TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

The world is warm, and soft, and dim.

“My little lamb.~ It’s time for you to wake up.”

There is a pressure. There was pressure. There is. The line between is blurry. The gentle circles drawn through his wool stir through him, through a woolly puddle, without leaving so much as a ripple.

“That’s it. That’s it, my darling. Let me see those pretty eyes. Just for a few minutes.”

The world is warm, and soft, and brightening.

Vasilia is there to greet him. She rises above him, her tummy stretching off into the distance, off to her chest, and beyond, and beyond! Her face. Her face. His very favorite face. A little smudged. A little cloudy. Him. He. His. Body, seems to still be a puddle. Hrm.

“Shhhh, lie still. Don’t try and get up. I’ve got you. You are safe, my dear. You are safe, and you are mine. All mine.~”

Ah. Well. When she put it like that, not moving sounded rather sensible, didn’t it? He’d said as such himself. Well. He tried. All that came out was a soft, inquisitive bleat.

“I know. I know, sweet heart. You’ll be able to sleep again soon. And oh, what lovely dreams you’ll have. Not a single nightmare will get past me. But I need you to stay with me, okay?”

Of course. Of course he’d stay with her. She just told him not to move, didn’t she?

Heeeeeeeeeeeeeee

“There’s that smile. There’s my darling. There you are. Now, it’s time for a little snack. You may not feel very hungry, but it’s quite important we get some food in you. Just lie back, relax, and I’ll bring it to you. Can you open wide for me, sweetie?”

He can. Oh, he can. It takes a bit of doing. He’s not sure if he’s doing it quite right. It’s hard, keeping his eyes and mouth open, all at once. He’s rewarded with a bite of something flaky, buttery, spread over with something savory, so savory…

“Well done, good lamb.~”

A cup of something hot, herbal, and just a bit sweet is placed at his lips, and he sips dutifully. She must have worked hard, she must have, to get him such nice treats…

“This will make you feel so, so much better, love. That’s it. You’re doing wonderfully. Eat up, dear heart.”

Bite, sip, bite, sip, and so it went, until there were no more bites, and no more sips. A long, hard day’s work.

“You did so, so good for me, darling. You can rest again now. Sleep. Sleep, and heal.”

The world is warm, and soft, and sinking.

“I will watch over you. And when you wake, I will be here. Sleep, and rest.”

There is a pressure. There was pressure. There was. The line between is blurry. The gentle kisses on his brow silence him, sink him, engulf him in a wooly puddle, leaving hardly a ripple.

Return to Thellamie

Hazel wraps both his hands around the cup. Doesn’t even think about it. It’s a reflexive response to Hot Drink. When too hot to warm belly, warm hands instead. Breathe. Take it easy. Savor the good drink smell. Think about how good it’ll taste in just a moment, once it’s cooled off some, once there’s a warm hug resting cozy in your belly. No chugging now or you’ll burn your tongue. Nice, slow, delicious sips.

(Cocoa is his very most favorite drink. A superior refreshment. Cider, he doesn’t have too often, but it’s up there. He’s very stubborn about switching to iced oat milk lattes in the summer. Even when he’s sweating on his way to the coffee shop, there’s a part of him wondering, well, it’s not *that* hot, is it?)

He’ll talk in a minute, he needs his breath to blow on it. So he sits, and he curls up, and he wiggles his tail silly, because he forgot just how nice it felt to hear that name. “I’m fine, I’m fine, what about everybody else?” Sip? Siiiip? Oooh, that’s the good cider. “...no, wait, Thellamie Ball. This sort of thing happens, doesn’t it? Dragons and getting kidnapped and such. Right, yes.” Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip. “Well, we should still make sure everyone’s alright. Could you get word to Miss Yaz? And, tell her to let everyone know I’m okay and not-kidnapped too.” Sip. Sip. “And that I’m not mad!”

Sigh. Hug the cup close to his chest. Still quite full.

“I may need a minute to finish this? If that’s alright? I can get some more later if not, no worries.”

Breathless Dead

“Of course, Your Highness.” A little sheep dutifully raises his head to properly address royalty. Swaying in a polite-ish fashion. Beaming with a careful absence of mischief. “Shall I, tell them anything, ah, else, while I’m...at it?”

His voice is hoarse from screaming. Perhaps you can still hear it echoing, someplace far away from here; agony tinged through with regret, apology, remorse.

Stirring a cup of tea effectively without hitting the sides of the cup required a delicate touch. A delicate touch required the fingers to pinch just so, and circle this fast, and no faster, the power coming from a twirl of the wrist.

They taught him well. They taught him deeply. What does it matter, that surprising his wife with a little treat required the muscles currently being ground to nothing? To suffer audibly is a shame. And yet, he persisted. He couldn’t help himself. Forgive him. Forgive him. Please, forgive him.

They built him with intent. They imagined servants who would always be soft, always submit, no matter the master or treatment. Their imagination lacked experience.

In practice, eyes are mostly a luxury. Memory, complex thought, overrated. There are more important things for a body to tend to. So when he gazes up at the figure holding him, it takes quite a bit of squinting to get at the silhouette. Now, he knows who this is. He knows he knows them. It’s on the tip of his tongue, yes. What was it again?

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Of course.

Dolce of Beri bonks his fluffy forehead against a wall of silver vines. A friend nestles into a sea of inky black, cool and soothing. And a contented sigh slips from his lips.

“I knew…your name was Bella……..”

Return to Thellamie

Um.

Sorry, I don’t mean to contradict, but. That’s not what happens?

No, I’m serious. That’s not how it goes.

Yes, Negodincia grabbed him by the wrist. Yes, she dragged him away. Far enough away so that Olesya couldn’t reach him, at least. But not much farther than that.

Why not?

I mean. This is a BLADE! DANCE! This isn’t getting chased through Crevas, this isn’t getting pounced on as he dodges a forest dragon. He’s on alert. His heartblade is in his hand. He just spent many, many days getting clipped by foxgirl heartblades on the arms, legs, back, belly, and suspiciously often his rear. And. Well. Look, don’t spread it around, but he really, really isn’t very fond of Negodincia. Really really isn’t very fond of her at all.

So he’s surprised when she grabs him by the wrist, but not stunned. He’s got his blade drawn, but she’s no defenseless, defeated plantgirl. He’s hesitant to stab her through the chest, but not slash her across the arm.

Did you, think he wouldn’t do that? Did you think he was so, so useless that he would do nothing but helplessly squirm as Negodincia - of all people - dragged him off? Carried him away from Olesya, who he promised to help? Refused to see him as a duelist worth dancing with? Made out with him on the floor?

That’s

He’s not stupid, you know.

[Rolling to Defy Disaster with Daring. Hazel is willing to sacrifice his image of sheer defenselessness: 5 + 4 + 0 = 9]

Now, the rest of it? That does happen. Sort of.

Hazel doesn’t make out with any foxboys, because he’s not making out with any wolfgirls. But he does get scooped up, he does get abducted straight skyward, and he does nearly jump out of his skin as the explosive flask sounds off behind him and the Dark Dragon roars off beneath him.

Does he learn anything about himself in this moment? He does, actually. A few somethings, actually.

“Is there a Kidnapping Queue that nobody told me about?!”

Thing the first: He’s perfectly capable of babbling sensibly in a crisis.

“This is! Hrk! Not! Ngh! A good time!”

Thing the second: He’s completely incapable of slashing at someone when they’ve got him swept off his feet and flying through the air.

-ding!-

The light of Civilization shines from the charm around his neck.

The eyes of his kidnapper shut in a narcoleptic power nap.

The yelp of a Fawn rises as he falls.

Thing the third: He forgot to specify what, precisely, would happen to anyone who broke the rules.

It is a very educational moment.

[For getting under a deerboy’s skin in a stressful situation, the handmaidens take a string on him.]

Breathless Dead

It feels right, that there’s not a clever idea left in his head.

A few minutes ago, he was rather worried about that. Shameful lack of preparation, you know. Failure in observation. Dereliction of duty. Doom upon us all. Funny, now that they’ve come to it - an assassin loosed, Ember and Mosaic beaten bloody, the ringing screams, no time, no plans - he can’t find room for worry anymore. Not that it’s crowded out. Not that he’s accepted their fate, heavens no. He’s rather far from accepting any of this. There just isn’t a place for cleverness. Not here.

There is the story of Bella Aurelia, who overthrew Artemis, for love.

There is a quiet theater.

“Once upon a time,”

The lights dim.

“There was a girl who didn’t know what she was,”

The screen flickers to life.

“And she lived in a house in the center of the universe.”

Dolce takes the first step. Ahead of Bella. Towards Bella.

Won’t you follow him?

Return to Thellamie

Is he confident?

Fu fu fu fu~

Oh, he’s confident alright.

Imagine being a Golden Fawn who didn’t prepare for the SWORD! DANCE! Of the Serigalamu! Couldn’t be him. Such is his power. Not all of those training sessions with Keli and Seli were about dancing. Well. Unarmed dancing, that is.

(And! Did you know? That the Serigalamu have a secret technique where they gobble up all your scent and stress in one greedy huff? Did you further know of the secret spot on your thigh that can be squeezed to get allllllllllllllllllll that energy out of you? Stiff and speechless, fluttering and floaty, tail flicking uselessly against Olesya’s tummy?

Because he sure didn’t!

Anyway it’s magical and it’s real and it works a charm because when he finally remembered to breathe out his limbs felt like wet noodles. Wet, rejuvenated noodles.)

Olesya sets him down to draw her blade, and their hearts flash as one. Knife and sword. Black and neon. Sharp and empty.

Let the SWORD! DANCE! Begin!

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

Hrm.

Hrmmmmm.

Clash, step, blades screech and part.

Hrm.

Well.

This dance doesn’t have as much sword as he thought it would.

It does have a lot, to be clear. Quite a lot of sword in this dance. Oleysya’s gone through, what, two dozen opponents? And at least eight partners. Sometimes at the same time, sometimes switching sides freely. There’s a dancey queue forming. Oh yes, plenty of sword in this dance. Just. Not over here.

Clang, sweep, the claw that traces lightning from cheek to ear

It makes sense. When he thinks about it. What, would he fancy crossing blades with that many huntresses? There’s still people waiting for their turn with the Golden Fawn, he can’t leave this dance on a stretcher.

And Olesya is Olesya. She’s got his back. He can’t get much further than block, swing, whiff, the heart-stopping moment when the hunter’s eyes peer into your hiding spot before she pounces. She gives him time to catch his breath. She gives him space to compose himself.

He wasn’t doing that bad.

The thought barrels headlong into a tightly-woven net of gracious sensibility. It struggles. It strains. It pulls on you’re being ridiculous and why are you so upset and it’s your own fault for being so silly all the time, what was she supposed to think? It pulls. It pulls. The tighter the bindings, the harder it pulls, and neither side is willing to break.

But. It pulls. It pulls the Golden Fawn a little further away from his protector. It pulls his attention inward, it pulls his brow down, it pulls his lips to the very edge of a pout. It pulls his blade through the air in graceful, sweeping arcs, taking the steps with ease.

It pulls him into the best sort of prey. The kind that can only put up a fun, fruitless fight.

[Rolling to Entice: 5 + 6 - 1 = 10]

Breathless Dead

-tink, tink tink, tink-

The crutch clacks against the marble floor. Steady as clockwork. Unhurried, because he cannot hurry any faster than this. To lose the rhythm would be to lose his footing. To lose his footing would mean to stop. He must not stop. He gets closer. With every clack, clack, clack, his breath hitches. Instinctive shame lashes his back with every sound.

-tink, tink, tink, tink-

“But you hate yourself.”

Push, little voice. Push. Make it to the stage. Don’t fall beneath the clack, clack, clack, and be lost.

“You, you have rejected everyone you have ever been. You have rejected everything that made you who you are. You speak, and…The Master of the Assassins, she was just on the screen. The Royal Architect, I told you about that one. The Crystal Knight. You killed her. You sound just like her. You sound like all of them, and you do not remember them.”

-tink, tink, tink, tink-

“All this? None of it is new. We have heard it all before.”

-tink, tink, tink-

“And you say you are the most real thing here?”

-tink-

He kneels. And offers Bella a can.

It’s a small thing. Curiously designed. Hand-painted, you can tell if you get close and squint. Icy cold. Nice and cold. He tucked it in the fridge while they were cooking. He’s kept it safe, all this time. All to give it back to its rightful owner.

“Here: Try it with a bite of croissant.” His smile is warm enough to wrinkle his nose. “Coffee and pastries are a classic for a reason.”

It takes both hands to pull himself back upright, where he can hobble between a teenager and a tyrant.

-tink, tink, tink-

“Bella has love. Bella is rich with it. Bella would never throw such a fit over being stood up to. You? You are not my friend.”

-tink-

“And you are not that special.”

Return to Thellamie

She doesn’t hurt him. She could. But she doesn’t. She might. Not important. She’s soft now. She’s sweet now. Her breath is sweet as it washes over his face. Chin up for her? Mouth open for her? Breath deep for her…

…and breathe out. Out. Out out out. Get them out. Get them all out. Stupid thoughts and stupid flutters and…

Drop.

Sink into her coils. Sink into her eyes. Give in. Give it up. Let her take it all. Let a Princess handle a Princess. Let a Princess handle her Princess.

Let her long, long tongue flicker over deep, painted lips (painted deep red.) Let her savor a delicious little snack. Let her...

…take him without a fuss. Try not to mess up the apology for the trouble. Tell her it wasn’t intentional. Focus. Focus. Focus. It’s his first time throwing a ball? It’s, no, ngh, stop it. Legs bad, maybe? No, lying’s dumb. Never works. Stop it. Lost track of time. Big night. Maybe. He could…

…do nothing as she pinned his arms over his head. No leverage. No strength. No defense, as she cupped his chin and struck. And struck. And struck. And struck. And struck. Hungry. Proud. Triumphant. Alive with the thrill of the hunt, sinking her teeth into her prey, her prey, and…

…Olesya drew him tight to her chest, wasting no breath on a snarl. The Queen would have to come and claim him from her awkward, gangly arms. That was all there was to it.

But before she could, a small, silly boy reaches into the depths of his flowing sleeves, and the amulet he raises to the sky cuts through the smoke with beams of starlight. “I…am the Golden Fawn!” His voice lilts and wavers, straining to climb in volume and authority. “I thank everyone who came to see me tonight. It is an honor, an honor I will repay in dancing and company. I promise that everyone will have their turn, and no one will have their turn taken from them or cut short. Please, uh, please see Miss Yaz if you would like a turn. She will sort the order out. Don’t interfere with her either. That…that is all! Thank you! Again!”

The amulet fades. The speech fades.

The boy fades.

Don’t worry about him. Bagyum Olesya was strong enough to stand before a Queen. She is strong enough to hold a small, useless boy as he falls back into her arms.

(Not that he deserves to be held.)

[Rolling to use the amulet to make a new rule: 6 + 4 + 2 = 12. Hazel takes the Guilty condition, as the amulet saps his strength.]

Breathless Dead

The croissant hits the floor. The crutch follows after.

He needs both his hands free.

Wool born for nobility, the stuff of the finest, softest blankets in all the palace, bundles up Bella in a hug. A squishing hug, for one so padded. A firm hug, for one so short. Even before he had to kneel on his good leg.

Cry all you wish; that which dried the eyes of a princess stands ready for your tears. Say as little as you like; he will say enough. “Well done. Well done.” He finds a little more strength, to squeeze, to help hold together this space she'd made. “I knew we’d find you.”

Return to Thellamie

Um. So.

The plan has hit a snag.

He’s gone and double-booked himself, you see. At this time, yes, at this time right here, he’s supposed to be staring incredulously into the sharp war-mask of Bagyum Olesya, and discovering that bone and paint will not budge. Only, he’s just remembered that he’s due to bury his face in his hands at any moment. True, he’s using those hands to cling tightly to Olesya’s arm (singular! He can’t get them both!) but if he buries his face in her upper arm there should be more than enough room for one fawnish face.

Well. Nothing for it. He’ll just have to squish in tight, cheek to muscle, and try to look at nothing and only her at the same time.

This will work.

What do you think, Keli, do you think he could ever be a Princess?

Yah~ <3

(Isn’t it nice, to find out that Foxgirl Trick could be true? That by the power of maids and makeup, Hazel Valentine Fletcher could be special? Precious? Like royalty? Even if it was only for a night?)

“Take the lead.”

The…prince? Princess? Prince Princess whispers to his huntress.

“It’s okay. Do whatever you think will convince your mom it’s going well. I’ll play along. If she thinks you’re winning, she won’t need to interfere any more, right?”

Amidst twirls, amidst kicks, amidst strong arms and crushing closeness, he sends a little smile to that fearsome mask.

“First rule of sneaking: Sneaking isn’t just hiding. It’s showing your prey only what they expect to see.”

(The Khatun will see a bundle of speechless silks, a silly boy trembling in her daughter’s arms. Helpless to escape. Caught fast. She will not see a promise being made. She will not see that this, too, is just a performance.)

In the crook of her arm, his thumb curls up.

(Olesya will see…royalty. Apparently. She will see a boy out of his depth, trying his best, happy to do what he can to help. She will see him tremble to make the attempt.)

“Go on. I’ll be fine. We’ll keep Juni safe.”

(She will not see it is because he cannot stop wondering what it would be like if she properly kissed him. She will not see, in all that she would dare do to him, how his heart will flutter from inexperience instead of surprise. She will not see Hazel’s face in the glow of a Yukisearth tablet, wandering where he should not in the dead of night. The stories he found, of the boys who could neither outrun nor outwit their pursuers, and what songs were drawn from their helpless lips.

She will not see how little courage this really takes.

She will only see a good boy.)