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."
I sigh and shift the bundle of wood in my grasp again. Unruly little pile. Jostling and moving as it like with no regards as to how it is handled. I am too old for chores and the like, especially when I have to help with someone else's. And I'm injured too. Leo fumbles with his own stack of kindling, trying to tame the sticks and twigs. A moment passes as he gathers what he's dropped, and I wish that this will be the last time. I hope it's not another Warren waiting there. Certain things always seem to go on when we gather, but I'd prefer not to deal with that. I'd prefer a quiet night or two, actually see to my arm and then move on. Not really any particular path I wish to cross at the inn, for that matter. But they're already there and there is no point in looking for anything else. My arm spikes and spits because it's a spiteful little bastard.
Leo bursts through the tree line and we are back on the main path, holding as many branches as his slender arms can manage. We have actual signage lining the road. Goldenrod, Xanth Town, The Lilac Frontier. All good places probably, but Leo takes the one leading away from all of them. Before long, I smell what might be some sort of pie. My stomach rumbles and the wise young man decides to hurry his steps as much as he can. Even through the fading afterglow in my core, I am losing every little bit of strength I have with each step.
Leo starts humming again, lost in his own little world of song and tempo and notes and it is nice. He will have a good voice once it settles into its proper range. A knack for it really. And it makes the steps a little bit better. Not quite manageable, but I can do this. I tell myself I can do this through the labored breath and the sore muscles and the burning inside of me that just needs a bed. A soft bed with a thick quilt and a nice fire in the corner and I hope, I hope that the promised inn will have all the amenities and several more that I did not care to ask for. Peeled grapes would be nice and maybe an older son that could carry a bundle of sticks properly. Not fair to the kid. He's doing his best and I'm not having a good day. But I hope he doesn't drop his bundle anymore because I cannot deal with anymore walking. My chest burns and aches and I cannot get enough air to my lungs.
It's a squat little thing, sticking from the woods. The roof sags and bends but remains strong and sturdy. Ivy and vines climb the walls and a thin whisp of smoke trails from the chimney in the back. A horse and a cow sit tied up in a side pen, blankly gazing at the world passing them by. In flowing script, much neater than I thought it would be, the words 'Riverbend Waystation' sit in calm pride. I do not see a river in any close proximity, but names are an odd thing.
I almost drop the wood I have so carefully carried when the music starts up again and I hear that wretched sweet voice ring through the beams. But I don't because I am calm and controlled and there is still a warm bed waiting for me inside and that can outweigh a lot, and I mean a lot, of unpleasantness. Unfortunately, not all of it. The steps hurt and the chest burns and the eyes fade as I fall. The edges of my visions go black, once my face is pressed into the cold earth.
---
Annette does not stop singing. It's all she does. It's all she wants to do. If she's not singing, she's humming. If she's not humming, she's tapping a foot, a finger, some part of her body in some constant rhythm. And the worst part is, I don't even mind. I do not mind the constant music. She's good. Really good. Really, really good. I find myself humming along, matching the rhythm and pace she sets with every waking moment. I tap and hum and march to the beat of her life and she's not even putting in any effort.
There are no colors to the music, no color at the edge of my vision, not a thing worming into my mind to make me feel like something I'm not. It's just the music.
So, I lie in bed, listening to her croon about the world and its woes and all that comes with it and I feel good. I feel calm and smooth and tired and heavy. The splint doesn't even rub my arm at all anymore. Everything's settled and quiet and peaceful and I am just hovering in the nonexistent place at the edge of sleep, and I couldn't be calmer.
The mind drifts and wanders. I know I am on a bed. I know that I am under a blanket and I have missed several meals. Shame. That is a shame. I would like to eat something, but the rest of the body has too many other things to deal with. Broken ribs. Definitely. I don't know how many, or how bad and once more I have to be thankful for Warren for letting it fade on someone's doorstep instead of the middle of the forest. Amaru probably helped too. I pant and heave, not enough air getting into me. Not enough air in the world to get into me and I am choking and shaking and trying not to think about it too much. I cough and I want to die. The music stops and I want to die.
Someone knocks at my door. I say something that means go away, but the translation doesn't carry and the worn wood creaks open.
It's Annette. I groan and cough and spasm and just want everything to stop and bury myself into the sheets and never come out from them. Exhausted, she looks exhausted and tired, like the joints aren't quite strong enough to slot the bones back where they belong. She's back to gray now, and the green is almost yellow. Hellion pales always look so odd. The horn though, the horn is still sharp and pointed and polished like fine ivory. The green sits oddly on her lips and her fingers. She eyes me with, finding the odd hills and dips in the blankets from my body.
Annette, to whatever credit it means, does not laugh. She just stands in the doorway, smiling and trying to piece together what happened.
"Holy Hell Cottontail," she finally says with a low, low whistle, "You look terrible."
She's not wrong and I do not see a reason to contest that assessment.
"What happened? I brought you in yesterday and you didn't look good, but you didn't look like this."
