The Rabbit Dies

The blood sprays up my arm, imparting that visceral warmth through the chain and the plate. I drive the spiked end of my hammer deeper and get another arc. The body goes still, so still, so dead and cold, eyes open and glossed over, never to close again. Shame, such a shame. Pointless, all pointless and wrong and I pull the hammer free with a deep gurgle. My arm is sore and that keeps me grounded. No point in pontificating the man I just killed. No point in letting the hollow in my chest grow and mutate into sorrow over the loss of life. Better to just pull the hammer free and keep moving. I turn from the corpse. He will be counted once this all ends. Once everything ends.

An arrow comes from the hill. My shield catches it and sends the dull pain up my arm, settling in my chest. Another comes and I smother a yell. I'm on the hill. I've been on the hill. I am working my way to the summit to route an archer's nest and I'm amazed I've only gotten bruises for it. Something's probably nicked me, found a gap in the plate, but I don't feel it. I will. Once the plate is off and I am in front of a mirror, taking the grand tally of the battle on my skin, then I will feel it, the dull ache of everything in me protesting its sensation, the fact that the mind keeps pulling it into these battles. Shield up, strapped tight to my forearm, hammer raised, I march.

Rain, bruising hail rain down onto me and I keep marching up, through blood and dirt and slick grass that almost, almost makes me stumble every other step. I start counting the arrows. I get to fifteen before one of them knocks me back, makes me falter in the march up the hill. Not my best, but not my worst. And it still takes me up the hill, still to the summit where the archer's lie and I keep marching. I will not stop. I cannot stop. Otherwise, the thoughts from the valley below will reach me.

"Verlaine," someone shouts, just an edge of panic in their voice, "It's Verlaine."

I smile and it hurts. My helm has matted my hair down to the follicles and every movement I take upsets them. Another ache to the endless list. Another pain to deal with once this is all over. A rush, arrow after arrow after frantic arrow against the towering hunk of iron and wood, my so-called shield. Heavy, so heavy and something cracks in my arm. I do not yell. I am Verlaine and I need to get to the top of the hill.

Something breaks the line and runs away. The smart ones, I have found the smart ones, says some dark part of my mind, laughing at the inevitable pain, the spilling blood and the cracking bone and dented iron. It's all a terrible joke and I happen to be the one telling it. Something crunches underneath my boot. A bow discarded and forgotten, but not indicative of all of them as another arrow hits my shield.

I am at the top of the hill, the small garrison of archers standing before me as I cautiously lower my shield. There is a hesitance in them, unwilling to try again. They have failed to stop my march and now I am here. Another arrow won't change that. Another slash or nick or even a full gash wouldn't stop me now. I am at the top of the hill. They know that. They knew that would happen, and yet here we all are.

"One last chance," I say, not even bothering to hide the pain in my voice. It gives the words some amount of menace, I've found, if I let the rasp at the edge of my throat out just a little bit. I have to be careful though. Inches to miles and all that.

"One last chance to run. It's the smart thing to do."

And once more, I am saddened to learn that people, on the whole, are not all that smart. Sure, some of them run, toss down the bow and bolt. Although, I think that speaks more to panic than anything else. It's always smart to have a weapon close by just in case the world proves itself to be truly dangerous as it really is. So scared little animals, instead of rational beings faced against the juggernaut judgement.

The frontmost one, regalia a little more fanciful, a little cleaner, helm stuck with a massive red plume drops the bow and reaches for the short sword. Not panicked, at least not unduly so, but also not smart.

He bellows some grand call to the king he serves, the drawn line on the map that nobody should cross. But he does it and he charges me, and I get a good look at him. Bottom teeth jutting a little over his lip, skin a little more brown-black than mine in murky splotches. Kuhrk blood in him it seems. Good for him. It will spray up my arm in a moment or two.

He does get a very good hit in, right on my sternum. I will give him that. The shield arm hurts. The hammer arm hurts. My whole body hurts as the endless weight of molded steel on my body sinks into the soft earth, carrying me with it. He gets the blunt end to his chest, the thin leather doing nothing.

I love it. I love the dark pulse in me that screams with the crunching bone, the collapsing ribs as he falls back into the mud. He screams, he yells in pure distress as the body he inhabits tells the mind that everything is shutting down. Light and tunnels and clouds and endless sunlight and fields, everything pleasant and good rolled into a lazy afternoon with just the right amount of breeze. But he is scared of the fact that it could all be wrong. That there is some eternal torment on the other side, or even worse, nothing. Nothing at all. And he finds out.

All gone now. Fled, or bleeding out, on the hill and I am alone. The battle still continues. No more raging, too late in the day for that, too late where all the sword arms are sore and burning, the first injured have passed on. It drags, slogs through the mire of the valley, with only those like me left. Only those that are tired and sore and exhausted from the bloodshed remain to carry it out for the glory of the colored banner. It takes me a long moment to remember that I am fighting for the gold one. Not the red one. I have fought for the red one, or at least a red one. Maybe not that one per se, but a red cloth.

The red one's new. This one has a chaff of wheat beneath a silver sickle on it. Never seen that one before. Some brand-new reign clawed from the heavens, or just someone getting bored with the old livery. I'm not sure. But it's new and I've never seen it before.

I allow myself to sit. The duty is done. It's all done. The order has been carried out perfectly, and I have earned a moment to sit down and survey the landscape. I am owed the grandest of all luxuries, a moment to myself to let the world carry on without me.

The gold one's winning. The ebb and flow of the masses in the field show that. River on river, crashing in the middle, but never flowing together. I went to the sea once, where a great marsh stood, and right at the mouth, right where the two met, there was a line. Not the clearest, but distinct enough to point out. Odd thing, it was, very odd. Water mixes with water, becoming the full shape of whatever it is poured into, but not there, not here either. The banners do not mix, and the odd one that crosses the line is immediately torn down and torn to shreds. Splinters and shards and tatters. Souvenirs for the other side. I'm not getting back on my feet unless I have to. The boots they gave me were small, too small and they've been cramping all day. Still better not take them off.

It's always hard to tell when a battle actually ends. Skirmishes will still break out, remnants hanging on, the message won't quite reach those in the back. My favorite is the people who clearly slept in through the morning finally managing to rouse themselves. Every army, no matter how disciplined, has a few of those always tagging along, and the immediate bureaucratic hassle of cutting them free is always more than the long-term nuisance of their presence.

Music, there is music carrying over muddied valley. Meandering music that carries a tune balanced and spinning on an outstretched finger. My gut clenches and my feet burn as I roll upright. My arms still scream and sag with the weight of hammer and shield. That's going to hang around for the next few days. I try to take a deep breath in, and only manage about halfway before I have to stop. But I'm still up and I'm still marching.

I don't have to follow the music. There's no order to do so. There's no message from the colored banner to tell me what to do, but I know the music. I know what's playing it, letting it wander and shift and dance through the grass and hill. Something clicks in my arm and I have to click it back into place, letting the bone grind back to whole. That's its own problem. Later, I will deal with it later.

Step after step, back up hill, back into the trees lining the valley and I feel the song grow stronger, mixed in with the earthy scent of fresh leaves. I don't think it's quite spring, but it's close. Close enough for the braver things to start poking through the lingering chill, to get a head start on embracing the heat and the light of the world. I step over a body, another Kuhrk by the shape of him and I keep moving forward.

The music grows louder, picking out actual words that carry true meaning and I set my face. It's already worming its way into my mind, picking apart the folds, spreading open the thoughts to make room for itself and nothing else. I don't even know if it's good music. It insists that it is good, that it is right to be in my mind and take over everything from me. That it is the natural way of the world to be in my mind, to slip down my spine and into my limbs to control the body for the mind. It will be fine, good even. Better than carrying the weight in my shoulders. Better than letting the mind make its own thoughts. Better for me. Better for the world, everything really to have the meandering harp take the thoughts, stow them safely in a cellar, and lock everything up with iron bars thick as my wrist.

My arm clicks again, and the pain shoots up to my shoulder. Broken, maybe. Fractured, definitely. Bruised and scarred and burning, barely able to keep the iron slab from scrapping in the mud. The hammer at least has my shoulders to support the weight, even if it makes the threat of teetering over a little too like for my preference.

"Why were we there, back-to-back?

Why were we there, face to face?

I must be the light when you`re in the dark," sings the forest wind, accompanied by the gliding rustle of leaf harp strings.

There's more underneath it. Drums and strings turned sideways, carrying more range than the harp has. I smell smoke drifting through the wind. Despite everything, I let the time slip into my steps. I am marching through the forest at the edge of the battle, getting further and further away from the station. It's what she wants.

I pass the first victim after a handful more steps and I am envious of the look on his face. Bliss, pure bliss. Unfiltered calm and gentle acceptance of the world. His helmet sits at his side, sword forgotten and alone just out of his reach. With dull red eyes he looks to me and smiles, before turning back to the leaves and the vacant space beyond. Something interesting, although I'm not quite sure it's anything real. It's all in the music, and I feel the swirl and collide of colors in the notes and rhythm. The arm hurts and the pain keeps me focused. The colors try to blot out the pain, make it gone and blissful. The world can be rainbows and sunshine and cool silk on hot days, if I only let it in. I do not like the joy in the world.

More soldiers, both sides, oblivious and content to listen to the singing and the forest. Unarmored and I do not blame them. The plate's heavy and hot and pinches in the worst places. I do not blame them at all. But it's still foolish. Even in hypnosis, even in the blissful world of soft music and blending colors, there are monsters prowling about. One of them steps over a body that's picking at grass and letting it fall on his leg and my boot comes down on the far side. The music pauses and the world takes a breath.

"The light in your eye is an angel up high.

Fighting to ease the shadow side.

Hearts will grow though having to bend.

Leaving behind all things in the end," the song dreams, and I finally falter down to one knee.

My chest shakes and the colors, deep crazy crimson, dark controlled blue swirling and clashing and shaking my mind. I am crying. Actual hot salt tears fall from my eyes and sting my cheeks. The walnut in my throat grows and chokes me and I cannot breathe. I choke out a sob and then another. Through the wavering, I see soldiers break and fall to the floor, sobbing and crying and calling out names that might offer them some comfort from the words. Something grabs at my shield arm and the pain pierces my mind, chasing away the music and the color. A young woman, broken and destitute, claws at my arm, begging for some release in half choked words that only mean pain. She will get it. In a moment or two. I rise. I have to rise. The stab in my arm and the ache in my soul will not let me stay here.

And I see the source of the grand concert. A woman sitting on a stump surrounded by soldiers, wavering back and forth in time with the music. Skin as black as charcoal embers, hair starlight white and pure, lips and fingers a sickly yellow green. A horn, just as black and tipped just as green, pierces her forehead, and stands proudly in the chilled afternoon shade. She is smiling as the lyre in her hand shakes the world. No more singing at least and the wave of despair has faded. She turns her eyes to me, and I grip the hammer tight.

"Afternoon Cottontail," she says. Even without the music, even without a wavering inflection of ringing bells, the colors come back to my sight.

"Annette," I manage to growl, "Fights over. Go home."

"Is it really though? I mean we still got a decent number of boys and girls here. Although, I think this counts as captured. So, I guess this means it is time for negotiations."

"Fair. Let them go and I don't bash in your skull."

"I do prefer my skull unbashed. So that's definitely a point in your favor. But the question remains, can you bash in my skull? I don't know if you can."

She strums the strings again and it is joy that hits me this time. Nothing matters but the warm glow in my stomach that says everything is good and alright and nothing bad can happen. The captive audience starts laughing, crying once more, reduced to the earth, and rolling, clutching, and choking at the best moments in their collective lives. First kisses, best kisses, very rarely the same thing, songs and circuses and festivals rolled into one glorious ecstatic moment. I can't quite see mine. Times I've laid with others, certainly, and the amount of it. Food and wine and dancing. I'm amazed at how simple it all can be really. Just delighted sugar coatings, just a bit of sweet to coat the bitter medicine and it all seems so wonderful.

The joy races through me, finding odd nooks and crannies to dwell and writhe into. Some things worry me. Others do not. Some honestly surprise me, just like every other time this particular song hits me. I am glad she is not singing, mainly because we both know what that would do to me.

But unfortunately, I force the joy to settle on a particularity and keep it locked. Violence. Pure violence housed within and the carnal rapture of inflicting it on others. And serendipitously, there is a target right there, with a grin that I will personally enjoy turning to grimace and scream.

I take a step forward and the music gets louder.

I take another step and the music grows with me, the violent urge growing too manic high. Something stirs in my gut and one of the things that trips a slight worry in my becomes forefront. I lick my lips and my eyes grow wide.

The music grows louder, and I break into a run.

The hammer comes down and Annette does not move. Not a twitch, not a flinch, not a slight tremor to give it all away. The sounds stop and the hammer runs straight through. Smoke, curling black smoke of campfires coils from the head. Annette disappears and the whole form vanishes into thin air. A mirthful chuckle cuts the wind.

"I know the fight's over, Cottontail," the wind says, "But I still wanted to see you. Is that so bad?"

I sigh and huff and let the joy slip away from my core. There's frustration and rage and bottled bloodlust, but that's my problem now. Something shimmers in the trees and I get a faint glimpse of darkest black slipping between green and its gone. She's gone. I am left in the midst of a forest surrounded by a group of soldiers slowly backing away from me.

---

I toss the coin pouch up and let it land heavy in my palm. I like the little jingle it makes. I like the weight too, and the arc in the air. Nothing I really don't like now that I think about. Nothing I'm even apathetic towards either. Really, this little leather pouch containing a handful of shining metal discs is all around a good time. Everyone should have something like this, if only for the simple pleasure of tossing it up and letting it fall back down. I'm just glad I can do this whole ritual with one arm. My shield arm's done up in a sling. All the blessings and prayers and voodoo that could be spared for a humble mercenary couldn't fix it up right. But they did a good enough job, and I am glad to part ways.

Sure, they tried to get me to hang on for another leg of the campaign, but the wonderful hierarchy of command did not account for one simple thing. I did not want to go on. From what strategy meetings I bothered to attend, they were going to the Sepia and I have no interest in a grand desert kingdom with salt and spice and camels as a conquest. Good food, or so I've heard, but I'd prefer to experience that without a banner to march under. May they enjoy the bloody game of war and return victorious and heroes. Or villains. Hard to tell in war, really. Still not quite sure what I am.

My feet still ache and throb and pulse with each and every step, but that's what endless walking does, and despite my hefty payment, it was not enough to invest into a good horse. And those tend to not like me anyway. Most animals don't. Except rabbits. Always seem to turn up wherever I go.

Speak of the devils, I seem to have a bit of a following. Three of them, snow white and cautious, trace my wake down the path, and have done so since morning. They think they're being clever, trailing me so sneakily, but they're not. I know about them. I know they're following me. I know that they are carrying some message, probably, of some great importance. If it's not the location of the nearest bath, then I do not care. I only want hot water and soap and soft beds, and the bunnies are looking softer and softer every single moment. I could probably get enough of them to lay out on, and my weight would be spread thin enough so that none of them get crushed, probably. It would be fine. And worst-case scenario, their numbers spring back fast enough to not be an issue.

One hops in front of me and blocks the way, this one with a perfect circle of black covering its eye. It twitches its nose at me and I am frustrated that it keeps moving to cut off my wonderful forward progress.

"If I go with you for a moment, will you let me pass," I ask of the wonderous creature.

It twitches its nose again and an ear swivels for a moment before settling back down. It looks at me with its beady little eyes and scampers off into the brush, rustling leaves and branches and making it all too easy for the scary things in the woods to track. Case in point, I readjust my arm sling and follow the winding tracks and broken twigs. The rear guard takes up their position in case I decide to wander off and find some other grand distraction. But I chase the rabbit, catching glimpses of its tail, or an ear, darting from hiding place to hiding place.

A root comes from the underbrush to trip me and I happen to land right on the bad shoulder. I scream into my shirt. Pain, sweet terrible pain, is such a different thing when the rush of blood calms and everything is levelheaded. Summoning all of my dignity, I move to my back and gaze at the canopy of leaves. Through them, I see the drifting clouds, amorphous and flowing. Another snow-white rabbit appears in their shape, just for a moment and I curse my bastard patron and his grand designs. A stone digs into my side for that and I am sure that it wasn't there a moment ago. Still, not enough to spur myself back upright. That can be in a moment or two. Right now, I am pretending that I am not in pain and there is something comfortable and warm right around the corner. There is a certain nobility in just lying somewhere and thinking things are different than the way they are.