TheAmishPirate

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

No? What? Hey! Who in all the hells said she could be sad?!

Whoever it was, Han’d have words with them in a minute. Right now, she was busy pressing herself up against the wood of the cabin wall, hardly daring to breathe lest she topple over the delicate little thing hunching over and across her. A whisper of silk brushed her bare shoulder, but all she knew was a touch so faint and light - the tufted flower of a long reed, reaching out in passing - and lingering, a ghost of sensation. A rainy-day garden had sent its regards. Now, it embraced her. Richness and sweetness and the promise of life, life abundant and thriving in defiance of clouds!

The priestess drew back. Her gifts, she left behind her. Her hand left the simple, wooden umbrella. Han watched it go, across her lap, to the deck, and no. No. No!

And her hand shot out to stop her.

(She’s warm, priestess. The girl is drenched from the rain, and by all rights should be ice cold now, but through the damp her hand is warm over yours. She moved faster than you could see, and yet, her grip isn’t rough. She holds you like...like...like a little brown fox, carrying a Very Important and Precious message in their little jaws. No matter what happens, they will carry their cargo to its destination, and when the time comes they will drop it at the recipient’s feet, and there won’t be a scratch on it. A grip tight enough to hold you, and gentle enough to let you go safely, should you choose.)

“...you’ve done more than everybody on this boat put together.” The words are curt. Forceful. Important. And definitely not forced out as soon as they enter her head. “And you shouldn’t get soaked and miserable because of me.” Her gaze falls away from the priestess, contemplating the rushing waters, the dry deck surrounding them, the sight of her crestfallen face that she couldn’t bear to look at even a moment longer, the sound of the rain. And thus was the product of her musings: “Traveling’s better with company.” Lots of people said that. All the time. Including her. So. Maybe you should say it too? And stay?

The priestess did stay. And stay. And stay some more, without ever actually sitting back down. Which was, in hindsight, a perfectly reasonable response to the sight of a long, red, angry gash on a girl’s arm that she had been successfully hiding beneath her poncho. But perhaps if she’d gotten over her shock a little bit quicker, Han might have had enough attention to spare to the hair on her neck, standing on end, or the sudden absence of the oxen’s tread...

[Han rolls a big ‘ol 6 on Entice. XP abounds!]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

She takes you, priestess. With only one eye, she takes you. All your fumbling, mumbling, giggling, anxious uncertainty, suspicious tiger references, lies, unwise vulnerability, nothing escapes her notice. Not even when she quickly adjusts her bonked-askew hat (the most motion she’s made so far) does her eye leave you. Not once are you free from her gaze. She is watching. She is judging, little bud. And all you can do is squirm, imagining how poorly you’d fare under both those eyes.

And maybe you could spare yourself a little judgement if you could explain to her that giggle of yours. It’s not. You’re not supposed to. Impossible. Couldn’t, shouldn’t, nobody laughs like that, priestesses don’t laugh like that. It can’t be a real sound. It just can’t. And. That’s that. So there.

And, no, really? They let you out of the Temple? Before you turned into a terrible, miserable, useless, stuck-up, well, priestess? That can’t be right. She always thought that was part of the curriculum. Or, at least a prerequisite for letting you in the door in the first place? Wait, no, she didn’t escape did she?

...no, on second thought, not that. Definitely not that. She couldn’t escape her way out of an open field. All alone on a boat full of strangers, and what does she do? Plop her butt down next to the scariest, toughest thug around, pour out her heart, and ask for...oh no what is she asking her for? And what’s she asking her for?! This isn’t her job! Her job’s, uhhh, something else! That isn’t this!

Yeah, alright, she did ask. A brave ask, if you ask her. And a brave ask deserves a good answer. She’s got plenty of those.

Han snorted. A rough, gruff, ugly laugh. “Doing it wrong? Sprout, you’re not like any priestess I’ve ever seen. First one to ask for a review, that’s for sure.”

The highest, most obvious praise she could offer.

Nailed it.

Breathless Dead

“Aww, you have noticed me.” A memory of good humor sparkled in her eyes, then faded once more. “He. Usually took care of,” Preparing her meals? Fitting time to eat into her days? Keeping her alive? “Such things. I’ve let him do as he pleases now, a sort of, leave of absence.” Of her. From her. “It’s. Been quite some time, since I’ve had to think about...”

And that was quite enough pity for one day. Either she was going to sit here and starve, or do something about it. If only the latter could be as effortless as the former. But when she planted her feet, and dug her claws into the table for leverage, Hestia’s hand was waiting to help her up.

“Have you any pasta-related wisdom to spare too? The kitchens ought to be quiet now, and the Alced won’t be here for days. Even if they hurry it up they can’t take the bridge if there’s nobody there to take it from. It’s just the principle of the thing.”

*******

“So now I just...wait?”

“And stir, occasionally.”

“How occasionally?”

“Every few minutes. Doesn’t need to be precise. Just enough to keep the noodles from clumping together.”

“There’s no spice or, I don’t know, seasoning, I should be adding? Just wait?”

“Ten minutes if you like them firm. Twelve if you like them softer.”

"Usually, there's a sauce of some kind to go with it. Shouldn't we be starting that?"

"Once you've graduated from pasta."

“...this isn’t a test, is it? There’s not some secret step that I ought to deduce from what’s come before?”

“We’re not making a test. We’re making lunch.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“...”

“...”

“...it’s just, boiling pasta. There’s something about it that sounds, I don’t know, complicated? Involved? I always imagined it a bigger fuss than this.”

“Everything sounds bigger than it is, at first. But we all get there in our own time.”

“Like ten to twelve minutes?”

“Ten to twelve minutes, sometimes.”

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

Once upon a time, there was a little chef who wasn’t happy just being a chef. So unhappy was he, that one night he broke every rule he’d ever learned, snuck aboard a spaceship, and left his rightful place far behind. This made the little chef happy, for a time. He saw many wonderful things, met many wonderful people, cooked them all sorts of delicious things, and even found a wife he could hold and treasure forever. But this, too, wasn’t enough. His friends could not journey with him. The sights of space revealed themselves to be full of danger and despair. And even his marriage threatened to crumble to dust. So the little chef asked the wise goddess Hera what he should do to fix his cursed heart.

And Hera, in her infinite wisdom, told him he hadn’t broken enough rules the first time.

The little chef held some small concern. He told Hera, “I don’t know, wise Hera. This wisdom may be too high for me to understand.” But could he, a mere chef, so easily discard the words of one so wise? Shouldn’t he ought to, at least, follow after her, and see the results for himself? This was a wisdom more his station. “If you think it wise, then I will try my best.”

And what would his first desire be?

“Mynx ought to eat. And she won’t, unless somebody prepares her food in a way that she will accept. It is not so different a desire than those I’ve had before, but I know I can do this much.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Who cares about a stupid umbrella?

By the time the sun rises, every waterway will flood with gossip. Did you hear? Do you know? Vermillion Beast of Lanterns struck again! Terrorized an entire village, she did. But how? But why? Wasn’t there a whole guard of the Dominion’s finest staying there? All battered! All beaten! They say she batted them aside like they were nothing. Their swords shattered against her hide. Their hearts melted at her terrible voice. The last one fell, groaning, and she vanished into the fading light. Nothing! They could do nothing! Fear the Beast’s wrath!

(How brave, how brave, they’ll say, that the soldiers would fight so the villagers would be spared. How noble! How heroic!)

Nobody’ll be talking about an extra umbrella, scattered amidst the rubble. Too plain a design to even notice; deep forest green, dotted with tiny, scarlet flowers. Blends right into the mud. Pretty bad umbrella, in the end. They’re supposed to be for showing off. Or telling someone you don’t want them getting wet.

So who cares about a stupid umbrella?

The priestess, apparently. Of course she’d care. What blue-veiled busybody could resist such an opening? ‘Oh, dear, what a terrible thing! No umbrella! Don’t worry, I’ll graciously let you share mine. Aren’t I such a bright, shining, kindly help to all? You may thank me at your convenience, while I tell you all the ways your life’s gone wrong.’

Han didn’t need your umbrella. She had her hat. And a hood. Which were perfectly fine, and keeping her dry enough. But despite two whole layers of Don’t Talk To Me, and a vast array of danger signals perfected over hundreds of years of highland tradition, her coldest shoulder had company.

(Press against her, feel her tighten. Brush her knee, feel her start. Not to recoil. Never to retreat. Tense. On edge. High alert. A tiger, coiled to pounce. Or flee.)

She could try to keep ignoring her. She ought to keep ignoring her, until she got the idea and left to find easier praise. All she’d have to do was nothing. Sit, on a barge, in her own land, surrounded by some kind of fancy rain-activated perfume (worth more than everything she owned, no doubt) while an unwelcome visitor blabbered pretty lies in a voice oh so effortlessly high-class.

Just that. And nothing less.

Han half-turns to meet her, one sharp, emerald eye peering from beneath hat and hood, pinning the nosy priestess to the deck with her stare. “Tired of attention, bud?” A growl ripples through her voice. Innocent bystanders strongly consider scooting away. “You wanna run that by me again?”

Go on. Cut to the chase.

Tell her why you’re really here, priestess.

[Rolling to Figure Out a Person: 5 + 6 + 0 = 11. First question: What do you hope to get from me?]

Breathless Dead

So. It wasn’t a prank of Zeus’. Wonderful.

“I can’t just step down, and, vanish away. No, no, it’s simply out of the question.”

And yet. When she turned her mind to the problem at hand, where was the road that carried her to victory over her foe, when she no longer had divine aid on her side? Hadn’t she said this quest was important? Hadn’t he said so?

“But if it’s for the sake of the voyage, then. Perhaps.” Give her a moment. This was a set of words in a novel order. “Perhaps I can find a way to step. Back. Temporarily.”

It was, all things considered, remarkable progress under dire circumstances, and if she felt a little less like death then she might’ve demanded a medal for her efforts. But step back to what? She couldn’t leave the voyage. The auguries predicted smoother sailing for some time, yes, but not nearly enough to set down anywhere for, what, a vacation?

...when was the last time she’d had a vacation? Question for later.

“Hestia, I wish we could have met earlier, but perhaps I can make up for that some by asking more of your wisdom: What do you suggest I do? Pasts, futures, these are tricky things to take hold of. I may have forgotten how, along the way.”

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

The ship bore him on. Hera held him up, and in her presence no care could intrude. The physical awareness of form, the mental balance of attentions, the emotional weight of anticipation, all that usually composed a Dolce scattered to the void. What was left was free to drift and rest and simply be.

Now, much of him shied away, naturally repelled from the thought of marital debts owed. He much more preferred the reverse, to give, than to risk greed, and overstepping of bounds. But, amidst himself sat a shining core of a thought, a vision of two resting their full weight on the other, and neither falling or slipping. And if that couldn't be marriage, than what could?

And yet...

"I don't know what I ought to say." He heard himself wonder. "I could sit in front of her for hours, and I wouldn't know. I can't, Hera. I'm not ready. I need...I need..." And the strain of searching for the unknown threatened to pull him back together, until a gentle brush of Hera's hand scattered him back into restful quiet, and tipped the words right out of him. "I don't know what I need. And I don't know how to know what I need."

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Han

The Beast

Archetype: Heir of Dragons

At the height of their power, the daughters of the Dominion stand unveiled. Their birthright manifests amid torrents of tightly-woven Essence, revealing scales, claws, fangs that had always been there, had you the eyes to see them. In their hands, their mother’s gifts are an elegant saber, dancing free in the wind, effortlessly graceful, all the more beautiful for their peril. All the Kingdoms love them, and rejoice in their presence.

Vermilion Beast of Lanterns carries a hard reminder: Dragons ought to be feared.

Tall as a litter. Powerful as an earthquake. A cataclysm imprisoned in ruby scales. Limbs ending in claws, where they do not hold blades. Inferno heart, ever-burning, consuming wood, air, Essence. The face of a girl, now sharpened by crest and pointed ears, and a pair of glowing, slitted pupils. Hearts and flagstones break at her roar. Blink, and she is gone. Falter, and you are finished.

Face her wrath, and despair.

Aesthetic: Defiant Demeanor - Delinquent clothes - A crude sword

Han is. Compact. But rather than frailty, her stature speaks to a tightly-knit form, not easily moved or broken. Her hair is a deep auburn, and you may ask if it is dyed at your own peril. She wears it in a plentiful, messy ponytail, to keep it out of her face. Good thing too; any hair that strayed in front of her piercing eyes might well be incinerated on the spot.

As to attire, those of the Dominion speak the virtues of skirts and shun the shameful, unnecessary display of bare skin. Many have taken up the refrain, putting away the traditional pants and loose garments of their lands in favor of the high-class foreign styles. Last Han checked, this was still the Flower Kingdoms. And if any of those Dominion types took issue with her clothes, then they were welcome to try and dress her themselves.

She wears loose, baggy pants, regularly hiked up to the knee. (Let’s see you walk around with soaked pant legs, see how you like it.) Her shirts are simple, plain, and unadorned, with nothing to distract from her bare shoulders and toned arms. A tattooed dragon’s claw snakes over her left shoulder, curling around her bicep to grasp at a jagged sun. The rest of the design hides on her back, and you will not see it. She carries no umbrella, opting instead for a drab brown poncho and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Simple. Unassuming. Ideal to hide under and glare from.

Her sword is a patta, technically. Practically, it’s a lost blade attached to a lost gauntlet, and it gets the job done. While messy, and ill-equipped for more traditional forms, it favors a blend of wickedly powerful slashes and intermittent martial arts. What weaknesses it has, she more than makes up for in physical ability and sheer stubbornness. Given the impossibility of sheathing it, she opts to wear it on her back in a conspicuous bundle of cloth. Which, in a pinch, also makes a perfectly serviceable club.

Stats
Daring +2
Grace +1
Heart -1
Wit +0
Spirit +2

Conditions
Angry (-2 on Figure Out a Person)

Feral: 3

Your Feral score starts at 1. If it hits 4, you can’t hold back the beast any longer and you Transform. If your Feral drops to 0, you lose access to all your Beast playbook moves until it increases again. On the plus side, you’re fitting in. You blend. You’ve assimilated.

Increase Feral when:

• You express yourself in a shocking way through your appearance
• You display intense emotion that society wants you to conceal

Decrease Feral when:

• You feel that your bestial nature has hurt someone you care about
• You go along with an uncomfortable interaction to fit in

Moves

Transform: You have a bestial form, which you can assume at will and must assume whenever your Feral hits 4. When you do, tell everyone what the beast in you looks like, increase your Feral to 4 if it’s not there already, and roll +Daring:
10+: Choose 2
7–9:Choose 1

• You are in harmony with your beast and may clear a Condition
• You are magnificent and little escapes your notice; you gain leverage or an opportunity with a monster
• Pain is nothing to you; ignore the next time you would Stagger while transformed
• You can move in ways no ordinary person could

You revert to your usual form when your Feral drops below 4. While transformed, you may mark a Condition to avoid reducing your Feral, as often as you like.

Ferocious: When you Fight, you may mark a Condition to choose an additional option, even on a 6-.

Tenacious Purpose: When you commit yourself to a specific goal, you may ask the GM once per scene how you could advance that goal in a way that violates “civilized” norms. Take +1 forward to act on the answer. If you refrain, it counts as an uncomfortable situation that reduces your Feral by 1 and you must mark a Condition.

Shameless: When you say aloud what you want from an NPC, you may give them a String on you to ask a question about them from the Figure Out a Person move.

BDE: When you make it clear to your foes that you’re the biggest threat, then for the rest of the scene, whenever you roll a 10+, you may choose someone present to be impressed or intrigued with you. Once during the scene, when you gain a String on someone, gain an additional String on someone else who considers you an enemy.

Oppositional Defiance: You defy authority as a reflex. If someone tells you to do something, even if it's something you wanted to do, your instinct is to not do it. If you directly defy authority, gain a String on that person. If you comply, they gain a String on you.

Truths of Heart and Blade

Smitten Kitten: When you become Smitten with someone, say why, give them a String, and answer this question:

• What have you done that you are sure they view as inappropriate?

The Bloody Truth: When you Figure Out a Person in physical conflict, you may additionally ask one of these questions, even on a 6-:

• What awakens the beast inside you?
• How could I get you to kiss me?

Strings
Giri: 2 strings
Kalaya: 2 strings
Piri: 2 strings
Red Wolf: 1 string
Lotus: 1 string

Smitten With
Lotus
Machi

XP: 1

Advancements:
-Move from Beast playbook: Shameless
-Move from Beast playbook: BDE
-Move from another playbook: Oppositional Defiance
-+1 Spirit

Fellowship: The Heart

Let us return, for a moment, to a sad soaked bundle, held twice tight. The first grip looses, and deposits two passengers on solid ground. Collect all your things. Mind the gap. Ride again, soon! The second grip relents only that eyes may see what hands cannot. Are there tears? Does she breathe? Does she fear? Maybe. Possibly. Probably. The cloak intrudes. Were both of her arms not unquestionably occupied, Wolf would have already torn it to shreds. An anxious growl builds in her throat as she waits, and waits, waits for trembling arms to peel away the layers.

The cowl falls back, and Wolf falls into a dream of enchantment and cunning. A vision of fiery orange and creamy whites, of fur invitingly soft and glowing with color. A curiosity of pointed, fluffy ears and a precious dollop of black dotting a perfect nose. A promise of poise, power, and so much more, wrapped in limbs curving with lithe muscles. An eternity of shining emerald; stare, please, stare, lose yourself deeper and deeper and deeper in her, without hideous lenses to get in the way.

Wolf stares. Wolf waits.

Blink. And the dream is put aside. Back to waking. Back to gangly limbs and patchwork, speckled coat. Back to ill-kept and tangled fur. Back to spectacles perched on a snout all the wrong shapes. Back to a low rumble in Wolf’s chest, felt through paws, through cloak, filling her with unconditional approval. Back to lying weightless in a strength that could hold her forever. Back to a closing distance, and foreheads meeting, and one last, precious word spilling from Wolf’s lips.

And the name was

”Jackdaw.”

Breathless Dead

This would be the part where an objection ought to go. Were it Zeus before her, she might’ve still found one. But it was unfair Hestia, and she put into words aches her heart had never thought to speak of, and Vasilia had no one here to hide behind or lean on. Just her, a lifetime of exhaustion, and a jagged little truth.

“So, what now?” She still didn’t want the cocoa. But the warmth of the mug was...pleasant. And it gave her hands something to do. “I regale anyone who’ll listen to my infinite record of regret until I can say what color I’ll paint the garden fence?”

She winced. Only thing she was good at. “Ugh, no, it’s not like…” Like she planned on not sticking around for the rest of her life. Just. Not something she thought of in much detail. And. Well. The question stood vis a vis painful autobiographies.

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

Forgive the little sheep, if he cannot manage any more divine revelation today. He carefully unpacks every word, arranges them just so, as ordained, they never transform into anything more than words in an odd order. Impossible? Cannot fail? Hadn’t he gotten into this mess by trying to do too many impossible things? But enveloped in the presence of dear Hera, even the lost were acceptable. Especially the lost.

“Who can I even go to with...any of this?” He’s only whispering now, and this too, feels acceptable. “This is, well, it might be, she’s the Captain. My Captain. And, a personal matter, such as this…” He couldn’t. How could he? If word got out-! No no no no no, no, a thousand times no. So who...?

(He did not dare close the last inch between them, to rest his head against hers. Such a thing would be far, far above his station. But. He did close one of the two last half-inches. And if she deigned to close the other, she would not hear any complaint from him.)

Fellowship: The Heart

The world is quiet. All is still.

Her mind was a whirling mechanism of epiphany, each thought setting the next into motion, free of jam or ill-fitting conclusion. Nothing could grow stagnant when all was in proper order. Nothing could rot, poisoning her heart, dulling her eyes until all she could see was herself.

You see? You see! Wasn’t that lovely? She could tell you the pages of the novels she’d cobbled that together from. She’d held onto those words for years now, thinking that it would be the perfect way to explain such things should the moment ever come for her to express the thoughts. But that was all backwards, wasn’t it? She’d held onto them not because they were perfect. But because they were perfect to her. Picking out the one right answer in a sea of infinite words had crushed her into a useless stone time and time again. Picking out the words she adored, to be whatever they needed to be for the people she held close to her heart? So much easier. So much more fun!

Love. Always kept turning up in the best stories, didn’t it? She really ought to have noticed the throughline sooner-

And that shadow of a memory kept her at the boundary of Crowhame. Because she wasn’t a machine. Not really. Not in the ways that mattered. All that ran well in this one, beautiful moment would, in time, wear down, skip, clog, fall apart, drown, descend into a useless pile of anxieties all over again. Even the act of trying to hold onto this perfect clarity would squeeze her to the point of breaking. Wouldn’t it be nice, to never have to fall from this height? To never endure the cycle again? Hadn’t she climbed enough?

Can she rest, now?

Perhaps.

But then again, she did have a rather good memory. If she found her way here once, she could do it again. And this time, with better company.

She took a step. And gently closed the book behind her.

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

“Ack!”

A black-cowled figure stumbled into the clown-rich chaos, the victim of a sudden lesson in comparative body mass. But before she could fall to her knees, where a death of pies surely awaited her, a second pair of shoulders came under her burdens, and a second pair of paws marked her path forward. Wolf wasted no time on words; they had precious little to reach safety, and less still to complete the miracle.

Soon the four of them were huddled behind the now-flaming donut cart, mere seconds of safety left. Just enough time for the figure to hurriedly transcribe one, last edit to their reality...

Lucien!

You can’t be dead.

You smell fried pickles.

No, more than that, you hear fried pickles, Crackling, sizzling, fresh from the fryer and ready to eat.

Worst of all, you want fried pickles. Don’t lie. We all know you do. And when was the last time you heard of a dead man wanting anything?

Now then, are you going to wake up and taste them? (Mind your tongue, they’re still hot.)

Professor!

So. You’ve finally wound up dead, have you? After all this time, the boogeyman finally caught up to you, like you knew it would. All those years of worry, and now that it’s here, does it seem so bad? Was the ending really worth all that fuss? I bet it seems rather silly, in hindsight. You’d think that simple logic would’ve steered you right. By what merit does the last day get weighted more heavily than all the others that came before? The rest of your life outnumbers the end of it, after all. So by that logic, the end shouldn’t be all that important.

You think so too?

Ah-ha!

And how exactly is a dead man agreeing with me? Unless, of course, you’re not really dead! You never were! Members of the court, I rest my case, we may all recess for fried pickles now. (Yes, yes, there’s some for you too, Professor. Get up already, before Lucien scarfs them all down!)

Breathless Dead

Zeus. You bastard.

You knew.

You knew this would happen. You threw Hestia at her, and you knew this would happen. All roads led to cocoa. Moments of absolute stillness, when all their attentions were enraptured with the first shy wisps of steam emerging from the kettle. The intense battle between too-large fingers and a rascally little packet. A spoon riding the eternal circuit of a mug, scraping out a steady little tune as it went.

This is how he learned to make it so well; learning at the feet of the master.

The gift of a goddess lay before her. She took the mug in her hands. Felt the heat bloom against her skin.

She didn’t want a drop of it.

“I don’t know why I’m this way.” She continued. Quietly staring into her mug. “I don’t want to be this way. Not a day goes by that I don’t ask myself why, and in all this time I haven’t found an answer.” The first sip filled her belly with a sweet, comforting warmth. Reminding her, keenly, of the warmth she so sorely missed.

“And I hurt him. He put his precious, fragile little heart in my hands, and I shattered it. For no reason at all.” The mug froze, halfway to her lips, clouding her face with steam. “...no. I think there was a reason.” A terrible, awful, reason, but a reason all the same. “I was alone. Bella was in my way. And it was the easiest way I could think to get one over her. Of course, nobody forced me to, but once I had that...all I could see was forward.” Good, that the cocoa was hot enough to scald her tongue, if she wasn’t careful. Kept her from downing the whole thing in one go. Forced her to take it slowly. Linger. “What happened after that...I don’t know. I don’t know. Always, it’s forward, forward, and I don’t know why. Why did I have to be the one to beat her? Why couldn’t I love him enough to stop?” Her head fell, catching on the rim of her cup. “And why can’t I think of anything else I could’ve done?”

“I hurt people, Hestia. That’s what I’m best at. That’s all I’ve ever really done. Oratory, the stage, the arena, this ship, what good is any of it? But put an opponent in front of me, and I will make them bleed. That, I can do.” No matter who else got hurt along the way.

Herself - and him - included.

“Leaving Lakkos...was just the first time I had to do it on purpose.”

Was that it, then? Had she told enough stories for one day? Was she going to have to say her name? please no Would this be the last she’d ever see of Hestia? The thought cut through the stone-heavy haze, and before she realized what she was doing she was asking, “Is all this why you’ve never visited me before?” She couldn’t stop herself. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want cocoa. “Is this why you stay away from him, whenever I’m near?” She stared the Lady Hestia dead in the eye, crumbling beneath the whole of her presence, and still she could not be silent. “Are we that unsuited for each other?”

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

Terrible. Horrible. As if there were words enough for such a tragedy. That someone so kind, so beautiful, so unbelievably deserving of so much should think herself not even worth loving. In spite of the unimaginable breach of propriety, were Zeus in the room at that moment, Dolce would have bent time and space to show her the full extent of the harm she’d caused. Had Hera not already recovered - and what a relief, she knew she was wrong! - he might’ve raced to the altars to get started on-

Wait.

She was wrong. About herself.

If Hera (a goddess) could be wrong in this matter, and Dolce (a silly, lost chef) was no better than her, then. Then.

Oh. Oh heavens.

A door burst in his heart, before he could finish giving himself permission to open it. Questions upon questions, without form, before words, filled him up to bursting. Nowhere to go, but they had to go, but nowhere to go. No way out. Too many words. No words. He felt...he felt something, several somethings, all blended together into a horrible lump, deep in his chest, at once hardened into a thousand needle points and melting into white-hot slag, and, and, and,

“I don’t feel well, Hera.” His legs were splayed out in front of him. He didn’t remember when he’d stopped kneeling. Or when he’d begun to sob. “It hurts. It hurts bad. You told me I could not carry the darkness alone, but. How can I ask someone else to shoulder something so awful? Something I can’t even manage myself?”