else's expense. They can probably hear every single word we mock them with, but they all say nothing. Really, a very easy time, punching down against the ones on high. It keeps the steps flying on by, melding morning into afternoon into evening. We stop for the night when all of us have grown hoarse and tired. There are blisters on our feet that hurt. Our bones are tired, and I can't think of anymore lyrics to our game. Gawain tries to force one more out, but Eliza isn't having any of it. She's hungry and I'm sleepy and Gawain's enthusiasm still hasn't faded. It might just be a bit of his disposition. That must be nice.
I also don't understand how he can be considered comfy under that cloak. Heavy wool with a long hood, scratchy and bitey and all sorts of terrible. I'd be sweating like a pig under there, but he only appears to be the normal type of sweaty. A whole day of walking will do that to anyone. He spins the fabric and snaps it down and then it is a bed roll. Must be a handy thing to have at hand. My bed roll is still being unpacked from Eliza's shoulders.
I busy myself with the act of gathering kindling and firewood. Simple work, easy work, but only when I have a pair of friends to handle the other work. Actually starting a fire, actually cooking something, actually clearing the ground and making sure that there is nothing prowling, all of that adds up when it's just little old me by my lonesome. I have enough firewood for a night or so I don't think we'll need a big fire. Eliza likes the cold and Gawain has his cloak blanket mattress thing all to himself. It's mostly just for me.
Gawain strikes his flint stick, and we are in business. It's also nice not having to hum a little ditty to call upon the magecraft in my work. Just a few curses and threats and we have sparks. The sparks grow into a true roar and then we are all good and happy. I don't feel like hunting. None of us do, so we turn to our rations of jerky and hardtack and that works wonders.
It's a simple life, out on the road. I am left to stew and simmer in my thoughts and those tend to work better when I have my guitar under my hands. It's there and it's tuned right and as the sun grows low, I pluck at the strings and let my voice rest. Simple riffs and chords, playing out of time with a simple meandering measure. It is all lost to time. I should write some of these things down at some point, maybe. Put out a book of all my road rhymes for the world and see what people can make of me.
"How did you get so good at that," Gawain asks as he sprawls out on his mat.
"Practice," I shrug, "That's about it. Been playing since I was a little kid. Mutti made sure I knew an instrument and Maman agreed. Dad wanted to start a band, but that got shut down."
"Two moms?" Gawain asks, "Dad was one lucky guy."
"By some definitions, maybe, although I think Maman was the lucky one in all that."
"Which one was Verlaine," Eliza asks, running a finger along her scythe's edge.
"Maman. She didn't carry me or my brother, but I think she had some influence. It got kind of weird towards the end. Lots of rabbits around. Lots of clover and grass growing in the yard."
"Why'd she do it?" Eliza continues. She sucks her fingertip. She absolutely did not split her hand wide open playing with her blade. Nothing like that at all.
I turn and consider the question. I've had it asked of me before. I know the story. It's been told to me. I know what she said and what the people want to believe. Eliza is trying to play it off as nonchalant, but there is still some eager joy in the thought of what has happened. A pitched battle for the heavens, some cunning betrayal, an endless rage against the shackles that bind us. Those are the things need to kill a god. The music slows down a bit, mostly for the dramatic effect. It brings her in close and lets the shadows move across her lips.
"As far as I know, Warren asked her to. That's what she told me and she didn't lie," I say.
Eliza pulls back and Gawain snickers a bit.
"That can't be right," she mutters, "Had to be something else. That much power, it must have been that."
"I really don't think so," I say, "Maman was someone who just did it. If she said she was going to do something, then she'd do it. No copping out at all. It just happened. It might take a while, but it happened."
"I don't buy it either," says Gawain, "Just for the fact that Warren talked to her. The Threads don't talk to anyone. The Weavers say they do, but it's always so vague."
I shrug and turn to the moon. They don't know. They don't need to know. I would appreciate a wingman to pull a run in, but still. It's later and I don't want to deal with one of them tonight. I want a nice calm night, with nice calm dreams, a thick blanket and maybe a morning that I spend a bit too long asleep. I put my guitar away and let the fire die down to glowing coals.
Gawain's an easy sleeper, almost falling down as soon as his head hits the dirt. Eliza is a bit more fitful, but she gets there as well. She might have nightmares, but I'm here for that. I don't know what she sees in there. She should talk about them at some point, but later. We have a long time on the road together and that's bound to solve some things. And cause more things.
I'm somewhere in between, if I am to be believed. Not quite snap, and no real tossing and turning. A little bit, sure, but mostly to get rid of the rocks and twigs that I thought I got rid of. I imprint myself in the dirt and morph the earth to my shape. It feels a bit better. I've gotten too used to soft beds in the cradle of civilization.
