Balmas

Breathless Dead

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."

Breathless Dead

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?"

Breathless Dead

"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.

Breathless Dead

Okay, just one second. Need you to come up a little--yeah, like that. Closer. C'mon, closer, you're not gonna get bitten. Unless you're into that? No judgement, biting is great, shows you care, if you want we can find a nice nook somewhere and play around. But f'real, c'mere. Need to tell you a secret, and nobody else can know we're not just biting each other.

Good, just like that.

Comfy? Ready?

Good.

Deep breaths?

Okay.

Grav rails are the coolest fuckin' thing ever.

Shhh, shhh! See, that's why we can't let anybody else hear this, they'll get jealous! Even with all the time in the world--even with everyone else encouraging her to take all the time in the world--there are so many things demanding attention, needing to be tried, and the rest of them will know if you have a favorite!

But can you blame her?

It's like, on the one hand, they're simple. Mundane, even! Ubiquitous, on every hip! People, gliding along, buoyed up--though that's maybe the wrong term? Can you be said to be buoyed up if what you're actually doing is just leisurely falling sideways?--buoyed sideways by something so normal people almost don't stop to notice it!

But it's so much more than that! So much more than just up and down, side and back, vector and speed!

It's soaring! It's ballet, twirling in the sky, servitors soaring out around her like a planet's rings! It's dropping upside down into the sky, hovering, plunging diagonally until suddenly there's a planet planted at the tip of her tail like a fulcrum, and spinning away crazily in a new direction!

She's not crazy, right? Pretty sure she's not? It's like, you have all these stories of legendary heroes facing each other and trading gravitational blows so powerful it disrupts the planet itself, and people act as if it's normal to just hover sedately along? When there's all this that you could be doing instead???

And that's just on her own part, without Projecting back! Just dancing, being difficult to target, never standing still for an instant unless it would throw off their targeting! Evading the target lock and conjuring a bubbling string of giggles!

Add in Projection to that, and the giggles burble into full-on laughter. Not making fun of the guardian, please understand! It's the laughter that happens when you're just having too much fun for the sounds not to spill out somehow, y'know? A tap here, a nudge there, not enough to harm, but enough to disrupt, make it so the gravity manifests just that little bit off-center?

Holy shit, this Guardian is amazing, did you know that? She's young and inexperienced, just like her, but she's throwing everything she has at her! She's definitely got the harder job here, but--just wow! She's playing upside down and with inverted controls and she's skipped leg day, but Dyssia's still feeling the glancing pockets of gravity, just a shade too slow to touch her, like if she slowed down just a second more she'd be on her in an instant!

Oh, she's coming back this way afterwards. She has to, see? Dyssia can't stop now, because enlightenment has a deadline, which is a weird thing for a concept to have? But she can't stop now, which means she needs to stop later, which means that after she talks to the sage and after she achieves her destiny and after she's sent the servitors home, then she is going to come back, and give this Guardian the attention she deserves, and it is going to be great.

She's still laughing with the thrill by the time the Guardian turns her attention from the sky and back to the bridge, and still giggling from the adrenaline by the time they drop towards the ground. She's worse for the wear: minus some gemstones, veil is… somewhere--which is technically true of virtually anything, in that barring some quantum mechanics everything has at least a position--and the servitors are giggling almost as much as she is, most undignififed, although she can't blame them… Bit of reassembly necessary. Clean off the dust kicked up, find a backup veil, act like this is the plan…

And make herself known. She can't remember whether she's supposed to announce herself, or have herself announced by someone else? Just walk in as if she owns the place?

Probably better to send someone in, and let the sage know she's here, and wait for her invitation. Unless the message was the invitation?

Fuck it, better to wait for the second invitation. Just to make sure.

Breathless Dead

Now listen here. Dyssia has a goal. Her spiritual development depends on this. This is important.

Oh, and something about the planet dying, but really who has time to think about that?

Focus on what's real, which is that Dyssia is unstoppable. She's a force of nature, she will obtain her goal, and nothing can stand in her way.

Ignore the storyteller. If you stop here, it'll be hours before you realize it. He's too good at his craft. He'll be here on the way back, and you can listen to the romances he spins afterwards. You can do this, Dyssia. Ignore that maybe you're gonna miss an important detail in the ongoing saga, you can do this.

But consider also, holy crap, that glassblower is incredible? Look at the way she pulls at it, pinching and tugging as if it's taffy, instead of molten sand. She's got a row of horses cooling in front of her, each one unique, each one somehow more truly a horse than the one before it.

Which is absolutely incredible, in that none of them actually look like a horse? Dyssia's tried to draw horses before, and somehow none of them come out right--a leg too long, or an ear that refuses to be the wrong shape. She's never thought that it could be so much more effective to draw what a horse is, instead of just what it looks like.

And here she is, doing that in glass. Smooth, flowing, moving while not moving.

No! Remember. Force of nature. Enlightenment. Progress, dammit!

(Carefully, she takes one of the sky-blue-cooling-to-orange horses and passes it to a servitor. Take care of her, please.)

And holy shit, Amycix. You know, the blacksmith? The one that has a pavilion on the corner, all silks and cloth and warm and dark?

Amycix is so cool. Like, unbelievably cool. You know the old saying about having multiple irons in the fire? Amycix actually does that. Multiple forges roar, sleeping dragons breathing fire across the ingots, all in various stages of yellow-orange-red.

She can tell the difference, did you know that? Dyssia's never picked up the secret, but Amycix assures her that you need to be able to do that, if you want to be a good blacksmith. That's why she has the pavilion, that's why it's so dark, is so she can better see the color of the metal. Try to forge steel too cool when it's this shade of red, and it fucks with the crystalline structure of the metal. But get it too hot, when it's glowing white like this, and all the carbon gets burnt out of the steel, leaves it charred and ugly and weak. You want it a nice glowing yellow, that's when to strike.

And holy crap, Amycix can strike.

Don't tell her she thought that, please. Please please please don't tell Amycix about the fantasies about those arms, and what they could do to her any time. Mmmf.

But it's not fair, the absolute precision Amycix manages. It's like, she never stops moving, right? But the way she moves is like she's already seen the future of how she'll move, and now she's just carrying it out. Out of the forge, onto the anvil, three precise strikes, bang-bang-bang, and back in, and onto the next forge. There's an economy of motion that makes the blows almost meditative, and--

Okay, that's enough of that. If she stays and watches any longer, she'll be in more danger of not arriving than if she'd stopped to listen to the storyteller. Damnright hypnotizing, is what she is.

But Amycix is super cool, as established before, pay attention. Doesn't say a word about thirteen people ducking into her workshop to strategize, doesn't say a word when they aren't paying attention, only smirks a little when--oh fuck--she notices maybe a little too much about where they're paying attention, bail--

Aaaand that just leaves the minor hurdle of the Guardian.

She saw the blue on the bridge all the way from the top of the hill, and had groaned then, and is groaning now.

What is it about some people that makes them think they have the right to just clog up traffic like that? To just declare that this is their bridge, and none may pass without their say so? Why even design a city where rivers and chasms allow idiots to insert themselves as roadblocks?

It's like, she gets the appeal. It feels good, probably, to declare to the world that you are invincible. To tell any and all who look at you that, come on then, if you think yer'ard enough. What's the point of being invincible if you don't have anyone to test yourself against? It's about sitting there, and making eye contact, and daring people to prove you wrong, and seeing them wilt before you.

(She's considered what it must be like, and has come to the conclusion that standing in one place, glaring menacingly, for eight hours, seems like a pretty pointless and boring use of time. What a waste of a perfectly good day.)

Normally, she'd indulge them. Detouring means they get their high of successfully deterring someone with their presence, and she gets to avoid dealing with assholes. Or maybe, if she's feeling perverse, she'll just talk at them and see who breaks first.

Oh, it's not anything deceptive. You don't need to fool someone into letting you past when you know the right way to chatter. Make it so intolerable to listen that they either strike first or let you past just to get rid of you.

But not today. Not when she has a goal, not when she's unstoppable, not when destiny is on the line. Today, she has no time for them. Today, it's time to hitch the servitors to the grav belt, and hope like hell she's better at dodging than the Guardian is at shooting.

Breathless Dead

A right answer exists for when to arrive. It has to. After all, everyone else seems to know what it is.

But if they do, nobody's willing to share. D'you know the kind of looks you get when you ask for, for, for a schedule? An estimate? It'd be so much easier if they could just give her a number, or, hell, "let us meet when the sun touches the horizon."

Or worse, they give you an answer, and then they fucking lie.

Oh, show up in your own good time. There isn't a rush. No doubt you have your own projects you need to work on. But just try it, and see what happens? They act as if it's a deliberate insult to do what they told her to do, as if she's snubbing them somehow! Why even say it's okay to make them wait, if that's not what they want her to do? Is it too much to ask to just say what you mean?

So Dyssia is early.

She thinks. She'll find out when she arrives, really. Sage Ohlemi might have the good grace not to mention it, which would be nice. Nicer than the ones who get that weird look and get all bossy, like they've decided they own you just because you showed up?

But it's better than the alternative, if the Great Sage decides Dyssia's taking too long.

The Sage'll get that look that says she took too long getting dressed--you know the one, the one with the pinched eyes and the pinched corners of the mouth?--but that he's come to expect this of you, Dyssia, none of which will be taken as a mark against you, but which nonetheless will hurt to get. Won't say anything about it, but the unspoken will hang in the air like a noxious stench. He understands, Dyssia. He's willing to work with your, ahem, oddities.

If he understands Dyssia, it'd be great if he could share with the class.

Although! That's kind of the point in her coming, right? Maybe Ohlemi knows something she doesn't!

Hell, it's practically guaranteed. It's not like they just hand out Great Sageness. How great a sage could he be if he didn't know something that she doesn't?

It's why she's taken so long getting ready. It's a multi-person job to bring out the luster in those navy scales, to bring them to the point where each navy scale glistens like they're deeper than they are. It's why she's draped in blue silks and gold teardrops, each one set with a stone of lapis to set them off.

It's no hoodie, for sure. The texture is all wrong, with none of the comforting weight or bulk of what she'd wear around the house. The silk catches every breeze, sending the stones swaying. It's like being pelted by unenthusiastic pebbles every time she moves.

But it's what she has to wear. The great sage has to know how seriously she's taking this by her showing up like this, right? Has to have something to help her?

(As the servitors scramble to hang the stones, she stares in dissatisfaction at the purple pattern. If it were somewhere else, it could at least be covered up. On her back, maybe, or down her side. Somewhere she can wear clothing and make excuses. Oooh! That could be her trademark, is to be Dyssia, that Azura who always wears daring clothes that cover the back at all times. You've heard of backless dresses? Well, this is the opposite. Give them a show up front, and make sure they never question what's in the rear.

(But no. Right in the face, right where it's impossible to miss. It's at least symmetrical? But being symmetrical just means there's more of it to stare at, more of it for people to notice and tut and "what a shame" about when she's not supposed to be able to see. A winding vine, creeping from her nose, beneath both eyes, and burying itself in her hood. A good metaphor, if a winding vine were a symbol of yet another defect.)

She has to arrive in state, which means the servitors have to be carrying her supplies. Which is weird, by the by. It's great to have crafting supplies on hand, but… having a dozen people running around you, tending your every need, do you have enough paint ma'am, more paper ma'am, do you need that book ma'am…

It's like being tended by an enthusiastic tornado. If the twelve little servitors give her any more help, she'll never be able to get anything done.

It would be so much nicer if they could just ride along with her, hovering along on her back. Can you imagine all the hands on her, just riding the same grav belt as her? Can you imagine how much faster they could all go if the servitors didn't need to proceed on foot? She's thought about doing just that--loading all the supplies in one cart, loading all the fuzzy little ones on herself, and pushing the belt to its limits.

So much nicer.

But no. It has to be an event. There must needs be a procession. She has to carry her whole household with her, in case she needs any of it at any point--which is, admittedly, something that happens, if she gets ideas, so it's nice then--but still.

Just.

So much hassle, so much fanfare, so much noise, so much light. She can feel the headache building, and she's not halfway up the hill.

Breathless Dead

Brightberry is a beacon of day in the otherwise darkened apartment. The light spills out from her spot on the desk--marked out with tape, carefully calculated for best reception, kept reluctantly clear--and paints the room in shades of eyelid-purpling brightness.

Technically, Brightberry doesn't have to do any of that. It's a waste of the laser, it's lossy, it wastes energy. But it's guaranteed to pierce the lump of blankets on the couch in the center of the room, which is groaning.

Is it technically still correct to call it a couch? It started out as one, sure--one of those big plush models, oversize in every dimension, like somebody had seen a couch once and then built a yacht in its image. But by now, it's so covered in blankets, so festooned in plushies, so worn down… D'you know, some people tell her she should replace it? It's worn out. The leather has lost its grip, so you can hardly sit on it without sliding around. The padding has lost its pad, so the entire thing is less cushion than imprint, matching her coils like an extended glove.

It's perfect. She keeps telling Brightberry, throwing it out would be like throwing out a member of the family.

Dyssia doesn't remember getting into it. The last thing she recalls…

One arm snakes out of the pile of blankets, and gropes around on the desk.

Okay. Book's still there. Books. Stack of books. Did she have that many books? What time did she--

"Dawn," Brightberry helpfully adds.

Yeah, that tracks. One of those nights, chasing a wild lead, falling into bed only once--fuck, she hopes she wrote down what it was. She keeps writing tools near the desk, but that doesn't guarantee that Dyssia last night will have been kind to Dyssia today.

Today… How long has it been?

She risks a sliver of a peek out the edge of the blanket, and immediately hisses in pain.

Every time. Every time! She keeps telling people--

Well, no. No, she doesn't, because telling people gets you weird looks. No, Dyssia, we're not going to reorganize our sky to make it less of a lightshow. We're teleporting clouds to make sure the perfect lightshow can happen. The lightshow is the point.

But still! It should be illegal to send messages like that past a certain point! Past a certain time in the day! People are trying to sleep, dammit! Could we not build a communications system that doesn't rely on every house in the city having a dedicated window open? And no, Dyssia, you can't shut a window or hang curtains, that's antisocial, how will people send you messages?

Past noon. Puddle of (bright) (afternoon) sunlight, spilling light on the huddled dusty sewing machine and its spools of fifteen different textiles, sitting there, waiting for a hand to touch them.

Stop that. If the one mandatory skylight is shedding light on the sewing machine, it's past noon.

How long does she have until the Great Sage gets impatient?

With great dramatic groans--and eyes screwed shut against the pain--she rolls out of her imprints and off the couch, and fumbles for a spacer nutrient bar.

Brightberry sniffs. Yes, she knows. It's not a proper meal. Yes, she had a high-quality kitchen installed. Yes, the mixer is just begging for a hand to turn it on, the oven ready to burst into flames. She knows a dozen recipes that are quick, easy, and for which the ingredients probably haven't had time to go bad yet.

But in her defense, the nutrient bar is ready now. It doesn't take any more energy to prepare than unwrapping it and sinking her fangs into it. That's a bigger plus than most people realize, you know? It doesn't sit there and accuse you of not using it. You just open it, drain it, and--

Brightberry sniffs again, somewhat louder.

"I was throwing the wrapper away," Dyssia protests, picking the wrapper back up.

She glances at the desk, and winces. She'd written… something. With time and some dedicated archeology, she was pretty sure she could reconstruct the thoughts and piece together the arcane syllables. It'd felt important, she vaguely remembers, and all came to an equals sign.

But equals what?

Why is it that it's never as clear the day after as it is when she's in the middle of it? In the moment, it's as clear as day. She can feel a hand guiding her, touching her mind, driving her on, as if every thought is lightning and she couldn't stop for all the enlightenment in the world.

And then morning comes, and she's dumber than dirt.

She resolves that this time, it will be different. She just needs to focus harder, do better. She's smart. She can do this. Tonight, she'll figure it out tonight.

She pauses.

"How long did you wait to share that message?" she asks, hopefully.

"I didn't."

"Are you sure? You didn't, maybe, take a nap? Maybe forget to pass it on for a bit?"

"Is that what you'd like me to say happened?"

It's an olive branch, and Dyssia almost jumps at it. It'd give her a minute to adjust, to let her eyes soften, to get ready, to take her time up the hill to the Sage's pavilion.

But…

Your spiritual development depends upon this.

The Ceronians…

She stares at the bed and its lumps of comfort, waiting to drag her back down to sleep. It'd be so easy to fall back in. Just an hour.

Maybe the Sage knows something that will help her?

"Thank you, Brightberry," she swallows out, and bends to gently pet the dragon. Brightberry preens, and leans one crystalline horn into the hand for optimal rubbing. "But if you could please send back that I'm on my way?"

Breathless Dead

Alexa had thought she was all out of tears.

Nobody had told her that could happen, by the by. She'd had to quietly pull aside--alright, chase through the vents and corner--a Hermetic the second time it happened for some urgent questions. Had she broken them? Was there a mismatch somewhere? Did they need filling?

But no, they assured her, that was normal. After hours and days of feasting, toasts, songs, celebrations, and mourning, it was possible to reach a state where the tears have all been cried. You've done everything you could think of, and yet still haven't done enough. You've tried to cram a century of love into a fortnight, silly girl. Did you think you had enough tears for that?

Still, as she looks around at the newly reborn Anemoi, she's glad to find she can still feel a tiny prickle around the corners of her eyes.

It's bright and it's kitschy and it's loud, and every corner feels like a home. Everywhere, people laugh and talk--a hundred noisy conversations, echoing and rebounding, a sea of life defying the quiet-and-death-that-was. There will be no silent stalking here, no family bound into decorations, no fearful still.

And her cold stone is warm in Ramses' arms.

Without a word, she taps a wrist, and the tight--so pleasantly tight--grip relaxes just enough for her to slip free and reach out for Zagreus.

"Always, Zagreus. The ship is small, but never so small that we can't fit more people wanting happiness."

Breathless Dead

She bows, of course. Bows as deep as she dares, as deep as she can while still being polite. Bows to the precise degree that shows she is thankful for his mercy, and as far away as she can from anything that might come away as mocking.

She takes the ball, because she has to. It's the prize, the reason for the fight.
Of course she's magnanimous to the audience. You've been wonderful, Tunguska. Thank you for coming out. Be safe in your journeys, and wish me luck in mine, this one's for you, and so on.

But it's rote, she reflects later. Mechanical, leaning on skills and patterns learned elsewhere to keep her going. A fallback loop playing while her mind is otherwise occupied.

Haggard. That's the word that came to mind. Tormented, maybe. Hades had been torn in two in this, knowing the reasons and knowing even more the price.

And she can't help but feel the same way, even now. Even here, watching Cerberus gambol and chase and wrestle with herself amidst the glowing pillars, she feels as if she must be the worst person in the galaxy.

Now and then, a flash of blue is visible among the mess of steel chassis. Now and then, it's brought in to her for an extra-long throw, the whole pack baying after it as if the noise and the chase is the only thing that exists.

She had to do it. She had to, even if it hurts him. He knew it too, at the end.

But every time, when the ball comes back for a throw, she offers it up to him, first.

Taking a dog from someone--even for very good reasons--is one thing. But forbidding them to play--to get as much joy as they can in the short time life--is too far.

Breathless Dead

"You would tell me of family and duty?"

She stands at the center of the storm, never knowing which way the next blow will come from. But that is not why the mask slips. That's not why the King wavers, why now Alexa shouts into the winds, grief written on her face.

"I remember what it was like before the rift! I predate it! My duty to my family is the reason we're cursed!

"For family, I fed oceans to his planet-devourers! For duty, I executed Molech's will and Molech's people! Had I done my duty to my family--had I not turned away in hope of something better--the whole galaxy might have burned, instead of just half!

"Would you have me make the same mistakes again?

"Without love, what is duty but blind obedience? Without love, what is a family but a chain of command? Sit still! Fit in your niche! Put your neck back into the collar of hopelessness!

"And I will not!"