Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

The tent’s small. Barely fits two. The tent’s damp. Nothing really dries out here, no matter how she tries. The tent is humid. The warmth of their bodies fighting against the cooling rain on their skin, the livingness of them filling it from corner to corner.

She lies there, sometimes, for a while. Right after waking up, or just before she falls asleep. The color of the tent is blue. It is streaked like a tiger’s flanks with rain. If she reaches up, presses her fingers against it, then the water soaks through, trickles down her fingers.

This is a holy place. Here, where the air is thick and her partner uses her arm as a pillow. Here, where the only sound is rain striking the tent, the wind rippling the sides, their breathing in and out, and far-off roaring. It never lasts forever; her companion will sit up, grouse, start pulling on damp socks, start out into the light before dawn. Or she will succumb to exhaustion and sleep without dreams.

Outside the tent, the world is wet and unclean. It’s not a judgment, just a fact. Grit sticks to the fingers of her gloves. Her leggings are impossibly smeared with mud. Even where the rain kisses her, it doesn’t wash away the sweat and the grime. And at the end of the day, she enters the tent, muscles aching, fingers numb, absolutely spent, and she peels off the outer layers and drapes them over a bag, and she works her way into a different bag, and she lies there in the midst of holiness.

Once, she asks a question. Does the question itself really matter? Her companion tells her to shut up and go to sleep. She watches the rain, and listens to the rain, and says something— inconsequential. Sound leaves her.

Her partner rolls over, presses a clammy palm over her mouth, hisses. She kisses that palm and holds it close, cold fingers trying to be gentle, tracing over the knuckles. They’re holy, too.

The next morning, her lover slowly wakes, lifts her head from breastbone, yawns with a flash of white and luxurious red. Stares down. “…idiot,” she murmurs. “We’re going to be late.” But she still stoops to undo the shoelaces around thumbs, fumbles with the almost-iron knot in the kerchief.

The waiting wasn’t hard. It was holy.

On a different time— after the rain change— after, in the shadows of angles, in a tent pitched within yellow flowers—

She kisses those cheeks dry, as best she can, and holds her beloved’s head against her chest, one ear to the heart, one ear to the rain. The rumbling running through her is as beautiful as the thunder that rumbles against the top of the mountains.

This is another thing: one night she is not there, and the sound of the rain comes to find her, to come up behind her, to embrace her. She is lost. There are lights blinking up on the mountainside, red, as far away as the moon. Every step she takes leaves her just as far away. She doesn’t know what she means, and that empty not-meaning is the leash that tugs her along. It takes the sound of the rain and the thunder to take her hand and cover her eyes and lead her back to the tent, where she can sleep, where she can forget the far-off pulse of lights promising that if you come close enough, we will have a meaning, and you will understand, here, under the moon, under the stars, under no sun.

Somewhere, a crown exists only to be proof that it was forgotten. Maybe it lies, impossibly, at the base of the tower which holds the lights.

Breathless Dead

It wasn’t ever a conscious choice. Not really. It would be nice if it was, wouldn’t it? If Redana had a moment where she tried to hold onto everything, but found it all slipping out of her grasp like sand, and had to choose what was most precious to her?

No. She’s always been herself. And she doesn’t even notice what slips away. She is the strain of muscles, moving trunks out of dry-dust Plovers at awkward angles. She is the rhythm of a march back and forth, the plip-plap of feet striking the ground over and over and over as one thing after another is ferried from one place to another. She is the hand that helps lift a corner, and she is the work-song of the Coherent rippling up and down the line.

Everyone here is hers. A company, a conglomerate, a crew. The names bleed away easy. They are sensations, images, connections. A warm meal. A proud roar. Advice from below. A birdlike chirp above the crowd. The bell hanging around her throat.

Maybe it will be funny later that nobody really notices her losing her name. She’s listening for the inflection now, the attempt at getting her attention over the din of the work. She doesn’t even notice (it was so easy before, after all). It’s gone. It’s noise. It’s three syllables rising and falling. You could say anything to get her attention, sweat bleeding through her clothes, teeth flashing white through ruddy lips; she’s in the runner’s high, the elation of her body, the need to turn her shoulder to the wheel and make it turn.

Does it matter who anyone is? She holds on to what they mean. Warmth. Friendship. Loyalty.

Love.

She loves the anxious little sheep who makes sure she takes breaks, who pushes a thermos of hot tea into her travel-roughed hands, whose voice is soft and full of care. She loves the lioness who competes with her, who pushes her to work harder, who rallies labor around the toughest jobs and takes position at the front. She loves the woman with the red eye, the sternly hot one, the one who provides a rhythm to her life (a finger tapping a bell, a wagging tail, hushed laughter). She loves her companions, one and all, who she is grateful for, who are going to make it to the end together. She doesn’t need to remember who they were; she remembers who they are now.

(And by night the bells are close around her, and whisper a rising-falling-rising mantra: re. da. na. RE da NA. re-da-na. a pretty three-part meditation. It marks time when they lose themselves in the now, in the ways of move-like-this, in the mouths-and-limbs dance. A name is nothing. Wipe away all signifier and what is important still remains.)

By the time the vehicle is ready, she is the sensation of labor for others; she is the joy of service; she is the vessel of orders rung out from bells. Her colors are red and yellow; she is anxious as she watches the horizon, itching to move. She has to keep moving forward. She’s not going to give up, even if she has to carry everyone to the end. She is a sword, a wheel, a vehicle, a lover, a beast, a thunderbolt. She is all things for her companions, as necessary— and for the sound of bells most of all.

For her, anything. Everything. As long as it is not here forever.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

”Autograph? I should demand your head from your shoulders, you impudent, impious whelp!” Smokeless Jade Fires, victorious, clutches her high priestess closer to her powerful body, and rests the tip of her thunderbolt lance beneath the chin of this pirate rogue. One nail taps on the shaft as she considers venting her wrath, before she instead slips the tip past the pirate’s neck, forcing her down onto her knees.

“In fact, I think you must be shown humility. At length. You will come with us and you will take up the duties of a handmaiden for the lustrous high priestess you dared to defile with your lusty, greedy paws. You and your former tyrant queen, who I have only not destroyed in my fury because my beloved, my bride, my treasure has convinced me she is better as a dumb pack iguanadon.” The overawed pirates crane their heads past the goddess to see that pathetic little minx, hobbled and groaning under the weight of her ill-gotten goods: necklaces heaped around her neck, bags full of gold straining on her shoulders, a ruby the size of an egg strapped between her lips.

“I’m sorry for everything I have ever done to offend you and your bride,” the half-lioness cries, groveling on the floor. “Thank you for your mercy, O Strider Between The Earth And Stars!”

“Mercy? It is not my mercy,” Smokeless Jade Fires sneers, “but that of my priestess, whose kindness is as bountiful as her breasts and whose generosity overflows like her wet mouth into these unworthy rags you have crammed between her plump, mewling lips!” Dolly squeals, blushing, heart racing, kicking her bare bound feet in total flusterment. “Know that she has my permission to ravish you as thoroughly as you have molested her, that I will carry out her every desire, and that only by satisfying her can you ever hope for freedom, for I will give you no mercy but by her pleading! Now, before we embark, remove your mangy uniform. Yes, in front of your compatriots! It is time for you to learn what it is like to be humiliated, helpless, and drooled over, you wicked little slut!”

---

It would have been much better if she was the one down there, not this, this enigmatic, teasing, restrained mercenary, this hero-pilot who refused to unsheathe her claws, who is just letting these audacious and irreverent kittens prance away without a care in the world! Not even their leader, who is clearly the one pulling the strings. The brute they’d faced together? Clearly some brute of a lieutenant, meant to soften them up for a carefully masterminded plot— and now she’s free to begin scheming again!

Jade fumes, and rattles her chains, and growls under her breath. Her body (her body) throbs like Dolly’s usually does. She aches, impossibly. Her jaw strains! It has never once strained in her entire existence! Only her vast pool of experiences from Dolly reassures her that this is… natural. For someone tied up. Like she is.

Of all the ways to feel like she had a body! A thousand dooms on your head, Whispered Promise! Only to be rescinded after Dolly intercedes (at length) on your behalf!

(What would it be like, for this to be natural, to have a body? Not the awe-inspiring idol, but one that could, could feel without calculation, could release various chemicals from its pores, could hold Dolly and be held?)

Ngh. Ten thousand dooms, Whispered Promise. Half of them onerously tactile and odoriferous. And another one for each pirate you let go.

---

Whispered Promise stands at the hatch and snaps her fingers, almost smiling, and with a furious groan, Smokeless Jade Fires opens her cockpit like a good girl. She accepts them both into the space, both of them bearing her fabric, her mark of initiation into her mysteries, into the temple that Whispered Promise molded into shape. She hangs, helpless, unable to cover herself up, unable to look Dolly in the eye, fuming and seething and—

Dolly wriggles out of Whispered Promise’s arms, onto her feet. Before the hungry, lustful mercenary can catch her, she’s hopping like only someone with lots of practice can. “JDDH!!!”

And Dolly flings herself at her goddess, bouncing up as close as she can, pressing herself against Jade’s almost-body, which can’t snake around her, which can’t yield or firm on command, which can’t run simulated fingers through her fur, which has to just accept…

The feeling of Dolly pressing her soft chest up against her wiry frame. The warmth of her body, felt through the link. The strong, almost-and-should-be unpleasant smell of the lusty, sweaty pirates, the kind that she can’t properly give Dolly, not like this. The sensation of their bindings and their gags, melding together as Dolly rubs her gag-swaddled cheeks across her goddess’s face, purring, insistent, headbutting her gently, leaking muffled drooly giggles, and over their connection, Jade feels and knows:

Jade Jade Jade Jade you came for me I missed you I knew you would come Jade Jade Jade Jade pirates hot and sexy and stink horny but you you you LOVE YOU you did this for me you let her tie you up for ME because you wanted me back I’m safe I’m here I’m back I’m yours I want my scent on you I want this musk on you I want to fuck you I love you I need you Jade Jade Jade Jade Jade!!!!

And Smokeless Jade Fires, who doesn’t understand why she’s crying, rubs her cheeks on Dolly’s gag, and presses her body up against her bri— her wif— her— her Dolly, and strains against the chains and wills them to break so she can wrap herself around Dolly a hundred times— no, if it means she can have a body for her Dolly, she’ll do it the once.

But the chains don’t break, and they keep her like this. Solid. Almost real. Wet. Needy. Taking breaths of Valynia, who I couldn’t seduce for you, I tried so hard, but maybe she’ll do it again and I can practice with you, you can show me what to do, maybe she wants an exotic dancer to entertain her crew? and Milk Tooth, that’s her nickname, she’s the one who was squeezing and bouncing my breasts and left handprints all over and The One Who Looks Like A Fox whose name I don’t know but who was the one who shoved my face down her top and The One Who Kept Pinching Me And Telling Me How Sexy And Breedable Thicc(?) Girls Are and Jimmy Rat, I don’t know why that was her name(?), maybe because she smelled so strong much.

…dooms rescinded, Whispered Promise. If you take them back home. Even if you pull Dolly into your lap and make her watch the piloting. She’ll whine and beg for you to be nice, you know that, don’t you? She’ll volunteer breathlessly, wordlessly, to accept “punishment” in her goddess’s place. She’s the bravest one in the room.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

It.

It wasn't a good squeal.

Because, because it was too breathy, too wet, too earnest, too awed.

She's very sorry, Whispered Promise, you deserved a good squeal! You really did! That was, it was the best fight she's ever seen! That's how characters fight, in stories, but you're the actual thing! How could Jade, even Jade, ever--

(an indignant thrashing, drool-wetted fur, fists clenching)

...mmmmaybe Jade could. No, of course Jade would! It's just that Dolly is silly, and doesn't, can't, doesn't see how... but Dolly's not the fighter, so that's all right! That's all right?

(a chin lifted, a huff that leaves an imagined plume of hot breath, a lip pulled back from sharp teeth)

Please, Jade, she's not the fighter. That's you, Dolly thinks as hard as she can (but she gets all mixed up with that dress swirling, and, and the brand) (the brand???) oh, um, she visualized that brand too hard, didn't she, and Jade can, she's definitely feeling how Dolly's clenching her legs and, and, and Dolly is a silly little kitten trying to tuck her tail between her legs and think beggy thoughts at her incredible and powerful and temporarily inconvenienced goddess--

Whispered Promise chooses this moment to cradle Dolly in her arms, pressing that gag-buried face into her shoulder, fingers playing with the outline of the brand as if she can tell exactly what Dolly was thinking about, and her other arm's in the crook of Dolly's bound knees, and Dolly's, well, her ass is dangling without support, but that both makes her feel oh-so-helpless and thinking about it being... touched. (squeezed; hands clenching, desiring, wrists straining against chains with the NEED of it) The look that Whispered Promise gives her is impossible to read, but it makes Dolly's ears go back in mortification. Her eyes dart everywhere, trying to find somewhere safe to land, but there's absolutely nowhere, and, well...

How would it make Jade feel if she rescued someone and that someone tried to hide how they felt? If she hid her feelings (like she's sitting on the entire box of feelings about mean rude bullying possessive pirates and that's going to be a talk later)... if she hid her feelings, wouldn't that be ungrateful? Wouldn't that be unworthy of the goddess she serves and loves and is going to be reunited with, and it's Whispered Promise and her incredible swordplay to thank?

She heroically forces herself to look Whispered Promise in those watery pools (that river, that dam, that bursting, that hunger, and her toes curl and she almost looks away like a coward unable to meet the gaze of a goddess when they first met) and she mumblewhines her thanks, ears submissively low, taking deep breaths through her pirate-stinking gag, aware of how every step Whispered Promise takes vibrates through her, aware of how those teeth would feel, aware of how wet the outer layers of her gag are, aware of how even Jade was (tricked? blackmailed? defeated? for her, for her, *for her*) bound by this mercenary, this creature-of-contracts, this Whispered Promise, and names really do have power, don't they?

Thank you, she says through moans and shudders. For bringing me back to her. My Jade, my goddess, who would do anything for me. (a huff, a lifting of the chin higher, but the tip of a tail wagging, wagging, wagging) I'm helpless. But doesn't that make you want to take pity on me? (pirate-ruined clothing torn apart, peeled off, a very NAUGHTY high priestess left on full display all the way back!) Doesn't that make you want to take PITY on me, and, and my goddess, who is, is sending a lot of sensations and wants, through our connection, and that's adding to the squirming, because, being naked in someone else's arms would be a lot, Jade, and just because-- pirates-- see-- if they'd-- if they'd-- maybe Valynia, definitely maybe Valynia, and walked her around the station on a leash, and...

(the absolute damned certainty of naked torments for VERY NAUGHTY HIGH PRIESTESSES)

[Oh, Mirror, even while Insecure, Dolly's offering you a 7 on Entice. If you want. If blushy submissive kittens trying to thank you incoherently but oh-so-earnestly is your sort of thing.]

Breathless Dead

A name? If it needs a name, it is Redana's. That's the one that sticks to it. Oh, that plover? It's Redana's. She's been in its guts; she's played with its muscles and traced her fingers along its spine. It's the one she keeps mounted on the side of the bay she always uses, the one with the seat just how she likes it, the one that hums its name back into her spine. It's weathered and not ornamented, not decorated, not personalized outside of how familiar its grips are beneath her gloved hands. Redana's roars like a lion as it leaves its cables behind and falls into the sky.

It's always been this. The placid blue is unnatural, but Redana's will adjust eventually. What's one more unearthly color when it's been kissed by every one that Polychromatikí had to offer? It's always been falling, over and over, tumbling out every time into the tumult and the tempest. There's no storm that its pilot hasn't seen and then, grinning, dived into. It taps its deeper energy stores, the ones designed to let it keep a d-scythe burning as Redana makes her way up and down the Plousios.

Everything's packed, right? Bags stuffed into the floorboard, the nagging feeling that something must have been left behind, but beneath her the world opens up and the thought of turning back seems wasteful. Her seat hums in agreement. The only way is forward, to see what hasn't been seen, to discover what comes next. The wild rush beneath her (like water, like a river) is just encouragement to clench the grips tighter, to brace her feet harder against the pedals, to squeeze more speed out of Redana's until it's like she's looping the Olympic sprint over and over again, and everyone else is straggling behind, except--

Except for Bella. For a moment, she catches a glimpse of black and cyan in her periphery, and her first instinct is to bring the D-Scythe to bear, but she checks herself, and Bella crests like a dolphin breaking free from a nebula-spur, and then she tumbles back down to earth, to claw at the ground, to try to keep up. And Redana doesn't doubt her for a second, even as she rockets forward, and the entire world unfolds underneath her mountain by mountain, river by river, flag by flag, and she can go searching for quests and lost treasures later, because right now she just needs to accelerate until she's left everything

everything

everything behind her, in the trail of her thrusters, in the echo of her engine, in the wake of the prow with which she cuts into the unknown. And nobody's here to hear her laughter, nobody except for Redana's. But that's fine. Bella's keeping up. That's all she wanted in the first place, isn't it?

Breathless Dead

The dress is the deep red of rubies, or of living blood. It fountains down from her left shoulder. Beneath it, the undershirt clings to her like a second skin, black and gold. It pours itself into the grooves of her shoulders and her back.

At the shoulder, a brooch gleams: the thunderbolt of Zeus, swan-winged. It blazes where the lights strike it, limned in gold, shining adamant. It is the shadow of the tiara on her brow. If you could catch starlight, hammer it into place, make it cool until it hardened, and then string it on lace— that would be the tiara of Redana Claudius.

Here, then, is the prize of Odoacer. Here is the daughter of Hermes, with suns strewn in her golden hair. Here is the daughter of Zeus the Thunderer, who set the wheel into motion, who speaks with authority. Here is Bella’s yearning and Dolce’s hope and Alexa’s catalyst. Here she stands, small in stature, but beautiful, radiant, treasured.

For Bella’s sake, she holds her head up and does not look away. And that makes it easier to notice that this is not one of her mother’s court dinners, at which she is meant to show off her poise and fine manners. And it strikes her that here, at last, is the reason. It’s not to get a passing grade, it’s not to earn a reward from her mother, and it’s not because of her title. It’s because everyone is looking to her, and they see the Imperial Princess, and they long for her to be more than she is. So maybe, just for tonight, she can be.

“Friends,” she begins. She’s calmer now than she was earlier, when Bella was helping her with the dress, with the rouge, with the lipstick, when she felt small and clumsy and steeped in peril. Now the dress (flowering down her body, ending in skirts like petals) feels like a new kind of armor. “Sailors. Comrades. If I may speak.”

The cheering is honest. She parts her lips and then closes them around the half-formed words. Her eyes are hot and she has to blink them clear. “We have done the impossible already. Now all that remains is doing it again. No one has survived crossing the Rift— but no one has defeated the Master of Assassins, survived the perils we have faced, or gathered such an auspicious and determined crew!”

Her hands aren’t shaking. Not after she got all the words out of them. “I cannot promise that I can match the blessing that Lord Hades has offered us upon our arrival at Gaia, the seed at the root of the universe.” She says it right. The words have been careening around her head for hours. The root of the seed of the seed of the root of the universe entire. Flowers, trees, things which grow, the grave of the Master, the trees of Mynxkiss. But what is this room but a garden? “But I will promise you glory wherever I rule, hospitality wherever I live, and satisfaction with whatever I can provide. And…”

Her cheeks are wet again. The lights blur. But she is still smiling, and there is no murmur of discontent or scandal. It is safe here. She is safe here. Here, out of all the universe she has seen, because of who is here with her. She raises a glass instead, and the reply echoes and multiplies until it is her father’s jovial roar.

“And I know that we are going to succeed,” she says, as if she can carve it into the universe through saying it. As if maybe, this was in and of itself a ritual, like the ones she performs before the altars of her family— no, one of her families. Because this is her family, too.

She holds the glass higher, and with all of her strength, declares: “Damn the Rift! Glory to the Mariners! To Gaia!” And all around her, her family joins in, joyous and defiant.

And then she lowers her eyes, and catches a glimpse of Bella across the room, her own lips half-open, a naked hunger in her eyes, and a giggle bubbles out of her. Come and catch me, she tells Bella with a wink, sipping the bubbling champagne in her glass. Pull me aside with urgent news. Where are we going to hide? How are you going to praise me? And how are you going to stop me from being too noisy and interrupting the party~?

Every moment until she finds Bella at her arm will be all the more electric for it. Come, Assassin. Show her the power of your Hunt.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Dolly!

Not Angela.

Shivering, squirming, toes curling, trying to arch, head full of sloshing water seeping into her spine, soaking into her gag, trickling out her pores. That’s not Angela. Impossible to be Angela. Not a heart like that, all hunger and need, barely restrained, teeth at the back of her neck.

The realization makes her heart rattle loose and bounce around inside of her. Jade has been captured. That was the heart of a pirate! Soft, certainly, but… appreciating softness. Like, say. Her softness.

What if I never get to pilot Jade again? What if I’m Valynia’s pet priestess now? What if she doesn’t let me see Angela and Ksharta again? What if she stuffs me in a box or a cage or a flight locker? What if I’m her hostage to make Jade obey? What if she seduces Jade through ME? What would Angela think, what would Ksharta think, what would my big sister think? What if she dresses me up and takes me to fancy dinners and then makes me ride back in the shuttle luggage bin all stuffed with everything else they’re bringing back??? What if they don’t let me pilot her again, if I never get to feel her hands on me, if I never get to be her good girl? Valynia, please, let me— mmnngh, what if she makes me beg, and mlem, and humiliate myself before she lets me, or, whether or not she’s going to, and she just lets me think she’s going to, and she touches this mark on my shoulder when she tells me, because she’s in control, and please, even if it’s hot, this is important, Jade, please, Jade—

But all she can feel from her goddess is moaning and imprisonment and— envy? I want to be her. Oh. Oh! Well. Dolly flushes, the heat spreading through her. She wasn’t even thinking about Jade’s feelings. Maybe… maybe that was better? If her goddess found someone who was better? If she really loved Jade, shouldn’t she…?

Power. Desire. Lust. Control.

Desire. Desire. Desire. Desire.

What do you want most of all, Dolly?

Dolly lifts her head, the heaviest thing in the world, and stares at the door with all of the dignity she can muster. On one end of the scale are all the delicious, embarrassing, confusing delights and humiliations that Valynia can inflict on her, things which she’d never ever be brave enough to admit to Jade, or even things that Jade just can’t do… but on the other side is Smokeless Jade Fires.

She’ll break. She knows it. Once Valynia starts squeezing and rubbing and burying her underneath the musk of her own desire. But that doesn’t mean this little hare doesn’t have the heart of an earthshaker, doesn’t have enough strength to make one more demand to be reunited with the goddess she lo—

WHISPERED PROMISE????

The defiant, gargled demand for her goddess never leaves her swaddled lips. It’s more of a ridiculous horking drooly bray, much more audible than she was expecting, and she can’t even hide, or cover up, or, or, and gosh, that’s— that’s her— she was— and the look she gives Dolly, all tangled up and dangling, is as calm and, and controlled, and she’s all of that underneath??? There’s no way— she could be thinking anything— behind those river-lake-sea eyes and that, that dress, that is not how, piloting, you see, look, except she’s trying to find anywhere else to look, but it’s no use, Mirror and that gorgeous jaw-dropping dress and those unique spots underneath, which she doesn’t want to stare at in case, you know, it’s rude, but would Mirror say anything, because she’s in control but underneath she’s so, she’s so, she’s so…

So hungry.

And the thing about her calm, her mask, her unblinking neutral expression as she looks over Dolly’s disarray is that Dolly has no idea, no clue, where that hunger’s pointed, but that definitely was an appreciation for softness and her softness is on display and the thought of Mirror squeezing her, in control, finding all the buttons—

Buttons?

BUTTONS.

…”what does this do,” she’d murmur, so soft, so calm, as Dolly’s eyes bulged and fluttered in turn, learning her like only Jade had, plundering her deep vaults and carrying out treasure, controlling her white fire engine perfectly, and what would it be like to be her? To be loved by her?

Her eyes dart between the pirate and the terror, between the dread-desired and the enigma-with-teeth, and they’re— going— to fight— over her???

Oh oh oh Jade!!

And for a moment

Dolly can feel

A wet cheek pressed against her own

Dolly can hear

her name, drooled

Dolly can know

she is wanted

Breathless Dead

The princess keeps returning to the idea of writing things down, only to shove the thought away and pull the goggles back down instead. There is so much to do. There is so much to do. Enough so that she can glut herself in it. Roll out of bed in the morning, try not to wake Bella up, wake her up anyway, apologize profusely, and then work until Bella finds her and picks her up and carries her back for dinner and words and hungers. She needs to be hundred-handed. Every person on the Plousios is working two jobs, and Redana keeps volunteering for more. Let her do four jobs. Let her do six. Let her drag the ship to the Rift herself.

Because if she's working, there's no room for the doubt.

What if you wrote everything down, Redana? But then you'd be admitting that you'll need it. And then you start wondering whether you'll even remember how to read. What if you filmed yourself? But no good. We don't have the materials. You can't divert Isakarot from the vigil on the engines. And what if you forget what words mean? What if you're scrubbed clean? Scrub. Scrub the cables. Dislodge the crabs from behind the Third Hub. Carry a message to Jil, who is herself a hub, who speaks for the Lanterns scurrying crossways and up and down and doing the same work she is. Spin out a plover-cable, make sure the reinforced plating is holding, try not to stare at the mind-annihilating river-scar tearing open the universe.

If she thinks too much about it she might think she's making a mistake. If she thinks too much about it her hands might start shaking. It was easy to be brave on the Tunguska. It was easy to feel like she was doing something big, and brave, and meaningful, and Bella was by her side. But then the thought starts creeping in again.

What if she forgets how to read? What if she saves everything she is and it doesn't matter, it's lost anyway? What if the Lethe scrubs words away, too, and the ship will breach the other side with all words and sigils and numbers washed clean? Wash. The fountains need to remain clear of crabs, otherwise the flow of water through the ship will be disrupted, and then the water will grow stagnant. She murmurs prayers to her Uncle as she unclogs pipes, and she finds herself resting her forehead on the cool stone, unable to move, letting the water wash over her.

The smoke is everywhere. She lights incense before the altars anyway. Father Zeus, please protect us. Uncle Poseidon, we honor your strength. Cousin Artemis, make our way straight and clear. Uncle Hades... Cousin Apollo, show me the right thing. Aunt Demeter, please keep rot from our food supplies. This is the role of the ship's champion, here where there is nothing left to fight.

(What if there is something to fight? What if nobody comes back because there are great big eyeless Lethe-snakes writhing through that pinkfire sea and everyone's forgotten how to use plovers by that point in the trip? How can you organize a defense when you might be forgetting the fact of being attacked as soon as you look away? When you forget how to use a sword?)

---

He's staring at the rift, too. Or, no. He's bathing his face in its light. There is concern in his expression, though not fear. Redana stops to look at him, and she could keep running, but she doesn't. Her face is smudged with grease. Her eye flickers and switches off the faint line it's tracing to her next destination. The further away from Tellus she's gotten, the weaker it's been. Or is that just her imagination? Maybe it was something else. The fight with Sagakhan. The proximity to the river. Maybe it's forgetting, too.

Standing next to him is comforting. The warmth suffuses her skin, makes prickles run up and down her arms, cups her cheeks. "Thank you," she says, and clasps her hands together in that way that he likes. He returns the gesture, but doesn't look to her. He is silent, as always. (As apparently always. She hasn't seen him very often at all.)

So it's up to her to fill the silence. Which she does. Eventually. It's hard to tell how long. They took a seat; they both fold their legs, but only Redana hunches forward to rest her elbows on her thighs. She can feel her heart beating through her body. She's warm. Like a fruit on a summer day. Pluck her right off the vine.

"Am I stupid?" His expression softens, and he lowers his eyes from the scar in the sea. "Because... everyone else thought it through, didn't they? Back on the Tunguska? I thought, if I really, really believed in Bella, and we wrote everything down, and... what if we forget that, too? What if we're, what if we're babies? Babies can't steer ships! We're just going to get eaten by forgetting-eels! And it's my fault!"

He reaches out and takes her hand. It's almost painfully hot. Almost. But she curls her fingers around his hand anyway. The throb of blood fills her head. Her eyes are wet.

"...but if I don't do this," she says to him, to the wound, to her mother, "then Uncle Hades is just going to be that sad forever. Like he was when he thought I was going to die, on that very first battle at the Eater of Worlds. If I don't do this, then Epistia and Beljani will have become Belistiajani for nothing. I will have dragged Dolce and Vasilly through all this for nothing, and Bella, and Mynx, and stranded Alexa so far from home, and..."

She does not cry prettily. Her fingers squeeze tighter around his hand. The Lethe throbs; rivulets of white sear through it like lightning bolts, almost invisible. Behind them, so very far behind them, the pilots of the monsters have tea forever in the sunlight, and they'd told her, hadn't they, be bold, be bold. There's something special about this crew, this voyage.

(You have two shadows, Sir Aeon had whispered in her ear, one taller than the other. Take heart in this.)

"...but they'd still go," she admits. "It's not my fault."

It's not your fault. Is there any enlightenment more difficult? Or so often attained and lost, over and over?

"Just because I started this, doesn't mean..." She wipes her face on the back of her free hand, and then discovers that he has offered her a tissue. "Because Bella, she's going for a wish, now. Her sisters. And Dolce and Vasilly, they think it's possible, too. If I ran away, I'd just be leaving them to face this alone."

The Lethe roils. But Redana looks up at it. Stares, until she remembers to worry that maybe her eye can forget itself.

He leans in and gives her a kiss. One, singular. The faintest brushing of his lips against her skin.

That night, Bella will comment on the sunburn, on the almost red-gold tinge. And that night, they'll sit together and write.

---

MY name is Redana. It's your name, too, if you're the girl with the gold hair and the one blue eye and the one green eye. If that's not you, please give this to Redana instead. Okay, Redana, since you're reading this now. You're from Tellus, which is on the other side of the universe. Don't go back!!

You are going from one side of the River Lethe, which is the very big pink-white awful thing you are going through, or on the other side of. If it's behind you, don't go back!!

You have to keep going. You're looking for a place called Gaia. Once you get there, you'll deliver a message from Lord Hades. If you've forgotten the message, I think really YOU are the message. So just get there and everything's going to be okay, I promise. Once you're there, or maybe once you go back, Lord Hades will offer all of you a wish. You want your mother to change her mind You want Bella to be free You want everything to be You want everyone to be able to choose their life for themselves. Don't forget, please. No asking for a discus that always comes back or more Batrachomyomachia sequels or for Bella to love you (because she does)!!

This is Bella. She's beautiful. You know that. She loves you, and you love her, and you couldn't do anything about it until right before we got to Lethe. So please ask her if you can kiss her again, and if she forgets you, do your best to fall in love with her again. She's mean on the outside but that's because her mother was AWFUL to her growing up, and on the inside she wants to take care of everyone and help the people who can't help themselves.

This is Dolce. He's one of the smartest people you know (but see also Iskarot when I write about him, too). But he's really kind, too. Give him big hugs! He's so soft and fluffy and he makes silly noises when you wiggle around with him. He used to be in charge after you tried to turn the ship had an argument with him. But then he decided not to be? Jil's in charge now. Please take care of him. Protect him.

This is Jil. She is very good at telling people what to do. Whatever she says, you can probably trust her, unless she's drunk, in which case you really shouldn't. I wish I could tell you more but she hasn't been captain for very long and you've been busy. I've been busy. Mostly you've been working together on ship maintenance.

Oh! Ship maintenance!

[...]

Which is why you should never ever ever let the crabs back INTO the pipes.

...oh. Right.

This is Vasilia. She's proud and dangerous and prickly, but she loves Dolce more than anybody else, and she's really fun to fight with. Not a real fight, but a practice fight. If you forget how to fight, ask her to teach you. She's the best at swordfighting. Bella's stronger than her, but you CANNOT fight like Bella can, so don't even try it.

This is Alexa. You won't find her on the ship anymore, but you owe her SO MUCH. She protected you even though you dragged her on this quest and... maybe we should forget that. But we shouldn't forget Alexa. She's the best at lifting and the BEST at hugs. She's on the other side of the Lethe (DON'T GO BACK!!) and she's looking after Hades' dog. When you come back and everybody is free to be themselves, you go find her, you go give her more hugs, and you ask her where she wants to go and you take her there. Okay? You owe her a lot. She's the reason you made it this far.

[...]

That's everyone. Everyone you're friends with. I didn't mention the Master of Assassins or the Azura on Salib or any of the Kaeri because we were NOT friends and if you forget them, good riddance. Good luck. I believe in you. You're going to do an amazing job, Redana.

PS. if you get in trouble ask the Shepherdess for help. She's you, but from later. I don't think she forgot any of this, so maybe I'm just worrying about nothing? Maybe my eye really can remember all of this? But just in case, just in CASE, please do your best to remember everything here, okay? Study it like it's the Hesperidean Dialogues. (Maybe try to forget those too, actually?) Bella says she's going to "dunk you in the Lethe if you forget those after all the hard work I did" so try not to, and if you do forget but she forgets she said that, don't tell her. This one time. I promise it's okay.

That's all I can think of. Don't forget the gods, either. They're actually your family. Don't trust Aphrodite. Say a special thank you to Apollo. Remember we're doing this for Hades. Her the god that Iskarot worships is your mother. And Iskarot isn't going to forget her, so you can ask him for an explanation, but if I write her name down maybe she'll be able to come find us immediately? I don't know. I worry about it. It's complicated. You can't go home and see her until you've had your wish. Okay? Please?

Don't give up on Gaia. Don't give up on Bella. Don't give up on swords and adventure. I think if you do all that you'll be doing an okay job of being me. So let's do our best, okay?

- Prin Redana Clau Dany

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Dolly!

”Stop fighting me, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius!” Heat, speed, outraged grunts almost at the edge of hearing. “I will not let anyone stand between me and my Bride— not even you!”

She is vast, writhing, a thing of eyes and teeth emerging from the dark, sudden motion and jaws around the throat, a goddess terrible in her wrath, swirling around her newest temple dancer. Tails lash against the floor like whips as Angela strains, grunts, fights Jade because she thinks she knows better, because she would! Each moment is a frenetic gamble as they weave between a dozen pirates, heat licking at Angela’s smooth and lovely skin to represent each shot that kisses the paint of their shared idol.

And there is nothing that the silly little prize of the Pirate Queen, Valynia Bander, can do to help them except to strain and send all her hope, all her reverence, all her desire, to her goddess, who owns her, who loves her, who has a plan, who tames aliens and Hybrasilians alike, who will be more than a match for a reeking, possessive pirate. Pray, Dolly, pray! Burble your belief! Believe in Smokeless Jade Fires and in Angela Victoria Miera Antonius, who have come to save you, who must save you, who will save you!

You’re not going to be a bad girl, are you, Seven Quetzal? You’re not going to secretly hope that Angela gets captured and strung up next to you, so close that you can rub your branded shoulder against hers? You’re not going to envision being used as a hostage to force Jade to surrender, are you? If you think about it, it will happen. Everything going on depends on the purity of your heart, despite the kidnapping, despite the marking and claiming, despite every breath you take being full of the smell of excited pirates, despite the hand rubbing your cheek.

And you can’t even stop yourself from nuzzling that hand, you weak, silly thing. It just feels so good. It smells, it tastes, it is overwhelming in the ways that your goddess cannot give you even though she tries so, so hard to bring your dreams to life, to tell you how much she loves you, to be there for you, to choose you…

Dolly lifts her head and tries. She tries to smoulder. She tries as hard as she can. Like she’s got the upper hand. Like this is exactly where she needs to be for Jade’s plans, and isn’t that mysterious and enticing? Aren’t you intrigued, Valynia? She’s even wiggling, trying to show off, trying to distract you.

Pay attention to the priestess. Reveal your scheme. Admit how much you would give if only to have her for… a while. This was Jade’s plan all along, wasn’t it? To undo the Red Band from the inside out?

Huffing pirate musk, drooling into thick stuffing, dangling from the ceiling, absolutely helpless and condescended to, Dolly flutters her eyes and perks up her ears and tries to look smug, like she’s already won.

[Dolly attempts to Defy Disaster and do one last-ditch, epic attempt to make Valynia fall for her and be compromised in the middle of the rescue mission, giving Jade and her mystery pilot some sort of opening or advantage.

She has rolled a 6, but is burning her string on Valynia to bump it up to a 7. Dolly is the goodest girl who always does her best! There will definitely be no consequences!]

---

Jade!

”Hhy won’hh givvuhfh!”

The pirates and their gods leer at the beautiful priestess tied to the pole in the middle of their canteen, her arms stretched above her head, her fashion clothing all but torn off of her. She is so scared, her heart racing, the ropes biting into her, but she remains irrepressible, defiant, even as brats and brutes paw at her and make her squirm, fists clenching, heart fluttering, unable to take a free breath without gargling pirate stench.

“All you need to do,” the leopardess purrs, pressing one condescending hand against her innocent cheek, “is devote yourself to one of our gods. One who is ancient, powerful, and capable of taking care of you in ways that runt of a goddess never could.”

“NNHH!” The beautiful priestess strains, shaking her body back and forth, her helpless limbs unable to tear her restraints apart and fall upon the pirate queen in a fury. Her fists clench and she stares at the smug pirate through narrowed eyes. “Nffffr!! J’dd hff mhh unn… mmhh mrrr uhvv~!”

“Your true love?” The pirate empress admiral scoffs. “Even now, she has been defeated by a devotee of Irtana. She is humiliated, tormented, helpless to save you. You must choose between being the plaything of my entire fleet, lowest of the low, or protected by our superior divinities!”

“Ffhee’d dhhnffngh hhyu’vvvh mmh!!” The priestess tosses her beautifully bouncy hair and smoulders, defiantly, as lecherous and impious pirates crowd around…

This indignity is for the sake of Dolly. Cling onto that, Smokeless Jade Fires. You’d do anything to save her. That means that you are letting Whispered Promise use her admittedly impressive piloting skills on your behalf. She is a mercenary and you are choosing to allow her to have her fun.

The hopping from foot to foot as asteroids spatter against her front? All part of the payment. The drooling, frantic squeals and frantic squirming as, for a moment, you thought you— your idol— was going to be shot apart and left to drift, salvage of war? Acting. Definitely acting. You will choose to remember it as acting, which you learned from Dolly, and are… using… sympathetically. To ensure her rescue. By acting as she would act.

(But Dolly would not stick out her rump like this. She would descend into a low, deep, sultry purr, inviting the worst treatment that her precious heart can imagine, not this high-pitched yelping and nasal whining. She would not stamp her foot, because she is better at submission than you are. For all that relief floods you when she handles you impossibly well, for all that she is making you feel things you felt impossible, for all that you could almost close your eyes and imagine that Whispered Promise is going to perform a miracle of her very own, you are afraid. You are scared that you will turn your head, having surrendered, and see her staring at you with those watery eyes, and such a mocking smile, and know yourself so small and pathetic that Dolly will dive into her arms and refuse to come out. Something so small that it can be contained like this, inside of an idol.)

(Then your foot curls and you sway on one foot, and Whispered Promise guides you, won’t let you go, helps you unclench the foot, adjusts your headings with buttons that replace instincts, and something inside you that was clenching up again releases, slumps, buries your face in its hands, is relaxed in a way that you have not ever been in your life. Whispered Promise is piloting you. She won’t let you fall. She’ll save Dolly. She is the underworld-striding hero who plucks the skull from the tree. She is the hope that even a goddess can reach for. She bears the God-Smiting Whip, and you yield to its instruction so well.)

(But you cannot take her on forever. She is strong, and does not need you, does not need this. It is a game to her; it is everything for Dolly. You must get her back. You must.)

[Smokeless Jade Fires is Smitten with Whispered Promise. Take the String.]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Fengye!

There are lights on the other side of the river. They are not candles; they are not entirely fireflies. Cinnamon and honey hangs over the omnipresent smell of rain. The House of Lapis Lazuli is close at hand, and the gods are thick and close about, unseen but intent on you as you catch up to the spirit of clinging mud wading through some farmhold’s rice paddies.

Incense rising on the other side of the river. The sound of strings and bells. Blue silks and chains. Zhaojun would either thrive here or be in dreadful peril here. But she is not here; it is you, hemming in this minor spirit, shaking your umbrella at it. It roars and bubbles defiance, and tries to break around you. To the river. To the House. To file a complaint.

If the Maid passes into that House, it is likely that she would never be permitted to escape. She would be sealed away beneath Lake Zenba by the priestesses of the Sapphire Mother, a shard of Hell imprisoned in the world that rejected those ancient titan-powers. Jazumi, conversely, has equal odds of sharing such a fate or being ransomed to the wind-courts. And you? You, Fengye?

Polite, curt dismissal, if you are lucky. Battle with priestesses and gods of river and rain, if you are not.

---

Kalaya!

The kiss on your cheek is sad. But it’s as much as Ven can give you. The brush of her lips against your cheek; the inhalation as if she means to remember your scent. “Then go to her,” she says. Not a command. A prompting. A hope.

And then she follows her witch, and leaves you with the dumplings that taste like nothing. She doesn’t look back.

It is as you sit by the last dumpling, wondering whether you should bother to eat it, that a very disheveled priestess approaches the inn. She looks sleepless, her cloak askew, her hem trailing in the mud, her hair frizzing out from under her hood, and when she looks at you the first time her gaze passes right through and past you. Then she takes several more steps and happens to actually notice you, and a small spark of attention lights in her eyes.

“You! You there,” she says, pointing, a little desperate. “You’re a knight, aren’t you? You do, you do quests, and finding people, and making things right?”

Whatever she wants you to do, you could ask for a meeting with the Sapphire Mother herself as a reward. Or, well, maybe not, if she’s looking for someone’s lost dog or had her wagon stuck in a ditch, but she could point you to someone who could! Clearly, this is a sign!

And she would probably appreciate that dumpling.

---

Giriel!

“Hello, Bruinstead.”

Of all the things to interrupt your valiant efforts to get this half-a-raiding-party pointed in the right direction to do the right thing! It would just have to be Peregrine (again) working with someone shady (again)— in this case, the warlock, the one that Kalaya is besotted with. They’re following a Necessity of Emptiness, one that Peregrine’s called into the world, seeking something or someone out.

“Where is the vessel of the General?” The warlock gets straight to the point, chin lifted proudly high, brass hand on the hilt of her sword. “You had her, didn’t you?”

“It was definitely here,” Peregrine says, drumming tunelessly against her thigh. She looks even worse than usual— something’s really got her by the reins. Is it Uusha, do you think? Or, no, a new project. Something even more interesting to her.

---

Lotus!

You cling to those solid, dirty, warm fingers like they’re your only handholds.

She fought for you. For you! You couldn’t do a thing, and you couldn’t save her when she dunked herself in the river, and you can’t escape being led by the servant of the Dominion towards a promised captivity, but she still fought for you, and whenever you start to pull back, self-conscious of how clingy and needy you’re being with the hands you can’t even see, she tugs you back. So gentle. So insistent.

She wants to hold your hands. That’s what keeps you grounded as your heart keeps racing, as your legs start to complain about the walk, as you feel the heat of your cheeks and the blood thumping through them, caught between a rock and a soft place. You’re unable to talk, to embarrass yourself by trying to thank Han through words, to try to convince Piripiri to let you go, to open yourself up to humiliation when she points out that you’re not even sure that you want to be let go.

You’re not even sure you want her to let Han go.

Which makes you a terrible person.

And yet, whenever you let her go, there her hands are (so strong, so careful, so rough, so good for holding) to tug you back. To rub a thumbpad over your nail in a way that makes fire race up your spine and a pathetic mewl burble through your well-covered lips. To invite you to explore her hands, her sweat-clammy palms, her raised scars, her downy backs. Of her hands. Just her hands. You can’t even reach her back. Because you’re tied up. And because it’s one thing to hold her hands but she probably wouldn’t. Even though. Imagine her wrestling shirtless like one of your mother’s courtiers. The shape of her back, how strong, how firm, how very made to be kissed…

You stumble and are suddenly caught with attention from both sides: your captor catching you by the arm, arresting you, making sure you don’t fall, and your… your… your Han squeezing both of your hands tight and desperate with the need for you not to fall.

You try to hide your face in your shoulder, sure that the entire world can tell how conflicted and full of forbidden desires you are, uniquely terrible and unworthy of all the love— all the affection you are being shown from either side. Affection you are likely making up because it’s a pretty story to tell yourself, because Piripiri sees you as a captive pawn of the Dominion and Han is just the kind of woman who protects travelers, even if they keep being absolutely unworthy of her.

But whenever you pull away, there her fingers are, telling you a different story. Stay, Lotus. If I could, I’d swing you up into my arms and carry you to safety and I’d accept a demure shake of your head when I ask you if you want to be untied…