Someone You Can Build a Nest In

by John Wiswell

Still, Shesheshen would always miss the nest that her father had made out of himself. He had been a good parent, and a better setting.

“Oh, yes. I’ll just burn a stone building. Thank goodness I hired professional advice.”

On a rack beside the door was a set of wigs she’d made from the scalps that people hadn’t been using anymore.

The third man hid behind them, wearing golden plate armor all the way up to his throat. Who wore gold for defense? It wasn’t holy, it was terribly heavy, and it was one of the softest metals Shesheshen had ever bitten.

She mimicked Malik’s holy sign with one hand, then resumed clutching her cloak. For some reason, clutching at clothing was a classic human sign of being pathetic. In her experience, clothing never ran away from you even when a monster literally ate your head.

“I’m not riding around the countryside until my ball hairs turn gray looking for magic weeds. Mother is paying you to kill the thing this week. It cannot be alive when she arrives.”

But humans never stood up for the right thing. They stood around feeling uncomfortable, and later pretended that feeling uncomfortable meant they were virtuous.

Blueberry loved the runny bits of a victim.

It was some sort of love. Not the kind of love that made you plant your eggs in someone and turn them into a parent, but a kind of love.

Among the logs of the fire, the blackened remains of several more toys burned. It was as if the whole party had been in favor of getting rid of toys they couldn’t sell. Was this a holiday she usually hibernated through?

But this? To be dying from the poison of those assassins, and while looking for emergency food to survive the injury, to be told by a drunk rich boy with inconvenient hair that she had never really existed?

Humans were so creative in their disappointments.

Weaknesses were a human invention. They called it your weakness if they fantasized about murdering you with it.

Here Shesheshen could barely stay on top of her horse, and there were people who could loose arrows in full gallop? She needed to eat whatever gave that woman her sense of balance.

Homily explained, “When I grew up, I always thought witches would wear things like this. But none of the witches I’ve met wore hats. It was a little disappointing.” Shesheshen was not a witch, so she wore it.

Nobody actually helped each other. That’s why people had religions, hoping gods would provide help where people refused.

This explained why Blueberry had abandoned Shesheshen in the middle of their hike to town. She’d gone north, in the direction of the ravine. She’d smelled a tasty scent and thought it was supper. And to be fair, Homily did look delicious.

“Heh heh,” Shesheshen said, trying to approximate polite mirth.

Homily’s broad face drew into a scowl, like she might bite something. It was the first time Shesheshen had seen her in such a foul mood. With her wide shoulders hunching, she looked like Blueberry when she was upset over having a fish taken away.

Mirrors hung on the walls, to trick you into thinking you were company.

Shesheshen had seen few letters, but based on Homily’s exhalations as she read it, this was a bad one. They were all bad to her, but that feeling was partially because she was illiterate.

Homily should come be unconscious with her, in their free bed. They could figure out how to adequately punish people for making it free later, after Shesheshen figured out why free things were bad.

She could burrow under the sheets, but it was not her place. This was Homily’s room. It was her right to come ruin the too-tight sheets to her liking when she got back.

Underlook had made a mess in their celebration of her death, and then used their fear of her still being alive as an excuse to not clean up after themselves. That lack of accountability was typical to humans.

“This is what I mean. You are who I mean it to.” Was that too opaque? Too threatening? The amount of social cues she had to care about bewildered her.

As the dueling violinists struck up the next song, Homily came in close, like a wolf going for the jugular. It would have been a pleasant bite.

Homily fished out one of Shesheshen’s hands, lacing their fingers together delicately until they were a wickerwork of flesh. Shesheshen wondered if wicker chairs felt this happy about interlacing.

Was this why humans shared beds so much? Because it reminded them, ever so vaguely, of when they had nested inside their parents?

“That’s not so odd. Night is very similar to day. All the same things are on the ground. Just different things in the sky.”

That masked woman said, “You two gab birds are out late. It’s lucky you came across us and not some criminals. My name is Aristocracy.” Shesheshen said, “My name is—” They did not care what her name was. Aristocracy talked over her, “These are my workmates, Plutocracy and Kleptocracy. Welcome to the toll station.”

Romance was awful. She couldn’t even do something as simple as murdering rude people anymore.

She poked at one of the candelabras and asked, “Would you say yes if someone proposed marriage in here?” “I . . . I don’t know. This is all so sudden. I know I’m well to do, and have an effect on women, but do you feel like . . .” “I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m asking if this room is suitably romantic.” “Of course you aren’t.”

Shesheshen clasped both hands over the wound, leaning more of her weight onto it. Homily’s whine made her feel guilty, like she might as well have been holding the short sword herself right now.

Homily touched at the fabric covering her wound. “It doesn’t hurt at all. Is there a numbing agent? And without sutures?” “You won’t need to sew. It will encourage your body to suture itself.” There was a shift, and Homily reclined, resting the heavy curves of her back against Shesheshen. “I didn’t know you were an actual witch when I gave you that hat.”

This time when Homily laughed, all the ripples in her large body resonated against Shesheshen. It was better than warmth. It was hypnotic. It was a generosity of skin, like all of Homily was consensually shapeshifting for her, taking the form of shelter. Together, they were like the waves on the seashore.

You could not excrete memories. They could not be surgically removed. It was unjust.

Light snores started to spill from her, each time ending in a sucking sound, like she was pulling the sounds back inside herself. It was an animal grinding noise. It was a thing Shesheshen could have listened to for a lifetime.

Shesheshen would’ve admired her girlfriend’s intelligence, if she wasn’t using that intelligence to kill her.

With hands still covering her mouth, Homily watched the creature. Now she was the one who needed to be reminded to blink. Then she said, “Wait.” “Is it too horrible to face?” “Is that a sheep with deer horns tied to its head?” “What?” Shesheshen pushed in to look at the Wyrm of Underlook.

The irony that she had to make sure no monster hunters killed Homily, who was off hunting a monster, made Shesheshen question her own existence.

Humans loved complaining about the smells of places. By sheer frequency of behavior, it was their second favorite thing, after going in private to defecate.

Having a nose made Shesheshen immediately feel more human, because it let her do what humans liked most: complain. “Who shat this place out?” she asked as they rode past the lichen-conquered boulders that marked Underlook’s town limits.

Homily had another way of sidestepping humanity’s penchant for complaining: enjoying herself. People could simply choose not to hate things.

Shesheshen didn’t need to be protected from a tray of tarts.

“I am not interested,” Shesheshen said. “That is who I am.”

What was this physical nonsense? It was her body.

Out of nowhere, that damned heart-like abomination in her chest blazed. It felt like hands wrung it out, like a dish towel full of blood. Her entire body started to feel wrung out, and she had to seal up various orifices to make sure she wasn’t squeezed dry.

One of them reached for the other’s hand. Whoever it was didn’t matter. They clasped hands, and basked in quiet warmth for a moment, until Shesheshen’s world steadied. Then they walked together toward the music.

Dressing up so that you could eat never made sense to Shesheshen; the food was typically dead and surely unimpressed with its audience.

You know what an impossible fuck my brother was? He chewed up dragons and spit out . . . kittens, or something.”