TheAmishPirate

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Danger!

She grabs Lotus’ hand, and in one smooth motion pulls her tight against her side and wraps her arm around her protectively. Her feet hop into a ready fighting stance, no time to pull out a sword. Her fist’s enough. Her kick’s enough. Essence is enough. She ignites, a blazing beacon of defiance to her foes. Stay back! All of you! She is hers! Hers! You will not take her, you! You!!!

Barge?

“What in all of the hells…?” Han stares, dumbfounded, as the Red Wolf’s barge decides to take a sudden detour, to the mountains. Over land. Without stopping, no, wait, is it getting faster?! “Uhhhhhh. I guess they’re not gonna be coming after us anytime soon?” And it is, at this moment, that she glances down, and notices she has buried Lotus’ entire face into her body. (She notices Lotus trembling. She does not notice her lack of complaint.)

Wordlessly, she picks up Lotus. Sets her down, a respectful distance away. Brushes her hands awkwardly on her robe. Shoulders the bags Lotus set on the ground. Stands. Blinks. And. With many totally composed clenching and unclenching of her fists, holds out a hand. Stiffly. If. Well. She could use the support, while they march.

“You. Uh. Ready to get out of here, bud?”

[Han rolls to Entice! 4 + 3 - 1! XP! XP for dragon!]

Breathless Dead

He is alone, now.

Vasilia left just a few minutes ago. Reached into her bag, laid a musket across her lap, and let the Coherent push her to the negotiations. She’d asked if he was alright. She could wait, until someone brought a wheelchair for him too. He’d refused.

Ramses had a comfortable chair arranged for him. Maybe she thought it would help smooth things over, get her favor back into the positives. Maybe she’d have done it for anybody. She hadn’t offered an explanation. Nor a path back to the conversation. Maybe she just thought it was safer, that way.

The shouts hurt his ears. More than the constant clamor of the film set. The headache buried between his horns sprouted through his skull, and his hands clasped knuckle-white to keep from flinching. He heard every step on her approach. He heard how angry she was. He knew who the voice belonged to, from the first.

“The Tides are…torturing themselves?!”

The Assistant Secretary of Fear and Doubt always returned his correspondence with interest. 50 pages for each one of his. Hours, of filtering through line after flowing line of titles, polite minutia, couched messages, to arrive at the barest kernel of actionable information. Later. Not today. Next week, for sure.

“Why didn’t they, they haven’t told me a thing, even though, I asked, but they, what?”

Ramses is indecipherable. This is not how a Captain should behave. Not to a professional.

“Because, yes, no, I’m in charge, here. I asked them aboard. He wanted to come aboard,”

And then. Nothing. From him. From her. From anyone. Anywhere. Ever.

“He wanted to come aboard, so, they shouldn’t, I would’ve! Done, I did, no, ah-”

He is alone, now. A small, broken sheep, begging a room full of strangers he doesn’t know.

“Could you please tell me what’s going wrong?”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Melody! Lotus!

She’s so sorry.

This was supposed to be your moment. Private. Special. Something between you, and Emli, and nobody else. You ought to feel twice…no, you should’ve felt three times as good as Han just did, because. Because. You just should, alright?!

And she tried. Please, believe her. She tried so hard. She found this incredible bit of engraving on the wall paneling, and, did you know that the same pattern repeats over the entire room? You can’t see it real easy, because it’s sorta offset from row to row, but she’s pretty sure the basic pattern is this slanty diamond thing, three hands to a side, though maybe a bit longer side-to-side than up and down, she keeps changing her mind based on the lighting, and the angles. Each squiggly S in the pattern is made up of four t-looking things, and she was going to count how many were in the whole room. It was a lot. It was gonna be so many. But. But.

She heard. A sound. Escape from your lips. And before she could think she

looked

for a second.

Maybe longer than a second.

Maybe she couldn’t look away.

Maybe it took a long, long time, to feel ashamed enough to look away.

You were melting. Arms wrapped around Emli, clinging uselessly. Knees trembling, about to give way at any moment. Falling. Falling. Were it not for Emli. Holding you by the neck. The mouth. You kissed her for dear life, and she kissed you back. And with every touch you told the world you were so, so happy. She didn’t know you could sound like that. She didn’t know you could tell just how happy, how utterly, hopelessly lost in joy you were, with such a small sound.

(What must it be like. To make you feel that way. To feel you melt in her arms, at her touch, and all she can hear of you is that you want this, you want her, you want her…)

So when you put the question to her, and feel brave enough to look yourself?

Her cheeks are flushed bright red. She’s still, still out of breath from Emli’s kisses. Her chest heaves with great, big dragon breaths. Her hair’s all a tangle, her robe’s off-kilter, and she’s not bothering to fix a bit of it. A bit of it! She’s not even stopping to answer you back! Up she goes! Let’s do this!!

As it so happens, Emli recalls that all guest rooms come with a length of silken rope tucked away in the depths of their closet “for emergencies.” What luck! Properly equipped, Han wraps the rope around her, and then she keeps wrapping the rope around her, and then she wraps the rope around her some more and. Um. Then she wraps the rope around her again, and…

“Han?” Emli asks, the very picture of diplomatic delicacy. “Have you ever tied someone up before?”

“Uhhh, yeah? Obviously?”

Emli does not laugh. Emli is much, much too busy biting her lip to have any time for laughing.

“What? What?! You’re tied up, aren’t you?”

“Lady Lotus?” And now she’s turning those impish eyes on you. “Would you like to assist Han of the Dragons in securing her prisoner?~”

“You are so secured! Look me in the damn eyes and tell me you’re not secured! You can’t, because that’s how secured you are!”

(And yet. If you ask for that rope, she’ll give it up, at once, with only a minimum of indignant pouting.)

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.