Tryggve Beardaughter, who bore the body, face and clothes of Mads the apprentice, whatever his last name was, sat on the edge of the bed and rolled his thumbs. Left over right. Right over left. Left over right. 

The single candle had burned to a nub. Unlike Hjordis’s room his bore the theme of white lilies. The flower of death and mourning. How fitting. They all attended him in the dark. Not moving, thank the nine. 

He sat and rolled his thumbs and did not think about anything in particular, certainly not what he and Hjordis had just done in the room above. Never, never that. The city outside went quiet street by street, shutter by shutter screwed tight and shut, until only the night guard’s boots remained, scraping cobblestone two floors down in this irregular lazy rhythm. 

Left over right. 

“Right,” he said to no one. “Grand plan Tryggve.”

He rolled his thumbs for a while longer. Then he went to the window.

The baker’s stall stood empty. A dog nosed around the base of it, thin and patchy, selected a corner post and pissed against it at great unhurried length. The night guard rounded the far corner, stopped, dug a finger into his nostril to the second knuckle, inspected the findings, coughed three times. 

Tryggve watched dully. The dog finished. Moved on. The guard coughed again and disappeared around a building. 

The city slept. Greenlake, asleep, was almost as interesting as Greenlake awake, which was not saying much.

He went back to the bed. Lay flat on top of the covers with his arms out and stared at the ceiling. 

He was not thinking about Oskar Helmbane’s daughter riding him. The sunflowers watching, the way the air had thickened to a flavor he’d tasted before. Old and loamy and mineral rich like grave dirt. He’d wanted to be somewhere else entirely, ideally dead. First and probably last time he’d spend inside a woman. 

He was absolutely not thinking about any of that.

“Has the world gone mad, or is it me?”

To answer that he started doing the backstroke. Both arms rotating in slow alternating arcs, shoulder blades working against the mattress, head lolling gently from side to side. He closed his eyes. 

First days of summer. Virgin leaves on the trees. Water running so cold it made your teeth ache, sky pressing down blue and bright and entirely indifferent to teenage arms striped blue with fresh bruises, the dress on the bank where he’d thrown it, front panel ruined dark with beet juice and the other things they'd thrown before the water, before he'd gotten into the water to get it off him. 

Teenage Tryggve had had no idea, lying there in the cold water with his arms out, that had been his peak performance. Gotten the most laughs out of that one. The Hanging, less laughs, more gags.

Both arms still rotating. 

Lovely. Excellent. Very good summers. Still alive. Why wasn’t he dead yet. No. Stop thinking about it. 

His left hand completed its arc. Landed on Mads’s flat stomach. Traveled south. Stopped. He opened his eyes. The ceiling.

“Now then,” he said. He needed something else to think about, a palate cleanser, entirely reasonable. 

His other hand slapped it. 

“Ow!” He sat up. Looked at both hands. “Which one of me did that!” 

The hand made a placating gesture. 

“You’ll regret it after, you always—” He pointed at his own right hand. “You’re not my mother.”

He lay back down. Folded both arms across his chest under supervision. 

“Still,” he muttered. “Rude.”

He shifted onto his side, propped his head in his hand. 

“You’re disgusting you know,” said the other him. In protest of his own thinking, he sat up, hand pressed to Mads’s chest.

“Beg your pardon?” 

He lay back down again, running his fingers through Mads’s short hair.

“Poopsie’s going to figure it out, and when she does the sword comes out.” A pause. “Still you kept face.”

A giggle. Small and genuine and awful. “I kept face.” Another giggle. “I kept — ach — I kept face, I literally kept face, the face was kept while I—”

“Stop laughing.”

“I can’t, I’m simply that charming.”

“No you’re simply disgusting.”

“I know, it’s still quite funny.”

“Lower your voice fool. They can hear you.”

He stopped laughing completely. Lay  flat on his back again, Mads’s full lips stretched to a tight line that was more fitting Tryggve’s slimmer face. Drummed his fingers on his sternum. The other him was right. The other him was always right, which was extremely annoying given that it was him. 

“We should go. Tonight,” he announced, voice levelled. “Gates open at dawn, we’ll be ready to leg it.”

“Sword first,” said Tryggve arms folded tight over his heart. “Upstairs. And if she’s half the woman her father was, she’ll know where to put the pointy end.” He grimaced at the ceiling, teeth bared. 

“Gods, Imagine the sting of that thing.”

“Yes.” The grimace became a smile, held. “Won’t bother anyone anymore. Just stardust doing a galliard up there alone.”

His fingers danced in the air above him. 

“That is the most pathetic way to say dead I’ve ever heard.” 

“Brilliantly pathetic. Medal-worthy my jaded friend.”

A long pause. Then Mads’s legs swung over the side of the bed. 

“Fye, what are you doing.” Said Tryggve. 

The legs stood up.

“I said what are you — sit down —” He grabbed the bedpost with both hands. His legs pulled. His arms held. His legs pulled harder, Mads’s body straining against itself, boots scraping the floor for purchase. His left knee buckled. His arms hauled back. His right leg straightened, dragging them six inches toward the door.

“We are not,” he said through Mads’s clenched teeth, “doing this!”

His legs disagreed. Another four inches. His hands squeaked down the bedpost. 

“Fine.” He let go.

His legs took three rapid strides for the door and his arms windmilled, grabbed the door frame, held. His lower half pulled. His upper half held. 

And there he was, standing in the doorway at a diagonal that was not anatomically correct, one hand on each side of the frame, legs churning like a man walking in place against a strong wind. 

“Some dignity,” he gasped. “Please.”

His right foot kicked the doorframe. His left hand punched the wall. 

He walked himself backwards to the bed by main force, made it to the edge, sat down hard. His legs immediately tried to stand again. He grabbed his own kneecaps and shoved them flat. 

“No! Enough.” He pressed them down. “Enough, enough, enough.” His legs went still. Resentfully. He sat there breathing for a moment, then straightened up. 

“Right,” he said, “Let’s settle this properly.” 

He grabbed the bedpost with both hands, squared Mads’s shoulders, and drove the borrowed head into the wood. 

The crack was very satisfying. Stars. Ringing. The room tipped left, then right, then stayed. Stars. Fine stars, very nice, excellent stars.

When they cleared, he was still in the guest room. Lilies on the wall, nothing interesting happening in the house or outside. His legs had given up their argument entirely. 

“There,” he said and stayed on the bed. 

Upstairs, through the floors and the walls and the dark of Hathora’s quiet house, the Demon Slayer waited by the bed where Hjordis lay sleeping and gleamed every time she tossed in restless sleep and the fingers drew closer.

The part of him that spoke of self-preservation gone at last. Boring chap that one.