TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

Dolce, lamb among titans, the time is now. He who never took his turn with the machete, whose only sight these long, hard weeks has been jagged thorns and strong backs, ready yourself. The time is now.

In the shade of an apple tree, he clears a space for a pile of wicked thorns. No grass, no vegetation, no fuel to burn up in Zeus’ gift. For you see? Though the road is long, and stretches longer still, the gods have not forgotten them. Sit, sit! Here is fire, to ward off the chill. Here is foil in his packs. He does not stop to wonder why he put it there. It has grand purpose, now. One by one, he bundles up apples within it. One by one, he places them by the very heart of the fire. He counts, in his head, numbers coming one after the other on their way to Long Enough. Then turn, and turn, and turn, and turn! All of you, it’s time for turning. Just a little longer, and it’s time for eating. Open them up, fill the campground with the heavenly aroma. It is a smell of beginnings, of the place where their feet first met the road, of a place where hearts can find their rest.

Here is his post by the flames. Vasilia sits behind him, working out what burrs she can with comb and knife. (All other blades slide harmlessly off his wool. Only her hands meet any success.) Come, friends, champions all. This is a fire weeks in the tending, stoked with gratitude for every swing of the machete, for each step you cleared. Sit, and bask in the warmth of a friend who loves you dearly, and will smile to see you filled with good things.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Long ago, when Han was too young to fight a war, and just old enough for the world to declare one, her family made her attend the Festival of the First Blossom. They pulled an awful chrysanthemum dress over her head, brushed her hair until it was long and wavy, and kept holding her hand even when she asked to go race the other kids around the entire village. No, they said, we have to pay our respects at the village shrine. No, they said, we’re eating now, and you’ll upset your tummy. No, they said, and she wasn’t listening then, because whatever the reason was it was going to be stupid.

So she didn’t think much when a priestess in a flowing blue dress stood up in front of everybody, her veil glittering like starlight. She yawned, rather than wonder what the name of the stringed instrument the attendant was plucking at, or why she only needed to hear each string once to tune it properly. The priestess took a big breath, opened her mouth, and Han crossed her arms sulkily, determined to ignore whatever she was about to say.

The Festival of the first Blossom, as it so happens, commemorates the story of the First Flowering Tree. The legends say that, in the middle of a glade, there stood a single tree, with branches stretching out to the mountains, and bark as hard and bitter as her heart. No flower could grow beneath her thick cover, and she liked it that way. Couldn’t stand the flowers, their thoughts all empty fluff, pretty sweet nothings with no root. Not like her. Her branches were wide, to catch the ever-falling rain. Her roots were deep, to withstand the driving winds. When all flowers were gone, she would remain, and this would be her victory.

Then one day, the clouds parted. For the first time in her long, lonely life, the clouds parted. There in the sky hung the Sun, in a dress of radiant, translucent gold, her hair flowing wild and free down her back, a song of the stars dancing upon her lips. In her radiant light, all the tree’s good sense evaporated like the morning dew, the bitterness of her heart clearing like so much fog. All at once, her limbs blossomed into flowers of every color. Reds and blues and violets and greens, stripes and spots and starbursts, everything she could think to be and everything she didn’t know she could be. All at once their petals opened to drink in even more of the Sun’s glory.

Was her display of love enough to catch the eye of one so far above her? Do the trees blossom so, even to this day, because they have not yet told the Sun the full depths of their love? There are many tellings of the tale. The high, clear voice of the Priestess sung them all, and sung them none. For the song of the First Tree is a song of longing, and not one of finding.

Han stormed out of the room before the applause had died down. Later that evening, a flowerless tree fell in the woods, punched until its trunk split in two. And in the memory of its shade she curled into a ball, the rain soaking her horrible new dress, and there she remained until morning.

This, then, is the song that she hears in place of thought. A priestess’ song of years ago. She remembers every word.

Han stands before Lotus of Tranquil Waters, daughter of the Sapphire Mother of Lotuses. She does not remember standing. She does not remember walking. Ah, ah! Do you see my flowers, oh Lady of Heaven? I will reach my branches to the skies, that you may see them. That I may see you. That I must see more of you. More of you! More of you!

Han’s gaze drifts up and down the waters of her body. She can count the stones around her wrists. Pink petals stretch themselves across her chest, suggestions of shape. She counts the stones hanging around her perfect neck. Any moment, the wind will catch these sleeves, and she will dance on the air. Why do no flowers bloom where her feet meet the floorboards? Her shoulders glow where sunbeams kiss her skin. Her face. Her face. Her face. Hide not your face from me again, or I shall surely wither. Memory alone could never sustain me.

Han steps no closer. For you are of heaven. And I am cursed to root in the dirt. There is a sky between us, that I cannot cross. Her clothes are bitter rags, well-worn in travel, crusted with mud. Her skin reeks of battle and grime. Her tongue is crass and foolish. This is as far as a dragon may approach a demigod. Her worship must be from afar. Though my life began when I beheld you, though I will surely die without you, what use have the Heavens for a bitter, ugly tree?

Breathless Dead

Dolce walks the valley of kings clinging tight to the hand of royalty. Vasilia, noble Vasilia, strides amongst the rubble, unbowed and undaunted. What strength yet untapped in her powerful frame, that she bears the sun without complaint, and he suffers in her shadow? Her thoughts tread paths well-run through crowns, and gods, and nations, and ruin. She walks between princely slaves, every step laced with dignity, every step a thankful prayer for safe passage through Aphrodite's lands. Everywhere he looks, he sees the black-stained hands of their faithful scout, and in shame he clings tighter to his escort.

What is he to do? Aphrodite is watching. Acknowledge him, pay him the respect he is due from one who is so insignificant. Let not his gaze linger, on one who is worthy of special attention. Let not his gaze miss him, as one who is trying to hide. This sheep is not special, but no more not special than anyone here. Be small, be pleasant, be useless in the grand matters. The wish burning in his heart depends on it. These people depend on it, though they know it not. Everyone depends upon it, and that's more people than he'll ever know, and it's everyone he knows.

If there is room still to wish for a journey home, Vasilia will be the one to wish it. He is but a humble chef, a lost sheep, and has his hands full with just the one.

Breathless Dead

The rain presses down, always. Now it teases and pokes at exposed skin, at sopping clothes, a soft patter with no pattern. Now it falls in solid walls, leaping from the clouds to meet them and carrying away anything too weak to hang on. Their footsteps will stop for a time, and the rain will press down.

Lucky Vasilia can bear it. Tall Vasilia, strong Vasilia, she of the long legs and sure feet, she cuts through mudslide and stream alike without stumbling. The endless rains soak her to the bone, stealing away heat and dry and comfort, but she holds her heart in a grip of iron and will not let go. When she deigns to fuss, her wit is sharp and her timing sharper. When the call to march come, her voice rings loud above the storm. For she is strong, and she can bear it.

Not all are so fortunate. Others stand a head shorter. The waters rush up to their waists, and they nearly fall in exhaustion on the far shore. Others wear coats of merely water resistant wool. And there is always more water. They may as well walk with pockets full of stones, their wet coats slapping wet against their body with each step. Others cannot remember the sun, nevermind warmth. For these, it takes all of their strength to keep going. While lucky Vasilia has plenty to spare.

When the call for first march comes, she playfully steals from the packs of the weary, and slips their burdens on her own with a wink and a smile. Sometimes she walks in the rear, and the forms of her comrades come flailing through the misting rains where their boots have sunk into the mud. These she pulls free, and pulls forward, marching them back to the safety of the column. Sometimes she walks in the fore, the first to cross the stream. The anchor rope makes a stylish belt about her waist, and at the sound of a cry and a splash she plants her feet firmly, and none are washed away. Sometimes she is a silent companion to the weary, sometimes her marching-song carries them one step ahead of the other. Sometimes, it is only she and he, huddled in a tent. She peels off soaking uniform and slips into her damp jacket, and before he can argue she’s tucked him within and zipped it up, that he may warm himself by her heartbeat.

These then, are the trials of Vasilia of Lakkos, hero to the people, whose glaive strikes for the weary, the downtrodden, the forgotten, the left-behind. Who enjoys victory after victory, and the memory of defeat grows too weak to hang on. The mud carries it away with all that is useless and dirty, and the rain presses down, and Vasilia presses on.

Breathless Dead

Road food fills an important job, as important as any of them. It must be rich, dense with nutrients. Refreshing to sip or to nibble. It must be able to stand alone, but greater still is the one than can blend with what’s foraged. All this, and everyone wishes it were yummy too. It’s a tough life, being road food. But Dolce is here to lend it a hand.

He spends a precious bit of fuel to haul an empty, newly-cleaned storage crate down the mountain, and climbs back up with a crateful of the freshest, sweetest spring water. Hold a hand over it, and feel the air grow still; it flows naturally cool from beneath the mountain. From this great trove he fills a trusty kettle. From the supplies aboard his plover, he fetches a little barrel, complete with spigot. Thus so he makes the rounds, stopping beside each plover, where groups gather in the shade to rest from their work, and enjoy a quick meal. Cups out, now, everyone. And hold them steady! First comes a thick syrup from the barrel, honey and spices and good things blended together. Then, fresh, cold water to fill. Mix thoroughly, wait for everyone to get acquainted, and enjoy! A spiced, sweet tea, of sorts, to put life in the body and a smile on your face.

At each group, he waits. There is time to wait. This, too, is road food. Moments when breath can be spent on conversation, and laughter, and company. In the time it takes for his brew to be properly mixed, there is time to reminisce, to tell of sights seen, to bleat contentedly as hands play through his curly wool. No one will go hungry. Not on his watch. No one will be forgotten.

It is here, amid laughter and good company, that the first are lost.

He keeps the memory of his first flight with the Starsong. His first meal away from the Manor. Joining them, officially. That fateful day when he transferred ships, and he first saw the Lady practicing the forms. These, he could never forget. The fifth mission. The seventy-first day off-planet. The in-between times, where the hard work of skill, habit, and growth was truly done. The steady climbs between peaks. These are the first to drift beneath the Lethe’s waters. Dissolved into a brew that carried the flavor of the experience, but whose ingredients he’d forgotten, and whose recipe he could not reproduce.

Breathless Dead

Bounding. Bouncing.

Tons of metal should not feel so light, but the road works many miracles.

Sunlit Brook is not designed for combat. Its engineering is heavy-duty because everything in space is heavy-duty. Truth be told, it should not exist in the dread dangers of space, but the road works many miracles. A ship’s mighty prow cleaves through stardust and spacestuff like a bullet. Sit behind it, and, no, yes, you would be roasted by the engines, but please think of a bullet for a moment. Sit behind it, and the world would be still. But it’s not just here. Along the edges of the craft, in the wake of the ship’s prow, there is a narrow band of stillness.

The plovers that live here are short, squat, compact. Powerful legs designed to leap distances, not heights. Never heights. Jets above deny the void. Jets below deny the ricochet. Arms end in fingers more clever than those meant to hold spears. These are the helpers. The scurriers. The carriers of supplies. The cleaners of ship-wounds, before others cauterize them. They flit about the edges of the ship, bouncing to and fro, painted in a swirl of artificial, angular color, meant to stand out against hull and void alike. At their speeds, others must see them coming long before there is a risk of collision.

Here, on the ground, Dolce’s packs are filled with supplies to feed and keep the crew, and not their plovers. He has no need of the upper jets, and diverts all power to the lower, landing so softly he hardly leaves a crater. He wastes not a speck of momentum as he tumbles, bounds, bounces along the trail, as if carried along by a heavenly wind.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Only one sword may be taken from a dragon, and it must be done with careful trust.

The first trust was a reward, long before the lodge. After binding their hands, Piri returned the freshly-bound patta to Han’s back. She could not reach it, not without throwing Lotus around, but every step of the journey she felt its comforting weight across her shoulders. The blade is yours, daughter of dragons, even in defeat. Can Piri trust you?

The second trust was a question without a question. At last, the three of them entered the lodge that was their prison. Before she removed the rope, Piri declared she would put Han’s sword away first. Just that she would put it away. That it would still be Han’s sword. But not asking. Han still had her legs, her arms, her head, more than enough swords to fight back with. Piri stepped behind her, within reach, slowly loosing the blade. Can Piri trust you?

The third trust was the most dangerous of all. With the wrapped bundle in her hands, Piri hung it, delicately, upon a wall-mount in full view of her captives. She removed the rope from Han’s wrists, and busied herself attaching it to Lotus’ ankle. Han could reach the wall in one leap. Han could free her sword in one breath. Her captor knelt on the ground, her back to her.

Han gazed long at her sword. But Piri can trust her.

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

“The hell are you talking about?”

From the depths of a plush, cushioned chair, Han directs a confused glare at the silk screen. From the depths of the exhaustion gripping her body, Han pictures Lotus choosing this exact moment to finish changing and check on her escort. From the depths of her flushed face, her eyes discover some truly fascinating engravings on the ceiling.

“What happened to ’I’m your enemy, I give you nothing for free, trade trade trade?’” The present company might not remember Piri’s voice sounding quite so high and snooty when she said that. But that’s definitely how she sounded. Han was there. She'd know. “Is this your first time kidnapping somebody or what?”

Breathless Dead

Vasilia swam through an ocean of polite fondness. To each who had faced her in the sparring ring, she offers not the same quip twice. A chance to start our record fresh, eh? But of course, I will be happy to beat the forms into you a second time. Darling, of course you need no such excuse to spend an afternoon together. And the ocean ends where the ocean must, on shores stained pink.

The hum of the party fills the room, even if the party doesn’t. The ocean of fellowship ends where it must, on shores stained pink. No one is in a rush to get closer. There is no rush, to get closer. It will reach them, in time. All they have to do is wait. It is here, alone on the shores, where Vasilia leans against he railing, glass in hand, and stares long into the hole in the sky. She’d thought it might be like a yawning pit, solid color ready to swallow them up in a featureless abyss. The Rift is bright, searingly bright, but the Rift is a hole, and the Rift is a river, and she watches the flow of nothingness swirl and play in the wrongness.

“Drifting through; impossible.”

Iskarot slumps into the space beside her. He holds his glass in a paw uncloaked. And Vasilia does not stare. Staring is uncouth, ill-mannered, and horrifically droll. She lays eyes on him. Runs her gaze softly through the fur kept fastidiously trimmed, when no one but Hermes should have ever seen it. The Coherent design their bodies for aesthetics. The Hermetics for brutal convenience. She does not shy away from the joints and tubes. She blinks, once. Slowly. “Lucky that none of us are drifting, then?”

He snorts. “Obviously. Your track record of willing mediocrity and dedication to self-preservation would not abide such an abrupt change of course.” With his free hand, he pulls a blunt from some secret pocket. Perfectly clean, and well-kept. The sort of thing one saves for a final journey. “Why are you even here?”

From the depths of a faded coat, she produces a battered lighter. The sort of thing one carries in hope of a friend’s need. She holds it steady, as Iskarot lights up. Keeps herself still, and patient. “I’ve rather had enough of being dead.” The light flickers in her eyes. A tiny, faithful spark of red against the drowning pink. “It’s high time I lived, for a change.”

Either the answer was satisfactory, the blunt a marvelous one, or this hour’s allotment of words depleted. It is enough. They stand, watching, long enough for the space between them to shrink, and their shoulders to brush together. Not quite long enough to risk a sip of the wine she served her. But long enough for her other side to feel rather empty.

She casts a glance back, and at once she finds the splash of soft, creamy white amidst the crowd. Dolce has stopped beside Jil, who is animatedly trying to show him a word or two in the Lantern’s tongue of touch. A difficult task, when your student is ninety percent airy wool by volume, and petting his arm more insistently only gets you a soft, silly smile. It’s hard for him not to wander, poor thing. Doesn’t know how to handle a party he’s not working at. Four times he has made valiant forays into the thick of it. Four times, he has found more friends to speak to. Three times, his orbit has returned to her side. All she has to do is wait.

Her hand clutches at empty space.

She downs a glass of courage. Pauses. Scowls, sharply. ”Dammit.” she mutters. “The absolute gall of her…” She does not recognize the vintage, the type, and the pink makes it difficult to discern color, so she cannot say for certain that it’s her favorite, so this is a perfectly fair amount of credit to give. And she walks through the crowd, wading into a sea of fondness. Here and there, a face from the sparring ring halts her, and again fresh charm springs to her tongue. A chance to start our record fresh, eh? But of course, I will be happy to beat the forms into you a second time. Darling, of course you need no such excuse to spend an afternoon together. And somewhere, her orbit reaches its conclusion, and she clasps Dolce’s little hand in hers.

Somewhere, the line exists between love and like. And she will never find it, if all she does is wait.

Breathless Dead

Dolce sits upright on his kitchen stool, and sets his pen perfectly perpendicular to the page. "Aphrodite, please, do not take my silence as an attempt to ignore your presence. Not now, after we have journeyed so far." He pushes an ashtray to the edge of the counter, as far as he can reach. Offering, to whoever may be standing near by. "Rather, our small crew is busy preparing quite the offering to you. I hope that you enjoy it, when the time comes."

He takes up his pen again. Speaking not to the limited quantity of ashtrays aboard their vessel. Speaking not to how much operational friction a limitless supply of carelessly-strewn ashes could produce. Offering, humbly, a proper receptacle for a god's cigarette.

His pen flies through the last letters. His penmanship is no less flawless for the speed of his hand. They have little time. This deserves the best.

He tucks his papers into the red folio labeled Recipes, and soon his hoofsteps are receding down the smoke-strewn hallways.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Your umbrella beats a series of squawks from her besmirching head, and one failed attempt to chomp the offending umbrella out of your grip. You stand and face her, an imposing figure with her umbrella-cane. Your feral stray stands tall, thrusting her shoulders back, presenting herself as big! Intimidating! Highly un-smackable! Instincts take over, when the mind is otherwise preoccupied.

“You…!!!” She sputters, once, and then comes the onslaught of your assessment. It pushes her gaze aside, carrying her eyes away from you. Back and forth her head goes, first one way, then the other, never resting at center long enough to do more than shoot your umbrella a cautious glare. She doesn’t interrupt your words. She doesn’t interrupt your lengthy pause. She barely interrupts the long silence that follows after you’re clearly done speaking and all you’re doing is watching her and the best she can sputter out is “You…you….you, Piri?!?!”

Until finally, she explodes.

”Lead with that next time!!!” Her mighty roar cracks so little that it practically doesn’t count. Consider it a blessing, that you have your mask for protection. If she had to see the smug expression on your dumb face she would die forever. “And then maybe! I’ll go easy on you when I beat you! And!” Her fierce, thundering heart sends blood rushing through her body, and that is why she looks so flushed. “And I’ll only haul you around half the Kingdoms to sing your pretty story about me! Gah!!”

She recedes into a fine pout. A fearsome, but ultimately harmless sulk, that will almost certainly abate under the influence of a good walk, and the soothing power of Water.

(Lotus brushes against Han’s balled-up fists, and coaxes them open like blooming flowers meeting the bright sun. She takes each cold, calloused finger in turn, and rubs new life into them. Tending to her brave champion. She wraps them up snug, strokes gently with her thumb, until Han gives a little wiggle to say it’s all better now, could you move on to the next one please? Or Han tugs at her hand, gently, to say no, wait, could you give that one little more attention? And, sometimes, her dragon will wrap her strong hands around hers, and give a light squeeze. To say that everything will be alright. And she shouldn’t worry about a thing.

A finer halter you could never have devised. Han will walk, obediently, until you reach your destination or she collapses from exhaustion. Good thing you don’t have far to go.)