TheAmishPirate

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Bright spots on frogs. Horns on demons. A little sister whipping her head and growling brimstone.

“And where the hell did you get that idea? No, no, tell me. Right now. You tell me where you get off saying that girl’s just some fake I paid to follow me. What, ‘cause her uniform’s not perfect? ‘Cause she asked me to watch her back? You got something you wanna say about her, huh? Huh?!”

These are the danger signs of nature.

“Or do you wanna take that back, Pei?”

Ignore them at your peril.

Breathless Dead

He frowns.

“The...Tides were there, of course. But they did not advocate for one side or the other. The Secretary showed great favor to my decision, though, and made it abundantly clear he harbored no doubts about it.”

This was the first time since he’d seen her that she’d smiled and meant it. Asking for a glimpse of the crew, calling for her head on a spear.

He reaches for the tea, at last. The Coherent have been conscientious enough to place it somewhere he doesn’t need to brace himself, or ask for help to reach. The same cannot be said of the sugar and cream, placed close enough that one might scoop it up without wasting a step on their way to adjust Bella’s tea again. He takes a long, slow sip at his tea. And waits a thoughtful few moments longer, before quietly asking for someone to pass them over.

Tea is a thinking drink. It will not do to be pulled out of his thoughts to wince at the taste.

He holds his cup, carefully, with both hands, staring long into its cream-clouded depths. He nods to himself, so slight that one might miss it, or else lifts his cup for another sip. Lost in thought, lost in memory. Around them, the clatter of the stage crew fills the air with an uncomfortable tension. The sound of halfhearted activity. Accomplishing nothing except the unsteady interruption of silence.

At last, he shakes his head. “No. No, that is not how I run this ship. I asked my crew for advice, not a debate. Decisions that important shouldn’t be decided by who’s the most skilled at speaking, or how loud a faction makes their case. Your fate was tied in with the fate of so many others on this ship, they deserved to have their say, and have it be heard, without condition. But in the end, it was nobody’s decision but my own.”

He goes for another sip of tea. Pauses. A war, in his shaking hand, over the last few inches. Discomfort. Exhaustion. A chair that doesn’t fit. Legs that don’t work. Long nights, spent alone. Weighed against a collar. Fixed to the neck of a servitor, on a dead monster far, far away.

Carefully, he sets the teacup back down.

“...I don’t know what difference it makes for you,” he adds. And truly, he doesn’t. “But the overwhelming majority of those who spoke, spoke in your favor.”

Breathless Dead

Ah. Hrm. It turns out? There’s a difference between the honeyed words of a guest, offered in hopes of teasing out some family secrets, and a hero of legends wholeheartedly singing your (slightly embellished) praises. And the mental training required to smile and nod in response to the former offers shockingly little defense against the latter.

Dolce buries his face in his hand. It does nothing to hide the embarrassed flush spreading across his cheeks. “That’s not…exactly how I worded it.” And how had he explained the miraculous change that’d come over Bella, hrm? If he looked at it, out of the corner of his eye, perhaps he could see the shape of the journey from his words to Prion Paula’s declaration. Perhaps. And perhaps he’d better just start at the beginning. Before any more heroes decide to explain for him.

Captain Dolce straightens in his chair, and coughs lightly, to give his hand a thin excuse for its position before he returned it to his lap. “Before the battle on Salib.” Deep breaths. As direct as he could. She did request as such, after all. “We held a council of war, to decide our approach, and our objectives. Which included what to do with you, if given the opportunity. We didn’t know how we’d find you, and I decided we couldn’t afford any confusion or disagreement in the heat of the moment.”

A difficult decision. Argued fiercely on both sides, despite the clear majority. The voices still ring in his ears. The passion, and the hurt. His eyes fall to his folded hands. His fingers clench uncomfortably. “I opened the floor to the matter. The crew had their say, for and against. And in the end, I made the decision to offer you a chance.” And here you are, having actually taken it.

Is that relief he feels? Or regret?

“...I didn’t think kisses would be involved, but I can’t say I’m surprised?” He gives a little shrug. “Aphrodite’s been involved, after all. The possibility was always there.” So says Captain Dolce,of the Golden Fleece, Ram of War, whose obsidian eyes always knew strength from weakness.

Breathless Dead

It’s worse, somehow, now that she’s stopped shouting. There isn’t any surprise or crisis to hide behind. He is speaking with Bella. Bella is in the room, speaking with him. He and Bella are speaking, and they will keep speaking, until he dismisses her, or she leaves of her own will. Bella. She is here.

He’d expected…no, he’d suspected that she wasn’t going to sabotage them, now that she had the chance. The battle on Sahar. Redana’s tearful report. A hunch, at the effect of a Master, felled by her own hand. Enough to decide that his decision extended to keeping her unbound, and free to move about the ship.

That hadn’t told him enough to know what she would do. Or who she would be, freed of her old role.

She speaks loudly without raising her voice. There’s an edge to it, jagged and cruel, and she drives it into his stomach and glides it across his coat. He cannot tell which it will be until it happens. He cannot keep from wincing. He picks up every pause, every gesture, every little thing that might tell him what he ought to be doing to make it stop. Make her stop. Leave him alone. Find someone else. His wide eyes search hers. They find no relief.

She’s beautiful. By most standards. By his standards. By…by Vasillia’s standards. She is beautiful. Ramses is watching her. Many of the Coherent are watching her. He counts at least three who are only pretending to work. She walks with an assurance of step so secure, no movement is an accident. She knows she is supposed to be here. Perhaps more than anyone here. And he can’t keep his hands from shaking.

She’s here. And she doesn’t have to be. She doesn’t want to be. She hates it, here. Nothing that anyone’s doing is making it any easier. Nothing she’s doing is making it any easier. But she’s here. And she’s asking. And maybe he can believe that she’ll do as she’s said.

“How do you suggest we approach them?” As she asked. He spends no more words than necessary. Measured, despite himself. “Everything we have tried to date has failed, whether I attempt in person or by proxy, and this cannot continue.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Years and years of big sister training had led to the mastery of a secret technique; to take up every iota of Han’s personal space without ever actually touching her. Because of course she wouldn’t touch her dear sweet little sister. That would be wrong. That would be brutish. The sort of things the Highlanders used to do, Han.

She doesn’t budge. She forces her big, dumb sister to practically bend over backwards to advance into new territory, because she’s not giving up a single wilting inch of hers. “Oh? I’m sorry, Mom.” And years and years of little sister training had led to the mastery of a secret technique; to fit enough biting sarcasm in one word, she could sass a hole in a wall at fifty paces. “I’m still figuring out why arms are a crime, I didn’t realize the Sapphire Mother hates walking with girls now too.”

(And Sagacious Crane couldn’t have missed that either. How she took two steps into the inn and tossed off her soaked poncho with hardly a care in the world. Leaving her arms bared to the shoulder, glistening in the lantern-light, for all the world to see.

Lotus might have missed it. If she hadn’t taken a stealthy peek back towards the front desk. Or maybe several stealthy peeks. And a little bit of staring, as a treat.)

Breathless Dead

He doesn’t look away from that all-seeing eye. He listens, like he can’t hear the set awkwardly spinning up to life, the muffled conversation in her wake, the cacophony of people not paying attention. He wishes he could be anywhere else. But what good is that sort of wish? He can’t be anywhere but here. There’s nobody else but him. So he looks, and he listens, and he holds his head as high as it will go.

It makes sense. Horrible, horrible sense. But it all adds up, combines with what few scraps he had into a cohesive picture. Not the whole, but enough to see the shape of it. A scared fragment of the Eater’s mind, living on after death, without any of the structure it needed to function as it should. Promoted, suddenly, above its pay grade, with no choice in the matter, no support, and worst of all, no idea how to fix any of it.

By all the gods. If there was something, anything he could’ve done to discover this earlier, to have a chance to stop it, and he didn’t, forgive him. Please, forgive him.

And if nothing else, let him make this right.

“Please. Wait.”

He reaches out a hand, to motion to stop her, and has to brace himself on the side of his chair. Or else risk toppling over entirely.

“You’re the only person on board who’s been able to meet with the Tides like this. The Secretary runs and hides whenever he hears I’m coming. The ship’s much too big to have any hope of finding him, if he doesn’t want to be found. They don’t mingle. They don’t reach out. All I have are official channels, and they only use those to stonewall me. I’m sorry to keep you further, but, please, anything more you can tell us could help us do something about it.”

You, who can see through him, do you see his heart breaking?

“They shouldn’t be left to suffer.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Danger!

She grabs Lotus’ hand, and in one smooth motion pulls her tight against her side and wraps her arm around her protectively. Her feet hop into a ready fighting stance, no time to pull out a sword. Her fist’s enough. Her kick’s enough. Essence is enough. She ignites, a blazing beacon of defiance to her foes. Stay back! All of you! She is hers! Hers! You will not take her, you! You!!!

Barge?

“What in all of the hells…?” Han stares, dumbfounded, as the Red Wolf’s barge decides to take a sudden detour, to the mountains. Over land. Without stopping, no, wait, is it getting faster?! “Uhhhhhh. I guess they’re not gonna be coming after us anytime soon?” And it is, at this moment, that she glances down, and notices she has buried Lotus’ entire face into her body. (She notices Lotus trembling. She does not notice her lack of complaint.)

Wordlessly, she picks up Lotus. Sets her down, a respectful distance away. Brushes her hands awkwardly on her robe. Shoulders the bags Lotus set on the ground. Stands. Blinks. And. With many totally composed clenching and unclenching of her fists, holds out a hand. Stiffly. If. Well. She could use the support, while they march.

“You. Uh. Ready to get out of here, bud?”

[Han rolls to Entice! 4 + 3 - 1! XP! XP for dragon!]

Breathless Dead

He is alone, now.

Vasilia left just a few minutes ago. Reached into her bag, laid a musket across her lap, and let the Coherent push her to the negotiations. She’d asked if he was alright. She could wait, until someone brought a wheelchair for him too. He’d refused.

Ramses had a comfortable chair arranged for him. Maybe she thought it would help smooth things over, get her favor back into the positives. Maybe she’d have done it for anybody. She hadn’t offered an explanation. Nor a path back to the conversation. Maybe she just thought it was safer, that way.

The shouts hurt his ears. More than the constant clamor of the film set. The headache buried between his horns sprouted through his skull, and his hands clasped knuckle-white to keep from flinching. He heard every step on her approach. He heard how angry she was. He knew who the voice belonged to, from the first.

“The Tides are…torturing themselves?!”

The Assistant Secretary of Fear and Doubt always returned his correspondence with interest. 50 pages for each one of his. Hours, of filtering through line after flowing line of titles, polite minutia, couched messages, to arrive at the barest kernel of actionable information. Later. Not today. Next week, for sure.

“Why didn’t they, they haven’t told me a thing, even though, I asked, but they, what?”

Ramses is indecipherable. This is not how a Captain should behave. Not to a professional.

“Because, yes, no, I’m in charge, here. I asked them aboard. He wanted to come aboard,”

And then. Nothing. From him. From her. From anyone. Anywhere. Ever.

“He wanted to come aboard, so, they shouldn’t, I would’ve! Done, I did, no, ah-”

He is alone, now. A small, broken sheep, begging a room full of strangers he doesn’t know.

“Could you please tell me what’s going wrong?”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Melody! Lotus!

She’s so sorry.

This was supposed to be your moment. Private. Special. Something between you, and Emli, and nobody else. You ought to feel twice…no, you should’ve felt three times as good as Han just did, because. Because. You just should, alright?!

And she tried. Please, believe her. She tried so hard. She found this incredible bit of engraving on the wall paneling, and, did you know that the same pattern repeats over the entire room? You can’t see it real easy, because it’s sorta offset from row to row, but she’s pretty sure the basic pattern is this slanty diamond thing, three hands to a side, though maybe a bit longer side-to-side than up and down, she keeps changing her mind based on the lighting, and the angles. Each squiggly S in the pattern is made up of four t-looking things, and she was going to count how many were in the whole room. It was a lot. It was gonna be so many. But. But.

She heard. A sound. Escape from your lips. And before she could think she

looked

for a second.

Maybe longer than a second.

Maybe she couldn’t look away.

Maybe it took a long, long time, to feel ashamed enough to look away.

You were melting. Arms wrapped around Emli, clinging uselessly. Knees trembling, about to give way at any moment. Falling. Falling. Were it not for Emli. Holding you by the neck. The mouth. You kissed her for dear life, and she kissed you back. And with every touch you told the world you were so, so happy. She didn’t know you could sound like that. She didn’t know you could tell just how happy, how utterly, hopelessly lost in joy you were, with such a small sound.

(What must it be like. To make you feel that way. To feel you melt in her arms, at her touch, and all she can hear of you is that you want this, you want her, you want her…)

So when you put the question to her, and feel brave enough to look yourself?

Her cheeks are flushed bright red. She’s still, still out of breath from Emli’s kisses. Her chest heaves with great, big dragon breaths. Her hair’s all a tangle, her robe’s off-kilter, and she’s not bothering to fix a bit of it. A bit of it! She’s not even stopping to answer you back! Up she goes! Let’s do this!!

As it so happens, Emli recalls that all guest rooms come with a length of silken rope tucked away in the depths of their closet “for emergencies.” What luck! Properly equipped, Han wraps the rope around her, and then she keeps wrapping the rope around her, and then she wraps the rope around her some more and. Um. Then she wraps the rope around her again, and…

“Han?” Emli asks, the very picture of diplomatic delicacy. “Have you ever tied someone up before?”

“Uhhh, yeah? Obviously?”

Emli does not laugh. Emli is much, much too busy biting her lip to have any time for laughing.

“What? What?! You’re tied up, aren’t you?”

“Lady Lotus?” And now she’s turning those impish eyes on you. “Would you like to assist Han of the Dragons in securing her prisoner?~”

“You are so secured! Look me in the damn eyes and tell me you’re not secured! You can’t, because that’s how secured you are!”

(And yet. If you ask for that rope, she’ll give it up, at once, with only a minimum of indignant pouting.)

Breathless Dead

“Ah, no, please, you shouldn’t. That is, you don’t have to go-”

“What he means to say, Ramses,” Vasilia cut in. “Is that he’d very much like it if you stayed. Right, darling?”

He nods, fierce enough to send his wool bouncing every which way. “Yes. Thank you, yes. It’s” a lot for a sheep to unpack. A lot. Goodness. Where to even begin? At the beginning? Maybe? “Different, from the Starsong I served under. If the Captain put a trap on their door, it’d be because they knew exactly who was coming to knock, and they hadn’t yet gotten them back for filling their quarters with artificial clouds. Or something of the sort. Most of my work was in the kitchens, and it wasn’t unusual to see the Captain come in for a visit. If not them, then someone close to them. It was important, to them.”

Once, he’d worked up the courage to ask what, exactly, he’d done wrong to necessitate a personal visit. Whatever it was, he was terribly sorry, and even more sorry for not even noticing, but, if they told him, he would fix it right away. First, they thought he’d been telling a joke. Second, they gave him an unexpectedly big hug. Third, they explained.

“The reason the Starsong can pull off such complicated ambushes isn’t some great secret. It’s just a matter of timing, really. We would pick a list of songs that everybody knew, and time every step, contingency, go and no-go, all in advance. At the second chorus, close to board. Third measure of the first verse, if the primary battleship is not engaged, abort immediately. And so on. If we kept the beat, if everyone remembered their steps, it didn’t matter that we couldn’t speak to each other, or even see each other most times. We knew our Captains, we knew each other, and they all knew us too. Four ships could move as easily if their Captains were all in the same room, seeing everything at once.”

He shifts uncomfortably in Vasilia’s lap. “That’s the sort of ship I want to run. I don’t want my crew to be worrying that I might be about to cut them out if they don’t make me happy enough. Or, if I don’t quite understand their authorial vision. Even if we’re likely not to choreograph our battles in the future, how can I ask you to care about what’s important for the running of this ship, for the mission, if I didn’t care about what’s important to you?”