TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

It’ll be alright. I won’t yell at you. I won’t hit you. It’ll be okay if you make a mistake.

The promises hang heavy in his chest. He didn’t always know the shape of them. He has always known the weight of them. They burn to the touch, now. He ought to air them out. Speak them. Soft words, kind words, words he spent years learning how dearly he hungered for them, and now he has a chance to say them. To her.

Instead, he says,

“A good choice. Croissants are difficult to make, but much of the preparation is taken up by waiting. Plenty of time to go over our process before each step.”

And later, he says,

“Now we knead the dough, like this:” He only has one free hand to knead with; the other has to stay firmly locked onto his crutch. He works slowly, slowly enough for her to watch his technique, and listen to any further pointers. She’ll have to knead the rest herself. He only has one free hand to work with. “This develops the gluten in the dough, which holds baked goods together. Different doughs need different amounts of kneading; for croissants, we’ll want the dough to remain a little lumpy. Let me know if it feels like the dough is warming up. We’ll put it back in the cooler if we need to.”

When the time is right, he says,

“Once that square of butter is cold again, we’ll begin the lamination process. It’s a technique where we fold butter or some other fat in-between layers of dough, roll the dough back out, and repeat. Just like folding a piece of paper over itself. When we’re done, we’ll have over eighty layers of alternating dough and butter, just from three rounds of folding and rolling.”

“This is also why we’ve been keeping our ingredients so cold; we want the butter to stay solid, and melt as little as possible. Once we cook it, the butter turns into a vapor, the dough layers puff out while keeping the fat and flavor trapped, and that’s how croissants get all their flaky layers.”

It’ll be alright. I won’t yell at you. I won’t hit you. It’ll be okay if you make a mistake.

He never says them.

He never stops saying them.

You are experienced. You are capable. You belong in this kitchen. You deserve to eat too.

These are not the promises he’s learned.

But that was never the point, was it?

Return to Thellamie

The Golden Fawn starts, as if awoken from a dream. Sacred or scared, glorious or gangly, a fawn must heed the hunter’s drums. See the beat echo in his chest. Fly! Fly! Fang and claw! Net and snare! Away! Away! Were he not held fast, surely he would have run. Were it anyone less than the Princess of Crevas, surely the tide would have swept him away. Even now he watches their spinning patterns, seeking the hidden trails, searching for a way of escape. (Goodness. This is an awful lot of hunter for one deerboy.) But there is no escaping the Khatun. But there is no escaping her Bagyum.

Well, Fawn? The huntress has come to claim her right. Will it be given willingly? Or must she take it?

(Olesya is the center of the sky. On her shoulders, all the stars turn. All she has is a pink dress, black leathers, and a mask of war. This is enough. This does not diminish her.

The drums. The drums. Heavy blows dance on the off beat. Too swift for stomping feet to follow. Too thunderous to resist chasing. Faster, faster! Horns and strings flutter like ribbons. Horns and strings to carry you forward. Forward, through a sea of bells and howls.

If only Juni could see this. From here.)

Ah, that he has not lost his tongue or nerve is testament to the star’s wisdom. For the Golden Fawn looks to his dance partner.

The Golden Fawn looks at his dance partner.

The Golden Fawn stares at his dance partner.

(The Golden Fawn forgot how close his dance partner’s face would be.)

The Golden Fawn speaks a whisper. For her, and her alone.

“Crevas dancing is incredible. Thank you. I’d love to see more sometime.”

(She felt him go limp, laying all his weight in her arms as his breath escaped him. She felt him glow, steam and starlight burning bright. She felt him stiffen, and tremble, when the suggestion of teeth whispered across his bare neck.)

His courtesies are done. (The Khatun is watching.) He cannot tarry any longer. (The Khatun is watching.) The Golden Fawn has promised a dance to all who would seek him. Only by this promise are the hunters contained to this ballroom. It is a promise he must not break. (The Khatun expects Olesya to win.) With all the courage in his thin frame, he meets the iron gaze of the Bagyum. How, precisely, he is meant to curtsey while being held aloft by a Nagi is a mystery, but he does his level best. (As he is expected to.) And he rises, and he

leaps

(Brave, silly boy…)

to the Princess of Wolves

(Does not know what he is getting himself into…)

where she will seize hold of him

(Right where she wants him…)

and he will not escape her.

(All obey as the Khatun commands. She has nothing to fear.

Especially not whatever Hazel may say to Olesya, in the privacy of her arms.)

Breathless Dead

Perhaps he’d cooked with Bella before, and any difference in her desperately-honed methods would have been noticed at once.

Perhaps he’d had to keep stirring his sauces through gunfire and smoke, and every drop that spilled would be paid for in bells. When the danger was greatest, composure was all that could keep you safe. Hers had cracked the minute Dany’s back was turned.

Perhaps he’d not heard anything but the scream and the silence, since the garden. She is older. You don’t have to be as careful, when they’re not children. The knife only needs one hand. He won’t have to let go of his cobbled-together crutch. There might not be any sound. But there might be. He’d hear, if there was anything to hear.

No.

“Thank you,” he says, so that even the smallest of princesses can hear. “If you had not spoken up, I would have gotten the recipe all wrong. We rarely got wonderberries in my kitchen. They are as tricky to work with as they say.”

For the first time since coming here, he hears Bella. And the Bella he knew would never harm her Dany like this. Not like this.

“Whatever you’d like to eat, would you like to learn how to make it yourself?” Did you see, little Bella? Did you see how clean his hands are? He may be a master, but you’ve been able to cook more in this kitchen than him, and it’s not close at all. “Can’t be useful to this world on an empty stomach.”

Return to Thellamie

Some weeks ago…

Hazel, at great personal risk, studies a foxgirl’s swaying hips.

“And lean-”
“And shift-”
“And relax-”
“And swish-!”

Seli and Keli, at no personal risk, drink in a deerboy’s hesitant hips.

“He’s learning quick, yah?”
“Yah, he’s a natural~”
“Are you sure you want a ball, Master~?”
“We could book you quite the show, Master~”
“Oh, but he so wanted to dance like the Nagi do…”
“Perhaps our Anat would be free?”
“ara ara, perhaps she would~”
“Only the best for our Maaaaster~”

Hazel, in the grassy plains, puts his foot down. Not rhythmically, of course.

“No! I mean, yes! Yes I am sure! We’re having a ball. And, to be clear, I’d like to learn more than just Crevas dancing. I don’t know how many styles of ballroom dancing there are in Thellamie, but I’d at least like to learn the major ones.

No! I mean, yes! Yes I am sure! We’re having a ball. A nice, normal ball. Everybody’ll get a chance to see me, nobody’ll burn down half of Vespergift, again, and if anybody tries then we’ll be well within our rights to disqualify them for arson. That’s it. No head-to-head competition. Everyone gets a fair chance. If my sluzhankas want to put on a show, then I can ask Olesya about what goes into a proper sluzhanka performance. I can get Deo to put in a request with Miss Yaz, no trouble at all.”

“But I’d much rather learn whatever dances you can teach me, not just Crevas dancing. I don’t know how many styles of ballroom dancing there are here, but I’d like to learn as many of the big ones as I can. Anyone hunting me is preparing for a ball with the Golden Fawn. The least I can do is make sure I can give them a good dance when their turn comes.”

Keli and Seli, in the grassy plains, drop their lowest curtseys. Not teasingly, of course.

“And here I thought you’d been charmed by a snake”
“When it couldn’t be further from the truth!”
“He’s much too thoughtful”
“He’s much too sweet”
“He’ll be prepared for anyone”
“He’ll be ready to kiss anyone”
“We’ll help, of course”
“Teach you to dance, of course”
“Unless you need other lessons~”
“Wicked sister! He still needs his legs”
“Mmm, we’ll teach you whatever you wish, Master~”
“But you’ll have to figure out the lifts yourself~”

“Wait, figure out the what now?”

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

Today...

Well, Hazel?

Did you learn anything from the plantgirl, in this exact building? Or are you going to need three nickels?

Was it too much to ask for you to be normal for one night? For Suli?

Look at her. Some dance you’ve shown her.

Alas. Not only does Alcideo have to clean up his mess, but he can’t shrink into a hole and disappear forever while he’s being helped to his feet. “Thanks, Deo,” he whisper-mumbles.

“Don’t mention it. It would be a waste to leave your private room unused, wouldn’t it?”

I! You! What! Deo!!!!!

(Squeak. Earflop. Sputter. But there’s a few intelligible words. “Wasn’t!” “Single occupancy!” “Mean to me!!!” Fervent denial, uselessly flustered, but not really upset. Gets the point across. And Deo’s eyes are smiling. And the moment feels salvageable.)

Thus is the Golden Fawn delivered back into the hands of the Princess of Crevas; red-cheeked and articulationally challenged. But his eyes leap up, and up, and up her body, diving back to hers, graceful and unafraid. He nods (quickly, quickly, keep the rhythm…) far more than he needs to, and it says all that he needs to. As if such a thing could stop a goober of his caliber. “I’d love that. Lead on, your highness.” It is a proper address. It is so proper. Don’t come in here and act like it isn’t proper. See? It’s so proper, his eyes are twinkling and not even a giggle escapes his lips. The smile (scrunch the nose, just a little, don’t go full Photo Smile) is non-negotiable.

And so, as the band starts in on a lilting, Crevas melody, they sway together.

Boy, can he sway. Of all the things he can do, swaying is one of them. Even if he requires his whole brain and body to do it, on account of not being a snake. Picture the wave, traveling down Suli’s arms and effortlessly passing to his. Meet at the shoulders, build through his chest, down, down, down, cresting through his hips, his thighs, and flowing out the knees and ankles. Not through a step! Not through a step. The first steps are wrong (wincing, flinching, stupid) even as he keeps them as quiet as possible.

Thump!

No, no, he steps on the

Thump!

In time to the wave, on the right moment, you

Thump!
Stamp!

Yesssssssssssssssssss.

It takes all his concentration to sway, and to step. Some of the waves have to hurry up to make room for the next one. Some of the steps freeze in mid-air, hard stop for a half-beat, and then

Thump!
Stamp!

Always, he watches her face.

(Is she smiling? Is this better? No? Then the next wave will shimmy him extra wide. Hold him tight, he’s about to be very silly. And see how he lights up when stomp and thump ring out as one. Nothing beats a good beat. Is this better? Are you having fun?)

Except. Except?

Except when she lifts him.

Maybe it could be done. But it’s difficult and awkward to look for her eyes when he’s just been spun, laid atop her, and lifted from the hips in one smooth motion. Or maybe he’s floating, carried away by the swaying, undulating bed beneath him, scales and softness cradling his back. Back, and back they lean, and round, and round they go. A slow, languid comet, with his dress as the tail.

Maybe it could’ve been done. Not now. Not when the only place for his head to rest is her shoulder. The lights above them twinkle like stars. They shine down on his exposed neck. Perhaps there is a draft. Perhaps there is a wash of warm breath over his skin. That faint tingle could be anything. He couldn’t say.

Only when his feet find the ground again does he find his way back to her face. And isn’t it always a surprise to see it’s Suli, Princess Suli, he’s dancing with?

It’s also a surprise when the last lift keeps lifting, and keeps lifting, and keeps lifting. (Later, he’ll think, and he’ll agree that, yeah, the music reaching a crescendo maybe should’ve tipped him off.) There are, in this moment, one million different things he could be doing with his body, and he’s positive that most of them are wrong. But sometimes, the trick to not ruining everything is to just blunder on forward, and sort out the rest later.

So he freezes. In the position that feels the most natural. Suli holds him up. Her arms are solid. Firm. Unwavering. He has to balance a lot less than he expected to. He doesn’t have to balance at all, really. So. Could he maybe…?

Suli might feel a tingling in her hands. She might feel a boy tensing, focusing, and then?

She’ll be bathed in starlight, the light from the Golden Fawn radiating above her, and her glittering scales will be yet more indescribable.

Well, your highness?

Do you like it?

[Rolling for Emotional Support with Radiance: 6 + 4 + 2 + 1 (rhythm games) = 13]

Return to Thellamie

You would think that being tied up, helpless to aid your rescuer or foil your captor as they dueled for your fate, would be an easy job.

As it turns out! Nothing could be further from the truth! Being a captive is a tough job! Demanding! Crushing, even!

So, imagine a Where’s Waldo book. Somebody’s opens it to a random page right in front of your face, and you’ve got to find that Waldo and all his gang. You’ve got to. You can’t look at anything that isn’t red-and-white striped. Except the book’s being shaken, and you’re being shaken, and the pages are getting randomly flipped and so you have to start over and over again. Also Waldo might not exist. Doesn’t matter, you still can’t look at not-Waldos. No you can’t close your eyes. That doesn’t work. There’s too many muffled purrs and throaty moans. Can’t be done. Your only hope is to look, look, look, bounce around, never stop not looking, if you keep looking at new things then it’ll drown out the sights your eyes aren’t seeing and you’ll be fine. And, okay, maybe neither of them are going to notice where you’re looking, but somebody might be watching! They’ll know! And you’ll know! So this is a real and admirable job. It’s also only the first job.

Because guess what? That’s right! It’s geometry time!

Pop quiz: Assume a Nagi Princess that is a snake, and also a girl, of maybe probably comparable size to the average Golden Fawn, from the waist up. How long is her tongue? Don’t forget to show your work and also find Waldo.

If you get the answer right, then you can stop thinking about her tongue, and how long, and how wet, and how extraordinarily clever it is.

Work quickly. You’ll need the focus for

THE PHYSICAL CHALLENGE

That’s right! The art of being captured is a multidisciplinary field!

Grip strength. Can you keep holding Princess Suli’s hand? Can you keep holding it when her hand closes around yours? When she squeezes? When she rubs her thumb upppppp and downnnn the back of your hand, in slowwwwww circles, juuuuuuust barely pricking your skin with her long nails? Can you do all that and not die?

Oh, sorry, yes, you have to do all that without dying.

And then? This golden Nagi here? She’s going to rub. Your. Back. She’ll knead, and squeeze, and knead, and squeeze, and you’ll feel her breath shudder through her chest. Because that’s where your ears are. And the rest of your face. And most of your head, really. How’s that cardio of yours? Can you breathe normally? Can you breathe Normally? As you’re bounced and swayed and squished between them? As that hand works its way up, finds your hair, and starts teasing the curls by your horns? Just enough to be warmly ticklish. Not enough to get the good scritches. Close. Very close. Keep breathing. Never not breathing. We’re at the final test. It’s the most important one of all.

Constitution. Endurance. Fortitude.

For you see, Suli is pinning the rude Nagi with an effortless, glittering, half-lidded gaze as she smothers her with a kiss. They only break eye contact when the golden Nagi’s eyes roll back and flutter closed, and it feels like every muscle in her body goes slack at once.

The corner of Suli’s mouth quirks. A slight smile. You’d have to be this close to see it. To glory excessively in this moment would imply that this was anything but inevitable. So she does not.

Imagine what it must be like to be the gold Nagi. That’s not a question. You’re imagining what that must be like. It’s mandatory. It’s easy. It’s so easy, when Suli is squeezing your entire body in time to the kiss. She presses in as she deepens, squeezing pulses flowing up and down your body, drawing tight, shaking, shaking, shaking! So that when she mercifully draws back, even for half a breath, she’s gifted you an olympic-sized swimming pool to melt into. Somehow, you have to maintain a physical body under these conditions. Without any cheese and crackers to sustain you. Oh, or cider, some cider would taste so good right about now. Maybe lightly chilled, and someone could help bring the cup to your lips…

What’s that? Where’s Waldo? Erm, who’s Waldo? Sounds like a neat guy.

Anyway! That is to say! Hazel has been working very hard for a solid minute at one of the most difficult jobs in all of Thellamie. Which isn’t to say that Princess Suli has been working less hard. Rather, she’s not composed, and he’s hardly any better, on account of all the working so hard.

Right. So. Yes.

He ought to say something, shouldn’t he?

Con: He has to say something.

Pro: Somebody will be saying something, instead of nobody saying anything.

The answer is clear.

“Hiii, Suli.”

His voice, less so.

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

Inara!

Sorry, this is a bit unusual, but this does seem more like your territory. You’d know what best to say. Better than anyone present, that’s for sure.

You see, Princess Sulochana - that is, Suli, she’s going to have to look at him eventually. Especially when he starts talking. No, no, he’s not done talking yet. You know how he can’t help himself. When she does, if you’ve got a minute, could you please let her know that there is a tantalized, tantalizing deerboy gazing up at her? Blushing beneath his makeup, blinking as little as he can, breath coming in such little gasps, and - hrm, does “deer in the headlights” mean anything to you? It’s when a deer from Yukisearth sees something big and unstoppable and blindingly bright bearing down on it, and its unfortunate natural reaction is to freeze on the spot. Only - and this is important - this time it’s not fright.

Oh dear goodness it’s not fright

“Fancy meeting you here.” See? It’s like he’s reading from a script. Right there, it probably says -chuckle, sort of, maintaining eye contact.- “Good, uh, thanks. Thanks for that. I really appreciate it.” He can hardly remember if these are the right lines. He’s trying so hard to say the good words. “Do you know how to start a ball? I think I have to start a ball.” He has no excuse not to.

Somebody’s got to warn Suli. Hazel’s looking up at her expectantly, looking into her eyes, heart fluttering, without a bit of fear or caution. The situation is delicate. He’s so eager and needy for the fire in her eyes that the slightest push will send him sinking. For her. It hardly even matters where to. Just about anywhere would work, so long as she wields even a scrap of her true power.

Many things could happen next. Some of them entirely by chance and accident, and wouldn’t that be a shame? For the heart to miss such a moment, all because it was much too silly?

Please. If you are willing, put the question to Suli, as only you can.

If there is to be silliness, let it come from the heart.

Breathless Dead

Three minutes forty-three, forty-two, forty-one,

“Now blend the seasonings with a fork. Turn the box around as you go, look for bands where it’s not mixed. Ingredients can sometimes collect on the bottom.”

One minute eighteen, seventeen, sixteen,

“Place the buns face-down on that pan. It’ll go on top of the rotisserie oven to toast. Here,” From his perch on her arm, he offers a hand. “I’ll split the ones that didn’t cut cleanly.”

Four minutes two, one, three minutes, fifty-nine, fifty-eight,

“Stir the chilli lightly. We only want to keep it from burning.”

Three, two, one,

“There, it’s time for another drink.”

He peeks over at the bowl to double-check. Still plenty of water left. And she hadn’t complained about the taste either. Good, good. It wouldn’t do if she couldn’t stand the salts.

“Just keep lapping at it for now. We can move on to sipping it next time.”

Five minutes thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three,

He feels her hugging tight to his side, nestled between a sheep and the crook of a wolf’s arm. His wool is proof against tears and runny noses alike; ideal for smushing a face in when you need something extra soft. “So, your Danyness…” The question mingles pleasantly with the popping of corn, the sizzling of sausages, the gentle warmth of the ovens. “Which popcorn would you like? Chocolate? Caramel? A little of both?”

Twelve minutes twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four,

He cannot feel his leg.

It must be a clever bit of Biomancy, letting one limb go numb while the rest wake up. Mostly.

Another round of wild laughter, from deeper in. The movie has not stopped.

There is only one voice laughing.

The movie has not stopped.

Two minutes fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two,

“I, myself?” He blinks back wetness. Nestles close against Ember’s shoulder, where the fur will dry him off. “I do like a good chocolate drizzle.” There he lays, where he might be watching the kitchen, where he might be borrowing all the courage he can from the wolf still carrying them both. Her Danyness will never know. “Always makes a nice treat.”

Return to Thellamie

Wha-?!

No! No! He hasn’t!!!

He doesn’t fantasize about, about being between girls!

Not. Well. It was only…

Look, there was some art, somebody else made a comment, he wasn’t thinking anything of the sort, and that was just the one time-it’s different! He doesn’t dwell on it or anything. Fantasizing is different. There’s no reason he’d ever be in such a position, and besides the only fantasy world that’s real doesn’t have dragongirls so it’s actually for reals impossible.

(He has never written down his fantasies. There’s nothing there worth writing down.)

Anyway, that’s not important right now. What’s really important is: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Um.

Oh.

Oh dear.

That’s. That’s a lot of. Soft. Squish. Everywhere.

(There are many smell. Some of them have him on the verge of coughing. All of them are. New. All of them could be studied for hours. All of them are getting poured down his throat with each breath.)

He really should’ve laid some ground rules for this ball. Or maybe he assumed that balls here already had understood rules? Either way, this is. Okay. He should. He’s got to? He’s got to. Sort this. Um. Out.

Just as. Mmph. As soon as. He can. Mghh. Get his. Mouth. Free, for more than-mrpph! A second!!!

Oh. Hrm. That’s not the ground, that’s. Nagi. He couldn’t tell because, there’s not any room to dangle. He just thought his boots were a little tighter than he remembered. Ha ha ha wow there really isn’t any purchase here huh. He’s trying, golly, he’s trying! But! But! Sometimes he can’t move his legs, and other times he can, but there’s just more Nagi and then his leg can’t move again and he’s got to push and pull and wiggle with all his might and maybe that’ll make a difference but hopefully he’ll have his legs back soon.

Okay! So there’s no ground here! That’s! Fine! This is fine! Suli’s got him. He can wiggle. There’s leverage here. Somewhere. Push like this. Pull, and squirm, and pull, and squirm, gasp, remember to breathe! Breathe! And pull! And get loose! And!

And the (rude, mean, thoughtless) gold Nagi’s arm snakes up his back and presses and his head sinks into (don’t think about don’t think about don’t think about) and the rest of him presses into a wall of firm muscle…

Their voices are muffled now. He feels hers more he than hears it, a vibrating hissssssssssss in-between the Thump! Thump! Thum-thump! Cups, silverware, and hearts all jump to the rhythm of their crashing tails. He feels each impact ripple through their bodies, into him, and into the wall of Nagi opposite. Big around as him, at least, all of it muscle and scale, capable of cracking the floorboards. And they. Thump! Throw them around. Thump! So easily. Thum-thum-thump!

He can’t move.

He can move. If he likes. Pull. Squirm. Push like this. Make the most determined gasps when he wins a hair’s breadth of space. Yelp in panic when he’s pulled back into glittering gold scales. Maybe it’ll be a help. A bit of help. Some small difference from doing nothing at all? He’s got to at least try, doesn’t he? He, he ought to try. He ought to keep trying. He’s supposed to try.

His outfit is still perfect. There isn’t a tear in the silk. Neither necklace nor earrings nor bangle scratches any harder than their nails across his skin. Over his arm. Up and down his back. Closer and closer to his neck. Tingling lines of faintest red send muscles jumping, tensing, only to be squished into oblivion a moment later. Kneading, pressing, stroking, clawing, and they alone can hear the startled cries they squeeze from the Golden Fawn. They alone can feel his wriggles weaken against them, feel how many breathy gasps he needs before he can try another.

His outfit is perfect. No pile of blankets ever felt so inviting.

He’s supposed to try. But.

It might not be up to him if he gets to use the amulet.

Princess Sulochana rallies for leverage. Loosens her grip, just for a moment.

(Suli, who leads an entire nation and never misses Yuki’s birthday. Who saved her lands from a Fallen Star and asked a random boy from Earth how the first day of his “Summer Vacation” was going. Who is one of the most level-headed people he knows in any world and who shows them her outfits before anyone else gets to see them.)

Hazel grabs her hand. Blindly. By accident. His fingers close tight around her at the first touch. He finds the strength to push, again, and makes a noise, again, a muffled call to the Princess of Crevas.

He’s supposed to try.

[Rolling to Entice Sulochana: 6 + 6 + 1 = 13!]

He can’t tell much of what happens next. The voices are a little muffled. It’s entirely possible he hears something incorrectly.

But the thumping. The arguing. The swaying. One by one, they each fall into rhythm Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. He doesn’t notice it at first. It’s only when one voice gets…softer. Just a touch. A little wispy, at the end. It makes the other voice stand out. Sharper. More powerful.

Not arguing. Commanding.

And the other voice. Obeying.

The nails. The midriff. The tail. One by one, they each grow weaker. With every back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. The strength. The focus. Drains away. Drop. By. Drop.

Hazel alone feels two bodies bend to one mind. He alone feels one will curl around him, hold him,

win him

And he

Haze

Hazel hgh

He can’t. Move.

The golden Nagi couldn’t resist the Princess of Crevas.

What hope had the Golden Fawn?

Breathless Dead

It didn’t have to be this way.

He could end it at any time.

She was only a child. Did he know that? Did he forget? Children don’t know any better. It’s not fair to blame her. She doesn’t know any better.

Tell her he’s sorry.

She’s crying. She’s screaming. He’s supposed to help her. He’s supposed to make it all better. There are crashing teacups, there are assassins in retreat, there are butterfly wings, there are fragments of a shattered leg echoing, echoing, a table cracking, a foot stomping, and then there is her crying. One, and the other. His skull strains to contain it all. She pours out her tears, until she has no more to give, and that is the worst sound of all.

Tell her he’ll fix it.

She’s scared. She’s scared. Hear the stupid little voice. It’s saying she’s in trouble too, isn’t it? It’s warning of something far worse in this garden, isn’t it? Won’t she have to face it, alone, if she fails to stop him? Isn’t there anything he can do? Aren’t they in the same boat? If he doesn’t reach his hand out, who will?

Tell her anything.

Make this right.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her. (silence)

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her. (silence)

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her. (numb)

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her. (numb, numb, everywhere)

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her. (no point, in pain)

Tell her.

Tell her. (no change, no pain)

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her. (don’t hope)

Tell her.

Tell her. (don’t hope)

Tell her. (don't hope)

Tell her. (wait)

Tell her. (don’t hope)

Tell her. (wait)

Tell her. (don’t hope)

Tell her. (she might start again)

Tell her. (don't hope)

Tell her. (she might start it again)

Tell her. (wait)

Tell her. (she might)

be asleep

don’t

wake her

easy.

That is easy.

Dolce of Beri can stay quiet. Easy. He can breathe. Soft. Slow. Soft and slow. His body needs no noise to hold his lifeblood in, to build a knee piece by piece. All it needs is time, and energy. Time, and energy. Soft, and slow. Smell the rose. Take it in. Appreciate the aroma, the craftsmanship, to grow something so lovely. Feel the sun. It must be there. There. At the edges, faintly warm, surely. It must be there. Sink into the soil. He’s walked so far. He’s worked so hard. He’s done such a good job, not waking her. Sink into the soil. Lie still and quiet. Good sheep. Good sheep.

There will be no noise. There will be no pain.

They both will sleep so, so soundly.

But.

But there is a can, a weight held in a thick glove that must be his hand. It’s a good can. It’s a lovely can. It’s safe and it’s whole, and he hasn’t told the person who made it what a good job they did making it. Even if all he can do is keep it safe and whole.

But there isn’t a sword in his hand, or maybe there isn’t a sword at his belt, and he cannot afford to waste his shot here.

But Dolce of Beri cannot remember how to crawl away without leaving a trail to follow. This was the entire reason his body was taught the trick instead. Servants of the Family must attend to their every need and whim, whatever they may be. The education of the Manor was thorough.

No flower will sway against the breeze. No trail will be found in ground or foliage. No insect will be startled into flight.

But he is thinking this crawling might be a sort of revenge too, and she might laugh to hear him say so.

[Rolling to Get Away: 5 + 1 + 1 = 7. Dolce gets away quietly, drawing no attention.]

Return to Thellamie

“Somebody tried to assassinate Civelia?!”

(See? See how easy it is for someone not to know everything? Good call not making a fuss about it.)

“Sorry, I don’t know. This is the first I’m hearing about it. If I had to guess…” Think. Think. Think! “This is just an estimate, so take it with a grain of salt, but: The prophecy happened at the end of the Festival of Lights. I got the amulet…oh! Oh, it was when the Chrysanthemum was attacked. I don’t know what day that was exactly, but somebody here ought to. So Civelia must have made it sometime between then, probably a little closer to after the festival, if you count in travel time?”

Civelia. Attacked. Almost assassinated. He didn’t even know they had assassinations in Thellamie. There’s stories of older wars, older troubles, but nowadays? When the world is more solid, and heartblades are always close to hand? “I hope she’s doing okay,” he offers, woefully inadequate for the happenings at hand, but it’s the best he can do. “I mean, I hope she’s not hurt now, and that she didn’t have to reincarnate.” Frown. “If reincarnating is a bad thing for her?”

Further musings on the difficulties of the divine are stifled by Investigation. It’s a lot of work, don’t you know, to try and offer as little resistance as possible to the knight posing you without going so limp you fall out of place. Also not to flinch too much or yelp too loudly. (But some yelping is good. Feels right for it.) Where’s that line, exactly? Don’t ask him, he’s busy. With. Stuff.

In time, the whirlwind of Mystery moves on to descend upon the clothing racks. Leaving him in bedraggled silence before he can comment.

Good. He wasn’t quite sure what to say anyway.

A joke. Hrm.

It makes sense, given…well, Keli and Seli. Though, the timing. Could have been better. This is a…difficult moment. For him. (Though it is flattering that they might have liked his fluster.) They didn’t make him go out like this. They did offer to change him, and he never bothered to ask for help with deciding. Maybe they would’ve helped. Maybe he should’ve at least tried. So, ngh, is it fair? To be mad? What should he say to them? When you dressed me all silly, that made me feel embarrassed and anxious. Please provide a more obvious off-ramp next time. Or, no, next time he’ll ask them directly? He was a little indirect here. He could’ve communicated that better. But! He still needs to- hrm?

“Oh, no worries, you’re being a big heLP-!”

Oh hey. That’s the ceiling.

Neat.

“-whOoP-!”

Oh dear oh gosh oh heavens that’s the floor that’s upside-down augh he always hated rollercoasters ohhhhhhhhhhhnonononowaitwhatwhoa

Freeze. It’s the first thought. It’s the best thought. He’s trying.

“Hap! Bup! Bap! Dwegh!”

It’s not working? It’s working? His arm goes there now. His legs over here. His back bends like this. Freeze. Roll with it.

“Eep?!”

The noises are automatic. They’re his best noises. He’s had a lot of practice, you see.

“Mrp-!”

Breathe. Blink. Breathe.

The mirror blinks back.

The mirror. Blinks back.

“Wh….wha….”

The noises are gone now.

Hazel’s head darts down, and finds the trousers, the boots, the flowing sleeves, Eclair clipping a jewelry to his wrist, the skirt, the dress, the skirt, the dress, the skirt, the dress. Here. On his body. Close to his body. Closer than any t-shirt ever was. Farther than the uniform of Cafe Le Faun. But not too far. The soft material glides lovely over his skin. The boots wrap snug around his calves, binding him into shape and space with a firm hug.

In the mirror, an arm rises, lifting a trail of waving white behind it. (He doesn’t think to move a touch slower. His fingers uncurl, with grace, because this is an outfit for moving more gracefully in, isn’t it? Like the first time he wore a suit, posing in the mirror, hearing the clomp-clomp of his fancy shoes as he walked, smooth as silk. It’s just the sort of thing you do in an outfit like this.) The earrings sway and jingle at his tapping finger, silver against silver. Not a wince of pain. His ears are pierced. Dangle, sway, jingle.

The skirt. The dress.

The mirror stares back.

“A…bit of thought, yes.” He answers, in time. He’s been asked a question after all. “But never as a part of the contests, no.” He answers, without any of the panic or nerves that had crippled him. His voice is small. Soft. Fragile. “The prophecy never mentioned marriage. I had never thought it would go that far.” He answers, with a blade against his skin. The clothes were a surprise. The makeup is not. “I think…love ought to be discovered, and grown, together. I don’t think it ought to be forced.” He answers, carefully. He dares not move. He speaks only when it is safe. “I’m happy to help Thellamie get a good Queen. Whatever ‘taming and claiming’ looks like, for everyone, I’ll be the best Golden Fawn I can be. But a good Queen shouldn’t get disqualified just because she doesn’t want to marry…me…”

The work is finished.

Hazel gasps.

Against all odds and sense, the mirror gasps back.

A lot of words happen. Supposedly. He’s making noises, this cannot be denied. Not his best noises though. Not a lot of practice with these ones. Whatever they are. He’s trying his very hardest to put them into words, only, there’s no words that fit right, he has to keep starting over, but there’s something in his head and in his heart that’s started short-circuiting every time he looks at himself again. This final gift of brushies - soothing, gentle, running long and slow over his silly head - keeps him from bursting, but only just. Words are hard, as it turns out. It might take a letter to get them sort of a little right. But he works in a “thank you,” several times too many. “Wow” is a faithful companion. And hiding amongst them, on small and wobbly legs, there ventures out a “I didn’t know…”

Until a growing chant from outside sends it scurrying away. Hazel rises to his feet, looking to the door.

“Oh. Dear. I should get out there…”

Mystery Builder!

He is terrified to get out there.

He’ll do it, mind you. You know him. When there’s a job he’s got to do, Hazel Valentine Fletcher will see that it’s done. But in all the relief of not having wars fought over him, he never imagined this moment. Not really. He thought of stepping out in a spiffy suit, he thought of attending fancy dinners, he thought of doing silly dances at weddings with a crowd of loved ones around him, and when he put all of those together a ball seemed totally doable.

Now there are crowds cheering for his entrance. Now there are going to be the most eligible ladies in all of Thellamie waiting to see him. Now he is pretty, and he’s never been pretty before, and you know he thinks he’s pretty, but he doesn’t know if anyone else will. Perhaps Hazel Valentine Fletcher has done something wrong, and he won’t know it until the eyes of Thellamie are upon him.

He’ll do it, mind you. You know him. He’ll do his very best, even as fear carves through his heart.

But you’re here too.

He’d never think to ask, mind you. You may know him enough to tell. You’ve helped him so much, and he’s done so little for you. How could he ask for more?

But you’re here too. Sharp. Masterful. Hero to this city, and this boy. That’s quite a bit to work with, don’t you think?

Do you take him by the arm, and present him to the crowd? Do you set some plan in motion with the Aestivali scoundrels waiting outside? The loyal staff of the Chrysanthemum?

How do you shape the entrance of the Golden Fawn?

Breathless Dead

It takes him quite a bit of time to climb back into his chair.

Please, don’t take it the wrong way. He’s not been a star before. It’s a lot harder than it looks. Almost as hard as remembering how to be a sheep again afterwards. Wheezing, crumbling bleats escape with every breath, just loud enough to be heard. For shame. He knows better. He knew better. He’s closing that gap as quick as he can, but there’s still fire in his chest, his hands won’t close right, the garden’s all out of focus, and he’ll show his quality by sitting upright again. It’s just taking a bit of time. Please don’t take it the wrong way.

“I…”

Children. Child. Got to be careful with child. They’re small, haven’t got as many years or heads. You don’t know what they don’t know, same as them. You’re both seeing a world. They can’t see yours. It’s not fair to ask them to. You need to be patient. You need to listen. You need to be better.

Darjeeling and coffee. Assassasins and maid. Alligators.

Dolce picks up the coffee.

Get ridda it!

Dolce stands up.

liar cheater meanie big butt rude rude rude rude upset

“I…am going. To speak with. Your mother.”

Dolce walks past the table.