Used to be, he would grin to hear such conviction.

Men like this. They died for you, if you just gave them reason enough. Coin made for a mighty fine reason, more often than not. This one though, seemed to smell the fire. All moth to the flame.

Hadn't he just said, there were worse things than death? Still. Always fucking felt different asking others to do the dying.

Zalan sucked his wound. Popped the finger out. Shook his head. "Just the message, Trevor,"

Went back to plucking eggs from nests.

Knew whatever the man decided to do, he would do it. Dogs knew their kind. Dumb, flea bitten, and kicked about as they were. They knew how to run together.

"Salamanders, the Sixth, and a thief named Silk," smiled with a shake of his head as he stole another couple eggs. Shut the box. "Last one will be the hardest to find, most like," eyed the man who had a pig's luck, sidelong. "All bunched up in the City of Fools," to that, he did grin.

Took another peck for it.

"Fuck," he hissed. Flicked his hand out the coop.Eyed the fresh red spot. Bloodless, at least.
 
Nodded. Some animals only walked the beaten path. This was much the same. Zalan'd made his choice.

„Just the message.“ Repeated in agreement.

But the rest of it came to bite him in the ass. Crorefell...again. Apparently once hadn't been enough. The company kept suggested the man was a mercenary, but if he was of some renown – Trevor'd never heard of the man.

„How do you know Dancer?“

One could get tired of ghosts without ever meeting any.
 
A chuff. "Dancer," smiled a bit wider. Greasier. Familiar. "and I are business associates," fucker knew how good he was. Knew the Salamanders were a point apart from the Cabal proper. Would have to know he had been hung out to dry, good and proper like some piece of salted meat.

Zalan knew he would owe the shady fucker. Big.

But he had owed worse, to shadier fuckers.

"Pull the sort of jobs for him no regular sword can right swing, keen?" a bob of the brows. Closed the door on the coop. Tapped on it. Second column. Third row. Big speckled hen, all roosty, mean, and proper fuckery.

"I'll leave them right here,"
 
It made sense in a grim sort of way. All ropes coming back around into a loop. Another mercenary and another job. Another visit to Foolholm. Didn't reckon Dancer would be too happy to see him after the latest series of fuckups he dragged him into. But such was life – either lucky or fucked. At least he knew which side he stood on.

So he'd hoped wrong after all. Almost gave it voice – but thought better of it. Zalan wasn't here to carry shit for him, only another fucker to hand him something. Because when it really came to it, Trevor was just another sort of blighted pigeon. Only he carried worse than news.

„I have potatoes to plant before I go.“ Sounded so small compared to a man's life. But that was the secret, wasn't it? Men's lives were small. „Should take me three...well, two days if you help.“

Looked back to the other visitors. Wondered if it had come a time for the lame of horses and the shits of men. A bit of spice to buy more time here, before another mess poked its ugly head out.
 
A nod. "I'll put spuds in the ground, long as I can,"

Moving dirt. Bout as honest a thing a man could do. Soil hard and heavy against the shovel head. Needed busting up, with all the clay in it. Bit harder, that kind of work. Dusty and all crack and break. But the sunbaked patch would grow the tubers once they were in the ground.

Muscles ached. But that was life, wasn't it?

Pain. Warm with how familiar it was. Aches that told you still had nerves left to lose. Knee stabbed sharp told him to adjust. Wrist right fucked with the drive of tool into the earth. Lift and pull. Damn the tremble in his right arm. He'd work through the fucker.

"You ever went up to Red Belly Mesa?" grinned some as he let the shovel down, and got to his knees. Sift through the dirt. Put a spud in, nice and snug. "Catch the spark tongued skinks?" the kind of dumb shit boys did round the parts they were about.

Kinda talk made it easy to forget all the other shit.
 
Would've gone even faster if he tried talking Lick and sons to help out, but that would defeat the point. The faster this was all done. Faster it would all be gone. And then it would just be him and the road again. Figured the same went for why they were digging next to each other instead of in the same line – taking turns digging and planting. Sometimes speed was purely punishing. So let them both dig and plant and fuck with the dirt all over again. Sometimes labor needed to be heard for the head to be light.

Trevor doubted Jip and Millie gave a shit how quickly it was done, as long as it was done well. They had strange new visitors to worry about. Made Trevor an afterthought. Not like they were paying him by the day either. And if he ate a bit more before he was gone, no one would notice. That was one currency a farm was never short on – more things to chew on.

It had been an hour past since his arms last felt solid. Twenty minutes since the wrist stopped bending how he wanted. Could still feel one of newer foldcallouses oozing after it popped. He'd been away from the dirt entirely too long. Guess this was just a spade's way of scolding a guy.

„Brave little fuckers.“ Examined his fingers. Was that a splinter in his finger or a new boil forming? „As likely to drop a tail as they are to bite your ass. And should you bite back...“ His face scrunched up with remembered disgust. No winning with those little shits.

„We usually just did bellyups.“ Pulled the shirt up with a muddied hand to place a sunwarm rock he'd moved from the line on his belly. Patch of skin around the navel grew curled hairs in the few spots that forgot to scar.

„Whoever could hold the hot fucker the longest.“ Wondered if he'd consider that winning today.
 
Zalan eyed about. Let go of spade, and snatched up a nearby rock, baking in the sun, and stuffed it up his shirt with the dumbest grin.

"Not gonna tell me about fuckin, belly ups, Trevor," squat there, with rock hot against his hair covered belly skin.
 
And it felt, in that moment, like home. Back when they let him win cause he was a snotnosed motherfucker that cried a lot. And he noticed some times, but never cared. Because it had always been fun, regardless of who won.

The slow warmth of the stone was toasty now. Tiny fieldpebble never got hot enough to be a challenge. Especially for old and thickened skin. But you could still imagine the burn of it. Like the tension was real – like there were stakes.

Oh what it was to be a skink – sunwarmed and lazy. Useless. But content.

„You think they'd hire us back next year?“

He could bump the tiny tatoes light enough to give the impression of a job well done.
 
A click of the teeth. Rock still flat against hairy plane of gut. "Of course they fucking will," he said with the confidence of man who knew what he was worth. "Look at us!" he flared out with his right hand. His left, still busy holding the rock. "We fucking rock!" he said with no doubt.

Clicked his teeth again.

"They'd be idiots not to hire us," he grinned. Unlike a man destined for the noose.
 
Laughed harder than he should've. Had to bellybop the pebble before it rock'n'rolled into his pants. Suppose that meant he lost. Didn't feel like losing.

If one of his limbs could fall off on command, that'd make him a skink or, god forbid... Painted.

„Guy could get used to this. Stop fighting and...“ well whatever this was.

But men like them seldom knew how to potato – they were more akin to dandelion flufffuckery.
 
A nod. "Aye," laughed at it all. At them. Laying about as they were. Shook his head. "Just sit a while," cast his eyes up to the clouds that sailed on over their heads. Gold traced, and red bellied. Skinks of their own really. Grabbed the hot rock off his belly and felt its warmth in his hands.

Thumb pressed and slid through the smooth grit as he saw the warm grey colors of mourning doves flit through the sky. Thought on their nests between rocks and tiles. Threw his stone up into the blue yawn of horizon. Flopped down onto his back in a puff of dust.

"Fucking hell," he said, as he watched the rock sail down and clack against a boulder. Stubbornly standing out of the soil.
 
Never knew how to be a cloud. Floating without a worry didn't seem natural. Neither did putting down roots. If clouds could come around all grey and lob potatoes at fuckers...that sounded closer to life.

„So Dancer I get. Salamanders too. All mercs, but...“ He'd given it thought, but it didn't add up. „What the fuck's a thief got to do with all this?“

Silk or Milk, it hardly mattered. When the world folded sideways, thieves were quick to become corpses.

But what the fuck did he know?

Stole for a living, years now. Still kickin'.
 
Zalan quirked a brow. Lip scrunched up. "You never want someone to just, know you're still around?"

Didn't right know if she would even care. If his going off had burned away whatever little roots had started grasping at each other's heart.

Time. Distance. Made people more like clouds. At the mercy of the wind.

Not like he expected her to wait. He wasn't stupid.

But, he still remembered how she had looked at him that morning after. Eyes all promise of rain. Warm as they were cool. Be lying if he said one last look at them wouldn't make dying more bearable. Would make fighting easier.

There was the weird twist of it all. In his guts.

He worked himself up. Propped onto an elbow. Looked over at the Barrow boy. "You ain't never been sweet on nobody?"
 
Looked at Zalan like he grew another head. Because no good came from knowing. Or what he told himself most days. And most days, it worked.

But he felt it before Pindhi could say it. Love or whatever. Suppose the whole thief thing made sense now. Had to bite his cheek at the whole stealing hearts business – this wasn't a mocking matter. He could give the guy shit later...if he survived.

„Sure.“ A smile for the potatoes and the clouds, anywhere but the other man's face.

Thought of the ones he almost kept. The ones that almost kept him. Blanket stolen, ass freezing, and that horrible morning breath. But sometimes things fall off before they can stick. And perhaps it was better that way. Because love didn't make you stronger – it just made you afraid.

„So, what's the message?“
 
Sucked on the point of his tooth. Eyes on the dirt. The potatoes.

"What's the message?" he thought out loud. Writing was never his forte. Too much to say, never find the right words say it. Looked out at the field. Saw the round swell of bright fruit. The green leaves, like so many little blades. "An orange," he said, "And a dove's feather," looked over to his brother in potato planting. Cocked a brow. Eyes bright. "Keen?" almost dared him to tease him about it with how he smiled.

Wouldn't really mind it none.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom