TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

The quiet of the streets coils around his spine. The creak of doors on hinges. The tap, tap, tap of their steps on the course, black ground. Their words, swallowed up in the void without a hint of an echo. They ought to be louder. They ought to be quieter. How he wishes for another voice to come and break this spell.

”Is that so? Forgive me, there’s not much call for high theory in…” The word flits on the tip of his tongue, unsure of its shape. Piracy? Cruiser maintenance? “...the kitchens, yes. Plenty of time to think. Little time for practice.”

The person he walks beside wears a face he knows. He speaks with the right voice. He recites his arguments with a practiced step, lingers over well-worn favorites with tender affection.

Every word is unfamiliar.

”Where did you study this…Art, friend? Just the other day, yes, you were telling me about, what was it, the difference between…turning on and stoking an Engine?” Maybe drawing an analogy to his ovens? It must have been about an oven. What had he been cooking? His eyes shine with the simple curiosity of a novice. “You know so much, it must have been a school like no other.”

Breathless Dead

Did you know? Not one of these houses contains a gene-loom. Not one of these houses contains anything that could, on a good day, resemble a gene-loom in potentia. But they could. That’s the trick with houses, and walls; you can put things in them, and you won’t know what’s inside until you look.

Dolce stands outside each house. He does not open the door; they are all locked, and the craftsman’s hands are clever to their work. He stands. And he waits. He casts his eyes to the earth. He does not think about what will be in this house. And when the craftsman emerges again, he falls in beside him without so much as a how-do-you-do.

On the forty-seventh house, the craftsman nicks his hand on a splinter. Dolce binds the shallow cut with soft, careful fingers, and at last he speaks. His tone is soft as his wool. And nothing like the acid in his stomach.

“She would see no love in this. There would be no love worth seeing there. When you make something, sir, something that’s important to you, it’s your hands that make it. Would it be the same if you gave someone else the plans? Let them do it all for you? Could they love it like you do?”

And what abuse would you heap upon them when they inevitably fell short? When their hearts found songs of their own? This, he does not say. It is not necessary to say. The point stands just fine without it.

“I’ve spent much of my life in the kitchens, but in all my time, every true love I’ve seen has needed tending to. The tending was the love.” He pulls the bandage tight, but not too tight. He brushes it clean of dirt and debris. He pats it, gently. “Not some busywork to give to someone else.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

The stories lied to her.

When the Sapphire Mother takes the stage, she doesn’t walk. She has people to do that for her. She lounges on a seat of brilliant blue lotus petals, borne by priestesses in their finest silks. She does not command them to stop, and set her down. She does not demand they bring cups of the finest wine, and raise them to her lips whenever she desires drink. She does not snap her fingers for someone to take the coat from her shoulders. All this is done for her, freely, as an act of worship. In deference and demonstration to her power.

Bull. Shit.

The priestesses could drop her any time they wanted. Or throw the wine in her face. Or make her stand there awkwardly with her coat on like a big dumb idiot while everyone points and laughs. Power?! There’s not a damn thing powerful about, about priestess on their knees, begging to serve you. Screw that, there’s nobody who’s got more power than them. There’s nobody that could drive a dagger through your heart easier. If the Sapphire Mother’s so powerful, why doesn’t she just float in herself, huh?! Pour her own damn wine! Gah!

Let her care for you.

The barge didn’t count. Emli was. Different. If she wanted to eat some breakfast in the morning, what was so bad about somebody bringing it to her room before she woke up? Saved her a damn walk. And, if she wanted to sulk walk around the gardens, then of course she wanted directions. Stupid barge, with too many stupid decks to keep track of. Emli was smart, and, professional, and good at a job she, loved, and, she’d do all that whether you asked her or not, and you could always just, leave, or do something else if you wanted. It’s. It’s different, when, she’s on her knees, in that dress, with those eyes staring up at her, so she can see the flickering lanterns reflected in them, and, and, asking. With. Her mouth. Open. To…

(Her burning heart is doused in river and rain. All available fuel burns to hold her shoulder together. Lotus’ hands are so, so light. And soft. All she does is stand here. Lotus strokes her arm tenderly. She will not stop. She could stand here, and do nothing, and she wouldn’t stop pouring this little, tender comfort on her. If she tugged, she could pull Han to her knees. If she laughed, she could shatter her. If she smiled, she could pull her heart out of her chest, and she would never get it back.)

Let her care for you.

Something between a growl and a groan nestles in her throat, and refuses to come out, or make up its mind which it would be when it did. It is the stupidest noise she has ever made, until she opens her mouth to speak. “Alright. Just. Don’t freak out. It looks worse than it is.” She sits? She kneels? No, she sits. No, she leans casually against the side of the bed. No, the bed’s the wrong height and she’s the filthiest thing in the room she sits. No, kneels. Crouches? She crouches. She crouches very close to sitting, but she could stand up anytime she wanted to, so there. “Damn floor….” she mutters.

She rolls up her sleeve to her shoulder. And keeps pulling it back.

Her shoulder is mottled with deep purple splotches. Something may have snapped inside. Maybe several somethings. She holds herself stiffly. She can’t see where the bruises stretch onto her back. She can feel where they darken her collarbone. Perilously close to her neck. Her throat.

(She fought the Dominion spy? In this condition?)

“I wasn’t gonna leave it like this or anything.” So, you can’t scold her now. She didn’t do anything wrong. “I was gonna heal it on my own, when I got my wind back.” Her wells of Essence were dry, is all. Dry enough that she couldn’t flood her body with life and energy. All she’d have to do is sit here, and bite her tongue for however many hours it took to build her reserves back. Then she could spend them. Then she could lie limp and exhausted, and wait, and wait, until she could stand again. Her little bud would never have known. She couldn’t have known. Not on the walk. Not in the fight. Not a minute ago.

Lotus would’ve offered to heal it on the spot. Because she’s kind to everybody. Because she’s got a heart big enough for the whole world. Because it’d break that heart of hers to know somebody was hurt, and she could do something to make them feel better. Even if she had to kiss their neck. Their throat. Anywhere, anyplace, even where only lovers and slaves go. And Han knew that. And if she let anything slip, it’d be just the same as…it’d be just like tricking her. Into kissing her, again. When she’s just kind to everybody. Even beasts.

But it’s different, when she’s asking. If she’s offered, already.

Let her care for you.

Han’s free hand finds Lotus’. And clumsily squeezes. Because she needs to hold something, or else the rush of blood and terror in her head will sweep her away. Do not let go. Do not let her go, Lotus of Tranquil Waters.

“You should. Be thorough.” Oh gods oh heavens what is she saying what is happening what is any of this. “I don’t know how any of this magic crap works, okay?! So. I. Want you, to.” Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?! “Take your time. And. Don’t miss any spots.” She looks her in the eye. She has to look her in the eyes. Oh gods she’s looking her in the eyes. “That’s what I want.” And Lotus is looking right back and she’s leaning now her chest is pressing soft into her arm and

oh.

(Her lips are warmer than she remembers…)

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.