TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

Not you too, Jil. Not you too.

In the depths of Salib, he bore his heart to you, trusting you would not abuse the power he surrendered willingly. You held him as his life bled out. Waited, when you could've left him in the dark. But already, his eyes collect the facts before him, and his mind dutifully sorts everything to its proper place. The Lanterns are accustomed to cruel and abusive leaders. To get what they want, they expect they will have to steal, scheme, or otherwise take for themselves. That is why Jil threatened you during the meeting. That is why she is preparing to shoot you now.

His movements are sluggish, and they are neither threat nor act. His heart sinks, and the rest of him is drawn down with it. "You ought to chew that slowly. It'll taste better, and you won't get a stomachache." A hand shakes in the general direction of a chair; sized for him, it'll suit her fine. "Go on. I'm...not really hungry."

Consider it a successful heist of unwatched supplies, if it makes you feel any better.

Breathless Dead

There were five of them, in total. One with the coiling body of a snake, painted in iridescent colors that physically swam across the surface of her scales. One riding atop a writhing mass of emerald tentacles, steadily walking a circle from floor to ceiling and back again. One that was, primarily, eyes. One that was not a human, but who wore the suit of one, and held the spear of one, and laughed with their voice. The last carried a pair of jagged shields, and in her other pair of arms, carried him. The only one who introduced herself was his carrier, when she knelt before him and asked permission to carry him back to his quarters.

There were no further words to him than that. He must’ve understood, in his current condition, that he would be far more of a hindrance than a help in this crisis. No one would take heart from the sight of a crippled sheep. Everyone would be better off with one less VIP to protect from an Assassin. The Captain ought to be somewhere safe, and he would look kindly on them for not wasting his time with explaining what he must’ve already known.

So he didn’t say anything either. Not through the length of the trip back to his chambers. Not when they set him on his wheelchair, and took up positions in and around the room, keeping sightlines on each other and him. Only when his carrier turned to take her post did he clear his throat, and ask her to deliver a message to Ramses once this was all over. If she were to inform him of the first day when Captain Dolce, the Ram of War, was to appear on set, he would like to be in attendance for filming that day.

Of course she would carry his message, sir. Didn’t her shoulders straighten, with the promise of yet further favor, and what she might buy with it.

Silently, the Captain took to his desk. The Tides would need new leadership. He would need to learn who, then learn what they needed from him in turn. Vasilia would return from the union negotiations with the Hermetics. They were loud, very loud, and not afraid to be loud if it bought them their privacy. But the Coherent needed them, and so, a peace had to be maintained, constantly. The Lanterns are leaderless, and paralyzed. The Flocks are lost. More and more are joining in Epestia and Beljani’s party, and fewer and fewer are returning.

And Bella…

He reaches, with effort, across his desk, and checks the wineglass, a handkerchief around his fingers to keep from leaving prints. It has not moved in the last few minutes. Nor has it come free of its perch, tucked away in the back of a shelf, with folds of cloths stuffed in around it in case it should get jostled. Still safe. Still secure.

He withdraws his hand, and dabs the moisture from his eyes before it could fall and stain the Captain’s correspondence.

Everyone wanted something from the Captain. Nobody had much need for Dolce.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

“There was only-!”

She’s too slow. Gods above and gods below, she’s too slow to stop herself. She clamps her mouth shut, and buries all further words in a muffled screech of objection. Her entire face burns, but so what? You won’t get anything more out of her, do you hear her?! You don’t know anything, Pei! You can’t know anything! And whatever you think you know, it’s wrong, and you’ll never be able to prove any of it! (And there was only the one musician, dammit!)

Hey! No! What! Wrong! Don’t you dare! Don’t you go confusing Lotus’ pretty little head with rumors and slander! You can’t! That’s, no! Not allowed!

“What? No, she doesn’t, she’s fine. She’s good. We’re just, it’s been, a time, and, shut up?” This can’t be how it ends. Why does she get to barge into her life, whenever she likes, and mess everything up? Come to think of it, what the hell was she even doing here in the first place? On that thin strand of hope, her spirit rallies. “‘Sides, don’t you have ‘important priestessly duties’ or whatever to get back to? Don’t remember any big temples in this part of the Kingdoms.”

Breathless Dead

You’re holding back.

He cannot run. Everyone in this room is dazzled by you and disappointed in him. You have every means and opportunity to break his heart like a stale twig, and yet, you put no strength into your blows to actually follow through with it. With one hand, you restrain yourself, and with the other, you offer fleeting gifts; of wisdom, of hard-won experience, of glimpses of something beneath the name Praetor.

You’re holding back. But wounds do not have to be fatal to matter. Perhaps you know this? Perhaps you don’t. It’s so hard to tell. It’s so hard, when the only eyes he has are his own. When the only heart he has still bleeds. It hurts. It just. Hurts.

He moves to set his teacup down, then, thinking better of it, shakes his head and cups it in both hands. The warmth seeps through his aching fingers.

“Will it really make you,”

You turn the Auspex on him, and he wilts. No Captain. No ram of war. Just a tired sheep. Asking a guest to please repeat their order.

“Will it really make you happy, if I admit that I hate you?”

But you don’t get a chance to respond, do you? Your Princess is here, Praetor. Look sharp. See, the Captain of the Plousious lifts himself up at her presence, and those not entranced by dreams might chide him for how shamefully shallow he bows. But no one could fault him for how ready his answer comes.

“We’re just getting acquainted.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Bright spots on frogs. Horns on demons. A little sister whipping her head and growling brimstone.

“And where the hell did you get that idea? No, no, tell me. Right now. You tell me where you get off saying that girl’s just some fake I paid to follow me. What, ‘cause her uniform’s not perfect? ‘Cause she asked me to watch her back? You got something you wanna say about her, huh? Huh?!”

These are the danger signs of nature.

“Or do you wanna take that back, Pei?”

Ignore them at your peril.

Breathless Dead

He frowns.

“The...Tides were there, of course. But they did not advocate for one side or the other. The Secretary showed great favor to my decision, though, and made it abundantly clear he harbored no doubts about it.”

This was the first time since he’d seen her that she’d smiled and meant it. Asking for a glimpse of the crew, calling for her head on a spear.

He reaches for the tea, at last. The Coherent have been conscientious enough to place it somewhere he doesn’t need to brace himself, or ask for help to reach. The same cannot be said of the sugar and cream, placed close enough that one might scoop it up without wasting a step on their way to adjust Bella’s tea again. He takes a long, slow sip at his tea. And waits a thoughtful few moments longer, before quietly asking for someone to pass them over.

Tea is a thinking drink. It will not do to be pulled out of his thoughts to wince at the taste.

He holds his cup, carefully, with both hands, staring long into its cream-clouded depths. He nods to himself, so slight that one might miss it, or else lifts his cup for another sip. Lost in thought, lost in memory. Around them, the clatter of the stage crew fills the air with an uncomfortable tension. The sound of halfhearted activity. Accomplishing nothing except the unsteady interruption of silence.

At last, he shakes his head. “No. No, that is not how I run this ship. I asked my crew for advice, not a debate. Decisions that important shouldn’t be decided by who’s the most skilled at speaking, or how loud a faction makes their case. Your fate was tied in with the fate of so many others on this ship, they deserved to have their say, and have it be heard, without condition. But in the end, it was nobody’s decision but my own.”

He goes for another sip of tea. Pauses. A war, in his shaking hand, over the last few inches. Discomfort. Exhaustion. A chair that doesn’t fit. Legs that don’t work. Long nights, spent alone. Weighed against a collar. Fixed to the neck of a servitor, on a dead monster far, far away.

Carefully, he sets the teacup back down.

“...I don’t know what difference it makes for you,” he adds. And truly, he doesn’t. “But the overwhelming majority of those who spoke, spoke in your favor.”

Breathless Dead

Ah. Hrm. It turns out? There’s a difference between the honeyed words of a guest, offered in hopes of teasing out some family secrets, and a hero of legends wholeheartedly singing your (slightly embellished) praises. And the mental training required to smile and nod in response to the former offers shockingly little defense against the latter.

Dolce buries his face in his hand. It does nothing to hide the embarrassed flush spreading across his cheeks. “That’s not…exactly how I worded it.” And how had he explained the miraculous change that’d come over Bella, hrm? If he looked at it, out of the corner of his eye, perhaps he could see the shape of the journey from his words to Prion Paula’s declaration. Perhaps. And perhaps he’d better just start at the beginning. Before any more heroes decide to explain for him.

Captain Dolce straightens in his chair, and coughs lightly, to give his hand a thin excuse for its position before he returned it to his lap. “Before the battle on Salib.” Deep breaths. As direct as he could. She did request as such, after all. “We held a council of war, to decide our approach, and our objectives. Which included what to do with you, if given the opportunity. We didn’t know how we’d find you, and I decided we couldn’t afford any confusion or disagreement in the heat of the moment.”

A difficult decision. Argued fiercely on both sides, despite the clear majority. The voices still ring in his ears. The passion, and the hurt. His eyes fall to his folded hands. His fingers clench uncomfortably. “I opened the floor to the matter. The crew had their say, for and against. And in the end, I made the decision to offer you a chance.” And here you are, having actually taken it.

Is that relief he feels? Or regret?

“...I didn’t think kisses would be involved, but I can’t say I’m surprised?” He gives a little shrug. “Aphrodite’s been involved, after all. The possibility was always there.” So says Captain Dolce,of the Golden Fleece, Ram of War, whose obsidian eyes always knew strength from weakness.

Breathless Dead

It’s worse, somehow, now that she’s stopped shouting. There isn’t any surprise or crisis to hide behind. He is speaking with Bella. Bella is in the room, speaking with him. He and Bella are speaking, and they will keep speaking, until he dismisses her, or she leaves of her own will. Bella. She is here.

He’d expected…no, he’d suspected that she wasn’t going to sabotage them, now that she had the chance. The battle on Sahar. Redana’s tearful report. A hunch, at the effect of a Master, felled by her own hand. Enough to decide that his decision extended to keeping her unbound, and free to move about the ship.

That hadn’t told him enough to know what she would do. Or who she would be, freed of her old role.

She speaks loudly without raising her voice. There’s an edge to it, jagged and cruel, and she drives it into his stomach and glides it across his coat. He cannot tell which it will be until it happens. He cannot keep from wincing. He picks up every pause, every gesture, every little thing that might tell him what he ought to be doing to make it stop. Make her stop. Leave him alone. Find someone else. His wide eyes search hers. They find no relief.

She’s beautiful. By most standards. By his standards. By…by Vasillia’s standards. She is beautiful. Ramses is watching her. Many of the Coherent are watching her. He counts at least three who are only pretending to work. She walks with an assurance of step so secure, no movement is an accident. She knows she is supposed to be here. Perhaps more than anyone here. And he can’t keep his hands from shaking.

She’s here. And she doesn’t have to be. She doesn’t want to be. She hates it, here. Nothing that anyone’s doing is making it any easier. Nothing she’s doing is making it any easier. But she’s here. And she’s asking. And maybe he can believe that she’ll do as she’s said.

“How do you suggest we approach them?” As she asked. He spends no more words than necessary. Measured, despite himself. “Everything we have tried to date has failed, whether I attempt in person or by proxy, and this cannot continue.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Years and years of big sister training had led to the mastery of a secret technique; to take up every iota of Han’s personal space without ever actually touching her. Because of course she wouldn’t touch her dear sweet little sister. That would be wrong. That would be brutish. The sort of things the Highlanders used to do, Han.

She doesn’t budge. She forces her big, dumb sister to practically bend over backwards to advance into new territory, because she’s not giving up a single wilting inch of hers. “Oh? I’m sorry, Mom.” And years and years of little sister training had led to the mastery of a secret technique; to fit enough biting sarcasm in one word, she could sass a hole in a wall at fifty paces. “I’m still figuring out why arms are a crime, I didn’t realize the Sapphire Mother hates walking with girls now too.”

(And Sagacious Crane couldn’t have missed that either. How she took two steps into the inn and tossed off her soaked poncho with hardly a care in the world. Leaving her arms bared to the shoulder, glistening in the lantern-light, for all the world to see.

Lotus might have missed it. If she hadn’t taken a stealthy peek back towards the front desk. Or maybe several stealthy peeks. And a little bit of staring, as a treat.)

Breathless Dead

He doesn’t look away from that all-seeing eye. He listens, like he can’t hear the set awkwardly spinning up to life, the muffled conversation in her wake, the cacophony of people not paying attention. He wishes he could be anywhere else. But what good is that sort of wish? He can’t be anywhere but here. There’s nobody else but him. So he looks, and he listens, and he holds his head as high as it will go.

It makes sense. Horrible, horrible sense. But it all adds up, combines with what few scraps he had into a cohesive picture. Not the whole, but enough to see the shape of it. A scared fragment of the Eater’s mind, living on after death, without any of the structure it needed to function as it should. Promoted, suddenly, above its pay grade, with no choice in the matter, no support, and worst of all, no idea how to fix any of it.

By all the gods. If there was something, anything he could’ve done to discover this earlier, to have a chance to stop it, and he didn’t, forgive him. Please, forgive him.

And if nothing else, let him make this right.

“Please. Wait.”

He reaches out a hand, to motion to stop her, and has to brace himself on the side of his chair. Or else risk toppling over entirely.

“You’re the only person on board who’s been able to meet with the Tides like this. The Secretary runs and hides whenever he hears I’m coming. The ship’s much too big to have any hope of finding him, if he doesn’t want to be found. They don’t mingle. They don’t reach out. All I have are official channels, and they only use those to stonewall me. I’m sorry to keep you further, but, please, anything more you can tell us could help us do something about it.”

You, who can see through him, do you see his heart breaking?

“They shouldn’t be left to suffer.”