He walked in to the little tavern, drenched in spring rain and blood. He could feel their eyes on him, wondering who he was, what he had been doing. It didn’t matter, it was over now, and he’d be damned if he was going to tell a bunch of yokels about the battle that rage beyond the sight of mortals.
No, he was just going to drink him self until he couldn’t stand, then he’d find a whore to pass the night with. It was time to relax, to forget about everything, to fuck some woman for the sake of fucking, just to get it out of his system. The next day would be lonely, and he would have one hell of a hangover, but it was worth the price of a night of freedom. He wasn’t going to do shit tomorrow; he could afford a little immorality. He had the money, what the hell else was he going to spend it on?
He sat in a dimly lit corner, and blew out the candle. His face was scarred, marred by swords, arrows, even a couple bullets had caught a morsel of his flesh, tonight, and he wasn’t going to deal with telling the stories. Tonight was his, not theirs. For once. God, how he wished they knew how much he did for them, for a little appreciation, a thank you. “Fuck it, it’ll never happen,” he thought.
He ordered the best vintage Coniac l’Maison; he wanted at least three bottles to start. They didn’t even have a cheap brandy, these little things in the middle of nowhere never did. Brandy is what he needed, the wind had ripped through him long enough, now all he wanted was to sit in the shadows and sip and smell the aroma of a snifter full of the strongest damn liquor he could find.
The owner, Gerard, heard his exchange with the wench, and offered him something of the private collection. He agreed, praising the god’s that he did not have to settle for a beer. A small bottle of clear liquid was taken to him. He looked on with consternation, how could this little bottle of water ever replace three bottles of good brandy?
Gerard simply smiled and him and said, “Miseur, do not drink too much at onceah, it may look small, but zisa is strong stuff.” He laughed rudely, and took a swig. Gerard wasn’t kidding. This was the strongest shit he’d ever had, and he’d had it all. Gerard simply smiled at him and said, “we may be yokels, but we know our liquor.”
“No shit, thanks Gerard,” he paid for the bottle, and tugged at the syrupy liquid ever couple minutes. He smiled contentedly, not even a tenth of the bottle was gone and he was buzzing something wicked. This night was shaping up better than he had expected.
The wench asked him how his night was, he simply smiled at her with feigned charm that he had perfected, and without explanation, she walked away and into the kitchen. She returned in what was barely a dress, and handed him a cigarette.
He raised the bottle to his lips, and like every other time, his hand trembled. God this night had really fucked up his composure, this wasn’t drink, and this was a night of fighting some of the meanest motherfuckers anyone had ever seen. Even the alcohol wasn’t going to calm this down. God, he needed a smoke, a nice little cigarette with just a little something extra.
The wench told him her name, Mætre, it sounded like something, but he was too drunk to understand. She asked him his, he simply smiled. He wasn’t that drunk, he never got that drunk. He pulled at the bottle again, his hand was shaking a little more, he really wanted a damn cigarette; he needed some composure. If he was going to get this wench to let him have his way with her, he needed to be a little debonair.
She tried to take a sip, he pushed her away from the bottle, he wanted one of them to be lucid, he would remember everything, he wasn’t sure that she would, and he was going to give her a night she wouldn’t want to forget. He wasn’t cocky, he’d had a lot of practice, and he knew every time he just got better.
The muse caught him and he searched in one of his pockets for a pipe, a small gift from a king, a friend, which he was never without. Lightly he played a sweet melody, but even his lungs wavered. Unsatisfied he played on, he couldn’t go on hoping for something that wouldn’t come.
The tavern was filled with the melody of his heart, and he knew it. Everyone there that night would feel his pain, would feel the terrible rhythm of his heart, would feel the emptiness of a true warriors soul. In that drunken stupor, he thought some person might finally understand, that he might finally find a companion. He’d done so much good for humans; they had done shit for him.
Mætre smiled at him when he had finished, and handed him a cigarette wrapped in cacao leaves. She said simply, “Calm the fuck down, whatever it is, it’s over now, I’m right here,” she kissed him passionately, and he looked at her startled, “Don’t worry honey,” she said, “I don’t have a husband, and I want to find out what it is that makes love so wonderful. You are so handsome, I want you to be my first, if you will have me.”
With hunger he took the dried roll of leaves and let slip some magic to light it. He was elated, tonight, he was going to take her of her own free will, and he was always best when he didn’t feel guilty about it. She was a virgin; he would be what she based every experience here after upon. He felt sorry for the poor bastard who tried to show her next what love was all about. She would be the best he’d had in ages, he might ruin it for her in the future, but at least she would know what a real fuck felt like.
The night wore on, his hands stopped shaking, his lungs filled with the aroma of the bar, and when he played his pipe, the music wove a perfect magical spell to all who heard it. Even people from the street wandered into the tavern, weeping, feeling that horribly wonderful melody. “Too bad,” he thought with a pain in his soul, “none of them will ever remember it.”
He took the last swig of that wonderful elixir and paid Gerard for the best room. The room, like the liquor was the best he’d ever had. He and Mætre pined away at each other for hours, for a virgin, she knew what she was doing, but god, she was tight, and she screamed like a banshee. This was the best night he’d had in a long time; he wished it wouldn’t end.
The alcohol, something was funny about it. He drank a lot, but he never felt the way he did tonight. His usually clarity, his perception was cloudy, muddied. He actually felt tired, he hadn’t felt that way since the very first time he had ever had a drink. His eyes clouded over, and he did something he’d never done from alchohol. He passed out completely.
He woke the next morning, just as drunk. Mætre was lying on his bed next to him naked, wanting more, telling him to get up and chase her. One more fuck wouldn’t hurt, she was good, and he had nothing better to do. He tried to move his legs, but he couldn’t, his whole body was stuck, laying on his back arms and legs spread.
Rope held each of his limbs, and each rope lead to a hole in the wall. Every once in a while, there was a tug at one of the bindings, and then it would slack again. Mætre sat on top of him, toying with his man-hood, pleasuring herself, while he tried to fight her off. It was no use, the ropes were too tight, and they were bound with magic, he couldn’t do anything.
A whip cracked, sounded like a crack of thunder, and the hooves or four steeds beat the ground, each in different directions. He fought them, held them for a few moments, but eventually they won, and his body was ripped into quarters.
Gerard entered the room with a grin, kissed Mætre with lust, and fucked her amidst the guts and blood of another fallen hero. She stopped her husbands throws of passion for a moment, and said simply, “that’s one less to worry about,” he smiled, and thrust himself into her with fervor, with the finesse that at last gave her a real orgasm. “God, she said, he fucked me all night, I didn’t even feel it, who do we screw tonight my love?” He winked mischievously, “Tonight my lady, only each other.”