Inebriated
Posted: Tue Mar 24, 2015 5:05 am
It was by the fifth song he'd forgotten the steel he'd crossed with the highwaywoman, and he didn't know how much ale he'd drunk, nor how much stout and mead after that, and the hurdy-gurdy stung his ears like a wasp, while every bellow of laughter from the masses surrounding him battered his ears like clambering gongs and cymbals, and he drank more until he could stand no more and only sit, and the thatched roof of the old ale sink hung above like clouds that spun on tapestries and strings, and the earthen floor fell away to be an invisible sky that his chair floated upon.
He didn't hear the men beside him talk of whores and Thessilane and bloodletting and the smell of a woman's thigh, didn't hear them asking him questions about travels south and north or the goings on in the woods or what the army was going to do about the monster in the forest. He drank more ale until it stained his beard and ran down his leather brigandine, pushed away a woman reaching to sit on his lap, and drank more, until the men's laughter was a sweet taste of honey in his mouth and the shouts of fracas played a melody of caves in his ears. Drink after drink he washed himself away with, to hide them, the voices, the words, the words that battered the side of his head like an ice pick, and the headache that came from was not eased with every drink he took.
Think of summat else. Think of her, think of the sun, think of home, of Gilead, of—
The words pounded his head like an ice pick, and the room spun again, and he heard not the voices at his table nor his own incessant mutterings, or feel the hand that clasped the side of his head that pounded like a kettle drum, thum-thum, thum-thum.
Forget her, she's nothing to your now. Never was.
His head swam and pounded.
Little Wolf. Do you know me?
"Forget Derry," said a man somewhere. "Waste of bloody time."
"Well there's fuck all we can do with that thing in the woods eatin' everybody, is there? I say we forget this town and head north."
"Trae Kelsa?"
"Yeah, get us a ship and forget this place."
"Belcaw's got his cock wrapped around the Warden's pinky, he's not going anywhere," a man said somewhere else, but he sounded so far away.
The room swam, his head pounded, and he saw the footpath, and saw the cottage, and she was standing there – not in a cottage, at a fire. A great fire… and the people danced and sang, danced and sang, and she was weeping. But the tears would not fall, and her eyes would not blink.
Daddy. I want to go home.
Her black hair was burning, and the smoke masked her face, and the flames ate her whole and she screamed.
"She du'nt have fucking black hair!" he snarled. "It was blonde. Like the sun, s'why we gave 'er that fucking name."
"Who?" a man asked.
"Rhian," he answered.
"Who the hell is Rhian?"
"Forget 'im, Anash, he's been three sheets to the wind for hours now," said the man who sounded far away. "Surpised he ain't passed out."
His eyes watered, and his head swam.
Little Wolf, do you know me?
And how will I know you, if you do not know yourself?
Little Wolf, do you know me?
"That's not my fucking name!" he hollered, and the men about him laughed, and he felt his world spin, and blood came from his nose, and suddenly his knees hurt.
"Fuck's sake, Belcaw," the man across the trees grumbled. "Somebody get him up."
"Search me. I ain't goin' near that."
She's not your daughter. Not anymore. You must do the deed. Kill her. She's dead to you.
Forget her, she's nothing to you now. Never was.
"Fuck ye' t' the hells! Bastard! Devil-spawn! I curse you! Every breath, I curse you and your pissant breath. You ain't my blood, an' ye can't 'ave her, neither. Feck off an' leave us! Go!"
He felt his hands sting, his knees hurt, and men shouted at him from every which way, but he could not see them, all he could see was the snow in the forest in winter, and the great pyre, and the men in robes who danced and sang, danced and sang, like children dancing in the circle, and he felt the dagger in his fingers, and it's hilt was cold as the ice that dusted it.
Ye feckin' sell-sword! Ye weak-willed little gutter-snipe! Finish… Finish this!
"It wun't fuckin' in t'winter when I killed her an' that whore of a mother!" he shouted.
Little Wolf, do you know me?
"Shut thee marth, fuckin' witch! Shut thee bloody marth 'fore I kill thi!"
He felt hands squeezing his arms, and he felt the cold hilt of the dagger as it slit across her throat, and he kicked her in the fire, and she screamed, while men from places far away bickered over his carcass, and the worlds spun, and the dragon circled, and the oak tree burned.
"What's wrong with him? Man's lost his wits."
"Just blind, is all. Stop fuckin' standing there and help me, you Lothie dog!"
"I don't get paid to carry around some Granger prick who can't handle his ale."
"Anash, I swear to bloody God-"
"Alright, fine!"
He heard more shouts, more voices, and his nose felt wet and cold. His knees hurt, and he knew then his boots had filled with water, and he heard someone sobbing, a distant voice, and the name was said over and over and over, a pathetic broken rhyme.
Rhian… Rhian... Rhian….
"Put him up here, by the bench. No, not that way, ya shit! Keep him on his side… Fuck, that'll do." He heard a man panting, and another laughing.
"Glad I won't be him in the morning."
"Fuck's sake, Belcaw…"
Their voices faded away, and he felt a coldness in his side, and the taste of blood and dirt upon his lips. And he slept where he lay, where they had left him by a pile of hay and horeshit outside the Floating Dragon.
He didn't hear the men beside him talk of whores and Thessilane and bloodletting and the smell of a woman's thigh, didn't hear them asking him questions about travels south and north or the goings on in the woods or what the army was going to do about the monster in the forest. He drank more ale until it stained his beard and ran down his leather brigandine, pushed away a woman reaching to sit on his lap, and drank more, until the men's laughter was a sweet taste of honey in his mouth and the shouts of fracas played a melody of caves in his ears. Drink after drink he washed himself away with, to hide them, the voices, the words, the words that battered the side of his head like an ice pick, and the headache that came from was not eased with every drink he took.
Think of summat else. Think of her, think of the sun, think of home, of Gilead, of—
Little Wolf. Do you know me?
The words pounded his head like an ice pick, and the room spun again, and he heard not the voices at his table nor his own incessant mutterings, or feel the hand that clasped the side of his head that pounded like a kettle drum, thum-thum, thum-thum.
Forget her, she's nothing to your now. Never was.
A cottage through a forest, lined with snow, and from it she stood, dark of hair and eyes, and from the threshold she watched him, the horse moving along, and each thud of the hoof was a heartbeat, and he saw her looking back at him, with tears that would not fall from eyes that would not blink.
Forget her, she's nothing to you now.
Nothing to you now....
Nothing to you now....
His head swam and pounded.
Little Wolf. Do you know me?
A forest? We never lived in no fucking forest, we lived on a field, outside Gilead, in the north. In the north, in the Grange, weren't no bloody forest we lived in.
"Forget Derry," said a man somewhere. "Waste of bloody time."
"Well there's fuck all we can do with that thing in the woods eatin' everybody, is there? I say we forget this town and head north."
"Trae Kelsa?"
"Yeah, get us a ship and forget this place."
"Belcaw's got his cock wrapped around the Warden's pinky, he's not going anywhere," a man said somewhere else, but he sounded so far away.
The room swam, his head pounded, and he saw the footpath, and saw the cottage, and she was standing there – not in a cottage, at a fire. A great fire… and the people danced and sang, danced and sang, and she was weeping. But the tears would not fall, and her eyes would not blink.
Daddy. I want to go home.
Her black hair was burning, and the smoke masked her face, and the flames ate her whole and she screamed.
"She du'nt have fucking black hair!" he snarled. "It was blonde. Like the sun, s'why we gave 'er that fucking name."
"Who?" a man asked.
"Rhian," he answered.
"Who the hell is Rhian?"
"Forget 'im, Anash, he's been three sheets to the wind for hours now," said the man who sounded far away. "Surpised he ain't passed out."
They danced and sang, danced and sang, his name a word, the word a prayer, and he could not see him in the flames, could not see whom they sung for, but she stood there on the fires, and she burned, and she cried out his name, but that wasn't his name.. it was never his name…
His eyes watered, and his head swam.
Little Wolf, do you know me?
I knew another Wolf. His skull is upon the Gate.
And how will I know you, if you do not know yourself?
She said his name, said it when his lips met hers, said it under the tree where the vines were tied, end to end, upon each hand, where they sang songs and spoke of The Old Ways, and she smelt of rose and cinnamon, and she called him that name, but that wasn't his name…
Little Wolf, do you know me?
"That's not my fucking name!" he hollered, and the men about him laughed, and he felt his world spin, and blood came from his nose, and suddenly his knees hurt.
"Fuck's sake, Belcaw," the man across the trees grumbled. "Somebody get him up."
"Search me. I ain't goin' near that."
No. No, we married in the Crossroads, and there was the Priest, he said the words, made me say the words.
She's not your daughter. Not anymore. You must do the deed. Kill her. She's dead to you.
Daddy. I want to go home. It tickles, Daddy.
Forget her, she's nothing to you now. Never was.
The fire burned her in the great pyre, it burned her in the hearth, and she cried and screamed, but tears would not fall, tears would not fall from eyes that would not blink. The door opened, the trees parted, and she would not stop screaming as her gown burned. And the mother leant over the other, the man who'd spawned the girl that was not his, and her voice stung like a viper.
"Fuck ye' t' the hells! Bastard! Devil-spawn! I curse you! Every breath, I curse you and your pissant breath. You ain't my blood, an' ye can't 'ave her, neither. Feck off an' leave us! Go!"
He felt his hands sting, his knees hurt, and men shouted at him from every which way, but he could not see them, all he could see was the snow in the forest in winter, and the great pyre, and the men in robes who danced and sang, danced and sang, like children dancing in the circle, and he felt the dagger in his fingers, and it's hilt was cold as the ice that dusted it.
Ye feckin' sell-sword! Ye weak-willed little gutter-snipe! Finish… Finish this!
She's not your daughter anymore. Kill her. Kill her now. She's dead to you.
"It wun't fuckin' in t'winter when I killed her an' that whore of a mother!" he shouted.
Little Wolf, do you know me?
"Shut thee marth, fuckin' witch! Shut thee bloody marth 'fore I kill thi!"
He felt hands squeezing his arms, and he felt the cold hilt of the dagger as it slit across her throat, and he kicked her in the fire, and she screamed, while men from places far away bickered over his carcass, and the worlds spun, and the dragon circled, and the oak tree burned.
"What's wrong with him? Man's lost his wits."
"Just blind, is all. Stop fuckin' standing there and help me, you Lothie dog!"
"I don't get paid to carry around some Granger prick who can't handle his ale."
"Anash, I swear to bloody God-"
"Alright, fine!"
He heard more shouts, more voices, and his nose felt wet and cold. His knees hurt, and he knew then his boots had filled with water, and he heard someone sobbing, a distant voice, and the name was said over and over and over, a pathetic broken rhyme.
Rhian… Rhian... Rhian….
"Put him up here, by the bench. No, not that way, ya shit! Keep him on his side… Fuck, that'll do." He heard a man panting, and another laughing.
"Glad I won't be him in the morning."
"Fuck's sake, Belcaw…"
Their voices faded away, and he felt a coldness in his side, and the taste of blood and dirt upon his lips. And he slept where he lay, where they had left him by a pile of hay and horeshit outside the Floating Dragon.