The Drunk Rabbit

Near the Border of Eritrea, Piammi 60 RB

The Drunk Rabbit Inn and Mealhouse was about as old as the owner’s deceased grandfather. He had died as he’d lived, drunk out of his mind.

As old as it was, the inn was well-kept. Kuntur had seen to that. He patched the roof when it leaked, oiled the hinges of the doors regularly, and had even managed the finances so well that he dragged his family up out of the debt that had been piling up for generations. All in all, he had things figured out.

The only thing he hadn’t quite figured out was that his best cook was working for the Porcusinelli.

…..

A fugitive stood before the inn. He was disheveled, tired, and soaked to his skin.

Ammon’s shirt clung to him, wet from the rain that currently fell from the sky.

He shivered.

The door to the inn was made from wood, weathered from the years but apparently well kept. Above the door hung a sign. It read: Drunk Rabbit. Inn and Mealhouse. The sign seemed more recent than the door, the paint still relatively fresh. This was certainly the right place. Unless, of course, Hendrix had directed him to the wrong place.

Through the door, Ammon could hear the sounds of music, and conversation, and laughter. Happy sounds. Sounds that were almost unfamiliar to his ears. Sounds that clashed agonizingly with the grief in his heart. It took all of his willpower to open the door. It swung open silently, and Ammon stepped inside.

Instantly, he was captivated by the music.

The music seemed to be alive, the way it danced on the air. It filled the space. It took it’s time, never rushing, never dragging, just filling the air. Something about it reached deep into his soul, like a voice he couldn’t quite recognize. A melody he’d long forgotten. The silly wants of his childhood lost to time. Familiar, but unique. Unforgettable, and yet, forgotten.

“The Spider weaves her tale. Of sinners and saints and how heroes prevail.”

The voice had a power to it. Every word was delivered with meaning and emotion in a way that felt right. A way that felt real. Ammon could feel the lyrics rushing through him. He could feel the yearning of the earth itself, and he was speechless.

“She’s watching the moon rise in the opalescent sky. Watching the light paint the clouds. Shadows fade, for just a moment. The sky is bright, for just a night. The Spider watches, awe in her eyes.”

In the center of the room, sitting in one of the well crafted wooden chairs, was a girl.

The girl had long dark hair woven into an intricate braid, which fell halfway down her back. She wore a dress that was probably once bright red, but had since lost some of its color. Her arm was emblazoned with what looked to be a hand print. It also looked to be a scar, but Ammon

couldn’t see how that was possible.

In her arms was an instrument he didn’t recognise, but that could have just been because he stood behind her. Regardless, the music was beautiful. She was beautiful.

Ammon closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the song. For that moment he felt truly connected. He was connected with the earth, with the patrons, with the song, and with the very moons themselves.

The song ended with an eruption of applause, and Ammon approached the girl.

…..

Polyxena’s heart beat fast in her chest. She felt light in that way she always did after singing. As if she had the very wind withing her lungs. She placed her tambouras by her side, resting it against her chair, and took a sip of water, from the glass Ian had brought her earlier.

“Hey.”

A boy stood to her right. He was soaking wet, practically dripping on the floor. No, not practically, he was dripping on the floor. Her eyes followed the trail of wet footprints that led towards the closed inn door. Now that she was listening for it, Polyxena could tell it was raining. Quite hard, judging by the sound of it.

“Hello, did you like my song?”

She almost didn’t ask this question, seeing as it could seem self centered to start a conversation this way, but it seemed to fit in this moment.

“Yes. It seems everyone did.”

His eyes were hazel. They reminded her of the creek back where she grew up. The way the light would shine through the water. They reminded her of laughter, and of stories, and of home. The same home she felt when she sang. The same home she hadn’t returned to in a long while.

“I’m glad. It’s one of my favorites.”

It really was. Reminded her of her mother.

“I can see why. It was beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

His face reddened.

Polyxena let out a quiet laugh, “Thanks. What is your name?”

“Ammon. What’s yours?”

“Polyxena.”

Ammon’s next words came quickly, yet Polyxena knew he meant them.

“That’s a pretty name.”

Ammon blushed even more, and Polyxena could have sworn she felt warmth in her heart. In that moment she knew that Ammon would be her friend. Maybe more. Maybe much more.

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “Would you like to know a secret?”

For a second, he hesitated, then he nodded, “Sure.”

Polyxena stood, taking care to keep most of her weight on her left leg. She closed the gap between her and Ammon, noticing, for a second, that her limp was getting better.

She leaned towards him and whispered in his ear, “You’re making a puddle.”

…..

Despite himself, Ammon laughed. He looked down, and sure enough, there was a small puddle forming at his feet.

“Kuntur is going to hate this,” joked Polyxena.

Ammon’s mesmerised state broke for a second, “Kuntur?”

“He owns the place”

Ammon raised his eyebrows, “So you know the people here pretty well”

Polyxena gave him a questioning look, “I’d say say so.”

Had Ammon been there on any other business, he might have found himself lost in her eyes.

“Do you happen to know someone named Osbourne?”

Before Ammon knew it, something sharp was pressing against his side. He assumed it was a knife. Someone–presumably the same person who held the knife–also held him by the shoulder. His eyes widened in shock. He looked to Polyxena for help, but she offered nothing except a sympathetic look.

“If you cry for help, Kuntur will have a lot more of a mess to clean up than a puddle.”

The voice seemed to belong to a woman.

“I-”

Ammon wasn’t sure what he meant to say, but he wasn’t about to let himself be gutted.

“Quiet, Ammon.” The voice that cut him off belonged to Polyxena. It was urgent. He listened.

…..

Polyxena watched the scene unfold.

“We’re going to take a little trip outside,” Noura decided.

Ammon’s hazel eyes were wide with fear, but he nodded.

Polyxena grabbed her cane. Noura led Ammon and her out of a back door that not many people noticed. Anyone who did notice them just looked away, except for Penn, who rose to sit beside her tam. He knew as well as she did how precious an instrument was.

Rain fell from the sky in torrents, drenching the outside world and its inhabitants.

“Polyxena, take his pack.”

Polyxena grabbed the strap of the pack.

“Don’t.”

There was a strange sort of intensity in Ammon’s voice.

“I need to take this. Just let me. It’ll be easier for you.”

She tugged on the pack. He didn’t relinquish it.

“Just don’t. Please.”

There were tears in Ammon’s eyes. He looked terrified. Desperate. Lost.

…..

Ammon tried to wrench the pack away from her grasp, but slipped on the wet terrain. He fell to the ground. A sharp pain ignited in his side, he must have cut himself on that blade.

He hugged the pack to his chest and curled into the fetal position. Was this pathetic? Probably. Was it his best chance at keeping the pack, and the letter that lived at the bottom of it? Yes. Ammon did his best to ignore the pain in his side. He shut his eyes.

“Please. You can’t take this from me. Please.”

Ammon needed that pack. It had the letter. He needed the letter, because Osbourne needed the letter. Osbourne needed the letter, because Hendrix had said so.

“That’s not your decision to make,” the woman paused, then shifted from sharp to sympathetic, “You’re bleeding.”

Ammon could sense the woman kneeling beside him.

“Look, just give me the pack, and then we’ll get a friend of mine to help you with that cut.”

She tried to grab the pack from Ammon’s arms, and he flinched, hugging the pack tighter to his chest. Pain shot through his side and he cried out. He didn’t care. He just had to hold on. That’s what Hendrix would do.

“You need to be careful with that cut,” warned Polyxena, worry in her voice.

“Please just let me go,” he whispered, “I need to find Osbourne…”

Rain still poured from the sky, soaking through his clothes. Along with the blood from his recently acquired wound.

The woman sighed, “Polyxena, get Mina, I’m not about to watch some kid bleed out.”

…..

Ammon was shivering when Polyxena led Mina back to him, but otherwise, the situation remained unchanged. Luckily Markus had come as well. She had a feeling they would need his general aura of trustworthiness. This feeling only grew when she realized that Noura was still trying to convince him to give up the pack.

“Just give it up.”

Noura was obviously growing annoyed. Which made sense, considering how determined Ammon seemed.

“I won’t.”

Markus spoke, “Look, kid, whatever’s in the pack, it’s not worth your life, and if you stay out here in the rain trying to protect it, you’ll die of cold.“

“I don’t care… I just need to get it to Osbourne...” He trailed off.

Markus gave him an inquisitive look, “Get what to Osbourne?”

Ammon shook his head, “I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

Seeing as Markus was obviously blessed, his trustworthy nature may have come from the moons. Polyxena didn’t believe that. At least, not in entirety. She was more keen to believe that it came from the way he requested instead of demanding. Whether it was information, or help, or kindness. He always requested.

And, generally speaking, his requests were answered.

“Hendrix told me not too.”

Recognition lit in Markus’ violet eyes, “What songs do bluebirds sing?”

Ammon opened his eyes, shock lighting upon his face, “They don’t sing. The cock crew, and mourning came.”

He released the bag. Markus picked it up.

Polyxena stared at them, puzzled, “Was that code?”

Noura nodded, “That was the code for a dead tradesman.”

Realization dawned, “So he’s–”

“One of us,” affirmed Markus.

“Probably unofficially,” Mina added.

…..

The Wallow, Piammi 60 RB

Ammon pulled the shirt over his head, taking care not to disturb the bandage wrapped around his torso. The cut hadn’t been particularly deep, or long. That was lucky. There were not many people who had been cut by Noura’s blade. At least, not many who were still alive.

The chair where Ammon sat was in a room. The walls of this room were lined with shelves, each laden with jars and boxes of various shapes and sizes. These were filled with miscellaneous medicinal supplies.

Ammon took a deep breath, letting the events of the day sink in. It had been impossible. Improbable. He supposed that described life.

“Hey kid, the name’s Markus. And yours is,” Markus snapped a couple of times, then pointed at him, “ Ammon, right?”

“Right.”

“Look, about what happened with Noura, it wasn’t anything personal. Just precautions.” He scoffed, anger present in his features, “That sounds cruel, threatening a kid and calling it ‘precautions’, but they’ve sent kids before, and,” he paused, meeting Ammon’s eyes, “there comes a point where you stop trusting.”

A long moment passed. It was a moment of understanding, in a way. It was a moment of misunderstanding, in another. In fact, Ammon wouldn’t fully understand what Markus meant for two more years.

Markus cleared his throat, “All of that to say, don’t write Noura off, she was just doing her job.”

Ammon nodded.

“Now, Cirrus is going to be here pretty soon. They’re going to ask you a lot of questions. Answer honestly.”

“Why?”

To say that that came out wrong was an understatement. Ammon had already been on the wrong side of these folks, now that he was in a more neutral position, he didn’t want to cross back over.

“Are you that fond of lying?”

Horror hit Ammon’s face, “That’s not what I meant.”

Markus grinned, “I know. Loosen up a bit. You’ll be fine.”

…..

“What’s your name?”

“Ammon Elwood.”

His name was of his mother’s choosing, seeing as he was an eldest child. She’d said he was named after an old friend. An old friend who had died far too young.

“How old are you?”

“14, 15 in Laliasia.”

Cirrus raised an eyebrow at that, but continued.

“Who sent you here?”

“Hendrix.”

Ammon missed Hendrix. He missed that time standing side by side, making. Fixing. He missed fixing things. What was he supposed to do with Hendrix dead?

“What is your relationship with Hendrix.”

“I am,” Ammon corrected himself, “I was his apprentice.”

Was. Ammon used to be his apprentice. He used to have parents. He used to make things. Now he did nothing, had nothing, was nothing.

“Who are your parents.”

“They’re dead.”

Sickness was a funny thing, in a terrible sort of way.

“Do you have any other family?”

“No.”

Cirrus started to write but paused, “None?”

“No, well, none I know.”

Cirrus turned to look at Markus and Noura, who stood at the edge of the room.

“If he’s got no family, then we’ve pretty much got this settled.”

They nodded in unison. Ammon was entirely perplexed. It seemed everyone but him knew what was happening.

“What’s settled?”

“You’re one of us now,” Cirrus clarified.

Markus stuck out his hand for Ammon to shake, “Welcome to the Porcusinelli.”