TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

“Jil…”

They’ve stopped. The kitchens, for a ship like this, are enormous, numerous, and perhaps the only place on the ship that sees regular cleaning. The Manor staff twice over couldn’t hope to fill the one they’ve stopped in. Now, it’s occupants only number two. They have a whole island, just for the two of them. More than enough space to fix a proper meal, in private, where they won’t be disturbed. Where no one will wonder why the Captain lays his hand so gently over her white-knuckled grip.

“...we’ve still got half a galaxy to go.”

He squeezes, once.

“Could you fetch me that pan? Second from the right, medium size. Would you like something savory, or sweet?”

He’ll need a little more of her help, as it turns out. Half of everything’s out of reach, wheelchairs move too slowly to prepare everything in time. No matter what her tastes, there are dozens of steps made easier with an extra set of hands. Fetching, and peeling, and stirring, and washing. Plenty to keep the hands busy, and the mind, just busy enough to be occupied. And, at the end of it all, the promise of a hot meal, shared in friendly company.

Hard to go wrong with that, no matter how much the world'd turned upside-down.

“If all the clans needed were money,” he continues, at a time when all there is to do is stir and wait. “I can think of plenty of options for more sensible risks that’ll still pay you a sufficient reward. After all, people make money all the time, everywhere. The Starsong make plenty, running couriers, scavenging, knocking over local warlords, that sort of thing. This far out, there’s bound to be whole planets that have barely been touched. You’ve even got your own ship now.”

He sets aside the bowl a moment to rub his aching hands. “So why bother risking a trip to Gaia, just to wish for a planet of gold and jewels? Where’s the sense in that?”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Weeks ago, Han took Lotus to the Festival of Leaves. They stayed longer than she meant to. Couldn’t we attend a tea ceremony, just the two of us? Oh, have you ever seen so many wonderful snacks, ever eaten anything so lovely? Would it be alright, just one more thing, this play, the poster looked so lovely, can’t we? Can’t we? Time and again, those sparkling eyes turned to her, and time and again, Han of the Highlands relented to the growling ache of her heart. It would be long, long hours before she was finally satisfied.

A few days later, she slept, and the last thing she recalled was not the mesmerizing song of a treacherous flute, but the warmth, the delicate weight of Lotus, perched snug upon her lap. And she slept. And she was satisfied.

The first day was the hardest. There is a scar in those woods, just off the main road, where the trees are shattered at the trunk, and the undergrowth is torn up by the roots, and ugly, ashen gouges rend the earth. Some still hiss, and steam, in the rain. She ran, not to find help. Not to find civilization. She ran to cast anger, sorrow, guilt heavier than mountains, everything she had into a blazing engine of motion. Consume it all. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.

The second day was easier than the first. The third, easier than the second. The steady current of time did what the will of dragons could not. The gasping, aching emptiness inside passed from her awareness, the novelty eroded away until it was little more than the constant patter of rain. Wake up. Run. Eat. Run. Sleep. Repeat. Find a witch. Find her. And she needed nothing else.

A week ago, Lotus kissed her.

A lot’s happened since then.

Lotus was torn screaming from her back, lashed by a thunderbolt that was meant for her. The both of them were bound, chained, and made to march. She never got a chance to see if she was badly hurt. She hardly got a chance to see her at all; they blindfolded her the second time she took a swipe at the soldiers.

They spent a week on a barge. Never together. Never alone. Always under the watchful care of soldiers, of slave girls, of the Red Wolf herself. Reduced to glances across tables, gasps of conversation in passing. Lots of time alone. Waiting for traps to spring. Wondering why thoughts always turned to her, her, her. And she remembered the emptiness in her heart.

Until Lotus kissed her again.

A lot’s happened since then.

They, they kissed the same girl. Watched, kissing. Sort of. Accidentally. Then, they tied her up. Properly. Which was. Educational. Then, hand in hand, darting away in the cover of darkness. Flitting silently through the ship. Swimming, running across the waters, escaping in the nick of time, then-!

Close enough to touch. Nobody around for miles. Side by side, in the waning light of evening, walking the roads together. Standing apart. In silence. For hours. And her reward is ruin. Lotus will leave her. Lotus will go. Lotus will never look at her the same way again. And the first day will be the hardest yet.

Until Lotus works a miracle.

They’ve left the lobby. They’re in a strange, small room. They are alone, somehow. It isn’t important. Lotus holds her face in her soft, warm hands. Lotus shines care and concern over her through sparkling, shining eyes. Lotus pours worry, and fear, and the shadows of her heart out, in a voice that sounds so much prettier when she’s laughing.

The scent of sweet flowers surrounds her.

“Bud. Look at me.” And she’s got her head in her hands, and she won’t _let_ her look away. Her fingers absently toy with her hair. “She was looking for some rogue spirit named Zhaogoon. And even if she was looking for you, I sure as hell wouldn’t rat you out to her.”

She doesn’t realize the fire she puts in the word. Unmistakably, she knows this priestess. They have history, they do.

“Now. I want you to sit your pretty little butt down and tell me every damn thing you want from this trip. I don’t care if it takes us all night. Nobody’s taking you anywhere until you get it all. Got it?!”

Lotus may have to use her words. Those strong hands squeeze her cheeks so firmly, she may not even be able to nod. And Han dares not let her go.

For it will be long, long hours before she is satisfied.

[Rolling to offer Emotional Support: 6 + 2 + 1 = 9]

Breathless Dead

“Excuse me.”

He frowns. The snapping still rings loud in his ears.

“I don’t know where you got your information from, but they must have been mistaken. Our last Captain stepped down in the midst of the Alcedi contest of ritual combat for the Captain’s chair. I entered as one of the competitors, and…”

Come to think of it, he didn’t actually fight any ritual combat. Of course he didn’t. That would’ve meant disaster for sure. How could he possibly fight entire warbands? How could he win? What had he done instead?

“...and I asserted that they had no legal right to fight me, as I was the duly appointed Captain, and they hadn’t made the proper offerings to clarify their intent to Artemis. Then, yes, that bought me enough time until the incident on the bridge, where I…saved the ship by asserting that right again. Hrm.”

He quietly removes the ornate Captain’s hat. Runs a shaking finger on the edge of the intricate badge of office.

“My apologies. I, everything happened so quickly, I’d forgotten how exactly it happened. I thought saving the ship was what convinced the crew I was suitable for the job, but you’re absolutely right. I just took the job as it’d been offered, and held on long enough for everyone to accept it. I didn’t think…” Not quite true. He was thinking. He’d done an awful lot of thinking. Just never quite in this direction.

“It was by a vote, at the start, since there were only the four of us. I didn’t want it. Alexa didn’t want it. The Princess wanted to be Champion. Vasilia offered, and we agreed. But how was anybody else to know that? Galnius and their defectors, the Secretary from the Eater of Worlds, the Hermetics, the Coherent, the Alcedi, they all came on later. All they’d know is that I’d claimed authority from the previous Captain. Then we were straight to Endless Azure Skies, and - well, you were there for the rest of it.”

The rest of it. A desperate flight. A hard decision. The horrors of war. There is quiet enough for both of them to remember, before he speaks again.

“But you are wrong about the Princess. She’s on this journey because she doesn’t want to kill her mother. I don’t think she’d say it as such, but it’s the entire reason she’s chosen this journey. She wants a free world. A world where the stars are open to all, however they want to see them. She won’t get that, so long as Nero holds the throne. Nor will she get it if she wins that throne in a bloody revolution.” No one would forget that her reign was bought by blood. No one would forget the lesson, that Empresses weren’t as immortal as they seemed. Besides, the princess who could drive a spear through her mother’s chest couldn’t also cling to her beautiful dreams.

“So here we are, on a journey to Gaia, on a gamble from Hades, with a wish as the prize if we should succeed where a few hundred crews before us have failed. The one way to get what she wants, without driving a spear through Nero’s heart.”

He gives a little huff. “Can you imagine, picking this, just to get rich?”

Breathless Dead

“Well. It’s not only an imperial title.” Ah. Were his sinking spirits that obvious? Not good. The job is his. Even if he’s the one who chose it. You can’t have a broken heart where a Captain should be. And while the thought spirals deep into a corner of his mind to gnaw and work at a mask that might pass muster, a mouse who belongs to another ship entirely wheels him to the kitchen to fix a snack. So he continues. “The Starsong carry the same title on their ships, but it’s not quite the same job. It’s…” He wrinkles his nose thoughtfully. “Imperial Captains are appointed to their positions by those higher ranking than them, and, as I understand it, are responsible for maintaining the obedience of their crews. Starsong Captains are chosen, by the crews themselves, and are responsible for maintaining the well-being of the crew, the Starsong, and whatever planet they land on. Not necessarily in that order, but all of them are important. Imperial Captains must work above their crews. Starsong Captains must work with their crews.”

“It’s a good system. I liked it, when I was a part of it. It’s what we had when we first started on this voyage, though there were only a small handful of us. Then we took on the Hermetics, the Coherent, the Alcedi. Our Captain, she had to step down, for personal reasons. I thought I could be Captain in her place. Like the ones I’d served under. But here, all anybody knows is the Imperial way of doing things. They know how that works. They know where they fit there. And, I think…”

He’s not speaking of anyone in particular. Nobody is listening in. Nobody is anywhere close to listening in. His voice drops to a whisper all the same. “I think when I’ve tried to change that, they see that vanishing. They feel the ground dropping out beneath them.” Like a little chef, taking his first, terrifying steps out of the Manor. “After Salib…what room is there for change? When everyone’s so, so…”

Shaken? Hurt? Almost certainly. Almost. Because it’s conjecture, isn’t it? A best guess, gleaned from stacks and stacks of casualty reports, requests for offerings for rites of remembrance. Snippets of conversation, half-heard, and cut off once he was seen. A feeling in the air, that might just be his own weary heart, for all he knew.

“...in any case, Imperial is what the crew expects. If I’m to work with them, I need to at least speak it well enough to hold a conversation.”

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.”