TheAmishPirate

Return to Thellamie

I! What! You! Amali!!!

A bat gets stuck in the steaming kettle’s spout and lets out a panicked squeak. And it’s all poor Hazel can do to bury his blushing face in both hands as he is mercilessly assaulted by cunning grannies and catboys.

(Oh gosh oh gosh oh gosh oh gosh aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Cutie! Him! Cutie! Wow wow wow wow wow! He was hoping maybe Alcideo would, but then also Amali? Wow??? And then Alcideo! Picks it up and runs with it?!

He’s so nice? He’s so nice. Lookit how he properly deflects a compliment. Hazel couldn’t do better himself. Lookit how he says such nice things about Hazel’s chest. As if he could know what it looks like. But. Still. It’s nice. It’s really nice, for him to say that. And let him feel like it could be true.

…are horns actually considered cute here? Purnima did seem to like them. Hrm. Maybe? No, no, it’s a silly thought. How would he even ask? Maybe there’s a book on the subject? Shoot, how would he even find that? There’s probably not a dewey decimal system here, there’s definitely not a wiki here-)

Hold on, he’s being handed a note…

AMALI!!!

The dutiful office workers at the Chrysthanamum are in for a treat. It’s not often performances are done this side of the bathhouse. Watch in awe as a lanky deerboy taps an intricate dance across the smooth tiles; slipping, sliding, scrabbling, but never once falling over or falling behind. See how he cleverly balances his own weight against the pull of his assistants. See how his face is frozen in a tight mask of alarm. What showmanship! Why, if you didn’t know any better, you might think this poor boy was actually so gobsmacked he could hardly walk! But how could that be? How could he reach the inner sanctums of the Chrysthanamum and not realize what he was walking into? Surely, by now, somebody would have told him what he was here for.

Right, Amali?!

Dancing?! Drinks?! Impractical outfits?!?! You gotta! You oughta! Were you going to warn him about that? Ever?! Because that is a LOT different from relaxing in a nice spa for, for, for however long he needs to lie low! And that is a LOT to take in! I mean. Him?! Entertaining!? That’s! Augh!!!

I mean, okay, it is a good cover. Is it a good cover? It might be a good cover. If he stops and thinks about it, it might be a better cover than staying in a room indefinitely. That doesn’t usually happen…anywhere. You don’t check into a hotel for “until further notice.” That’s kind of suspicious. And he just assumed that was the plan, but he should’ve thought about it some more, because then he’d realize it was a stupid plan. Now that he sees at least one fake fawn running around, working here seems like a much better idea, right? Idiot. It’s a good cover.

But why didn’t she tell him? Because he didn’t ask, for one. He just made a dumb assumption. Not her fault. How long did it take him to ask what the Chrysthanamum even was? He should’ve asked earlier. He should’ve asked earlier. But. Still. It does feel like the sort of thing she should mention beforehand. Maybe. Did she think he couldn’t keep a secret? Because he can. He totally can. He thought, or, well, maybe, they haven’t known each other that long, really. Did she know he could keep a secret? He really should’ve asked her earlier.

So. Drinks, right? Serving up drinks, maybe in a dapper little vest? And a whole bar in between him and the world? That doesn’t sound so bad. Would’ve sounded better with some time to get used to the idea and you stop that right now mister, you’re not actually talking to Amali, you’re having an imaginary argument in your head and that’s not fair to anyone. Drinks. Or something. Maybe tidying up? Folding laundry? He could fold laundry. He was good at folding laundry. He was

g

good at

folding

“a-ah.”

The bat whimpers. In a voice so small the room gobbles up the sound in one bite.

There’s not catboys and grannies holding him anymore, as it turns out. Not quite sure when they stopped. He finds out when he takes a tiny step forward and nobody stops him. Not even himself.

What is he doing? Why is he moving? What? What? What??? He shouldn’t. This. Her. This isn’t. He. Him. Her. Good. Him?

Step. Step. Step by tiny step. She’s bigger with each step. Closer with each step. So far to go. So far. Hands flat by his side. Ears flopped. Shoulders tight. Hunched in. Small. He’s so small. Little scuff of a tail stands straight up. On alert. Twitching. He’s looking around the room. It’s all her. Everywhere he looks. It’s her. And he always. Looks back up.

To her eyes.

He stops. Paws from foot to foot. Does he stand here? There? Is this close enough?

“Is,” he swallows. “Is it okay to talk now?”

It’s the only sentence he can pluck out of the swirling mess in his head.

[Activating Friendly Benefits. Yaz takes a string on Cutie.]

Breathless Dead

It’s rather hard to see it, hidden away within a soft, squishy lump of wool. But a tension ebbs from Dolce, dissipating into the scaled depths. One by one he drops potential conversational openers, times when he might catch her relatively alone, brief lists of counterpoints to common objections, and a handful of phrases worn smooth by rehearsal. All gone. None of them needed. Odd, feeling so relieved to talk about such a difficult subject.

He wiggles, just a bit. That may even be too violent a word for the slow turn in place he makes, back and forth, back and forth. Cloud-soft wool brushes reassuringly against smooth scales. “I have been thinking much the same thing,” he admits. Back and forth. “If we were to make a slight adjustment to our messaging around the games, to say they are to welcome our Summerkind guests, I think that would go a long way to reducing tensions, even in the short term. The Ceronians, the Pix, and the Summerkind would have a clearer understanding of where they stand with each other, and that they aren’t competing for the same space. I am no expert - and we ought to consult one, to be sure - but I think that would be a weight off their minds.”

“But we do have to talk to the Summerkind about it first.”

Back and forth. And stop.

“Not right away, I don’t think. They are lost enough as it is, we cannot ask them to also learn an entire galaxy and figure out a plan for their own survival. We can at least work at the problem ourselves. Provide them with some ideas. Something to start with and work from.”

Return to Thellamie

He shouldn’t be here.

Not in a modesty sense, no. When you go to the office at school, there’s a front desk where a receptionist signs you in, takes your papers, etc. Beyond the desk, though? That’s where the real office is. That is the realm of principals, vice-principals, and…hrm, you know, he’s not actually thought it through beyond that. Whoever else you need to run a school! You can exist in front of the desk, that’s okay. That’s allowed. The realm beyond is where no student ought to tread. Whatever goes on back there, that’s not a place for students.

This is, however, a place for Amalis. She knows everyone. Everyone knows her. Everyone’s happy to see her. This place is a maze, and she hasn’t put a foot wrong. She seems more at home here than her little apartment in Crevas. Hazel follows close behind her, huddling in her bubble of authority for safety.

The Crysthanamum whirrs around them like fancy-dressed clockwork. Somehow, all of this? All these people, all these mechanisms, all this everything turns into spas, shows, eateries, lodgings, and he’s not quite clear how all of that fits under one roof but that doesn’t stop him from sneaking little wondering glances all around him any chance he gets.

Unfortunately for him, the view looks back. Unfortunatelier for him, the view does not bother with being sneaky.

Cute???!!?

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” is the noise he makes, and it’s not speaking, because that’s not a real word, it’s just a sound, and it can mean all sorts of things, and anyway he’s going to stop making it now just to be safe. He takes Alcideo’s hand and shakes it, to be even more safe, and to let him know he’s not being rude, and he casts a frantic, pleading to Amali. Then back to Alcideo. Then back to Amali. Alcideo. Amali. Alcideo. Amali. Alcideo. Amali!!!

A sound like steam escaping a rapidly-boiling kettle fills the lift as the pressure of competing demands mercilessly squish him.

(He makes the turns faster and faster as he goes. Back home, his hair would lag behind a second or two if he turned fast enough, and here he has the double benefit of big, silly ears. And he’s had a good week or two to get to know them. They bap him about the head, and it takes him another few turns to “realize” it, stop, and sputter as an ear baps his snout one last time. Hapless. Helpless. Maybe blushing? Hopefully blushing. He never could tell.

Cute, hopefully?

Maybe cute enough for Alcideo to keep going?)

Breathless Dead

They reach an agreeable compromise.

Vasilia will boil the water, fetch a teapot and cups and plates, make a whole tray of tea cookies, remain perfectly composed when she has to make them again, set the table, hold Dolce on her lap, feed him one dainty nibble at a time, run her claws through his wool, snack on his ears, and tell him absolutely every piece of news, gossip, and goings-on that she has somehow managed to collect and retain in-between praying for his safe return.

Dolce will steep and pour the tea. He knows just how she likes it. And he will give her every excuse to keep talking.

What did she say dear Ember wore to the festival? Quite impressive, to be able to slip off into the night with Mosaic while looking so radiant. She was always so talented at sneakery.

And the fireworks were quiet? Really! Oh, do tell…

Return to Thellamie

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.

Return to Thellamie

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

Return to Thellamie

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.

Return to Thellamie

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.