TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

There are a few ways he can go from here.

The Crystal Knight is the only Azura around. Someone of her station must have a vast household, and in a vast household there is often more need than hands. If the Service has someone for Mayor Kaspar, the Service must have someone for the Crystal Knight, and perhaps that someone could use another someone. The Crystal Knight is just one Azura, true, but she must deal with others, yes? Correspondence, house guests, superiors, friends, allies, rivals, enemies, the whole lot of them. He could secure a quiet vantage point in her staff, and watch, and learn.

He and 20022 have gotten off to a wonderful start, despite a perilous first meeting. There is much that can be discussed between coworkers. Hopefully, if he is careful, reads the room, and minds his manners, a new hire such as himself could be excused the odd question or two in the onboarding process. Nevermind the standing offer of counselors and union representatives, ready to listen and share what they know. If the Service runs alongside the whole of the Skies, then there must be plenty that could be learned if he just kept his eyes and ears open.

It’s always polite to leave room for a third option. Things won’t always go the way you think they will. Somebody else may have an idea that you never would’ve considered. Nothing good ever comes from assuming too much.

Whichever way he goes, all paths start the same:

“Thank you so much for taking time out of your schedule to meet with me again.” Dolce says, offering 20022 a scone to go with his mid-morning tea. “You have trusted me with the knowledge of just how busy you are, and I do so appreciate both your confidence and your time.”

Breathless Dead

Intentional is a difficult word. It’s a word of purpose and desire, and discerning it from the outside in is about as difficult as counting the spoons in a drawer without opening it. Not impossible, if you know a thing or two about spoons, you’ve taken a careful survey of the room, remembered when you last washed the dishes, and correctly ascertained which of your recent houseguests prefer to eat their ice cream with a fork. But difficult. Let it not be said that Dolce approached a drawer imprudently.

Fortunately for the ongoing conversation, much could be done with the facts at hand, and the trust that the Vasilia he knew wouldn’t bring them up without purpose.

“I think,” Dolce ambles along with the idea. “You could ask the same question about the Manor, no? I don’t remember the Majordomo ever giving less than his best for his job. He was the first one awake and the last one off duty, every day, and never grew tired of his work. The guard dogs too. Perhaps they lazed about on the odd sunny afternoon, but they were no less alert and on-task about it. What did they have that I didn’t that made it worthwhile to them? What point did they see in it all?”

“If I wanted to know that,” and he most assuredly did. “Then the first thing to do would be to hear it in their own words. No chance of doing that now, I’m afraid. But if the Manor is like the Skies, then the Skies are like the Manor. And it’s not impossible to speak with the Azura. Or at least listen to them.” But difficult. Most assuredly difficult. A whole silverware set while blindfolded sort of difficult.

But if the Skies are like the Manor, then the Manor is like the Skies. Maybe the answer to one would share some territory with the other?

Breathless Dead

“Dissatisfying and discouraging,” says the lump of wool at the edge of the clearing, freed from the shackles of needing to maintain a presentable shape. “Every time I talk to someone who feels just as strongly as me in the opposite direction, my first thought is that they must be seeing something I’ve missed. I try to imagine what things look like from their perspective. I try to look for the missing piece. I get so far from my own thoughts I forget why I even had them in the first place, and everything I just believed in starts to look suspect. Nevermind that the other person could simply have been mistaken all along. It’s work to hold onto a thought when you’re the only one in town who thinks it's important.”

He checks, periodically, on the curve of her back and the serenity of her face. It hasn’t shifted in any of the other hundred times they’ve chatted mid-meditations, but you never know about the hundred and first time. Better gaze at her a little longer. Just to be sure the mountain of fur and muscle and sunlight is as solid as it always was.

“She asked me why I wanted to get involved in politics in the first place. There was enough else to talk about, so I don’t think she noticed I didn’t answer her. Not really, anyway.” He shifted about, hugging his knees to his stomach and resting his back against a particularly comfortable rock. Making himself as small and as comfortable as possible. “She had a point; that’s the part that makes it extra frustrating. I’m one sheep in a small town on the edge of the Skies. I’m not anywhere close to levers of power or high office, and it’d be forward of me to act as though I’d ever get such a chance, much less that I’d be any good once I got there. All I have is a little opportunity to help with local affairs, and here I can’t do a thing until I’ve figured out how an entire Empire ought to be run. And all everyone in town can tell me is that things can only be the way that they are.”

He blew a stray, wispy curl from his eyes. “I don’t even know why I can’t believe that too.”

Breathless Dead

Dolce waits in respectful silence, yielding the floor for the Decaying Soldier to add one last thought to their litany. Dolce waits in patient silence, for it is difficult to speak and enjoy noodles at the same time, and a terrible thing not to enjoy one’s dinner. Only when he has finished, does he ask, quietly, “What did you think when the Skies were defeated?”

-

“It’s a real hurdle.” Like how a mountain is a small pile of dirt. “If it’s just a few people in a room, and everybody has some trust in each other, no matter what it is we’re facing I think we’ll all be able to work it out somehow. Politics? Actual politics? I don’t know what they do in actual politics, but it seems to involve a lot of speeches and arguments. And I don’t much care for either of those. The more people there are to listen, the less it feels like I can actually say and make it worthwhile. I can’t sit down at a negotiating table and not feel for everyone the other party’s representing, just as strongly as everyone who’s counting on me. If I’d fall to pieces doing the day-to-day responsibilities of the job, what would I do if faced with a merciless enemy who wanted everything I had?”

He daintily adds a little more honey in his tea. The third such time. A truly ridiculous amount. Thus obliterating the social pressure preventing the Thoughtful Songbird from adding a seventh, eight, and ninth spoonful to their own cup.

“Do you know my wife, Vasilia? Tall, carries a glaive, built like a lion? There’s a fair bit of genetic stratification between us, but we do alright together. Or Mosaic. She’s, well, Mosaic. To everyone in this town, no matter who or what they are. Do you think that sort of thing could scale up? Or is there a line somewhere where it all falls apart?”

-

You know what’s just the thing for these hot, humid evenings? A good comb. One that won’t get tangled on your wool, one that will deal with all the knots and frizz. Here, Beloved Spy. Take his comb. The wool atop your head will appreciate it greatly. “If that is what they believe, how do you think they’ve kept on believing it? We live, just as they do. We think and dream, just like they do. The gods hear us, just as they hear them. They don’t have to look far to see the evidence, and if they don’t want to look the Ceronians put it right in front of them. They were conquered. Their designs failed.”

“How do they keep ignoring us?”

Breathless Dead

Court adjourns until tomorrow, wherever the court may be. Most of the petitioners sigh out their exhaustion, grumble out the accumulated irritation, and disperse to the far corners of Beri to try again tomorrow. A hungry few peek their heads through one of the two windows, and without another word found an appetite for a long stroll around the town instead.

Dolce alone remains, without even his own furniture to keep him company. He stands in the hollowed-out kitchen, his polite smile remaining long after he stops waving good-bye. Outside, there are several piles of beaten-up belongings with his name on them, sometimes literally. Whatever tangled thoughts in his head, whatever swirling emotions in his heart, Dolce is a sensible sheep - sorry, Synnefo, and there was work to be done.

Nothing else for it but to roll up his sleeves, and get started.

Truth be told, he likes a good tidying up. Chores were a good way to keep the body busy, so the head and heart could get some serious thinking done. He half thought that some of the best books he’d ever read must have been cooked up amidst a good dusting.

Decommissioned.

He’d forgotten to ask what it meant, exactly. In the moment, 20022 had spoken of it with such gravitas, and with pictures and everything, that he’d gotten the general point across. Now, he wonders how they’d find out the trigger’d been pulled. Would there be any warning? Ships in the sky? Boots in the distance? Was there a plan for them beyond the planet they were standing on? Was there anything they could do, if it came down to it?

The thought ought to have worried him more. Not that it didn’t worry him a great deal, but instead of a creeping dread in his heart, he felt a quickening of his hooves and an unsightly urge to slam cabinet doors shut. Decommissioned. Decommissioned. For what, exactly? For the crime of…of not being the most organized? For not meeting some quota of productivity? Lack of good neighborliness? That was reason enough to Decommission everyone here, whatever that meant? And their only way out was to tread water and hope that someday they’d have the right to live here?! It was absurd! Not reasonable in the slightest.

Well, of course it was unreasonable. 20022 said it was unreasonable, or said as much, anyway. He didn’t want to steer Mayor Kaspar towards a stern hand. If there was a more reasonable path, he’d have been on it already. Dolce had worked through the logic himself, and now he had the added benefit of several large chairs to haul inside while he double-checked his work. Nothing. No insight, no grand ideas, nothing beyond the simple facts of the matter: This planet had been dealt a terrible hand, 20022 was doing his best, and that was that.

Still. 20022 didn’t have to wreck his kitchen for the sake of his operation. Which is as far as that thought went before he plopped down onto a miraculously-intact stool with a sigh. No, he did have to wreck his kitchen. Working this sternly meant having personnel on hand who would be willing to wreck a few kitchens. It meant maintaining the facade at all times, without exception, because the risk of misjudged mercy was too great.

Mind, it didn’t lessen the sting of finding a favorite mug scratched and dented. Nor did it give him any less of a pile to sort through. Which, at the least, meant more time alone with his thoughts.

Suppose 20022 couldn’t do anything, no matter how hard he was trying. What about someone else? Couldn’t all the Synnefo in all the corners of the galaxy do something about this, being so close to so many important people? And right away, he felt hopelessly silly for even thinking such a thing. What, was he supposed to ask 20022 to pass a message up the chain? A request to, what was that now, “do something?” Yes, how many somethings would you like? Is this a rush order? Would you like them in ocean blue, or sky blue? That was sure to fix all of their problems. If he really wanted to help, 20022 had already pointed out a perfectly doable, perfectly reasonable course of action.

So why was he spending so much time thinking of any other way he could go?

Everyone’s lives were in terrible danger. There was something he could do to help. As dearly as he loved his kitchen, seeing the faces of the crab-hunters when they finally sat down for a hot meal, having a home, he couldn’t be so selfish as to choose that over everyone’s lives and happiness. Not that he’d necessarily be any less happy in the Service. By all accounts, they could find a place where he’d fit perfectly, and help ease this world into one where Mayors didn’t have to rule with such a heavy hand. So why…?

"-we work for an institution, and trust me when I say that there is no higher pleasure for any of us than understanding what that means."

He’d heard that before, hadn’t he? Maybe not in those words exactly. But the Manor was quite clear where Dolce was to find his highest happiness. See how right they’d been.

But, surely, this time was different? 20022 was different. The Manor had been a cruel, pointless waste, in service to people who never knew they existed and never would, and who didn’t deserve their loyalty anyway. The Service didn’t sound a thing like that. For one, they sounded entirely Synnefo-run, so that was already a welcome change. If they’d been in charge of the Manor, they would have…

If they’d been in charge, they surely would have been more reasonable, and he could’ve asked them to…to...

Dolce froze, a half-folded tablecloth hanging loose around him.

…if the Manor was such a waste, what, exactly, should they have done instead?

He thrusts the tablecloth into a random cupboard in an unceremonious bundle. On the stove, he leaves a simmering pot, set just right to keep warm without ever burning. On the windowsill, he leaves bowls, spoons, cups, and a little piece of paper. On the little piece of paper, he leaves a carefully handwritten note:

Terribly sorry, but I’m out for a stroll. Take as much food as you need tonight. Please wash your dishes afterwards and set them out on the windowsill for the next guest. Thank you very much!

Signed with his name, and a little doodle of himself, holding a heart out in gratitude.

With an apron swapped for a light vest, he carefully picks his way through the remaining piles and sets off down the road at a fast trot. This was a problem too big for one chef, and too important for even a moment’s delay. 20022 had asked him to be discreet with the specifics, but there was no harm in discussing theory with a more experienced friend, now was there?

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

One arm hangs free. Just the one.

She punches the divan so hard the whole thing creaks in protest, but it yields her some leverage. Willow-thin arms squeeze tight. Venus pulls. And still she pushes, and presses, her muscles bulging, straining.

And Han, impossibly, rises an inch off the girl.

An inch is all she needs. She looms over Lotus of Tranquil Waters. Cascades of deep auburn hair come tumbling down to pool around her head. None hangs in front of her eyes. Nothing hides Lotus from the piercing gaze of the dragon. Nothing stops the wash of her breath from sweeping over her face, hot and hitching. In and out. In and out. Her eyes dart over her. Refuse to stay still. Piercing her through in a hundred different places as they search her.

Her shining teeth clench.

“Oh bud…”

Side to side, she shakes her head. Waves of heat and hair ripple around them. “You don’t know how easy I could break you. I could snap you like that,” And *snap* go her jaws. “I wouldn’t even know I’d done it until it was too late. You haven’t seen the half of what I can do. You haven’t seen the half of what I’ve done. You’ve only see the Han who’s been on her best rotting behavior to make good on a promise. You can’t-” She sniffs, and she wills her eyes to steam if that’s what it takes to keep them from leaking. “You can’t-”

But "can’t" is such a perilous word.

Can Lotus of Tranquil Waters help but love everybody she sees? Of course not, because she’s a silly little demigod, with a heart of pure spring water, and when she turns it on you, somehow, all that gets reflected is someone worth loving. Nevermind that she’d been through Hell itself. Or kidnapped, several times. Or watched a dragon lie through her teeth to keep her from worrying over her. Didn’t matter. She found a way.

The will, the possibility never lay with a demigod, but a dragon. She could break Lotus’ heart. Or she could speak her own.

She can’t do both.

So. Han of the Highlands. Han of the Dragons. Which would it be? And which, mighty Venus whispers, does she want it to be?

“But.”

She swallows. She gulps. She sits very still, and makes all manner of noises with her throat, none of which help at all.

“I…you…”

She is the heart of the inferno. She is the doom of kingdoms. She is burning so hot that she might explode into a thousand pieces at any moments. And. And.

“Okay, you know what? You know what?! Words are stupid and they suck, so, here!” She slams her fist down on the divan. The cushion makes a lovely *poomf*. “Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna burn the Dominion right out of the Kingdoms. I’m gonna burn the N’yari until they learn to behave themselves. I’m gonna burn the Kingdoms until they finally stop being so stupid and selfish and start doing their wilting job so I don’t have to keep doing it for them! I’m gonna…okay, well, I’m not gonna burn any priestesses, but I will, I don’t know, put them up a tree or something if they turn their nose up at us, until they go tell your mom she’s just gonna have to learn to deal with it. Us. Deal with us. Because! Because that’s what it’s gonna take to show you all the stuff you want to see, without you getting your pretty little butt kidnapped every other damned day! That’s what it’s gonna take for me to have you, forever!”

A faint wisp of smoke curls from her clenched fist. The fabric around the skin chars lightly.

“That’s what I wanna do. I wanna make a home for you…for, us?” She pauses. Lotus nods. She continues. “For us. Because. Because…” Okay, yes, she did say words are stupid, and she shouldn’t have to say any more. But, dragons also want the best promises, the best confessions, and she can’t stop now. “Because…bud, I…I tried as hard as I could, but. But, dammit, I went and fell in love with you too. When you look at me, when you say I’m a hero, I think, maybe it could be a little bit true. I want it to be true. You’re the sweetest, kindest, most honest and real thing I’ve ever known, and. Out of everybody in all the world, you’re…you’re the only one I don’t have to fight.”

She wants to grab her and pick her up! And! Kiss her lots. And feel her heartbeat. Hold her in the palm of her hand and purr with triumph and keep her all to herself.

She wants to surrender without a word, letting worry and pain and even her very thoughts slip away. Under her care. Under her voice. Under her lips.

She wants to…she wants…

Han’s lips curl in the slowest, bravest smirk of her entire life. “Do you know,” and her voice is dry in her mouth and she is burning up all over again. “How gorgeous you look right now?” The fire beats in her heart, pumping through her veins, running down her limbs. Warming her hand until it is unignorable against Lotus’ chest.

She squeezes. Muscles that could rip mountains in half press in, unstoppably, with all the weight of falling petals. Lotus placed her here. Lotus said this was okay. Maybe she could dare to go farther. But this is as far as her courage and comfort can take her today, and she wishes with all her burning, fluttering heart it is alright.

“I wanna look at you like this some more.” Those piercing eyes come to rest on hers, drinking in the sight of the priestess laid beneath her. Of the most beautiful, most lovely girl in all of the Flower Kingdoms. And she’s the lucky dragon who she lets hold her. Look at her. Love her. “My little bud. My…” She inhales deep, hungry breaths. Eases off the pressure. Then squeezes anew. “Treasure.~”

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.