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. [i]“Just obey.”[/i] 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 [i]so[/i] 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. [i]“You are an excellent servitor.”[/i] 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. [i]“Let me see your eyes.”[/i] 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- [i]“A good sheep deserves a good rest.~”[/i] 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. [i]Watching.[/i] 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.