TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

It’s not one of his. The pages aren’t all the same size, or even the same color. Who knows where they may have been plucked from? A few have been dog-eared, and must now be creased beyond repair. And now that he’s holding it, he can’t say that the cover feels all that familiar either. Stiff material. Good for a book well-loved. Or, one that would be well-loved. Or, one that might have to endure a bit of abuse, and come through alright.

Impossible to miss a signature like that, really.

His arms wrap around the precious book, all the way around, hugging her hand to his chest too. It takes a careful wriggle, but he pulls one arm free, and with it, the cookbook. He sets it on the counter, safe from any accidental bumps or spills, and returns to the careful work of holding her. The mighty hand of Alexa turns over, flipped by irresistible nudges, that he might raise it high and gently bonk his forehead against it.

“I wish it could be that simple. But we may not even remember that we’ve forgotten anything at all.” He sighs. “Suppose we lost our ability to write, too. We’d learn again, and our handwriting would change, and our written voice would change, and we’d never recognize a note to ourselves, not in a hundred years. Or suppose we lose all language entirely. We learn from those on the other side of the Rift, but their words have grown differently than ours, and we never are able to figure out what our own letters mean to us again.”

His fingers idly stroke hers, and he needs all of them to do the task properly. Tracing patterns through the worn metal, working out little bits of grit and shooing them away. Sit still, Alexa. He’s working on you. You wouldn’t interrupt a helpful sheep in the middle of his task, would you? Of course not. Sit. Stay. It’s alright.

“It’s in all the stories, right?” A smile, holding up an entire sky of despair. “It never ends well when someone tries to get more clever than the gods. We’d either need a god to take our case themselves, or-”

His brows furrow. His fingers halt, just for a moment.

“...or Aphrodite would have to willingly allow enough of us through to. To. Still be ourselves, afterwards.”

It was his Rift, after all. His work. That no other god could undo or interfere with. Didn’t it stand to reason, then, that he would decide what might stay, and what would be lost in the crossing?

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

King’s crown, what a stupid way to start the day.

Even dolled up like a priestess, Lotus’ having to sneak out on the road like she’s some kind of criminal. Oh, she’s all smiles, but any minute, she’s gonna remember that breakfast they didn’t have. Don’t you tell her about all the food they got in the packs, you think she forgot? She said it earlier. Listen next time, idiot. Handfuls of bread and fruit are a rotten meal for a damn demigod. Who is, in case you hadn’t noticed, carrying her own umbrella. She should be carrying it, except this thorny arm’s no good, and Lotus’ hugging on the other one, so, she can’t. She can’t, alright?! She can’t do a damn thing about any of it, she just has to keep walking, and try to act like any of this is okay and-!

“Sorry.” The word explodes out of her, like the first rock in a dam breaking.

Lotus blinks up at her. “Han…?”

“I said sorry. My sister’s an idiot, okay?! She’s a nosy, useless ditz who thinks she should’ve been born a Princess and acts like it happened anyway. If I’d have known Sagacious Crane’d be there, I’d have carried you to the next inn myself, and you’d be having an actual morning today.” She snorts. “So there. Sorry.”

A chime. A bell. A clear and perfect note, cutting through the hum of the morning drizzle: “Oh!”

“Oh? Oh…bad? Oh good? Oh, something?”

Lotus says nothing. Lotus props the umbrella on her shoulder, that she could use both hands to squeeze Han’s arm.

“What’s ‘oh’?!”

Breathless Dead

Oh Alexa. Brave, true Alexa. You never had time to beat about the bush, did you? Here he is, hardly willing to let the thing into his sight, and now you’ve gone and named it. Don’t the stories say, be careful, oh so careful with names? For by calling a name…

“Yes. I’m scared too.”

…you bring its owner.

“I don’t want to forget everyone. I don’t want to forget who I am. I don’t…” Ah. But that one’s too horrible to say, isn’t it? That one day, he might wake up, and for the first time in years feel the band of gold squeezing ‘round his finger. He might pick up a spoon, and frown, when his grip presses it uncomfortably against his hand. Perhaps he’d remove it, just for a little while. Would he remember to put it back on again?

No.

Not here. Not even here, shielded by the nicest of company. He can’t name it. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. “Because, we can’t know, right? We don’t know what we’ll lose. Not until we cross, but, then, it’s too late. How are we supposed to remember what we’ve forgotten? What we used to be? We’d be alive, and, ordinarily, I’d think that was cause for hope, but who’s to say we’d ever be able to get any of it back?”

“What if…what if we only remember enough to know that we had something more, once?”

“What if one of us doesn't forget?”

The more he circles the terror, the wider an arc his thoughts must run, and the more foreign the land beneath him. Morbid, horrified curiosity drags him ever onward, holding him by the neck. Step by step by step. All around the great monster at the end of the galaxy.

“I…you, you deserve better than that, Alexa. I don’t know if I’d wish that on anybody. Ever. It’s not. It’s horrible.”

And that’s as far as his hooves will take him. Right up to the border, where he might speak what’s in his heart. But no further. A good sheep minds his friends. A good sheep wouldn’t be so greedy as to speak his own name in a wish.

Breathless Dead

There is a rustling on Hestia’s lap, where her loose, oversized hoodie spills into an ocean of haphazard folds. Nestled deep within, a lion stirs. Its plush, fuzzy mane frames a lump of white wool, and its baggy limbs end in hand-stitched pawprint mittens; currently unoccupied, that he might better handle a spoon. “Yes,” Dolce replies, and the lion’s ears flop to and fro as he nods. “Yes, I heard everything.”

He takes his time, scooping up another bite. The ideal spoonful, with just the right ratios of each topping, and not so much sauce that they’re drowned out, takes a careful, practiced hand. He doesn’t get it on the first try, but you can’t rush these sorts of things. A good meal, you take the time to savor how you like. And he won’t continue, not until he’s remembered the sweetness and crunch anew.

“Do you remember the send-off the Starsong gave us?” Long ago, before they’d taken one step of this journey? “The party lasted three days. All that time, singing without end. We took it up on the ship’s drum, and we carried it with us to the banquet halls, the parks, the contests of strength, and always I could hear somebody, somewhere, singing. A farewell-song, for good friends.”

“We knew that nobody would be coming with us, and they knew we’d be going on alone. Some people said their goodbyes, and never mentioned if they’d ever see us again. Everyone who did bring it up, talked like it was a foregone conclusion. Four…maybe five, I think? Five told us that they’d see us again, alive.”

There’s no room under his hood for a hat. It lies discarded. Across the room. On another island entirely.

“Because that was the worst that could happen. We’d fail, and die, somewhere far, far away, and they’d have to decide when to stop waiting for us. I imagined they’d give us a Starsong burial all the same, to remember us by.”

He doesn’t have a hand free to man the spoon anymore. He needs them both, to hug his little bowl close. To feel it press into his chest as it rises, and falls, in deep breaths. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

“I might see them again. Years later, after we’ve made our wishes, and changed the galaxy, and beaten every odd that ever existed, and. And I wouldn’t know a thing about them. Or, the Starsong, or goodbyes, or, anything. We might not.” His voice crumbles to dust. “We might not even get along well enough to try again.”

In the heat of the kitchens, in the lap of the goddess of the hearth, wrapped snug thrice over, Dolce shivers.

”...gods above and below.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

“Well it’s not sneaking out if you use the front door.” Han snorts. She’s still perched on a messy nest of disturbed sheets and blankets. Legs crossed. Arms crossed. Delivering a fierce scowl to an empty corner of the room. “I’m not having Sagacious Crane babysit us all the way to the end of our damn patience, and I know she’d get up at the crack of dawn just to catch us trying to bail on her. By the time she thinks to check the window, we’ll be long gone.”

(Lotus must not be used to rising so early. She performed a truly spectacular yawn when she finally woke. With her bodyguard’s hand still hugged tight against her face. Han’s palm replays the sensation, over and over again, no matter how hard she tightens her fist. Wicked. Greedy. Creep.)

“Get yourself ready to hike. No time for breakfast. Eat on the road if you’re hungry; we got plenty from the barge. Gods willing, we get a sister-free inn tonight.”

She is a statue. A fearsome, carved guardian, shield for a fumbling priestess. No matter the squeaks, the pat-pat-pat of soft footsteps, the grunts of tying bags shut, she is unmoved. No spirit of mischief or misfortune will pass her brooding gaze without challenge. Without coming to terrible harm.

“...bud, tap me on the shoulder or something when you’re decent. Veiled. Decently veiled. Wh-whatever.”

*****************************************

Then, they were ready.

Lotus stood in her priestess’ silks, save for the band of jagged Dominion red hiding her face. (Didn’t she have another veil?) No pack weighed upon her shoulders for the march ahead; Han was handling it. Their food, spare clothes, the dozens of odds and ends that make a journey a little more bearable, all slung alongside her wrapped patta. If it weighed her down, she wouldn’t say.

The window stood open, curtains thrown back and double shutters flung wide. Through the light drizzle, off in the distance, the clouds were just beginning to warm with the colors of sunrise. No rope hung from the sill for the drop below; Han would handle it.

“You ready?”

Lotus nodded. Prim, proper, and clueless.

“Alright.”

Quick as a snake, she dipped low, and scooped Lotus up into a princess carry as if she weighed less than her silks. One arm hooked under her legs, the other cradling the small of her back. Both squeezing her tight against her chest, for the second time this morning.

One step back. Three steps running. Then sail through the air. That’s how it went, right? That sounded right. She must’ve done that before, once. Or twice. It was. So hard. To concentrate. When her whole head was suddenly stuffed with flowers…

[Defy Disaster: Risking her own safety to get Lotus and their things down in one piece: 4 + 2 + 1 = 7]

Breathless Dead

The world is still quiet here.

There are three place settings prepared. One, occupied and attended by an entranced mouse. The other, set a companionable distance down the counter. A bowl of dolce de leche, a sampling of every topping on offer, a crepe, fresh from the pan, and a glass of milk to wash it all down. A comforting meal, for a goddess of hearth and home, in offering for this moment of peace.

The last sits before him, untouched. He’d served Jil first, and Hestia second (she wasn’t fussy about such things, not when there were hungry bellies to fill), and when the gods had finished speaking he’d found he’d filled his bowl much too high. He thinks to scrape some back into the pot, and he doesn’t know if he means a spoonful or a bowlful. But that’d be rude, right? A horrible bit of table manners, and besides; it just didn’t feel right. A terrible betrayal, to cook all this, and not even take a single bite. No chef who did the job properly would neglect the sacred rite of the One Taste.

And so, Alexa, as you walk in, Dolce dips his spoon into a heaping bowl of sweet dessert, sprinkled with chocolate and crunchy wafers, and takes a big bite. And, wouldn’t you know it? He rather likes the idea of another taste. And another after that. And maybe a few more once he’s finished those off. But not before he sets aside his spoon, scoops you a bowl, and pushes it across the counter.

“Here; there’s plenty to go around.”

And maybe you’ve got your appetite back, Alexa, just like he found his. Or maybe you’re happy to nurse that bowl in peace. Whatever you like, there is a seat for you too. The world is still quiet here. What one god weaves, no other god may unmake.

Breathless Dead

Seek not the darkness, Jil. Please. Don’t run for the safety of walking unseen. Masks shatter, armor crumbles, and no Lantern is here to light the path, but there is another light, here. Can you feel it? Not the piercing, steady rays of the sun, but a flickering, gentle warmth; pouring out of his heart, shining through his earnest smile. For you. For this moment.

“It’s good, right?” There is a skipping, easy dance to his motions, even constrained to a chair. His shoulders bounce in time with the last few stirs, and he pours out the precious mixture in a proper serving bowl. “What’s nice about dulce de leche is that you can have it so many ways.” Flit, flit, flit to the small bowls of seemingly random ingredients he had her fetch earlier, dropping a spoon in each one and pushing them to their rightful place. Fruits and bits of chocolate and snappy sugary crackers and whipped cream, to name just a few. “I like it with something a little crunchy, to vary the texture, but go on. See what you like. I’ll make us some crepes.” A drizzle, a swirl, and in goes the batter into the waiting pan.

Let your tears be what they may. Compliment, tragedy, vulnerability, weakness, we can figure that out later. The food is hot, fresh, and plentiful. The company small, but happy to have you. There is a world outside this room, but not a world so pressing that it can’t wait a while longer. There is a seat for you. There is a seat for him.

Won’t you join him for dinner?

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Han wakes, dizzy and drunk on dreams sweeter than wine. All the world is softness, and warmth, and peace. The woven texture of the blanket on her bare shoulder feels all the richer, for the softness of silk against her chest. The light chill of the early morning - so early, that even the birds are slow to sing - makes her sink all the deeper into a cocoon of warmth. She squeezes, gently, and presses the girl in her arms flush against her. Body and silk, heat and heartbeat, she is here, she is here, she is hers. Bliss. Simple, perfect, bliss. Her shimmering, gorgeous hair is an ocean, all for her. She dives into its depths, drinking deep of heady, sweet flowers. Laughter bubbles up out of her, a burbling little rumble in her chest. The world is quiet here. She could lie like this forever, and that’d be okay.

She passes from the waters. Her vision fills with Lotus’ bare neck.

Her mouth clamps shut. Inside the horrified stillness of her mind, she notes the course pants brushing against her legs, the priestess silks still wrapped around Lotus. Then, only then, does she breathe. Through her nose, only, sharp and shuddering. Not a whisper of breath on Lotus’ skin to wake her. She can’t see her face. She can hear her snoring. She’s still asleep. She can’t see her face. She can’t see her own face. She only remembers talking, and hugging, and falling asleep. But she can’t see her face. She can’t know. She can’t know until she looks. She needs to look. She needs to know. She needs to

kiss her

A fire, in her heart, in her blood, screaming to kiss her. Kiss her. The feel of her lips on your neck. Kiss her. Lost, and moaning. Kiss her. Kiss her. Melting mindless in Emli’s arms. Kiss her.

She doesn’t move a muscle. She can’t. She can’t. She’s burning alive but she can’t. They need to see the waterfall. There’s flowers to weave in her hair. There’s a city, where they can be anything they want, just for a day. She can’t. She promised Lotus would see them all. She’d get her there safe. She’d protect her.

Even from herself.

The reward for her steadfastness is agony. To flee the neck, she must resist the jaw. To flee the jaw, she must resist the cheek. To flee the cheek, she must part her lips and only whisper into a delicate ear.

“Hey? Bud? S’time to get up.”

Turns out, it’s rather difficult to talk when you can hardly breathe. She nudges her, which is to say, her arm trembles, and the bundle of girl shifts a hair.

“Early start. C’mon. We gotta go.”

Breathless Dead

A cutlass points at his nose. A tiny sampling spoon valiantly nudges it aside. He’d use the whisk, but, well, occupied.

“I beg your pardon,” and if she tries to cut him off, well! His trusty spoon isn’t going anywhere. “But could you please refrain from deposing me for a few minutes? I haven’t finished yet, and you haven’t eaten, and it’s no good making big decisions when you’re hungry.” He tilts his head, peeking past the cutlass at her shoes, and runs complicated division sums involving tidiness and decorum.

He decides not to ask her to clean the countertops while she’s at it.

“Besides, I’m afraid you have it backwards.” He hasn't stopped stirring through the whole rebuttal. “It was my idea to come along with the Princess. Maybe Vasilia was thinking of it beforehand, but I was the one to bring it up.” As to letting her down? They’d both done a little of that already. Wouldn’t like to do it again, that’s for certain, but they survived it, together. He’d like to think they could do it again, Rift or no Rift.

Breathless Dead

Dolce beams, wreathed in the steam of simmering milk and sugar.

“I’m glad my obvious mental breakdown isn’t causing you any undue stress.”

And returns right back to stirring. Did you know, that one must stir dulce de leche almost constantly until it’s ready? Improvements in ingredients and technique can only get you so far. At the end of the day, it must be carefully, so carefully attended to, lest it burn and ruin the whole batch. But Dolce does not mind the chore. See his perfect smile, not budging an smidge as he works, and works, and works, and works at the mixture. If the pointed silence carries a taste of mischief, then it certainly must be the imagination. Hunger does funny things to a mind, you see.

“Of course I know about the Rift.” A pair of skeletons, embracing, matching knives through one another’s hearts. His grip on the whisk tightens. “We have to do something about it, or else, well, that’s it. Just like we’ve got to do something about the Tides, or else they might self-destruct, and that could be it too. Only, someone’s raised the cry of Assassin, and now I’m hiding in the kitchens. Maybe that’s where we stop. Just like Salib could’ve done it, and the Endless Azure Skies, and Bella, more times than I can count, and the Yakanov, and the Armada, and the Eater of Worlds, and, I might be forgetting one or two?” He frowns, and his whole face wrinkles in thought.. “No offense meant to Aphrodite - it’s a terrible, awesome Rift, among the worst obstacles we’ve faced yet - but we’ve not had a free step this entire journey. But the only way the journey gets done is if we keep taking steps, however we can.” Otherwise the journey may never get done. How many more crews did Hermes have to send? Who’s to say any of them would succeed where they’d failed? “So, I have to keep believing there’s a way we can do it. And figure out how before we get there.”

“That said.” He scoops a sample free with a spoon, observing its consistency before taking a delicate lick. A while longer, but getting there. “It’s not like we’re going in blind, either.”

With one hand stirring, the other counts off.

“First: Hades loves to gamble. I’ve not personally seen him care much whether he wins or loses, or even how often he loses. Never in the stories, either. This is just a hunch, but I don’t know if he’d go for a wager if he knew, for sure, how the cards would fall. I don’t know if he’d be this invested if he knew he’d win every time. If that’s true, then that means there is a way through the Rift, even if nobody’s found it yet.”

“Second: We have to be doing something right so far, more than the crews that came before us. We’re yet to reach the point of no return for the Rift, yet, Demeter said Aphrodite assured her that Vasilia would have killed me by the time we reached Salib. There are…” He swallows uncomfortably. “...signs, that other journeys ended long before ours, by Aphrodite’s curse. But it hasn’t happened to us yet, despite the fact that it should have, and I can’t believe that’s down to chance.”

“Third: There’s some things the gods have told us that I can’t make sense of. Hades told Vasilia that, on this side of the Rift, love is denied to all. That the Rift only magnifies and accelerates existing fault lines. Aphrodite himself told me I did not have love. And yet. Vasilia and I are closer now than we were at the journey’s start. Aphrodite saved our lives, when all I had to offer was the promise that I was hers, and she was mine.” Denied love, then saved for love, all in the space of a few minutes. The gods may act on whims as they so choose, of course, but that answer sat wrong in his heart. There was something more afoot, if he could just figure out how it all pieced together…

Hrmm. But first, there was stirring to do.

“It’s not an answer.” He admits, returning to his careful kitchen work. “I need a little more time, some opportunities to consult the gods further. But I think I’m close to something.”