A noise. A tiny hum. A faint bleat, in rhythm with each breath. Breaking, cracking, crinkling at the command of the muscles enveloping him. A sound allowed just a little bit of slack, a little room to play.

He may as well have shouted.

Savor the sounds you gently coax from him, Dyssa, Knight of the Publica, Savior of Beri, Friend to Sheep. There are a deceptive many tucked away in those endless wooly depths. Tangles in a soft heart. No word will pass until the way is clear. Gently. Carefully. Surround him on all sides, but leave an opening for the retreat. Let him speak, when he is ready.

”It is.” Which surely isn’t it. “It has been a while.” Obviously. Not it either. “This is…better. I.” Quiet. The tightening rhythm continues. Patient. A tail snakes gently through fluffy curls. 

”Forgot.” 

“I just wanted to see everyone again. I just wanted to be out.” There’s a lot of days packed into that word. Out. Perhaps it is best if it stays that way, for now. “And I’m glad to be here. Believe me. I am. So grateful. It is better.” He feels the squeeze of reassurance. He is understood. “But we’re still in the Skies, aren’t we? We’re still going to be [i]here[/i]. Even if we go to the Shogunate, or beyond. Someone still chose to make the Ceronians restless, forever.”

And someone chose to make countless people sick and anxious in the void of space. And someone chose to make Assassins who were doomed to die under the weight of a curse. And someone chose sheep to staff a Manor.

How dare they. How [i]dare[/i] they.

He doesn’t make her think of an answer. That’s not a question meant for answering. ”I am lucky that I can do something for them. The Ceronians deserve better.” There is a perilous uncertainty in the rest of that thought. Mercy, that he did not speak it as a prayer. “There is much that I cannot do. I am just a chef with some bureaucratic training.”

He stops.

”Thank you, by the way. For arriving in Beri when you did. I wish I could have been there to see it.”

He considers.

”...I was stationed on board the [i]Slitted[/i] at the time. We. Could not see much, from that height.”

How much has he really helped? And how much has he let happen?

The Summerkind needed so much. The Summerkind needed to eat. 

A nice meal feels so small, now. So does he, compared to the Knight encircling him.

The coils of the Crystal Knight crushed. Smothered. Squeezed until there was no room left for him, and then squeezed [i]harder.[/i] Until she was the only thing that was left. Whatever resembled a sheep was full of her. Belonged to her. Consumed by her.

The coils of Dyssia, Knight of the Publica, squeeze tight. Tight enough for a small, small sheep to fall apart, and yet remain whole. And not one step tighter than that.

“We ought to think of a prize the Ceronians would value in the short-term.” His mouth is the only part of him still moving. His tea sits unfinished. “I think,” and he is thinking of the Knight. Not of his untouched plate. “That could give us the leverage necessary to…”

Both coils, he resists.