Rocking Hard, Volume 2

by Samantha M. Derr

  "I'm not talking about sex," Hawk said quickly. Despite the coldness of his skin, he felt a flash of heat leap into his cheeks as a memory of the two of them together, innocent and human, flashed through his mind. He couldn't allow himself to be distracted by images like that, he reminded himself, pleasant though they might have been. They would never again be the men they were back then, whether Aldor retrieved his emotions or not. Too much had happened both to them and to the world outside. Still, just because things would be different didn't mean they couldn't be good again.

  "What, then?" Aldor asked suspiciously.

  Just as Hawk opened his mouth to stall him, the answer hit him with the force of an arrow straight to the middle of his chest.

  "Very simple. It's something we should have tried in the first place." A smile spread across Hawk's face. Not even Aldor's cynical gaze dimmed his enthusiasm. "I'm going to sing to you."

  TRACK SEVEN

  "Come with me." Hawk rose and motioned for Aldor to follow him. Aldor stood, his eyes still narrow with doubt.

  "Where are we going? And what did you mean about singing to me?" His mood darkened further when they stepped into Hawk's vast bedroom. Aldor's gaze darted around the room and paused on the king-sized bed. "Was that some kind of metaphor for … "

  "Not at all. I meant it quite literally. Now just do as I ask and don't ask me any questions just yet. We'll know soon enough if my idea has merit."

  "All right," Aldor said with a weary shrug.

  "I brought you in here not because of the bed, but because of something else I keep here." Hawk moved to stand in front of an immense, deeply polished mahogany wardrobe that seemed to take up half the room. Opening the doors revealed a neatly organized row of t-shirts, leather jackets, and jeans in various colors and states of wear, as well as a guitar and a laptop case. Hawk reached behind them and brought out another oddly shaped instrument case. Placing it gently on the edge of the bed, he lifted out an object wrapped in plush red cloth.

  Aldor's brows peaked as Hawk stripped away the fabric and held the item up for him to see.

  "I can't believe you still have it," Aldor whispered, marveling at the sight of the very old and still exquisitely beautiful lute. "Surely that can't be the same one that you…"

  "It is the very same one I played for you, and for Duke Corbin, and for many others, all those centuries ago," Hawk confirmed. "It's worth a fortune now, but I would never consider selling it—not even to a museum. Even now, I still turn to it when I need special inspiration. I guess that no matter how long I exist in my present form, part of me will always be that eager thirteenth century lad who longed to share his gift of music." He cradled the lute in his arms and fixed Aldor with a penetrating stare as his fingers plucked lightly at the strings. "The same lad you fell in love with."

  "Nonsense." Aldor's voice sounded tight, and Hawk could see the muscles in his throat swelling. "The men we were back then are gone. Their forms may still exist, but as for the rest, nothing remains. Did I tell you I recently went back to the castle where it all happened that night?"

  Hawk shook his head, saying nothing but inviting Aldor to continue with a look. His fingers continued to move, warming up and tuning the instrument simultaneously.

  "Well, I did," Aldor said in a satisfied, almost smug, tone. "Just last year. I happened to be in the general area, and I remembered the way. Do you know what I found when I got there? A pile of rubble on an eroded motte, Hawk, with a plaque explaining that this was once the site of a grand, but unnamed, castle. Without that pitiful marker, no one would ever have known."

  "Perhaps no one now," Hawk said. He tried a simple sequence of six notes, the introduction to a ballad that had proved especially popular during his early tours. Great knights and their lords alike had rewarded him well for playing it. Aldor recognized it, he knew. Hawk saw him grit his teeth as he tried to suppress the memory, perhaps. "But we know. And as long as we go on, doesn't the past still exist in some way?"

  "No, it doesn't. You're a dreamer, Hawk. You want to deal in abstracts, in emotions, in the truth of the spirit. That's probably understandable, given that you are actually dead. I, on the other hand, exist in the world of the living. My world consists of things I can see or touch and nothing else."

  "You're forgetting one thing," Hawk said with a smile. He played a few more notes of the ballad. "For a few hours tonight, your world is going to consist of what you can hear. Please, take a seat and make yourself comfortable." He nodded toward another leather-upholstered chair in the corner of the bedroom. "You're about to be treated to what I hope will be the performance of several lifetimes."

  Though he still looked as if he were about to protest, Aldor fell silent and instead settled himself down as requested. He occupied the chair as though awaiting some unpleasant interview, his fingertips pressed together as his hands rested in his lap. His gaze remained blank, fixed on the floor in front of his feet. Not the most receptive audience, Hawk reflected, but he'd encountered worse in his days travelling through the courts of Britain. Back then, he would have drunk warm ale and honey to loosen his throat and free his voice. Tonight, he had nothing but his own skill to depend upon. The songs he chose would have to reach deep into his own memories as well as Aldor's. They would have to be nothing less than, literally, soul-stirring.

  After drawing in a long, steadying breath and flexing his fingers one last time, Blackhawk the minstrel began to perform.

  He sang in styles long out of vogue, the songs of a world reduced to dust and wreckage, and with a passion he didn't think he had truly tapped into since his own pulse had faded. He sang of love, of lust, of sweethearts forced apart, of lives changed forever by the power of devotion and loyalty. He sang ballads, love songs, and freeform music and lyrics of his own spontaneous invention. Hours passed, leaving his vocal chords aching and his bloodless fingers raw and split. His eyes were bleary with exhaustion and his head pounded with tension. If his heart had still beat, Hawk felt certain it would have raced hard enough to make him feel faint and short of breath. But still he kept on.

  Finally, Hawk knew he had nothing left to give. Dawn was less than an hour away, and his undead body had never felt so exhausted. After sounding his final note, he stepped back as the lute sagged in his limp arms. He stumbled against the bed and just managed to set the delicate instrument down before he crumpled to his knees on the floor. Slowly, he looked up at Aldor.

  Throughout the performance, Aldor hadn't moved a muscle. He had listened intently, though, with his head bowed against his steepled fingers and his half-closed eyes dark and unreadable. As silence again settled over the room, he still didn't budge. He didn't even lift his gaze to meet Hawk's wide, despondent eyes.

  Too drained to climb to his feet, Hawk crawled across the carpet and knelt between Aldor's booted feet. His trembling hands moved to cover Aldor's outstretched fingers.

  "Tell me I was able to reach you at last," Hawk managed to croak. His throat felt as though he had swallowed pounds of sand and been garroted afterward. Tears burned in his eyes, welling against his lower lids until they burst free and raced down his cheeks. "Tell me that in all that time, you managed to feel something."

  Moving in slow motion, almost as though he were underwater, Aldor shifted in his chair and raised his head. When their eyes met, Hawk could hardly believe what he saw. Tears glistened against Aldor's soft gold lashes as well.

  "I did feel something," he confessed. "It wasn't much—a twinge, at most—but it was there, Hawk. I recognized it right away. It was really there."

  His exhaustion forgotten, Hawk raised himself until Aldor's waiting embrace swept him up the rest of the way. That time, their kiss blazed into life like a flame touched to paper. Hawk soon lost himself in the sensation of Aldor's mouth against his and Aldor's steady heart thudding against his own lifeless chest.

  He never lost track of the swift approach of dawn, though. "We don't have much time," he said as he tugged his lips away and rested h
is weight against Aldor's sturdy arms.

  "I understand," Aldor nodded, glancing at the window. "But how did you know this would work? After everything I've tried—"

  "'Twas what you said earlier," Hawk explained. "You said you still considered my voice beautiful. A sentiment like that could only come from one's soul. I knew there had to be a piece of it left in you somewhere—a seed we can nurture until it flowers again."

  "It may take some time," Aldor said uncertainly.

  "Well, that's of no concern to us. We have an eternity to get it right—the difference is, we'll be working together this time." Standing, he moved to pull the drapes and then quickly rewrapped his lute. "I have to get ready for daylight now," he said reluctantly, as he pulled his sunproof box out from under the bed. "But you'll be back tonight, I hope."

  Aldor rose from his chair, his tears flowing freely as a genuine smile tilted his mouth. "You know I will be. And the one after that. And many, many more to follow."

  As Hawk prepared to slip into his makeshift coffin for the next few hours, he reflected on the strange humor he found in the situation. Both of them had lived lives that in human terms would have seemed close to forever. Both of them had traveled the globe many times over and had no doubt seen every sight known to mankind, then and now.

  Yet, now that they could see it all again together, it seemed as though a wonderful new adventure was beginning. The world itself seemed new again, beautiful and fresh and ready to explore.

  His Aldor had returned.

  ACCEPTANCE

  Alessandra Ebulu

  I have always had a thing for words. They are like images swimming before me. All I have to do is reach out, take hold and own them. If I had been born in a different time, with magical abilities, I would have been the mage who has an affinity for the words he uses to cast his spells. But, I'm just a man who sometimes writes lyrics to songs that will never be sung, who is attempting to acquire his bachelor's degree, and who goes home to the words in his head. Which all leads me to the question: Who am I?

  Lars Graves ran his eyes down the page of his journal. It had been three months since his doctor told him to use the journal to discover himself and come out of his shell. Lars' lips curled in a wry smile. Why the man thought keeping a journal would encourage him to become an extrovert he had no idea. The man's doctorate should be withdrawn. What sort of shrink told his extremely introverted patient to spend all his days writing thoughts in a book? Any intelligent person would know that keeping a journal encouraged a reclusive nature and introspection. But because the doctor went to a school that deemed him worthy to give such a prognosis, Lars had to grin and bear it.

  He felt the sudden brush of something dry and flaky on his skin. A glance at his arm revealed that a leaf had fallen from the tree and made its way to his arm. The sight of the leaf strangely enough made him more depressed as it reminded him that nature, time, waited for no one. Time was flying by quickly, and he doubted if his shrink would give him the all clear he needed to pass Professor Coleson's class.

  As he stood in the middle of the school's campus, distant and unaware of all that was transpiring around him, his mind drifted back to the meeting.

  Lars raised his hands and knocked gently on the oak door. The brass nameplate on the door clearly said Professor Xavier Coleson. Lars felt some trepidation when one of his classmates from his behavioural analysis class—Paul, he thought the man was called—had informed him that Professor Coleson had asked that Lars come to his office.

  It was surprising because Professor Coleson never seemed to pay any particular attention to Lars in class. If anyone had asked him, Lars would have said that he was certain that Professor Coleson was unaware of his existence. Professor Coleson had always given the impression of being an entity that lived on another plane of existence, separate from the one that humans existed on. He was Professor Coleson, tall, foreboding, brusque, brilliant and the father of his ex. Not like Professor Coleson ever noticed that Lars and Curtis had dated for about eight months during their sophomore year. Curtis never introduced Lars to his father. It would have looked like Lars was trying to be chummy with Professor Coleson, and Curtis had stated that he felt that Lars' classmates would have smelled a rat. Everyone would assume that the only reason why Lars passed Professor Coleson's class was because he had hooked up with Professor Coleson's son. Lars had certainly seen reason in Curtis' words. But then again, Curtis was a reasonable S.O.B.

  "Come in." The voice was low and sounded mildly distracted.

  Lars turned the knob, and the door opened with a slight creak. He walked into the room, and his eyes encountered the sight of Professor Coleson furiously scribbling away in a spiral notebook. His hair was jet black with streaks of grey. His bright blue eyes, just like Curtis', were hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses that kept sliding down and off his face. He was seated, but Lars knew Professor Coleson was still trim and fit for his age because of all the jogs he took all over the campus at dawn. If a person jogged, then he or she was most likely to have shared a path with Professor Coleson at one time or another. It was common knowledge.

  Lars waited patiently for the professor to acknowledge his presence. While he waited, he took in the sight of Professor Coleson's office. The room was painted brown but was offset by a cream-coloured rug on the floor. Various plaques that clearly proclaimed the multiple awards that had been given to Professor Coleson for his work adorned each wall.

  "Well, have a seat, Larson. I don't have all day and I'm sure you don't have all day either."

  Professor Coleson's words broke the spell, and Lars gave a small nod and allowed his body to settle into the comfort of the seat.

  "Do you know the reason why I have called you here, Larson?" Professor Coleson asked. He took off his glasses and folded them carefully into his glasses case. Then, he steepled his fingers together and levelled a look on Lars.

  The repeated use of his full name made Lars feel slightly weird. The only people who called him Larson were his parents, and the name was usually accompanied by sighs and words full of disappointment. He had always disappointed his parents, and they never allowed him to forget it.

  "No I do not, sir," Lars replied. Since he had received the summons, he had racked his brain carefully for a possible reason for the order, but nothing came to mind.

  "You've taken all my offered courses throughout your stay in this school, Larson. I've watched you. You've also been a somewhat social person. Not a party-going extrovert, but definitely someone who says 'hello' and smiles at those around him. Or at least you were until you dated my son in your second year."

  Lars gave a start. He felt his mouth open slightly. He had assumed that his relationship had escaped Professor Coleson's notice.

  "You seem surprised. I'm not completely oblivious, Larson. I have eyes and ears, and I'm intelligent enough to know when Curtis is with a new lover. I watched you somewhat bloom until your relationship came to an end. That was when things went downhill. Of course, your grades did not suffer."

  Which was the truth. He had to throw himself into school so that he could numb the pain of the heartbreak. But if his work had not been affected, why was he having a conversation with Professor Coleson?

  "But, you lost interest in your environment. You entered this shell, and only come out when Miss Cain is around. Now, I'm not related to you, nor am I your mentor or your friend, so I'm certain you're wondering about the reason I've asked to see you. What is your major, Larson?"

  "Social psychology, sir."

  "The truth, Mr. Graves, is that to be a graduate of any form of psychology, an individual must be given to observation, especially observing others and how they behave. Your distance, though, has prevented you from doing that, and it is something that the other professors have noticed as well." Professor Coleson opened one of the drawers and brought out a card. It had Walter Holden, Psychologist printed neatly in gold letters on it.

  Lars raised his head to glance at Professor Coleson
. First the switch to addressing him more formally and then a card that had the information of a psychologist; this would not be good.

  "Call and make an appointment with Walter Holden. He's expecting your call. You are to meet him and follow whatever suggestions he has for you. He has to give you an 'all clear' before I can approve and allow you to graduate. You stand a chance of graduating magna cum laude, and you need to be able to live up to the standard of a professional social psychologist of this university. Something you can only do if you've worked through whatever is holding you back."

  *~*~*

  That was three months ago. He had been meeting Dr. Holden every Wednesday, but the man still hadn't cleared him. It would have been easier if he knew what Dr. Holden wanted to hear or see exactly. But he didn't and he was still stuck.

  Suddenly, he felt hands wrap around his neck and heard a laugh he would always remember, even if he suffered from some sort of amnesia. He smiled. Frieda was back in town.

  "You shouldn't look so depressed, Lars. You'll get lines and then you won't be able to get that job as a world famous model, and then you won't be able to sustain me in the life of luxury I have craved all my life."

  "I only look this depressed when you're not around to pull me out of the hole, Frieda. And if you want to live the life of the rich and famous, you should be the one trying out as a model. You'll do better than me at it anyway. Wait. Let me think about that for a minute." Lars raised his head and rubbed his forehead like he was deep in thought. "Nah. We'll both suck at it. We're too temperamental. Everybody would hate us."

  "Ah! But will they hate us because we'll always call them out on their shit, or will they hate us because we are gorgeous and we know it?" She struck a pose and ran her fingers through her hair.

  "That or our complete lack of humility," Lars replied with a laugh. "Let me look at you properly." He turned around fully to look at Frieda Cain. They had been best friends since they were five and Frieda had kicked the school bully in the shin for trying to forcefully take Lars' lunch from him. They had bonded over the then symbolic lunch, and they had been friends ever since.