Warren is smart. As much as I am loathed to admit it, he knows things and has enough experience to know what ties into what else. The many, many, many pieces of the world aligned and stitched together in the right way, and he can see the way they would all come together.
Pain, just raw unfiltered pain from every single inch of my body. Inside and outside. Every muscle fiber, every ounce of bone, every pore on my skin aches and throbs and pulses. I can't ever speak. I can't even breathe without an urge to just stop and let it consume. So easy. Just stop breathing for a bit and the pain will all end, and everything will be quiet and dark and nothing bad could possibly happen to me ever again. I would just cease to be, and the pain couldn't find me in the darkness beyond.
I can only think pain. The thoughts of pain, the continued existence of pain, the fact that living until the next moment will only bring more pain. Not anguish, not strife, for those require some amount of activity on my part. Pain is inflicted upon me, and there is not a thing I can do to remedy it. I can only sit and endure as the world punishes me for the simple act of existing. I do not want to exist. That was not my idea. That was thrust upon me and I do not think it fair to pay for my parents' grand mistake. That is their sin to bear, and I am just an innocent bystander who did nothing wrong whatsoever.
My arm twitches, the bad one and I finally make a noise. Not a scream, not quite a yell, really a rasping mewl of a cat being dashed against a brick wall in a bag, sharing the space with nails. Rusty nails. My throat bleeds and I cough and that just makes everything worse. I can't breathe. There's just the terrible existence in the clinging fabric that smells of sex and sweat. 10, I will count to 10 and then I will get up and deal with the day.
I get to 5 before a branch cracks and bolts me upright. By the time 6 is around I am on my feet, shoving the pain down to the bottom of the world and I have my hand on my hammer. Singing, someone is singing, and I can't quite make out the words. A dull thump and a crack pierce the silence of the forest. And then blessed silence once more.
I am still in the clearing where I laid last. I am still under the tree in a matted heap of grass and flower petals dyeing my clothes. The green will never come out and I fear the same for the light blue and the pink and the yellow. I lean on my weapon and drive the head deeper into the earth, letting it turn the dirt to mud. Something's moving at the edge of the forest.
"There is no mountain
Too tall to overcome.
For we will be as one," sings the forest's edge. The voice cracks and sputters and shifts, trying to make the words sound right in a voice that doesn't quite match the body. Young, the singer is young.
"There," the leaves and the trees say, "That should be enough."
The rabbits are gone, scared off by the noise of the falling trees and I hope that's really all they wanted for the moment. I have no interest in some grand design at the moment. The good lumberjack's in for a good fright at least, when a wild woman dirtied and injured comes traipsing through the forest, but I shall hope that means whoever is making the noise also is amenable to giving directions. And I have a hammer and a coin purse to make the whole affair whatever flavor I desire.
The memory of the dream makes my legs steady as I slowly pick my way down the hill. No snagging roots, or wayward rocks or hidden holes to catch my foot and send me tumbling. The hammer helps. The hammer helps the feet and the weight not crushing my joints. It hurts. It hurts to walk, and it hurts to breathe and it hurts to think. The singing gets louder and louder as I keep getting closer.
In the trees, I see a figure hunched over in the brush, rooting like a truffle pig. A boy, a young boy, absorbed in the task down in the earth, wearing clothes stained with dirt and twigs.
"Hey," I shout, and he turns. My voice scrapes open my throat and freezes him solid.
"Do you know the way back to the road?" I ask.
---
The boy walks in silence and I see no reason to break it. No reason at all. He said he and his family run a rest stop along the main road and I trust him. I trust him to know what will happen if he is lying to me. I trust him to make mostly rational decisions with women. Foolish, probably, given them way he keeps looking at my chest, but it's always a line to toe when that threshold to a man is nearing. So, he can look and shyly glance away as much as he wishes, so long as there is an inn with a bed and a bath like he said. And the night did take the worst of it, once I started moving.
"What's your name," I ask as I shift the bundle of wood in my good arm. Hard to balance, really, but I can make it work. He looks away, fumbling with his own.
"Lionel," he says, "But ma calls me Leo."
"What do you want to be called?"
"Leo works ma'am. I like that name more than Lionel. Nothing wrong with it, I suppose, but I don't know. Just sounds better I guess, ma'am."
"Call me Claire. I've heard of worse names. Not a fan of Evan. Or Ethan for that matter. Anything with a 'e' in it I suppose."
"Any reason?"
"None whatsoever."
Leo glances at my chest again and quickly looked away.
"Are you with the Loom? There's that symbol on your necklace."
I smirk. Likely story really, but I will give him the benefit of the doubt.
"I walk with Warren."
And he blushes, a deep crimson blush that goes from the tip of his pointed ears all the way down to his toes.
"I don't mean to pry, ma'am, but is it true then? What the followers of him do?"
"Not me. Took a slightly different approach with his ways and he doesn't seem to mind. But yeah. There are certain... acts that are performed in his name. And I do dabble."
"There's another one at home," he says, almost as if he's eager to change the subject, "I don't know who she's with. But she has that same symbol from a locket she wears. She taught me that song I was singing earlier."
