TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

Our kind.

Funny, how chatting with 20022 about the fate of everyone on this planet felt easier than any of a hundred conversations about menu choices with anybody back…where he started.

“That’s very considerate of you, thank you. I truly appreciate how understanding you’ve been about all this. And the slides were expertly done, a very nice touch.” He stood, and shook his hand, a moment of triumph for two sheep who’d talked their way past what could have been a half-dozen arguments. “You’ve given me quite a lot to think about. I’ll have to at least speak with my wife-”

Oh. Hrm. Right. He coughed sheepishly. “That is, I know the work you’re doing is rather delicate; how much am I free to discuss without jeopardizing your efforts? I don’t intend to shout it from the rooftops, but this isn’t just my house after all.”

Breathless Dead

You know, perhaps an unexpected trip up the mountain would’ve been preferable.

“If it’s quite alright with you,” he pushes his chair out slowly, with both hands. “I think I could use that cup of tea. Would you…no? No, very well.” It didn’t hurt to ask again. Sometimes, a guest doesn’t think they’re thirsty, or hungry, until somebody else gets a snack. They see someone else eating, and all of a sudden they remember, yes, right, food tastes good. I’m a little hungry. I’d like a snack. You always ask, when you get something for yourself. Even if they said no just a little bit earlier.

How much longer until the tea’s done? Three minutes, twenty-three seconds. Right. Right.

20022 hasn’t made a sound. No skin on skin of twiddling thumbs. No rustling papers and fidgeting with slides. No soft shifting in the seat as he adjusts a slackening posture. When he glances over, his guest is never looking his way. But he feels his attention resting on him. Catching the tremor in his arm as he lifts the infuser out of his cup. Noting the pause after he adds a dollop of honey, before he decides on an extra spoonful. But just noting it. Taking note of a fact in front of him, rather than judging him for weakness.

There’s a difference, to the feeling in the air. He’s learned.

It will be at least five minutes until it is cool enough to drink, but it is soothing enough to hold in his hands as he sits back down. “I…did say that there was more that I had to learn. I didn’t expect,” he gestures to the pile of masterwork slides. “Quite so much. Hrm. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of working with the Crystal Knight, rather than keep this all under wraps?” He frowns. “No. No, there’s not, is there? All the reports she’s been getting from Mayor Kaspar have been, well, not favorable, but as close to running smoothly as can be expected. Asking for help means showing her everything. If you thought that all this secrecy was necessary to keep her from Decommissioning the planet, then, you don’t think she’s the sort of person who would accept the difficulties. She just wants results.”

It’s too early for the tea to be properly cooled yet. But some thoughts demand tea, now. “It would be different if we had a Sector Governor who was willing to listen, but…no, no that wouldn’t do either, would it? Whoever’s above her would just blame her for our troubles, fire her, and put in someone who won’t hesitate.”

He takes a long, slow breath in through his nose. Then blows it out through his mouth, making little ripples in his teacup. He imagines Vasilia’s hand, running through his wool. He hears her voice, counting the beats of each breath. His vision narrows to a cup of tea, an emptied kitchen, and a Synnefo? A Synnefo sitting across from him. And at the edges of his sight, two windows.

“I understand why you’d always be looking for more help.” He says at last. “But being a chef is all I’ve ever done. The positions have been a little different, but in the end it’s still cooking. Even traveling here, I never had time to learn anything else. I don’t mean to be blunt, but, what do you think a chef could do to help?”

Breathless Dead

There are, at last count, one hundred million things that someone could say to you after sitting down across from you. It doesn’t do a body any good to try and count them all in the time between sitting and listening, but there’s a natural instinct for it, no? A wish of the heart. To know what is about to be said, so you can get a head start on what you ought to say to that, and never lose your footing. But if you actually try it, and they say something you’d never expect, then you lose your footing anyway from shock, and you’re worse off than when you started.

Dolce is a wise and learned sheep, at least as far as chefs go. He gets to experience the full, undistracted measure of this refreshing and confusing surprise.

“A pleasure to meet you; my name is Dolce, chef.” And a wise and learned chef gets his bearings during a pleasant greeting. “And, I beg your pardon; operation? I’m afraid I don’t quite know what you mean.”

Attention from the authorities in Beri often coincided with unexpected loss of property, unexpected gains in employment, and unexpected trips up the mountain of indeterminate length. Not so much polite conversation and a willingness to simply talk through a tricky problem. But you know? It had been just as many years since the last time he’d dealt with such authorities as he’d had a real conversation with someone as wooly as him. Perhaps that was why he felt so oddly glad to see a reflection that wasn’t his, despite the circumstances.

“My apologies, I am only a few years new to Beri, and I’m sure there are some things I’ve yet to learn. Which makes it quite difficult to know what I don’t know. Do you think you could tell me a little more of your work, and we can see if that rings any bells? And,” he glances to the stovetop, where steam wafts from a (carefully silenced) kettle. “Would you care for some tea?”

[Rolling to Speak Softly: 5 + 6 + 3 = 14 Dolce forges a Bond with 20022. Asking: What does 20022’s job entail?]

Breathless Dead

When Mayor Kaspar looks down between petitioners, between his mayoral thoughts, he will see a full plate of food, tasteful in every sense of the word. Balanced portions, a proper understanding of color theory, a nod to the various historical food groups, that no one may think his palate immature. Yes, and a cup filled just so with a perfectly paired beverage

The only pans and instruments allowed are those currently in use. It adds a, how you say, rustic air that contrasts magnificently with a creature of high office. Cookware left empty and/or dirty are sent to join their fellows in the street. A teakettle will not whistle, but a pleasant sizzle of oil is permitted.

Dolce works a big pan of sauteing vegetables, sprinkling in spices that will delight the tongue and stimulate the appetite. They will be ready in time for next refreshing of his plate. A dense focaccia cools on the rack, and in four refreshes it will make its debut alongside a small saucer of oil and cheese and herbs for dipping. Pots are kept full of ever-evolving, ever-hearty stews. At his professional discretion, a dollop of mousse, made with only the heaviest creams, to provide both sweet and cold for contrast. Court is tiring enough without missing dessert.

Every dish will be to the Mayor's taste. He will hardly be able to keep himself from idly snacking on food so fine, so rich, so filling. On a chair so comfortable. In the cool of the shade, with a warm breeze flowing from the two windows, carrying the cozy aroma of home cooking.

Before the fall of evening, he will be half asleep already. A nap. Court will be in recess for a nap. His guards will carry him back home, to his proper bed. Dolce will give him an artful basket of goodies, to thank him for gracing his humble kitchen, and the Mayor will have nibbled on most of it by the time he reaches his manor. Court will not resume today.

Three. Maybe four petitioners, if he's lucky. Up to four petitioners will have their cases heard tomorrow, instead of today. Up to four cruel judgements will be postponed for a few hours.

In the meantime, Dolce will ferry the piles from outside his two kitchen windows back inside. If they are still there by morning, he will receive a citation for littering. He'll grab a new chair from the attic; not one of his nicest, not when there's a chance court may be back tomorrow. Vasilia will be back sometime in the evening, and the work will go much faster with an extra pair of hands. He'll be able to keep the stewpots on heat, so that anyone working a long shift will have a chance for a proper dinner. And when the streets are quiet, and the brushstrokes of the Royal Architect flicker into the night sky, in order, he will go to bed, and Vasilia will hold him until he stops shaking.

But now, he is working a big pan of sauteing vegetables, sprinkling in spices that will delight the tongue and stimulate the appetite. The rest will come later. The rest will be a matter for a future Dolce. He’s got enough to handle as it is. And as he waits, and watches for his moment to refresh the Mayor’s plate, he imagines a sheep standing first in line. He doesn't know how he ought to sound. Sometimes, the voice is far, far too loud to be sensible or his. Sometimes, 20022 gives him a quiet nod, for courage. Or perhaps solidarity? Sheep solidarity.

And he asks, Mayor Kaspar, what is so wonderful about blue skies that we live like this?

What do you see up there that's worth more than anyone down here?

It would be nice if he could imagine a good answer. But there’s only so much he can do.

Breathless Dead

Most people in town don’t ask Dolce for much of anything beyond whatever’s cooking. That’s just how it works. There’s what’s on the stove, or in the pot, and he’ll see to whatever little ones and elderly you’ve got who need something a little different. But Mayor Kaspar now, he’s very good at asking for his finest, probably because he practices asking everyone in Beri once a month. And everybody in Beri is very good at bringing him their finest, because if they try to bring their second finest, then the soldiers will come and take their first and third finest as punishment. Their fourth too, if they give them trouble.

When Mayor Kaspar decides to ask more than once a month, you have to get creative about it.

“Of course, sir. Just a moment…” A bow of the head, a straightening of the apron, and off he goes. There’s more to a chef’s finest than raw ingredients, you see. There is time. There is attention. There is presentation. The same ingredients that make a serviceable breakfast pile can also make an omelet. The same honey that you toss your fruit salad in can be artfully drizzled atop it in a flowing cursive K. On the proper setting of plates and bowls, with shiny plated utensils, a folded napkin, and a chef hand-delivering the lot, even the humblest of meals can seem a feast.

And Mayor Kaspar has a little more practice asking than appraising.

Once he is served, his guards are next. Each will get a hearty breakfast pile, served in fine crabshell bowls. Light enough not to dent anything when thrown, sturdy enough to add a few chips to their swords.

Then, there is waiting. With no waiter, a chef will have to make do.

Breathless Dead

On a curving street, halfway up the mountain, sits a house with two kitchen windows. Real, honest windows, these, not artfully decorated holes in the walls. These are the big kind, with multiple panes, the kind that let in the light, the air, and the neighbors in time.

You have to be a grand kitchen to get two windows. If you don’t have an oven, a counter you could sleep on, a cupboard for every bowl and pan in the house, a lake of a sink, and a respectable pantry to boot? You can just take whatever lets you remember there’s a sun and be happy with it. In a town like Beri, you have to be a special kitchen to earn two windows. That’s a whole bunk bed and a half’s worth of space, you’d better not be using it to indulge in some frivolous spatula collection!

For food? Food’s hardly a good enough reason. Take a walk around the bend and pluck some fresh fruit from the trees. Or run down to the beach and corner a crab in honorable combat before it scuttles away to its hole. Drink the water if you’re desperate enough, but preferably the springwater. Food is no luxury in Beri.

But it’s a good walk to the nearest orchard, and there’s no telling if you’ll find enough ripe fruit in the first one you go to, and maybe all these trees are set aside so we’ll have enough juice at the festival, so it’ll be another good walk to try the next one. The ocean’s just a hop, skip, and a jump away, but it’s recommended to take the stairs, as not everyone can manage the landing. That’s a good fifteen minutes each way. And a crab hunt takes time to do right.

Think a few minutes is a trifle in a sleepy town like Beri? Hardly! Maybe you left home this morning planning on a little jaunt to the beach, but then your neighbor’s roof is leaking and he needs you to hold a ladder, and then there’s the call to all-hands for hauling fresh stone from the quarry, and then you get caught up in the riveting tale of what happened in the lower-left neighborhoods last night, and where’s your crab hunt now? The market for time is fickle, in a sleepy town like Beri. Minutes can turn into a luxury, if you’re not careful.

But don’t be alarmed, it happens to the best of us. On a curving street, halfway up the mountain, sits a house with two kitchen windows. Give a knock, and a wave, and ask the sheepish fellow inside what’s cooking. No need to rush, there’s always something cooking, and more than he knows what to do with, and if not, well! Leftovers from yesterday are just as good heated up today. Just wait a moment, and he’ll fetch you a bowl and spoon. No need to worry about payment, he was making a big batch anyway. Though, perhaps, if you’re bringing a lot of mouths to feed, you’ll have to worry about compensation then. If that’s the case, you’d best come prepared. Your best compliments to the chef, your brightest smiles, and he’ll be too bashful to refuse payment.

Come, and sit. There’s stools enough for a few inside, if your legs are too weary for standing. Not much for privacy, but where do you find that in Beri, eh? You’ll just have to take your meal and watch him dance between his pots and pans and bowls, whipping up whatever takes his fancy today. Or maybe you’ll have to pretend you’re too busy with your soup to notice the lioness calling him to the window for a bite of lunch and a bite of him. (Or do notice, she’s a smashing conversationalist, immaculate storyteller.) Or, most likely of all, you’ll have to enjoy your meal in the company of those short on minutes like yourself. Happens to all of us, sooner or later, and you never know the kinds of people you’ll meet around Dolce’s kitchen. Why, hang around for a month or two, you’d probably meet every soul in town! Even the new folks, the ones who turned up only a few years back. They never miss an excuse for some of their Dolce’s cooking.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

She’s so soft.

Soft are the fingers playing in her hair. Her ponytail’s been undone, at some point, because she’s brushing her unruly tangle of hair, and doesn’t stop until she can’t reach any farther, and her fingertips tickle her back as she goes for another brush. Or she’s found a patch to play in, to rub between her fingers, careful and sweet.

Soft is the fabric beneath her face. Softer is the body beneath it. On cheeks, on nose, on lips. Rubbing against her as she plays at her hair and presses her head close. Like the finest pillow in the finest cover, and on the edge of her hearing there’s the fluttering thump-thump of her precious heart. All her aching muscles drag her in deeper, deeper, deeper, until moving is impossible.

Soft is the voice that drowns her. It fills her ears, and it fills her thoughts, and all she has to do is give a low, rumbling, draconic growl of approval (not a purr shut up) and she gets to hear more of it. And doesn’t have to work out how to reply when it’s already effort enough to sneak breaths (sweet, heady, blooming flowers after rain) against her.

So it is a long, rumbling, thoughtful silence, before she tilts her head, freeing her mouth enough to share her ancient dragon wisdom. “Hell yeah, we’re gonna escape.” She nods, or maybe nuzzles against her. Difficult to tell. Not important. Shut up. “She said she was gonna train me, right? So…so I’ll just get so strong she can’t ever beat me, and then we walk out. Maybe take her with us? Get her?” Yeah, yeah, that sounds good. Show everybody what happens when they mess with Han of the Highlands, and especially when you mess with Lotus of Tranquil Waters, daughter of

of

o f

“Han?” Lotus asks, her voice ringing with faint worry. “Is something wrong?”

Oh gods she noticed. How did she notice? How did she do that?! (She has stopped nuzzling into her body. She has stopped looking anywhere but straight ahead, at whose body she was getting so, so comfortable with, at the chest that is so, so close to her face. She hasn’t stopped breathing, but is giving it her best attempt.) Her heart is racing, does she notice that too?! “It’s…no, it’s stupid.” Very stupid. Ruin-the-whole-moment stupid. The sort of thing you’d have to be a real dumb idiot to even think about asking after they just got done kissing, and now they’re all cozy together, and it’s too early! This started just a few minutes ago! What kind of big dumb idiot moron would ruin the rhythm at a time like this?!

There’s those soft fingers, teasing her hair. There’s that soft face, biting her lip with worry. There’s that soft voice, holding her gently. “...could I hear it anyway?”

……………………dammit.

An anxious growl rattles in her throat. “Okay. Okay. So.” Her eyes search for words. They search along her collarbone. They search on the curves of her chest. Briefly. They dart away to search someplace safer. “What…is this? What does this mean? Me being,” she nods her head to, to, well, where she lays. Where she is being held. “Being here?”

What does it mean to be held like this, by a demigod? What, exactly, is she doing with the daughter of the Sapphire Mother?

[Spending a string on Lotus, asking her to teach Han about intimate demigod cuddling.]

Breathless Dead

He remembers a body, in good working order. His tentacles struggle to maintain purchase on the heaving deck. He doesn’t remember much between those points. He’s afraid he doesn’t need to.

He loves the memory too much to let the Lethe carry it away. And yet here it is before him. See the cooperation necessary to work tectonic muscles, to set fins against wind, cloud, and water alike to push a universe forward. Then see the miracle happen a hundred times over without fail. Marvel at the shellsmith’s work, no planet was ever so encrusted. The divots and cracks only show how indestructible the whole is. It’s not time yet to hear the clack-clack of claws and beak, sharp enough to split suns and drink their golden cores, and the sound alone may rattle their ship to pieces.

Go ahead then. Kill this dream dead. Split its skull. Empty it of the cosmos until it is nothing but a lonely, haunted husk. Let the communiques cease and the last claws snap. Just that, and the way forward will be clear.

He does not know how to kill this dream any more than he knows how to be whole again, and a mouse presently stands taller than him. He cannot forget to fear any more than he can forget to hunger. He can only feel adrift because he knew his place once.

His breath comes steady, because she taught him to sit with fear. His breath comes steady, and her silhouette vanishes into the distance against the wall of flesh before them.

He remembers a body in good working order.

“The Department of Doubt will be sending scores of supplicants to central. This must be a trap, they will cry. It cannot be what it seems. The first ship we have seen in memory cannot be piloted by fools alone.”

“The Sages of Fear will remember the taste of a thousand legends of a thousand worlds. How often did the brave hero find victory in the moment of their defeat? How often did the jaws of doom reveal the one place their spear could pierce?”

“The Archivists of Reason must be raising an objection, that the inside of our beak is sufficient to crack planets, but no Secretary worth their office would let that motion stand.”

“The beak will not open until the last moment. There will be a swell of water, a wall of water when it opens. Anticipate it! Count on it! Use it!”

His thin quavering voice carries to the knight at the helm, just as it carries to the chef tucked away on the deck, awaiting his moment to leap.

Breathless Dead

Beneath a holy offering to buy them all passage. Beneath a hero’s rallying voice, raised as the second of many. Beneath the knight’s cradle of rope that bears them ever-forward. In the space below, there is neither dry nor quiet. No warning of Poisoidon’s next strike, nor shield from chaos on all sides. But deep below, there is a galley, and a little sheep racing to mix and stir as fast as his legs can carry him. Into his pack goes bottle after bottle, box after box, morsel and drink, treat and offering. And beside him, and behind him, and around him, there is a fellow of water and fear, to hold back the tide while he works.

“I can’t put my finger on why, exactly. But I think…” He thinks and speaks and if he keeps doing both maybe he can keep from shaking himself apart. “I think you know how I could get inside, and who I ought to talk to, and how to let them all know I'm not to be feared.”

Breathless Dead

“Our house,” Vasilia breathes, and the sails flutter. “Was built from the remnants of a starship that had crash-landed ages and ages ago. Took out half a mountain when it landed, and embedded itself deep in the other half. Generations of my family conscripted workers to clear out debris, reinforce the structure, work the plates of metal until they became a firm foundation. In my time? It was fortress and mansion all in one. Our ballroom boasted an unparalleled view of the countryside, with viewports four times my height, and a working artillery battery to boot. We made our own firework shells in the foundries for special occasions.”

The hairbrush runs long, soothing strokes through an ocean of hair, expertly teasing out knots with hardly a tug at Mosaic’s head. She works to the rhythm of a song in her heart; she’s much too busy with her story to hum the tune.

“Your home was at least as grand as mine. Finer, if you’d have asked me. ‘See, these are people,’ I remember thinking, ‘who knew a thing or two about class.’ The outside…the outside was…”

“Well, there’s no use asking me about the outside, is there? Truth be told, I hardly ever saw it. I had a tunnel, specially built, so that we could go back and forth whenever we liked. Oh, what a lifesaver that was when we couldn’t bear the crowds for another second. And when the storms blotted out the sun, and the wind besieged our estates with shrapnel. I’d come over, and we’d hide away in the innermost rooms, in fortresses of blankets and pillows, where no clang of metal could reach us. And we’d dream of days quiet enough that no one would have to hide again.”

“Or, we’d fight!”

A delighted laugh bubbles up out of her.

“Come, come, darling, of course I don’t mean seriously. But even so, what storm could compete with us when we got into it? Gods, don’t tell anyone, you’ll spoil my carefully crafted mystique-” Secret Technique: Audible Wink! “But really, it’s not like I was born a master of the glaive. Sparring with you, it was either become a genius or learn to love the taste of dirt, and my palate was much too refined for the latter.”

Now claws join brush. To feel out her work. To tease out those last, stubborn tangles. To drape her hair lovingly across her shoulders.

“I think…that tripped you up, in the Olympics. There must have been a rule against using claws or jaws or the like. Only weapons you can carry, nothing that came attached to you. There must have been. How else did I ever keep ahead of you in the medal count?”

A whisper, too soft for sails, and just loud enough for one.

“Or were you happy to lose, if it was me?”

The waves lap at the sides of their boat, filling the silence between them. Her hands move to shoulders, and rub gently. An apology, in motion. “I know. I know you don’t remember, dear. You don’t have to say a word.” She squeezes, in time to her aching heart. “Just bear with the odd, silly dream of mine, and I’ll tell stories enough for the both of us. Where we were, what we did, and how we made it out, you and I.”

“And how you made out with - oops! Silly me, I meant made it out with a shining, beautiful treasure.” Secret Technique: Laugh of Ultimate Superiority! Oh ho ho ho! “So. Shall it be braids? A ponytail? Would you like her to be struck dumb, or to add a few stanzas to her song? Your hair is a gift, darling, and I have ideas…”