TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

The world slips into soft, fluffy darkness.

He only just remembers to breathe.

Did you know, there’s a disadvantage to all this wool? Yes, it’s one of the softest, most luxurious materials around. Yes, it’s so, so pleasant to brush, for him and the brusher. Yes, in a pinch, it does quite well at cushioning falls and various household accidents, and warning him when he’s perilously close to bumping his head on a table. And that’s the problem. In the darkness, what’s the difference between the thick coils of a snake and the powerful arms of a wolf? There’s only muffled pressure. There’s only being held fast on every side, from every side. It gets harder and harder to pick out the hissing breaths of the Azura from the swelling tide of panting engulfing him. He’s surrounded. By everyone and everything. And he can hardly tremble he’s held so firmly.

“Lie back, little prince.~”

…sorry, what was that? Who was that? With the voice like molten chocolate? They were talking to him, because there wasn’t anyone else they could be talking to, and it was his ear that they breathed their whispers into. That. Hrm. Had Ember told them something ahead of time, without telling him? Or was this how they treated all their…captives. Captives. He is a captive. Not prey.

While these thoughts occupy his mind, his body obeys on instinct. Not that he can do much moving. But he can go limp. He can very easily go limp.

“Gooood. Good sheep. Brave, bold, daring sheep, to give himself willingly to the Wolves of Ceron.”

He’s…floating? He’s moving? It’s impossible to tell, beyond how long it’s been since he’s touched solid ground. There’s, he feels points of pressure, everywhere, always in motion. Dozens of hands holding him up, brushing through thick curls, getting ohhhhhh, getting that one spot behind his ear, yes, yes, oh yes. Flows of lean muscle covered in short, soft fur caress his face, his limbs, and weren’t those in scales a moment ago? He’s squeezed against soft pillows, invited to sink, sink, sink in so deep…

It makes it very hard to get his thoughts together enough to say, “excuse me, I, should warn you, just in case, I’m not really-”

The hands find his chin.

“Shhhhhhh.”

And they scratch, and they pet, and they play, until properly articulate speech becomes. Difficult.

“Relaaaaax. You’re being so, so good for us.”

Oh. Ohhhh.

See. He had thought something about this was familiar.

Vasilly called him treasure too.

“All you need to say is ‘too much’ or ‘yes.’ It would be a stain on our legend if such treasure came to harm in our hands.”

She had fur like that. She had muscles like that. She held him like that, so tightly he had no hope of escaping. She loved squeezing him silly. She loved to see

to…t-to see…

A vision rises from the darkness. Vasilia rises from the darkness. Perched upon her throne, glorious in her finery, she rises above, and all she sees is under her dominion. And what does she see before her but the famed Ceronians, lavishing such care upon her precious Dolce in her honor. See the curl of her lips, and know her approval! Hear the rumble in her chest, and know her delight!

It. It was quite. Hot. With, so many, around. Oh. Goodness.

“Leave alllllll the rest to us. We know how to treat royalty, don’t we, little prince?~”

“Y…yes…”

Return to Thellamie

Cutie breaks the surface, and gasps his first clean breath in what must’ve been hours.

He misses drowning.

The sounds. A startled shout, fast-fading. A heavy thud. A cough. A gasp. The sound of dozens, hundreds of people crying out and fighting to escape somewhere, anywhere. (It was farther away last time. This close, he can make out the waves of panic. He can hear the individual screams.) Something shatters, splinters, and he can’t turn to look, and he’s afraid to look, and his imagination fills in the gaps.

How? How did this happen? He was just bringing out a plate of cinnamon rolls. He only had a few minutes left in his shift. A lady, a pretty lady was smiling and laughing with him, and he can’t tell how much his heart is racing or fluttering. It’s all gone wrong. It’s all gone so, so wrong. There’s smoke. There’s fighting. There’s screaming. No, roaring.

Yuki?!

Racing. His heart is definitely racing. It’s not making them leave any faster. It doesn’t seem much to care.

She’s different. This isn’t like when she misses the dodge roll and the boss only had a sliver of health left. She. She’s angry. He’s never heard her so angry. He still can’t turn to look, but he can hear as well as ever, and a hundred AMVs tell him what she, what Yuki must look like right now. What she could look like. (The tray? No. No. It’s too far away. Can’t go back for it. Maybe make her another treat afterwards. Say something now. Now. She needs you to say something. She needs you to be there for her. Do it. Talk. Say something. She needs you. She needs you. You have to say something. Say something. You need to. You have to.)

Cutie is still. Cutie is staring at scales. Cutie is silent.

Walls of coils press in on all sides, gently, as they carry him away. Hugging him close. Shielding him from. All this. Behind them an axe sings and a leopard growls, and they know Yuki is still on her feet and fighting.

Cutie snuggles in deeper. Even though he doesn’t deserve it. It’s just. Instinctive. The coils. They’d do it for anybody.

And then they stop.

And his heart freezes.

(Say something. You have to.)

“‘Deo, please.” He’s fighting to keep his voice from cracking. He’s fighting to keep his eyes dry. “You’ve got to get out of here. Get everyone in the cafe out of here. Through the back halls if you have to, just get them as far away as you can. I,” There’s a thousand things to say. There’s no time to say anything. There’s no room to get it wrong. “I’m sorry. Tell Miss Yaz it’s not her fault. I’m going to be okay. I promise. The one with the axe?” Be strong, Cutie. Be strong like her. “That’s Yuki Edogawa. She’s my friend.”

(He doesn’t deserve this. Not him.)

“Just, please, Deo. Go. I’ll be okay.”

Breathless Dead

This sure is an awful long time to take his measurements.

That’s the thought he’s holding onto with all his rapidly-draining might. It’s just a measuring session. She’s just taking his measurements. Once she has his measurements, she’ll let him go. He just needs to. Hold on until. Until she’s done.

“Just obey.”

Thinking. Thinking is a relatively new development. How new? How long since, since…since he could hear himself think?

Praying. That’s what he’ll do when he’s done. When she’s done. Taking his measurements. He’ll find a god and thank them. Maybe Hestia? Is she in charge of waking up? Or is this, could it, does it quite qualify as, maybe, it’s a Hera? Good. Okay. Hera. Hera has the colorful pretty peacock dresses. Hera has the colorful pretty peacock dresses. Peacock feathers are so pretty, right? They’re so pretty. He can picture them right now. He’s going to keep picturing them. If he’s thinking of colors then it must be her colors. If he’s remembering a pattern it’s got to be her feathers. It’s got to be her. It’s just got to be her. She’s why he’s awake at a measuring session. Not. Not presented to Vasilly. Yet.

“You are an excellent servitor.”

The dressing room. He’s in a dressing room. There’s a dressing room outside of these coils. Dolce is in a dressing room, getting his measurements taken. He is not. He is. Not. Well. He is probably pretty good. She’d say he was excellent. But. He is not. He is.

Dolce is an excellent Dolce.

“Let me see your eyes.”

Dolce is not going to. Show anyone, because, he’s, trying very hard to look at the scale patterns. Yes. Yes. It’s quite something, isn’t it? Little marks. How do they stay the same distance apart? When the coils. When the muscles. Squeeeeeeeeeeze-! And relax? No, yes, yes, those are. Mgh. She is. Very good. With her nails. And his cheeks. And ears. He’s, no, he still needs to study, scales. He - oh, ohhhhhh, yes, that’s a good spot-

“A good sheep deserves a good rest.~”

Darkness. Fluttering closed. Just for a moment. Then. Echoing. Colors. Swirling. Swaying. Combining and reforming in endless fractal patterns and he’s so close to figuring it all out if he just looks a little deeper no no no no no no bad bad haa! Haa! Haaaaaaaaa-!

It’s. Really hard. To hyperventilate. When walls of muscle are forcing you to take long, deep breaths. Squeezing him empty with each exhale. And again. And again. And again. And again. Fifteen scales. And again. Between those lines. How many. And again. H-how. The next. One. And again. Two. Three. Four…again…and again…

“Baa?”

Ember…?

Would you…mind moving…? He was almost, maybe, halfway to halfway…?

Ember?

Ceronians?

Ember?!

“Aa…a…admiral hat. Y-yes. Quite. Of course.”

His voice is squeezed as small as it can be. By the rasping breaths all around him. By the glint of fangs in his periphery. By a dozen paws running through his curls, perilously close to skin. There’s a pinprick every time one of them slips. He braces for a bite that never comes. Every time. He closes his eyes, but the colors are gone. The patterns are gone. He can think, and he can hear every Ceronian circling in search of a spot of exposed wool. Waiting. Watching.

It was easier when he couldn’t think.

Dolce is sitting still, so still, oh so obediently still. There will be hats, there will be coats, there will be outfits of whatever shape and size they wish to dress him in, whether he likes it or not. The wolves of Ceron will fight over him, or they will fight over the ship. His opinion on the matter is immaterial. So long as they believe he can be won.

There are interesting bruises on display, and they will be noticed later. He is looking into Ember’s eyes. He is hurling himself into Ember’s eyes. Nowhere else is safe to look.

Once she has his measurements, she’ll let him go.

He just needs to. Hold on until. Until she’s done.

Return to Thellamie

Oh. O-oh. Oh. Oh. Ohm. Hum. Hmr. Oh. Ah. Um. Oh. oh.

It

It’s, okay, um

Okay. So. It turns out? Voices like that. Hit a little. Different, when they’re pointed at you. Directly at you. For you.

Somebody really should stop this room from swaying. That feels like a safety hazard?

He opens his mouth. He closes his mouth. There were supposed to be words in between. There didn’t seem to be any? That’s weird. He should try again. No? Still nothing? That’s no good. Try again. Better, this time.

“I…I don’tt…”

Whoops that’s all he can say because she’s laughing again, she’s laughing again, and it’s not a mean laugh, it’s, gosh, it’s, why is he smiling too?! Gosh! Laughing! Happy laughing? With him?! And it is not helping the whole, the whole, thinking straight, thing, which is very important because, because she knows he’s the Golden Faun, and that means she is hunting him. He is being hunted, right now. And. And. So he needs to take a deep breath and ohhhh nno no no no bad wait oh no the perfume’s so much stronger nowwwwwwngnghghhghh come on come on come on he-

Well.

Hrm.

He seems to be completely surrounded by coils now.

Neat.

Cutie does not scream. Cutie does not yelp. Cutie does not look at the colorful and elegant Nagi who is coiled all around him and squeezing him tight until the room stops swaying and holding a heartblade to this other pretty lady’s chin in his defense. Nope. He does not do a one of those things. You see, he is a very sensible fellow, and a sensible fellow would, in a sticky situation like this, draw his heartblade and join the fight.

He just has to-

If he could-

With a little wiggling he surely-

And a tug and a two and a-

“Um. Shouldn’t I have my arms free for this? Anyone?”

He speaks at a very sensible volume. Hopefully somebody heard it.

Breathless Dead

Blink. Blink.

Sorry, did he hear you correctly?

Ah. Hrm. He did.

Wolves competing in pampering him, to make Vasilia happy. Wolves pampering him. Competing, in pampering him. To make Vasilia happy? Wolves.

”That certainly is an idea.”

Of everyone in Beri, he did not have to wonder what a life under Ceronian rule would’ve been like. He’s already lived it. Close enough, anyway.

They watched in the kitchens. They watched in the gardens. They appeared around corners when you least expected it. Gasp. Halt. Let your tray unbalance. They broke the silence so thoroughly you’d feel its jagged edges tomorrow. No hiding from their noses. No outrunning their legs.

No mercy.

Which is as far as the fight or flight goes before waves of smooth muscle squeeze in from all sides, and a tantalizing snack gently floats to his lips. The discussions are put on hold, by order of the ship’s acting chief authority. The only sounds permitted are quiet munching and soft bleating. When they finally return to the matter at hand, he still feels like he’d fall into a jumble of wooly pieces if she let him go. But the barks couldn’t quite reach him now. Dyssia had piled up an awful lot of coils and crackers against them.

”There would be some. Hurdles, to overcome.” To put it delicately. “They would have to be quiet, for one. Not whisper-quiet, no need to go that far, but no barking, howling, or particularly loud growling. We are acting for the good of the ship, yes, but Vasilia would take quite some convincing to let me suffer a constant headache for the foreseeable future.”

”No, no chasing either. That wouldn’t do. Neither physically trapping nor running to ground. She’d only want me to go with them willingly.”

He pauses. Squirms, as much as he is permitted to.

”She wouldn’t like to share either. If they took liberties with me…” He leaves the thought hanging as he searches for the least distasteful words. “No making out. No groping. No biting.”

”...aside from all that, then, that could work. If they were able to successfully pamper, Vasilia would not need to fake her pleasure. The theory is sound.”

It is an entirely fair and well-reasoned assessment, with the notable exception of his own permission. Which he cannot give, because he has just taken a rather large bite of cracker and cheese, and he will be much occupied with savoring the complex flavors until further notice.

They need a plan. The need is great. Which is why it is worth giving an impossible plan its due consideration. If there is a crumb of a solution to be found, some seed to grow a better idea from, then they will be sorry if they missed it in their haste. But as the plan is, indeed, impossible, then it is not worth considering any further than that. Perhaps another prize? Some other way of garnering Vasilia’s favor that did not throw the whole ship into chaos?

That was the trick, wasn’t it? Ember. Is an exception. And this would be quite easier if that were not the case. If wolves did not need to howl, or hunt, or have, completely. Then they could simply.

They could.

The wolves, could.

A long-sleeping dream stirs. Born to a chef of the Starsong, courting a noble and beautiful lady before he realized it was a courtship. He brought her freshly baked cookies, soothing tea on cold, lonely nights, every recipe he owned or could learn he lavished upon her, and every day the dream grew stronger. But as strong as it was, it held no power against a heart well-loved. Bound in sacred oath, held fast in her arms, he was at peace. All he had to give, he had given her, and it was enough. And so the dream slept. For long years it slept, passing from awareness, until he hardly ever remembered it anymore.

A long-sleeping dream stirs. Of a sheep greeting his beloved dressed in a fine, princely suit, and not his weathered old apron.

“Well. Either way.”

Time is of the essence, no?

“We really ought to ask Vasilia, first.”

And that would be the quickest way to put this whole silly thing to bed.

Return to Thellamie

He’s…cute? Him? Him? With all his everything? Cute?

He’s. Cute!

She says he’s cute!

Why, that just! She’s! Wow! Wow!!!

C’mon, ma’am, stop it! How’s he supposed to hold all this happy and stay professional? He’s trying! He’s trying real hard! But his smile’s melting into a big, wrinkly grin, and, and, he’s shuffling from one foot to the other, and pawing at the ground like a big bashful goober. And. W-wait. No. No.

Noooooooooo aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

It…it does say that on his nameplate! He is Cutie! You said so yourself! Many times! Oh, oh gosh, golly, heck and beans, his tail’s gonna flick right through the ceiling, and it’ll be all your fault, and, he sure hopes you’re ready to live with that! It’s gonna happen! Just you wait!

But maybe. But maybe? She is ready for that? Because her hand. (Hazel.) It. It’s. Wow. It’s so soft. (She just took your hand.) How can hand be so soft? How can hand so smooth and so lovely against his? (No customer’s touched you this entire time.) And. Oh. Ohhhhhh. Her thumb. Running across his hand and wrist. (She took your hand.) Baaaaaaack. And forth. Baaaaaaack. And forth. So soft. So soothing.

So cool.

(Her body is too cool.)

…bwuh?

What was that noise?

He looks. He turns. He can’t move.

He can’t move.

Oh.

(This is bad. Something’s wrong. He should feel afraid. He should feel alarmed. But he just. Can’t. It’s there. Sort of. But it’s like his head and heart are stuffed with fluff. Thick, smothering, floral fluff. He has to muster an effort even to tug at his trapped wrist. Beyond the fact that this lady has a grip of iron. Even putting his weight into it, she’s not budging an inch.)

“Uh…um. Excuse me…”

(And still. He can’t. Ngh.)

“Ma’am, could you, please-”

(Why can’t he think?)

“Could you just-”

(What’s wrong with him?!)

“Stop!”

There’s a flash of light.

Warm and wild. Laughing and leaping. Rush and ruin. Condensed to a single glimmering moment. Stretching wider than words can hold. They dance, never-ceasing. They dance, never-seen. They dance, through the heart of a Faun, and through the touch of a hand. Swell of wonder! Of joy! Of life! Plant your feet and suffer the tide! Bare your heart that it may be treasured!

Listen! Listen! And hear the song of the stars!

[The mysterious visitor is given a Touch of Nature: 3 + 5 + 2 = 10
-She must answer the question “What do you hope to get from Cutie?” or take a Condition
-She may give Cutie a string on her to clear a Condition]

Return to Thellamie

What does Cutie do about that?

Cutie flits from table to table, starting with the guests who’ve been waiting the longest. He greets them warmly, he welcomes them into this magical, starlit dream, he takes their orders and requests with earnest joy, because he would love to make their adventure that little bit more memorable. A picture? Of course! He’s quite good at the heart hands, if you would like. A drink? Ah, of course you’re thirsty! You’ve had a long journey. Please, stay a while, refresh yourselves. The extra waters are on the house, don’t you worry. A snack? Oh! Oh!!! Terribly sorry, but you know the rules of the Road, see, and it would be very unlucky to eat the fellow you’ve just met. Might he suggest the Hoofprints instead? Wonderful! He’ll be right back with those, and the stars will surely light your way shortly!

What does Cutie feel about that?

He keeps forgetting to breathe.

He spares a glance at the table, whenever he’s going to and fro, but when he’s talking he can’t spare the attention. She could’ve seen him already. She could be seeing him right now. But even if he did catch her eye, did he have a plan? No! Of course not! He’d, well, he’d do something. A nod. A frantic shake of the head. Does mouthing something across the room ever work? Mouthing something across the room never works.

He can’t blow his cover. Miss Yaz has done so much to shield him. Amali gave him a place to sleep and safe travel. Keli and Seli and their fox wizard friend risked themselves to give him a chance to escape. He could ruin it all. Right now. The wrong word. Pausing too long in his work. Somebody could see. Somebody could put two and two together. He saw what happened at the Festival. What could happen in the Crysthanamum?

(He ran the streets until his voice was hoarse. The city was so large. He couldn’t have warned everyone.)

He wants to grip his tray until his knuckles turn white and all his fingers ache. He wants to thwack it against his horns, not hard enough to really hurt, but, but, stupid, stupid, stupid. All this time having fun in a fancy cafe. Chatting into the night with everyone after work. Getting Encouragement. More than enough time to text Yuki back. And he’d meant to. He’d really meant to. But the trip didn’t leave any time for it, not when someone in their burrow might see. Then he got here. And.

Would’ve been nice to get her into the loop. Would’ve been nice to ask how she was doing after he ruined the festival. And burned down half of Crevas for all he knew. Not like he showed much care about that.

Lazy, stupid, useless Cutie.

He had nothing. All because he couldn’t send one, stupid text. All he could do was his job, and make his way closer, and closer. Table by table. Until, eventually, she’d see him, and he had to hope she wouldn’t react. At all. To meeting him…l-like this…

(His legs feel so exposed. He can’t reach down and tug at them. That just draws attention.

Should he be here? Should Hazel be here? Is this too much? He’s not being overt or anything. The shorts are short but he’s not flicking his tail in people’s faces. He’s just. He’s being a waiter. Sort of. A waiter who takes pictures sometimes. The acting, it’s like Disneyworld, right? He’s heard Disneyworld is very similar. Everybody’s welcome at Disneyworld. He’s not done anything more. More than this. And, it wasn’t, 100% his idea to come here - but he didn’t object either. And he did tell Miss Yaz he wanted to. And he keeps going up for Encouragement. But, he’s still just a waiter, honest. This is all he’s done. If you got to know the other hosts, you’d see, it’s not really that much.

He can’t explain any of it to her before she sees him. You know. Because he didn’t text her.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.)

Well. He did have a little he could do. And he still had a job to do…

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

“Welcome, brave adventurers!”

A new voice dashes through the tension. The smell of cinnamon sugar dances with the lady’s perfume.

Cutie greets one and all with a big, warm smile, as warm as the tray of Cinnamoon Starlight Rolls he sets on the table. “Be you hunters, wanderers, dreamers, or anything in-between, I’m so happy the stars have taken your journey here. And a chance meeting on the road deserves a proper snack.” His bow is polite. His sweep of the hands is gracious. His walk is as chaste as can be in these shorts. “Please, accept this blessing from a humble Faun.”

(When he makes it through this. If he makes it through this. He will explain to Miss Yaz why his tip money is so light today.

He walked by the other tables on the way here. They could’ve noticed him. They could’ve noticed this is his first time at this table. Which means this table couldn’t have ordered those snacks. Imagine how they must feel, seeing how this table is getting such nice treatment and they’re not.

He’ll count his bills. He might need to run to his locker.)

And what a blessing it is! Swirls of cinnamon form a perfect crescent moon on each roll, and through a glaze of icing dance a sea of sparkling sweet stars. The rolls are warm, fresh from the oven. Soft, chewy, with little sweet starry crunches to add variety to the texture. In his humble opinion, one of the best treats here. Also in his humble opinion, very difficult to maintain a tense disagreement when your mouth is contending with a big cinnamon roll and your hands are sticky with icing.

(He doesn’t look at Yuki, because his job is to see to the whole table, and he’s never met Yuki before in his life. But out of the corner of his eye he watches her face.

Does she like the gift? Are the rolls good? Is she smiling? Enjoying herself?

She’s not fed up with him if she’s smiling. If she’s looking happy, after seeing him like this.

His bow doesn’t falter. His smile doesn’t waver. His heart never stops begging. Please. Please. Just a little smile.

Tell him you don't hate him.)

Breathless Dead

It is a little different, for him. If it hadn’t been leaving on a passing ship, it would’ve been a life on the farms. Not the Manor. Life on Beri didn’t offer much of a choice either. Work, or slavery, or jump on the Plousious and-

Well. Hrm. You know. Actually, maybe he did have a choice? Did he have to join a Princess on a doomed voyage? Of course not. Many, many, many people chose not to join. He and Vasilia could’ve been two of them. They could’ve-

No. No, that may not be true either. There was…a wish, yes? A wish was on the line. Like how everyone on Beri was on the line. Like how his heart was on the line.

Could he have chosen differently, and still been Dolce? Did he do the difficult thing only because the alternative was worse?

Is he…never going to be able to stop? Until whatever he’s set out to do is finished?

”The Diodekoi did not know that she was an engine of murder until she was activated. No scans or tests I did could discover this about her.”

He. Didn’t know what he didn’t know. His memory appeared whole, until it didn’t. He.

-crik-

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

He did not know his shoulders were that tight, until they weren’t.

Her coils could read his mind. Or his body. Or both? Or both. They could read sheep, and that’s how they knew exactly where to press in and work and work and force the strain from his muscles.

He regards the pile of tangled, sharp thoughts.

He regards the plate of tasty looking cracker sandwiches he’d made.

”...would you mind? I don’t think I can reach. Or move my arms. For a while.”

A shuttle of deliciousness takes flight, and gently glides to its destination.

”Ah, yes, perfect. Thank you.”

There are many who wouldn’t stand for him to starve himself.

He’s not alone, after all.

Return to Thellamie

Encouragement

“Twen…ty…three…”

-flip-

“Twent…went…y….f…fffour…”

-flip-

“Tw-mghhhh…uhhh…tw…twentyfive…mrrrr…”

-flip-

“T…t…tttttt…ha…haaaa…g…one…I, almmmmosssttt…”

“You can’t count anymore, Cutie. Let go.”

“Bwaaaaaaaaaaaa…”

“Well done. You counted so many tips, and yet, there’s still so many to go. You made so many people happy you can’t even count the number. Not to worry; I will count the rest for you. All you have to do is feel how good you did.”

-flip-

“Mgghhhhh!!!”

“Numbers aren’t your job. You can’t remember numbers that high. You’re too silly for that. And a silly boy might do something so foolish as compare today’s number to yesterday. He’d worry so much if the number was lower. When all he needs to know is it’s so, so much. How much is it, Cutie?”

-flip-

“S-sooo…soooo much…”

“That’s right. A number so big you can’t say it. Can’t remember it. Try it. Once more. Tell me how much it is.”

-flip-

“Ss…so…thrrrrrrrrrmmmm……”

“Good boy. Good Cutie. Trying so hard for me.”

-flip-

“Heeeeeeeeeeeee”

“You’re tired, Cutie. You’ve given me so much. You’ve done such a good job.”

-flip-

“Haaaa…?”

“Your body wants to rest. Your legs are so tired. You cannot move them. Go ahead and squirm. You cannot resist. You cannot hold all this tension any longer.”

-flip-

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh~”

“Your arms want to be held. They have made so many people happy. You have nothing more to do with them. You want to give them to me. You want to let go.”

-flip-

“H-haaa…aaaa…”

“You cannot fight anymore. You cannot try anymore. You’ve done so much. You feel snug. Trapped. Helpless. Nod with me.”

-flip-

“Uh…….huh…..”

“You’re going to sit still for me.”

-flip-

“Uhhuh”

“You’re going to listen to me.”

-flip-

“Uhhuh”

“You’re going to feel good for me.”

-flip-

-flip-

-flip-

“Uhhh…uhhuh…....”

“There we go. There’s my good Cutie, counting up so much. Now. I will let you talk. But I will not let you speak.”

-fwump-

“Mmph!”

“We still have Alcideo’s notes to go over. In detail.”

“M…mmmrrr…”

“I will not let you contradict him. You’re going to pay attention. And you will not. Miss. A word”

"I will?!"

His hands fly to his mouth. Too slow to contain the squeak.

"Um. I mean. No, no, you’re good, it’s, that, ah, that’s, that is a good spot, you didn’t. It’s just. That. It’s. Very nice of her. T-to. Be so, concerned, about my. Um. Work. And. Yes."

His detailed explanation finished, he buries his face in Alcideo’s shoulder. Flustered. Embarrassed. A silly little deer, hardly able to think about the perils of Yaz’s Encouragement without falling to pieces where he stood. Alcideo must already see him, at the end of his shift, muddling through his good-byes and good-job-today’s before obediently trot-trot-trotting his silly little butt up to the clutches of Miss Yaz. Just like he was told.

(It’s a little easier? It’s a little easier with Encouragement being a sometimes food. There’s no schedule to it, Miss Yaz must be busy. She can’t spare a half hour every day. And it’s not like he’s doing that good of a job every single day. He..

Well, he has a little trouble remembering exactly how good he does day-to-day. How did Miss Yaz know he was counting his tip money that closely?

Anyway! Point is, a good bit of the surprise is real every time, and so’s the melting into his seat. He’s not. He’s not asking for encouragement. Yaz just. Knows that it helps. And she enjoys. Um. Encouraging sillyheads who can hardly talk straight. Which is all to say, Alcideo laughs at shy, useless sillyheads too.)

“Drink service!” He says, totally composed. “Yes! I mean! No! I mean, we served drinks, but just soda and juice and things like that. Not a lot of mixing going on. Though I did learn how to mix up a mean hot chocolate.” That’s right; this is the silly grin of an expert cocoa brewer! Took him weeks and weeks of experimenting to nail it down. The tricky bit was, when you’re making cocoa for somebody else, you can’t sip it partway through to see if it’s come out right.

Mmm. A hot cocoa would be so good right now. A quiet lounge. A hard day’s work. A good couch to sink into. A better friend to hug you close and work magic on your poor ears. Distant music, sneaking in softly from the cafe. Yes. Two mugs of cocoa would make everything perfect. Warm bellies, to match their hearts.

(He hasn’t really thought of the Hunt in days. There’s danger Outside. Inside, there is warmth, and laughter, and friends, and good days ending in cozy nights.

He could stay here forever.)

“Thank you,” and he curls up, nestling into Alcideo’s side, as if he’s trying to smile with his whole body. As if the scrunched-up face pressed into Alcideo’s soft fur is nowhere close to good enough. “I couldn’t be doing any of this without your help. You’re looking out for me, showing me the ropes, and knocking it out of the park at six tables at once. I just. You’re so good at this, it means a lot to hear you say that.” As if somebody could look at someone like him and say, yeah, we’ll start that cat on coats. On coats! Unless he’s been working here for so long he was too young to do anything but coats. Hrm. “I’ll let you know if I need anything. Thanks. Again.”

“...but seriously, why put the tip money in our pants?”

Breathless Dead

A noise. A tiny hum. A faint bleat, in rhythm with each breath. Breaking, cracking, crinkling at the command of the muscles enveloping him. A sound allowed just a little bit of slack, a little room to play.

He may as well have shouted.

Savor the sounds you gently coax from him, Dyssa, Knight of the Publica, Savior of Beri, Friend to Sheep. There are a deceptive many tucked away in those endless wooly depths. Tangles in a soft heart. No word will pass until the way is clear. Gently. Carefully. Surround him on all sides, but leave an opening for the retreat. Let him speak, when he is ready.

”It is.” Which surely isn’t it. “It has been a while.” Obviously. Not it either. “This is…better. I.” Quiet. The tightening rhythm continues. Patient. A tail snakes gently through fluffy curls.

”Forgot.”

“I just wanted to see everyone again. I just wanted to be out.” There’s a lot of days packed into that word. Out. Perhaps it is best if it stays that way, for now. “And I’m glad to be here. Believe me. I am. So grateful. It is better.” He feels the squeeze of reassurance. He is understood. “But we’re still in the Skies, aren’t we? We’re still going to be here. Even if we go to the Shogunate, or beyond. Someone still chose to make the Ceronians restless, forever.”

And someone chose to make countless people sick and anxious in the void of space. And someone chose to make Assassins who were doomed to die under the weight of a curse. And someone chose sheep to staff a Manor.

How dare they. How dare they.

He doesn’t make her think of an answer. That’s not a question meant for answering. ”I am lucky that I can do something for them. The Ceronians deserve better.” There is a perilous uncertainty in the rest of that thought. Mercy, that he did not speak it as a prayer. “There is much that I cannot do. I am just a chef with some bureaucratic training.”

He stops.

”Thank you, by the way. For arriving in Beri when you did. I wish I could have been there to see it.”

He considers.

”...I was stationed on board the Slitted at the time. We. Could not see much, from that height.”

How much has he really helped? And how much has he let happen?

The Summerkind needed so much. The Summerkind needed to eat.

A nice meal feels so small, now. So does he, compared to the Knight encircling him.

The coils of the Crystal Knight crushed. Smothered. Squeezed until there was no room left for him, and then squeezed harder. Until she was the only thing that was left. Whatever resembled a sheep was full of her. Belonged to her. Consumed by her.

The coils of Dyssia, Knight of the Publica, squeeze tight. Tight enough for a small, small sheep to fall apart, and yet remain whole. And not one step tighter than that.

“We ought to think of a prize the Ceronians would value in the short-term.” His mouth is the only part of him still moving. His tea sits unfinished. “I think,” and he is thinking of the Knight. Not of his untouched plate. “That could give us the leverage necessary to…”

Both coils, he resists.