[b]Later That Night[/b] The hours weighed heavily on Vasilia. More heavily, it seemed, than they did on Dolce, which was a trick she’d yet to figure out. What she had figured out were several delightful ways to make up the difference, which was why he was fast asleep in her arms, and she was awake to savor it. Rest, dear heart. Rest at last. You’ve worked so hard today, haven’t you? She couldn’t turn her back without you finding another five things to add to your list. Did you think yourself so stealthy, she wouldn’t see? Did you think, for a moment, that you’d slipped from her notice? See where that hubris has brought you! How the mighty have fallen into a warm, smiling, wispy lump of bubbling joy. You are defenseless - defenseless! - as she teases that one curl that droops across your forehead. You are [i]hers,[/i] to have and to hold, to kiss and to cuddle, for now and forever. [i]Defenseless.[/i] You are...you are hers. Forever. [i]He didn’t know.[/i] Sleep. Sleep, dear heart. She will join you soon. [i]You gave him the wedding oath. You made him say it.[/i] Just. Just let her look at you a while longer. Yes? [i]He didn’t know any better.[/i] Let her see you happy, for a while longer. ********************************************************************************* The morning greeted Dolce brightly. More brightly, it seemed, than it did Vasilia, which was a problem he’d yet to crack. Always had to factor in a little longer for waking up and, ah, extricating himself. The edge of the bed was fiercely guarded, and he would not be suffered to pass lightly. Which suited him well. Sleep, Lady. Sleep. Enjoy this gift of time he’s made, just for you. Soon the day will begin, and you will fight your thousand battles all over again. You will take your next steps into the stars, to do the impossible. But here, there will be no fight. No struggle. Take him in your strong arms, and hold him close. You have him! You have him, and he is yours, and for now, that will be enough. [i]The chef’s love is to be his art.[/i] Hold him, Lady. Take hold of what’s yours. [i]And his love will be complete in it.[/i] The day comes later. This moment is yours. [i]The chef has no designated partner.[/i] Please. Let that day come later. ********************************************************************************* [b]Days Later[/b] The steady tread of Vasilia’s boots echoed down the long corridors, passing by the doors she had yet to open. Rooms she had never seen before, but already knew what they would hold. Here, she stopped. Took hold of the door mechanism in both hands, and with one powerful yank threw it open. The sight was the same, and the task unchanged. Rows upon rows of bunks, flanked by lockers, divided by walls into smaller groups. All of them, empty. All of them, to be counted. If she assumed this room to be the same as all before it, then, naturally, it would be the first to break the pattern. Again, she began the circuit. Hundreds now. Hundreds to go. Not for the first time, and not for the last, her hand drifted to her coat pocket. One she had her Dolce tailor special, just above her heart, where now lay a little metal talisman. Her fingers caressed the edges, the needle-sharp point of the arrowhead, and the promise that it bore. The arrow that flew straight and true accomplished all that it set out to do, without fail. So said the Hunter. The rooms would not be empty for long. She [i]would[/i] see to that. So, it did not bother her to walk through empty room after empty room. The silence would break, and so it was not worrisome. What reason did she have to feel lonely, when their ship would soon be full to bursting? And maybe they could all get a little rest for once? That would be fine by her. Just a little longer now, and it would be smoother sailing again. Hundreds now. Hundreds to go. ********************************************************************************* Dolce could not keep the smile from his face as he laid his dish before Hera’s altar. He wouldn’t [i]dare[/i] demand that she appear to take it in person, and yet...how he wished he could see her face! It’d taken a healthy bit of experimenting, to make something out of their limited supplies that carried a hint of her favored flavors, but oh, it had been worth it. And, see! While the dish was still fresh, he’d drizzled the sauce in the shape of a peacock feather! He knew that would make her happy. He was dawdling. Again. Far easier to imagine Hera’s delight than to think of why he was here in the first place. When he closed his eyes, he saw the Armada. When he bowed his head, he felt the heat of Molech’s terrible machine. When he opened his mouth, he was silent in the face of the infinite tragedies that might await them on their next stop. How could he wish them all away? How could he pick just a few to pray against? Had he the time to go through them all, he would have done so in a heartbeat. In the end, he prayed for hope. The hope that they might, finally, leave better than when they arrived, with neither scarred bodies nor scarred hearts to remember the passing. Please, kind Hera. Just this once.