TheAmishPirate

Return to Thellamie

“Keli?!”

He tries. By golly, he tries. He hops from his knees to his feet to halfway upright, arms up and out, faster than thinking, but not quite so fast as an indignant fox.

The next bit, like any big fall, is a bit of a blur. One moment you’re up, the next you’re flat on the ground, sore and causally lost. What just happened? What’s happening? Though, well, the first one is pretty easy, he mostly remembers that bit. The second one? The second one. The second one. Theeeeeeeeeeeee second one.

Hrm.

Hazel does the only sensible thing and freezes stiff. Not a twitch. Not a sound. Arms spread eagle where they landed. Fingers balled into fists. Safe fists, that cannot grab or snag onto anything. The flattest expression (badum-tish) he has ever made in his entire life. There is something located several miles above him, something he can see perfectly well through the clouds, the rain, the tent, the…fox material, and that is what he is looking at, and not a smidge looking anywhere else. Except for one time when he closes his eyes, and learns that the mysteries of darkness were far, far worse than the mysteries of Up There Somewhere. Here he will stay, and here he will stare, and maybe everything will work itself out somehow.

And it does! It does. It takes. A time. And. Wiggling. But everything works itself out. Just like he’d planned.

(It is nothing like when they first met.

They sat snug beside him. They spoke, one after the other, voices like honey, sticking up and melting his thoughts all at once. His head spun. His heart raced. First one perfume, then the other, switching every time he turned. All around them the festival buzzed with a thousand distractions, and all he could do was scrabble to keep his feet under him as they led him off on a dizzying adventure.

Warm. Soft. Squishingly heavy. Never still. Never still. Push here, brush there, inch, inch the weight of a bound body. Across his skin. Against her silks. Against her skin. There's a lot of skin to go around. To feel. Shorts, vest, and Aestivali silks. Smell of spice and sweet and something, a few other somethings, strange somethings. He can’t take a breath that isn’t them.

No words. No voices. Just soft. Muffled. Rumbling, deep in their chests and up their throats and breathed warm upon him. Silk and silky-soft tresses, nuzzling into him, working and pressing from either side.

No more cold. No more words. Just warm, warm, and soft…)

Juniper is a proper sluzhanka. She waits until he’s re-emerged in the Khaganate from realms beyond, before finishing her story. And Hazel nods. And Hazel opens his mouth. And Hazel says, Very Composed, “Hrm. Yes. I see. I see.”

Which is true! He does see. He sees what she’s saying. He’s not doubting her or anything. Well, okay, he’s doubting her a little. Rather, he doesn’t think she’s lying. Not intentionally, anyway. It’s just that her story makes no sense. Why would Keli and Seli need to kidnap him? They knew where he was. They knew Amali, and Amali knew Miss Yaz, so Miss Yaz probably knew them too. Or maybe they were just in touch? Point being, they were all working to keep him hidden. Why kidnap him, when he was waiting for them - or somebody else - to come by, say the coast was clear, and move on to the next phase of the plan?

Yes, they might’ve had other ideas, or some trouble they wanted to get into. This was Keli and Seli. No more need be said. But deep down, there was the help, there was the dancing, there was running, running, there was the life in a fox’s eyes, and maybe the trouble has to make room for all of that too.

Not that he thinks all of that right here! Not Hazel, no. Hazel is contending with. Other problems. At the moment.

“I. I think my arms are stuck…”

(In the dark and lonely hours of the night, he will ask himself if that was a lie. Could he have budged a foxgirl? If he tried? Was wriggling free really impossible?

Did Juniper and Olesya believe him? Did the twins?

Imagine what they would think of a fibbing fawn.)

Breathless Dead

All voices cry bow.

All voices cry submit.

There is a sliver of difference. There is a silver difference. He has a moment to act.

Vasilia’s hand smells of sweat and perfume. Her fingers stroke his face. They are strong, even moving so faintly. They are soft, save for an unfamiliar ring, and a whisper of anger recalls through the maelstrom. He mouths words into her skin. He taps meaning onto her arm.

“My husband says he cannot know, for he has yet to meet one. I myself agree with him.”

Vasilia’s voice is too casual to be calculated, too reverential to be defiance, too open to be hiding.

Dolce’s voice is gone.

Together, they stand.

Return to Thellamie

Hey! Rude! Uncalled-for assault! Ambush on your own houseguest! Treachery of the highest order! A betrayal of the sluzhanka way probably! And also mean!!!

These are all things he could say. Instead, he says:

“Ackpthpthtphtpthtp noooooooooooooooooooooo!!!”

Not even shrinking into his armor of blankets sparks the slightest hint of sympathy in the heart of this wicked, tricksy fox. Woe. Alas.

(Okay, but seriously, how was any of that precious?

Not that he’s complaining! This is nice!

But seriously. He was just explaining how things were at the Chrysthanamum, since he hadn’t had a chance to explain himself. And then he had some honest questions about sluzhankas so he wouldn’t mess up the plan and be forced to do wolfgirl chores. Perfectly normal behavior. Which apparently earns him the rufflening of a lifetime. Duly noted.)

Olesya interrupts them like a slammed door.

Hazel emerges from his protective cocoon, nose first, peeking out and sniffing the air for whiffs of Trouble. The coast is clear. Solemn, serious, but clear. The rest of his head and ears are safe to pop out and rejoin the conversation. It’s a bit difficult to look serious when ensconced in roughly one million blankets. It’s harder to look serious when untangling yourself from one million blankets, so this will have to do. It’s hardest of all to look serious when somebody is making creatively ambiguous comments about chest comfort! Juniper!!! What is he supposed to say to that?!?!

He contemplates the offered key. He contemplates it so hard. It is the only thing he is reacting to, for sure. Then, when he has finished disassociating for a few seconds or so his contemplations, one hand emerges from the nest to take up the precious key. “Alright.” He nods. Determined. Serious. “I’ll do my best.”

What else can he say, really?

Nevermind that he’s only been here, what, a few weeks? Nevermind he can count the number of times he’s drawn his heartblade on one hand. Nevermind that this bed is still oh so toasty warm and the rain hitting the tent is more soothing than any lullaby. There’s a game of pretend that needs playing, and these sluzhankas are in this with him now. They’re his to care for, and protect, and something else that he will figure out later. For however long he’s staying here. If they can all make it to the ball together? If they can keep up appearances long enough? Then they’ll all be in the clear.

Or, he’ll be in the clear, and they’ll be going back to Olesya, and if Juniper is this happy being her sluzhanka then she’s alright in his book.

Now. First order of business: He fusses and wrestles with the blankets, wrapping them this way, then that way, and, no, yeah, it’s impossible to do this important Serigalamu ritual while looking like a walking burrito. So he will have to do this important Serigalamu ritual in nothing but a vest and booty shorts. Cool cool cool cool cool cool cool cool. Cool.

Second order of business: Walking slowly to the rattling chest. Key in hand. To release the sluzhankas. His. Sluzhankas.

Third order of business: …………………………….

You know. When he was listening to Yuki’s stories, and chatting with folks in the group chat. He learned that this was a world where, yeah, sometimes? Sometimes you get huntress servants delivered to you in an ornate chest. It’s a high honor! A grand gift! Way more honor than would ever be given to him, and so, it was perfectly reasonable and natural to never really devote much thought to being on the receiving end the gesture! Which is making these next steps! Tricky! Really, he thought he would be more, on the side? Somewhere in the crowd, front row if he was really lucky, while this sort of thing happened to somebody else. Put him there, and he can ooh and ahh with the best of them. He’s great at that.

Deep breaths, Hazel. Deep breaths.

Kneeling down, he places one hand atop the chest, and sets the key to the lock with his other. The wood is thick. The lock is intricate. The inhabitants inside will hear something happening.

Turn. Turn. Click.

Try not to shiver, and…

Breathless Dead

Ah.

His first thought is to apologize. Carefully. It’s a fine line to walk, telling her he didn’t mean to dredge up painful memories, make light of her situation, without making her feel guilty for snapping at his ignorance. She had already apologized herself, after all. Mosaic? A subject best avoided for now, only to be referenced obliquely. A mention of a silver lining, that they had both retained enough of themselves to remain friends this whole time. Runs parallel to her advice. Then, perhaps, offer to fetch her a snack, to show there are no hard feelings.

But Dolce remembers the taste of canned coffee.

He looks back up at a Praetor, and Dolce of Beri sets his face in the closest approximation to determination he can manage at the moment. “Alright. I will.” He lets fear shake his voice. He lets anger draw him tight. He lets love hold him steady. “I’d like to do just that.”

He has to bend down, and reach his arms as far as they will stretch to grasp and lift his little desk. “I’d also like to accompany you. For a while longer. You know the ship’s population better than I do, if I have any questions. But, also.” A little smile quirks his mouth. “The idiot voice wants me to accompany you too.”

Return to Thellamie

He’ll have you know that he would not blurt out anything about Encouragement, thank you very much. Not here nor anywhere. But especially not when his mouth is full of eggs and sausage. Warm, but not so hot it burns. The meat reminds him of the gyros from that Mediterranean place his family would go to, where it’s not any one meat, but a combination of flavors into something new. Don’t ask him which flavors. It’s too early in the morning for big questions like that. It’s savory, it’s rich, it hits the spot, and that’s more than enough for him. Don’t ask him why Negodincia would think him hot either. Morning. Way too big. Can’t do it.

Now, there’s other things he’s trying to speak up about, but there still seem to be a lot of eggs and sausage in the way. You’d think that was an easy problem to fix, but it’s far trickier than that. When he’s finished a bite of breakfast, Juniper is still talking. Or the huntress (A Bagyum, possibly? What rank was that again?) is talking. And he’s not going to interrupt them, no. The blanket lump will shift as he raises a hand, trying to signal for silence, but before he can get the point across Juniper’s giving him another forkful. Have you ever tried to not eat something that somebody’s offered you? He certainly hadn’t! It’s really tough! The food is just sitting there. Waiting. Juniper’s looking at him. The huntress is looking at him. If there’s a way to make that moment any less awkward, it was a technique that was beyond him. Open up. Munch munch munch. Aaaaaaaaaand they’re still talking, it’s all important, so he’s got to listen closely, and it starts all over again.

(He is ravenous. He didn’t realize how empty he was until he’d tasted food. A big day. His first duel. Travel across Thellamie to places unknown. Pack rations keep a body on its feet, but do not make a proper meal. The gold-lined bowl is full of hearty, proper breakfast, and if you asked him he’d be hard-pressed to say if it would be enough for him.

Juniper is a trained sluzhanka. The fork rises with enough to make a mouthful, not enough to struggle with. Time her with a stopwatch; each bite is presented like clockwork. She keeps him at a pace where he has no choice but to relax, take his time, and savor this gift of a meal. An honored guest is not required to do anything else.

It only takes him a few bites to learn to stay still, and let her bring the fork to him. Later he will talk, and he will pause to open his mouth wide for her without thinking. Do imagine some of the following punctuation as breakfast breaks.)

“To be fair, the folks at the Chrysthanamum didn’t make me do a bunch of chores. I did have to do some chores, but like, not more than anyone else. I didn’t have to scrub dishes all day and sleep in a half-full cupboard. Really, I mostly just worked as a waiter. Taking orders, bringing people their food, making sure everyone was having a good time, that sort of thing. It was a good job, and, they didn’t force me to do anything more than that. Oh, and they gave us plenty of breaks, good food, and really, they were doing all this to give me a place to hide. Or, well, that was the idea, anyway. But that’s, I’m going off on a tangent there. Just, didn’t want to give the wrong impression.”

“I'm glad to not be doing Negocinda’s chores! That's very good.”

He hasn’t even mentioned Alcideo. Or Miss Yaz. Or all the other folks who worked alongside him at the cafe. Or the deliciousness spell. Or the soft beds and quiet dormitories. Or the, uh, very clear feedback and instruction he was given. But he’s rambling now. Way past rambling. Move it along, Hazel, move it along.

“So. Sluzhankas.” Plural. Gosh. “I remember the general idea. And some of the details from our talks. The plan makes sense.” And he’s very, very happy that plan does not involve elephant-wrestling. Or fighting the. Um. Mirrorfolk. (He breathes in freshly-cooked sausage. He remembers sweet flowers.) “So. First question: How do I…have sluzhankas? Practically speaking? I mean, I understand the idea of it, but, in practice, how do I, are there things I’m supposed to do or else I’m no longer shielded?”

“And are they okay in there? That doesn’t look. Comfortable?”

“...that’s two questions, but, you get what I mean.”

[Activating Friendly Benefits on Juniper.]

Breathless Dead

Dolce’s had a desk brought out. From a different room, he’s brought a comfortable chair to sit in while he works. The heights don’t quite match up, but then again, his height didn’t match up to aesthetic perfection either. He whispers a prayer of thanks that the birds were unable to fix that too. He only pauses his pen when she’s finished speaking.

“Hrm.”

The wind plays at his curls, without disturbing a single sheet of paper.

“It’s good advice. Perhaps we ought to post signs, reminding our crew to try writing out a wish to Hades before attempting the next coup. If anyone steps forward without proof of documentation, then we can declare their plot null and void. Quite the timesaver.” Is he filling out his next form? Sketching out a poster design? Formulating a wish himself? These are all questions. “It is all good advice. Have something valuable to aim at. Too valuable to risk for another good. Even if…”

He falls silent. Still. The papers offer no help, though he stares long at them. Gently, carefully, he returns his pen to its holder. The documents are already straight; he tidies them up anyway, and sets a weight on each stack for good measure. He has to stand on his chair, on tiptoe, reaching past the top of his desk to -snap! snap! some decorative latches. The whole top of the desk lifts up, separating cleanly into a workstation perfect for a lap. Dolce trundles over with his precious cargo, sets it and himself down beside Bella’s sofa, and rests his back against it as he gets back to work.

“To answer your question: Yes.” He says, wearily. “It hurts rather badly. It was a lot easier dealing with wrongs at a distance, and in hindsight. Now? I can do something. I’m sure I have to do something. But I’ll only get one shot. No second chances, no wasting it. So until the time comes, I have to sit with a world gone wrong and just bear it. For as long as it takes. Even if,” and his stomach turns, and his shoulders hunch with shame. “Even if it hurts, and I don’t. Know the heads of the Skies well enough to…hesitate. Enough.”

As if he has the right to even think such a thing. As if Dolce of Beri is the one to decide who lives and who dies. As if those reprimands made the thought any less tempting.

“I’m glad you have Gaia to aim at.” He moves on. Quickly. “It’s, well, it’s a little more complicated for me. When I saw you’d remembered some of the voyage, I wanted to talk to you about it, but then Summerkind, wolves, assassins; I never got the chance until now.” He plays with his pen. Something to keep his fingers busy. His mind’s too busy for important work. “I don’t know how it is for you. It sounds like you remember quite a bit more than me. When I think back, it’s like looking down at a planet through a cloudbank. I see some things clearly, I know some things happened, but the further I get away the foggier it gets. I know I was standing on this planet, and such-and-such was happening, but I couldn’t tell you how I got there, or where I went afterwards. Between two points, was that five minutes, or five months? Which order did they come in, really? How can I know whether or not I’ve got it all back?” A question he’s not keen on exploring too deeply. There may not be a bottom to that well. “I can’t be sure any wish I think of now is the same wish that’s carried me thus far. All I can do is trust that, if the wish was important enough, I’d find my way back to it again.”

And there’s Zeus right over there. And there’s Aphrodite’s breath, still tinging the air with longing. And here’s a sheep, watching them both. Observing. Thinking.

Waiting.

“...could I ask you for a story? From before we reached the Skies.” He’s settling down with his work. Reclining against the soft furniture. “Maybe that will knock something loose. It’d be worth a try, at least.” His head rests so, so close to her hand. It will not take much effort to reach over. To let her fingers sink deep, deep into those soft, luxuriant curls. They grow so thick, so strong, that no claw could hope to accidentally nick his skin. If one’s senses were keen enough, how many hours could be whiled away, exploring all the ways his wool is lovely to the touch?

He won’t mind. He’s not going anywhere. Except to give the slightest sway, to give the slightest jingle, to invite her attention.

Return to Thellamie

Fragmenthold! He'd never heard of Fragmenthold before! A lot of Yuki's adventures had been in and around Crevas, and h’d only picked up a smattering of Khaganate territory from little asides in the group chat. It sounded old. And the way she said fragments sounded like it could be with a capital F. Fragments of what? Of everything? Of the past? How did you know what fit together? How hard was it to find missing pieces? Did people come here looking for things they'd lost? And, ooh! Crabs! Of course there were crabs here. There were crabs everywhere. Crab finds a way. And, oh, huh, a shield could be good for him? Or. Hrm. That's actually a really good question. He hadn't really thought of fighting in styles. He hadn't really thought of-

Snap!

Hazel jumps. A lump of heavy blankets wiggles. Trains of thought derail on contact with huntress. Fifty thinkie pileup. Millions injured.

Sorry. Sorry. He didn't mean to sidetrack. He just got excited. He'll keep a lid on it. Won't happen again.

Unless? Unless. Is Juniper not in trouble? She doesn't look very in trouble. She might not be in trouble? They might still be good? Except now Juniper's armed with a forkful of eggs, looking expectantly at him for an answer, except when she's looking back at her huntress, and heaven knows where the huntress is looking but she's definitely watching them closely.

This is a confusing breakfast.

Okay. So. Look. Juniper? Juniper. This is really sweet, and he appreciates the effort a lot. He knows how important the Queen of Light is for Thellamie, and the part he’s got to play in her crowning. He gets it now. But it's just Hazel. CinnamonDrumroll. Yuki's friend. It's okay. You don't have to roll out the royal Khaganate welcome for him. It’ll be easier on everybody, he won't mind. You all are doing more than enough, keeping him safe until the Ball. You don't have to hand-feed him too. Really, you don't.

(Encouragement.)

Hazel freezes, the refusal poised on his tongue.

(She's looking to the huntress for Encouragement.)

Juniper is very close. He can see the radiant blush on her cheeks. The shiver that runs from tail to eartip. The dreamy, happy smile.

The huntress is not so close. Her face is shadowed and painted in shadows. The smoke from the campfire drifts around her in hazy waves. But she is pleased. Don't ask how he knows it, he couldn't tell you. But everything in this tent is hers, and follows her wishes, and the body that wrestled a dragon sits in perfect, contented stillness.

Her eyes pierce smoke, distance, and Fawn with equal ease. They hold him in place almost as easily as one of her arms. Almost.

The cocoon of blankets feels. Oddly loose. Against his body. All of a sudden.

Hazel decides to shut his mouth.

Ha. Ha. Haaa. Hum. Well. You know. This…is a gift, right? So. It’d be rude to refuse it? Especially if he is. Um. An, honored guest, here, for her. Not even the regular guests at the Chrysanthemum refused the staff’s services. Could you imagine? No no, don't trouble yourself, the kitchen is right over there, I'll just pop over and get my own snacks. Who would do such a thing?

And. It was nice helping out there, wasn't it?

Juniper’s joy hadn't dimmed, nor had the fork dropped an inch.

“Well.” His voice is a little winded when he finally catches it. Hushed, and cracking. “I don't really have any sluzhankas,” and boy! That word! Is harder to say than type! “So. I suppose, it’d be okay if you did it.”

Did the customers ever feel so flushed and fluttery making their orders? No. Nah. Definitely not. They were all professionals at this sort of thing.

Breathless Dead

"I have several stacks of forms taken from my last job, and I can reproduce the ones I do not have. I would be happy to put them to good use." It's something. It's more than standing still. No, it's much, much better than standing still. A bit of the tension leaks from him, finding a direction to move in.

He can help her to a more appropriate spot. Or he can bring his desk here. He'll do either. He'll do anything.

Wherever and whenever they are, there comes a moment when he stops. A thought, at last, has come into view. "You could tell. You could tell right away that the Azura here weren't the ones to target." He says it without judgement. Just a simple truth. "You're right, I know you're right, but I didn't think about it until you said it."

Above him, a thousand thousand worlds upended to create a pretty picture. About him, the god of love calls it good. In his hands, he straightens his papers. Unnecessarily.

"Does it feel like this...all the time? Holding a knife, when someone you want to use it on is. Right there? It's, well, it's quite a lot. So much that...even though I know you're right. I didn't think about it until you said it."

Dolce of Beri looks to Bella the Deodekoi, Praetor of Nero.

"How did you manage it? All this time?"

Return to Thellamie

PraxisPackSis has entered the chat.

Yes, maybe there’s another Aestivalian nun of Civilia working in the Khaganate, but he’d know that face anywhere. It’s Juniper. Real. Here. In the flesh! And, wait, she’s? For this huntress?

His heart does a happy flutter on her behalf. He’d heard she’d gotten quite involved with the Khaganate with her work, but wow! Wow! Good for her! And for her to be with the same huntress looking after him? What are the odds?

He opens his mouth. He closes his mouth. He thinks about putting his head back down on the pillow. The math gets complicated. He looks over to the Serigalamu. He swallows. “Is it okay for me to get up now?

She blinks. She blinks again. She glances at Juniper. (He should’ve added a please. Now it’s too late.) She meets his eyes, and

Nods. Once. Slowly, with propriety and intent.

It’s difficult to tell, with the air a smidge hazy from the fire, and his eyes are still muddled with sleep, but the corner of her mouth quirks, just a bit. A spark that colors all her shadowed face.

(Another smile. Okay. She’s okay. He’s okay. Maybe.)

Now he just needs to…if he wiggles like so...grips through the layers, gets his shoulder in under there…scoot, scoot, scoot, get the rest wrapped around…and tuck and fold and shake and tuck…there!

The flat lump of blankets has transformed into an upright lump of blankets, all without losing a bit of its precious, cozy warmth to the cruel elements. His head and antlers are just about all that can be seen; with his masterful technique, he’s wrapped great folds of the blankets around both arms, so he can both curl up nice and tight and also easily peek his hands out to handle breakfast.

Now that he is properly, formally seated:

“Juniper! Hi!” The blanket pile shakes in a rough approximation of waving. “I’m. Trying not to yawn. Goodness. Sorry, it’s been…a heck of a trip so far, still waking up. But.” Do your worst, sleep. Do your worst, bad decisions and painful days. Hazel Valentine Fletcher needs no horns to glow; his face will manage just fine. “We’re in the Khaganate. I’m here.”

He could just about vibrate right through the floor in excitement.

Breathless Dead

He could feel when she was nervous.

In her defense, it was a lot easier when he was nestled in her lap, hugged tight to her chest, with her breath (or sudden lack thereof) tickling his ears. She’d spent ages learning how to silently, gravitationally lock their doors. It wouldn’t do to disparage the effort.

Besides, it didn’t make the rest of it any easier.

“Of course, I have no concrete plans,” and he couldn’t tell if she’d dreamed this up today or had a full suit hiding in the closet. “Beri is woefully lacking in tournaments of honor, and the Crystal Knight may take offense if I were to outshine her at the next parade,” and. Hrm. On the off chance that wasn’t a joke? He trusted she’d done a proper amount of math on that. “But,” she sighs, and all he can hear is star-flung longing. “If a girl’s to dream, she may as well dream in detail, no?”

In his hands, a little book. In the book, sketches. Drawings. Palettes. And one illustration they all built to.

Dolce thinks. Long enough to give it proper consideration. Not so long she would suffer.

He could feel how she was nervous.

“If I were to see you like this? I may not survive the experience. I’m not sure you’d consider that a flaw.”

A rumble of approval rolls through her, and into him. “Do you know why I picked these colors?”

“The purple, it’s from the Starsong, no? I remember, you told me of the first time you really, really looked at space from within it. You saw colors you didn’t even know could exist. One in particular stuck with you.”

“And I’m still not convinced the shade is quite correct.”

“The gold is from Lakkos, and from you. Your family loved it. You wanted something better.”

“Is it a crime to deserve the best?”

“This cream-white,” he taps with his finger. Sure enough, the colors match exactly. “I don’t see many knights with white in their colors. I don’t think it’s just because of the Skies either. It must be rather difficult to keep clean in battle. Other colors, you have a little more leeway, a better chance for stains to stay hidden.”

There’s a silent permission given. She doesn’t have to do this for him. He doesn’t need to see her fly to battle in his colors to know how she cares.

“Mm.” Her arms wrapped tight. Her fingers dug deep. “I shall simply have to be better than everyone, then.”

*****************************

Bella!

You may be the only one here who can hear Dolce before he makes himself heard.

-jinglle jinglle jinglle-

The two of you may be the only ones who know it’s a different bell now.

He stops in front of your couch. His outfit is precisely as perfect as all of your surroundings. Even when he turns to face you, you cannot find a bad angle to view him from. The humble, yet elegant vest even goes with his collar.

Blue. Woven with several other matching blues.

“What. Have they done. To make you give them that much faith.”

You. You. Give them the benefit of the doubt. A courtesy. You. There’s a question. For you, Praetor. He needs to know. Please don’t answer.

“I think.” He doesn’t wait. “I have forgotten to thank you. Properly. For Sanalessa.” He doesn’t bow. “Artemis entrusted her to me. She. Was gracious enough to teach me much, about.” He doesn’t look away. “Many things. It would have been. Improper. To lose her, and all the gifts of a goddess, before we were.”

“Finished.”

He doesn’t blink.

He doesn’t dare blink.

“So. Is there something I can do for you. To thank you?”

Praetor. Bella. Friend.

Please.

Give him something to do that he won’t regret.