TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

“Ah, no, please, you shouldn’t. That is, you don’t have to go-”

“What he means to say, Ramses,” Vasilia cut in. “Is that he’d very much like it if you stayed. Right, darling?”

He nods, fierce enough to send his wool bouncing every which way. “Yes. Thank you, yes. It’s” a lot for a sheep to unpack. A lot. Goodness. Where to even begin? At the beginning? Maybe? “Different, from the Starsong I served under. If the Captain put a trap on their door, it’d be because they knew exactly who was coming to knock, and they hadn’t yet gotten them back for filling their quarters with artificial clouds. Or something of the sort. Most of my work was in the kitchens, and it wasn’t unusual to see the Captain come in for a visit. If not them, then someone close to them. It was important, to them.”

Once, he’d worked up the courage to ask what, exactly, he’d done wrong to necessitate a personal visit. Whatever it was, he was terribly sorry, and even more sorry for not even noticing, but, if they told him, he would fix it right away. First, they thought he’d been telling a joke. Second, they gave him an unexpectedly big hug. Third, they explained.

“The reason the Starsong can pull off such complicated ambushes isn’t some great secret. It’s just a matter of timing, really. We would pick a list of songs that everybody knew, and time every step, contingency, go and no-go, all in advance. At the second chorus, close to board. Third measure of the first verse, if the primary battleship is not engaged, abort immediately. And so on. If we kept the beat, if everyone remembered their steps, it didn’t matter that we couldn’t speak to each other, or even see each other most times. We knew our Captains, we knew each other, and they all knew us too. Four ships could move as easily if their Captains were all in the same room, seeing everything at once.”

He shifts uncomfortably in Vasilia’s lap. “That’s the sort of ship I want to run. I don’t want my crew to be worrying that I might be about to cut them out if they don’t make me happy enough. Or, if I don’t quite understand their authorial vision. Even if we’re likely not to choreograph our battles in the future, how can I ask you to care about what’s important for the running of this ship, for the mission, if I didn’t care about what’s important to you?”

Breathless Dead

“Oh, of course not all of them. I’d try my best, but there are tens of thousands aboard this ship. I’d have to spend hours each day before I could remember each name correctly, and that’s before keeping track of any personal matters. But, surely, at least among the more senior…”

Come to think of it. He hadn’t been Captain for very long, true. But how many times had anybody, of any ranking, come to see him? Without his asking for them first?

“Do you mean to tell me,” he asked, delicately. “That this is normal for you? This is how you expect ships to be run?”

Say it isn’t so, Ramses. His legs, they don’t work. This isn’t his wheelchair. He’s, he’s trapped here, you see. You can’t tell him news that sad, when he can’t make you a snack later, or hold your hand now, or, anything, to make it even a little bit better.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

…and Han cannot resist.

A chance to give Emli, precious Emli, a gift she would treasure forever. The song in her heart crying ‘thank you, thank you, thank you.’ The first, shared kiss of her life that didn’t feel like a fight. Gentle. Quiet. The kind that other girls got to have.

Han of the Dragons, the Vermillion Beast of Lanterns, Guardian of Lands High and Low, she who struck down Hell’s General, pulls the slave girl Emli down to her, and kisses her as the butterfly kisses the petal. As the soft breeze brushes a face. Though the wind may move far more than she. It’s the only way she can keep from being clumsy. To sit, lips pressed faintly against hers, heart thundering, and if she stays like this forever she won’t ruin everything. Nobody will have to know how miserably inexperienced she really is.

“My sweet, dear Han.”

Every word brushes her lips across her face. Breathes life across her skin.

“I have so much more to give you.”

The embers in her voice set her blood alight.

“You can take, as much you want.~”

She doesn’t let her ask how.

Her hands glide across Han’s face. Tilts her chin up, up. Lifts her mouth just so. Where she can carefully, slowly, worship her. One lip at a time. One bare inch at a time. Savoring and cupping and caressing until all is warmth and light. Her lips are full, wet, and so, so soft against her mouth. And she’s kissing her back, because she can’t not, because she has to feel more of her, more of this, more, more! She can’t imagine the way Emli feels her move before she thinks to try. Nor the way she adjusts, just so, to catch her every brave step. All she hears is a soft, happy moan, and knows…she! It’s hers! She did that!! She!!!

She feels Emli’s tongue dart out, testing her mouth, and a shudder passes through her. It’s, no, it’s not something she’s really thought about, more that, it happens to her, sometimes, and, and now, here, she. She freezes. Jaw clamped shut. Heart racing-

“We don’t have to.”

No hesitation. Already showing her the joy between mouth and chin. No shame can linger here.

“Just relax. And let me know what you like.”

And this time she doesn’t probe. Doesn’t push. Gently, slowly, brushes her tongue across her lips, between meetings. A light taste, of her favorite dragon. Warmth, gladly shared. And Han’s fingers squeeze in delight.

For this is right. This is proper. The honored one of Heaven, worshiped by the ministrations of a dutiful servant. And the dragon is pleased with her service. Her hands flow to her back, where they can lose themselves in luxuriant, nut-brown curls. She draws her in closer, presses her ever tighter, to feel the heat of her body flush against her, the rush of her exalting heartbeat. More. More! A dragon is a hungry creature!

And yet. It is Emli who seizes Han’s lips. Emli’s hand, directing her head. She pushes. She teases. She works so achingly slowly, and only moves on when she hears the dragon’s helpless joy. She lets her breathe. She steals her breath away. Move and countermove. Flowing like wine. Slowing, stilling, when her heart forgets to beat and suns burst behind her eyes. Pushing, exploring, when she slows, and thoughts try to settle on long-worn perches. Invitation, when she grows bold enough to try, yet always with a push, to keep her stumbling forward.

There is no Han. There is no Emli. No fighting. No worrying. No thinking.

There are only the motions she’s secretly led through. There are only the motions she could perform in her sleep.

There is only a girl, worshiped and melting. There is only a girl, honored and obedient. Sharing a chapter. A moment. A kiss.

And all

is

Right

How long does it last? When does it end? None can say. Even their parting lingers. Han awakes to a daring peck at her ear, and a giggling, breathy whisper,

”Just kiss her like that!~”

And. And. Han stumbles over to the bed and her legs stop being needed so they go away. She nods, since something probably needed nodding at, and so she nods. She makes a motion, to Lotus, that she’s certain communicates that, she should go ahead and take her turn, if she likes, they do have places to be this evening, and they really can’t afford to dawdle, so, yeah! Go ahead!!

All this, her body does on its own. Her heart is still wrapped, glowing, in the arms of Emli, conscious only of the great wealth of treasure it now sits upon. Memories that she will visit tonight, when the sky is dark, and the air cold, as she takes yet another lonely watch.

And she will remember that a slave girl loves Han of the Dragons.

Breathless Dead

Now wasn’t that a pleasant thought. How many times since the battle had someone given him an odd look in the hallways? How often had the conversation faltered, strangely, while someone was reporting to him? Seriously, did anyone know? He’d not thought to keep track of them, there were a few that he kept revisiting, but, still. It must have been at least some of them. Probably more than he’d realized. Certainly more than he saw.

The warmth and comfort of his wife’s lap is an odd place to feel lonely.

“I see what you mean, but, surely we can’t keep this up? I’ve tried so hard to let the crew know that my door is always open for their concerns. At this rate, the only ones who’ll ever come to see me are the ones wanting a chance to cross swords. Supposing I have a bad day? Supposing I don’t win hard enough? They’ll be calling me a liar. Or worse, an imposter.”

Just imagine it; bound hand and hoof, pleading tearfully to the faces of friends, comrades, family, to no avail. Locked away, in the darkest depths of the brig, until you admit you were never Dolce in the first place...he hugs Vasilia's arms tight, and she in turn squeezes him close, till he could hear the reassuring thump-thump of her heart. Steady. Firm. Real. He lets out a breath he doesn't remember holding in. "You see, ma'am, I don't mean to tell you how to make your movie, but surely it's not worth jeopardizing the whole voyage over?"

Breathless Dead

“But I’ve not got a hunger for E N D L E S S B A T T L E.” And he was quite sure of that. One battle was more than enough for him. “I didn’t come to Sahar to kill any kings, and if any gods got maimed, I never laid a finger on them.” You couldn’t tell, looking at these designs. Nothing so blasphemous as trophies from the gods - another basic rule of cinematography - but here a patch of wool bore the stains of the void, there another breathed Ares’ dizzying war-haze. These were rams who’d butted heads with the divine, and lived to tell the story of how it changed them.

Not a one of them would own a nice, wooly jumper either. Might not have ever even tried one, the poor souls.

“Is this how I looked, on the battlefield? Is any of this,” he gestures to the collection of hard-hitting sheep who didn’t play by the rules. “Did you really see that, in me?” An honest question, asked without thought of rank or decorum.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

What.

This. No. This isn’t right. What happened? She had you. She’s, no, she’s doing this for you, you, great big. No! What? You can’t, that’s, what?! You want…her, to?

(You want her?)

“Lotus!” Han shouts at a totally composed volume. “You’re! You! This! You, this???”

Her second mistake: looking at Lotus. Shining eyes. Bashful squeaks and squirms. Saying nothing, but why would she need to? If she had taken Han by the hand, kneeled before her, and begged, she could not have pleaded her case more. (And best not to think too hard about that possibility.) She turns back to Emli, from Lotus, and, and,

and for the first time, she doesn’t notice the collar.

Emli. She’s looking up at Emli. She’s lost, and, so, she looks to Emli. The girl who greeted her with the morning. The girl who hummed sweet lullabies until she fell asleep. Who knew everything she wanted before she knew it herself. Who took things off her plate before she could remember they were there. Who danced with joy with every stupid burden Han let fall on her bare shoulders.

(She felt ashamed, pulling a double-take the first day Emli wore a uniform without sleeves. She never said a word about it, pretended like nothing happened, and applauded her own stealth when Emli didn’t seem to notice.

The next morning, Emli bade her good morning with arms bared. She knelt, unfazed by her new loose, swishful pants. It had been an effort, throwing together a uniform in the Flower Kingdom style on such short notice. The dozy smile she won from her guest made it all worthwhile.)

This close, her skin glows. Like a full moon on a still pond. From her hands, so warm, up her arms, to her face, framed in beautiful, shining curls. Her clothes, her jewels, the shadows of her eyes, the paint on her lips, all emphasize her slender curves. Her round eyes. Her cheerful face. Her full, smiling lips. As one, they speak: I am here to bless you. I am a jewel in your crown. By all that I am, by all I can do, I will make your heart glad.

Come. I do not want you. I welcome you.

Emli draws her hand to her cheek, and then, slowly, down her body. Eyes never once leaving Han’s. Nodding, making little noises of encouragement. This is me. This is the curve of my side. You can touch here, Han. Anywhere. From my face all the way d-down to, my, down to, her, aaa, n-no-!

Is as far as Emli lets her fall. It's okay. It's okay to say no. Shhhhh. Shhhh, brave dragon. Strong dragon. What of her arm? The bicep? You know this well already. She’s been showing it off, just for you. Besides, you nearly napped on it in the bath, after all! Is this better? Do you like it? It's okay to say yes. Even if you don't know how, yet. She feels your fingers caress her skin, softer than the finest Dominion silk. She feels you squeeze, adoringly, and she knows. She does not frown for your refusal. She beams for your simple delight. Your other hand, in fits and starts, at last works up the courage to take her other shoulder, and she gasps for your boldness. Her rosebud lips part. Waiting. Inviting. You're so close. You could just. Rise. Lean. Inches. Taste her breath. And. A-and.

"Emli." She burns. She freezes. Can't breathe. Can't think. Eyes. Mouth. Which to look. Where to go. Why. Why?! "What are we?"

Your guest is drowning, dear Emli. Buried beneath the ocean of her heart, choking on all that she wants. All that she fears.

Won't you guide her, save her, one more time?

Breathless Dead

Heroes of legend. Rulers of Empire. Songs to outlast them all. How do such things come to pass? Raw talent? Dedicated practice, day in and day out? Closed eyes, frantic prayers, and dumb luck?

Darling. Please. You just have to know the right people.

For instance: Vasilia, hand of the Captain, knew the Coherent were setting up to film in a particularly overgrown wing of the Plousios. She also knew the location of the five closest workshops to their set, and which one of the five could most easily admit someone with a more tentacle-based form of locomotion. Which is how Ramses, future star of Prion Paula VS the Garden of Terror!, came to know that, why, yes, the Captain had plenty of time with which to review some character designs for his film counterpart.

So it was that Captain Dolce found himself seated in the private green room (walls fully engulfed in green hanging cloth so you knew it was official) of Ramses herself. Sharing a wheelchair with his wife, perched snug on her lap, far away from the office, bridge, and infirmary. For the first time in a week, the document in his hands weighs far less than a casualty report.

“Hrm.” Dolce carefully turns the sketch - one of dozens - a quarter-turn. Then another. “There was a lot going on, so it’s possible I missed it…” He squints at the dazzling figure staring back from the page. “...but I was pretty sure I only ever had the two legs?”

“The cape is a rather dashing look, you have to admit.” Vasilia offers, peeking over his shoulder.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Here is a secret: Dragons don’t get love.

Love goes to the farmers, and sailors, and innkeepers. Love goes to the princesses, and their knights, and their handmaidens. Love goes to the good, demure girls, running to the festivals in their pretty dresses. The gods draw them together, catching their eyes with beauty, welcoming their hearts with kindness. They shower them with blessings. All their hours are magic. All their thoughts are light. The world shifts, never to be the same again. And at last, the gods give them love, real love, the kind that lasts. It binds them, turning two into one. It makes a home out of a building, a family out of people, a future out of dreams. They need love, and so love was made for them.

The dragons got power. Strength to protect the world, or tear it in two. Blood so hot that they would never want for courage. Fangs, horns, scales, fire. They sit atop the world, with nothing but the divine of Heaven above them. None to challenge them. None who can stop them. But the gods did not give them love. A dragon made for love would not be a dragon anymore.

And despite it all, she’s in love with Lotus.

So what? As if she could love a demigod like she deserves to be loved. As if she could bring her anything that isn’t fire and ash. As if…as if Lotus could ever truly love a greedy, stupid dragon.

And now? Now she knows Emli’s a little in love with her.

Why? Why would you do such a foolish thing? Worst of all, why would you let her realize it? Did you think she’d be happy? Did you dare to think she’d understand?! She doesn’t know you. She doesn’t know how to act with you. What you expect, what any of this means, what you even want from her. (What she wants from you.)

Did you think that the simple love of a Dominion slave girl could change who she is?

Han takes the bag in her hands - heavy, with freshly baked bread, and dried meats, and a few of those snappy little cookies - and lets it fall on Lotus’ bed.

“You followed me to Lotus’ room.” She steps into Emli’s space, and doesn’t slow down. Emli can step back. Emli can be pushed back. Decide quickly. “You entered without knocking.” A petal against a hurricane. Resist, and be torn apart. “And the only reason you’re still walking? Is ‘cause you didn’t scream.”

Emli’s back hits the wall.

Han’s fist follows after. A hair from her ear. She could hear the wood splintering, shattering beneath the pressure. Just imagine what it might do to a delicate little slave girl.

And she leans in close. Her breath speaks of spark and smoke. “I tied you up. I made you tell us where they kept the food and supplies. You knew your boss might beat you for it, but they wouldn’t break you so bad you couldn’t keep working. Me?” She laughs. A bitter, cruel thing. “Well, it’s not like you need your legs to talk, do ya?”

See now, what a dragon calls love. A beast bigger than all the monsters of the world. Rain down the blows that would shatter a pitiful mortal; she feels nothing. Shake your fist at her; your scorn changes nothing. She takes what she wants. And no one can stop her.

“You told me everything. I gagged you. And that’s all you remember before you fainted dead away. You don’t know where we went. You don’t know how long ago we left.” She blinks, and the slitted eyes of a dragon pin Emli to the wall as she growls, “Understand?!”

(This is the part where she traps your wrists above your head, drawing you up so the tips of your toes are scrabbling at the deck. This is the part where she buries your face in her hand before a scream spills out of you. This is the part where all she wants from you is a silent nod, proof that you’ve gotten all this into your silly little head.

She does none of it.

She could. And you couldn’t stop her. You wouldn’t have a hope of stopping her. But she won’t.

Not unless you give her the word, first.)

[Rolling to Entice Emli, with the awful, terrible, hideous love of a dragon: 6 + 5 - 1 = 10]

Breathless Dead

Captain Dolce of the Plousios stirs, and wakes to a dance of glowing lights and fluttering petals. They sway, they swirl, against a canopy of bluest sky, behind a familiar snout and whiskers peering over him.

“Ah. Jil…at least you’ve made it to Elysium too.” He does not remember his voice sounding like this; so rambling and careless. The words spill out of him as soon as they enter his head. No room to stay still. “I’m sorry, I really had hoped you’d make it through. There’s your fearless world, at the end of the road. I wanted you to see it yourself.”

He tries to lift his neck, but can’t find it. The little lights, they hide him away, and all that’s left is the bone-deep weariness of a long day’s work. “Where’s Vasilia? She should be here. I don’t care if Zeus was disappointed, she ought to be here. Did you see her, Jil? Did you see her? She did it. I didn’t know how she would, but she did. She did it. Ah, Vas…”

The lights, the petals, they dim beneath a teary haze.

“I’m so proud of you…”

Breathless Dead

I am afraid, sir. I am tired. I am hurt, so sorely I cannot remember what it was like to feel normal. But I am also angry. I am determined to act, and I think that may be courage. But anger and courage did not bring me to where I am. You say I have no love. What, then, brought me here?

Or, maybe.

If it is as you say, then why haven’t we killed each other? You could snap your fingers, and make it so, but that would not be love that did it. Why then do we live, if love owns us?

No. Not that. None of that.

The stories he’d read, late at night in the Manor’s library, they would have had an ending like that. Or the tales the Starsong would swap over a few too many mugs of ale, they’d have a speech as grand as that. Since when had he come this far for a heroic ending? Did he really think himself so important that he needed to deliver a big speech to the gods themselves?

No. He sat on something far more precious.

To Aphrodite, he offers a noncommittal nod, or perhaps his head was growing too heavy to lift. He had fought gravity long enough. He lies down, he crumples, he stretches out across Vasilia’s chest, his head coming to rest beside hers. His fingers, shaking, brushed the grit and blood from her cheek. No priceless heirloom, no treasure of history across the whole of his long career did he handle more delicately than her. A nudge. A careful tilt to the side.

And Dolce leans in to kiss his wife.

The haze of Dionysus’ blessed torment melts from her eyes. At the edges of her awareness, something familiar. Something precious, and sweet, and soft. A language her mouth remembers, when all thought has passed.

And Vasilia kisses her husband back.

No more words for you, Aphrodite. He’s said his piece, and whatever else he could’ve added, it could not possibly be more important than the lioness beneath him. Vasilia. Oh, Vasilia. He doesn’t understand why she keeps seeking to punish herself for mistakes long past. His heart breaks when he thinks she might have forgotten him, that fateful day aboard the Yakanov. He knows, he knows that everything he could ever give would not be enough to fill the holes in her heart that keep her up at night.

And as the world fades around him, Dolce chooses to kiss her.

Whatever else may come, he’s done what he can.

Now, Vasilia needs him.