TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

Dolce does not sit. There is no time for sitting. It is not right, for them to sit. He does not say as such. What he says is quite different. What he does is not sitting. "If we prepare for every problem, we will encounter none of them. There are, I think, an infinite number of problems, in an infinite number of places. Preparedness is key. You must have food on hand if you might cook a meal later. But first, we must watch her Imperial Highness, and note how she delights to visit her loved ones after long voyages. We must collect the newspaper, and see that she ended her tour of the system on a world not a few days away. We must study, and estimate how long a ship of such and such a size with such and such crew may take to cross the stars. Watching the ones we love is key. Learning about the ones we love is key." Neither may be undertaken while sitting still. This, he says, but does not say.

Breathless Dead

In the depths of their vehicle, stationed between driver and passenger, there is a tiny dial, smaller than a fist. At first, he thinks of…he thinks of…there is a little circle, like it, and it’s always pointing, even when you move. It knows the straight line from you to, somewhere. But this dial, it has two arms. One is short, the other long. They do not move when they turn. Whenever he looks, they are in different positions, and they’ve moved by different amounts. What must they have done, these ancient people, to devise such a clever thing, to track something that moves so erratically, so mysteriously?

The only sound in their vehicle is the growling roar of their engine, singing its song of travel. Some time back, they talked, he and Vasilia, about what it might mean, this tune. It is no music that they’ve heard before. Is it music at all? Perhaps each vehicle sounds different, so you know who’s coming long before you see them? Maybe you had to coax these machines differently, when you wanted your visit to be a surprise.

There is nothing to talk about, now. He rests his chin on the open windowsill, watching hill after hill roll by. There are always more hills. He has seen so many hills. It is peace, seeing another. They are all different. They flow, they sweep, some are yellow with blooming flowers, other are lush, soft green, and they pass him by without his taking a single step. He could leap, from hill to hill, hurrying along at a pace that would leave this relic in the dust. He can sit, he can watch, and wonders will race by him, forever. He will sit, and watch a while longer.

Vasilia rolls her neck, stretching as much as she can in the confines of the cockpit. So! It would seem she was not born to pilot after all. She could have fooled him; her feet dance on pedals he had to strain to reach. One hand perches atop the steering wheel, the other cradles a, a, a stick, between the seats. This foot then that, this way then that, and the road flies beneath them with hardly a bump to speak of. Bravely, she sticks her head out of the window, to thrill in the wind playing at her hair. All around them, their convoy roars, and she takes great delight in slipping between their fellows, flashing them a brilliant, cheerful, innocent grin as she overtakes the slower ones. She is, of course, the picture of good sportsmanship when another vehicle cuts them off, and he’ll not tell any tale to the contrary. The driving gives her much to do, and she will play a while longer.

There is nothing to talk about, now. She is busy driving. He is busy being driven. And all is right in the world. It is natural, then, that someone else should take the wheel, and he should be a humble passenger. Let Vasilia shine at the helm. Let thoughts of bigger ships, and bigger hats, let these things pass with the rolling hills. Besides. Vasilia looks resplendent in her seat of honor. He will sit, and watch her a while longer, and meet her eyes brightly when she watches him back.

Here, the road thins, and their party stretches out in a grand line, into the horizon ahead, from the horizon behind. Dolce nods his head. His fingers tap a rhythm on the windowsill, to match a song in his heart. And into their world of steel, he hums a scrap of some old song. A song that he has known since he has known anything at all. Into their world of steel, Vasilia sings the first words, of the first verse. He joins her, by the second line. The steering wheel makes good percussion. No one is here to wince when the notes leap too high, for the only listeners are too busy roaring the chorus for all they are worth. Their world of steel is for two, and two alone to share.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

A shiver runs down the length of her spine. Piri’s words and Piri’s lips caress her ear in turn, and in each moment she knows not which to expect. And thus, both pass straight to her unguarded heart.

The door clicks behind her. They have been given privacy.

She steps closer.

Her thoughts are…her thoughts fall strangely silent. Muffled, even. At the edges of her awareness, she feels the sharp edge of danger, the instinct to be on alert, but of what? Her heart cannot tell, exactly. It is too busy with another song to hear any note of alarm. Guard and protect her from harm. Talk with her. Reassure her, the poor thing. Allow her to care for you. Talk with her. Reassure her. Allow her. Guard her. Talk. You may remove the gag.

Han stands before her demigod. Her charge. Her hands rise to the sparkling veil, all but brushing it, and then she freezes. Frowns. Pulls back, and scrubs her grimy, filthy fingers on the least dirty corner of her poncho. A bath of rosewater and fancy perfumes would be better. It’d be what she deserves. Talk with her. Reassure her. Guard her. It will have to do.

Her fingers slip beneath the veil, cupping her cheeks, brushing her flowing blue hair aside to reach the knots on her neck. Piri’s work is good, and thorough. No knot is so tight as to be uncomfortable. Each scarf is tied separately. One by one, Han gently teases them loose. Scarf by scarf, she unwraps Lotus of Tranquil Waters, running her rough fingers over her face, her neck, her lips. Hands that carved the earth in two stroke her skin, their touch as light as butterfly wings.

At last, she grants Lotus her voice again. The gags lay neatly in a pile on the bed.

“It’s gonna be alright, little bud.” Her voice isn’t made for breathy softness. Even whispered, a growl runs through her halting words. But still, she speaks. “I’m here. And. No one is gonna take you from me.” Her hand hangs, awkwardly, halfway between face, and shoulder, and hair. Unsure of where to touch. Unsure of where she could touch. Shaking, with strain and fatigue.

[That’s going to be 5 + 4 + 2 = 11 on Emotional Support]

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?”