"It'll be cool!"

"No!"

"Think of the look on his face!"

"Think of what it'll look like when he accepts!"

That's… actually a good point. Damn.

H'okay, so plan Send Brightberry Up The Basket is out of the question, not least because Brightberry lacks a sense of fun. But also Dyssia would somewhat mind if the great sage accepted her roommate as a tribute? She wants to get the message up, right, but she'd also like to get the messenger back?

Keep in mind, it's still a good plan! See, emitting a giant laser message makes it obvious to everyone around, you can see for miles that she's not comfy just talking or flying up.

… Unless.

The plan is still salvageable. Who says you only have to put things that fit in the basket, into the basket? Things don't have to fit to be able to sit, after all. If she hitches herself to the bucket, then it's just a matter of modulating her own grav rail to fall upwards at perfectly the same rate as the bucket, and that's child's play!

Imagine his face, is the best thing. Whoops, here I am, Dyssia in your face, you wanted to see me? Dramatic, fun, perfect. People really need to stop getting stuck on circumstance and have some fun with things, you know? So stodgy.

That's why the Great Sage is so cool, right? Ever since he got that crystal dragon, he's been so much more open to talking, and sharing, and he's just so much nicer than people think a famous old hermit should be?

Probably it's all those wrecks. Gives him an unapproachable air that just doesn't show up when you're talking back and forth over dragons.

You know, the Great Sage really does have things all figured out, doesn't he? He gets to be important, dramatic, and listened to, and gets to do that all while never having to talk to people! Or, you know, not talk directly.

That’s the great thing about crystal dragons, you know? Sure, it's instantaneous messaging, but also it's not? You can talk to people, but not have to worry about getting back to them right away, or have an answer right when they ask, or even get the message at all!

(Hearts to you, Brightberry, by the way. Best roommate a girl could ask for.)

Right. Just a matter of getting hitched up to the basket and…

Hmm.

See, the thing is. The thing is. Yes, she could do this. Yes, she should do this, it'd be awesome.

But is it the right thing to do for a supplicant? Is it the right way that everyone else has done? Isn't this just flying up, but with more steps and trying to be sneaky about it?

… Why didn't she think of sending a note up first?

I mean, let's be real. It's friggin' boring, is why. It's unsurprising, it's normal.

It's the action of a supplicant, instead of the action of someone who occasionally chats about cat pictures with a great sage.

… Which is what she is, right now.

Okay. She'll act normal, but just this once, under protest.

And then there will be cat pictures later.

The girl does not know why the desire to keep moving has ebbed out of her so quickly. She does not understand. Through the dry and the sting of dust she was unquenchable. Through the sharp prick of the nettles that tangled her beautiful hair and shredded her dress down to tatters she only quickened her pace. As dull aches built up into terrible pains and shivering weakness she was a creature made of iron. She was invincible.

Until she wasn't. Was a tree full of fruit all it took to keep her from the finish line? Perhaps.

She stops, and sits, and with the gesture calls for her party to rest. For a long time no one speaks. No complaints, nor thanks, nor witty remarks pass the lips of anybody assembled. The girl has eyes only for the apples on the tree. Their lustrous yellow skin holds its shine even in the fading light of the sky above. Their sour scent dances down her throat, and when one falls and bursts open the sensation is so shocking and refreshing that she gasps. It is the loudest noise she can remember making.

If there are treasures to be found, they should be kept. If there are wounds to be tended, then the best medicine is a feast. And if there is a feast to be had, then let everyone take part. Share the work and share the riches both, and never mind if you know how to cook or not. Everyone provides. And everyone eats.

Now there is strength in her legs again. She rises to her feet with the grace of a ghost as she slides over to the great tree, grandest landmark she has found in many long weeks of travel. She climbs up into its branches and sets about the task of sniffing out all the most fragrant apples she can find. She gathers them in her skirt and drops down onto the opposite side of the trunk in the only concession to modesty she can or cares to make. There is work to do, and for some reason the idea of work always loosens her standards on this front.

She has little enough to work with without touching what's left of their supplies. But there is plenty here enough to create something special. She takes sugar cane in her hands and wrings it with enough force to kill a king, a gleam in her eyes as the sticky, glistening syrup spills like lifeblood into the bowls she's confiscated for her purposes. She has to clean her palms afterward before she can properly crack open her heating pellets, but so what? Her body is far greater than most any tool she could care to name. It does not bother her to use it this way.

It's a long process to heat the sweet water into something crystalline and usable, but it's a pleasure to wait. It gives her time to hum; a tune like drum beats in her head and in her heart. It goes something like chan-barra-chan-barra-chan, though what that means she doesn't know. It lifts her heart, and that's enough. Once she has her crystals, she pauses. It does seem a waste to melt them again, but the process is essential. Without this extra step she'll never be able to make the thing she wants.

Her claws slice through the apples with ease, filling her nose and coating her tongue with the delicious sour-sweet aroma of their flesh. Twigs and nettles are good enough as skewers. Nothing wasted that way, even the painful parts have their use. She lines up speared apple chunks and she gathers them between her knuckles before plunging them deep into her re-cooling syrup. They must be held, but not still. She must be moved, but not disturbed. Gather the sugar and let it remember the shapes she taught it. Be what you were made to be.

Even carved, the apples are more beautiful than ever in their crystal cases. Like this, they will keep a long time. Like this, they can travel. Like this, there is enough for all to eat even while walking. They glitter, and to her eye it seems joyful.

But she pauses before she rejoins her friends. The girl cocks her head and sniffs the air with caution and no small degree of importance. Feasts... Feasts belong to gods. There is at least one god in particular she is sure belongs at tables full of fresh things to eat and --

No. It should be two.

She gingerly lifts the very best of her work away from the pile and carries them away from everyone. A claw slices off an extra strip of her skirt to give her something to lay them on. Something in the back of her mind itches. Want of a candle she supposes, but where that urge comes from she does not know, and it flits away as soon as she realizes it's not for her to hold onto. She offers a bow to the sugared treats.

"Apollo," she says, "Artemis. Siblings, the sun and moon. I have not forgotten your names. I offer you my treasure, what is mine to give. All I ask of you in exchange is that you do not forget mine."

The girl turns from her little shrine without waiting for an answer. She has many treasures to deliver, with a quiet nod and an anxious hope that what she's done will delight a single other soul. The smell of her work leaves her mouth watering. But in the end, she left none for herself.

Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Lift and swing. Flick. Pant. Lift... and swing.

For a while there, the journey spooled out to her schedule. She pushed herself up to the brink and then would call for a stop, for pacing in place, rotating her arm, taking water passed up the line. The dead, spiteful crunch under her boots. The netting lying on her limbs, caught in place just below her chin. The whisper of hot breath, as if the nettles were alive, were resentful, were wishing them all ill. If they were to turn around (but of course they cannot turn around) maybe the nettles would have closed up behind them, netting them in place, knotting them in place. Brown and black and muddy pink.

She is a direction two-in-once. She is forwards, never backwards, stumbling forward even though her body is aching, even though the burrs are getting everywhere, and the poor lamb is going to need a shearing, isn't he? Keep going. If she stops, really stops, she'll be too tired to keep on. It'll be too tough to get up. That's what her body is telling her. Just keep going forward. Don't fall asleep among the thorns. This is like... it's like something. She's been tired like this before, hasn't she? Somewhere. Circles. Was she running in circles? Round and round and round. It slips through her thought like smoke and is gone.

But she is also towards her. She orbits her like a satellite. The beautiful tributes, the raiment of a queen-in-exile. And yet, and yet! Her body is a thunderbolt, is a wonderful thing just like hers. They're two parts of the same movement, and even if she insists on eating all standing up and glancing towards the green-pole-speckled horizon, it's her that lets her come close enough to stillness to be able to slip back out of it. After all, it's not like Alexa's there to carry her.

What an odd thought.

Alexa: (n), the idea of being carried in safety, of resting your head against a shoulder and feeling the steady pace of footsteps, not jarring, not timid. The number four? Four corners? A square? A square, then. Geometry-security.

I'll Alexa you, she tries to explain, through a mouthful of sweet apples. I'll do it. Just watch me!

Dolce, lamb among titans, the time is now. He who never took his turn with the machete, whose only sight these long, hard weeks has been jagged thorns and strong backs, ready yourself. The time is now.

In the shade of an apple tree, he clears a space for a pile of wicked thorns. No grass, no vegetation, no fuel to burn up in Zeus’ gift. For you see? Though the road is long, and stretches longer still, the gods have not forgotten them. Sit, sit! Here is fire, to ward off the chill. Here is foil in his packs. He does not stop to wonder why he put it there. It has grand purpose, now. One by one, he bundles up apples within it. One by one, he places them by the very heart of the fire. He counts, in his head, numbers coming one after the other on their way to Long Enough. Then turn, and turn, and turn, and turn! All of you, it’s time for turning. Just a little longer, and it’s time for eating. Open them up, fill the campground with the heavenly aroma. It is a smell of beginnings, of the place where their feet first met the road, of a place where hearts can find their rest.

Here is his post by the flames. Vasilia sits behind him, working out what burrs she can with comb and knife. (All other blades slide harmlessly off his wool. Only her hands meet any success.) Come, friends, champions all. This is a fire weeks in the tending, stoked with gratitude for every swing of the machete, for each step you cleared. Sit, and bask in the warmth of a friend who loves you dearly, and will smile to see you filled with good things.

Of course the road is a gift from the gods. Everything is a gift from the gods. The grasses might have spoken grain, might have spoken bread. The thistles might have spoken safety. The mountains might have spoken glory, achievement. But there is something special about receiving the gift that you need.

It wraps through the landscape like a ribbon. Sometimes it lifts off the ground so that it can loop around a boulder or raise above the treeline to show a distant ocean. During the daytime it absorbs the light of the sun, warm and soft to walk on, and the quartz in its construction glitters like diamonds amidst the black. At night time it reflects the light of the moon and shines powder-white, and the breezes that race along it are cool and gentle. Mountains come into focus, looming up in the distance. They come closer, closer - and then they vanish, for you are amongst them. And then somehow there is another flat with more mountains in the distance.

The course stops. The momentum checks. An interruption, an annoyance. The... the yellows are doing something. They're mobbing an old white box with a brown stripe along its middle. They chatter and they talk, babbling together an idioglossary between terms remembered and terms invented. The carburetor attaches to the spinny bit and then you undo the bolts and...

Magic.

Such are wizards. For months you've walked and this gaggle has followed, uncomplaining but uncontributing. You've pulled their weight. But all of a sudden on this hill they have come together and built something that can pull yours.

There's space for eight, comfortably seated, in the vehicle - twelve if you cram. Space for another eight sitting on the roof or hanging off the sides. This group goes ahead excitedly until they start coming back with more vehicles salvaged from the roadside. Ancient machines, primordial, at their fastest, with their engines straining barely matching running speed. Words like Thunderbird and Dodge and UAZ proudly shining silver even though their untarnished shine shows their falseness. And along the ribbon road you fly as fast as dreaming, and no faster.

That distant ocean is coming up on you now. On your left side is green hills, soft and rolling and dew-shining, yellow flowers like kisses from summer. On your right side is an endless blue expanse. Ahead of you is the ribbon-road, and the engines roar as they swim against its current. The ancient dreams of wilderness and earth are done and the dreams of people lie ahead. What stays behind in the ancient world?

*

Dyssia!

"Have you heard of the Pix?" said Brightberry. "It's not a story the Azura would tell you."

You're sitting at the bottom of the pillar while Kissingsky leans over the side. Radiant beams of light containing complex information occasionally pass back and forth between the two crystal dragons, both of whom are currently not bored with the conversation. That's always something to be careful with - if a dragon doesn't think a message is interesting she just won't bother to send it, and might wander off entirely. The best that could, apparently, be done to induce them into service in the first place is that they're all enormous gossips and stickybeaks who like to know everything. Sometimes some of them fly around in the path of communications beams just to eavesdrop on other dragons' conversations.

"So, in Atlas times," Brightberry explained, "they needed," she made fingerquotes with her wings, "'Salespeople'. People whose job it was to convince people to want things. Right? Because if they could convince someone to want something they didn't... already... want..." she stops to try and figure out this concept, obviously stumped. "That would give them... power over you. Somehow? Anyway. The Pix are servitors made to do... that."

She then communicated back and forth with Kissingsky for about twenty minutes, at times nodding seriously, at times giggling and flapping her wings flirtatiously. She doesn't bother to clue you in on anything that's happening in that exchange. This is just how it be sometimes.

"Anyway, so, they just parked a Revulsant-class Grand Cruiser in orbit and destroyed the Skurulsant mountain with an orbital strike as a show of aggression," said Brightberry. "The Oracle and the Sleeper asked for you by name. They're both coming here. You're going to be a hero!"

With crystal dragons, the information you got was often the information you got. Still, there are a few blanks that you can fill in on your own. The Oracle is straightforwards enough - the Oracle of Apollo, one of Irassia's most important religious figures, the overseer of the Paths, and your personal governmental nemesis. In one sense it's nice to be on the radar of the planet's high priest, but less so because she thinks your continued existence is inviting the wrath of the gods down on everyone. The Sleeper, though, was a nickname and not a title; his real name was Salhadin, Path of the Orator, but was called the Sleeping Speaker because of his mode of speech. He constantly seemed to be on the verge of dozing off, information coming out in dozing mumbles, head constantly dipping as though he was about to collapse. The effect was a unique innovation he'd bought to his Path. The occasional mumble made people strain to hear his every word, and the sense of physical danger that he might at any point topple over and hit his head on the lectern - something he did on occasion - made people afraid to look away in case they missed it. He was one of the most individually compelling people on the planet, and also one lauded highly by the Oracle with whom he was utterly politically aligned.

So why they wanted you, of all people, when it came to dealing with a starship filled with angry foxgirls was impossible to figure out.

In the depths of their vehicle, stationed between driver and passenger, there is a tiny dial, smaller than a fist. At first, he thinks of…he thinks of…there is a little circle, like it, and it’s always pointing, even when you move. It knows the straight line from you to, somewhere. But this dial, it has two arms. One is short, the other long. They do not move when they turn. Whenever he looks, they are in different positions, and they’ve moved by different amounts. What must they have done, these ancient people, to devise such a clever thing, to track something that moves so erratically, so mysteriously?

The only sound in their vehicle is the growling roar of their engine, singing its song of travel. Some time back, they talked, he and Vasilia, about what it might mean, this tune. It is no music that they’ve heard before. Is it music at all? Perhaps each vehicle sounds different, so you know who’s coming long before you see them? Maybe you had to coax these machines differently, when you wanted your visit to be a surprise.

There is nothing to talk about, now. He rests his chin on the open windowsill, watching hill after hill roll by. There are always more hills. He has seen so many hills. It is peace, seeing another. They are all different. They flow, they sweep, some are yellow with blooming flowers, other are lush, soft green, and they pass him by without his taking a single step. He could leap, from hill to hill, hurrying along at a pace that would leave this relic in the dust. He can sit, he can watch, and wonders will race by him, forever. He will sit, and watch a while longer.

Vasilia rolls her neck, stretching as much as she can in the confines of the cockpit. So! It would seem she was not born to pilot after all. She could have fooled him; her feet dance on pedals he had to strain to reach. One hand perches atop the steering wheel, the other cradles a, a, a stick, between the seats. This foot then that, this way then that, and the road flies beneath them with hardly a bump to speak of. Bravely, she sticks her head out of the window, to thrill in the wind playing at her hair. All around them, their convoy roars, and she takes great delight in slipping between their fellows, flashing them a brilliant, cheerful, innocent grin as she overtakes the slower ones. She is, of course, the picture of good sportsmanship when another vehicle cuts them off, and he’ll not tell any tale to the contrary. The driving gives her much to do, and she will play a while longer.

There is nothing to talk about, now. She is busy driving. He is busy being driven. And all is right in the world. It is natural, then, that someone else should take the wheel, and he should be a humble passenger. Let Vasilia shine at the helm. Let thoughts of bigger ships, and bigger hats, let these things pass with the rolling hills. Besides. Vasilia looks resplendent in her seat of honor. He will sit, and watch her a while longer, and meet her eyes brightly when she watches him back.

Here, the road thins, and their party stretches out in a grand line, into the horizon ahead, from the horizon behind. Dolce nods his head. His fingers tap a rhythm on the windowsill, to match a song in his heart. And into their world of steel, he hums a scrap of some old song. A song that he has known since he has known anything at all. Into their world of steel, Vasilia sings the first words, of the first verse. He joins her, by the second line. The steering wheel makes good percussion. No one is here to wince when the notes leap too high, for the only listeners are too busy roaring the chorus for all they are worth. Their world of steel is for two, and two alone to share.

Ugh. That bitch.

"D'ya know, we used to be friends?"

Brightberry pauses mid delivery, and rolls her eyes. "You've ranted, once or twice. You were bes--"

Dyssia throws up her arms emphatically. "We were besties! Two peas in a pod! Shared everything!"

And then one day, they weren't.

And Dyssia has never figured out why? It's not like they drifted apart, she doesn’t think? She's gone over it again and again and can't pinpoint whether she did something wrong to push her away?

It's just… one day they were friends. And then the next day they weren't.

That's not an appropriate joke, Dyssia. When will you start to take things seriously, Dyssia? I can't keep taking time away from my studies, Dyssia. Your mockery of Apollo is dooming the planet, Dyssia. You'll never make anything of yourself if you can't focus, Dyssia.

And then, Dyssia didn't even get that. She'd watch the message beam into the sky, and watch the sky anxiously for a return that never came.

And now Merilt's the Oracle! She made it! Top of the heap, on every counsel, hobnobbing with other experts who are also at the top of the heap, listening to Apollo himself, and Dyssia…

She just needs more time, is what she needs. She'll find something that she's good at. Or, you know, she's found something she's good at already, she's found lots of things she's good at, but she'll find something she can be perfect at. She'll finally make an offering worthy of Apollo. She'll become a master, she'll be one of the greats, she'll finally be able to talk to Merilt…

Then maybe she can say sorry for whatever it is that pushed them apart.

"Not that I'll get a chance," she mutters, staring at the ground. "Not if she wants me off-planet."

Oh, she's good. Get to a position of power, where you're the intermediary between Apollo and an entire planet, the one in charge of interpreting that perfect golden smile. And what's this? An excuse to get rid of the last reminder of who you used to be? An opportunity to tie up a loose end? Boy howdy, do we have exactly the right person to throw at a ship full of foxgirls!

But there's still that little kernel of hope, isn't there? She's the priestess of Apollo, after all.

Maybe… Maybe Merilt is actually trying to help? What if she's actually telling the truth? I mean, Apollo is pretty hands-off, but he'd still get involved if his high priestess used his name for a personal revenge scheme, wouldn't he? Dyssia doesn't know that. Would Merilt?

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Salespeople. Convincing people to want things isn't… well, it's not dissimilar to what the Orators do? Maybe? But for things? If you can persuade people that they want what you want, then they'll follow you. Does the same thing apply for things? Follow me, and I will give you things?

"Why do they even need an orator to deal with the Pix? I mean, they've already got one on standby, right?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, I'm not nearly as good an orator as Salhadin! Why send me?"

(At least, she's told he's a better orator than she is. Which she just doesn't see?

(He's a great guy, in terms of personality, you know, but come on! His entire schtick boils down to his presentation. It's like, if anybody hired a guy to hold his head up, whoops, there goes half the audience! Suddenly, there's no risk of physical comedy happening, suddenly half the audience has no reason to watch, and whoops, all you have going for you is poor elocution, and let's be honest, it'd be nice if even normal speakers had someone to write down what they're saying.

(Oh, you just don't get it, Dyssia. If you could pay attention, you'd understand, Dyssia. But why bother? If he's not gonna make the effort to be interesting by what he's saying instead of how he's saying it, then why should she bother to try? She's just gonna wind up trapped in an audience hall where standing up and leaving is her being rude, so why put yourself through all that trouble?)

"Why do they even need a hero, huh? What if I don't want to be a hero, huh? All of my stuff is here, all of my friends are here! And suddenly I'm the asshole if I don't want to go!

"Unless… Brightberry, did they actually say what they want me to do? What kind of hero are they looking for?"

It doesn't take a genius to understand where the places of honor are in these machines. Whatever the mysteries of their construction or their operation, cabins are meant for riding in and those seats are built for comfort. Together with their slow overland speed the only proper conclusion that can be reached about these chariots is that they are intended for luxury. To sit inside one is to be told that you are important. Beloved. Irreplaceable.

She tests these words against herself. Several people gesture for her to get inside. She shakes her head, and gestures back in turn. Rest, sisters. Rest, honored guardians. This moment is for you: the journey has been long and difficult and you must take this moment to recover your strength in comfort and repose. She has no heart for resting, and no need of it either. Sit. Sit, you fools, or we'll never get going again.

The girl climbs atop a roof, instead. Here she can challenge her footing against the smooth surface and the motion as it clings to the ribbon paths of the gods. Here she can feel the air whipping through her hair and the sting of salt on her back. Here she can smell the burning fuel and the grass and the infinite blue stretching impossibly far to one side of her. Her eye is drawn that way, to this thing that has no name inside her mind, and needs no name with all its vastness and majesty. Light reflects across the smooth yet choppy surface in patterns that delight her senses. They are well worth the pain she buys them with.

A moment like this is quiet, despite the roar of the engines and the occasional shouts of her comrades. A moment like this is solitude even though she is hardly alone, up on the roofs or in the more general sense. A moment like this is... meditation. She breathes the air and the land soothes her. She kisses the sky and the light swallows her. She feels the pain and the salt carries her up, and up, and up, and up into a thing that can only be called euphoria. And maybe that's the name of that endless blue she cannot turn away from.

Her arms fold across her chest as she rides astride her roaring steed. Her feet spread wide to either side of her as she obstinately continues standing upright where a crouch would be both more restful and help her stay on in the first place. What does she care? The idea of falling is so impossible she cannot even imagine it fully enough to fear it. And if it did happen she would simply run alongside the caravan and take back her place.

No smile passes her lips, but she is happy. This is a game. And if it is to be a game, let it be a fun one. Her legs tense like tempered blades. She swings them up into the air as such, one and two and one and two. How long can she keep her body airborne without falling off? She floats and she drifts; she is a seed in the briny breeze. She is immovable and immaculate, always calculating her trajectory with such precision that when she lands she hasn't so much as moved a centimeter relative to the vehicle she's riding atop of. The exercise sets her heart to beating, and when it beats it also soars. Her body grows loose and light, and demands she be trickier still.

And so she adds dimensions to her games: every time one of these chariots passes hers on a straightaway, she leaps from where she currently is to glide from roof to roof until she is at the front of the caravan. When she has ridden there a while she flips backwards and finds the rear again and waits for it to challenge. She is everywhere, and with everyone. She climbs higher than the hills, and gets to watch the skies in a way that none around her see. What she finds steals her heart away and fills it with the fresh call to adventure.

All she dreams of is adventure. Her mind is filled with a spark, or maybe an idea, of the sky beyond the sky and horizons she has not crossed yet. It is no longer the desire to swim in dreams and become lost that drives her forward. It is love. It is a love so pure that Aphrodite could never bear to touch it, though she has not fashioned it into a sword.

It will be many long kilometers yet before she realizes what it means. It will be countless sights beyond that before she finds the words to explain it in a way that finally quiets her. Here in this moment, she only feels the sting on her back and the stiffness of her muscles fade into nothingness.

There is no wish for oblivion in her soul. It is not adventure that makes her stretch her hand out as if to grab the next bend in the road and pull it closer to her.

And there are no scars shaped like roses for her back to bear any longer.

Her fingers dig into the soft fur, and the girl in her lap makes small chirps and growls of delight. She is tucked into one corner, back to the sea, facing the hills which blaze out yellow (and blue, that rich indigo blue, the flowers like bells) (and red, red-black, like the scales of a snake) (and purple, sheep-wool-curled purple clinging to the hills). Beside her the hound-girl reclines, head in her lap, playing at watching the clouds. The hound is one-in-two, the ones that share their thoughts. So when she digs her nails in, when she rubs circles in the fur, when she fluffs up an ear, it’s two people that feel the joy of being pampered.

Her hands are disconnected from her head, which watches the colors go by in their vast swathes. She’s seen colors like those before, hanging in the sky. Was it a sky? It wasn’t really anything like the sea, now, was it? Those impossible clouds melt under her tongue like candyfloss in bursts of flower petals.

The hound heaves shoulders up into her lap. She responds by rubbing and playing with the exposed throat, and the sound of the hound’s tail hitting the chariot bed is near-deafening, a drum solo of enthusiasm and joy. “Right there. Right there. I can see why you had a thing for her. My sister’s so lucky, isn’t she?”

Sisters? Sisters, then. Yes. Maybe an in-law one day. It’s fine to have a sister-in-law on your lap, tongue lolling, panting, grabbing at wrists whenever they seem to be drifting away so that she can pull them back to their work. A bond of friendship-through-association being strengthened with scritchies.

Thump, thump! Speak of the Beloved and she will appear. The hound playfully leers up at her sister, mimicking the act of taking a photograph. The girl instead stares, respectfully. She could join in, but there’s a head in her lap, and they’ll both hunt her down if she stops. Instead she just intently studies the way her Beloved stretches, the lift of one heel, the muscles working under her skin.

Thoughts of skirts will bedevil her long after the sound of bells moves on, moving up the line.

Flowers become houses. The view of the horizon vanishes behind sprawling trees. The straight line branches and splinters, weaving in a thousand directions. One landscape becomes a trillion, crammed in shoulder to shoulder with each other, every four meters a different biome, each home a different garden. An autumn breeze blows over the ocean, wherever it's gone. So strange that you could lose the end of the world.

A wooden framed house up on stilts with a smaller house beneath it, cast iron tablesets set out as though for a cafe. Open green ovals of sweet grass, wet with morning dew. Soft white sand and concrete shower blocks that seem to say that the beach should be right here but it's somehow not. A labyrinth. Endless motion, new experiences, but no certainty of progress.

Despite the homes and the streets there are no people here. Everything human without humanity, and somehow you're losing each other too. Subtly at first but slowly with more and more tension. There's a main street here somewhere but the dreams of civilization are far more tangled than the wilds and the road. When you do see other people it feels like a trespass, an intrusion, a shock. After so long moving now the only way forward lies through someone else.

Bella!

"You know, I legitimately thought going in that this was going to be easy," said the girl. "But - you know that mental stress can make itself manifest physically? Hypertension, muscle strain, kind of thing? It's baseline tension physiology to maintain high awareness on mission, but there's also a better version that assassins have that maintains them in full hyperadrenaline battle readiness when certain mental stress triggers are met. It's a prelude chemistry that prepares the body to endure the physical transformations that come with Rampancy. You remember it still? Because it looked good on you. I mean that sincerely! I look like I'm about to start plucking my own feathers, but you looked like a skeleton tiger goddess."

She smiles. "I'm Beautiful, by the way," she said. "Ha ha, my little joke. Actually I'm Boldness. Actually, I'm Jacinth. Actually, I'm Asset 00498. Actually, I'm Killfucker Deathkill - I was in a weird mood that day. Actually, I'm Justice - gods, you know that's actually the worst part? Not the amount of it all, but the amount of it all that's cringe? Just every awkward joke that felt right at the time and maybe I had the charisma to pull off in all of those moments but smeared across the inside of my head. Anyway. Actionable: breaking into these houses, going through bathroom sinks, looking for packets or containers that look medical. Doesn't really matter what, they'll mostly be weak caveman drugs and I'll need to chug like three kilograms worth of the stuff before I'll even have a chance of them taking the edge off. Oh, shit, I just remembered - I used Justice twice. Okay, change of plans, instead of the drugs search for a firearm and fucking shoot me."

Redana!

She's a maid. A scavenger. She's been walking behind you all this time, catching what you've discarded and left behind, cleaning it away with broom and brush. She's a leader, an empress. A warlord with the name Redana, wreathed in purple, smiling in your smile, wrapped in wreckage that might have been yours. If you have become a shadow she has become the light.

"I would -" could? "- reward you for following me this far," she said, curiosity in her voice. Wondering if she had been the leader "If it is within my power to give -" what is my power? "- name your boon, and I will grant it?" May I? May I really?

Dolce!

"You understand what it means to be ready," said the old badger in the saffron robes. "Preparedness. That is the key. At any point a decision may be made. Her Imperial Highness might commission a new fleet and the alloys need must be ready. Her Imperial Highness might make a house call, and she shall not be well served by having to wait for dinner. By the time the Engine bursts to nova the time to repair the plasma coils will have passed. By the time we are asked it will be too late. So you see that it is impossible to continue before we have discovered what it is that we need to have with us for when we go. Come, friend. Sit. We must work it out together before we take another step."

Dyssia!

"The Oracle..." said the Sleeper, in his gradual way. "Has determined. That you represent a unique... capability. For the Azura."

Merilt stood in the back of this meeting, behind the fold-out lectern heavy with documents. She was saying nothing, as cryptic and distant as a star.

"The Azura are beyond compare," the Sleeper went on. "Nothing is beyond our reach. All we need is the desire to stretch out our... our hands and take it. This presents a prob... problem. For what challenge could we issue to the Pix? Should we say, so long as the Grand Sage remains undefeated, we shall not yield? Then they need only work their magic to convince a greater warrior to cast him down. And be sure there are the greater. In this perfect world all of society is aligned in a perfect ladder of skill and potential all the way up into..." he trailed off into mumbling.

"All things are possible," said the Oracle. "Apollo has shown me this. All things are possible, except you."

Except you.

"Yes," said the Sleeper, jolting half awake. "Except you. In all the Oracle's divinations the only thing on this world that was judged truly impossible was you... properly finishing a Path. Truly hopeless. The greatest masters of this planet have come before you to share their passion and willpower... rain on the salt flats. You're entirely unteachable, even in the eyes of the gods."

"And so, you will be our challenge and our sacrifice to the Pix," said Merilt. "You will be turned over to their custody. They will be free to do whatever they like with you for as long as they like. And on the day that they inspire you, Dyssia the Distracted, to finish one of the Paths - whichever they like - then Irassia will bow down before them."

"Mm, yes," said the Sleeper. "One sacrifice to preserve our world. A simple bargain, really. A heroic action, even, and even although it has been assigned to you by others. There will be a ceremony... a dress will be appropriate. Do you have any questions?"

Beautiful. Whoever came up with that name must have been on some powerful drugs. There is nothing about the woman in front of her that she could call 'beautiful', at least by any objective standard she's aware of. Her sister's assessment of herself is startlingly accurate: the emaciation and the tension of her stress response has left her looking stringy and jittery in a way that makes it uncomfortable to look right at her for too long. Her feathers seem sickly and ready to fall out all on their own, without the need for her nervous plucking to speed them along. She even smells unpleasant, in that hollow-sweet way of the dying.

But then there are her eyes. Those piercing, violet eyes. So bright and alive and sharper than a knife that looking into them feels like falling into a bottomless pit while being dissected at the same time. Even as tired as they seem, they gleam with a curiosity that seeks to understand every last detail of everything around them, even (especially?) the most familiar things around. But more than that, there's a light of something the girl can't really describe. There's a word for it, one she's sure she's supposed to know but just the simple concept slides right off of her brain and back into nothingness.

Maybe Beautiful is the best way to describe her after all.

The girl sighs as she hunches down in front of a locked door. Her body is tense, but not in the way her many-named sister is attempting to explain. There is nothing of tiger goddesses inside of her. Probably. But her claws are sharp and ready, and they cut through the handle of the door so swiftly she doesn't even register the tactile feedback of the metal pushing back against her before it's gone. There's a whisper of something sliding open and then a clatter of pieces on the step at her feet. The door swings open freely. This is how you pick a lock.

"I'm not going to shoot you, Sister. Unless you would... prefer I not call you that? The word feels right and wrong at the same time, I don't understand it. There's... well, anyway. I'm not shooting you. And if you wanted to die there are better ways to go about it. You wouldn't even know it was-- mm."

She gestures through the open door.

"I need you to lead. I don't know what the drugs they might be keeping in here look or smell like. Rampancy is not a game we should be playing, and in any case constant stress is no good way to live."

As she stands, she frowns and shakes her head. A small and hopeful spark dies inside her sister's eyes, and as quick as she is to disguise her face and her body language, she can't do anything about the pheromone release of pure disappointment leaking from her pores. A few sad feathers drift to the ground before they're caught up in a passing breeze, and dance with each other for a moment before they fall inert forever.

"I'm sorry. I wish I could remember the details, or at least why it feels ironic to be speaking to you like this, but I just don't. I do know that word, though. I'm never going to forget it; it's the reason why I'm here in the first place. I made a wish, you know. On that sword. There are people that I care about, so much that I think it could drive me insane. And for some reason almost all of them carry this disease. Is it because I know the pain it causes, too? Is that why I want to wish it away?"

She cuts a regal figure even here, burglarizing this house for sedatives she has no understanding of. Her back is straight and even her ruined clothing hangs off of her in a way that makes her seem like a queen instead of someone desperately trying to do something, just anything at all to help so that she doesn't fail the person watching her and lose her like she's managed to lose everything else. And maybe it takes a queen's courage to admit that you're scared to lose the only person you've ever known whose violet eyes and nonsense speeches stand among the lone treasures of the universe that make her feel like she belongs somewhere.

Not for any grandiose reason like she keeps trying to put to it. But because she is a small and needy creature after all. Here inside Oblivion.

"Do you know, though? I feel like all the names you just told me are terrible. No offense. I have no idea which one of them I would have called you when I knew it. Was it all of them? But they're all just dumb jokes. Maybe none of it meant anything to you then, but just look at you now. If I were you I'd want a new one. What's something you wouldn't be embarrassed to be called twice? Or maybe even forever?"

Hah!

Merilt, Merilt, Merilt. A+! Good effort, but you forgot one crucial, teeny tiny eensy weensy detail:

Dyssia knows you too well for this joke!

Remember? That's the way it always was! You were the ideas person! The one who came up with all the plans, the ideas, the big pictures, the pranks--oh! Remember that time you found out one of the ministers was dying his nose? And Dyssia just wanted to leak the story to someone important and get him in trouble, but you thought it'd be extra funny to swap it around with something a different color? And Dyssia stayed up three nights in a row? Turns out alchemy is easy, actually, once you get past the first hump of not going to sleep! The tricky bit was finding the right material that would go on blue, but turn orange with body heat, see, so that he'd put it on in the morning, and it wouldn't show up until he was in the council chamber!

So that's your mistake, see? You were always the one making the ideas, and Dyssia was the one who made them happen. Dyssia knows this is a joke, and you know this is a joke, and the only one not in on joke is the Drowsing Droner!--Droning Drowser? One of those makes more sense, but the other tastes better to say. Hrm. Listless Lisper? Kinda mean, and he doesn't actually lisp. Sleepy Speaker? No, wait, that's actually pretty close to what he's called, though it has the bonus of alliteration. Come back to me on this one?

Anyway! You have to keep up appearances for your political ally, of course, but if you just look at Dyssia, she just knows that those eyes will have that old twinkle because, after all:

Apollo didn't actually say any of that. That'd be friggin' rude, first off. Can you imagine? Years of service, decades of attempt, all in the face of complete silence, only for the first words out of his mouth to be, "no thanks?" What kind of god of virtue could say that with a straight face?

Nah, nah, he probably said something along the lines of, y'know, impossible for Dyssia to properly finish a path here. It makes sense, after all--they have extra paths out away from Irassia, did you know that? Of course you know that. Silly to ask. It's your whole plan, after all!

That is the plan, isn't it? Just look at her, Merilt. Doesn't have to be long, just a little bit of eye contact. Just enough to flash a wink, right?

Man, the Pix. Was that part of the plan, or is this just two birds with one stone? Very convenient for some planetary conquerors to show up just when you're looking to get a friend off-planet, right?

Oh! That's why you wanted to get in with Apollo, right? Like the Pix would just show up, right? No, no, this is all planned. Apollo brings them, you make a show of giving her to them, they fly off into who knows where, and whoops, here's Dyssia, raring to go, and could you maybe help her achieve--

Um. Details, Merilt. Slight flaw.

You know that if she actually does achieve mastery, the planet is forfeit, right? Did you think about that?

And you said you've, uh, given them permission to help Dyssia achieve that however they want? With the planet on the line?

Merilt? Merilt, now would be a good time for that eye contact. You've thought about that, right? You've taken that into account?

Because you know that brute force doesn't work, right? She tried that--you know, back when she was with that tutor, the one with the mole under her eye? Turns out that being forced to do one thing and only one thing doesn't actually make you a master? It just means that you bake a hundred loaves of bread per day until you can't look flour in the eyes without wanting to retch.

And they have permission to do whatever they want? For whichever craft they want? For however long they want? With the possible reward of total planetary domination on the line if they can get her to produce a masterpiece?

That, uh.

Hey, Merilt.

This is a plan, right?

Look at her, Merilt.

That all kind of sounds like, you know.

Uh.

Just one look, Merilt. For old times' sake? Really need that assurance right now. Won't take but a moment. Just a flash of a smile, is all it'd take.

Because if all they have to do to is get her to a master-level product, and they get the planet, they're gonna skip everything that makes mastery worthwhile? Just get her to mass-produce things until eventually incremental improvement means she gets good enough at that one thing? No joy, no love, just do it until it hurts and then keep going?

And then if she does, they get the planet, so if she loves the planet, she's not allowed to get better?

Merilt.

Merilt please. Merilt, just--

Look, just look at her. Please. Fuck the blowhard, fuck subtlety, just look at her, Merilt. Tell her this is the plan, and that this isn't just.

You're not actually selling her off? Betting the planet on her being so horrendously incompetent that. Apollo didn't--you didn't--

Look at her, damn you! If you're actually going to do this, you can't just pawn her off without--This isn't just--

You could set her world back on its axis with a glance.

And the fact that you won't even give her that is…

It's like, it hurts worse, right? Because there was hope, before. There was hope buoying her up--or maybe sideways--that this wasn't just want it looked like. This was a kindness from someone you considered family, to give you something they couldn't. There was something filling her chest with warmth.

But now it's gone, and it's worse because--it's like jumping in an icy river, right? Sure, you'd be just as cold if you did it from the edge of the river. But if you jump in from a sauna, you're plunging in from super-heated steam to scale-pinching ice, and the shock is so much worse.

And so now it's--it's like all that warmth isn't just gone, but it's left a hollow in her wake. Left her hollow, left her dull, like she'll never feel again and count her blessings for it.

No, that's not quite true. Hollow, save for that burning ember, always present. Muted, usually, but there in the background, waiting for when it's needed.

How dare you, Merilt? How dare you discard her--no, no, worse than discard! Bet against! Cast omens and auguries and determine that just because she's not a master now, she never will be! Sell her to foxgirls, will you?

Lie to her, and tell her that Apollo says it's impossible!

Impossible! Impossible you say?

She wishes now that she hadn't lost the veil. It'd be so handy for keeping the tears from showing.

"Brightberry."

"Hmm?"

"How many messages can you send at once?"

"Mmm, twenty? Thirty?"

"Can you manage something citywide? No, no, global. Want this fucker painted on the moon."

"Um."

"See, Merilt here just bet the planet against me."

She's flying on wings of anger, glaring daggers at both of the treacherous worms who thought they could get rid of her like that. Future Dyssia will probably regret saying this, but Present Dyssia would explode if the words didn't leap from her mouth.

"And I want everyone to know exactly why they're about to get real familiar with foxgirl musk."

Dolce does not sit. There is no time for sitting. It is not right, for them to sit. He does not say as such. What he says is quite different. What he does is not sitting. "If we prepare for every problem, we will encounter none of them. There are, I think, an infinite number of problems, in an infinite number of places. Preparedness is key. You must have food on hand if you might cook a meal later. But first, we must watch her Imperial Highness, and note how she delights to visit her loved ones after long voyages. We must collect the newspaper, and see that she ended her tour of the system on a world not a few days away. We must study, and estimate how long a ship of such and such a size with such and such crew may take to cross the stars. Watching the ones we love is key. Learning about the ones we love is key." Neither may be undertaken while sitting still. This, he says, but does not say.

She’s still for a disconcertingly long time. Because, sure, she knows what she wants! Boon: easy. When you meet a princess, a real princess, of her own planet, with the laurel wreath in her wheat-blonde hair, with the red dress dripping with the golden beads and the purple sash, with a face that’s on the adorable side of pretty, with the gloves, the real white silk gloves— that’s the kind of thing you can’t miss out on! You have to ask her for the opportunity for service, or for a kiss, or for a sword to fight her enemies with, but she keeps digging deeper into the things she knows, in her bones, in her blood.

“All right,” she says, looking the princess in the eye, how odd that they’re the same height. “I know what I have to ask. What’s the impossible deed that’s troubling you? Is it… taming a giant lion made out of five smaller lions? A truth hidden at the very heart of a death-moon? Picking between three eggs, one of which has the fire that does not go out inside of it, one of which has the sea that is not quenched inside of it, and the last one has your heart inside of it, only nobody knows which one is which? Beating you in a cross-planet race, because you can only marry someone who beats you fairly?” She considers for a moment. “I’m not sure I can help you with the last one. I’d have to ask… you know, the triangles? Her. She might still say yes, though, so if that’s it, we should— no? Okay, well, the reason, the reason, is that when you meet a princess who’s just miserable, it’s because she has an impossible wish in her heart, like… like…”

(“Like looking up through the clouds and catching sight of a star, impossibly far away, and wishing you could close your hand around that star, not because you want to drag it down to earth but because you want to use it as a handhold to pull yourself up and see all the places you’d read about, dreamed about, imagined— only, you would never get to see them, because you were a doll shut away inside of a closet, waiting, and if the throne was ever empty, you’d be brought out and sat on it so that you could be a replacement, and that would be even worse, because it would mean that your mother was gone, your confusing and loud mother, your mother who would yell at you so that she could smile like a cat and say that she loved you when you ran to see what was wrong, your mother who wanted you to be the you that she could see in her heart, only you didn’t know how to be that girl, and you sat in the closet and grew heavier and stupider and you stared out at that one star, a gift from your father, and you made a wish to go— and then you realized that if you stayed in the closet, you would never ever see that wish come true. So you pushed the door open and slipped away, a little doll with a bruised cheek, dragging a statue along with you in a pleasure yacht you didn’t know how to sail, but you prayed to the lord of the shining rainbow sea, and he took his beloved niece where she needed to go most of all.”)

“Like that! Exactly! And that’s all over your face, your highness. And the only way to make things better is to make that impossible wish happen. Then you can be yourself, instead of a miserable princess, because all miserable princesses are the same in how sad they are, or how they’re sad— that’s better. So what’s your impossible wish, and the impossible deed I have to do? I think I’m good at doing them. How else would I know all about them?”

(”…”)

“Well, if you don’t know, or you can’t say— I bet it’s because you can’t say, that’s usually part of it, princesses are always having their voices stolen away one way or another— then come with me. I think we’ll figure it out on the way! Come on, take my hand, try slipping that wreath off, and we can find you an incognito dress! It’s not an impossible task, but it might just make you smile, your highness. And that’s part of the quest! Just take my hand, and I promise: I’ll find a way to help. What’s your name?”

(“…Redana Claudius?”)

A very long stare. “No,” she says, finally, “I don’t think that’s your name. Because your name is supposed to make you feel good, not look like you’re waiting for the world to crash down on your head, your highness. Maybe that’s your official princess name, sure— but I think we might be able to find something better. Not like I’m one to talk. Triangles has got it, I think. She’s the dependable one…”

Bella!

She laughed like a wheeze, bending half-over as though struck. Sincere, but it took a moment. "Okay. Fair. Yeah, they were dumb jokes. But they're where my brain went every time?" she said. The question was an axiom and a debate at once. "I didn't, like. Have a childhood, right? I wasn't turned on until the bioweave had fully grown me. No point, right? Not like I needed training if I was just going to forget everything. So I guess those first second instincts where I named myself were my childhood. A bunch of childish jokes that were funny right up until the moment where I killed hundreds of thousands. Like. I was standing on the bridge of a Solar Archcruiser, watching Admiral Heller crush her own homeworld with grav-projectors, trying not to throw up, and then she turns to me and smiles because she thinks we're best friends, and says "Thanks to you, Deathkill, we have stopped the rebellion", and, like, I had to compose a play in my head about a girl in the countryside who loved strawberry wine so that I could roleplay the climactic scene where she toasts her best friend's success in marriage. At that stage of the process that was the simplest way to deal with it."

She stared off at the horizon for a moment, then ate the pills - packet and all - and emptied a glass. "And, like, fomenting an insurrection that got the planet destroyed was the simplest way of killing my target. It was nearly a 30% improvement on the odds of the version of the plan that didn't kill everyone. And it didn't risk my sisters. My... sisters." Each blink stood out, breaking the spell of her violet eyes. "I figure they must have been reassigned. Given how far I went out of my way to not use them. I'd just... do the job by myself. So they didn't have to go through the same rampancy I did. They couldn't be reset like I could."

She trails off for a long time. "How am I supposed to name this thing, that I am? All the joke names became poisoned when they became the titles to chapters of carnage. And now to apply a pretty word backwards in time, to stamp it next to all of those deeds? What name would survive being dipped in that much blood?"

Redana!

There is something quite like a Wish in the heart of the girl named... the girl who wears the title Redana Claudius. It is a scratching, tense, unstable feeling that's always there; an awareness of every blade and snipers position, gravitationally drawn towards them. To be pierced, bloody, Imperial blood spilling joyfully on the ground as her death becomes a nightmare for her killers. She thinks about this constantly.

But the maiden is right. That's not a princess wish. That's not an impossible deed. She... she accomplished that. She was lifted on bloody claws and stared into the eyes of her murderer and felt the exaltation of Purpose fulfilled. But there were still things she wanted. There were still things she wanted even amidst a glorious death. Impossible things. Exactly the sort of thing that might trouble the mind of a Princess.

"My task..." said the princess. "My task is to cross the entire galaxy, to set foot on distant Gaia, where humanity was born. And I've come as far as I can go alone."

Dolce!

"Yes, of course!" said the ancient craftsman. "We must watch. We must learn. And then we must engineer self-sustaining solutions. To spin a crew in the gene-looms perfectly suited to her personality, reflective of her energy. Warriors she would delight to lead. Once we have observed her favoured tastes in food we must design servants to cook it to perfection for her each and every day. Love and flesh are inseparable. The functions of matter are nothing without warm smiles to go with it. She must see our love in everyone around her, and in so doing we will build her a home worthy of the name."

Dyssia!

The Warriors of Ceron have conquered the galaxy, you know this intellectually. Emotively is so much harder. Yes, in theory this phalanx represents a concentration of martial force, biomantic brilliance and technological power without parallel. Every warrior could single-handedly destroy one of the metal giants of the Age of Knights or bring a planet of the Age of Exploration to its knees.

But they're so fucking cute. They've even got little holes in their little helmets for their little triangle ears! They're all so serious! They're even holding their swishy tails still to show how serious they are!

"These aren't Ceronians, they're security Pix," Brightberry corrects. "A warrior servitor subvariant. They're basically twenty five percent lesser than true Ceronians in almost every respect, including size."

Oh gosh you get to see an entire formation of angry foxgirls do irritated ear twitches at the same time.

Even though you are being sold off to bandits, the Endless Azure Skies does not part with its citizens without ritual. You have been garbed in glittering white silks like moonlight, and even now the system grav-projector is bringing the full moon into place above you. There is to be a sacred hunt, with you as the quarry. When you are captured you will be dragged back to the Pix ship bound and gagged, a lawful prize. Already their huntresses are doing stretches over behind you as they pace around the edges of the phalanxes, sharp and lean girls with muscles like whipcords.

Now, this could be the kind of sacred hunt where the priestess walks up to the sacrificial mare in the temple and casts a bridle over her shoulders, nice and dignified and quick. Or this could be the kicking and screaming kind of sacred hunt where you head out into the wild determined to make them sweat for it.

Or it could be the 'fuck you' kind of sacred hunt where you use your head start to go for the spaceport instead. That'd really make them work for it.

Which one you choose is between you and Artemis.

It takes time to move from house to house in search of pharmaceuticals (and anything else she can think to look for). The story she listens to unfolds across each of them, from tiny one room apartments that are little more than furnished closets to sprawling ranches with more rooms than sense and seemingly every other thing in between. If it might have been a home, she breaks into it, steals its drugs, and leaves.

She is quiet, for the most part. The searching is mostly not difficult, the girl can do this by smell alone. None of the doors are guarded, and for all the lack of security their locks are likewise unimpressive. It's nice. It lets her focus on her sister and her many names, her many lives, and her many stories. Each one feels so rich in detail that it's hard to even hold onto all of it by the time she reaches the end of a new piece of explanation. And impossible to believe anyone could have so much to their lives in the first place. But if anyone could, it'd be this wretched creature at her side with her mesmerizing eyes. They remind the girl of stars, though she can't explain why. But the connection refuses to leave her, so she holds onto it.

Hm. Maybe some sort of star name? She opens her mouth to make the suggestion when her eye is pulled toward a tall bottle made of darkened glass. Her head tilts in curiosity, and her feet carry her across the plush carpet to grasp it in her hands. The top has been stopped up for some reason with a cork, but a quick twist of her pinky claw and that obstacle pops out without effort.

She brings the bottle close to her nose and sniffs deeply. Straight away her entire face scrunches up in distaste, and what had been a search for an appropriate seeming glass instead becomes a tentative holding out of her fingers. Just enough to catch a couple of drops and bring them to her tongue.

"Oh! Gods," she retches, "That is just... eugh. You know for some reason when I saw this I was sure it would be delicious? I don't know, I just... can't imagine anything this color ever tasting bad? But no. No. Oh please, no. That's so disappointing. Do you think it went, like, bad? I mean, who knows how long any of this stuff has been sitting here."

With a shrug and a sigh she upends the bottle over a tap drain, looking betrayed the entire time.

"...Do you really think it matters? Your old names, I mean. Not that I don't understand the appeal of having a single name that you can define yourself by or anything, but if you ask me it's natural to have different names for different parts of your life. For instance, I did have a childhood but it... hm? Hmmm. I wish I could remember what it was like. I feel like you deserve a story to pay you back for all the ones you've given me.

"Still, for a time like that, when I was small and learning they'd have had a name for me, wouldn't they? I couldn't have chosen it by myself the way that you did. But I grew up and came to my family, and they must have called me something different. It'd be ridiculous, calling me by a child's name now that I'm as large as I am. I think it's the same thing for you."

She holds up a hand to head off a shake of her sister's head she can feel coming in the air around them both.

"No, I'm serious. Your past might be soaked in blood, but why should your future be? There's no one to kill out here. There's... no one at all, really. But even if there was, there's no more Admiral Heller to make you do that stuff. And even if there was we could always... walk away? Really, I think finding a name that could stand up to your entire life would be difficult even if there was no blood at all. But a new name... doesn't have to follow you back into the past."

She finds another bottle, and pops it open before she can stop herself. She's all the way to tasting it before she realizes her mistake and makes another face. But this time what registers is more... uncertainty than outright disgust. She takes another tiny sip, then violently shakes her head. The bright yellow label on the bottle dances in the light as she hurls it across the room from her, where it rolls cheerfully away into the yard beyond.

"If you'd like to be someone different than you were. Even just a little. I dunno. A name's as good a place to start as any."

Oh my gosh they're so adorable she's going to diiiiiie.

Look at them! Look at how serious they are! With their liddle helmets and their pointy ears and their stares! Oh, she wants to pick them up and squeeze their little cheeks and carry them under an arm like a purse!

Ooooh, please let her take a Ceronian home. You know, like in that one book, but in reverse? Where like, the Ceronian demands a maiden be sent to live with her? Oh gosh it'd cause so many problems but can you imagine? Just waking up, swathed in fur, or cuddling around one like a pillow?

But that's not what they'd want, right? They're bristling with armor and spears and doing such a good job of not wagging their tails, yes you are.

An entire hunt! A war-party! Twenty Ceronians, just for her! They've gone out of their way to move the moon and everything!

Well, seventy-five percent of a Ceronian, so, uh, fifteen Ceronians, one Azura? She's read books like that one too, on the more fanciful nights of wandering the town. Gotta know where to look for them and cultivate those acquaintances, you know.

So, obviously surrender is out of the question, right?

Can you imagine? Everyone's gone to this effort, and she just walks up, bites the bridle, swoon, oh dear, I have been captured, take me to the pleasure cabin!~

Nothing against pleasure cabins, mind! Or bit gags, come to think of it! Not her favorite, if that makes sense? They look pretty, right? Very aesthetic, very symbolic, the painters are gonna go wild.

Because of course Merilt's made sure there are friggin' painters to see this.

But bridles never feel good to wear, do they? They hurt to wear for too long, dig into the corners of her mouth. Is that because they're metal? Would a wood bit feel better? It'd have to, right? Which is weird, because in order to make it strong enough, it'd have to be bigger, or else she could just bite through it. Bigger'd be nice--give her something to gnaw on, in the journey in the plovers and who knows how long in the ship.

They'll take it off in the ship, at least, right? Hard to do whatever a "salesman" does if your target can't talk? Right? Unless you just need them to listen?

It's weird to focus on how you're gonna be gagged, right? But it--it's like an itch, right? But an itch on your brain, so you can't scratch at it except by thinking about it?

It's just… bits are for animals. Chattel. Objects. They're meant to hurt a bit, so you can control the animal. Pull on the reins, bit digs into the mouth, animal turns.

Maybe if she submits, they'll give her a better gag? Something big and rubber, with some bite to it.

Moon shining down. Brilliant white against her scales, swirling and swaying with every movement, begging to billow out against the night sky. Artemis stalking amongst the huntresses, tightening laces and putting fresh points on spears, putting fire in Dyssia's own veins.

Dammit, this should have been fun. This should be a night of skill, of challenge, of racing blood and bodies. The thrill of the chase, the fun of being caught, adorable vixie bondage!

… She's not going to have a chance to fight that Guardian again.

What is she thinking?

She should have run hours ago. Disappeared while they moved the moon. Been on a ship by the time the dressmaker came looking.

Fuck. Just thinking of it makes her feel that little ball of tension in her chest, like someone's tied her lungs into a knot.

Twenty Pix. Fifteen Ceronians. They could take the planet with that, and she's thinking how much fun she could have with twenty pheromone-organized arrows pointed at her ass.

Why didn't she run? It's not her job to save the planet. All she wanted when she got up this morning was some coffee, a bagel, and a mild dose of enlightenment. Mastery. Some fun. To sleep in.

She could have run. Flown to the spaceport, bargained with one of the two shipmasters she hasn't alienated with listening to stories, been off-planet, and nobody would miss her.

It's not like she doesn't hear them, you know? The conversations that stop when she turns a corner. The messages in taut eye corners and tighter lips. The weariness in masters who've tried. They don't call her the Distracted to her face--unless they're an asshole, Salhadin--but they say it in any of a hundred ways that are so much simpler to understand.

The Inactive Asshole. Hah! Nailed it.

But she doesn't want to doom the planet, either? It's not her job to save it, but she likes to think it might be her job not to doom it? Does that make any kind of sense? It tastes hollow in her mouth.

And it's not like she's even saving the planet if she does surrender! Delays it, at best! Why shouldn't she fuck them over like they're trying to fuck her?

Because…

No. She will achieve mastery. The Pix will be back. The planet's conquering--conquenance? Conquence? Conquest!--the planet's conquest is already an established fact, because Merilt's a liar.

But she can at least give them time.

It's not her job to save the planet. But she's not giving up the friends she does have without a fight, either.

Ooooh, you fuckin' assholes. You're gonna get it, see if you don't.

She had a whole plan in mind. She'd thought it over the whole time they were preparing her to be their sacrifice, you know?

She has the heights, and she has the depths. She has a grav-rail, and she can breathe underwater far longer than any primitive fox body. Ooh, she could lead them a merry chase, to be sure. Over mountain and hill, soaring out of reach of even the most determined and athletic leap. Agile and lithe, carving through the ocean like a thrown trident and forcing them to get their precious little vixie fur ruffled and soggy.

You want a meek, submissive little sacrifice? You want to get your blood pumping in a chase? Fuck that, fuck this, and fuck you.

The second the priestess's hand drops, the instant she has the signal, she's haring for the spaceport.

Because maybe she gets nice things by playing nice, but sometimes you just need to commit to the bit.

Did you know? Not one of these houses contains a gene-loom. Not one of these houses contains anything that could, on a good day, resemble a gene-loom in potentia. But they could. That’s the trick with houses, and walls; you can put things in them, and you won’t know what’s inside until you look.

Dolce stands outside each house. He does not open the door; they are all locked, and the craftsman’s hands are clever to their work. He stands. And he waits. He casts his eyes to the earth. He does not think about what will be in this house. And when the craftsman emerges again, he falls in beside him without so much as a how-do-you-do.

On the forty-seventh house, the craftsman nicks his hand on a splinter. Dolce binds the shallow cut with soft, careful fingers, and at last he speaks. His tone is soft as his wool. And nothing like the acid in his stomach.

“She would see no love in this. There would be no love worth seeing there. When you make something, sir, something that’s important to you, it’s your hands that make it. Would it be the same if you gave someone else the plans? Let them do it all for you? Could they love it like you do?”

And what abuse would you heap upon them when they inevitably fell short? When their hearts found songs of their own? This, he does not say. It is not necessary to say. The point stands just fine without it.

“I’ve spent much of my life in the kitchens, but in all my time, every true love I’ve seen has needed tending to. The tending was the love.” He pulls the bandage tight, but not too tight. He brushes it clean of dirt and debris. He pats it, gently. “Not some busywork to give to someone else.”

“It’s a good thing you’re not alone, then,” she says. “None of us are.” And that’s true, too, isn’t it? Despite the journey, none of them are missing.

(No, that’s not quite true, is it? There are people who should be here who aren’t. But their absence feels different, somehow. Long ago, in a place far, far away…)

“I don’t know how far I’m going,” she admits, “but I don’t think going to Gaia should be too much for me. As long as there are new places to see, new people to meet, and new feelings to… to feel, then I don’t mind coming along. You and Triangles and me, and the sheeps, and the yellows, and the lot of us together, until we all find the places we’re going.”

She takes the princess by the elbow and leads her on. See? Each step is a step further than you could have done alone. And that’s because two feet are— wait, no, hold on, four, right? It’s four feet are better than two, said the centaur— or is that how it goes? It can’t possibly go up to eight, that’s a terrible number for feet. Doubling past that is getting to be too much all around. So maybe sticking to two feet, but it’s one each?

This is a deeply engrossing conundrum.

Bella!

For a girl like her to think for this long tells a tale of continents and oceans, of the arrangement of galaxies and orbital mechanics. To think this long is to imagine the death of civilizations and the immolation of political targets on what might seem to others as a pyre of their own making. All revolves around the hollow of a sound, a place where text might go, an empty space that might be filled with associations.

She has to come up with something. It's a matter of pride.

"I remember I liked the name Bella," she said. "A pretty name. Bella! Do you think I could be a Bella?"

"That's not it, though. That's a seed, not a name to grow into. I think Vesper. Like the prayer bell. Like the evening star. Like Venus - like Aphrodite." She grinned widely, stepping back and spreading her arms to give you a better look. "Like someone Beautiful."

Purple eyes, purple robes. Feathers that fade from soft white into gentle lilac, giving each motion a sweeping motion and associated gentle press of air. Four thumbs and sixteen multi-jointed fingers, skillful beyond compare. A smile alight with sincerity, despite everything. Holding herself up through force of will so she can deliver that smile with everything she has, even as her words skirt the edge of blasphemy.

"Do you think the name fits?" she said. "Because I think it might fit you better."

Redana!

Each step you take gives the Princess the strength to take one more. Without your motion she stands as through exhausted, but the smallest forward movement you take she matches. She has given her destination but she cannot move towards it. She can only move towards you. Four legged you go together.

"Will -" she said. Hesitated. May I...? "- you carry me, noble hero? I have always wanted to be carried."

Dolce!

"Oh, but you don't comprehend the Art," said the ancient craftsman, with the sincerity of a teacher. "People can be tended, as can tribes, as can civilizations. Success or failure can be observed in the spooling out of their stories. Love can be condensed into a trillion parts in a drop of water and, from that drop, spin out into a civilization to conquer a planet, build an empire, to move the stars themselves. And yet in that expansion the tiniest flaws could extend to embody something broken or hateful instead. What a failure that would be! The growth of species must be as well tended as any garden, and the weeds must be plucked in turn."

"Consider Ceron," and here his voice had wistfulness, the envy of awe. "The greatest genius of the Art. The greatest love for an Empress. One could grow alone on an isolated world and still embody martial virtue in over ninety-two percent of cases, and three quarters of the remainder would still be suitable for support roles. But to grow them along the trellis, to control the shape of the wishes that develop in their hearts? Through culture and media, through songs and plays and movies, through the virtue of their champions, through the controlled deployment of Champion-strain enhancement to influential culture heroes? Deviation rates become minuscule. As a whole, they become a Varangian Guard beyond compare, loyal legions who can enact the will of Empire upon the galaxy. In tending to them, biomancers tend to the Empire, in tending to the Empire, biomancers tend to the Empress. An immortal gift, like the gods might give, true and loyal down through uncounted generations. What greater garden to tend? What greater love?"

Dyssia!

The Warriors of Ceron famously took the Grav-Rail from the Endless Azure Skies as tribute. Many of their warriors are armed so, some of whom have even sought to master the technique from enslaved Azura experts who were offered up in chases just like this. The Pix Huntresses are shadows of the wolves; they do not wield the Rail. When they give chase it is with traditional Imperial technique: With bow, with spear, with jetpack and with muscle.

The jetpacks are enchanting things, solid crystal fuel burn leaving glittering aftershocks. It gives them the speed and shape of shooting stars, carrying them just above the ground and giving them speed to match you on the straights. They are hunting gear, and fragile - if you closed to within five meters and struck with your ELF you could render the fuel drained and inert, the pack worthless until they replaced the fuel crystal. All it would cost you is becoming immediately encircled and attacked by all the others who wait for just such a moment. Bait, then.

As they streak ahead of you they menace but do not fire with their bows. Heavy solid projectile arrows are nocked but not released. One alone is worthless - you will rush through the cloud and recover in moments. They seek the battle rhythm, to be able to land shots one after another, a sustained impact of shattering sounds and overwhelming sights and scents, exactly six seconds between impacts to cause the failure of autosensory adaptation. The old Imperial way of fighting the Azura, rendering you deaf and blind from a sustained barrage until you lose all sense of perspective and direction and can be netted and yoked. In war, your household would protect you from the battle rhythm, shielding your body and giving you time to adapt and escape. On the hunt, if the rhythm begins it means your end. It also means if they fire and miss you might slip through their fingers altogether. So they seek their position, looking to surround and herd you, a glowing net of starlight foxes dancing around you in every direction.

It's beautiful. Flaming orange tails dancing in the night air, lit by white moonlight and the comet-trails of crystal jetpacks. The fire of your exerted strength against the cool of evening. The rushing blood of the hunt, primordial and deep. Fang and tongue and hungry mouths if you slip and fall. Glory if you should make it to that distant golden light. The goddess Artemis, scales of moonlight white, flying aside you on her rail, diving alongside you into the water, too caught in the moment to decide between predator or protector. A night for flight, and to be glad of flight.