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The swamp always had a way of swallowing time. One moment, morning light pressed gray and thick against the shutters, the next it felt like afternoon, though the sun itself never showed its face. The shop was hushed, full of glass glints and the faint perfume of herbs drying on strings. Something in a corked jar clicked softly, like a beetle's legs tapping against the glass.
The swamp had a peculiar way of swallowing time. One moment, the morning light pressed gray and thick against the shutters; the next, it felt like afternoon, even though the sun itself never showed its face. The shop was hushed, filled with the glints of glass and the faint perfume of herbs drying on strings. Something in a corked jar clicked softly, like a beetle's legs tapping against the glass.
Behind the counter, Syyren hunched in his robe, resembling a reluctant priest. His blue skin appeared orangish in the flickering candlelight, shimmering under his red robes. His ledger lay open before him, half a dozen notes scrawled in his slanted hand: Marshwort, low. Bone glue, almost out. The words seemed to mock him, reminding him that his work felt dull today. The quill dangled loosely between his pale fingers, black ink dripping idly into the corner of the page.
A hollow gurgle stirred in his gut. He froze and pressed his palm against his stomach. His stitched flesh shifted under his touch, tense and unhappy. He tried to ignore it, his eyes flicking toward the shelves as he pretended to care about whether the bruise balm jars were perfectly aligned.
Across the counter, Thena lay sprawled on her back atop a pile of folded papers, her blue hair fanned out like a river spilling from a cliff. The back of her dress hitched up slightly, and Syyren thought that if she were not a fairy, she might be mistaken for a woman of the night in that position. She twirled a pencil between her tiny fingers, humming a tune that seemed to exist in neither this world nor any other. When another sound came from Syyren's midsection, she stopped mid-hum and tilted her head like a cat hearing prey.
"There it is again," she said, her voice bright and filled with mischief, a sly smile dancing on her face. "You're groaning like a frog caught under a bucket. It's been going on for the past hour."
Syyren shot her a withering look, though the expression was undercut by the way his hand still pressed against his stomach. "I am not."
"You are! I heard it. Twice. No, three times," she insisted. She rolled onto her stomach, chin in her palms, legs kicking lazily in the air. "Don't even try to tell me it's your imagination. I have excellent ears."
"It's digestion," he muttered, as if assigning a scholarly name to it made it any less humiliating. "A perfectly natural process."
Thena's smile grew sharp. "Natural, yes. But dignified? Not even close. You're making faces as if someone asked you to swallow a porcupine. You need to go."
His head lifted sharply, silver hair sliding forward over one green eye. "I can't. The shop is open."
She gasped theatrically, one hand flying to her chest. "The shop is open! How could I forget? Why, we'll be trampled any minute now. Look at the road!" She fluttered up to the window, pressed her tiny face against the warped glass, and then waved her arms dramatically. "Oh, wait, no one's out there. No one has been here for three hours. And no one will be here for at least another three."
"You don't know that."
"I do." She darted back toward him, landing neatly on his shoulder, tugging on a lock of his hair like reins. "You'll sit here and clench until you rupture, and then what? I'll have to mop up your insides with these tiny hands?" She waved her hands in the air, a shimmer of white magic lingering on her fingers. "Disgusting. Just go. I'll mind the counter."
He stiffened under her weight, glancing at the shelves again as if they might come alive and justify him. "If you mind the counter, you'll tell people ridiculous things."
"Like what?" she asked sweetly.
"Like that, the potions taste like candy."
"They should taste like candy," she shot back, crossing her arms. "Do you have any idea how much nicer people would be if medicine didn't taste like boiled socks? One drop of peppermint oil would save us all a lot of grief."
"Medicine is not meant to be pleasant," he said flatly. "If I were to add peppermint, it would throw off the balance and mess with the bone marrow."
She poked his cheek with one tiny finger, hard enough to make him flinch. "Neither is constipation, yet here we are."
His lips pressed into a thin line. He turned back to his ledger, as if determined to lose himself in the noble work of writing 'marshwort, low' for the eighth time. The ache in his middle roiled like swamp water stirred by a stick, the throb bluntly calling to him to expel the monster brewing in his bowels. He ignored it. He was practiced at ignoring discomfort, be it sharp or light.
But then it betrayed him. The pressure bubbled up, and before he could stop or shift or clench, the sound escaped.
bBbBbBbrrrrrrrrr…
It was not small.
It began as a sharp sputter, then stretched out long and quacking, echoing against the wooden counter like a goose giving a dying speech, powerful enough that his buttocks quivered in warning.
The silence that followed was crushing.
Syyren sat frozen, his pale face creeping toward a blue flush. His skeletal toes curled against the floorboards.
Then, Thena broke. She collapsed midair, shrieking with laughter, her wings sputtering so violently that she tumbled backward. "Saints!
A hollow gurgle stirred in his gut. He froze, pressed his palm against his stomach. His stitched flesh shifted under the touch, tense and unhappy. He tried to ignore it, eyes flicking toward the shelves, pretending he cared about whether the bruise balm jars were perfectly aligned.
Across the counter, Thena lay sprawled on her back on a pile of folded papers, blue hair fanned out like a river spilling from a cliff, the back of her dress hitched up slightly from her person. If she were not a fairy, Syyren figured she would be seen as a woman of the night with that position. She twirled a pencil between her tiny fingers, humming a tune that didn't seem to exist in this or any other world. When the sound came from Syyren's middle, she stopped mid-hum and tilted her head like a cat hearing prey.
"There it is again," she said, her voice bright and wicked with a sly smile dancing on her face. "You're groaning like a frog caught under a bucket; it's been going on for the past hour now."
Syyren shot her a withering look, though the expression was undercut by the way his hand still pressed against his stomach. "I am not."
"You are. I heard it. Twice. No, three times." She rolled onto her stomach, chin in her palms, legs kicking lazily in the air. "Don't even try to tell me it's your imagination. I have excellent ears."
"It's digestion," he muttered, as if putting a scholarly name to it made it less humiliating. "A perfectly natural process."
Thena's smile grew sharp. "Natural, yes. But dignified? Not even close. You're making faces like someone asked you to swallow a porcupine. You need to go."
His head lifted sharply, silver hair sliding forward over one green eye. "I can't. The shop is open."
She gasped theatrically, one hand flying to her chest. "The shop is open! How could I forget? Why, we'll be trampled any minute now. Look at the road," She fluttered up to the window, pressed her tiny face against the warped glass, and then waved her arms dramatically. "Oh, wait. No one's there. No one has been there for three hours. And no one will be there for at least another three."
"You don't know that."
"I do." She darted back toward him, landed neatly on his shoulder, and tugged on a lock of his hair like reins. "You'll sit here and clench until you rupture, and then what? I'll have to mop up your insides with these tiny hands?" She waved her hands in the air, a shimmer of white magic on her fingers lingering. "Disgusting. Just go. I'll mind the counter."
He stiffened under her weight, glancing toward the shelves again like they might come alive and justify him. "If you mind the counter, you'll tell people ridiculous things."
"Like what?" she asked sweetly.
"Like that, the potions taste like candy."
"They should taste like candy," she shot back, crossing her arms. "Do you have any idea how much nicer people would be if medicine didn't taste like boiled socks? One drop of peppermint oil would save us all a lot of grief."
"Medicine is not meant to be pleasant," he said flatly. "If I were to add peppermint, it would throw off the balance and mess with the bone marrow."
She poked his cheek with one tiny finger, hard enough to make him flinch. "Neither is constipation, yet here we are."
His lips pressed into a thin line. He turned back to his ledger, as if determined to lose himself in the noble work of writing marshwort, low for the eighth time. The ache in his middle roiled like swamp water stirred by a stick, the throb bluntly calling to him to expel the monster brewing in his bowels. He ignored it. He was practiced at ignoring discomfort, be it sharp or light.
But then it betrayed him. The pressure bubbled up, and before he could stop it or shift or clench, the sound escaped.
bBbBbBbrrrrrrrrr….
It was not small.
It began as a sharp sputter, then stretched out, long and quacking, echoing against the wood of the counter like a goose giving a dying speech, powerful enough his buttocks quivered in warning.
The silence afterward was crushing.
Syyren sat frozen, his pale face creeping toward a blue flush. His skeletal toes curled against the floorboards.
Then, Thena broke. She collapsed midair, shrieking with laughter, her wings sputtering so violently she tumbled backward. "Saints preserve me—oh stars above—you sound like a duck drowning in porridge!" She kicked her tiny legs, clutching her stomach, tears springing into her eyes.
Syyren covered his face with one pale hand, his face heating up, wishing the swamp would kindly open and swallow him. His shoulders hunched as if to make himself smaller. "It wasn't…"
"Oh yes, it was!" she howled, rolling in the air, her hair tangling around her in a blue knot, choking at her own light-pitched laughter like a bell. "The great necromancer felled by his own backside! Undying, except in the dignity department!"
His hand dragged down his face, his expression caught between a grimace and surrender. "I'm going."
"Go!" Thena crowed, pointing toward the back door as if commanding troops into battle. "I'm not cleaning up whatever that is wanting to come out of you!"
He didn't answer her, quickly gathered his robe, gripped his cane, and marched for the door with as much dignity as a man could muster after publicly quacking. The hinge squealed as he shoved it open, and the swamp air wrapped around him like a wet cloak.
The path stretched ahead: warped boards slick with damp, moss creeping up between the cracks. The smell of it was ripe, but he had gotten used to the musky smell. Frogs plopped into the water at the sound of his steps. His cane tapped a steady rhythm, echoing into the murky stillness. The outhouse waited at the far end, hunched and weather-stained, the little star cut into its door glowing faintly with daylight.
Syyren's face remained pale and fixed as stone, but inside, shame still burned. Each step seemed louder than the last, every tap of his cane accusing. Behind him, Thena's laughter still rang faint through the open door, chasing him down the boardwalk like a curse.
The boardwalk stretched thin across the swamp, each plank warped and slick from years of rain and mist. His cane tapped against the boards in a hollow rhythm, steady but betraying his stiffness. His skeletal toes found every uneven groove, clicking faintly against the damp wood. He liked how it creaked and groaned with his cane tapping against the wood, a faint reminder of how alive the swamp was.
He could hear the swamp sing in its lazy chorus, the sound of Frogs croaked in overlapping tones, a sound like someone plucking wet strings. Insects whined high and thin, darting past his ears like malicious fiddlers; he no longer swatted them as he did when he was a child. They hold grudges. From the water below came the occasional heavy plop of something unseen slipping beneath the surface, bubbles rising and popping. Perhaps a water bogget or a disturbed swamp with its tentacles frazzling with disdain at his thumps above.
Syyren kept his eyes fixed ahead, as though looking directly at the outhouse would make the distance shorter. His stomach disagreed, rolling and bubbling like it had opinions. Each step jarred the pressure lower, his hand tightening on the cane until the silver handle bit his palm.
"Fiddlesticks," he groaned, under his breath, the words feeling cold on his tongue against the soft wind.
The outhouse loomed at the far end of the walk, squat and weather-beaten, its roof slanting under the weight of moss. The boards were dark with old rain and swamp damp, their edges fraying into splinters. In its door, the cheerful little star-shaped cutout winked at him, absurdly bright for what it represented.
He reached it at last, each step feeling like a mile. His cane thunked one final time against the bottom plank. He gripped the latch, a simple rope tied through a bent nail, and paused, closed his eyes for a moment. He would endure this with dignity, or at least with less indignity than before, the faint blush returning as he remembered the fart. Thena was lucky; the blowing wind smelled like Jasmine. Curse that fairy disguise, he thought as he finally pulled the door open, the latch creaking and groaning as it opened to her salivation.
Inside, the outhouse was dim and close, the smell a complicated bouquet: damp wood, mildew, and the sharp, honest tang of human use that the swamp never thoroughly carried away, despite its discovery. The walls were etched with faint water stains, the boards swelling and shrinking with the seasons, and the once-oak had rotted at the corners.
Syyren set his cane in the corner, the tip clicking against the floor. He arranged his robe and pulled down his braies to the floor, hitching them up before carefully lowering himself down, hissing softly when the cold wood met him, the shock running up through bone and stitch alike.
The outhouse creaked under his weight. The star cut into the door, spilled a patch of pale light across his knees. He let his hands rest on them, bracing himself, his breath shallow, the coldness causing his thighs to twitch, and he pulled his robe over his exposed knees.
"ughhhh…"
He groaned faintly as he gave a light push to get things started.
Below, there was motion. The muck sloshed with a wet sound, followed by a low, satisfied gurgle from the pit, him glancing down between his legs to see a large greenish dark shape bubble under him, dripping with whatever filth it ate. If it were not for Syyren being Syyren, a normal person would have freaked out at the form seemingly staring at his butt and man parts.
Syyren closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're early," he muttered.
The slime burbled, a soft bloop that travelled up the wood.
"This isn't going to be quick." He shifted, braced his elbows on his knees, and let out a slow, steady breath. "It feels… lumpy."
Another cheerful gurgle.
He grimaced, lips tight, then bore down with the patience of a man who had stitched arms back onto rotting corpses without flinching but still couldn't quite manage to be dignified on a toilet. A low grunt slipped out of him, unwilling and small, his brow furrowing as the pressure pressed downward, the air thickening with his effort and sweat beading faintly at his hairline. The cold wood beneath him no longer bit so sharply; it had warmed just enough to be clammy instead. The smell rose sharper now, rank and pungent, filling the small space with an undeniable honesty. He wrinkled his nose, tilted his head back against the wall, and breathed through his mouth.
Below, Sam burbled again, happy as a dog waiting under a table.
"You're insufferable," Syyren muttered at the pit.
His stomach gurgled in answer, low and sloshy, and then—relief, brief and partial, rolling through him with the sound of a crackle. He groaned despite himself, half embarrassment, half gratitude, and pressed a hand over his eyes.
From outside, faint through the swamp air, came voices.
At first, he thought he was imagining them. The swamp liked to throw voices back at you. But then he recognized Thena's shrill cheer, muffled but distinct.
"…and this one is for sleep—don't drink two or you'll never wake up again, ha! Kidding. Mostly kidding."
Syyren winced, dropping his hand from his face. He straightened, straining his ears.
Another voice answered. Deep, polished, the kind of voice that carried generations of training in how to sound like you owned everything you saw. Smooth vowels, deliberate pauses. A noble's voice.
Relief fluttered through Syyren's chest. Nobles meant money. Nobles meant shelves cleared in a single sale. Nobles meant he could afford fresh reagents instead of foraging knee-deep in muck for scraps.
He allowed himself a small smile, even as another bubble of effort pulled a grunt out of him. He imagined Thena standing proud behind the counter, wings buzzing smugly as she sold bruise balm for three times the going rate.
And then came a third voice.
High. Sweet. Clear as a bell rung in a small chapel. A child's voice.
Syyren froze. The effort in his body stalled, leaving him clenching awkwardly on the cold seat. He listened harder.
"Daddy, the tiny lady has wings. Can I have wings?"
The girl's voice rose and fell in singsong cadences, questions tumbling over each other. Thena answered in her brisk, no-nonsense tone, words too muffled for him to catch. The child giggled, and the sound carried like sunlight through reeds.
Syyren leaned forward slightly, anxiety prickling under his skin. Children were trouble. He never liked them, their dirty, unwashed hands, nor their questions of curiosity, the way they stared at him with big eyes and screamed if they caught his gaze.
He bore down again, trying to hurry, sweat breaking along his collarbone. The outhouse groaned under him, a long complaint. Another grunt slipped out, louder than he intended. He froze, eyes darting toward the star cutout as though someone might be peeking.
Nothing. Only swamp air drifting in, carrying voices just faint enough to tease him.
He let out a slow breath and tried again, muttering under it, "Come on. Let's be civilized about this."
A crackle answered him, sharp in the cramped wood box. The smell intensified, sour and eye-watering. He pinched his nose with one long-fingered hand, grimacing. "Dignity," he told himself, though it was in short supply.
Below, Sam burbled, approving.
"I wasn't talking to you," Syyren snapped.
The slime blorped again, smug.
And then, over the swamp chorus of frogs and insects and his own straining breaths, came the sound he least wanted to hear.
Small footsteps on the boardwalk. Quick. Light. Uneven, like someone skipping.
His heart jerked against his ribs. He sat up straight, every muscle going rigid. His hand flew to tug his robe tighter around his lap, the thought of someone who has not gone through publicly seeing his manhandled penis sending a jolt through his loins in horror. The steps stopped just outside.
He held his breath.
The door latch rattled.
"Occupied," he hissed under his breath, eyes going wide.
The latch lifted.
The door creaked open, the star of light widening into a blinding wedge.
And there she was.
A little girl, maybe six at most, with wild brown hair tied up in two crooked ribbons. Her dress was fine enough to mark her as noble-born, though the hem was muddy and one knee was scuffed like she'd already tripped three times today. Her eyes, big and round and curious, locked instantly onto him, sitting frozen on the seat.
Syyren's face went dead white, then flushed an impossible bluish-red. His hands jerked up instinctively, one clutching his robe, the other hovering helplessly in the air like he might wave her away. "Closed!" he blurted, voice cracking.
The girl blinked once. Twice. Then she smiled. "Hi."
Syyren wished for death.
The girl leaned against the doorframe, ignoring the smell that rolled out past her like an offensive greeting. She tilted her head, studying him with bright-eyed curiosity. "What are you doing?"
He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. Words failed him. His face burned hotter, confusion burning under the embarrassment. Why was the girl not afraid?
The girl giggled as if reading his thoughts, her rosy cheeks and smile shining that childish innocence that usually caused youth to scream and hide behind something. "Are you pooping?"
Syyren covered his face with both hands and groaned into his palms.
The girl lingered in the doorway, framed by the crooked star of light spilling over her shoulder. She was small, her head barely reaching the latch, ribbons in her hair already fraying into rebellion. Mud streaked her stockings, and she smelled faintly of honeyed bread and wet grass — a sweetness that clashed violently with the ripe air drifting from inside.
Syyren sat frozen on the seat, his hands clamped desperately over his lap, knees drawn together like he might somehow vanish into the woods. His green eyes stared at her over the rims of his fingers, wide and horrified.
"I'm busy." He replied with a frown, pulling her robe slightly up, hoping that exposing the skeletal leg would send her away,
The girl stepped inside as if it were an invitation. Not all the way — just a single muddy shoe planting itself over the threshold, her weight leaning forward with the momentum of curiosity. She ignored the smell entirely. Children, it seemed, had no survival instinct.
Syyren opened his mouth. No good remark came. He made a noise that was half a grunt, half a strangled syllable.
Her smile widened, revealing a slight gap where one tooth was missing. "Are you pooping?"
Syyren's face went scarlet-blue. He pressed his palms against his eyes and groaned. "Why are you here?"
"My papa's talking to the fairy," she said matter-of-factly, rocking back on her heels. "He said I could look around. So I did."
"You shouldn't look around here, not much to see by swamp water," Syyren muttered through his fingers.
"Why not?"
"Because," he said, and the word cracked with the weight of all his shame.
"Because you're pooping?" she asked brightly.
His shoulders hunched so violently the outhouse creaked.
Below, Sam burbled. The slime shifted impatiently, making the wood floor tremble faintly under Syyren's skeletal foot.
The girl gasped and pointed. "What's that noise?"
"Nothing!" Syyren snapped, too quickly. Sweat prickled cold down his spine.
The pit below answered with another cheerful blorp, louder this time.
The girl's eyes lit up. "There's a monster down there, isn't there!" She leaned closer to the hole, moving Syyren's legs, Syyren replying with a speech not expecting it, her ribbons slipping from her hair as she peered into the gloom. "Hello, monster!"
Sam burbled again, almost pleased.
Syyren's stomach gurgled in sympathy, him gently pulling her forward, thinking fast. What would a parent do? What could he even do? What if she touches his cane?!
"sweetie- just… I know the sl-"he pushed, wondering how to word it. "Just stand by the door, please." He choked off.
"Why?"
Before he could say anything in reply, his body decided it had had enough waiting.
The pressure dropped like a stone. His face twisted, teeth gritting, and then it came. A deep, spluttering crackle that echoed off the wood like a firework stuffed into a log. The smell followed immediately, sharp and sour, filling the air with undeniable truth.
The girl squealed with delight. "You are pooping!" she said, clapping her hands together. "I poop to!"!
Syyren wanted to die. He pressed both hands to his face, muffling a groan, his shoulders shaking with humiliation.
"You sound like my papa," she chirped happily. "He makes noises like that, too! Except his are louder."
Syyren peeked at her between his fingers, mortified. "Please leave."
She shook her head, curls bouncing. "No. I wanna watch."
His breath caught. "Wh—watch?!"
"Not like watch, watch." She wrinkled her nose. "That's gross. I just wanna sit here. You can keep pooping. I'll talk."
Sam burbled again, this time with a low, hungry gloop, like laughter.
"Stop encouraging her," Syyren hissed down at the hole.
The slime sloshed once more, unapologetic.
The girl plopped herself onto the floorboards just inside the doorway, folding her legs neatly under her dress. She rested her chin in her hands and looked up at him with wide-eyed seriousness. "Does it hurt?"
"What?"
"When you poop. Papa says sometimes it hurts if he eats too much bread. Does it hurt you, too?"
Syyren dragged a hand down his face. His chest rose and fell with strained breathing, every word squeezed out between clenched teeth. "That is… an extremely personal question."
She nodded solemnly. "Papa says personal things all the time."
Another groan rumbled through his belly. He clutched the edge of the seat, nails digging into the wood, and bore down in spite of himself. A sharp grunt escaped him, humiliating and loud.
The girl gasped, delighted. "You sound just like Papa when he pushes! Except you're skinnier. And bonier. Are you a skeleton?"
"I am not—" he started, but another crackle tore through the silence, cutting him off. The smell rolled out again, sharper now, eye-watering.
The girl waved her hand in front of her face and giggled. "That's worse than Papa's!"
Syyren dropped his head into his hands, face burning. His long hair spilled forward around him like a curtain, but it did nothing to hide him from her relentless stare.
Below, Sam burbled twice, impatient, hungry.
"I said it would take a while," Syyren muttered into his palms.
The slime replied with a loud glorp, the sound wet and demanding.
The girl attempted to move his legs again, Syyren putting up his arms. "Do you eat poop, monster?" she asked cheerfully.
Syyren choked, coughing into his hand. "Don't ask it that!"
"Why not?"
"Because—because it does!"
The girl's eyes went wide. "Cool."
Syyren groaned louder than before, pressing both hands over his ears now. His body strained again beneath him, another long, groaning grunt slipping free despite all his willpower.
The girl giggled into her hands. "You're funny. You grunt like my daddy, but you're all skinny and stitched. Are you a skeleton man who poops like a daddy?"
Syyren thought seriously about flinging himself into the swamp just to escape.
Syyren squeezed his eyes shut. His body was betraying him in humiliating increments — groans and splutters that escaped no matter how tightly he clenched. Every time he thought he'd steadied himself, another bubbling gurgle built in his belly, demanding release.
The girl sat cross-legged just inside the doorway, swinging her foot idly, completely unbothered by the thickening stench. "You make lots of funny noises," she said. "Do all skeleton men poop that loud?"
"I am not—" he began, but his words broke into a strangled grunt as his body forced another crackle out of him, sharp and wet-sounding. The smell hit like a wall. His face twisted, skin flushed deep blue with shame.
The girl squealed and clapped. "That one sounded like Papa's after he eats stew!"
Syyren buried his face in his hands. He wanted to sink through the wood, through the slime, into the dark mud of the swamp and never be seen again.
Below, Sam gave a long, delighted burble, a sloshing gloop that shook the floorboards.
"Stop celebrating," Syyren hissed down through his fingers.
The slime only answered with another gurgling pop, smug and hungry as if disagreeing.
Syyren's stomach knotted again, a hot cramp twisting through him. He doubled over, clutching his knees, sweat running cold along his back. He groaned low, teeth gritting, and his body finally gave in, his clutching and trying to let out small pieces to ease the pressure, giving way to his undead figuration.
It came in a flood — a long, bubbling crackle that rolled on and on, followed by a heavy splash into the pit. The outhouse shuddered faintly with the force of it. The smell thickened instantly, sharp enough to sting his nose.
The girl gasped in awe. "That was a big one! You really are just like Papa!"
Syyren could hardly breathe. His chest rose and fell in ragged gulps as he clutched the seat, shaking with the effort of surviving his own humiliation.
Another burble from below, louder, jubilant. Sam sloshed in delight, wood vibrating with its excitement.
"Greedy bastard," Syyren muttered weakly, glaring down.
"Are you done yet?" the girl asked sweetly, wrinkling her nose against the air.
Syyren froze. Done? No. Not nearly. Another cramp twisted his insides, warning him there was more to come. And worse still, the problem afterward. He gazed at the crumpled roll of cloth sitting in the corner, his mind filling with horror at the thought of reaching for it, moving at all, while the girl sat there with her wide eyes.
"No," he said hoarsely. "Not done."
Another wave struck him, and he groaned, clutching his sides as another loud crackling rush burst from him, splattering below. The sound was obscene, echoing off the wood, punctuated by Sam's greedy slurp.
The girl giggled behind her hands. "You sound funny when you push. Do you always grunt like that?"
His hands shook as they clutched his knees. He couldn't take it anymore. His pride was ruined already, ground down to nothing.
He tipped his head back and shouted, voice cracking. "Thena!"
No answer came.
"thena!" He yelled louder, the child seemly happy with the noise, her deeming.
Still no answer, other than the slime making a sickening noise as it stretched out wanting more.
With a breath, he closed his eyes, imagining the little fairy in his mind. The blue hair and little dress, the twist pixie smile she always had and the cocky grin it would slip into. With her imagination in her mind, he tapped his cane once. I need you. I'm being humiliated by a menace to society.
The swamp seemed to go still for a moment. Then, faintly, her voice drifted through the crooked walls. "What now?"
Syyren groaned again, half in pain, half in desperation. "Get in here!"
The girl brightened. "Is she gonna poop too?"
"No!" Syyren snapped, glaring at her. "She's going to—" He cut himself off, face burning, tears prickling his eyes. His voice dropped into a strangled whisper. "She's going to help."
The girl tilted her head. "Help you poop because it hurts?"
Syyren's jaw clenched so hard it ached.
The door creaked wider, and Thena's silhouette appeared, haloed by swamp light. She leaned lazily against the frame, arms folded, smirk tugging at her lips as the smell hit her nose. "Well," she said. "Looks like you're busy."
"Thena," Syyren hissed, clutching his lap like a shield. "I need you to… handle something."
She arched a brow. "Handle what?"
"You know what," he ground out. His face was a storm of shame, blue cheeks blazing red-violet at the edges.
The little girl's eyes darted between them, curious. "What does she have to handle?"
"Nothing!" Syyren barked. Then he lowered his voice, desperate. "I can't… I can't wipe while she's here. She won't leave."
Thena's smirk widened, wicked and delighted. "You want me to wipe your bony ass?"
Syyren's groan was long and guttural, head dropping forward into his hands.
Sam burbled approvingly from below, as if casting the deciding vote.
Thena crouched just outside the door, arms folded, the smirk never leaving her face. "You know," she said lightly, "I don't think she's going anywhere. She's planted like a swamp lily."
Syyren groaned into his palms. "Then get rid of her."
The little girl perked up. "I don't want to go! I like watching the Skeleton Man."
"Stars above," Syyren muttered.
Thena's laughter rippled out, bright and wicked. She stood, leaning her head out toward the road where the noble still lingered with his coin purse in hand. "Oi! Your little one's camped in the outhouse," she called. "Our Syyren's in there, giving his slime a feast, and she's making a study of the whole ordeal."
The girl's father nearly dropped his purse. His face went pale, then crimson. "N-naya!" He swooped forward, scooping her up in both arms. She squealed in protest, legs kicking.
"But Papa, the skeleton man—"
"Enough," he said, voice strangled with embarrassment. He pressed a hand over her mouth and gave Thena a mortified bow. "I am… profoundly sorry."
Thena only shrugged, grinning. "Buy two extra bottles of the red restorative, and we'll call it even."
The mage hesitated. His daughter wriggled in his arms, muffled words about "pooping noises" spilling out under his hand. With a defeated sigh, he dug into his purse and pulled free a generous stack of coins. "Fine. All of them. Whatever you've got."
"Good man." Thena plucked the gold with one hand and waved him away with the other. "Off you go. Your daughter's education can resume at a later age."
The man didn't need to be told twice. He fled with the girl squirming against his chest, her voice trailing off down the lane.
Thena closed the outhouse door behind her with a lazy shove. The light dimmed, leaving only the reek and the muffled sound of Syyren's breathless groans. She stepped inside, pinching her nose with exaggerated drama. "Gods, Syyr. Smells like you're rotting from the inside out."
He hunched lower, clutching his lap. "Just… shut up."
Another spasm gripped him, and he cried out through clenched teeth as his body forced more from him, crackling and splattering in loud, miserable bursts. Sam burbled beneath in sheer delight, shaking the boards with its glee.
"Disgusting," Thena said, though her grin gave her away. She leaned casually against the wall, watching him suffer. "Anyway, our noble mage friend just bought half the shop's stock. We're rich in coin if not in dignity."
Syyren groaned, rocking on the seat, sweat darkening his shirt. "Wonderful. At least someone profits from this hell."
Thena crouched at the corner, rummaging in a crate where they kept spare wipes. She pulled a folded stack free, wrinkling her nose as she shook them out. "You know," she mused, "I never imagined our glorious warrior reduced to this. Calling for help on the toilet. Begging me to wipe his ass like a helpless babe."
"Stop." His voice cracked. Another wet rush poured out of him, hissing into the slime pit. The smell deepened, acrid and thick. He buried his face in his hand. "I'll kill myself before I live this down."
"Not before I'm done." Thena knelt by him with the wipes in hand. She sighed, her smirk turning rueful. "Lift up, bonehead. Let's get this over with."
He obeyed reluctantly, cheeks blazing violet-blue, hands trembling as he leaned forward slightly. She wrinkled her nose and went about it, quick and efficient, though her muttered curses and gagging noises filled the tiny space.
Sam burbled below, as if cheering her on.
"You shut up, too," she snapped at the slime, swatting the floorboards.
Syyren squeezed his eyes shut, shivering with shame. But when she finished, when the last wipe was cast into the pit and Thena stood again, wiping her hands on a cloth, he let out a long, ragged sigh. Relief, humiliation, and gratitude all at once.
"Done," she announced, tossing her hair back. "Next time you do it yourself, skeleton man. I'm not your nursemaid."
He groaned low, voice muffled. "I owe you."
"You owe me coin, dinner, and maybe a new nose." She flung the door open, letting clean swamp air flood the cramped space. The sun broke through, warm and golden, cutting through the stink.
Syyren sagged forward, drained. Sam gave one last, satisfied burble beneath him, the sound of a full belly.
Finally, after five minutes, he rose to his feet, his skeletal leg creaking at the shift, with a familiar sting of pins and needles.
The door creaked shut behind him, and he leaned into the sudden wash of open air, dragging it into his lungs until the stink inside began to fade. His bones still ached, his pride worse.
Thena clapped him on the shoulder as she passed, all wicked grin and no sympathy. "Good work, soldier. You lived through it."
He shot her a look but said nothing, fishing a slim roll of leaf from his coat. With a snap of flint and a steady hand, he lit it and took a long, grounding drag. The smoke curled blue into the swamp air, mixing with the buzzing hum of insects. For the first time in an hour, he felt almost human again.
Down the lane, the noble mage's carriage rattled as it set off, the horse clopping briskly through the muddy road. The mage sat stiff as a board, face crimson as though he'd been struck by fever.
The girl, though, leaned out the window with uncontainable joy. Her small voice rang clear across the road. "Papa! Papa, skeletons poop! He makes noises just like you!"
Syyren froze mid-drag, the ember glowing bright between his fingers. The smoke caught in his throat, and he choked on it, coughing as heat flared in his cheeks.
The father pulled her back inside the carriage, mortified, his own face redder than Syyren's. He barked something sharp, muffled by the rumble of wheels. The girl only giggled in answer.
Thena nearly doubled over beside him, laughter spilling out unchecked. "Stars, Syyr, she's never going to forget you."
He let the smoke trickle from between his teeth, eyes narrowed at the receding carriage. "If the ground opened up right now, I wouldn't complain."
Thena wiped tears of laughter from her eyes, still grinning widely. "Don't worry, you creepy skeleton. Give it a week, and they'll just remember the potions."
Syyren took another long drag, holding it until the ember dimmed, then exhaled slowly, watching the carriage disappear around the bend. The swamp hummed on, indifferent. His stomach ached with emptiness, his pride with bruises, but for the first time that day, he allowed himself the ghost of a smile.