Bella and Redana!

Princess Redana Claudius was trained from birth to be the hand that controls Ceron and all her daughters.[1]

The true ways. The secret ways. Many lessons were too secret even for the Assassin handmaidens who were expected to die for the Imperial Heir if required. If Empress Nero was asked, what was the difference between her daughter and an imposter trained from birth to replace her if required, her answer would have been simply the mysteries of Ceron. Too powerful a knowledge to leave the Imperial bloodline, even to the most trusted handmaiden.

That is not to say that Mynx did not get lessons. It's just that those lessons were deliberately, embarrassingly, humiliatingly wrong. The pheromantic wards she has cast to interfere with formation instinct have more in common with a novice scout who is signalling that she needs to be punished. The tone of voice she uses to issue orders does not resonate on an invisible frequency that inspires fear. Her attempted grapple, an attempt to emulate Redana's Olympic wrestling performance, results in her ankles being pinned against her ears. Mynx could emulate Princess Redana down to the DNA, but she does not have Zeus' blessings of authority and the Ceronian hunters are all too eager to show her exactly what she was failing to protect herself from.

Redana, how does it feel to see yourself with torn clothes and crimson blush, thrown roughly at the feet of your mistress Bella?

[1] One might wonder if childhood exposure to art and literature that emphasized the chaining, collaring, gagging, and forcing submission upon defiant wolf-warrioresses left some sort of psychological impact on Princess Redana.

*

After the Pylons, the next miracle of the Endless Azure Skies is the Matter Decompressor.

It's almost astoundingly stupid in its simplicity. It is simply a very large Grav-Rail. No mystic circuitry runs through its depths, no hidden weapons, not even particularly elegant seams where steamrolled and spaghettified planets have been welded together. Civilizations live here too, but these are far more tenuous and fragile than those eternal bubbles of the Pylons - like everything else to do with the Decompressor the fact that it functions at all is the miracle. It is the club of macroengineering, and its role is to crack the skull of black holes.

Because that is what is in the centre of this spectacular ring. An entire black hole, the ultradense wreckage of an imploded supergiant, being squeezed in the centre of this cyclopean ring. And with the characteristic brutality of technology of this age, the black hole's infinite gravity - so deep that time itself cannot escape - is being reversed. An endless plume of hydrogen emerges through the narrow hole of a focusing lens, like air escaping from a punctured balloon. A forested pylon nearby breathes in this flow and breathes out a nitrogen/oxygen mixture - paper thin in the vast void of space, but if you stood close enough to the pylon's outflow, you could breathe it.

You could breathe it. In space. The Endless Azure Skies has determined to get the sheer atomic mass that they need in order to realize their dream they need to harvest black holes. Black holes plural - in the distance, the light of the stars goes dark as a fleet of macroengineering tugs haul the next fallen star into position. By the time the current occupant of the Decompressor has been reduced to a breath of fresh air the next stellar object will be ready to slot into place.

Well, firstly, like, you have to understand, there's differences, right? Sure, admittedly Mynx looks like Redana's memories of herself, only all manhandled by a bunch of uncouth Ceronian braves and tossed to Bella, likely to be imprisoned and brought back to Tellus by the Praetor, and Bella back then probably would have insisted on securing the prisoner personally, working through her complicated feelings of desire and resentment with every restraint, every unnecessary humiliation, every article of clothing removed to ensure that Dany wasn't hiding anything she could use to escape, ending the runaway princess's dreams of adventure with lock and key and well-secured muffling, and maybe by the time they'd gotten back to Tellus Mommy would have decided that actually Bella made a better princess than Dany did and that she was changing their places so that Dany was the maid and Bella was the princess, and Bella would probably need to make sure she was on a short leash just so that she wouldn't try to escape, and, and Bella would have Notes on her wardrobe and the need to make sure she wasn't hiding anything, and then after several months of tension Bella would kiss her so hard that it bruised, and they'd tumble into bed and Bella would start telling her that all that time she wished that she had permission to touch her oblivious brat of a princess like this, and aren't you being so loud, princess, didn't you learn that a good maid is thoughtful and demure and holds her tongue, and...

Sorry, what was the question?

Right, so. As Ember, Redana's already incredible imperial physique was funneled into being a perfect Ceronian knight. She looks like the princess's sister: a little taller, a little leaner, sharper of tooth. There is a distinction between the person she was and the person she became. And usually this is where you'd say "and it's impossible to tell where that change began," but it's absolutely when she crossed the Lethe and joined the daughters of Ceron. If she never had, she'd be like Mynx now: small, fair-skinned enough for her blush to be radiant, panting, (poisonous) drool beading on the lips she can't reach, squirming as if that will save her from Bella, not when she's in Bella's clutches, Bella never lets go once you're there, she'll toy with you and grip you tighter and all that wicked huntressness will come out in a way that's so, so hot, and come to think of it this is probably a balancing of the scales over what happened in the depths of the Eater of Worlds, so it's okay that her tail is thwap thwap thwapping against the back of her own thighs, bared by her Ceron-Pattern Tactical Shorts, it's obviously just because she's proud that she caught the Princess and is going to get headpats and Bella will do that thing with the ear and she'll just have to stay upright with knees turned to jelly in front of her pack and...

Oh shoot Bella's looking at her now.

"We," she says, and her voice cracks into a squeak, and she overcorrects downwards. "We, uh. The Princess is ours." What is she doing. "As you ordered." Why is this doing it for you, Dany. "Made sure not to, uh. Rough her up. Too much." The head is right here, Bella, with the associated triangles. It is so ready for headpats, Bella. And an evil laugh maybe?? Possibly?? For her??

(Not that that's going to happen. She's only interested in Mynx because she's needed for the plan. There is no chance that she is going to be distracted by sexy impromptu "captured-the-princess" roleplay. Get your head in the godsdamned game, Redana. And stop wagging your tail clean off your thighs.)

Bella's hand descends on Ember's head. She pushes her fingers through those luxurious tangles of hair to rub at the spots behind her ears, half in praise and half in contemplation. This is a moment where she would like to close her eyes and breathe the moment in. She does not dare. The smirk that plays across her face is so calculated that it might as well have been a part of one of Vesper's plans. Her spine is locked, her ears perked to maximum alert. When her tail twitches it does not curve so that the effect is a whiplike thrashing that instantly cancels out into absolute stillness, instead of the natural and happy sort of twitching Ember is so generously demonstrating.

"That's excellent work, Ember. Good girl."

The petting is an expected reward, but it is also an essential act of survival for the woman who should be in control here. Mynx was even more sensitive to biochemical reactions than Bella, and a single whiff of anything that could be interpreted as guilt or nervousness would be the end of everything she needed to accomplish. But as long as her hand stayed on Ember, stayed on Redana, as long as she could smell those little wisps of perfume and pleasure, her breathing stayed her own. A tale as old as time, really.

...And that was the fucking problem. Talking to Omn, talking to the Hermetic, talking to her fill of blustering Azura tyrant windbags, even just reading the store of literature she'd managed to pilfer across the trip, everything on the topic amounted to the same basic bullshit. Servitors as a concept were built around hard coded behaviors that everyone assumed just overrode the rational thought she knew they were capable of. There was a time when she wouldn't have questioned the wisdom, but since crossing the Lethe she'd seen too much, done too much, said too much for it not to start boiling her blood. Her fingers clench and Ember yips in surprise as claws suddenly dig into her scalp. Bella hastily splays her fingers and strokes with the back of her hand until calm rules the pair of them again. Shit.

What did she have for proof? Nightmare chimera of a Servitor that she was, Bella was an unholy combination of a traditional maid and a bloodthirsty warrior made ill by the scents of battle. But even though she still had zero leads on the sort of species she was made from the one thing she was certain of is that she'd been built to be a follower. Take instructions. Accept orders. Bend herself into shape to fit the needs of the person with the plan. She'd been lifted to the status of Praetor despite being a failed Imperial Maid because it pointed a ship in the right direction for just long enough to unfuck a problem that Nero was having. The awkwardness she felt about it all was only matched by the sheer rush of power that came from doing it well.

But. If that had been programmed, what the fuck? She was built for three distinct functions in an empire when most everyone she met seemed built for less than half? With that absurd lack of specialty she might as well... might as well just be... she could... call herself...

Her hand falls to her side.

Human.

Bella pulls her hand up again, twisting her fingers upward toward her face in a way that emphasizes her claws. Her smirk mutates into a horrible, toothy grin that belongs on a monster more than anything else. She steps forward, and her body flows like liquid. The swing of her hips is perfect, the bend of her waist is mesmerizing, the motion of her leg is smoother than silk. Her hand flips through her own hair with the careless of a cat, and when she feels every feather soft strand brush against her skin it tickles the pleasure centers of her brain almost as much as holding Ember had.

These are not the answers to her questions. Was there any hope at all of calling her sister home from her soft and pretty dream? Who the fuck knew? Maybe it was hubris to trust in a hope placed on such a high pedestal. Well if it was, the moonlight washing over everything was already the perfect cure to burn herself and all her madness away.

"Well now Princess," she purrs, "How many times does this make? Oh, don't get up on my account! You never were one to pay attention during etiquette lessons~"

She stoops down on one knee and grabs Mynx from under her chin. When she leans forward, her spine curls like a bow and the buttons on her shirt strain against her breasts as they are pushed forward. After a heroic several seconds, the top one bursts free and strikes the 'Princess' on the forehead. Bella's grin widens as her face falls into shadow. The gleam of her teeth and the twin colored lights of her eyes are the only points to focus on in the void covering her features.

"Oho, why that face? You had to know this was coming. Or maybe you tried to forget? No matter how far you run, even across the Lethe, you will never be safe from me."

A claw descends with agonizing slowness, resting against the fabrics of Redana's glorious but impractical dress. When it begins to slice through the material at the chest, it draws a chorus of howls from Ceronian warriors across the room.

"This is just like on the Eater of Worlds, isn't it? I've been waiting so long to pay you back. You remember what you said back then, right? Or do I need to peel you out of this ridiculous clown suit to shake it loose?"

The claw descends lower, the dress sighs. She is watching, Mynx. Watching you. What will you do now?

Do other Azura rankle when they're being managed?

… Do they even notice?

No, really, honest question. There are… well, there're a frankly staggering number of things she's. Not discovered. Discovered is the wrong word. Realized? Had the curtain pulled back on?

Figured out. Things she's figured out through exposure to people with different needs built in at the molecular level.

Do they notice when that disarming smile comes through and peels back the layers of defenses?

You're never supposed to. The entire game is designed to let the administrators get on with their no-doubt important work without thinking of all the many, many steps that have to function at every level.

… two sugars, please.

… three.

Just leave the bowl, please.

It's built into her just as surely as in any servitor. The only difference is that now she's aware of it happening.

…and yet.

And yet, it's--

It's different, right? It's not managing. Not giving a series of easy, quick bursts of success, not out of a need to serve or a, a, an instinct, or--

She swirls the tea in her cup, and stares over its lip at the bundle of fluff in her tail.

She's expected to say something, she's sure of it. But the words, not for the first time in the past few weeks, refuse to come.

Alas, timelessness, alas.

Clink, goes another spoonful of sugar.

It's not their fault, indeed.

She stares again at--yes, at a friend. Not a Synnefo and his charge, but someone who, in a time of deep distress--and she's sure of that, even in the complete absence of any ability to point at what indicates it--a friend who took time to reassure her.

There's probably a fight breaking out somewhere in the ship. A debate over how a baton was passed, or something to do with the Ceronian's pet magos.

She takes another sip, and holds him as tightly as she dares. Security, warmth, and, yes, friendly comfort.

"It's… nice, not to have to wage this alone," she admits. Lets the sentence dangle, as if to invite the comment. How long have you been alone? How must it feel to have… Well, a listening ear?

You can tell. She keeps secrets for her friends.

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 here. 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 dare 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 Slitted 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 harder. 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.

Princess Redana!

The Lethe washed away many things. For her, it washed away fear, pain, regret and doubt. She drank of it greedily and deeply, downing mouthful after mouthful of that cool water until only her hopes and aspirations were left. She wished she could be a Princess and perform her role perfectly. She wished she could sacrifice so that those she cared about would be safe. And, somewhere a few ribs below her heart, she'd had a very quiet and hungry wish that somebody would remember what she'd said carelessly and jokingly and not let her squirm her way out of it.

It bubbled up from inside her. An emotion that was completely incompatible with being Princess Redana Nero. The desire that someone would want to take revenge on her. That all of her teasing, poking, prodding and skirting around the line might somehow mean that when the assassin came for her, they were coming for her and not the person she was impersonating. It was a perversion, a kink, an entirely unacceptable vanity to imagine that the death she was programmed to yearn for might be because of who she was. And of all the wants in her head, that was the one desire that split her from her mask.

"You won't get away with this, Praetor," she said, holding up the words, the bait - just in case. Maybe you're just confused? "I'll escape, just like I always do," she knew exactly how hollow that sounded over the tearing sound of her dress. "And - and when I do - you'll..." words jumbled in her mouth; the scripts she's following no longer aligning.

"Oh, you do remember. I can see it aaaaaallll over your face, hmhmhm~"

Bella presses her fingers under Mynx's chin. With the palm, she pushes upwards. Her other hand descends, claws outstretched, until the clothing fit only for the Princess Redana gives up the game at last and goes flumphing to the floor in a puddle all around her. A snap of her fingers, and the ropes are around those delicate, pale wrists. Tugging them above her head, lifting her to her feet. Forcing her chest up and out, with nothing to do but watching all these eyes watch her back.

"You told me you had so many ideas, back then. For ways that I could punish you after you humiliated me the way you did. But then? You stupid, worthless slut, you never. Said. A. Thing."

Bella descends on the dress with the fury of a lightning bolt. Her claws carve it to tatters in the space of this single, vicious strike. She snatches up a tuft of it and folds it into a perfect square, murder written in her eyes the entire time. She rises to her feet. Tall and imperious, something much larger and more dangerous than a mere Praetor. Her hand once again clenches around Mynx's jaw, and she squeezes to the edge of pain. Just enough to let her mind take over and imagine more. Just enough to pry her mouth open, so she can pack it full of that stupid, shredded dress and watch the drool start forming at the corner of her lips.

SMACK! The back of her hand crashes across Mynx's cheek. SMACK! The palm hits the other side on the return. SMACK, SMACK, SMACK! Hard enough to color that perfect face. Hard enough to draw out tears, to make shoulders slump against ropes now pinned against the ceiling.... and hard enough to make those soft and slender thighs press tight against each other and those delicate toes curl at the ends of their feet.

"You're going to need to endure this." SMACK! "I'm going to have to be very mean to you." SMACK, SMACK! "Things have never been more dangerous than they are right now, and your useless ass is a long walk away from where I need it. Just know this: it's my turn to drive this time. It's your mess that needs cleaning. And I. Will have you. Pay me back. For every. Little. Mistake. And prank. You have. Ever. Pulled."

But the blows stop there. Bella takes a deep breath, and she sighs. It feels so strange, using memories as a weapon like this. But in the end there just wasn't anybody in the entire galaxy who knew the Toxicrene Adept, Mynx, as well as she did. There wasn't anybody else who could do this job. At first it seemed only right to let her live out this fantasy, out of guilt or maybe just a selfish desire to have there be some kind of Redana on this ship. Before she knew better. But if they were Human there were standards to uphold. If the pair of them and everybody like them were all Human, then it wasn't all right for them to be anybody but themselves.

Bella slides behind Mynx and drapes her considerable weight against her prisoner. Her body presses close, and the backs of her fingers slide up and down the length of Mynx's butt, waist, ribs, shoulders, and neck; pressing firm on all the little spots where Mynx should be meaningfully different than Redana, and waiting to see if she yields to that reality. She plants a kiss on each reddened cheek, soft and wet to soothe the pain, and plucks the sodden packing from that constantly moaning mouth.

"But none of this means we can't have some fun, does it. How about we play Twenty Poisons, until I figure out the best way to show you your place? Here's a good first one: which of us are you hoping is going to be the one to fuck you, when we're through? My wife?"

She pushes Mynx's head up and over to look straight at Ember, then drags her tongue across Mynx's ear.

"Or me~? Oh! Don't tell me! Maybe you're thinking you'd like to take us both at once <3"

Look, three things are halfway salvaging this. There are three factors in play which make it so that it is theoretically possible that the Toxicrene will look up and see a ravenous, unleashed Ceronian ready to punish her at Bella’s command.

Firstly, as mentioned before: Redana looks at Mynx and sees someone a lot like she used to be, which means that her experience right now is that she is imagining what it would be like to be in Mynx’s place, which is why she is ramrod-straight, ears at attention, fixated and intent. And why her tail is trying to fly away.

Secondly, though: she is aware that this is of vital importance to her Bella, her wife. Memories of Mynx have come swimming back, along with the sorts of things she did in order to try and catch Mynx before. If she doesn’t sell the fantasy, if she can’t keep Mynx off-balance, then everything falls apart, the assassins are lost, and the grand adventure falls apart in the featureless dark between blue stars. She cannot break. She cannot corpse. She cannot give Mynx reason to start reasoning again. Not with Bella doing such a fine job.

Thirdly, she can smell Bella from where she stands. The desire on her face is not faked. The twitch of drool at the corner of a lip, the intensity of her eyes, the tension in her muscles: all of these are quite vividly real in the eyes of the Toxicrene. It’s just that they’re not directed at her. But in the heat of the moment, that’s so hard to judge, isn’t it?

Backed by the pack that so effortlessly defeated the pseudoprincess, Ember must look like the terror of worlds and palaces alike. She is adorned in finery which fails to cover her straining muscles, her shining eyes, the way her leg flexes as if to pounce for but a moment. She is a pirate and a queen of pirates, and she bares her teeth and bites the air on cue.

And we all know what pirates would do to princesses— don’t we, Mynx?

Dyssia listens.

And for once, that's all she does. One hundred percent all-in on listening. Doesn't spend time planning what to say. Doesn't line up sentences and examine them for phrasing and lyrical assonance in the spaces between parsing words. Doesn't, in the mental pause while waiting for the other person to stop talking, consider the number of tiles in the wall mosaic and, hmm, that one is chipped, isn't it?

None of that.

He's trembling, she realizes. And the the teacup is cold against her scales.

"You know," she sighs, and swirls the dregs of her tea, "I feel the same way, sometimes? Like, almost more so now that I know better than I did starting out?"

"I'm an Azura! An administrator species, for what good that hogwash title ever did me. A Publica Knight, a veteran of multiple battles and campaigns! I've become the kind of person I used to sigh about when I heard stories about them in the bars near the shipyards!"

She sighs, sagging back in midair as if into a heavy, padded chair.

"And somehow I still feel like the frightened kid that dove into trouble to avoid being caught by bigger trouble. I'm still… Still winging it. I thought I'd have things figured out by the time I became a hero."

It's like…

"Everything's so big, right? Like, biomancy, right? How do I solve that? How do I take these hundreds of species with different wants, desires, inborn needs that are at odds with each other, and make everyone happy?

Quiet. Quiet, as if the words are hard to admit.

"I'm… I'm just one person. What good can one person do, against all of that?

"And I think the answer is, more than zero, if that makes sense? Like, maybe I don't have all the answers and solutions, but… I've made a difference, and a good one, in a limited sense. More than I would have if I'd just… let things happen. Just sat back and had an easy life."

She frowns, and swirls the dregs of her sugar slurry, before eyeing the top of the bundle of wool.

"And you could have too, Dolce. But you've chosen to… To help, whenever you can. To be someone who helps, in hundreds of ways, to make life better for the people around you.

"And maybe, you know, maybe I'm just one person. And maybe you're just one person. But that makes two of us, and we're not alone anymore, and you know, I'm pretty sure a bunch of people working together can do what one person can't."

Are these the right words? She's not sure. But... But how can she not say them? How can she not look at this sheep and tell him how much he's already helped?

It is a little different, for him. If it hadn’t been leaving on a passing ship, it would’ve been a life on the farms. Not the Manor. Life on Beri didn’t offer much of a choice either. Work, or slavery, or jump on the Plousious and-

Well. Hrm. You know. Actually, maybe he did have a choice? Did he have to join a Princess on a doomed voyage? Of course not. Many, many, many people chose not to join. He and Vasilia could’ve been two of them. They could’ve-

No. No, that may not be true either. There was…a wish, yes? A wish was on the line. Like how everyone on Beri was on the line. Like how his heart was on the line.

Could he have chosen differently, and still been Dolce? Did he do the difficult thing only because the alternative was worse?

Is he…never going to be able to stop? Until whatever he’s set out to do is finished?

”The Diodekoi did not know that she was an engine of murder until she was activated. No scans or tests I did could discover this about her.”

He. Didn’t know what he didn’t know. His memory appeared whole, until it didn’t. He.

-crik-

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

He did not know his shoulders were that tight, until they weren’t.

Her coils could read his mind. Or his body. Or both? Or both. They could read sheep, and that’s how they knew exactly where to press in and work and work and force the strain from his muscles.

He regards the pile of tangled, sharp thoughts.

He regards the plate of tasty looking cracker sandwiches he’d made.

”...would you mind? I don’t think I can reach. Or move my arms. For a while.”

A shuttle of deliciousness takes flight, and gently glides to its destination.

”Ah, yes, perfect. Thank you.”

There are many who wouldn’t stand for him to starve himself.

He’s not alone, after all.

Bella and Redana and Redana!

Some thoughts are like black holes. The idea itself can never be explored, never spoken, but at the same time it binds the mind to it with crushing gravity that can never be escaped. Personality begins to emerge around the edge of the thought like trapped light - haha wouldn't it be funny if? - but continues a little too long to be a bit. Its presence bends the personality around it even though it never lets itself be observed directly. And there it lurks in the darkness of the brain until a catgirl straps it into the Matter Decompressor and says out loud the thing that one was intending to take to the grave.

She's more naked than the loss of her dress would suggest. She's breathing heavily against her gag. She's in chains and does not need them. There's nothing left to cover, and so for the first time she stands - on tiptoes, arms held high by chains - with protean pride. She no longer needs to conceal what she wants to do; the only question left to her is what she'll be allowed to do.

The gag is pulled from her mouth. She meets Bella's eyes with the hard focus of the hypnotized. "Yes," she said, each sound deliberate. "Nineteen left."

If she could go back in time and kill the person who came up with 'Twenty Poisons', she would. But then, that'd be rather counterproductive. Bella pressed her thumbs into Mynx's jaw, and frowned where nobody could see her do it. This was the opportunity she was looking for. But twenty questions was a lot to have to figure out. And it was also no space at all to pull a person out of the hole they've been hiding in.

"That's a brave answer," she purrs with a confidence she does not feel, "I almost want to reward that."

Bella wraps her arms over Mynx's shoulders and slumps against her, so that the chains holding them up strain under their combined weight and dig into Mynx's wrists. She buries her face into her oldest friend's neck and sniffs, loudly. To prevent a sigh or any other type of concerned, weak noise from leaving her and shattering the illusion of her control, but the scent she draws in gives her renewed strength. The smell of roses has grown faint, and in its place has risen the acrid sting of artificial cleaner that represents her 'true' perfume. She blinks, unseen. Takes a second whiff. No. It's... it's similar, but it's not that same scent. Not only from the telltale, sickly sweetness of her arousal that's washing over her form, but the old fake marker scent itself is fundamentally altered somehow. It has a peppery heat to it, where before it was defined by its astringency. Still sharp, still bitter and chemical and familiar, but a new take on it. Still Mynx, but... different. New.

"Let's see how you handle this. If you want a treat after everything you've put me through, you'll need to earn it. Number two: now that we've come so close again, are you going to keep insisting you're meant to be alone?"

"I..." Mynx shudders under the touch of Bella's palms against her hip bones.

"Yes or no, Princess."

"N-no~" she manages, to the immediate reward of fingers spreading across her skin and pressing into her body with careful little pinpricks.

"Good, that's very good to hear. And still eighteen left! That's a bit surprising; I thought we'd be here longer before we got this far. Hmm, maybe that means you're holding out on me. Ok then smart girl, how's this? When did you figure out you're more than just a bodyguard to us?"

Mynx does not answer. Her breath hitches, and she rocks forward onto her toes and back again, squirming and writhing and dragging Bella's claws all over her stomach. Bella flips her hands over, to a lot of whining and an even more insistent press of bodies up against her.

"You dismissed it because Redana always acts like everybody's her friend, and not her servant. That makes you just as stupid as me. But you can't have thought I was like that too. You're thinking about it, I see it in your breathing. All those times I wouldn't let you pose as me or put yourself in danger for my sake. And you're weighing that against everything else you know about me. And I can smell you're stuck on it. You're coming down too soon, you idiot. You're never going to get the climax you're looking for if you slip away now, trust me. Would you like me to explain it, so you don't hurt your pretty little head?"

She lifts her arms and takes a step back. Mynx slumps into the emptiness, and cannot keep her hips from squirming. But though her lips are shimmering with drool and her knees are almost knocking together from how badly they're shaking, her back is straight when she answers. She lifts her head high, and says the word with as much certainty as she can muster.

"Yes. Please, please, yes. Tell me, please..."

And in answer, Bella bites her ear, and laps at the mark she leaves behind.

"Precious. Irreplaceable. You're not Redana, but you are her equal. You are the only other person who watched the butterflies with me in that garden. And you are the one I did not have to chase. You were my shoulder to lean on when I could not stand. You were my confidant. And if an Empire stood between us, I would burn it to the ground to cross the distance. Do you understand?"

"I... I!"

Bella's hands caress the contour of Mynx's rib cage. That new scent is growing stronger. She breathes deep, and allows her fingers to wander where they will.

"I do not give a single fuck what your capabilities are or what you were made to be. I do not want a biomancer's opinion on what makes you valuable. If I were offered a thousand new Toxicrenes with all of their latest improvements, I would cave in the face of the person who suggested it. I want you. I want the woman who has lived her life alongside me, the only one in the entire galaxy who I could trust to take my place if I died. I'm going to ask you again: Do. You. Understand?"

"Bella," she moans and cranes her neck to open it for more kisses and more fang marks, "Yes, yes, yes!"

The deeper she goes, the more Bella feels her insides tighten. It's wrong. All of this is wrong. Not that the words are inaccurate, but that she has no right to say them. A hundred very childish impulses beg for her to spend a question asking forgiveness, but what the fuck would that accomplish? The only thing that could feel worse than being told that she wasn't would be being told that she was. As if she had any right to know. As if peace of mind was something she could just ask for and receive.

Besides, any sense of closure in either direction would break the spell that Mynx was under, and it still had so much work to do. Selfish shit like that didn't matter anyway. This journey was going to be the death of Bella. It was nonsensical to her that it might be otherwise. But she could make sure that Mynx and Ember both reached the destination safely, and if she got them there in any fit state to make wishes for themselves, that was all the redemption she deserved to ask for. For as many gods as hated her, that was already too much to ask. And in light of it, this clawing guilt didn't mean shit.

A new Mynx, but still Mynx. Right now what she needed was to keep it the fuck together long enough to see. After that there were only 12 other disasters to attend to. Easy. She steps in again, and wraps her tail around her sister's leg.

"You've been brave enough to die for everyone for a very long time. Are you brave enough now to live for us, instead?"

"Yessssssss~"

"I'm going to hold you to that, you know. Gods, how does a person so full of poisons manage to be this soft? I thought it when I met you, but you really are some kind of fucking miracle."

"I-it just," stammers Mynx as the heat rises up through her body, "Makes me happy..."

"Oho? And how would it make you feel if I told you that made you a treasure worth possessing all by itself?"

"Ah, ah! GgOoD~"

"Well isn't that sweet. This changes nothing, so you know. At most I am willing to split our time sixty-forty, punishment to reward. You might be a treasure, and my friend, and my precious sister, but you are also a huge fucking pain in my ass. If you get any treats from me at all, you're going to earn every last one of them with your tongue. Your tongue if you're lucky, heh."

At last, Bella lets her sister go. She doesn't undo the chains, but she steps away entirely and does the hardest and most dangerous part of this job by sauntering with casual, confident power to the other side of this exchange where Mynx can read her face freely. What she shows is not a smile, not her teeth, and none of the swaggering or sexy confidence she's been projecting throughout the game to this point. Intensity and earnestness push her features into a scowl of pure concentration. The Auspex burns red in its socket as she watches. And waits.

She puts a hand on Ember's shoulder, and pushes her forward.

"But since Dany here is joining us in bed tonight, I'm going to let her join in here too. I am giving her nine poisons to extract however she sees fit. When she is done, and only when she is done, you are going to answer this one with your body. Do not speak a single word to me about it. But let me know as only you can: when I look at you, who is it you want me to see? Show me the body that truly belongs to you."

Bingo.

It's a special feeling, you know? To have someone in your arms, to feel safe enough in them to let go.

Of course, she's only too happy to feed her friend--to present morsels at his mouth, to hold them out and let him eat out of her hand.

Food's a dangerous tool, you know?

It's like food has a magic all its own, right? You can tease, play, let it dance in front of their mouth before they finally get to nibble that dainty bite. And of course, if those muscles tense, if those shoulders tighten up…

Well, she's waiting with another little cream-filled bite at your lips.

"I keep thinking," she says, and feeds another cream-cheese-and-cucumber-laden cracker into Dolce's lips. "Omn mentioned a group of Ceronians that sold themselves into slavery."

And doesn't that image just float, unbidden, to the front of her mind. Muscles, barely covered in gold and silks, the clinking of small golden links, and wouldn't she look nice like thaaamoving on

Revisit that thought later, It's a nice one.

"It's just like--. Um. Thoughts, words, shit."

She taps the butt of her hand against her temple, as if the motion will make the jumbled thoughts slot into place.

"They have the urge to expand, right? It's their nature, their programming, it's who they are. But they're not brutes. They can be subtle, slow, work towards a goal, even if it means moving away from that immediate goal right at this very moment. We can present them with that opportunity, if we can find something they'd pursue now for greater power later."

Pause. Select a cracker, load it with hummus, hover it just in reach.

"And I keep thinking of a comet, trailing stars, riding a seabeast against a capital ship."

The sentence hangs in the air.

"You've something special, you know that? I'm a master of the rail in my own right, and I've never seen it used like that.

"I guarantee the Ceronians haven't either."

Again, silence, broken by cracker crunching.

"And of course, if they wanted to learn that style--to have that power for themselves, to use down the line--they'd need to play for her favor. They'd need to make her happy, and whoever wins the contest gets her favor and her teaching."

She takes a bracing bite of cracker, and continues.

"What I am in fact proposing is that we encourage packs of wolves--ideally, split up if we can--to direct their passion and fury into a game of competitive husband pampering."

Redana almost hisses at Bella that she’s going to screw this up. This is… how can she possibly be expected to follow up that? That dismantling of Mynx’s walls, keystone by keystone, questions that must have been considered ever since she came back to herself on this side of the Lethe: how is the brash, energetic, foolhardy princess of Tellus going to follow up bringing Mynx safely to ground? How can she possibly be entrusted with this?

But Bella has entrusted her with this. That fact is undeniable. There’s no squirming out from under that! If Mynx tries to rebuild herself now, she’ll break strange, won’t she? Like a tree with crooked branches. (Now there is a memory.) Bella gave her this, and it has to be because Bella knows that only Dany can bring Mynx safely down.

“I? I! Am! Yes!” Ember throws her head back and laughs like only a Ceronian alpha can, the mocking laugh of glorious victory. “You’re all ours tonight— you know that, right? Answer!”

“Y-yes!” The gasp— there’s something of Redana there, of a squirming and flustered princess. It’s difficult not to look away bashfully when presented with yourself, you know? But this isn’t Redana. The gasp is in the process of becoming something new.

“Look at both of us. You might think you know us, but we’ve both changed so much from those days in the garden. The person you’re pretending to be right now doesn’t exist any more. Does she?”

“…no?” She’s lost, starting to drift. There’s empty air under her feet, and she needs a wolf to catch her.

“So the masks you have are obsolete. The Bella you could be is out of date. So is the Redana. There’s no more need to pretend to be those girls, is there?”

“No…”

“There’s no more need to hide yourself. You’re going to be a good girl,” the Ceronian princess rumbles in a way that is all the more sincere for how important it is to her. “And you are going to let all those ancient masks drop so we can see the beauty underneath, aren’t you? Answer!”

A nod. A growl. A squeak. “Yes!! Yes!!!”

“Because there’s no need for bodyguards anymore, not when I look like…”

Her vest hits the floor, followed by her bandolier, followed by her bra.

“This.” Gaze upon the body of an athlete, a scout, a warrior, o Toxicrene! Scent her, know how her corded muscles would feel, and let your eyes trace the augmentations to her teeth. She is not the princess of Tellus any more: she would be able to fend off assassins herself. And she would be quite capable of tying a silly little Toxicrene in knots.

“So we’ve no need for a bodyguard any more, right?” She stretches theatrically, flexes her arms, smiles in self-satisfaction.

“No more…”

“Which means that you are bound instead to be yourself. Bella will demand it, won’t she? Answer!”

“Yes! She will!”

“And you and I both know what she’s like when she’s like this. I don’t see any way out of it. You’re doomed, Mynx. Doomed to deal with Bella here until she’s satisfied, and part of her satisfaction…”

The Ceronian princess throws her arms around the Toxicrene, giving her a faceful of hot breath, glistening teeth, and a tight grip. Forehead to forehead, who the princess was and who the princess became.

“Will be tossing you to me. I fought my way up from the bottom of the pack, and I will not spare you any mercy, girl.” Need and Lust and Amusement soak into Mynx’s skin. “Now. Are you ready to be one of the priceless treasures of Ceron, just as you are, no title and no mask?”

“Please, yes…”

“Even knowing how much I know about lusty Ceronian pirates and what they do to the beautiful ladies in their clutches~?” Her tail betrays her excitement at getting to play this role for a night, at flipping the tables around.

The look that Mynx gives her is too much. Redana bites, growling, tail wagging, digging her nails into Mynx’s fiendishly soft skin— and then pulls back, panting, grinning, a wicked creature only barely held at bay by the fact that Bella is staring at the two of them, has her on a leash of loyalty, and it’s not yet time to let the Hound of Mosaic loose.

“Yes. Or. No,” Ember growls, eyes hot.

“Zeus’s sake, yes!”

“Last one. Did you know that the Princess thought of you as a friend the whole time she grew with you?”

“…no,” the Toxicrene admits.

“Well, now you know. And now,” Dany leers, “you’ve one more question to answer. Here, since it’s probably slipped your silly little mind— let me help.”

No talking. Not a single word. Just the body. The pirate queen works that ruined dress back between Mynx’s lips and circles behind her, clamps one palm over her mouth, presses her body against Mynx’s back, and lets out a growl straight from a romance novel. “Now. Answer her…”

Blink. Blink.

Sorry, did he hear you correctly?

Ah. Hrm. He did.

Wolves competing in pampering him, to make Vasilia happy. Wolves pampering him. Competing, in pampering him. To make Vasilia happy? Wolves.

”That certainly is an idea.”

Of everyone in Beri, he did not have to wonder what a life under Ceronian rule would’ve been like. He’s already lived it. Close enough, anyway.

They watched in the kitchens. They watched in the gardens. They appeared around corners when you least expected it. Gasp. Halt. Let your tray unbalance. They broke the silence so thoroughly you’d feel its jagged edges tomorrow. No hiding from their noses. No outrunning their legs.

No mercy.

Which is as far as the fight or flight goes before waves of smooth muscle squeeze in from all sides, and a tantalizing snack gently floats to his lips. The discussions are put on hold, by order of the ship’s acting chief authority. The only sounds permitted are quiet munching and soft bleating. When they finally return to the matter at hand, he still feels like he’d fall into a jumble of wooly pieces if she let him go. But the barks couldn’t quite reach him now. Dyssia had piled up an awful lot of coils and crackers against them.

”There would be some. Hurdles, to overcome.” To put it delicately. “They would have to be quiet, for one. Not whisper-quiet, no need to go that far, but no barking, howling, or particularly loud growling. We are acting for the good of the ship, yes, but Vasilia would take quite some convincing to let me suffer a constant headache for the foreseeable future.”

”No, no chasing either. That wouldn’t do. Neither physically trapping nor running to ground. She’d only want me to go with them willingly.”

He pauses. Squirms, as much as he is permitted to.

”She wouldn’t like to share either. If they took liberties with me…” He leaves the thought hanging as he searches for the least distasteful words. “No making out. No groping. No biting.”

”...aside from all that, then, that could work. If they were able to successfully pamper, Vasilia would not need to fake her pleasure. The theory is sound.”

It is an entirely fair and well-reasoned assessment, with the notable exception of his own permission. Which he cannot give, because he has just taken a rather large bite of cracker and cheese, and he will be much occupied with savoring the complex flavors until further notice.

They need a plan. The need is great. Which is why it is worth giving an impossible plan its due consideration. If there is a crumb of a solution to be found, some seed to grow a better idea from, then they will be sorry if they missed it in their haste. But as the plan is, indeed, impossible, then it is not worth considering any further than that. Perhaps another prize? Some other way of garnering Vasilia’s favor that did not throw the whole ship into chaos?

That was the trick, wasn’t it? Ember. Is an exception. And this would be quite easier if that were not the case. If wolves did not need to howl, or hunt, or have, completely. Then they could simply.

They could.

The wolves, could.

A long-sleeping dream stirs. Born to a chef of the Starsong, courting a noble and beautiful lady before he realized it was a courtship. He brought her freshly baked cookies, soothing tea on cold, lonely nights, every recipe he owned or could learn he lavished upon her, and every day the dream grew stronger. But as strong as it was, it held no power against a heart well-loved. Bound in sacred oath, held fast in her arms, he was at peace. All he had to give, he had given her, and it was enough. And so the dream slept. For long years it slept, passing from awareness, until he hardly ever remembered it anymore.

A long-sleeping dream stirs. Of a sheep greeting his beloved dressed in a fine, princely suit, and not his weathered old apron.

“Well. Either way.”

Time is of the essence, no?

“We really ought to ask Vasilia, first.”

And that would be the quickest way to put this whole silly thing to bed.

Mynx!

She has to start with colour. Shapes work backwards from colour; a hard line or forced shadow can make a gentle bend seem severe. She's been stuck with a drab pallette for far too long, constrained to the narrow ranges of human skin. Her boy melts, her features melt, she lets herself run into cold and pure whites as the basis for her canvas.

Blue. It was hard to be entirely immune to the influence of the Skies, and there was a radiant pale shade of turquoise she'd always loved; the colour of plasma coils and tropical water. Bubbles of it traced across her skin - too much. The colour looked plastic and flat if it dominated - she sent it to her extremities, her hands and feet and shoulders so the white brightened into blue. She then coiled bands of a darker blue around her core, around her chest and thighs and hips running to her knees, following the lines of muscles. Details in black, triangular around her back and knees, too sharp to be organic. Topical lines appeared, straight and sharp, accentuating the lines of her body.

It came together; a shape both organic and artificial; sometimes appearing to be clothing and sometimes appearing undressed, a lithe and living machine. But it was missing - a touch of faded red, spreading out from her heart on front and back, wrapping around her body just shy of her neck, shoulders, and bottom ribs.

She kept the blonde hair - she'd always envied it - and let it grow even longer. Many parts of the face, too familiar for her to reject them - but longer and sharper canine teeth. The words she was trying to say was savior, angel, and living machine. Something that could love and protect, but needed to be maintained and repaired. That was who she wanted to be.

Bella!

That silver moonlight - it's close now. You can almost hear its soft footsteps in the corridor outside.

Time has passed; there are curtains and sheets and fresh marks on the bedhead. After everything you've been today now you walk in the liminal space of soft breathing and fragmentary dreams. Rustles of silk almost conceal the sound of arrow-feathers brushing against each other in the quiver.

Ember!

It is vital for the security of the pack that you cuddle this sheepboy.

Specifically there is the problem of the Azura Magus. Plundering Fang has already taken the initiative during your period of distraction to have her wrap him in her coils and start saying things like 'you are an excellent servitor' and 'stop resisting'. It's a powerful opening move, especially with Plundering Fang keeping a tight grip on the Magus' own leash. This represents a terrible threat to your role as Alpha and you have to Do Something!

Dolce!

This is your second time being used as a squeeze toy by an Azura, but this one also has literal hypnotism eyes. You need to avoid those! If you look into her magical eyes then you'll give up the competition too soon and the plan will fail! Even though she's firmly holding you and telling you 'my eyes are up here' you need to find somewhere else to look - but where!?

Dyssia!

The Ceronians are distracted. You've got a rare free hand to intervene in the ship's affairs, and enough institutional backing from the Pix to have a good chance at forcing through whatever changes you need to make before a response can organize. You are a Knight of the Publica; part of your role is to help new societies develop the laws that will help them thrive. What mark do you wish to make?

Her calves are filled with fire. Her thighs ache. Her back is a constellation of little motes of pain, before even accounting for the fresh claw marks up and down the length of it where a pair of overeager morons worked her over in the middle of their... well, it didn't really matter. Those didn't hurt the same way everything else did. Her shoulders slump from the weight her own body. To see is to be forced to squint. To listen is to have a headache.

In a word, Bella is exhausted. No convenient freezing of time for this act of love. Not that anyone expected the same miracle twice, but the chance to sleep without the fear of anything breaking forever would have been nice. Instead every choice she makes costs her three others, and already the feeling of awe and euphoria that came with seeing Mynx step into herself for the first time had faded. Faded into dread, faded into paranoia, faded into this gods-awful fatigue that permeated every muscle and pore on her body.

Never enough. Just never enough. And none of it ever good enough, no matter how hard she tries. Bella yawns, some weird ancient-coded behavior she did not understand the purpose of but could never stop herself from doing in moments like these. She slips the clean white robe over her head as she crosses the room. It's not how she would prefer to meet this moment, but it's soft and devoid of complex smells, and of all the things she had to wear it was by far the fastest to put on.

She stands in front of the basin of water in silence. Her ears keep bending to catch the sounds of moonlight approaching, but she twists them back each time. In the clear surface of the water, her reflection shows her a version of herself she has not seen in years. For the first time since she learned she was dead, there is no adornment on her face. No touch of eyeshadow or painted lips or bold accents or even jewelry that would bring out some little part of herself worth marking. She is surprisingly plain. Not particularly beautiful after all. Or maybe she is simply tired.

She dips her hands into the water, and splashes it across her face. It runs down her neck and drips on the collar of her robe, but she pays it no mind. She doesn't turn to watch when her clawtips splatter water on the floor as she resumes walking, either. Her bare feet pad across the room in absolute silence, and she lets out not so much as a whisper or a sigh until she reaches the wall and turns to rest her back against it.

Bella slumps down to the floor, and tilts her head up to look at the silver light streaming through the door frame.

She smiles; time's up.

"Am I really," she asks, "That much of a disappointment?"

“Your fuzzy ass is not measuring him.”

“Embi—“ Here Plundering Fang hesitates, months of arduous training swinging down like a rapidly descending paw. “Miss Ember, we are clearly in our rights. It’s in the rules the sheep gave us. We are allowed to make measurements for his outfit.”

“Where’s her ruler, then? In her tits?”

“She is the ruler. Look closer at her scale patterns, if you would. Ma’am.”

“…well. Huh. I mean. Isn’t that inefficient?”

“baaaaaaaaaaaaaa.”

“I am assured that it’s a classic Azura method of measuring for tailoring.”

Ember taps her foot, crosses her arms, frowns. This would be so much easier if she could just tackle Plundering Fang and have a no-holds-barred wrestling match over Dolce. Have a real brawl of it!

But that would be disqualifying. That’s in the rules, too. No roughhousing, no howling, and no pouncing. (Goddesses only know whether he just walked right into those coils, then.)

Inspiration strikes the Princess Redana, who’s ready to add seamstressing to her long, long list of talents. “Well, don’t mind me,” she says, clambering onto the coils of the serpentess, situating herself between the sorceress (who’d cast quite a spell on her a few adventures back) and the hapless Starsong Privateer.

“Heya, Dolce!” She grins, heedless of the interesting bruises still lingering on her neck and shoulders. (Not that bruises were uncommon among the Daughters of Ceron, but practically anyone would have had these heal by now. Toxins have a way of lingering.) “I’m thinking: admiral hat. Hold still and let me get the circumference?”

Her loyalists are already clambering onto the Azura in order to surround the sheep on all sides. Protectively. Very closely. And Plundering Fang’s remaining friends are doing the same thing, and there’s definitely not enough room for everyone, but they’ll pack in close around the sheep anyway, giving him awkwardly false headpats and complimenting his curls…

Is she the right person for this job?

No, no, wait, flip that around.

Because if you're looking for someone who can do the job of high priest--no, no, again, rephrase, chief philosopher, maybe?--If you're looking for someone who can do the job of figuring out in a few days in the middle of a not-yet-active warzone the basic tenets of a new civilization, then she's your girl.

It's just that while she may be the right person for the job, does she have a right to the job?

Anything she makes is going to be at least based in the same Azura sensibilities and priorities. They're a new civilization, they could be anything! She's come so far from who she was before any of this happened, but think how long it took her to, to, to even see how the Azura manage things.

Unfortunately, the alternative is to stand back and do nothing, which means that any lingering bits of programming Bronze left get to influence this new group of people as they learn and grow. So--

Be Kind.
An odd commandment for a species of warrior servitors, certainly. But recognize that you are more than just what you are, and that there will be times when you are not fighting. Take every opportunity to recognize that the people around you--the people you fight, the people fleeing, everyone around you--is a person in their own rights, with as many emotions and thoughts as you have. Remember that nice and kind are not always the same thing. Care for others, tend them, shepherd them, but--

[b]First, care for yourself.[/i]
Put your own mask on first. Can't serve from an empty vessel. Pick whatever idiom you care for, but recognize that if you're not taking care of yourself, eventually you won't be able to care for others. Make sure your own needs are taken care of first. Yes, yes, in theory you could go your entire months-long life without eating, sleeping, or drinking, but there's no reason to do that if you don't have to. Things are worth doing in their own right and properly, and that includes good food, long naps, and friendships.

Give people the opportunity to be good.
You don't know what people are like, or how they'll treat you. Extend them kindness first, and watch how they respond. Watch for those who would exploit you, treat you as things, treat the kindness as weakness to be mocked or used. Kindness is mutual, trust is mutual, and you should give people the opportunity to show you they're not worthy of either.

Pass it on.
You, of all servitors, are the most vulnerable to having your culture disrupted. Enshrine things in ritual, in language, in how you live, so that the next person clever enough to steal you can't steal you from yourselves.

This sure is an awful long time to take his measurements.

That’s the thought he’s holding onto with all his rapidly-draining might. It’s just a measuring session. She’s just taking his measurements. Once she has his measurements, she’ll let him go. He just needs to. Hold on until. Until she’s done.

“Just obey.”

Thinking. Thinking is a relatively new development. How new? How long since, since…since he could hear himself think?

Praying. That’s what he’ll do when he’s done. When she’s done. Taking his measurements. He’ll find a god and thank them. Maybe Hestia? Is she in charge of waking up? Or is this, could it, does it quite qualify as, maybe, it’s a Hera? Good. Okay. Hera. Hera has the colorful pretty peacock dresses. Hera has the colorful pretty peacock dresses. Peacock feathers are so pretty, right? They’re so pretty. He can picture them right now. He’s going to keep picturing them. If he’s thinking of colors then it must be her colors. If he’s remembering a pattern it’s got to be her feathers. It’s got to be her. It’s just got to be her. She’s why he’s awake at a measuring session. Not. Not presented to Vasilly. Yet.

“You are an excellent servitor.”

The dressing room. He’s in a dressing room. There’s a dressing room outside of these coils. Dolce is in a dressing room, getting his measurements taken. He is not. He is. Not. Well. He is probably pretty good. She’d say he was excellent. But. He is not. He is.

Dolce is an excellent Dolce.

“Let me see your eyes.”

Dolce is not going to. Show anyone, because, he’s, trying very hard to look at the scale patterns. Yes. Yes. It’s quite something, isn’t it? Little marks. How do they stay the same distance apart? When the coils. When the muscles. Squeeeeeeeeeeze-! And relax? No, yes, yes, those are. Mgh. She is. Very good. With her nails. And his cheeks. And ears. He’s, no, he still needs to study, scales. He - oh, ohhhhhh, yes, that’s a good spot-

“A good sheep deserves a good rest.~”

Darkness. Fluttering closed. Just for a moment. Then. Echoing. Colors. Swirling. Swaying. Combining and reforming in endless fractal patterns and he’s so close to figuring it all out if he just looks a little deeper no no no no no no bad bad haa! Haa! Haaaaaaaaa-!

It’s. Really hard. To hyperventilate. When walls of muscle are forcing you to take long, deep breaths. Squeezing him empty with each exhale. And again. And again. And again. And again. Fifteen scales. And again. Between those lines. How many. And again. H-how. The next. One. And again. Two. Three. Four…again…and again…

“Baa?”

Ember…?

Would you…mind moving…? He was almost, maybe, halfway to halfway…?

Ember?

Ceronians?

Ember?!

“Aa…a…admiral hat. Y-yes. Quite. Of course.”

His voice is squeezed as small as it can be. By the rasping breaths all around him. By the glint of fangs in his periphery. By a dozen paws running through his curls, perilously close to skin. There’s a pinprick every time one of them slips. He braces for a bite that never comes. Every time. He closes his eyes, but the colors are gone. The patterns are gone. He can think, and he can hear every Ceronian circling in search of a spot of exposed wool. Waiting. Watching.

It was easier when he couldn’t think.

Dolce is sitting still, so still, oh so obediently still. There will be hats, there will be coats, there will be outfits of whatever shape and size they wish to dress him in, whether he likes it or not. The wolves of Ceron will fight over him, or they will fight over the ship. His opinion on the matter is immaterial. So long as they believe he can be won.

There are interesting bruises on display, and they will be noticed later. He is looking into Ember’s eyes. He is hurling himself into Ember’s eyes. Nowhere else is safe to look.

Once she has his measurements, she’ll let him go.

He just needs to. Hold on until. Until she’s done.