TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

Behold, the peril of mixed loyalties.

Just a few short months ago, she believed herself cursed, doomed to the whims of Zeus. A creature shorn clean of her past, with no future to look forward to, knowing only a never-ending present of causes to sacrifice herself for. A viewpoint of such pride that she surely would have been struck down for her hubris, were her heroic antics not endlessly entertaining to the Thunderer. A viewpoint that was thoroughly dashed when Zeus finally took her at her word, and left her in the hands of her sister Hestia.

Under the tutelage of Hestia, she was granted a taste of a life she was never permitted. A bright star rises to a new dawn. A golden child climbs to the highest pedestal, for all to see her glory. Lionesses must heed the hunt, not waste their mornings with tea and toast. In the glow of the hearth, she was granted a second chance, a fate that led not to destruction, for her and all who she loved. She could not stay. She cannot not say why. But here she stands, contending for Zeus’ favor, and by some miracle she might just pull it off.

The clouds of Kaeri are ready. They have not noticed a flightless visitor take his place in their whirling formations. Vasilia clutches her sword in her hand. The battlefield tilts downwards. She falls to the horizon. In a moment, she will pivot to the Kaeri, and the sword will continue. It cannot harm the Diodekoi. But it can set her ears ringing. Draw her attention away from their unprotected lines.

Except.

The innkeeper humbles themselves before any guest. The fireplace burns with a soft light, for all to rest in peace. The homebody speaks in a quiet hush, not seeking to be anybody more than they are.

But those truly vying for Zeus's favor have all eyes on them already.

[Rolling to Keep Bella Busy: 2 + 1 + 2 = 5. Uh oh! Marking Vasilia’s sword off her sheet as the price for acting against a Threat to the World.]

Breathless Dead

A skirmisher stops moving when they are dead or dying. They fight in flight as hummingbirds, consuming the ground and the open spaces at a rate just barely capable of sustaining themselves. To think is an exercise in multitasking, a tradeoff in time. Slower to the mark, in exchange for living longer if you can still reach it.

The Garden grows still at the dodecahedron’s roar. They recognize their own. An apex predator. The cannons grow silent, to better hear their first footfalls. The phalanxes freeze, digging deeper in a vain hope of delaying the violence that stopped the unstoppable. Dolce and Vasilia keep moving. The broken body of Princess Epistia bends as bodies should not. Dolce and Vasilia must keep moving. The hoarse cry of their friend meets the sickening crunch of a kick disintegrating ribs, and they cry no more. Dolce and Vasilia cannot stop moving.

She sees the most dangerous threat on the battlefield, sees the loss of their greatest fighter, and sees no one else this far or this free.

He cannot see his Champion, or anyone else remotely qualified. He’s not even qualified. But he is the Captain.

“Dammit. Dammit.” She swears, as they send a pack of Kaeri tumbling off the field.

“...do you see anything?”

“I see that we don’t stand a chance if she’s allowed to run free.”

“Then. We. Have to stop her.”

“We’re no better than Epistia in single combat.”

“Do we have to be better?”

“I certainly hope not.”

[Rolling to Look Closely: 6 + 6 + 2 = 14. How can they, with primarily close-range weaponry, fight her and not instantly meet the same fate as Epistia?]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Emli gazes up at Han, eyes filled with half-lidded fire. Han gazes back at Emli, and there is nothing but fire. Everywhere. All around them. The exits are blocked. None of them will escape. She will die, taken tragically before her time, and she won’t have the dignity of proper last words, for all her thoughts are and ever will be: Screaming.

Is it any better when the slave-girl shows her mercy, and changes the toipc? It is worse, actually. She speaks of a world Han could never afford to enter. She touches that hated thing with honor and reverence. Moments ago, Emli stood within a scaffolding of a person that stood fast, no matter what mysteries were yet to be discovered. Now that, too, is gone, and Han cannot identify the pretty, girl-shaped creature running a hand along her bare side.

You ought to thank the slave-girl, scribe. A better distraction you couldn’t have asked for.

She recoils, from fear, from shock, from the terror of the unknown, and her head lands precisely where you commanded it to. You reach over so naturally, so easily, that she would have sworn you were as a statue until your fingers were already working through her hair. Now it is too late. For her. For you.

Before she can speak, you are drawing out the cost of a week’s worth of forced marching, of foraged meals, of sleep pried from knobby roots and hard earth. You break apart trigger points, one after another, and she cannot relax more than this, and yet there goes another, come to shatter her thoughts anew. Your fingers glide through her hair, maneuvering so carefully through the knots that they may have never even existed. Long, smooth, steady brushes, gentle pressure sliding down her head, tickling the back of her neck as you pass.

But though she shivers under your fingers, though a haze threatens to swallow her mind, her body is a mass of tension, a coiled spring. The sound stirring in her throat might as easily be a growl as a purr. You tease a knife by the blade. You only continue because this dragon permits it, and she has yet to settle her mind. She has questions, scribe. She is so full of questions she might burst, and you sit beside a bomb.

Why are you touching her?

What are you going to do with her?

(What does she want you to do?)

”Who,” she blinks sleepy eyes. “The hell are you?”

How will you answer her?

[Rolling to Figure Out A Person: 3 + 1 - 2 = 2]

Breathless Dead

What do you do for the girl who is everything?

“Absolutely nothing” goes one school of thought. Why in the name of all that is good, decent, and sensible are you getting involved with a girl like that in the first place?! What are you to the universe? Could the sum total of your life cause even an atom to drift out of its place? Are you surprised that the tales of those who follow after Zeus earn their glory in blood and agony, and only sometimes that of other people? Flee. Run, if you can. Placate yourself to those mad enough to play in her domain, and spend your days under the care of gentler hands.

The barest hint of Zeus’ aspect recognizes its own. Sparks finer than hairs dart out to lick at Vasilia’s armor, punching her skin with a hundred burning needles. To stand before her, just to stand incurs a cost. Forwards or backwards, she will pay greater still. “Y-Yes. Well.” Why is she here? Why must it be her? Why must it always be her? Why, after everything, does she keep doing this to herself? “If I could not distract your eyes from the nearest skirts for even a few moments, what good would I even do with your lightning?”

Why does she do this, for the girl who is everything?

Because only the ones who show up get to play a hand in what happens here. And the only thing worse than the Master of Assassins remaking the galaxy in blood and bark is letting her do it by default.

Silence should not fall on the galaxy, on everyone, just because it put the work in.

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

“I admit. I am…not the best suited, personally, to stand in command over your daughter.”

He hears the shell-shocked voices, giving their report. He sees the wall of empty tables around her in the cafeteria. He turns to stone when her attention falls on him. Wolves and plants both will hunt him in his dreams tonight.

“But I am not alone here, and neither is she. She is young. She is learning. And if I can do nothing else for her, I can give her the space and allowance she needs. Maybe someone better than me can help her find her voice, and what might she sing then?”

“But this?” Bodies lurch across the field, three times maimed, and still it is not over. “How can this be…what else can this be, but, but…” He shakes his head furiously. “I don’t know how to even speak of it. This is much, Lord Hades, and I already have not spoken as carefully as I ought to have, and I apologize.”

So, perhaps. The better thing to say would be as little as possible.

“I understand that you have done more than enough already. I ask nothing more of you.” With a whisper of steel, his sword appears in his hand. “We will still lay them to rest, though. Not for any blessing. But because someone ought to.”

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

A word, then, for the battle, and the roles of Princess and Captain.

No one may stop the garden of Demeter. But only Epestia may be capable of slowing it down without joining their ranks. If the hands of Demeter are greedy enough to try and take her for her own, they will be reduced to nothing by the fury of Ares. How dare she? How dare she?! He will not let go of his precious prize so easily. Not here. Not today. Not in his own domain. As her allies contend with the Kaeri and plovers, Epestia will collect from the gardens of Demeter for every inch of ground, and the distance between them will serve them all.

As to the Captain and his second, they are skirmishers to the core. Fast, quiet, capable of gravity-defying maneuvers without a breath to give them away, their place is not in the front. As the clouds of toxic gas build, they dart under their stinging cover to find their targets. Exposed power cables. Allies in peril. Anywhere fates hang on a knife’s edge, it is their solemn duty to fly in unannounced and deliver a fatally unexpected kick.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

The last bathhouse Han attended had been a humble roadside affair, one of the last gasps of ‘civilized folk’ before entering the Highlands proper. The activities of the Vermillion Beast had taken a little money from hands less deserving, and she decided to treat herself. It was simple, as simple as she remembered it, with fine floral scents dancing through the air, steaming pools, a kindly family who ran the place, and a fine, hearty meal afterwards. She’d spent a night in welcome company, washing away the concerns of her journeys, and went to bed completely happy.

Here, there were more soaps than she knew existed, and that was before she even stepped foot in the tiny tub. Not even the order of washing, scrubbing, and rinsing was the same. Despite the best efforts of the attendants, no explanation rang anywhere close to familiar for her comfort. And so here she sits, asking nothing of the numerous servants buzzing about her. Asking nothing of the pretty girl hanging off her arm. It is impossible to see her hands through the water’s surface, but judging by her posture, they are folded chastely, stiffly in her lap. She holds her heart tightly against the ministrations of luxury, heedless as it burns, it pierces, it hangs heavy in her grasp.

Emli asks the question. And that’s when her eyes meet the scribe’s.

So full of anger and worry. Does she even have a thought to spare, to why her eyes rest so easily on yours? The barest push, and she stumbles out of herself to see your arms, walking slowly, leisurely down their length. So lithe, so smooth, the arms of a scribe faithful to her work, positively glowing with delicate care. And then. And then!

When you draw her eyes upward once again, she looks at you as if you’d just asked her to steal your wallet. You wanted her to steal your wallet. Now she has the little pouch clutched in her hand, and what are these shiny round things it's filled with? Co-oyens, you say? Just what is she supposed to do with these? Just what are you asking of her, you, you, whoever you are?!

A yawning, empty chasm stretches between them. To leap across it risks falling into its unfathomable depths. To make the leap rewards her, it will give her, there’s, the scribe will, what? What?! What does she want with her? What will happen if she accepts? What is she agreeing to? Why is this even being offered, whatever this is? Why is she looking at her like that? Why?! So many questions. No hope of answers. She knows so little. She aches so terribly.

Amidst it all, what little she knows - really knows, deep in her soul - stands in shining relief, as lights in a fog. Danger lurks before her, yes. But not malice. Only a (beautiful) scribe, with a steady voice, promising something simple, on a day when everything has been so, so complicated. If she would just take one, little leap. For her.

She intends to drift over, casually, but such is impossible even for heaven’s favored ones. A push, and she floats slowly across the pool in the sight of all, coming to rest beside you, honored scribe. (Sitting, with your arm looming perilously behind her. She watches it, out of the corner of her eye, as if it were a snake.) “Sure are banking a lot on your ‘Lords of the Dominion’ not being complete wilting jerks.” She fires back, in this completely casual and normal discussion of philosophies, between two people just sharing a bathhouse. “Fresh out of luck if they don’t really care about you.” And maybe she would’ve said more, had she not been suddenly and profoundly aware of Emli pressing warm against her, following into the open space beside her.

One, little leap. And she is surrounded.

[Han will give into desire, despite having no clue what she's given in to.]

Breathless Dead

There is distance, but not enough.

The corpses move slowly, with an inexorable momentum. They cannot maneuver. They will not form complicated battle lines, or strike with technique immaculate. But they will reach. They will grasp with hungry thorns. And only one of them needs to take hold of you. There is distance, but not enough.

She’d filled her hours with pasta mistakes. Hestia taught her the ways of kitchens, homes, and comfort, and she survived on nothing but her lessons. She fled down paths of long-forgotten memory, chasing after a girl she knew, a girl she was, a girl she never reached. Once more she found home, held close to a heart she feared she’d lose forever. And today, in the driving rains, she feels the thorns burning her skin, the grip of the goddess breaking her down piece by piece. There is distance, but not enough.

The Master of Assassins cackles to have pulled such a trick. She throws her head back, too drunk to even see the ants formed up against her. Too far gone to count the bodies she will expend, for the weary work of finding more will belong to the Master of tomorrow. She stands, untouchable, atop her stone altar, so flush with divine favor that none, not even the heretic, might touch her.

There is distance, but by thunder it will not be enough.

“Zeus!” Her voice peals across the field, to meet the mad laugher of the Master of Assassins. “Who raises thrones and tears them down! Who casts her lightning, and obliterates her target without fail! Who stands atop the peak of Olympus!”

“Are you seeing this shit?!”

“She comes groveling to you, pretending to be outnumbered and hard put-upon, when all along she has such a host in her back pocket! She cries faithfulness to her office, when all along she plans to murder the very daughter her leige commanded her to retrieve! Your very daughter! Let her deny it before you, if she dares! If this is the sort of person you want carrying your favor, then let it be so! Your favor is yours, and you need answer to no one for how you spend it.”

“But we have not forgotten you either! I have not forgotten you! How could I?! Incorrigible meddler! Insufferable in your generosity! She of loudest, and most ill-timed laugh!” And lest you think she could exhaust your titles in such a short span of time, hold off the enemy for a few weeks and see how far down the list she can go! “We have no fancy tricks! We have no scheme to fall back upon! We throw our courage to the sticking place, and if that not be enough, then let no one say we held back a whit!”

“If she is to carry your blessing, then let it be so. But if you’re looking for an instrument, to show that no one may play lightly with the Thunderer’s favor, well!” Her hand traced the grip of her pistol. “Here are two, hanging from my belt, that will not put you to shame!”

No one hears the Captain, exchanging his own quiet words with the gods. But that is fine; the one he prays to prefers the quiet anyway. “Lord Hades, this is wrong.” His voice buckles beneath the horror, but he must carry on. “Please. Allow us to set it right. We will put them to rest. All of them. Only, let us do it properly. Let us carry the courage, the memory of all who have come before us. Let their hearts stand alongside our own, that whatever terror may strike us in the task, we will not break before it.”

For that, then, is the order passed down to their legions. The garden of Demeter, however fearsome, is slow, too many to achieve any complicated formation. It will fall, then, to the Kaeri, and the Plovers, and whatever other horrors she possesses, to be the hammer driving them against the anvil of Demeter. Do not forget which way you face. Do not let them take you where they want to. Stand strong, and show them the limits of fear.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

The dragon-blooded servant slips her glove back on, carefully slipping the fabric over the ugly slash across her palm. The scribe testified to perverse blood sacrifice to dark powers. The Red Wolf handed down a judgment without a second thought. But where explanations, counter-points, the fatal blows to misunderstanding might fall, she speaks only silence.

The Legionnaires were not in the business of mercy. The fell on one and all, not caring for the weak, the injured, the unarmed, the innocent. Every act of rebellion was met with more chains, more humiliation, a faster march, yet the muffled whimpering of the priestess silenced her where these punishments could not. How long they spent trudging through the rain, she could not say. But where explanations, defenses, the vouching of character, given at risk of punishment, where these and more might have prevented it all, Giriel spoke only silence.

Han stands in the Chamber of Harmonious Arrangements; deaf, for a moment, to the gentle pleas of Emli. They truss up Giri in Dominon reds, bind her under the law of a land not her own. The injured dragon-blooded lays her hands on Melody and rushes her out of sight. Heat rises, building in her chest, washing through her face, her eyes, her heart, and all is red, and all is choking. But where rescues, defenses, the bold warnings to seize not what is hers might ring out, she speaks only silence.

Even if she has to tear herself to pieces, she will speak only silence.

Breathless Dead

For the entirety of his piracy career, Dolce has operated in the shadows of brighter heroes. An unseen hand, ever-vigilant, ever-careful, possessed with an impeccable sense of timing and a nigh-unnatural ability to slip from awareness, his was the role to elevate others to greater heights, with hardly anyone noticing what he’d done, and that suited him fine. But today he leads a war, as a Captain, and it will not suit anyone to search long for him on the field.

Ahead of the host he stands, clad in a thick suit of densely-woven material, dyed stormcloud-grey against the pale sands. No one on the field wears its like, for only he knows the ways of shearing and spinning. The wool of the Manor can, in the right hands, turn to purposes other than luxury. Do not rub your eyes, oh Lanterns, you have not been blinded by Apollo’s light. Sparks dance within the depths, static charges swirling about him, guided by slight nuance of step and gesture. No blade or shot will be stopped, but many will find their blows frustratingly turned aside. Vital points hidden in a maze of fabric, body obscured by purposeful asymmetry. Atop his head, he wears a matching cap, adorned with his badge of office, complete with earflaps tied around his chin to better spare his ears from the cacophony of battle.

And beside the stormcloud, stands the lightning.

Where her husband stands solemn and sure, Vasilia seizes eyes and demands their full attention. See her body, powerful, strong, wrapped in countless tiny links of sparkling mail. Trace the thunderbolts around her chest, colored in shining gold; the pride of pirates everywhere. No scarf or cape to tangle her limbs. She is free, to fly, to draw any of the numerous weapons hanging from her belt and back, and strike devastation wherever she lands. Steel your hearts, o foes, that when the glittering whirlwind bursts forth from the poisonous smoke, you might not be instantly annihilated.

Together they stand at the fore. Together they are among the best skirmishers to grace the Starsong Privateers. Together they sweep the enemy lines, and neither of them see the one they are looking for.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Why should Red Wolf mind the challenge of this upstart dragon? She sits, on the other end of a high-class banquet, and any threat to her seat must first contend with this phalanx of high society. Han has hardly taken her first step forward, and already the waters rush in to swallow her whole.

Which startles her more; the soft, but firm touch of Emli on her wrist, or the discovery that the extra forks weren’t just spares? What is she to say to place-setting drills and pouting faces and, and, certain? Phrasings?! She mumbles out her thanks, and instinctively knows she’s done something wrong. (No one will tell her what, but they’ll make her pay for it.) The meal offers little refuge. Nothing here looks familiar. Some dishes ask for forks. Some dishes ask for hands. Others are not dishes, they are garnishes, and only some of those are edible. It’s anyone’s guess which is which. Cups of sauces surround platters full of savory meats, and perhaps they are the table’s, or perhaps they are for pouring. A small plate orbits her larger one, and that may be hers, or it may not be, and everybody here already knows but her, and the only way she can find out is by watching everyone else, intently, but not too obviously, and her stomach rumbles at the smell of it all, but she has to wait, she has to look, she has to, she has to, she has to.

(She has to. If it is to happen, for her, she has to do it.)

Unless, food should happen to be on her plate already. Unless, somebody were to keep her wineglass full. Unless, the person sitting next to her (so close to her) seemed to always be having what she was having, and slowly, so that she can watch how it is meant to be eaten. Unless, somebody were to fold up her pancakes into tasty little bundles, with just the right blend of flavor and texture so that every bite is crunchable and perfect. With every dish, pour, and touch of the hand, Emli plucks a little weight off of Han’s shoulders, and only when it is gone does she realize she was carrying it in the first place. Only by the overwhelming relief a full glass brings her does she realize she was worrying about fetching more, and now she doesn’t have to.

It’s. Nice. Unusual, but nice. So unusual that, moments later, she will mindlessly reach for the pitcher again. When the tray of those scrumptious pancakes passes through, she’ll try to grab some without thinking. Patience, Emli, patience. She has not snapped at you yet for your forwardness. Her eyes flash surprise, confusion, the barest hint of alarm, but then she relaxes, pliable in your expert hand as you guide her back where she belongs.

She is on edge. She sits in the den of her most hated enemy, and knows not what she plans. She sits beside a loyal agent of the enemy, and knows not what to think. But she is starving. She is thirsty, for water, for strong drink, for company. She is tired, so tired, weary from toil and injury. And isn’t it so nice, to have such simple needs met, gladly, without having to do a thing herself?

Patience, Emli. Patience.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh this one? Which one?” Han blinks, peering through a whirlwind of fine dining back into the present, the person sitting next to her. “Oh. Uh, that one. Uhhhhhhh.” She rubs her neck, struggling to remember. (Her eyes had been locked on the priestess as she nibbled on a strawberry. Sitting so close, how could Emli miss the heat rising in her cheeks?) “Oh yeah, that one. Wrestled a tiger that got a taste for village livestock. Jerk got a few good swipes in, before I threw them over the nearest river. Learned his lesson after that.”

(Nobody saw her do it. The good villagers of the Flower Kingdoms had given her the cold shoulder, but not before she caught wind of their tiger problem. She could’ve stoked the fires within her, sent a surge of vitality through her body to heal her wounds, but she’d have been stuck in the wilderness afterwards, little more than a defenseless lump. By the time she’d found a safe place to crash, the wounds were too old to simply erase.)

Han follows Red Wolf’s conversation, for there still is some part of her clinging to her words, searching for the knife she’s positive must be there. And, come to think of it, who was this other guest? She was with them when they all left, but was she with them in Hell itself? Not that she could remember...

Weird. Very weird.

Breathless Dead

“Heap punishment on my head, but let us save her if we can. Lock us in cages, but set them together. Make me do penance in her name, shame and denounce me for her crimes, whatever must be done, I welcome it. Only do not make me abandon my oldest, most ill-treated friend.

“Please.”

@Tatterdemalion

"You did not let her do anything." Vasilia counters deftly. "She made her decisions, not you. You have given her more second chances than she’s deserved, and every single time she’s spat in your face. You ask us to risk all of our lives on the chance that this time could be any different. You know we cannot do that."

"And Praetor Bella saved us," she said loudly, a voice that cracked against the plastic walls of the Anemoi. "She broke a reign of shadows and cruelty, made us masters of our own house. And this is our house. You would abandon the Praetor because you fear what she will do? You should fear what we shall do if you turn your faces from the only soul who ever showed us kindness."

@Thanqol

The full weight of her attention falls on the mouse, and to her surprise, she stands unmoved. "So either we let her on board, where she can doom us at her leisure, or we leave her behind, and you’ll do it for her. Wonderful! You really do take after her."

"Did you hear about the Ikarani?" said Mynx, speaking with a dry throat into the silence. "The last time I worked with her she dropped a space station on a city to kill a single target. Millions dead. That's what they do, that's what they're like. Natural disasters and freak accidents are their tools of murder. And yet, on Salib, not a single civilian died. Who told her to care about collateral damage? Who put chains on the earthquake? Because it wasn't the Kaeri, and it wasn't the Master of Assassins."

@Thanqol

"She has two standards, now, is that it?" The laugh in her voice grows dangerously unplayful. "Why haven’t we stopped to memorialize her tale in song? Saints of her virtue don’t come along every day."

"I do not want to see her hurt. She's hurt us, yes. But I still find it hard to divorce her now from the friend she was on Tellus.

"Surely, we can afford to show her some mercy, if the chance arises?"

@Balmas

Her mouth opens. Her beat arrives. And she cannot make her cue this time. “The friend she - and how much will we put our necks out in search of that ‘chance?!’ The friend you know isn’t there anymore. She is dead. And none of you-”

Dolce rests his hand on hers, and squeezes. Enough to forestall further argument. Enough to remind her that he has heard her, and will not dismiss her. Enough. It is enough, my dear. She makes a show of straightening her jacket as she steps back behind him, taking her place at his right hand.

The arguments have been made. Now it is his turn. All he really had to do was put up his sail, and surrender to the popular result. But was the right choice always the popular one? Should his mind always be changed, if enough people spoke out against him? Would Vasilia accept that there was nothing he could’ve done?

No. No, it was his turn. Or else why even have a Captain?

“When our journey started, I recognized Bella not for who she was, but for the position she found herself in. One with a task assigned to her, and punishments awaiting her should she fail. Punishments worse than those she had already received. What a shame, I thought, that we were all at cross purposes. In those days, I prayed for the opportunity to meet her in a moment of quiet, before the fighting could have a chance to start. Maybe I could, in some way, make her burden a little lighter. Wouldn’t that have been something?” He smiled, wistfully, to remember such bright days. “But that is not what’s happened. To simply say she was thrust, unfairly, into this conflict, and acts only out of hurt, excuses the decisions she’s made. Does a…terrible disservice, to those she has hurt.”

“But, as it so happened, my first impression was entirely wrong. I was wrong about her choice in the matter. And I was wrong about the circumstances she’d found herself in. ‘Unfair’ hardly begins to cover it. I have seen a _glimpse_ of the darkness hanging over the Empire, and I very nearly did not survive it. That she has taken a step - any step - out of line, cannot be understated. She has stayed her hand, even a little, when the consequences for failure are impossibly high, and I cannot ignore that.”

“Which brings us to the present: We have no guarantees that she will take any escape we can offer her. All we have is a chance that she might. All we can do is decide whether we will extend our hand. We are under no obligation to offer her another chance. If we were to turn aside, we would stand well within our rights to do so. The choice is ours, to make as we see fit.”

The breath catches in his throat.

“...I have thought long and hard. I have asked all who could tell me about her, and listened to their stories of the Bella they knew. And yet, if I had her here, and could ask her any question, and know that she would tell me the whole truth, I cannot begin to imagine what she would say if I asked her 'why?' Why wasn’t it enough, to have my wife in chains? Why did your mission need you to take her…” To his shame, he could not stop his eyes from watering. Please do not think less of your captain, oh noble crew, if his sleeves are stained. “...why? Why did you have to hurt her so much?”

“I can’t see any benefit to it. I can’t see any sense in it. If I cannot find an answer. If there is no answer. What do I make of her, then?”

“If Redana were here, she would make of her an old, ill-treated friend, still terribly close to her heart. Jil makes of her the one, good Captain she’s ever served under. Mynx makes of her one who still feels mercy, in spite of the peril it could bring her. Alexa makes of her an old friend, who may yet still live. I cannot make myself believe any of it like they do. I can’t ignore my own feelings, my own sight, in favor of theirs. But. Maybe I don’t have to.”

“When the Starsong first found me, huddled in their ventilation ducts, all they knew is that I was a cook and a stowaway. And yet, they welcomed me in. All that I am today, I owe to that one offer of kindness and mercy.” All the way up to the chair he now occupies, the one that demands he choose. “I cannot see why Bella deserves mercy. But I can see what it’s done for me. I can see that my crew, my friends, those that I love, wish to show it now. What answer of Bella’s can change that?”

The choice was his, in the end. To make as he saw fit.

“I. Don’t know what this attempt will cost us. I hardly know what I would do, if I were to see her every day for the rest of this voyage, but we will deal with one matter at a time. If the attempt would cost us our mission, our lives, then there is nothing to be done. Such is the fate we are dealt, and we must find a way to press on. But if the chance exists, then by the name of Zeus I swear, we will not leave Bella in the hands of the Master of Assassins.”

So as the Thunderer hits her mark, so too will they all return in triumph, or not at all.

“We leave in half an hour. Prepare yourselves.”