TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

The Craftsman tends to the harvest, and Sanalessa. Dolce stands to the side, and this takes all of his attention. He moves with a careful economy of motion. One step, even if two would be more comfortable. Three steps, if one would risk his balance. Each piece of him moves in turn, bending at the waist while his raised leg hangs motionless, that not even a scrap of wool will catch on a hanging vine. He places no hoof without watching it fall. Demeter’s garden is a wild, thriving thing. He will neither harm nor impede it.

A dangerous line of questioning. And he had not recalled a thing until she asked. What snippets floated through his mind were so incomplete, he could hardly make sense of them. Pain worse than he’d ever known. A chef lying bleeding on a desert battlefield soaked with rain. Defying Demeter, and yet, the thought gave him no shame?

His hoof stops. Shifts a hair to the right. Comes down beside thorns.

“If I had, then I would have not been so brazen as to seek a harvest without the slightest of offerings. Only now I remember…something. I see fragments, but nothing around them. I see what must be me, but it is no me that I recognize.” He is troubled. He is suffering. He lets it show. “I am afraid something may be terribly wrong with me. This is, of course, no excuse for impoliteness. While I serve your adherents aboard this vessel, I will tend to a garden myself, and all of its fruits will be given unto them and unto you. Please accept this in recompense for my poor memory.”

“But I ask for no harvest myself. With form and contract, ink and blood, Sanalessa entrusted herself entirely to my care, and I swore I would act in her best interest until she was whole again. I did not lightly seek my friend’s help, for I know not whether she herself would wish to be treated by the same arts that carved a curse into her bones. But he is my friend. I trust that when I ask him to do no more than speed what growth is in her body, he will hold to it. I believe that, given the choice, she would prefer a swifter freedom. And most of all.” He bows his head. “Sanalessa is only under my care. She is not mine. She is her own. If she decides to leave me as soon as she awakes, I will respect that decision, and wish her well.”

“Though it is my voice that asks, whatever harvest you see fit to give is hers, and hers alone. I humbly entreat, Lady of Summer, She of the Eternal Garden, that she not suffer on my behalf.”

Return to Thellamie

It’s real ice cream. The kind that comes in scoops. Not that there’s anything wrong with soft serve! Soft serve is a great treat. You can get it just about anywhere, and it’s pretty much the same everywhere, which means it’s always going to be there for you. A reliable dessert friend. And it’s no insult to a good friend to lose your head a little when there’s a concert in town, and the band’s playing spiced vanilla so rich and creamy, you have to eat it in little bites. Except you have to eat it in little bites already, because it’s hard-frozen, dessert strong against desert sun, which is just perfect, because slow is how you want to eat it. One lick at a time. One nibble at a time. Letting the sweet flavors melt in your mouth, savor every second of spice. And there’s no rush, because you bought it in a big waffle cone (scaled cone?) that’ll catch any errant drips as you make your way down to the crunchy goodness.

He’s not even had lunch yet. Illicit elevenses ice cream. Bought with his own money. Because he could.

The hollow fills with the tap-a-tap-tap of his heels on the cobbles, because the bench is too short to swing his legs about. He doesn’t know he’s smiling with his whole face, only that he’s so happy he could just burst.

He’s on an Adventure. It’s really happening.

He’s sitting on a bench in Crevas. He’s at the real Festival of Lights. He’s got a fancy pouch slung over his shoulder, and if his hands weren’t full of ice cream he’d take out one of the coins and trace the engravings again. He looks up the left side of the plaza, giving the dancer a wide berth, and a family of Serigalamu walk right past him. And! He has antlers! And a little tail! It goes flicka-flick! He doesn’t quite know how! But he runs a hand over the unfamiliar horns sprouting from his curls, somehow both tough and fuzzy at the same time, and it’s all he can do not to giggle in wonder. He scans the plaza, and his eyes cross paths with a bare stomach before bouncing at once to her face. He can watch her face, she’s performing. She. A Nagi. Real. Standing right there. Dancing right there. Aaaaaaaand now he is going to look at the fountain while she shimmies on lower to the ground. How did they make it look like water was coiling up the central pillar like that? It was magic, right? Unless it wasn’t, which could be even more impressive!

Crevas. The home of the Nagi. Shapes he had only seen on paper or - shamefully - a screen, moving. Laughing. Singing. Living.

You know, when Yuki said they were coming here, already, he was worried it was going to be a lot harder? But he’s doing great. He looks from the fountain to the glassworks shop across the plaza, and he doesn’t stop for a moment on glowing white tresses or glittering top. See? Not a problem! He’s passed more Nagi than he can count today, and he didn’t stare at any of them. It’s a lot like summertime back home, come to think of it. Even if people wore less, people were people, and that was no call to treat them like some kind of creep.

The gathering crowd breaks into applause, and he peeks over The Nagi sways lower, and lower, until nearly half of her was lying parallel to the ground. And still she dances, as if the whole world had turned sideways and not her. Just imagine the skill it takes to dance like that, not to mention the strength, goodness. Of all the eyes in the plaza, her lidded gaze finds his. And at once he looks up at the ceiling, brow furrowing, as if he had been thinking about something else the whole time. You know. The sort of thing that people do all the time when they haven’t been staring. Perfectly normal and inconspicuous.

Nicely done, Hazel. Now she thinks you were ogling her for goodness knows how long. Staring, and staring, like she was doing all this for you. You couldn’t have just looked at her like a normal person, no, you had to act as guilty as humanly possibly. Face flushed and counting the ceiling tiles. Stupid.

He should probably just leave. It’d be worse to stay.

Well. He still had a little ice cream left. He’ll leave in a bit.

(And it is awfully hard to maintain a grump in the presence of ice cream. The last bite especially, when it’s the perfect mix of crunchy cone and melty ice cream all in one big delicious burst! (Flicka-flick!))

Breathless Dead

Have you ever been a bag of wool before? You really ought to try it sometime, it’s quite comforting. Not that it’s suitable to be a bag of wool with just anyone you meet, but after a long day of stress and work and worry, imagine the relief at not even having to manage where you’re going. You are held. You will wind up somewhere nice. And all you’ve got to do is hold still. What a bargain!

“Please sir, I’ve not had nearly the free time to find a nemesis,” he says with a slight smile. It’s a joke, because it’s not really fair if it isn’t one. He’s not. He’s not personally looking to thwart 20022, they’re just. Working at cross purposes. They haven’t talked about it because. He hasn’t talked about it, because 20022 won’t listen to him. 20022 hasn’t bothered to talk about how he’s working to murder his wife, his friends, and everyone else who happened to live on the same planet as him. He hadn’t even acknowledged that bit.

Which did feel rather personal.

“20022…” he starts, staring glumly into his drink. But there’s a job to do. And there’s nothing to be had by sulking. So instead, he says, “There’s little I can do procedurally. I imagine he’s got enough to keep him busy, but the bulk of the work’s done now. If I suddenly take an interest in anything sensitive, he could spare the time to triple-check anything I do. He might just cancel my orders and do it all over himself, just to be safe.”

“I don’t know this for sure.” He shifts in his stool uncomfortably. “So take it with a grain of salt. But it’s possible he’s keeping an eye on me to make sure I’m not up to anything.” Which would be entirely uncalled-for. Nothing that happened on Beri was his fault. He was well conscious of that. “Just in case, we ought to find a way to keep in touch. It might look a little odd if you keep stopping by for lunch.”

His ears flick. No one in the halls. Nobody in the nearest few halls.

“You mentioned Ikarani. Is that anything like a Deodekoi?”

Somewhere, in the collection of all the words ever written, there must be a combination that, when said in the proper order, the proper way, would make 20022 realize how wrong this all was. He did not have time to find those words. He might have time to thwart an extermination fleet. If he hurries. If he can work through the sting of settling for a second-best, less sensible solution. Most importantly, if he can keep 20022 from noticing what he’s really up to.

Do you plan on using the assassin against Liquid Bronze?

“If so, I would like to formally request your assistance with a little matter of my own. You see, I don’t know if I’m properly caring for a severed head…”

Breathless Dead

That’s…what?

Oh, dear friend, what have they done to you? Conversations in dreams? Snatched away? That’s not how it happened at all. Though perhaps this does fill in a few other blanks. You were and are a Biomancer. You studied at the most prestigious academies of your craft. You flew too close to the sun. The fullness of your wanderings brought you to Beri, along with Mosaic, along with Vasilly, and him, and then at some point your old colleagues must have found you there and spirited you away. Don’t you remember? He remembers. He remembers the time you explained your dream, walking down the broken roads of a ruined town. The cracked, blackened streets stretched on forever. The homes were packed in, sometimes one on top of the other. And they were looking for. And they were going to. And they had to. And then.

It’s quiet. Everywhere is quiet. His own heart makes no sound. The Ancient Craftsman is looking at him. He’s frowning. Oh dear. He’s supposed to speak, isn’t he? Dolce coughs, begs pardon, and mechanically refills the glass of schnapps, pouring with both hands like he was taught. It gives him a few moments to review the last few seconds. Piece together the thoughts. Stuff one in a box. Promise to come back to it later. Wait patiently for its last echoes to die away.

Why can’t I remember where those ruins were?

“Vesper…yes, Vesper, of course. Yes. The last I had heard, Mosaic was keeping good care of her, and she was holding up as well as she could.” More. Not enough. He left her? He was…trying to help her, surely? And then got taken away before he could finish? “I would be happy to help, in any way I could. I know they’ll both be delighted to see her well again. Ah, however…” Bigger problems. He promises to come back later. “I’m afraid this ship is currently en route to see her. Along with everyone else who lived on Beri, who are now currently fleeing in an ancient Imperial cruiser. Quite a lot’s happened, you see…”

They do not have the luxury of time. But they do have the luxury of snacks, and a pretense for conversation. In short order, he recounts his curious and doomed foray into civil service, the greed and downfall of the Crystal Knight, and the bureaucratic prison he currently finds himself in, all while faithfully attending to the guest at his kitchen.

Breathless Dead

The day after the Summerkind died, there was tension, in the Cancellation. By silent accord, the Biomancers kept eye contact to a minimum, remained still and set in place as they worked, focused one notch too intently on their tasks, and most importantly of all, spoke as little as possible. The looming crisis does not exist, if no one speaks of it. The first Biomancer to leave their post is just following their usual routine, if everyone pretends they’re not watching them closely. The brave soul walked to the nearest mess hall, as usual. They approached the window to the kitchens, as usual. Inside, an off-color sheep hands them a tray loaded with tasty, tasteful delicacies, as they hoped he would.

A held breath is released. The crisis is averted. Several thousand Biomancers simultaneously decide it is time for lunch. They disperse to the various corners of the ship, to their preferred kitchens, to the closest kitchens, and they feast on Dolce’s handiwork again.

One Biomancer arrives after the others have gone. Dolce hands the Ancient Craftsman a tray. Freshly prepared. Slightly altered, to match his tastes. “Long day?” He asks, in the time-honored tradition of server to served. He asks, in the way that a chef on Beri once asked a old, learned soul for his teachings. He asks, and he will listen, in the way that the Ancient Craftsman likes to be listened to, and doesn’t he need a listening ear right now?

The protection of Hestia was the first miracle. This, then, was the second. One that 20022 could not possibly anticipate.

It would be rude to waste a miracle, wouldn’t it?

Breathless Dead

“I can’t imagine an Azura stopping like that. I feel like they would either bring their work with them, or make a grand ceremony out of the whole affair. Mind, I haven’t got the largest sampling, so maybe it’s different elsewhere, but I’ve yet to meet someone really involved with the Skies who looks like they could take a simple vacation. The sort where you go on a beach, lay down, do nothing but…no, sorry, that’s not quite right. Home is not a vacation, home is supposed to be every day. It’s supposed to be a part of normal life. And it’s missing from all of them. It’s like they’ve carved it out and thrown it into the fire, in service to something that makes them cry glory, glory.”

They’re walking the decks now, through endless sepulchers and cradles. In the distance, strange music carries on the breeze, and it will not stop until the ship is full. On the wall before them, a glittering mural of Summerkind are arrayed around a tiny sheep, holding up a pie bigger than him. All pose in artful, overwhelmed joy at this miracle of sumptuousness. In very small letters, all around the tin, somebody’s written the recipe.

And this is what the Azura strive with all their might to ignore.

“What a waste.” His voice cracks. “What a horrible waste.”

Breathless Dead

She finds him where she always does; in the kitchens. The constant buzz of activity dulls to a pleasant background hum. The scents blend and grow into a rich fullness that begs to be stopped and savored. Even the oppressive heat could be mistaken for an oven that’s been left open.

Dolce’s heart leaps, and cares not for the mousse he was mixing. The dessert, sensing an opportunity, makes a daring escape before he can restore order to the bowl. He wipes his hands on his apron. Hestia dips her finger in the spilled mousse, and samples shamelessly. He opens his mouth, and fifteen different thoughts scramble to figure out which should be first. Hestia takes the opportunity to offer a spoonful of ice cream.

He doesn’t have to be perfect here. Home is a place where you can laugh at mistakes.

“I have missed you so much.” He finally gets out. “I, she’s well? Vasilia’s well? Oh thank goodness. Thank goodness.” He’s going to make it. He’s going to make it. There will be a home for him to return to. He’s not going to be too late. After, yes, after there will be difficulties, but, but! “Oh Hestia, it’s awful here. It’s been awful ever since I left Beri. I haven’t met a single soul who seems like they know you. Are all the official parts of the Skies this noisy?”

Breathless Dead

Does he deserve to feel comfortable?

Every job here supports Quality Assurance. The sheep who works in the mailroom never puts his hands on an SP round, but he delivers the letters that request them by the ton. The sheep who makes up the shuttle schedules doesn’t keep the Summerkind working double shifts, but the work crews don’t make it to their sites without him. Does he deserve the chance to forget that?

Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe, he thinks some sweltering nights, if he could only burn hot enough in his heart, then Apollo’s curse would feel like a refreshing breeze. But that was a silly thought for Dolce of Beri to have. Even if he was some unstoppable ram of war, with a hunger for E N D L E S S B A T T L E, what good would that do anyone? He wouldn’t be unstoppable for long, that’s for sure. Far better to bide his time, escape when the time was right and get a warning to the others ahead of the fleet. It wouldn’t do the Summerkind any good. He’d have to settle for saving his home.

If Vasilly were here, that’s just the sort of thing she’d tell him.

At least, he hoped it was. And not just the thing he wanted to hear, because it was easier. Because it was a relief to his weary heart. Because it meant he didn’t have to do anything grander than…

Well, the Summerkind were quick learners, but it was a lot quicker to have someone give you supplies and a recipe rather than try and re-create the culinary arts from scratch. Nor had anyone bothered to teach them how to survive on anything more than bare necessities. Under his watch, the kitchens remained fully stocked with refreshing drinks and cool, soothing dishes, just the thing after a long day spent working in the sun. He manned one of the kitchens himself, when he had the time, working out new dishes so the menus wouldn’t get stale, and serving the troops himself.

The Summerkind deserved at least that much.

Breathless Dead

Contribution barely survives the party.

Few other Summerkind get to stand this close to the real Liquid Bronze in his moment of triumph. It’s like receiving the salute - the previous highlight of his life - every waking moment. He has no ceremonial weapon, he has no uniform for the occasion, but he can stand to attention like the best of them, and no force can move him from this spot without killing him.

Down below is the last chance he may have to find if any of his clutchmates survived the war. The party will last for as long as Liquid Bronze wishes it, and everyone in attendance will then do whatever he decides next. A month gives no time for shore leave.

Leaving means interrupting Liquid Bronze to ask to be dismissed. Worse, it means moving further away from Liquid Bronze. Either is impossible.

Dolce is a guest of Liquid Bronze. Dolce has the right to speak, and Contribution is expected to speak back. He asks him about the music. He asks him about the dancing. He asks him about the novel construction techniques that could make a bunker that becomes a palanquin. He asks him about anything and everything that crosses his mind. When Contribution looks fit to burst, Dolce takes extra long to think of his next question as the Summerkind basks in the presence of his creator, and speaks up before he can be torn in two again.

By this, they barely survive the party.

Breathless Dead

In the long, building whistle of a falling shell is the promise of an explosion. The silence is far more perilous. It took seconds to create. It will last as long as it lasts. Anything could happen in its wake.

Does anyone notice Contribution give a twitch? Not likely. The silence is too suffocating. And however it smothers Dolce there will always be a department dutifully working at questions of sightlines. No one here sees him grip Contribution’s arm. Firmly. From wool to carapace, a command. A plea. Stay here. Stay put. Stay by my side. If you are standing here, you are doing your job. You are doing enough.

You are safe.