TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

Before? Before? Do pardon her, Lady Hestia, but had you not already conveyed the gravity of the moment, she might have thought you were joking. And if you’re not joking, then do you mean to say that you’ve genuinely not taken notice of her for her entire life, until this very day? That, yes, alright. Hrm. Was not an option she’d ever considered, to be frank. Usually, to avoid someone, you had to at least acknowledge they were there. Unless it worked rather differently for a goddess?

...questions for later.

“Perhaps it would be best if I started at the beginning,” she says, folding her legs to sit beside Hestia. “Where I began, born on Lakkos to one of the great noble families. A rising star of a rising star. I made my name in the Olympics, winning favor in the eyes of the gods and the people alike. There wasn’t a soul on the planet who hadn’t heard my name. As I climbed, I sought to use my position to forge peace for all, on a world that had known none for generations.”

She sniffs. “...I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say, I did no better than all who’d come before me. I paid dearly for compromises that bought nothing of value. My plans forever remained a day ahead of me. All the while I swam drunk in ceaseless admirations and imagined virtue.”

“Then the Starsong came, and accomplished in a week more than I had in years. And I was expected to help fight them.”

“Instead, I allowed their escape. No, more than allow, I was their escape. Of my life and fortune, I brought those of my staff who wished to fee with me, and the clothes on my back. Nothing more.”

Not even a heart.

“I drifted with the Starsong for a time. I was handy in a fight, and good enough at parties. ‘The exile with the dark past, only spoken of in hushed whispers.’ I think they had a betting pool going on what terrible fate I'd escaped from. But they were as good as they were on Lakkos. I had nowhere else to go, and nothing else to do; their causes were just enough for me.”

And are there no other names in this story, Captain? No faces to tie to these ideals? In all the years of living among the best people you’d ever met, wasn’t there at least one that touched your heart? Changed the course of a life spiraling down? Won’t you tell us of a miracle, Vasilia?

“It was...pleasant.” She shifts, suddenly uncomfortable on the cold floor. “As nice a position as I could hope for, and so it was for a time. I rose through the ranks, never so high that would have to direct the Starsong themselves. And when word came we had a...moonshot of a chance, to overthrow Tellus’ grip on the galaxy without ever fighting them directly, I made sure I would be the one they chose.”

She reaches into her coat, and takes a long pull from a precious flask. The past was thirsty work.

“What I am trying to say, Lady Hestia, is that I’m afraid I have no ‘before.’ I do what I have always done. Of second chances, all mine were burned away on Lakkos.” She gives a distant, wan smile. “Never quite gave up enough to find anything else.”

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

Could he tell you a secret?

It’s not always intuition.

It might seem like that, when he shows up with a favorite dish in your lowest moment. But maybe you just forgot when you said how much you enjoyed this sort of bread those seventeen months ago, and so it seems like magic when he produces a loaf now. But sometimes there aren’t enough months, or lucky moments, or thoughts going right that he can turn to the question at hand. And when that happens, he returns to the altars.

For Hestia, he leaves out a mug of her favorite cocoa. Shredded dark chocolate, hot, but not too hot, cool whipped cream, to give the ideal sip, a sprinkling of cinnamon to bring it all together; just how she liked it. What few thoughts he had, they all agreed that perhaps Mynx could use a little taste of home, and so to Hestia he must turn.

For Hera, he leaves a humble stew. Prepared with care, of scraps secreted away from greater dishes, in a quiet corner of the kitchen where no-one goes. And before her, he kneels, and he thinks, and he kneels, and he thinks, and he is oh so grateful that Hera is not one to mind her time too strictly.

“Hera. I’m afraid something’s gone terribly wrong with me, and I don’t know what. I cannot think. I can hardly sleep. I am useless in the kitchen-” Pause. “Well, I can cook, yes, but it just isn’t right. I make food, but little else besides. And what little I make is slow, much too slow for the mouths we need to feed. Something’s broken, and I am full of uselessness, and please, can you tell me what it is? Can you fix me? Why-?” Oh, Hera. Do not mind your time too strictly today. Grant him a moment, please. Just a moment. “Why can’t I do my job anymore? Am I so far gone that...that I cannot even do what I was made for?”

And he waits. With his head pressed against the cold floor, a shivering tangle of emotion, he waits for an answer.

Breathless Dead

Oh, very mature, Zeus. Flee while she has you on the rhetorical ropes, and block off her pursuit with...with...oh gods, how long has she been glaring at thin air? Hestia hadn’t left already, had she? Thank goodness, still talking. Nod, Vasilia, nod thoughtfully, the most thoughtful nodding you’ve ever nodded in your entire life, while you try to remember everything she’s just said while you were definitely listening.

“For the record.” Slowly, yes, speak slowly and deliberately. Every second is precious. “This is just a hypothetical exercise. I’ve no intention of losing or forfeiting my command. But since you asked…” And of course she would consider it fairly, because you asked, because she is a good host, and you should definitely stay, yes? “My personal effects are somewhat limited; if I could return to the Starsong, I have some furnishings that may fetch a worthwhile price. But the return would be, ah.”

“No.”

“Please, at least let me ask the question first.”

“It wouldn’t change my answer.”

“Is there anything I could say that would change it?”

“Again: No.”

“Is it because there’s nothing to be said, or nothing I can say?”

“It’s because the last time you uprooted your life, you took mine along with it, and while the change was a good one, I can’t let you roll the dice for me every time you get antsy.”

“Ah. I...I see.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I just...I can’t. Not again.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for, Alethea darling. Gods only know how much of me you’ve put up with already. We’ll manage alright on our own, Dolce and I.”

“...awkward. And not likely to produce many recommendations either.” No matter how she rested her hands, she never quite grew unaware of them. Fingers interlaced with fingers. No place for them to lie, and be still. “There may be some individuals here and there that could vouch for me, but only if I wished to stay landlocked for the rest of my days.” Translation: Stuck on a backwater planet that was only barely learning how to spell Civilization. “Apart from starfaring, I’m skilled at stagecraft, speechcraft, and combat, but I don’t think you or I are about the celebrity life.”

She risked a laugh. A gamble, but a well-calculated one. Goddess who went about in fluffy bear hoodies and mugs of hot cocoa were almost certainly easygoing enough to appreciate a little humor.

Almost certainly. The risk was worth the reward.

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

A good servant follows orders.

The moment she pushed away from his wool, she would neither feel nor hear Dolce again.

The Auspex finds him out immediately. It sees the way the air swirls in his absence. The motes of dust, dancing in his wake. He will never be able to vanish around her.

The next sign of his presence was the warm, comforting aroma of a freshly-made bowl of soup.

Is she at all hungry? Does she even want to eat? Can she?

Her teacup would never be empty.

Because she isn’t drinking anything. No matter what blend he brings for her.

She would have blankets to rest on, handkerchiefs to wipe her eyes.

As if she could risk falling asleep. As if she is a child, unable to tend to her own tears.

He would appear whenever called, whenever she needed to talk through a problem.

He will be no help. He had his chances.

Dolce followed his orders. Like a good servant.

And left her worse than he’d found her.

Breathless Dead

She. What. And her. And her! Zeus!!

“She most certainly does not! I do not! No one is checking out!” Vasilia stamped her foot set herself in a strong and indomitable posture, completely overcoming the indignity of freshly-ruffled hair. Also. She raised a hand in greeting. “And no. We haven’t met. Hello.” Lovely to finally see you, Lady Hestia. Is it Lady? She didn’t strike her as Lady. But she might still be Lady. Gods, what was her title? How in the stars could she forget...nevermind! Informal is fine! She’s fine!!

“I am staying right here, rather than entrusting the fate of this entire voyage to someone who only just recently experienced a third dimension in its entirety. Not a one of the Alced are anywhere near ready to command a starship yet.” Which you know to be true, you great thundering lummox, so come back here and just try to tell her she’s wrong, because you can’t, and she’s nowhere remotely close to finished with you, Zeus! Zeus!

...Zeus?

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

Centuries ago, mankind strove to answer the question: What made the ideal servant?

Of the thousand thousand invocations of the answer, few remain coherent today, and only one could be heard within the Plousious’ kitchen: Docile. Agreeable. Lacking in natural defenses and combat capabilities. Pleasing to the eye, pleasing to the soul. But the true masterstroke was this; that whether useful or useless, the ideal servant provides for their master simply by their continued existence.

The inspiring creatures of the distant past knew this secret already, the ability to transmute life into profit, albeit in a much more intensive and tedious fashion. Shearing, cleaning, carding, spinning, weaving, and more! Every step requiring complicated machinery. Complicated machinery requiring trained help. Wouldn’t it be so much faster if the wool were a finished product from the beginning? Soft, warm, luxurious, ready to become product in a matter of minutes?

So the sheep of the Manor earned their keep, and the Family wanted for nothing, having a nigh-infinite supply of the galaxy’s softest wool to trade for anything they did not bother to fabricate themselves. It is said that the tributes - when they remembered to send them - were primarily composed of bolts upon bolts of the precious material. Cared for properly, in the right hands, some of that wool may have survived to this day, in the blankets and pillows of the Tellus elite.

Redana!

You are alone, surrounded by ghosts, gods, and guilt, when a touch of home brushes the back of your hand. Far away, a desperate cook does the only thing left he can think to do, and bonks his wooly head against you. Isn’t it soft? Isn’t it warm? Would you like to run your fingers through the curls? Would that ease your mind? Please, Princess. Please, Hera. At least let his presence be of use. Let him be of some help. Please.

But in the dark, across the distance between heart and body, do you expect the touch of a cook?

Or an actress?

Breathless Dead

She didn't think. It was something she was becoming rather good at.

The hands of the divine closed in around her, lifting her up, molding her face, and her body ignited with white lightning. Whatever limbs were still hers expressed their freedom to the fullest. Squirming, twisting, pressing up against the boundaries of Olympus, straining for the tiniest gap to reach the floor again and get away, get away, get away!

The deepest sting of all was that she would only be free at Zeus’ pleasure. And whether a heap on the deck or a heap in Zeus’ arms, the end was the same; a panting, trembling lioness, heart racing out of her. “You don’t have to intervene.” The words spilled out, choked and mangled. “Because it’s going to be me. It’s always going to be me, no matter what I do or how far I run or how high the price. Sooner or later it’s. Always. Me!”

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

Oh no.

It was a test.

Were you really paying attention, Dolce? Actually, honestly, taking in what she was telling you? Or were you shirking your duties, and letting your mind wander like some loafing delinquent? Come now, speak; silence only serves as a testament to inadequacy. If you cannot help her, perhaps she will have you replaced with someone more suitable to the job; a wall, a child’s toy, or better yet, an empty room. Or maybe no one will be able to help her. The presentation will fail, the ship will never be repaired, and when the history books look back on this doomed voyage, they will all agree that things might have turned out differently had they actually brought proper help on board.

Think hard, Dolce. And be quick about it.

“Ah. Well.” It was a miracle he could still swallow his tea with her presence squeezing him from all sides. “To, start with, what are the advantages of our crew and armaments? What may be leveraged?” Yes, yes! Focus her mind on the problem at hand. This was, after all, the princess’ problem to solve. A little gentle nudging, and her own brilliance would sort out the rest, no?

Fellowship: The Heart

She could never stop thinking, could she?

Walking through a land of nots, stepping into a downpour of crows and clowns, as her mouth gasped and her heart cried out and both her paws gripped Wolf’s, her studious mind was packing it all away for later. All of it, every moment, into the boxes now. No telling when she might need these again. Musn’t go to waste! Later, she may need the word for the quiet warmth at the end of all things, and out would come their time in the Angel’s mouth. The face of a woman, not-shadowed...that would go someplace she could get at easily. Perhaps, right alongside...

My treasure is that I’m still alive.

She could never stop thinking. Even as her useless body locked up in terror, and a hundred desperate screams failed to pass her throat, her mind held onto that one, shining thought. Amid the miserable wreck of her dreams, and crumbling of her present, she held on. She held on to something she wanted more than a name. More than proof against her own uselessness.

She wanted Lucien to have one more step.

Her arms yanked. Her legs leapt. Somehow, she pulled Wolf behind an upturned donut cart, the fallen fryer hissing in defiance of the storm. “Stay.” She pointed at the ground between them. “Stay. Anchor. For me.” They were now two, again. She with too many words, and her with not enough. But there was no time, and she hardly knew what she was doing herself. Out of her infinite repertoire of better people’s magic, she reached deep into her heart, and offered all she had to Wolf, and the word was

“Please?”

[Jackdaw’s clever brain activates Let Me See That on A Victory Of Crows:
-Who made it, and why should I care about them?
-What was this made to do, and how can I use it or break it?]

Breathless Dead

Vasilia laid aside her glaive, and turned an ear to the symphony of the stars.

The bridge offered an unparalleled view of the passing travellers, and little else for her lonely vigil. A place of action, of command, of judgements, it had no use for frivolity and no space for a proper walk. She’d spread out a blanket on the floor to grant herself a place to tend to her weapons, and even this concession felt an intrusion. Wrong, somehow. Breaking some unspoken taboo. It pricked at her sensibilities, like lying down with a twisted back. Forever promising to calm down soon, soon, if only you could just find the right way to sit.

If she had no patience for her guest, then perhaps she shouldn’t have been several days fashionably late.

“You’re always bloody involved, when it’s about a throne.” Vasilia spoke to the air, the hairs on her neck bristling at the electric presence. “Why even bother with all this? One word from you, and the contest’s decided. No one on Olympus would argue.” She didn’t name who she suspected Zeus might choose. No taste, for running through that tired script again.

For as much choice as she had in the matter.

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

Dolce did not blink. Had not blinked. For a while. How long?

Well, how long since he’d blinked, or how much longer could he go without? The first one, it’s been...well, he didn’t quite mark the start, it was after she’d pulled out the notebook, which meant at least a minute fifteen, give or take some. The second one, it’d been so long since he’d tested himself in this way, he couldn’t possibly guess what his limits were. It’d been years since he’d had to do blinking drills, and he did somewhat regret stopping, in hindsight, because there was nearly too much Princess for him to keep track of. There were drawings, detailed drawings with lots of figures to remember, and an errant teacup holding something between fluid dynamics and a time bomb, which he could not apply a napkin to until it was about to explode. While his eyes managed that, his ears were in charge of listening. His hands had to drink his own tea, at appropriate intervals. Put it all together, and his mouth needed to come up with useful advice, when asked for, or when the conversation lapsed sufficiently, which was proving to be a rather squirly metric today!

No, no, no time for blinking at all.

“I think,” Dolce said, slowly, testing the waters in case he was about to be swept away again. “Maybe we ought to...compensate, for the factors we don’t choose?” Oh, wonderful, brilliant observation Mister Dolce, no possible way that the Princess slash Senior Mechanic hadn’t thought of that one already. “That is to say, there are other factors, yes? In our composition of crew and armaments that could be used to our advantage. And, perhaps the decision can be made in light of those, ah, other factors, such that the factors - of the ship - can be adequately balanced in light of threats...unknown?”

The too-long sip of herbal tea proved remarkably un-soothing.

Breathless Dead

Dimly, some part of her lamented her lack of foresight. She ought to have brought paper and pen. She could have written an apology to the serv- to the slaves. They would have to clean up after her, long after she was gone. They’d be forced to restore Zeus’ temple to its former glory. If it were even possible. No amount of polishing could repair the gashes in the floor. By the time anyone came to check, the blood would be long dried. Miserable to scrub out, that. Hard...hard to erase...oh Clarissa....

She stopped. Her glaive fell to the ground, digging a new scratch into the once-perfect mirror floor.

She’d learned a precious lesson, today. After everything, after a lifetime, there were yet parts of Clarissa she hadn’t seen. The truth coursed through her veins, staining memories until she could recognize them no longer, but it had not stopped her. She’d entered the temple, sure of herself, sure of her reasons, and in the face of her they’d all turned to doubt and darkness, but that had not stopped her. The last plea. A blade drawn. Gasping, as glaive found flesh. The sounds clawed into her mind, but even they had not stopped her.

Vasilia looked out from the temple of Zeus. She saw the stairs she had yet to descend. She heard the distant hail of SP fire, and the roar of plovers that heralded the Starsong’s doom. She smelled the iron bite of her heart’s blood, and knew the offering was not enough, and she had no breath to scream, and she could stand no longer.

But neither could she fall.

She felt, more than saw Zeus, the prickling on her fur that kept her too alive to die just yet. Somehow, holding no grudge for the desecration of her temple. Or maybe this was her idea of reparation. Reminding her that her cause was no less just, no less necessary for her shattered heart. And that to stop before it was finished would mean it all was nothing more than the trash their world was built upon. Years of blind folly, and moments of sacrifice alike. All coming to nothing.

So, she rose. To join battle, at the opportune moment. For a last, great treachery, against the few souls of Lakkos she had yet to deceive. To the Starsong, she would give life from certain death. To herself?

Dreams of burnt ash, and a heart of cold iron.

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

Vasilia would not see the autosurgeon for some time.

When the Alced came, they beheld a conquering champion, faithful to her wing and flush with the rightful spoils of victory, and they rejoiced to serve under one who held such honor.

When the Coherents came, they beheld a simple exercise in logic. Where there ought to have been many Coherents, there were now none. Of the enemy, they counted a dozen. Of the dozen, one was untouched, ten showed signs of a scuffle, and the one currently giving them orders held weapons of Zeus and more injuries than they could count. To the credit of Hermes, they quickly solved the puzzle, and gave her their effusive obedience.

Through the pleas of her crew and her husband, Vasilia would not see the autosurgeon for some time. Not until her work was finished, and finished right.

Breathless Dead

The station was emptying. All fled, and those who didn’t shortly regretted their lack of foresight. Vasilia flew down the corridors of the Yakanov unimpeded now, accompanied only by the crashing, shattering chaos of an army in full retreat.

Then, amid the noise: Downbeats, to an unconventional time signature. No machinery ever broke so clean, if you had the ear to catch the pattern. A sign of the Starsong. A call for allies. Which meant-!

Vasilia snagged a pipe to send herself tearing down the corridor, towards the rhythm, towards the sound, towards,

“Dolce!”

She careened down the hallway, and a flash of white streaked towards her, and when they met it was with all the force of a soft summer breeze. At last. At last! Alive! On his feet! Hardly a hair out of place! Let her bury her face in that precious wool. Let her check, let her count the curls, let not a one be missing. Against her bare stomach, she felt him. His mouth, straining to form words. Hands, gentle, insistent, pushing away. Giving him room to see. And stare, mouth agape. “What...what happened? Are you alright?”

“Fine now, darling.” She wouldn’t let him go. Not yet. Her one good arm snaked around his shoulders and pressed him close to her, heedless of how it stung her or stained his vest. “Fine now. Are you in danger? When did you last see Alexa? We’re not safe here-”

“I know, but-”

“Good, good, less time to explain.”

“We don’t have to-”

“I’ve fought this far, I can manage farther. So tell me; what’s the situation?”

He said nothing.

“...Dolce? Darling?”

He reached up, and stroked her arm gently, the most priceless treasure he’d ever been tasked with caring for. “Everyone’s safe now.” He soothed, in his warm, crackling fireside voice. “We won. We don’t need to do anything more.” He turned his eyes on her, and for the first time she noticed them glistening. “Vasilia...what did she do to you?”

Aphrodite. Who knows the secret voice within us all. Nothing and no one hides from your sight. Hear her, now, when no one else will believe her. You who have drawn her heart out as drawing a dagger from her chest. Let her testimony stand that she gave no thought to her actions. No motive, no scheme, no shameful plot crossed her mind. She ached. She acted. He did nothing wrong. And she drew away from him, only because she could not bear feeling him beside her a moment longer. Not when her neck drowned in steaming memory.

And her prayers were answered.

Dolce’s eyes flashed wide, shocked, but only for a moment. Blessedly, only for a moment, before they drew softer. Before he took her hand in his. Before he fought through a waking nightmare to offer his most battered and patient smile. All for her.

And her prayers were answered.

“Come.” He said, and already he’d teased the first finger loose from the pistol. “We ought to regroup with Alexa and the others.” He took the divine weapon in his own hand, leaving the other to clasp hers. “It’s over, now. We will get you to an autosurgeon. All will be well. I promise.”

And her prayers were answered.

Her Dolce did not leave her. Alight with insight and no way to know any better, he walked for the both of them. For the Captain whose strength had all but left her. For the one he swore to be ever faithful and true. And all the marvels of Hermes, the spite of Demeter, and the plans of Artemis combined did not wound her deeper than the gentle hand of Aphrodite.

Fellowship: The Heart

She was too full of words for just tears, and before long they spill forth from her too.

“I never remembered any other name.” She clung tighter. Wolf didn’t complain Or even noticed. She could’ve squeezed with all her might, and she doubted she could bend her an inch. “And, it couldn’t be right. Jackdaw isn’t a fox’s name. Jackdaw’s the name of, of,” Funny, how the words clawed to stay in her heart, when it was just the two of them, without a thing more to lose. But it was much too late for anything less than honesty. “A...cruel little bird. A thief. Who steals away treasured things it has no use for, and preens itself up like it owns them. Like they make it special. And, important.”

“I just thought...it couldn’t be right. If I had my real name, I could, somehow, know who I really was. Except that wasn’t it. That wasn’t really it.”

Why did you come down here, Jackdaw? What would bring you to this awful place?

“I wanted to know I wasn’t that. I wanted a name I could hold up as proof.” No great quest. No real prize she was after. She just...wanted to know she wasn’t trash. That she was something. And not just a stupid pile of other people’s treasure. And now that she’d said it out loud, she could truly appreciate what a vain, horriblereason she’d risked her life for.

Wolf didn’t complain. Or even noticed. She sat and stroked her head with the same care as when she didn’t know Jackdaw was a wretched, pitiful thief. Which was wrong of her, of course. Mistaken. Confused. Blinded. Deceived. Tricked. Duped. Fooled. On the cusp of regret.

Instead of saying any of those or other equally suitable words, Jackdaw put her paw on top of Wolf’s, to stop her, and.

Left it there.

Maybe...she did have one more thing she wanted. Or, rather, seeing the miserable wreck of her dreams, she wanted something more than that. Wanted to want something more than that. It didn’t feel fair, in this moment, to moan about her own troubles exclusively.

So. She left it there. And waited for Wolf to take her turn.

[Rolling to Speak Softly with Wolf: 5 + 5 - 1 = 9. What is her treasure? What is it that she wanted, all this time?]

Breathless Dead

The Plousious wanted for two things: Crew, and raw material.

With a fraction of the wealth arrayed in the cargo hold, raw material would no longer be a concern. And the crew, they’d have sorted out momentarily.

She had her prize. But her priority was her people. And so Captain Vasilia flew deeper into the station…

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

Ah. He was afraid she’d say something like that. Or run off. To receive both was...regrettable.

“I’m sorry, Mynx.” Dolce bowed his head, speaking to the empty air. “Would that the gods have arranged it any other way.”

He had little time to mourn; the Master may be after him at any moment, and while they were no longer together, Mynx’s idea had been a good one. Perhaps he could lose his pursuer amid the Magos’ defenses, or find some way to aid his friends from afar. He receded into the background, and padded silently to the central bunker.