TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

He waits until she is fully seated. Slowly, keeping both hands in view, at all times, he reaches for the wheels of his chair. Nudge forward. Nudge back. Turns himself, just enough to be pointed towards her side of the room. Far below the threshold of facing her. Then he is blinking at her, finding her eyes through a curtain of skulls. “I’m a Captain, now. Meals aren’t a part of my job anymore. And I think the chef who made that did quite good, for where she is.”

This might be worse? This might be worse. Those who’ve been through fire together ought to share more than names. To be fed ought to be be more than a full stomach.

“...though, if you like,” and he is watching her cautiously. Hands folded deliberately in his lap. Waiting to see how she will see him. “And you’re willing to push me to the kitchens, I could fix you something more to your taste?”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Who’s got time for stupid questions like that?! She’s going to stop her. She’s got to stop her!



“Han! How could you?!” Poor Lotus flings herself into the arms of Sagacious Crane, sobbing great and terrible sobs. “Never in my worst nightmares could I imagine a person who might…and with a musician, no less! A bloo hoo hoooooooooooo!”

“Poor dear. Poor, poor dear…” Crane strokes her hair, all while shooting Han the most judging of looks.

“Go away!” She sniffs, drawing up all the strength left in her frail body to point a finger at the door. “Go away! I don’t ever want to see you again!”



Enough talk. Enough dancing around. There’s an entire Han in your way, sister, and the only way you’ll get to Lotus is through her. She’s just got to dart to the right, to cut off her path to the baths, and then - no, wait, back to the left, the left! Don’t let her slip by the counter! No, no, back to the right, dammit, how does she move so fast in those stupid robes?! Left, right, fake to the left, right all along, and, she’s got to get tired of this eventually, right? She’s got to see how ridiculous she’s being. Right?

Why’s the innkeeper shooting her a dirty look?! Pei started this! She’s the one being an idiot, not her! Seriously, nobody’s gonna say anything? Nobody? She’s only got a few more steps. If Pei can twist her way around to the hallway, she’ll be gone. If everybody else’s gonna be useless, then she’ll just give her a little shove back-



“Han! How could you?!” Poor Lotus hurls herself to the ground beside Sagacious Crane, fallen in her injured dignity. “Assaulting your own sister who’s also a priestess! And then trying to fight everybody in the inn, no less! A bloo hoo hoooooooooooo!”

“It’s true, ma’am!” Cried the innkeeper, one of twenty good citizens who had leapt to the defense of the priestess, physically restraining the rabid Highlander. “I saw the whole thing!”

“Go away!” She sniffs, drawing up all the strength left in her frail body to point a finger at the door. “Go away! I don’t ever want to see you again!”



How did she forget so much from one stupid barge ride? Was a few short days enough to make her this soft? Nobody here likes her. Hell, nobody here cares about her. She’s a dirty, mangy Highlander who wandered too far from the mountains. The only people who’re happy to see her are the ones taking her money, and even they’re having second thoughts.

Maybe later that night, lying awake, she’ll realize. She should’ve said something. Something better. Something wiser. This was the part where it was her cue, and she messed up her lines, and everyone knew she was wrong. But the only words that came to her now were of fire, of fang, of scale. A tongue she’d had to learn for herself. That if she only dared, she could make the world right again. She could do anything.



“Han! How could you?!” Poor Lotus collapses against the only standing wall of the inn, nearly fainting dead away. “I thought you were a hero! Not some dirty, rude, horrible beast, who tears apart innocent inns, and sets the rubble on fire, no less! A bloo hoo hoooooooooooo!”

“Flee! Flee! The horrible Vermillion Beast of Lanterns is here!” Sagacious crane wails. “Easily worse than that wretched Zhaojun! I was wrong! So, so wrong!”

“Go away!” She sniffs, drawing up all the strength left in her frail body to point a finger at where the door used to be. “Go away! I don’t ever want to see you again!”



She does nothing.

The essence pounds at the walls of her heart, power to rip the skies asunder and drink the ocean dry, and all she does is stall. One thought. One little wish, to throw her out, to shout her down, to tear that veil from her face and make her run embarrassed into the night, and the girl will be gone. And much more to follow.

She stalls. She sticks her body between her sister and her charge, and forces down burning coals into the depths of her heart. There’s no plan. No thought. Only the unshakeable fact that she’s got to stop her. She’s got to stop her.



“Han. How could you?” Poor Lotus pulls at her bound wrists with all her might, but no use. The workings of a priestess cannot be undone. Not even by those of divine blood. “You said you’d keep me safe. You swore you’d take me to the Two Hundred Gates Temple. You swore, no less.” The tears fall, and she is too heartbroken to give them voice.

“That’s enough out of you.” Sagacious Crane tugs at the leash, and she has to hop awkwardly to keep from being pulled to the ground. “The Sapphire Mother looks poorly on imposters disrupting the Kingdoms. You’ll not cause any more mischief. Not now. Not ever.”

“I’m going away.” She sniffs, drawing up all the strength left in her frail body to look her dead in the eye. “I’m going away. And I’m never going to see you again.”



Please.

She’s got to stop her.

Breathless Dead

Not you too, Jil. Not you too.

In the depths of Salib, he bore his heart to you, trusting you would not abuse the power he surrendered willingly. You held him as his life bled out. Waited, when you could've left him in the dark. But already, his eyes collect the facts before him, and his mind dutifully sorts everything to its proper place. The Lanterns are accustomed to cruel and abusive leaders. To get what they want, they expect they will have to steal, scheme, or otherwise take for themselves. That is why Jil threatened you during the meeting. That is why she is preparing to shoot you now.

His movements are sluggish, and they are neither threat nor act. His heart sinks, and the rest of him is drawn down with it. "You ought to chew that slowly. It'll taste better, and you won't get a stomachache." A hand shakes in the general direction of a chair; sized for him, it'll suit her fine. "Go on. I'm...not really hungry."

Consider it a successful heist of unwatched supplies, if it makes you feel any better.

Breathless Dead

There were five of them, in total. One with the coiling body of a snake, painted in iridescent colors that physically swam across the surface of her scales. One riding atop a writhing mass of emerald tentacles, steadily walking a circle from floor to ceiling and back again. One that was, primarily, eyes. One that was not a human, but who wore the suit of one, and held the spear of one, and laughed with their voice. The last carried a pair of jagged shields, and in her other pair of arms, carried him. The only one who introduced herself was his carrier, when she knelt before him and asked permission to carry him back to his quarters.

There were no further words to him than that. He must’ve understood, in his current condition, that he would be far more of a hindrance than a help in this crisis. No one would take heart from the sight of a crippled sheep. Everyone would be better off with one less VIP to protect from an Assassin. The Captain ought to be somewhere safe, and he would look kindly on them for not wasting his time with explaining what he must’ve already known.

So he didn’t say anything either. Not through the length of the trip back to his chambers. Not when they set him on his wheelchair, and took up positions in and around the room, keeping sightlines on each other and him. Only when his carrier turned to take her post did he clear his throat, and ask her to deliver a message to Ramses once this was all over. If she were to inform him of the first day when Captain Dolce, the Ram of War, was to appear on set, he would like to be in attendance for filming that day.

Of course she would carry his message, sir. Didn’t her shoulders straighten, with the promise of yet further favor, and what she might buy with it.

Silently, the Captain took to his desk. The Tides would need new leadership. He would need to learn who, then learn what they needed from him in turn. Vasilia would return from the union negotiations with the Hermetics. They were loud, very loud, and not afraid to be loud if it bought them their privacy. But the Coherent needed them, and so, a peace had to be maintained, constantly. The Lanterns are leaderless, and paralyzed. The Flocks are lost. More and more are joining in Epestia and Beljani’s party, and fewer and fewer are returning.

And Bella…

He reaches, with effort, across his desk, and checks the wineglass, a handkerchief around his fingers to keep from leaving prints. It has not moved in the last few minutes. Nor has it come free of its perch, tucked away in the back of a shelf, with folds of cloths stuffed in around it in case it should get jostled. Still safe. Still secure.

He withdraws his hand, and dabs the moisture from his eyes before it could fall and stain the Captain’s correspondence.

Everyone wanted something from the Captain. Nobody had much need for Dolce.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

“There was only-!”

She’s too slow. Gods above and gods below, she’s too slow to stop herself. She clamps her mouth shut, and buries all further words in a muffled screech of objection. Her entire face burns, but so what? You won’t get anything more out of her, do you hear her?! You don’t know anything, Pei! You can’t know anything! And whatever you think you know, it’s wrong, and you’ll never be able to prove any of it! (And there was only the one musician, dammit!)

Hey! No! What! Wrong! Don’t you dare! Don’t you go confusing Lotus’ pretty little head with rumors and slander! You can’t! That’s, no! Not allowed!

“What? No, she doesn’t, she’s fine. She’s good. We’re just, it’s been, a time, and, shut up?” This can’t be how it ends. Why does she get to barge into her life, whenever she likes, and mess everything up? Come to think of it, what the hell was she even doing here in the first place? On that thin strand of hope, her spirit rallies. “‘Sides, don’t you have ‘important priestessly duties’ or whatever to get back to? Don’t remember any big temples in this part of the Kingdoms.”

Breathless Dead

You’re holding back.

He cannot run. Everyone in this room is dazzled by you and disappointed in him. You have every means and opportunity to break his heart like a stale twig, and yet, you put no strength into your blows to actually follow through with it. With one hand, you restrain yourself, and with the other, you offer fleeting gifts; of wisdom, of hard-won experience, of glimpses of something beneath the name Praetor.

You’re holding back. But wounds do not have to be fatal to matter. Perhaps you know this? Perhaps you don’t. It’s so hard to tell. It’s so hard, when the only eyes he has are his own. When the only heart he has still bleeds. It hurts. It just. Hurts.

He moves to set his teacup down, then, thinking better of it, shakes his head and cups it in both hands. The warmth seeps through his aching fingers.

“Will it really make you,”

You turn the Auspex on him, and he wilts. No Captain. No ram of war. Just a tired sheep. Asking a guest to please repeat their order.

“Will it really make you happy, if I admit that I hate you?”

But you don’t get a chance to respond, do you? Your Princess is here, Praetor. Look sharp. See, the Captain of the Plousious lifts himself up at her presence, and those not entranced by dreams might chide him for how shamefully shallow he bows. But no one could fault him for how ready his answer comes.

“We’re just getting acquainted.”

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.”