TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

No part of this is right. Neither of them ought to be here. The ship’s champion had as much business at the helm as the ship’s cook. Poseidon would prove their folly, momentarily, except there would be no one left to accept the truth of the matter. Or, rather, those that were wouldn’t get to accepting said truth for some time, on account of the more pressing matters of a ship split in two.

But Dionysis didn’t operate on what ought to be. They stood atop a terrifying mountain of possibility, and promised all of it real, in exchange for all propriety learned and ingrained. Only here could the impossible seem rather doable. And only here could an answer be seen for how simple it was.

The crew belonged to the Captain. The ship belonged to the Captain.

Whoever commanded them was, in effect, the Captain.

Click! Went the cover of a speaking-tube.

“Reduce speed. Return to prior heading. 73 point 2 degrees starboard. Raise prow 11 point 7 degrees.” Went the calm, steady voice of a sheep.

Fwomp! Went a pocketful of fluffy, muffling wool, jammed down the only tube to the engine room.

Dolce’s hooves made no sound, as he turned to face Redana, and the communications dial she’d just shattered. Behind him, the blocked pipe, that she would have to go through him to repair. Beside them both, the viewscreen, the gathering storm, and proof to the question that would decide their fates:

Who commanded this ship?

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

Of course there wasn’t a way to tell in any way that mattered. The thought was a silly, useless old thing, forgotten for a reason. What good did it do her to know what her great-great-great grandparents were designed to do? Their lives were their own, as hers was her own, and she wasn’t going to run off and, and become a street sweeper or whatever they did just because they were born for it. Silly of her to even bring it up in the first place.

The uncharacteristically silly Vasilia considered the implements laid out before her, seemingly deaf to Iskarot’s words. Forks? Corkscrews? Ladles? No, no, it would be chopsticks today. For the challenge, you see. (Oh gods what had her life come to) She laid herself out, set to savor a bowl of coleslaw in her finest bathrobe, and only then did the Grand Magos drift back into her awareness, welcomed by a gracious gesture of her chopsticks.

“Well? I believe you were telling me why I’m so great and powerful?~”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Nobody wants a dumb rock from the Highlands.

Lowlanders’ll tell you to sand away the rough edges, paint it in an inoffensive floral pattern, and so long as it makes the right noises maybe it’ll be worth something. Highlanders’ll tell you there’s more than just dumb rocks up here, and any dumb rocks that happen to be nearby ought to keep their mouths shut if they don’t want to talk about it later. N’yari are huge jerks who only want to suplex dumb rocks because it makes for a good laugh for a night and then they’re off for whatever catches their eye next.

Dumb rocks don’t get held. Dumb rocks don’t warm up from the rain beneath another, enveloped in them, every twist and pull caught with heavy, cushioning softness. Nobody’s ever looked at a dumb rock like it was the most precious, most valuable thing they’d ever known, like just being near it made them happy like nothing else could. A dumb rock could go its whole life, and never imagine somebody filled with a hunger for you, for your lips, for your stupid, trembling face as they devour you whole and still want more, more, more

When Machi finally pulls away, when Han finally remembers to breath, and her lungs fill in wild gasps, and her eyes stay fixed on that impish mouth, and her thoughts put themselves in a language she recognizes, they bring to her a terrible realization:

Oh gods above and below Machi was serious.

The whole time. She. She meant every word. Every flirt and every poem and every moonlight serenade slash wrestling championship was. Was. Oh no.

She, she couldn’t. This wasn’t. How. This was a fight! They were fighting! And then, they weren’t, and she. She just. Twice. And. Was she going to do it again? (And if not, why did that make her heart sink?) But why. Why?! They were fighting! They’d always been fighting! (Would anyone ever look at her like that again?) Machi was. She’d. A bully! A big, dumb, strong bully who was still so very very close to her face and. And. (What if this is her only chance? What if this never happens again? With anyone?) She. She had to...to...

Share?

Oh. That’s right.

She...had to stop. This, and Machi. Because the N’yari didn’t actually want a dumb rock from the Highlands, she wanted Han’ya of the Oei. Because every victim she’d carry on her back betrayed a little girl who dreamed of a life free of bullies, and no amount of kisses(?!?!?) could make her forget that. Not even if she just kidnapped everyone who really had it coming. Because, today, a kind-hearted little priestess didn’t deserve to get roped up (literally) in...in her stupid nonsense.

(Because mom would get her rose-candy sticks at New Year’s, no matter what they’d said to each other that day. Because dad still had stories she hadn’t heard, no matter how many of them were going to be too long and too old for her.)

She had to stop.

And she had to stop her.

[Marking Insecure, Activating Tenacious Purpose. Goal: Save Lotus and also the rest of the people here from the N’yari. How can she advance her goal in a way that violates civilized norms?

Oh, and Han is now Smitten with Machi. The answer to the question “What have you done that you are sure they view as inappropriate?” worked into the post above.]

Breathless Dead

For the lifetime of every material need met to the fullest: For the nights of sleep free from fear and foe: For the knowledge of ages passed down through the generations: For the mouth of the Masters forbidding in specific, in person, in clearest detail: The lash! The lash!

For the weak link in a centuries-old chain of dinnertimes: For deeds done in darkness by the gifts of home and hearth: For the supplanting of love that must always be first: The scourge! The scourge!

For the reward of the faithless scoundrel: The whip. The whip!

“The ship belongs to the Captain. The crew belongs to the Captain.” Slowly is the only way he can enter. To keep from cutting his hooves on shrapnel. To keep from coming undone.

"There is nothing here you could use to help her. I'm sorry." It slips out. He doesn't know if it's a mistake.

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

Another time, perhaps even a week ago, the question would have earned Iskarot a free diversionary tactic with his choice of subtly scathing retort. But today, Vasilia held vigil over his sacred coleslaw, until the time it would be needed once again, and secrets did not belong between them. Or maybe she’d puttered around her quarters long enough that simple company was enough to loosen her guard. Or maybe she’d taken Hestia’s lessons to heart, and the first step to building a past was to acknowledge that it existed in the first place. Who can say?

She hardly could.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Vasilia shrugged. “The concept is, was, a foreign one, until I took to spacefaring. Where I was born - you’d know the gravitational workings better than I - the planet was positioned such that every piece of drifting scrap in the entire system wound up there. Any castaways still breathing and any wrecks still populated found their home there. Keep going on for a few hundred years, and who even remembers what their great-great-great-great-great grandparents were ‘designed’ to do? If you could even tell. After all, when a bricklayer and a herald love each other very much, what are their children supposed to do? When the child of a bricklayer and a herald and the child of a scrap processor and a court entertainer love each other very much, what are their children supposed to do? For me, I was born, and my family had taken the laurels before, so it was the natural thing for me to do.”

A pause. A thought. One so old, she’d forgotten she’d ever had it.

“Why do you ask? You don’t have a way to, you know, determine such a thing, do you?”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Dry at last. You can’t get her now, stupid rain! Han wins!!! She’s got a big old umbrella and, and, a thick, heavy blanket to snuggle up under. She’s wrapped up cozy and tight, s’real soft ‘n maybe she’ll just lie here forever and you’ll never ever get to rain on her again. Ha! Just you try to find a gap in her perfect, snuggly, heavy, gosh, really really heavy, enveloping, purring, arm...twisting...blanket?

Bwuh?

Ow ow ow ow ow ow owwwwww okay she’s awake! Always been awake! She didn’t tap out, pass out, or anything, she’s here and she’s fighting and King’s Crown Machi did you fill your pockets with boulders to keep from getting homesick you big ox?! Because despite her best wriggles, the most she accomplishes is eliciting pain from her shoulder and delight from her wrestling partner foe.

All the world is purring. Machi pushes her arm back inch by agonizing inch. She clamps her mouth shut and screws her eyes tight. She won’t give her the satisfaction. This doesn’t hurt. She can take your worst, mangetail. So go ahead. Tear her arm clean off. Play with her hair. Tell her whatever nonsense you want because it won’t make a lick of difference (augh no wait bad words). Machi doesn’t mean any of it anyway. It’s all a trick. A big joke on her favorite target. How many other girls has she put in a headlock and whispered sweet nothings to? Answer: So many.

But endurance alone doesn’t win wrestling matches. Not from this, uh, position. Nor can she tap out either. N’yari wrestling doesn’t work like that. The round continues not until one party surrenders, but until one party endures a penalty for surrendering. And the only way Machi will let up is, is...

A shadow of fear passed over her face.

The Sorrowful Kitten Prostration. The only technique that’s ever satisfied Machi. The only way she’ll accept her victory.

(A glimpse of the priestess, through the mountains of fur and muscle, through the hot breath and honeyed words. She’s all but leaping from her captor’s lap, straining uselessly against arms as big as her. Her eyes are wide. And they can’t stop looking back at her.)

“You i-idiot.” From beneath the warm cold dead dumb mountain, a spark of fire. “Who’d want to be a rock? Who’d want a rock?!”

Machi’s grip tightens. A starburst of pain. She grits her teeth, but she can’t do it. She won’t do it, do you hear her?! (Not in front of all these people. Don’t give them a reason.) If that’s what you’re into, fine! No kittens here! Nothing but dumb, jagged, ugly rock as far as the eye can see!

An arm bursts free of its prison. She punches the deck so hard it splinters and yields her some leverage. And still she pushes, and presses, her muscles bulging, straining.

And Machi, impossibly, rises an inch off the deck.

[Rolling to Figure Out a Person: 5 + 1 + 0 = an absolute 6. My XP is limitless. Asking bonus question for physical conflict: What awakens the beast inside of you?]

Breathless Dead

A Captain bore fear in place of their crew, fought foes their crew would never see, and stood firm at the first and the last, to spare the ruin of all. It mattered little whether victory was possible. A Captain would do their duty.

Dolce’s heart threatens to swallow him whole. One moment he would be here, the next, gone, compressed into a miniscule particle of fluff, carried to rest somewhere out of the way where he would likely remain for the rest of his days.

“Lord Hades designated Vasilia as Captain.” He opens his mouth to let the words fall out. “Vasilia designated me as her second. Vasilia has chosen to temporarily abdicate her duties. I.” The gates fall shut, and it takes all his will to pry them back open. Slowly. Painfully. “I am Captain of the Plousious.”

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

“So. Anyone who’s going anywhere has to be a little unstable, or else they’d not be going anywhere to begin with.” Vasilia looks to her companion. Looks to her dim reflection in the viewscreen. Looks to her memory of every soul aboard she could call to mind.

Checks out.

“And that’s it, then? Anyone standing still has their eyes closed and ears blocked?” Her own ears perk up, as if to prove themselves still functional.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Han feels the clack-clack-clack of Machi’s claws, as if it were her bare shoulder and not a sword hilt. Something in her stomach twists in anticipation.

Of the fight! That’s about to happen, and a move, that’ll definitely happen, because Machi is a big dumb doofus who doesn’t ever change her playbook ever, so she needs to be ready for it. Every single time they fight, Machi always touches taunts her, to try and throw her off balance, and cheat, and win. Like the time that Machi ruined a perfectly good staredown by laughing and ruffling her hair. Or the other time she wasted an entire sneak attack to rub her shoulders. Or the time three months after that (and six months before the other one) when they’d locked swords and Machi’s free hand brushed the side of her arm and it lasted a little longer than it should’ve for what would’ve been a casual swipe in the heat of battles so she knows she did it on purpose. The jerk.

So! Yeah! Han’s stomach’s twisting a little! She has to get close, alright?! Her sword’s not got the best reach. So of course it’s gonna happen, like it always does, and that’s that. Machi’d be doing it right now if she could! Just...just look at her stupid eyes!

It’s a valid concern!

Shut up!!!

(She’s spent so much of herself today. The Essence flows alone ought to have knocked her out cold, were it not for her birthright. Still, wounds and bruises exact their tax on mind and motion. The poncho holds together with cheap wax and unwanted thread, and without love to bind it together it leaves her chilled and soaked to her bones. Machi will not let her stand. She will wrap her in a gentle furnace. Soft heat around iron muscle. Always wondered how she kept her coat so soft, living under a mountain. Machi whispers; an answer? A secret? A prayer? Too quiet for her heart to hear now...)

“Your raid-bride?” Uh. Han? “Excuse you, what makes you think you just get me?!” Han, you’re shouting very loudly, she can hear you just fine. “What, you think I’m gonna swoon all over you just ‘cause you ‘happen’ to walk by, and ‘happen’ to find me a present?” Han your face is very red, are you- “What kind of moon-eyed idiot do you think I am, huh?!”

The hat comes off. (And is placed gently on the priestess’ exposed head.) The dumb poncho, she hurls to the deck in a sodden lump. Her auburn hair streaks behind her, over her bare shoulders, over a curling dragon claw of black ink, and trailing off into wispy embers. Her arms are covered in muscle, in bruises, in still-healing wounds, and in promise of fight yet to come as her blade hangs steady.

“You want me, Machi? Then let’s see it. Convince me.”

...okay! Alright! She just said that! Great! No, really, great. This is fine. This can work. Because. Machi will need her entire warband to. Convince her. Which will, y’know, give the priestess and everybody a chance to escape. Or. Something.

Cool cool cool cool cool cool.

[I am legally obligated to roll to Entice Machi: 1 + 2 - 1 = 2]

Breathless Dead

Ah. Hrm. Only a day, then?

Not that he expected more than that! Goodness, no, he wouldn’t have dragged sweet Hestia into a conflict of kingship. (Though he would continue to leave her offerings to show there were no hard feelings, and lend a hand with her Vasilia-based efforts when asked.) He knew this moment was coming, ever since he decided the Captain’s chair was his achievable desire. Nothing in all his years of walking with Hestia or reading about her told him any different. The prophecies foretold an empty nursery, and now here it was, right on time.

He didn’t expect to feel so much like a freshly-shorn lamb, shivering in the absence of warmth he’d taken for granted.

It was good, then, that the next phase of his plan was already underway, and did not hinge on him being any less of a silly, lost sheep. The rituals and prayers were all completed yesterday, with the precious time he’d already bought for himself.

For you see, as the various chieftains were waking today, they would all of them find a bulky envelope addressed to them lying some respectable distance from their encampments. Dolce’s signature nestled unobtrusively in the corner, so as not to distract from the seal of Artemis occupying the center. While the names involved were different, as were some relevant minutia, the documents within read roughly as follows:

Pursuant to the official charter of the great ship Plousious, owned by Lord Hades...leased to the Starsong Privateers, for the purpose of conveying her majesty Redana Honorius Claudius and Lord Hades’ personal cargo to the planet known as Gaia, your challenge to your Captain’s leadership has been found to be inappropriately registered. Though Captain Vasilia has waived all rights by taking up arms with intent to enter your contest of her own will, her actions do not affect the standing of her duly appointed second, Dolce, who now bears the legal rights and responsibilities of Captain, under the above charter, since her voluntary departure.

Dolce has exercised his right of formal complaint regarding improperly classified action against his rightful station. Upon review, it has been found that your activities cannot be adequately categorized as any one, many, or all of the following:

• Gladiatorial challenge of authority
• Riotous mutiny
• Kidnapping with intent for harm
• Kidnapping with intent for ransom
• Kidnapping with intent for humiliation
• Kidnapping with intent for pleasure
• Performance art
• Decentralized protest movement

And so forth, for pages.

As such, any further action taken against Dolce will be taken as an Unlicensed Actor, without the aid of the Great Huntress, and at grave risk of her displeasure.

If you seek legal recourse, Dolce offers neutral ground to discuss the matter, in hopes that a resolution agreeable to all parties may be reached. (Catering to be provided for you and your associates, guaranteed free of malignant intent from your host as per standard hospitality protocols.)

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

Vasilia fell into an overstuffed chair, the tub resting on her lap like a favored kitten. Iskarot was many things, and a conversationalist wasn’t one of them. And it was precisely that which made him such an ideal conversational companion for washed-up Captains. No games, no riddles, shockingly straightforward by Order standards, once you knew how to listen. He was here, when he didn’t have to be, and talking, when she hadn’t the humor for it. Hermes bless his nightmarish heart.

“What is the ideal energy, to build a refrigerator? What is the steadfast and immobile life?” She mused, drumming her fingers idly on the tub’s lid.

Breathless Dead

The first warband only makes their presence known when it is already too late.

Three volleys of seven arc silently through the air, exploding on impact. Starbursts of feathers accompany a thunderous harmony of talons on deck, of spear on shield, of voices raised in ancient prayer. Hear us this day! See now our hour of triumph! We are victory made manifest!

The target turns to face his doom. A hatchling in either hand. A third nesting in his wool. Three more attempting to make a meal of his ankles. A dozen more scattered on the floor around him.

“...may I help you?”

First observation: The rituals do not have a provision for asking your opponent to please leave aside childcare duties and report to the field of battle. They approximate with an awkward shuffling away, while the least fortunate among the warband are pushed forward to help soothe the now-crying babes back to sleep.

It will, frankly, be the most approachable Dolce will make himself all morning. The twelve chieftains that remain soon learn their lessons, and opt to deal with the single, harmless sheep later. Breathing room: Established. Now to devise an approach for victory, and not just stalling out.

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

Vasilia found herself draped in a luxurious lavender bathrobe, holding enough coleslaw to make an ill-advised meal. It was, perhaps, not what she’d expected when Hestia had suggested she leave her chamber doors unlocked for visitors during waking hours.

Well. She’d be as lost with entertaining as she’d be lost with this, so suppose that was a wash.

“We have an agreement, the fridge and I.” She followed a coolant tube’s impressive arc across the room. “In exchange for room and board, it keeps food cold. I wasn’t aware I had to check my appliances for risk of assassination.”

The tub, she gave a tentative sniff. From a safe distance. “I wasn’t aware Archmagoses made their own coleslaw, either.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Sometimes in life, you make a mistake, and you pay for it every day for the rest of your days.

Every village in the Highlands (and some in the lowlands) deal with the N’yari as a chronic presence, suffering raids and kidnappings according to the inscrutable whims of the cats. They are a fact of life, the same as rain or taxes. When Han was a few years younger, and truly coming into her strength, she believed some things in life were less certain than she’d been taught to believe. If she could just beat up the N’yari really really good, then they’d be too scared to bother her village anymore! It was the perfect plan.

Except that after she’d chased off the first bunch, a raiding party of even bigger catgirls took their place the next moon. And the next moon. And the next moon. And the moon after that, too. Until, one fateful night, Machi of the Ōei and her handpicked battle-sisters paid her village a visit.

Words were said. Some stuff happened. A terrible fate befell many a tree and rooftop. And. Well. Han’s plan succeeded. N’yari don’t come to her village anymore. Because Machi’s claimed that territory for herself. And she’s not going to let anyone else raid there until. Uh.

Until Han agrees to come with her. Willingly.

So. Yeah. While she was still living with her parents, Machi and her band would regularly appear at random intervals to propose...adopting? Fighting? Marrying? Kidnapping her? Frankly, she’s not sure if she can call it kidnapping, but there’s just not a better word for it? She really thought things would get better once she moved out, and if you’re curious how well that’s worked out for her, may she direct your attention to the giant catgirl holding up the one barge on this entire river that contains a Han.

(Striking, in the one moment she wouldn't have interrupted for the world.)

So how does one deal with persistent suitors(?) from the N’yari? Observe the tactics of the wizened hunter, whose patience has run out years ago:

Step one: Tap Jazumi on the shoulder.

Step two: Apply left hook to N’yari at maximum speed.

Step three: Savor the sight and sound of a catgirl soaring through the air, landing in the river, and failing to cope with her new aquatic lifestyle. (These few seconds are for Han. This is Han’s Special Time. It's what makes dealing with all this actually possible.)

“What’s the matter, Jazumi?” She squats on the balls of her feet, grinning impishly. ”I thought you wanted the river.” With a N’yari-free spot on the deck to call her own, Han flips the cloth bundle off her back. In a whirl of white fabric she stands tall for her, the patta gleaming on her right arm, crude blade pointed squarely at Machi. “Or is there a better reason you idiots came this far off your mountain?” she growls above the rain.

And out of the corner of her mouth, a whisper: “Stick close to me, bud. I’ll get you out of here.”

[Fight roll: 4 + 2 + 2 = 8. Going for opportunity for allies (free Lotus!) and seize a superior position (by launching Jazumi into the river) Jazumi (or possibly the other N'yari?) picks 1 from the list too.]

Breathless Dead

The playwright that brought them together ought to have kept writing. His eyes would widen in surprise. She would glow with pride, and yet, restrain herself. Offering, without demanding. He’d answer with place settings for two. She’d make a quiet joke of serving him, for a change. Old songs, set to older rhythms swell after a long silence. Aphrodite would stand guard at the kitchen door, and he will suffer no one to pass.

But the script ends here. They are alone, together, on the stage, with no one but each other for an audience. He suggests he should leave three times over, and asks her if she’s sure six times more. She can’t focus on him and her lesson at once. She can’t explain he’s not the reason her words come out too curt, too rough. They reach the table, with food enough for them both, and pasta is so much easier to enjoy than words have been, but neither can forget that speaking is as necessary as eating, if this is to survive.

But he waits, out of habit. She waits, out of need.

“Not bad.” Hestia eats, unhurried, and unwilling to encroach on Aphrodite’s domain. “Next time, do one thing a little differently, and see if you like it better.”

A topic. Any topic at all. Safety in a storm. “I didn’t know you were learning to cook.” He didn’t know she wanted to learn, either. Never held much interest in the kitchens, if he wasn’t in them. Had he missed something, all this time?

“‘Cook’ may be a strong word. Let’s start with ‘feeding myself’, and see where it goes.”

He sits for longer than he should, pulled between expectations. Praise her efforts, and risk seeming like empty flattery? Give her company in her amateur state, and risk bruising her pride? “You...have a good teacher,” he hedges.

“Mmm?” She blinks. ”Ah, yes, of course. Indeed, she’s quite good. Would that I had called on her sooner.”

Silence. Forks hunt down noodles too small to matter. Perhaps neither were the right answer. Perhaps he chose wrong when he blundered into the kitchens, and no more answers were right.

“She’s brought to my attention,” she continues. “Other, aspects of my life that I’ve left...deficient. Too deficient. In desperate need of personal attention.”

“Oh?”

She lingers on a meager bite, staring into the empty, oily plate before her. She hears the intent, hiding behind the question. A sneaking thoughtfulness, standing ready to catch any responsibility, and keep it from landing squarely on her shoulders. “Yes, and I suspect it will take a great deal of my attention.” Nothing to clue him in. She knows he will wait up tonight, wondering. She still says nothing. “More than I can usually spare. Between that, and, other, considerations: I have to ask:”

She sets down her fork. Her knife rests against it at the proper angle. She dabs at her mouth with a napkin, before folding it beside her plate, and now she can’t pick up any of them again. Nothing else to delay with. “Dolce, I am stepping down from Captainship for some time. Would you care to take it in my place?”

The news knocks the thoughts clean out of his head. She sees his mouth hang slack, before a mask of duty latches shut over his heart. “Of course, I would gladly take charge for you-”

“No. No, I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry, but that can’t be how it is. I’m not going to be Captain for some time, but that doesn’t mean you have to.” No one had to do anything. No one but her. “If you don’t want it, there are other qualified people on board. Give it a few days, and the Alced will have a Captain from their ranks, favored by the gods.” Unlike her. An Alced Captain on the rise, and she on yet another step down. A long, slow spiral of compromise and tragedy, ever-downwards, from her first breath to an awkward conversation in an empty kitchen on a doomed voyage. But now she could make mediocre pasta, and everything will be different.

She gathers up the dishes - as a proper domestic person should - and one by one sets to washing them in the sink. Needed one more job to hide behind, after all. “You’re my second, Dolce. My second,” she says, filling her vision with chores instead of wool. “It’s your right to take it up or refuse. Whatever seems best to you.”

“And you’re...okay with this?”

“I don’t have much choice in the matter. Not really.” Not anymore. “Zeus has taken issue with me, and if I were to press on like this, it would only end badly for everyone.” She turns, mustering up the remnants of a smile. “But. I think I’ll be alright.”

“Ehhhhh, ‘alright’ may be a strong word for it.” Hestia waves her hand uncertainly. “Let’s start with ‘resigned acceptance’ and see where we go from there.”

As it turns out, being the goddess of hearth and home did not render one exempt from the frustrated pouting of a deeply injured soul. But it did allow Hestia to deflect all consequence via an honest shrug.

He is not so lucky. Finally, questions with words to answer, and nothing less than the fate of the voyage hangs in the balance. The literal fate, of course, but probabilities of dying horribly in a space fire speak quieter than he might’ve feared. He had served under many Captains. Mission mattered, crew mattered, but who decided the tenor of a voyage more than they who stood at the helm? What manner of voyage would Captain Dolce run? What manner of voyage did he want to run? No one had ever asked him before. Least of all himself. “I, hrmm. That is. A lot to consider.” Already, one could hear the considerations tumbling around in his head. “But I will give it some thought.”

“You don’t need to give an answer right away. No one will know, until you’ve made your decision.” The dishes seen to, the meal done, the news given, she makes to leave. And there she pauses at the doorway. This is it. This is the time. The most honesty they’d exchanged since...well, since honesty had demanded they walk this road in the first place. Three little words. Words she’d told him a hundred thousand times over, and the pressure of not saying them threatened to burst out of her chest. Hadn’t she waited long enough? Hadn’t she suffered enough?

He’s still sitting there. Watching her. All the way from the other side of the kitchen.

“Be...” She bites her lip. And waits some more. “Be well, Dolce.”

He watches her go from his seat at the table. A hundred hundred paths trace their way through his heart. None reach an ending in time. “Be well,” his little voice vanishes into the dark after her. “Vasilia.”

He hopes it is not a wrong answer.