TheAmishPirate

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Hazel Valentine Fletcher has a rickshaw to drive through the busy streets of Vespergift. It doesn’t matter how easy or hard something or other is to notice, he’s got to keep his eyes squarely on the road.

Of course he notices the murals, and the girls (the girls) and he keeps right on noticing. Notices right past them, off the building, and back onto the street. They are there. They exist. He is looking around a normal amount. Hopefully. What is a normal amount to look around anyway? Is he focusing too much straight ahead? Better take another look. But start on the other side of the street this time, so as not to arouse suspicion. Otherwise Amali might think he was ogling.

But with all this driving, and normal amount of looking around, there’s no time to really see anything, is there? On the other side of the street is the Vesper Victoria. The Vesper Victoria! On the same street! He hadn’t even heard of the Chrysanthemum before, and it’s also! Wow! It’s so tall and fancy at the same time! They both are! They’re huge, but somebody took the time to carefully shape every inch of these towers, so that no matter what you’re looking at it’ll take your breath away.

They’re beautiful.

He might not’ve realized that before, about the Chrysanthemum. Before, it would’ve been a giant building of things not to look at or think about. Which makes it rather difficult to see what it actually was. But besides that, it’s like when you go to a museum and see the exhibits, and you hear a tour guide explain to you that this was painted by the artist’s wife, as he wrestled with a terrible illness. And you take another look and it clicks. And you have to sit down because all of a sudden the grief is so overwhelming you don’t know what to do with yourself, and you don’t regret coming here for even a moment.

He might not’ve seen it, without Amali’s story. This was a memorial to Heron and the good she had done for this city. It was a tradition stretching back generations, an unbroken chain of good service passed forward. It was a place where warmth, food, and comfort could be found on the coldest night of winter. Here, a cup of tea or a soft towel could heal a weary heart. This was a place of help. Refuge. Hospitality.

And he has a rickshaw to drive through the busy streets of Vespergift, so he has to keep his eyes on the road.

But hey! No need to fuss about missing the outside, because soon they’ll see the inside! He’ll have to remember to slip out and see the building himself. At last a gap in the traffic opens up, and with a bounding step he pulls them into a side street.

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

So. Turns out. He is still not used to a world where girls people are regularly so much taller than him. And bigger than him. Goodness.

Anyway ha ha ha ha wow that’s so cool she knows Amali! She must come here all the time then. Which makes sense! An older fox must have all kinds of well-established hideaways.

He would speak up and correct her, but Amali told him not to talk twice over. So he just coughs in a way that emphasizes the depth, the not-niece-ness of his voice. Just coughs. Casually. And focuses on parking the rickshaw instead of the. Intent. Way the Serigalamu was looking at them. And she was looking at them. Not him. Not him specifically. No sir.

Anyway! He wedges the wheels still, and takes up his post by the seat. Here, Amali, here’s a hand to help you climb down and steady you in all this slush. Here’s a hand to take your bags, or whatever it is he’s supposed to carry in for her. He’ll let you take the lead, and do all the talking, just like you asked.

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Vespergift. City of Towers. Last gift of the Conqueror. Where even the walkways are tied in knots.

Is it bigger than Crevas? Hard to say. It’s difficult to compare tall up with tall half-down. They’re different sorts of tall, and they’re different sorts of cities. Every person makes less than half the noise they ought to, like the throngs of people crowding in are a thick blanket of fresh snow. There’s a dismal air at first, warring with the sheer joy of seeing proper snow. But it melts away the further they travel. This is a city of hard stone carved into graceful gargoyles. Of thick mufflers unwrapped to reveal rosy cheeks. Of streets thick with friend visiting friend, family visiting family, and close meetings beneath stone arches.

The walls are out of necessity. The posters are out of love.

Still. He’s glad for the dedicated lane. The people may not be quite as foreboding as he first thought. Still a lot of them. Everywhere. He’s glad for the just-finished mittens as the cold sinks into the rickshaw. He’s glad for the spare scarf wrapped tight around nose and mouth, keeping his breath and cheeks warm. There’s nothing to be done for the ears, unfortunately; Amali can only knit so fast. Just one step in front of the other, Hazel. You’ll be inside soon, maybe with a nice hot drink. It’s just sore ears.

Finally, it seems like they’re getting closer. He takes one hand off the rickshaw and flashes Amali a thumbs up, giving a dutiful nodnod. Don’t say anything. Carry her bags. Don’t talk to the

girls

His heart gives a curious flutter.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he calls over his shoulder, a question finally bubbling up out of him. “What sort of place is the Chrysanthemum exactly?” Not that he’s doubting her! He’s sure it’s a safe and luxurious hideaway. But, you know, there are a lot of places that could be safe and luxurious hideaways. Hotels, spas, amusement parks, cruises, um, theaters, maybe? Was there such a thing as a theater resort? In any case, it’s nice to know what to expect when he gets there. What it’ll be like. What they’ll be doing. What’s expected of him. That sort of thing.

Breathless Dead

Sanalessa goes to the bridge to give them some space. Iskarot wanders to a quiet corner to ensure all his tools and supplies are intact. When the door to the shuttle slams shut, they are alone.

Dolce runs and clings to her without another word. Without needing another word. He wraps his arms around her as far as they will go and buries his face against her. How could he not have noticed how much he was carrying, until she volunteered to remove the slightest bit of it? How could he keep away any longer?

Vasilia picks him up like he weighs nothing. Here, love; isn’t this shoulder where your head should rest? Don’t these fingers belong in your curls? Feel this low, murmuring purr all through your poor, tired body. “There, there. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here. I’m-”

He pulls back. Just a bit. To tell her how he’s missed her. To tell her thank you for saving him. To tell her he’s so, so sorry for making her worry.

She pulls back. Just a bit. Her mouth half-open. To tell him he needs to lay still. To tell him it’s alright. To tell him she’s never, ever going to let go of him again.

They are close. Close enough to share breath.

They both find something better to stay.

Her lips press gently into his, her breath hitches against his face. She can’t believe this is real, that she gets to hold you again. His mouth is not enough. She claims his cheeks. His nose. His jaw. His neck. His neck. His neck. You are lovely. You are so handsome. You are perfect, perfect, perfect. Her arms bind him tight to her chest, squeezing this warm, soft lump flush against her, and tighter still. She missed you. She needed you. Her fingers sink into his wool. Her claws trace tingling paths along his skin. Mine. Mine. Mine.

He presses up into her lips, welcoming her eagerly. He’s alright. He’s safe. He wants her. His head lolls against her shoulder, baring his face and neck to her hungry mouth. You have all of him. All his heart is yours, and yours alone. He shivers. He nuzzles. He wiggles helplessly in her grasp, soft wool against golden fur. He has been lost, so lost, and now he is safe. He is safe with you. The chef who worked the silent kitchens opens his mouth, and out spills a litany of dazed, joyful bleating, all for her. He is happy. It is your fault. This much, you have already set right.

Behind them, the viewport fills with the blossoming flower of an anti-Boarpedo battery catching light and discharging all of its munitions in one glorious display. The whole shuttle shakes, throwing anything unfortunate enough to be improperly secured rattling to the deck.

All Vasilia hears is

don’t stop

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Hazel always stayed to the end of the end credits. Pretty, animated splash screens with only one or two names set to a new favorite music eventually give way to the long, long scroll. One song, two songs, three songs flow one right after the other. He recognizes a few titles. Gaffer. Gang boss. Best boy. No idea what they are, but with names like that how can he forget them?

The last notes fade. A few more silent screens play out before him. Logos. Legal notices. Nothing more. The lights come all the way on. Pop music plays gently over the speakers. The spell is ending. It’s time to go.

He gets up in one fell swoop, leaning forward and pushing himself up by the armrests. It’s a short walk out of the theater, down the hallway, out the door, and back into the car. When he gets home, he’ll probably be back down to earth again. He knows it, deep down. So he savors this short walk that doesn’t feel like walking. He basks in the glow of a story well told and better enjoyed. All his thoughts turn to worlds beyond this one, full of adventure, music, and wonder. His body is weightless. His steps light and sure and different. Any one of them could carry him to one of those worlds. He could be anyone, do anything. In this moment magic was real and it flowed through his veins.

Just for a short walk.

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

Hazel jumps in his seat with a yelp, and has to give an accompaniment of follow-up noises as he juggles his flatbread and only narrowly saves it from a terrible fall! Ow! Amali!!!

Wait.

Oh no.

He hasn’t thought of a cover story.

I mean, yes, duh, of course he needs a cover story, he should’ve thought of a cover story, but, he didn’t, and, oh no, Anat! Augh!

“Sorry! Train of thought went,” wait, do they even have trains here? “I mean, uh, I completely forgot what I was going to say. One second.” Um. Uh. Okay. Well. Cover story. Sure. He can do that. Just. Pick a place and….goooooooo? “I’m from…Stoneward, right. It’s not a big place, just a little village in Kel. There’s me, my folks, and a few little brothers and sisters. I, well, I help out around…the village, place. You know, odd jobs, keeping things tidy, lending a hand around the house. But that’s not my job, no, that’s just, my real job is working at the……..store.” What did Yuki say Kel specialized in again? “For crystals and such. Make sure people have enough lighting, and food, and other supplies as they go. It’s a nice job. Steady work. Yeah.”

Oh no she was still looking at him expectantly. Oh no Amali was looking at him with a decidedly kickful gleam in her eye. Um. Uh. Augh. “And, I came out here to visit my aunt, for the Festival of Light. I, always wanted to see Crevas, but, never had the chance to go before now. Picked a heck of a time to visit, huh?” He laughs easily at his own misfortune. “Still! It’s been a really fun trip. I’ve been hoping to go for a really long time but it, well, it just never really worked out before. And now that I’m here, for real, it’s just. There’s. I. Wow. I don’t even know where to begin.” The food, the festival, the sights, the sounds, the people, the dancing, the prophecy, the chasing, the adventure, the magic! “It’s been the trip of a lifetime. I’m, really glad it’s not over yet.”

Yet.

There’s still a bit more walk to go.

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Ah beans.

There really is only one spot to sit, isn’t there? The prospect of sitting on Amali’s knitting - or worse, of asking her to move her knitting - is unthinkable. He doesn’t even run the math. It simply isn’t done. He could stand, true, and that is going to be awkward and weird immediately, trying to have a casual conversation while looming over everyone else. And juggling hot wings and curry without the benefit of a lap? Impossible.

“Excuse me,” he says in a small voice, and makes himself smaller still as he slips onto his seat. Being a bit of a beanpole, there’s a lot of room for folding in, you see. Feet tuck under his seat. Head hunches down. Shoulders squeeeeeze in, hands in his lap, and he turns his torso juuuuuuuuust a little bit, so he’s not poking into her side quite as much. Not the most comfortable. But he’ll live. A lifetime of morning school bus rides have trained him well. He takes his helping from Amali, leaning down to take careful bites without elbowing Anat, and he listens.

It’s nice, just listening. Amali and Anat chat away about work, about family, about travel, and he gets to soak it all in. The food is tasty; all the better for the work it took to walk this far. The fire’s a little stuffy with three people packed in here, but from outside (and possibly Outside) there’s a faint breeze, picking up the smoke and carrying it up and out. It’s just enough to keep hands and faces from toasting like the flatbread. Smell, heat, and song.

Even just talking, she sounds like she’s singing.

Is he bothering her, sitting here? He hopes not. He’s probably not? When he stops, and listens, he can forget that his shoulder is lightly pressing against her side. And his knee. And his other side. And a bit of his leg. When he listens, all of it sinks into the faint, pleasant presence of another body sitting close.

Not quite pleasant enough to still the restlessness pacing through him. He can forget where exactly she’s touching him. He cannot forget she is sitting next to him. It never rises high enough to be a thought. But he cannot forget she is here. She is speaking. She is aware of him.

The Crysthanamum.

“Oh, thank goodness,” he breathes a sigh of relief. “I’m glad you could find a new place to stay, and on short notice too.” And his eyes are big as he looks up at this traveling celebrity(?!) and singer, perhaps a little wider than they were before. Maybe that’s a flicking hearth playing tricks. Maybe that’s a fluttering heart playing tricks. A tail flicka-flicks.

Of course he doesn’t give anything away! If even Yuki doesn’t know where he’s going, he’s not going to tell someone he met yesterday either. Besides, Amali was playing things pretty close to the chest. Best to follow her lead, rather than unintentionally spoil something.

He chases a bit of curry with a scrap of flatbread. Thinking. “What’s it like, being a traveling singer?” He’s contributing to the conversation. He’s doing a good job of conversation. “I mean, I’ve never met one before. I definitely haven’t gotten the chance to traveling sing,” this he says with full seriousness and a smile in his eyes. “I can’t really picture that kind of life, you know?” How did she get started? What’s it like, really like, on a day-to-day basis? How does she manage to live in so many different places? Does she still have a place she calls home?

A boy who’s spent his whole life at home will ask all these and more.

[Activating Friendly Benefits, Anat gets a string too!]

Breathless Dead

She’s beautiful.

No, the word is all wrong. Not suitable at all. Much too small to match the size of the feeling.

He is starving. He’s been starving. Don’t ask him how long exactly. Long enough that the emptiness inside him feels normal. He hasn’t forgotten, not really, but he’s forgotten enough that he can wake up, get dressed, and go about his business without falling to pieces. He knows he was full sometime, like he knows that once humanity warred with the Endless Azure Skies. Surely it happened at some point, but don’t ask him to describe much more than that, he’s not studied up on it recently.

She is a big bowl of stew, served alongside a loaf of fresh, crusty bread, the kind that tears apart into big, fluffy chunks that were just made for mopping up broth.

She is a cabin you can just barely see through the snowstorm. Up ahead, if you squint, there are windows sharing the light from a big, roaring fire. And through the biting cold is the whiff of wood smoke, growing stronger with each step.

She is the voice saying come in, you must be hungry after such a hard journey.

Through the tinted lights and echoes of battle, he staggers towards the void. One step in front of the other. Arrow-straight through the rubble. He clutches his companion’s hands, and they keep him upright. He is too lost to notice one hand emerges from an oversized hoodie.

Dolce is starving.

Dolce is going home.

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Oh! Hey!! It’s Anat! What are the chances…well, it’s the Road, it’s not really a matter of chances, is it? You meet who you meet, and that’s that. But still! Wow!

Wait, great-nephew?

Oh. Oh right. She didn’t recognize him. Because he’s wearing a disguise. Because it’s very important that he stays incognito. Aaaaaaaaaaaaand he was moments away from waving to her like a big dork and blowing his cover. Because they are friends. Acquaintances. They did a good performance together. That’s why, and no reason else.

Okay! Lesson learned: Don’t say hi to anybody you know in public. PS: Burrows on the side of the Road count as in public.

“Of course, we don’t mind at all. Happy for the company.” Hazel stands, politely, as she enters. She’s swapped her performance dress for a diaphanous blouse that, oh! It still keeps the constellation theme, little diamonds glinting in the low firelight, connected by silver thread. Oh that’s really clever. It’s pretty.

Look away.

Right. Right. Sorry. Yes, it’s pretty. It’s just pretty. It’s a girl who is a snake who is wearing a pretty outfit. That’s okay. He can say that. Nothing more. She’s just. It’s just. They only met the once, stop being ridiculous.

But what if

No. It doesn’t work like that. They don’t know anything about each other. This whole train of thought is stupid. Why is he still thinking about it? It’s just pretty. It’s a pretty dress. She’s a pretty snakegirl. That’s it. Like Amali said; he’s going to behave himself.

Er. Where is he supposed to sit, exactly?

“Is there anything I can help with?” Hazel shuffles to his ‘great-aunt’, which has the distinct advantage of keeping him standing, occupying as little space as possible. Managing the tins, getting out napkins and utensils, seeing to the fire, just say the word, he’s your deer. He might need some instructions on a few of those, but he’s a quick learner. Good at following directions.

Breathless Dead

“No thank you.”

He can hardly recognize his voice. It sounds thin. Tinny. Details swallowed up by the ringing in his ears. There’s no time for it to recover. The volleys are coming too fast.

“I am not going to leave you alone with him.”

The smoke is growing thicker. Soon, blinking won’t clear the stinging from his eyes. They cannot stay here. The ornate trim of the shuttle bay provides plentiful cover but they will have to dart through the open to do it. Through the smoke. It’s the only way to avoid a direct hit, for now.

And then what?

The elderly Summerkind are slow. They aren't mobile enough to flank them. They could still advance down the hangar. What can he do if they are beaten to the shuttles? They’ll be hemmed in, just the three of them. The smoke is growing thicker. Soon, he won’t have any voice at all.

They can’t stay here.

“Get,” he feels the first cough more than he hears it. “Keep moving. Cover to cover. Outcropping ahead, ten meters that way. You may have. Have to carry me.”

But he’ll run as far as he can.

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A chariot. With golden-antlered “deer.” Thundering right through a crowd.

It’s been less than a day! It’s barely been half a day! She got shot! When did she have the time to put any of this together? Is she just…always ready to kidnap random people off the street, or, or make grand exits?!

Oh beans she’s not stopping

Yes, he knows Amali, he knows! Give him a second! He’s picking up the crossbar and starting to move, see?

The crowd around them’s already in motion. Parting, not stampeding. Pressing in tighter, as best as they can. Individuals seek out cracks between the bigger groups, and everyone gives the wagons and carts as wide a berth as they can. It’s chaos. It’s a rush. And he remembers everyone around them. Jaks- and wife beside them. Family on a cart ahead and to the left. Little family groups here, here, here, here, over there, and here. He sees them move. He sees where they’re headed, what they’ll avoid, where they’re going to be.

He throws his weight against the rickshaw and pushes.

The gap opens just as he steps into it.

People give rickshaws as wide a berth as carts and wagons. They’re hard to miss, see. Once one gets rolling, nobody’s going to get in its way if they can help it. People behind him, people like Jaks-, they have a wide lane to follow behind as they scamper to safety. No need to shove. He’ll have full control, from start to stop. These are all good points, and if anybody mentions it later, he’ll blink, think about it, and say, really, he wasn’t thinking that far ahead, with a chuckle at his own foolishness.

Read the crowd.

Cause no harm.

When necessary, create a new flow.

In that moment, nothing more existed in the eyes and mind of Hazel.

Really, it was a lucky thing no one got hurt.

[Rolling to Defy Disaster, risking Hazel’s own physical safety: 4 + 6 + 2 = 12]

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Rickshawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

It’s even fun to say!

Now, had he ever driven one of these things before? Nope. Had he ever really, seriously thought about driving a rickshaw? Of course not. But that’s not important. This wasn’t the sort of dream you sit on like a hammock on a summer’s day, feeling it with your whole body as a long sigh escapes your lips. This one was quieter. Stealthier. Creeping in without you noticing. In the moment you see a video of a rickshaw driver carting a couple around some far-away city, it strikes. As you’re distracted by the sights and wonders of adventure, it slips past your guard and takes up residence in a silent corner of your heart. Waiting. Watching. Biding its time. For one day, you might find yourself looking at an unmanned rickshaw, and it’s only in that moment you’ll realize that you’ve always wanted to try driving one of those things.

Was he nervous about the possibility of running himself, Amali, and her entire collection of yarn into a wall? Absolutely. But fate, possibly feeling some remorse about the last half day or so, gifted Hazel with quiet backstreets to start his journey on. He braces his feet against the street, and leans, pouring a gradual stream of strength into the crossbar, until the sleepy wheels yawn and stretch and trudge their way forward. Then it’s step, step, step, slowly at first, feeling the momentum tug at his outstretched arms even as he keeps pushing forward. It wants to roll. It wants to sit upright. It’s not terribly interested in going much faster than a deerboy, but it could be convinced. Otherwise, well! It’s a fine day for bumbling about, driver, you just give it fair warning when you want it to make a change.

The alleys wind up and down through the city, even before they reach the main road. Gentle, but mischievous. They’ll make him lean his whole weight forward, keeping that cart moving even as it longs for lower climates. They’ll promise him an easy time on the way down while whispering to the rickshaw that this would be a great spot to build up to a sprint, wouldn’t it? But they’ll have to try harder than that to find Hazel sleeping on the job. He plants one foot after the other in a steady rhythm, tensing his upper body and dampening the shock with his arms, and Amali won’t hardly feel a jostle. He lets the momentum carry them down, digging his heels in and leeching enough speed to keep from rolling out of control. Turn by turn, they make their way out of the alleys and towards the main streets. The pavement gets smoother as they go. He can’t feel so many bumps, traveling up the wheels, down the poles, and into his hands.

By the time they reach the crowds, he’s learned how far he needs to pull and for how long to ease the rickshaw into a gentle stop. He’s learned roughly how much of a push it needs to get going, and that it’ll take less pushing to keep it going after that. He hasn’t quite figured out how wide this thing actually is yet. That’s okay though! He knows where everybody else around them is, and what they’re up to, so he can just give them as wide a berth as he can manage. No need to try anything too daring.

See, you have to be patient with crowds, especially when you want to go fast. There’s a flow to them. People follow the people in front of them. Groups stick together, not terribly minding how fast or slow they’re going. Streams branch off of the main flows, seeking faster paths. You have to keep an eye on what’s happening around you. If you’re being passed, give it a minute. See if it evens out. Crane your neck and see if you can spot the slowdown. Don’t weave, if you can help it. Angle yourself. Aim for where you want to be. Aim for where there’s going to be a gap. Ride the flows of the crowd, instead of fighting them. Get through as fast as possible, while causing no harm or concern to anyone else. For this is the way of moving through crowds, learned through many high school hallways and weekend mall trips.

They’re making good time. He knows, because they were behind that cart with the lanterns before, and now it’s far, far behind them. His starts and stops have been on point. He’s pulling a whole entire rickshaw all by himself, and his muscles shout out that they could pull like this all day. Flick-flick-flick goes his tail, poking out from his nice new clothes.

He’s doing such a good job.

It takes until the lady next to him waves, at him, to realize he’s being talked to. It takes until the man gestures at his antlers for his eyes to light up in understanding. “Ohhhhhh, the antlers, right!” He laughs with only slightly more relief than necessary. “No, no, it’s no trouble at all, you’re good.” In all the hubbub, he’d almost forgotten there were people who braved the Outside for a living, and sometimes came back changed. Venturer. He was a venturer. Right. “Sorry, I can’t say that I do,” he says easily. “I hope you two didn’t get caught up in all that mess last night.”

Because that’s the tune that he’s been working to all this morning. Isn’t Crevas wonderful? Isn’t it grand, to see a city still standing? Of all mornings, they’re stepping out into one where families walk safely down the road home, swapping stories of the festival, without a hunting howl to be heard.

It’s a new day. How can he keep from humming while he works?