TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

Stone has no heartbeat. Pressed firm against her, even his clever ears hear nothing but stone against stone against wooly curls. But, hearts are also rather clever. Connected as they are, they need very little to know when they beat in time. The longing in her voice echoes the dreams of his heart, from before this journey ever began.

“It is a good wish.”

But just a good wish. As she said, repeating after him, declining to mark a star to guide him. As he says, repeating after her, staring up at Poisidon’s skies, and seeing more stars than he can ever count.

It is a good wish. But.

“There’s…a lot of good wishes out there. Isn’t there?”

He pats her back, once, and immediately feels the arms around him loosen. Free, at last. Up, up he stretches, standing as tall as he can, and perched on her lap he is almost as tall as her. Almost. Soft hands cup carved cheeks. Carefully, like the finest glassware. Tenderly, like a favorite mug on a cold, dark night. He holds her, and bonks his fluffy forehead against hers.

“I hope you follow yours well. A good wish on this side of the Rift...is no less of a wish.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Han’s attention doesn’t leave their unwelcome visitor, not for a moment. But pause she does.

“If an honest talk’s all she wants, she could ditch the mask, not jump out of the forest as soon as we’re alone, maybe start with telling us how the hell she caught up to us so fast. Or knew where we’d be.”

And, while she’s at it, tell her if they’d ever met, because dammit all, she’d swear she’d heard this voice somewhere before.

“But dear old Red Wolf didn’t put you to all this trouble just to check up on us, did she?” Her eyes flicked to the telltale choker around her neck. “Still time to walk away, you know. Plenty of road out there. Lots of places two people can disappear to. If you’re worried about what to tell your boss,” and her smile is full of teeth. “I can think of bigger problems.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

The luggage is sliding off her back before Lotus can finish speaking. She scans the clearing, the skies, ahead and behind, above and beneath.

They don’t have to wait long.

“Bud, get behind me.” She grabs the cloth-wrapped sword from her back with one hand. (The only one she has.) “If anything happens, get down and stay down. I’ll find you when it’s over.”

To the intruder, she barks a mirthless laugh. “Funny. I was hoping to walk the roads in my own damn home in peace.” She plants her bundle into the ground, casually leaning on it. “Be a real shame if we both get disappointed today.”

(Her posture is a lie. Her balance remains perfectly centered. You know that bundle of cloth hides a blade, and one of her hands is out of sight. If you wish to test her draw, you have only to keep advancing. Her eyes are sharp. Hungry. Consuming you, and all around you, waiting for the trick she knows is coming.

But she does not make the first move. Not yet. You still have a chance to turn around.)

Breathless Dead

In a Manor far away and long ago, a sheep stands at the heart of all things. He bought his passage with the seal of the Head Chef, earned by prompt completion of his nightly tasks, and a workspace clean enough to eat off of. He has occupied this spot for no less than half an hour. At fifteen minutes to the Sound of Night, the Majordomo enters his study, where he will begin the preparations for the next day’s tasks. Alone. Dolce has occupied this spot for no less than half an hour. He was required to wait five more, for the Majordomo to stand upon the family crest, and finally incline his head to listen.

“These ‘Starsong’ guests have given us a means to travel the stars.” Dolce recites his litany, rehearsed endlessly over boiling saucepans. “With careful bargaining, we could buy passage for a number of the Manor staff. Through them, we could find the Family again. We could serve them, not at distance, but directly. Perhaps, in all the years we have waited, they have found need of us. Perhaps they could need us, in the future. The risk is certainly great, but it may be worth it, if we could be at their side. Where we were born to be.”

He knew there would be questions. He’d made a list, so that his thundering heart wouldn’t forget, to stand at attention. Hands folded in front of him. Head bowed. Speak clearly. When spoken to, only.

“Chef. What is the third command?”

“A good servant is only seen when called for.”

“And the seventh?”

“A good servant is always watching for an opportunity to do more.”

“And who will take up your share of the work, when you are gone?”

He blinks. “Sir, if I have implied my inclusion into such a mission, I assure you, it was not my int-”

“Do you think me blind, chef? As well as stupid?!” The bark of the Majordomo swallows his apology, his heart, and his balance. “You hover at the table of our guests while the rest of the kitchen staff washes up. They looked at you - looked at you! - and asked for more wine! Where is the chef who would have filled their drinks before they realized they were empty?!”

He is on all fours now. Eyes to the ground. Wrong. Wrong. He got it wrong. “Yes sir. Sorry sir. It was a terrible lapse in judgment, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.”

“You have been preparing to serve for your entire life, and this is the result?! Now here you are; on your hands and knees, begging me to shatter 200 years of tradition, because you have an idea.” The Majordomo kneels beside him, perilously close to his ear. Every growling whisper threateens to grow. Any word could become a bark. “No sheep in my flock behaves so poorly. No sheep of mine would shame me with this display.”

But he made no sound. No breath. No whimper. No sobbing, in spite of flowing tears. His master snorted. The chef moved not a muscle. “So. Maybe you are one of mine, after all…”

The Majordomo pads across the room. A key pushes tumblers into place. A lock clicks. From a cabinet full of shining bells, the heaviest sings faintly at his touch. And he waits.

“Now prove it: On your feet.”

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

The question is solid. The question is a direction. The question nudges a sheep forward, saying this much, I would like to know this much, at least.

The rocking is lovely. Alexa’s hugs were worthy of legend.

“It struck me, hearing her Highness speak to the Starsong.” Loud. Bright-eyed. Warm as could be. “How many worlds had I seen where thrones and Emergency Declarations would really change things? So I thought, wouldn’t it be nice, once the stars were open to all, if everybody had the freedom to actually go to them? With whoever they wanted. Or, maybe to just go to the stars, to find the people they’d want to travel with. Or stay with. Or, anything, really. Nobody kept where they didn’t want to be.”

“There’s a lot of people it would help, I think. And, without somebody to wish like that, it could be a very, very long time before they could be free. I think that would be a better universe. I think that’d be a really good thing to do.”

It’s nice. Very nice. He hopes you’ll think so too.

Maybe you’ll even tell him he ought to cross, for a wish like that.

Breathless Dead

Beware. Even still waters can hide a deep pit.

“You’re…not going?”

He clings. He is held. There is little else for him to do. None of it is correct.

“You’re. Not going.”

Hadn’t he said that already? Sorry, his voice, it really ought to be louder than it is. Was. Could be.

“Of course. Yes. Quite. You’re quite right. It’s a sensible thought, really. You, with how I suspect it all works, would really ought to, yes. You’ve got it right. Completely right. Yes. Good.”

She enfolds him in her arms. She tucks him beneath her chin. Stone cannot truly tell how tightly he clings. She will not see the permitted words spilling from a face all wrong. A good servant bears a burden kindly.

“And Hades, he said we could. Stop here. And, so, and so! So. So we can. Stop here. If we. If we w. I-If we. If.”

Dolce sits in the center. And the center can hold no longer.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.” Han laughs correctly. “Meow. Right.”

(Pretty girls love kittens. A kitten could lay their head in a pretty girl's lap all day. She’d dress them in pretty ribbons and brush their fur until it shone with love. She’d scratch behind their ears and never get tired of telling them how they were the cutest kitty in the whole wide world and she’s so happy to have you. She’d seal her words with precious little kisses on their cute little heads, until the effort of being awake was too much for them, and they’d drift off to the loveliest sleep…)

Her breath fills her chest to bursting and still takes in more. She gulps down the rain-kissed scent of flowers, and maybe if she holds onto it tight enough the next taste won’t be fainter. Or, maybe the dregs that are left will make her remember, and it’ll be just like the first all over again. She needs the help. She thought she could never forget her mouth, and yet, could she picture it, beneath that stupid veil? When the smile reached Lotus’ eyes, did she see anything more than torn fabric and wishes? She won’t even remember her eyes for much longer. Not when she’s got to see her skipping and dancing and laughing through the rain, twirling the umbrella over her shoulder. While visions of stars dance and fade after every blink, and before long the tingling handprint on her chest will follow, just as her bare shoulder is little more than cool and damp. Even when her heart beats so hot and loudly, and she. She just.

She catches Lotus mid-twirl. And pulls her in nice and parallel. One straight line of dragon and priestess. “You’re alright, bud.” One squeeze. One. Then she lets go, her fingers trailing only briefly across her back. “You’re alright.”

Dead wrong, too. But it was…nice. Being overestimated. Just this once.

Breathless Dead

Dolce sits in the center. Unmoving, unchanging in softness, fine wool squishing beautifully under pressure, and not once disturbing his steady heartbeat. His arms don’t reach far, his hands have no hope of meeting, but he clings tightly to the stone face of her chest as best as he is able to. Accepting the flood, and not budging an inch. When the waters recede, he will be there, precisely where he was left, no worse for wear. Fine Manor wool is renowned for drying swiftly.

Then, does he speak. A steady, flowing stream speaking to the absence of flood. Here his hands will leave, to pass tissues and treats, to stroke enormous stone fingers and hold them tight. Listen, Alexa. A Captain and a chef may not hold much wisdom, but the words themselves mean less than the value of a warm, steady voice. But because he loves you, they are the best words he can think of. May they give you some comfort too.

“I think…I know a little about Aphrodite’s game. Just the one. I think even if the circumstances change, and the people, and the consequences, it’s always been the same game.”

“He brings the right people people together. Sometimes gods, when he can manage it. And it’s not to build a great romance, like the stories all say. Not for meetings, or quality time, or secret kisses. No. Nothing so peaceful as that. When you meet, all the world will be wrong, and all of the choices bad ones. You will meet in a place without hope of relief or rescue. Any wisdom of merit would tell you that you shouldn’t be meeting here. Not now. Not like this. But you’re here. And you won’t run. You’ll go to them, willingly. Because…”

“She’s your best friend.”

“They’re your wife.”

“…he was your father.”

“So, you’ll go on to the trouble. And Aphrodite will give you no help. He’ll tell you everything you already know; that you can’t turn back. That you can’t possibly win. If he even says anything at all. Why should he? He’s already getting what he wants: You. Throwing yourself against the impossible. For love. Your strength. Your skill. Your wisdom. They don’t not matter. But, to him, they’re just there to serve whatever’s in your heart. To let it express itself, to the full, and grasp at what it really wants.”

“And if you fail…”

“Your blood will spill, for love.”

“You’ll spend all that you are, for love.”

“If you manage to survive it, then, there may not be much left of you. Just the broken bits of your heart, lurching forward, pulling the rest of you along. All you’ve got left. If you couldn’t stop yourself before, what hope do you have after?”

“But maybe you don’t break. Or, you live, and live long enough to get another chance. And the love in your heart is…I don’t know, pure, strong, enough? Enough. It’s enough to defeat the impossible, survive the certain doom, perform a miracle. Not without cost. Not without scars to show for it. Maybe you do break, just a little. But you’re not consumed by love. You’re empowered by it.”

“That kind of love…it doesn’t have to be perfect, I don’t think. Can love ever be perfect? Hrmm. I don’t know about that. But I think, to survive, it’s got to be a love that’s alive. Growing. Or, if not growing, hanging on tight enough to endure the storm, but when the skies clear again, it’ll blossom once more. With you, and whoever’s a part of it all doing their part to tend to it, because you love each other too much to stop. Because you love each other, and you want what’s best for each other, even if it costs you.”

“So. Either way, he’s got you. Love broke you, or it made you into something that could defeat the impossible. Love was the greatest force after all.”

“And the Rift. His greatest challenge yet, I suppose. We’ll be opening ourselves up to him and his game more than we ever have before. Maybe, I don’t think he’d go so far as to make it truly impossible for us to survive. I don’t think he’d be pleased just to declare a god was mightier than some mortals. But the odds will be stacked as high as he can get them. No guarantees for any of us. We might. We might lose quite a bit, no matter if we succeed or fail.”

“But which way we go - and the way you did go; that was you, Alexa. It’s got to be you. It’s one of the things he can’t do; make the choice for you. He wanted a spear. He wanted to use you to hurt us and Zeus and everyone else he could. What he got was Alexa. Strong, brave, beautiful, brighter and more alive than I’ve ever seen you before.”

“Whatever designs he had for you, you chose well, and, I don’t think you’ll go wrong if you keep that love alive.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

The color rises in Han’s cheeks. And along with it, the fires of righteous indignation.

“Screw that! I don’t gotta pick either of those!”

And if she had access to both her arms, she’d be crossing them so seriously right now.

“So what if girls’re pretty? Nothing wrong with liking pretty girls! That don’t mean I go around stealing them, huh? What, you think I see a river that looks neat, I set up shop there? Tell everybody it’s mine now? Charge admission?!”

“Oh, n-no, no, of course not.” Lotus’ soothing, innocent voice flows like a neat river, like her soft hand stroking hers. “But, what if that river was the most pretty you’d ever seen? Who could blame you for losing your senses? It happens all the time-”

“I said I’m not picking either and that’s final.” Han huffs. “Nobody back home was pretty enough to make me go N’yari on them. I mean,” and the fires rise a touch higher. “Sure, they weren’t not pretty, I still had eyes y’know. But come on, you think there’s gonna be somebody in some nowhere Highland town who can compete with a demigod?! Give me a break.”

And that ought to clear everything up perfectly. Nice try, life, but you’re gonna have to do better than that to get one over Han of the Highlands.

[The wise and articulate Han of the Highlands enjoys a free XP]

Breathless Dead

Alexa

You don’t get to wonder at his thoughts, or where you stand in them. You have enough on your mind as it is.

His little hands squeeze gently on yours, and he gives you his wool. He dips his head, and presses a cloud into your hand, all soft spirals and silly wisps. You don’t get to wonder if it’s alright to run your fingers through his curls. Back and forth, back and forth, he shakes his head, and if you just want to hold still, that’s fine too. He’ll sneak your hand between wool and hood with the care of a true expert, either way.

He is here. Bring the shadows of your heart into this flickering light. Speak of monsters you haven’t named yet. Bring whatever you may into this place, the spell will not break because he chooses to be here. With you. For you. And should you doubt, then hear the truth in the warmth against your hand and the feather-brush of his presence: I am here. I am here. I am here.

“That may be what he wanted.” He nuzzles a cheek into hands strong enough to move a star. “But I don’t think he got a spear, in the end.”

Spears don’t usually fit in the kitchen, you know. They certainly don’t get to sit at the dinner table; good manners would leave them at the door. Hestia’s skill in sewing is peerless, but it’s very hard to make clothes for someone of those proportions.

But if you think that a four-armed hoodie is beyond her, then underestimate her at your peril.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Han snorts, and the undignified sound turns to a full-bellied chuckle that Lotus can feel thrumming through her. Pei? Jealous of her looks? Throwing herself on the ground in a tantrum because the blacksmith’s daughter - beauty to eclipse the divine - left her in the cold? Stolen, courted, wooed away by the beautiful, the sultry, the oh-so-tempting, pfftt, ha! “Heh. Good one, bud.” She sighs, and smirks, and stares blankly into sparkling pools of purest innocence.

“...wait, gods, are you serious?”

Lotus!

Why, is that a hint of blush on Han’s cheeks?~

You’ve got her right where you want her, you clever, clever demigod you. She can’t begin to guess at the games you’re playing at. Maybe you’ve been the Demigod of Sneaking and Girl Questions this whole time, and you never even knew! Maybe! It could happen!

Don’t let her wriggle free. Tighten your net, and get those dragon secrets!