HOWEVER FAR AWAY by Rtmoan

The rain pattered against the windowpanes, blown by gusts of the high wind moaning outside the cabin. Bern was up late again, drinking his sorrows again, reminiscing about the war again. He saw the scene spread out before him like he was watching himself from a great height.

His small band was in the desert, baking in the sun, their wide-brimmed hats doing little to block out the blinding light, the sand blowing in their faces. The sun comes up so violently out here, he was thinking, nothing like the soft light of home where it filters in, mottled with shadows from the high forest canopy. Home is coolness and peace and simple living. This place, this hell of a desert, it’s anathema to that.

They had broken camp at dawn and were heading to scout out one of the border towns in the region, Alaeton, hotbed of nothing but somehow still vitally important to the war effort. Everything was fine until it wasn’t, and the ambush came over a high dune.

There was screaming, men dying, the usual things you get from a war. It was here he got the wound that still ached on nights like these, a bone deep throbbing in his right side. He was proud of the scar, proud of having lived through it, despite how much blood had soaked into the sands outside Alaeton. The whiskey helped keep the pain at bay and brought back more memories.

These were kinder, softer. These were memories of Tabethe. She had been his friend, his lover. A beautiful woman, tall for her slender frame, just a few inches shorter than he was. She kept her hair cropped close during the fighting, but he had seen photographs of her from when she was younger, free from the conflict, and it had been lovely, falling in waves down and across her shoulders, chestnut brown and shining.

Her lips were not soft, nothing like anything out of a romance, with their wet, plush nonsense, but they had been perfect for kissing him, for whispering secrets in the quiet watches of the night, for smiling up at him while they made love that first night in Petran.

They were on leave and had made it to the coastal city, occupied by friendly forces. There was a bar there, The Corvid, and they served what had to be the sweetest wine either of them had ever had. The waiter called it green wine, Bern thought it more of a piss yellow, but they drank it down anyway, free from the confines of their musty tents, free from the sand that never seemed to leave their clothes, the creases of their skin.

She had been in a dress, the first time he’d ever seen her out of fatigues. It fit her poorly in the chest, made for a bustier woman, but she more than filled out the hips. And he held those hips as they danced to the music in The Corvid, songs from home, from places they had never been, but had made plans to see when the war was over.

The war ended for Tabethe before they could make good on those promises. She fell some dozens of miles from him, an engagement outside of Hegen, while he recovered in a field hospital, wounded from the earlier ambush.

She received a double promotion, ended up outranking him, and he had had to fight to make it to her funeral. They didn’t bury their own there, not this far from home in that land of savages, but there had been a ceremony, and it was the last time Bern had known any consistent sobriety. They shipped her home in a plain pine box, one of many just like it, draped in the orange and gold of the flag.

Bern poured another whiskey and rubbed his side. It was worse tonight than it had been in some time. He blamed the rain, like he always did, and was taking a sip when there came a knocking at the door. It sounded for everything like the end of the world, a hollow sepulchral tone, like a death knell. He looked to his glass like it had an answer, then looked to the door.

The knocking came again, firm, insistent, a knock that could not be ignored. He stood, a bit unsteadily, and took up his machete from its resting place by the fire. It was hot to the touch, but he gripped it tightly all the same, and made his way to the door. Flicking the latch, he opened it a crack, looking out into the dark of the night.

Standing there in the low light coming from his door was Tabethe, in violation of every natural law. Her hair was grown out, longer now than when she had died, draping her shoulders in wet, rain black rivers. She was naked, shaking in the cold, her arms crossed across her chest.

Bern’s heart fell into the pit of his stomach where it found some courage in the whiskey and rallied again. He opened the door wider and took in the sight of her, blue with cold, blue like death. She shouldn’t be there, she should be at the cemetery in town with the other honored dead, but she was, and Bern made up his mind without thinking.

“Tabethe,” he sighed, and extended his hand.

“Bern,” she said, empty, so cold, and took his hand.

He brought her in to the cabin, out of the rain and wind. She was an unnatural thing. Something that shouldn’t be. He debated in flashes about lopping off her head, tearing off her limbs, burning her in the fire. Those were all the things to be done to the returning dead, he’d learned that as a child, reading the kinds of stories people think good for children without ever checking up on the morals themselves.

He looked to his machete. It was sharp enough, and he was powerful enough, but no. This was Tabethe. That would be no way to welcome her home.

“Come, sit by the fire, you’re freezing,” Bern said, leading her by the hand to his chair.

He pushed her gently, but firmly, into the seat, and went to fetch a blanket from his bed. She was passive, doing as he moved her, sitting still as he lay the downy quilt over her body. Bern knelt to stoke the fire, throwing on another log, and then stood, looking around the room.

“Let me get you a drink,” he said, and busied himself with going to the kitchen, trying to find a clean mug.

By the time he was back her hair was already drying, but her lips were still the blue of a drowned man.

“Drink,” he said, handing her the mug of whiskey and hot water.

“I’m sorry, Bern, I don’t drink whiskey.”

She sounded apologetic enough, if not still this side of emotionless.

“That’s fine, that’s fine,” Bern said, and took a drink himself.

His nerves were starting to get the better of him, and he didn’t want to be unmanned, not now.

“Can you tell me, though, Tabethe, how? How you’re here? What’s happened?”

She stared into the fire, the light dancing in her steel blue eyes.

“I remember Hegen, and the mortars falling around us. The sand, the sun, the blood in my mouth,” she looked to him, eyes wide, “I remember the smell of the cordite so strongly I can taste it now, like it’s coating my tongue. I hear the whistle of more bombs coming, and I’m diving into the sand, and there are explosions everywhere, and then it’s…”

Tabethe trailed off, looking to the fire.

“Then I woke up, and it was dark, and I was so cold. But I could smell you, everything that makes me love you, and I crawled up through so much earth, and started walking.”

Bern sighed, and willed himself to look at her. She seemed so small, bundled up like a child in his quilt. He leaned down, hesitated, then moved to kiss her. She kissed back, her hands reaching up to hold the back of his head, pull him into her. She gripped the curls of his short black hair so tight it hurt, but he did not mind it. The cold though, the taste of wet earth, that he did mind. He pulled away, breaking the kiss slowly, and finished off his mug of whiskey and water. He seemed to be making up his mind about something.

“Bern?” she asked, studying his face.

He frowned, looked to the fire, looked to Tabethe, then to his bed.

“You’re not going to get any warmer sitting here. Come with me. Come to bed. I can warm you there better with my body.”

She smiled, a genuine smile, and her teeth were so white and shining. Some looked a bit longer, a bit sharper, but Bern chalked that up to a trick of the light, a trick of the whiskey, and he reached down, picked Tabethe up in his arms. He carried her the short distance to his bed and lay her there gently. He then worked on removing his own clothes, just his pants and underwear this time of the night and climbed into the bed beside her.

“I’ve missed you terribly,” he whispered to her, once they were under the blankets and quilt.

The rain outside still fell strongly, thrumming the tin roof overhead.

“My love,” she whispered back, and kissed him again.

Her hands were like ice as they traveled along his body, down his chest, over the deep scar in his side.

“Alaeton,” she said, “I remember how afraid I was when I saw you. You were so pale, I thought, well.”

She kissed him again, burying her cold face in his neck, savoring the scent of him. Her hands trailed down his hips and grasped his buttocks, pulling him closer to her.

“Bern, please,” she murmured, purring against his throat, “Please, make love to me. I need you, need to feel you inside of me.”

Whatever remained of Bern’s reservations fell away with that plea and he wrapped Tabethe in his arms, pressing against her slight body. Her nipples were cold, hard, and poked into his chest. He started there first, lowering his head, and taking them in turns in his mouth, suckling on her breasts.

He massaged them with his hands, his tongue circling them, and she gasped in pleasure above him, holding his head to her chest. She ran her fingers through his hair, gentler now, softer. Her hips ground against his, and he moved further down her body, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake.

He stopped at her cunt, taking in the scent of her. Like the smell after rain. It was nothing like the musk she had had before, like that night in Petran, but he loved it regardless. He buried his face in her mound, his lips and tongue making love to her as she bucked against his face, moaning. Bern took his hands and spread her lips, swollen and purple, and buried his tongue in her cunt. She was dry, but his tongue moistened her enough to gain passage. He licked and sucked at her lips, her clit, until he couldn’t stand it any longer.

Rising in the bed he rolled atop Tabethe and took her legs in his hands, spreading them apart and pushing them back, bending her to a more agreeable angle. His cock was swollen and throbbing, and he was thankful that the whiskey hadn’t taken a bite from his manhood, not this night. Pressing forward he felt the cold of her mound as his burning hot cock moved against her, slipping, and missing at the first thrust. Tabethe laughed and reached down to guide him into her. He didn’t mind the help, just the cold, as he sank his inches into her body.

Wet with his spit, there was still enough friction to give them both the pleasure they sought from each other’s bodies. Bern pressed against her, pinning her to the bed, as he began slow, meaningful strokes into and out of the depth of her.

For her part, Tabethe clung to him, her fingers digging into his back, her nails drawing first lines, then blood, as they raked down and around him. Bern didn’t mind the pain, had felt worse, and thrilled only at the closeness he had missed these last few years alone and without her with him. She was back, his lover, his life mate, and he was going to give her everything he could.

Bern leaned back, holding Tabethe’s legs together, and began to pound away at her cunt in earnest. She busied herself with stroking her clit with one hand, the other clutching her left breast, tweaking her stone hard nipple. It had been so long, so long, and before awfully long at all Bern felt the familiar feeling stirring in his cock head and in his balls. He bent Tabethe double, leaning over her, into her, and slammed out his orgasm into her, the hot cum shooting from his cock a stark contrast to the chill of her spasming cunt.

As she felt Bern splash into her, Tabethe’s own orgasm crashed against her, and she came, thrusting back against Bern, her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

“Oh Bern,” she gasped, quaking, “My love, my only,” and other sweet things as he fell to her side, entangling their limbs, their bodies indistinguishable from one another in their embrace.

They lay there like that, breathing softly against one another, as the fire grew low, moved toward dying in the late night.

Eventually the cold got to him, and Bern had to pull away, full of reluctance, and staring at the ceiling.

“You know I love you, Tabethe?” Bern asked, watching the fire so as not to have to make contact with her eyes.

“Yes,” she said, “And I you.”

“And you know you shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice on the edge of breaking.

“That I’m dead? Yes, I know. I shouldn’t be here, like you said,” she said, pressing back against him, “But Bern, I’m here, I’m real and with you and everything is perfect again, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know if perfect is the word for it, Tabby,” he said, braving a look into her eyes.

They stared back at him, for all the world those of his lover. They didn’t look dead, didn’t look unnatural or evil. His will shook and he trembled. Instead of speaking he buried his face in the top of her head, smelling the earth and rain on her, kissing her cold scalp. They lay there like that long after Bern started to snore, the whiskey and exhaustion finally taking hold after a long night.

And just like that, morning was breaking, and Bern woke alone in his bed in a tangle of blankets and sheets. The fire had long since died, and the only light was the first pale strings of dawn creeping through the rain slick windows. His head was throbbing, and he had an amazing need to piss.

Shaking off the cobwebs of dreaming he stood from the bed, wondering at the intensity of the dream from the night before. She had been so real, so there, so Tabethe, and then, like dew on the grass in the late morning sun, she vanished away, leaving nothing but a memory.

He froze when he opened the door, Tabethe standing just outside the cabin, naked as when he had found her. She was looking to the east, at the first lights of dawn, but turned when she heard him open the door. There was a sorrow on her face now, a sorrow mixed with a hunger that Bern couldn’t recognize. And then she fell upon him, her teeth sinking into his neck, the two of them tumbling back into the cabin, away from the pale light of day.

She was amazingly strong, and he could not break away as she tore at his neck, and he felt his lifeblood flowing freely. Tabethe gulped hungrily, groaning deep and low, and Bern lost the heart to fight, surrendering to her embrace. His last thoughts, as he began to fade, were of Tabethe, and how beautiful she looked, even with her pale face smeared with his blood. The last thing he heard was her plaintive wailing as she shrieked out, chilling what remained of the blood in him.

xxxxx

The rain was pounding at the windows again as Bern came to, sitting in his chair by the fire. The cold front just wouldn’t relent, and neither did the chill he felt deep in the marrow of his bones. He reached out and tried a sip of the whiskey sitting on the table beside him. It did nothing but burn his throat. And how his throat ached. He worried that he was coming down with another cold, the second this wet season. He coughed into his hand. Feeling an unusual wetness, he looked to his palm and saw flecks of black blood, already congealing.

Behind him the cabin door swung open, and he turned to see Tabethe, dressed in an old flannel shirt of his and not much else, dragging a body through the doorway.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, looking chagrined, “But I thought I’d bring us dinner.”

Bern looked from her to the unconscious woman on the floor to the fire, and back again. Already a great hunger was burning in his throat, a thirst for something even his whiskey couldn’t quench. Standing, he closed the distance between them in a few quick steps, and lifted her off the floor, crushing her in his embrace. Whatever they were, they were unholy, unnatural things. He should be dead, they should be dead, he knew. But he also knew that he loved her, and that whatever abominations they may be, they would at least be them together.

THE END