TheAmishPirate

Return to Thellamie

“Aah-!!”

He doesn’t get a say in the sound. She pulls it from his throat. And he’s not allowed any other words either. He tries. He really, really tries. There’s a question in his eyes, there’s a plea in his wide eyes, but he can’t get it to reach his mouth, stuffed full of flowers and fear. No. She doesn’t allow it.

“Ah! Wh, uh! Mm! Mm!!!”

His gasps for air get faster. His cries drip with desperation, higher and fainter with every. Stinging. Inch. To no avail. She grants him no mercy. She blots out the skylights. She pushes her body atop him until the banister bites through his worn vest. The pain brings clarity. Only enough to taste how thick the air is with her scent. The world shrinks down to a tugging on his head, a biting at his neck, a smothering weight grinding him down, wild eyes, teeth, breath, laughing, laughing

This is the part where running would be a fantastic idea. It has been a long, long time since he had a say in ideas. Legs scrabble at the floor. Arms fight for purchase. He wiggles. He gasps. He is drowning in honey. He. Danger. Pain. Held. Fighting. Helpless. Toy. Plaything. Resist. Trapped. Kissed. Can’t.

Owned.

Darkness.

Drifting.

Lighter.

Lighter?

He opens his eyes.

Is he floating in space, or have his legs gone out on him? How long has he been here? Where’d this Nagi come from? How’s the lady making that awful noise? Why’s she staring at him like that? What was. Any of that?

All good questions. They’ll have to wait. He’s much too preoccupied figuring out which of these arms are his, and he’s got to. He’s, he needs to. Once he finds his hand. He clutches her wrist tight and woahhhhhhhhh everything melts into a shimmer of motion and vertigo and he hits something soft and he wraps his free arm around it or else he’ll tumble over into heaven knows where.

And. And he’s maybe had enough. Tumbling. For now.

“Ha…?”

He looks up. And up. Past the curiously smooth bands of color pressed against him, past the hand holding his, up, up, up a gently swaying curve, past weight and softness, guided by a frame of dark hair, to land at last on a pair of shining, glittering, golden eyes. And the eyes are looking back at him. Stricken with worry.

Ah.

(Okay. Okay. We see what happened here. Now. Say thank you. And apologize. It's the least you can do.)

“Thhh…thankk…” The air’s clearing? The air might be clearing. He’s panting for breath, and each one tastes just a little cleaner than the last. “Thank. Yyyy.”

(You can stop pretending this is difficult. It’s just some words. You know how to talk.)

Right. Right. He sniffs. He swallows. He breathes. “Sso…sorr…” He clings tighter to her waist. Her solid, strong, warm waist. “I, uh, I…I.” She’s holding his hand. His fingers are all tangled and discombobulated, but. She. She’s holding his hand. Tight. “I’m, sh-she, that was.” Scales are so, so nice to rest against. The texture’s, mmm, feels so lovely against his cheek. “I’m, I-I-I…”

(Come on. Say it.)

Cutie gazes up at a Nagi Princess, and she must be a Princess. Why else does she dress so pretty? How else could she be so strong, and so kind? So. He has to say it. He opens his mouth. To say it. For her. The Golden Faun gazes up at a Nagi Princess, cheeks flushed, vest battered and torn, eyes sparkling with a memory of starlight, mouth open and panting and trembling, and he says,

“I…I’m s-sorry…”

[Rolling to Entice Sulochana, and spending a String on her to boot: 3 + 5 - 1 + 3 = 10]

Return to Thellamie

Turns out stabbing someone was the one thing he never practiced.

You don’t stab with practice swords, see. There’s actually a lot of people who put in a lot of work to make sure you don’t stab with practice swords. There’s special helmets, there’s padded clothes, there’s swords with the tips blunted, there’s the duelists never really thrusting with all their might, etc. Come to think of it, had he ever imagined it? Stabbing someone? He’d made a lot of imaginary AMVs in his time. Had quite a lot of material to choose from. And. Well. There’s a woosh. An attack lands. The opponent falls over. Never really dove into the in-between bits.

Cutie has to learn. Now.

(This is bad. We need to get out of here. We need to stop her. We promised we’d stop her. That Nagi is counting on you, Alcideo is counting on you, Yuki is counting on you, and two of those people are watching you right now. You’re so close. You beat her in your first ever real duel and you’re about to throw it all way. Just lift your hand up. Lift it up. You’ve got to lift it up.)

That Nagi, Purnima? She’d looked at him like that. Almost like that. She wasn’t as…warm. Soft. Sweet, a-and, adoring? Purnima was happy to have him in her clutches. Right now, she, this pretty lady, she looks so happy to have him. To. To. To, do, this, with him. Like she’s been looking forward to this for a long, long time…

(These people are wrecking the Crysthanamum. They hurt everyone they could get their hands on. The dragon could’ve got Yuki. They’re going to do horrible, awful things to Thellamie if they get their hands on you, and you can stop it. You can stop it right now. Do it. Stop it. Stop her. What are you waiting for?)

She’s tilting his chin up. She’s holding him. She’s holding his head, in her hands. Her thumbs carefully wipe the dust from his cheeks. Brush. Brush Brush. It feels. She feels. Every time, it’s. W. Waow.

(Go go go go what are you doing lift your sword stab her stab her right now stupid Hazel what are you doing you can do this why aren’t you doing it why aren’t you listening why aren’t you listening you’re messing up what’s wrong with you no no no no no don’t don’t you can’t you can’t you’ve got to run run run run run run-)

He’s. Breathing really hard, from. The duel. His heart. Pouding. Really, really fast. Hands trembling. Flowers, and fruit, and, it’s all around him, getting thicker, she, she’s so close and, and, something fascinating might happen next, if he just,

”Wh…what are you…” he whispers.

It’s so easy to make a mistake when you don’t have to do anything.

“Mmmph!!!”

Time gets a little funny. There’s a jolt, surprise and rushing and oh all knocking him flat at once, and it’s only a jolt, right? But, in the space of a jolt, she. She. She engulfs his lips in hers. And! There is! A lot! To be engulfed in! And she’s going so, so, slowly, caressing, humming, tasting, and then pressing deeper, again? Somehow?! How?! Every, she, with every, every time, there’s explosions scattering his thoughts, melting them all to mush, and, there’s probably something he ought to be doing at this part? But nobody ever told him and he’s not really had time to, practice?

“Mm! Mrr! Mmm, mmmphrrrrrrrr!!!”

Right! Yes! How! How dare she?! This is, this has got to be, she, you, you can’t just, in the middle of, duel, like this?! His hands find her shoulders and oh no there’s also very soft but that’s not the point he’s got to, he’ll, if he can just, get, push, some distance-

Wait when did her arm wrap around his back?

Wait when did her arm get that low on his back?!

”Mrrrrpp!!!!”

Hey! Bad! Extra cheating! On top of cheating! He wiggles, and he squirms, and he strains with all his might, but. But. It’s like he’s pinned against stone. It’s like he’s sinking into a pile of plush cushions. He. He can’t do a thing. Without her. And then. She. She guides his head up, up.

Her lips part. He tastes. Sweet. And distantly, bitter.

“Mm-!”

She pours herself in.

”M-mmmmmmm-!!!”

Is he still trying to wriggle free? Or are his legs threatening to give out? Are his fingers sinking into her shoulders to grip and throw her off? Or is he clinging on for dear life? How long does she spend savoring his mouth, filling him with breath after dizzying, melting breath, before she at long last pulls away?

He’s not aware. Time got a little funny. Let’s see…

He’s aware she’s up to something. He’s aware she tugged at his lip just now with an indulgent purr. He’s aware she can’t beat him here. He’s aware of her eyes, her curls, her cool skin, her wonderful perfume, her glowing smile, her, her lips…

“You…I-I…y, you…I’m, st-still…not, gonna, be king…”

He’s not aware of much else besides. Not even how his defiance fades off into a tiny, tiny whimper.

[Rolling with Allure to Entice Walking Elm: 6 + 5 - 1 = 10. Cutie takes a String on her, Walking Elm chooses one from the Entice list.]

Breathless Dead

Up he comes. One foot in front of the other. Never a foot placed wrong, in space or time. A chef must move with precision; he must be where he needs to be without getting in anybody’s way or being noticed before his time.

“The walk is not just swaying hips and flattering clothing. Our precious conquests may tell a different story, but we’re not here to speak of captives, aren’t we~? Watch these three approach you: Which one could you most easily talk to? Which of them is the highest ranking? Which is the most dangerous? You know, don’t you? And yet none of them have spoken a word to you. The body is an instrument, and oh, what songs it can play…”

He struts. He sways. The robe hugs his wooly frame snugly, tied with a high-waisted belt of gold. The hem flutters with his rhythmic step. Rivers of flashing embroidery wave up and down his body. His curls bounce, and sway, and draw the eye to the perfectly poised shifting of his shoulders. Back and forth. Back and forth. A soft, delicate little thing. Wrapped and bound in luxurious comfort. Is he not made to be nestled up so lovely, held in a tight embrace?

It’s too much. It’s too much for a sheep to bear. He stops, and he must stop, and his fingers trace up his sleeve. The texture, the material, the shine, he is utterly enraptured. He leans back with ease. The curve of leg to robe over wool to cheek to curls beckons the eye upward. To shining bell. Gentle smile. Parted lips.

“Eyes closed, now. Fear not the pen and brush. A Daughter of Ceron holds within her a soldier, an officer, a peasant, a princess, a slave, a conqueror, and hundreds more. It is a petty trick to wear paints and masks. Far better to bring forth what always hid within.”

He is drawing closer now. Close enough for her to reach out and seize him. In the shadow of her claws, he steps through a slow dance. Step, and turn, and lift, and hold. Hold. Offer what the distance so unjustly denied her.

Drink in his curls, Mistress Vasilia. Are they not lovely? They have been brushed, washed, combed, blessed, and they are as luscious as the finest silk. They are as smooth and rich as fine cream; drink them in. They are adorned with fine, curling ribbons and a single, beautiful flower. Gaze through them. Follow curling lashes flitting through the clouds. Bask in the joy coloring his cheeks. Spy a light splash of pink at his lips.

But spy no more than that. The dance continues. Step, and turn, and stretch. Be satisfied with only passing glances. Again. Again. Again.

He passes beyond her reach. He passes untouched.

For a moment, his body blocks his right hand.

“Turn. Snap. Look. Hold. It must all happen in a moment; surprise is your greatest weapon. Strike from concealment. Use sudden motion to sow confusion. Find your target.”

-snap!-

The fan blooms, bright and brilliant. Noble regalia on a sea of pure white. Your symbol, Mistress Vasilia, and beneath it, his mark:

The long ladle. For serving. For providing.

The keen knife. For sharpness. For precision.

All this is yours. All this belongs to you. All this hides behind a thin sheet of silk. Save for his eyes. They are all you are permitted to see now. Shadows of gold and orange - bright as the new sunrise - frame long, curling lashes. Watch them blink, slowly. Here and there, just faintly, freckled dots of stars glimmer in the radiance. And his eyes themselves.

He meets your gaze, Mistress Vasilia. He is startled. Breathless.

Captivated.

“And make them want you~”

A slow smile curls Vasilia’s lips. With one hand, she bids him to continue. With the other, she has not stopped kneading the cushions of her throne. With her eyes, she devours him.

Dolce turns at her command. Dolce faces a long, long walk to the other end of the runway. Where he will turn, and face a long, long walk back. Then Dolce will face her again. And strut for her again. And feel his heart and head melt into a molten puddle. Again.

Dolce can’t do it.

Dolce doesn’t have to do it.

The wolves of Ceron bear him aloft. Again.

Breathless Dead

Ember!

-jingle jingle jingle-

Picture a shark’s fin cutting through the surface as it approaches its next meal. Or a silly pup’s ears poking up out of a cornfield, scooting back and forth as they make their stealthy sneaky approach.

-jingle jingle jingle-

Your pack is all around you. There is much work to be done, and little time to do it, but you are Daughters of Ceron, one and all. You move as one. You work as one. You perform as one. The miracle will be done, and it will be done on time. Over the hustle and bustle of hundreds of wolves, that delicate sound floats above them all.

-jingle jingle jingle-

It bumbles along, neither hurried nor lazy. It weaves through the pack, snaking a route through the tightest of openings without missing a step. The only time it slows is when a passing wolf bends low and it must dance beneath their fingers.

-jinglejinglejinglejinglejingle!-

But not for long. Never for long. It always keeps moving. Inexorably, obediently,

-jingle jingle fwump!-

Back to you.

A mass of fluffy curls (politely!) places itself in your waiting hand, ringed by a crown of flowers, as if to say, “Here! Here! This is where your hand goes!” There’s no struggling bleats. His breathing is steady and sure. His head is still beneath your hand.

“I finished the letter, and sent it straight to Vasilia. She knows when and where to expect us.”

It was his idea. You could have sent the invitation yourself, but what better way to assure Vasilia that everything was good than a letter from her beloved’s own hand? A pity to have your precious treasure put himself to such pains, but for love, an exception could be made. And he asked so, so eagerly.

Besides. You’ll make it up to him soon enough, won’t you?

He’s doing such a good job of not looking where the tailors are hard at work. Even with a potent rush of nerves and excitement coursing through him. He wouldn’t dare ruin the surprise.

Return to Thellamie

In an empty field back on Earth, tucked away off the beaten path in the woods, there is an old stump, and there is a patch of clover. If he was standing by the clover, and Yuki was farther than the stump, he was safe. If she was any closer, and he wasn’t ready, she’d get him. It’s a distance he’s gotten quite familiar with. It took him an awful lot of afternoons getting got to get acquainted with it.

The autumn lady’s hand reaches out. Past the stump.

Cutie’s hand closes around the outline of a hilt. In one motion - like he practiced! - he draws forth the outline of a sword, and doesn’t swing it wide and dramatic-like, but remembers to stop when it’s properly centered. When he could see her through the blade.(1)

Yuki had said duels were scary. Sometimes a good scary! Sometimes not. As she’d told him of more and more of her adventures, he only now realized he’d forgotten to ask if they ever got *less* scary. Had her stomach tied itself in knots before she jumped into action just a minute ago?

“Woop!”

And that’s all the time he has.

He blocks low to ward off the lunge as he takes a half-leap back. Thank you, Yuki, for picking a sword that did lunges for him to practice against. Thank you, Yuki, for letting him practice with you long enough for him to ignore the instinct to keep running away from the scary venom sword. (Thank you, Yuki, for letting him hear stories of a brave knight-in-training, who stood her ground and fought for her friends.) Though the thanks will have to come later. Right now he’s trying very hard to keep breathing.

Cutie plants his feet, swipes back, and only yelps a little bit as he barely catches her counterstroke. “To be faIR! Your knights -eep!- are breaking everything,” sidestep, lean, but back to the center. “And hurting people badlYYY,” he can’t get pushed back. Hold his ground. “And putt-woah putting all our guests -woop! hup!- in danger,” swing when he can. Remember to make her defend too. “and you're trying to king, kidnap, king and kidnap me!”

A clang, a feint, a twist, and their swords lock, striving to push the other back.

“I think those are some pretty good reasons to be at leastalittledifficult!”

A knight of Kel would beat her. Cutie can at least hold her here. He has to.

[Rolling to Defy Disaster with Daring, like Yuki would. Cutie is risking his own composure, remembering the duel and forgetting the heart: 4 + 3 + 0 = 7]

(1) - Cutie's Heartblade

He and Yuki spent a good while staring baffled at his heartblade when he first drew it, and then spent twice as long fiddling with it to see how it worked. Or, more accurately, that it was even there in the first place. He could feel the hilt in his hands, and there was *some* kind of weight to the blade, but all they could see was a neon outline of dancing rainbow colors. Clear enough to spot where the sword was and wasn’t, not so bright as to be a distraction or a flashlight. It was like somebody had modded the sword out and left in the visual effects.

He’d thought it was maybe, like, a temporary sword? Something to use while Thellamie is still figuring out what sort of heartblade to give you? But, no, Yuki hadn’t had a heartblade like that when she got here last time.

Heartblades were supposed to be a reflection of, well, your heart. And he had no earthly (Thellamiey?) idea what this one was supposed to reflect. This, this, empty space where a sword should be.

Breathless Dead

Good.

He is doing good.

Everything is good.

Good. Good. Good.

The individual breaths of the pack melt into a warm, hazy cloud. There is pressure that holds fast, pressure that scratches gently, pressure that drifts luxuriously across him, and there is only a memory of hands. One voice speaks of performance. One voice continues its litany of whispered honey. Many voices speak, of wool, of collars, of peace, of treasure.

Dolce does not consider which is which. There is nothing he needs to mind. There is no task or protocol he needs to remember. There is no one he must help. They’re all good. He’s good. This, is good. Good. Good. The worries are answered and disassembled before they can be thought.

He is completely limp, floating in darkness, borne along in a sea of wolves. To where, from whence, he cannot say, and doesn’t bother remembering. There is a click. There is a pressure that lingers around his neck. Soft, lovely, not so tight to squeeze, not so loose he can forget, so good nestled in his wool.

There is a jingle.

A beautiful, delicate note, ringing bright in the rumbling sea. And the sea takes notice of it. The note mingles with whispers, and the whispers bring with them fond nuzzles and playful touch. So cute. So lovely. So pretty.

Imagine. In the darkness. Beyond the darkness. Imagine that Vasillia…that Mistress Vasilia might hear this note too.

Poor Dolce’s heart aches to bursting, and he must, and he must say,

”Yes.”

Good.

Return to Thellamie

Cutie remembers to hold his breath.

…after the first breath.

It’s not as bad this time? His head does feel a little dizzy. The warm coils, the relief of Alcideo’s escape, they’re suddenly so, so tempting to sink into. And he’s distractedly aware every time the lady in the autumn dress takes an elegant step closer. But he can still think. He can remember to keep holding his breath. He can piece together that a faint whiff from far away must not be as bad as getting the full blast up close. He can see what’s going to happen if this Nagi has to fight two on one.

(Well. Nothing for it, then. Just one step in front of the other, Hazel.)

“Excuse me, could you please let me go? I can help.” He spends his stored breath to free himself. He doesn’t take another just yet. Cutie is a professional of Cafe la Faune. Never late to a shift, can’t be kept down by the odd spilled drink. With a one and a two and a zip and a bop bop bop, off goes his shirt, on goes his vest, and it does take him a little longer to remember how to properly tie a shirt into an impromptu mask. Then, he breaths again. And his head only stays a little bit dizzy. “I think her perfume does something if you smell it too much. It made me feel really loopy when she grabbed me. This seems to be helping?”

Funny. He’d asked for this shirt on day one. Some of the other hosts went about their jobs with only the vest and the very very very short shorts, but thank everything that wasn’t a requirement. Miss Yaz had told him so, told him that he was doing just as good a job in a shirt and vest. That he didn’t need to be that daring to make the customers happy. He wasn’t sure there was enough encouragement in the world that would make him wear that to work.

He stepped behind the Nagi, and took up his post. Between her and the autumn lady.

Well it’s a good thing he’s not working right now, isn’t it? If there was supposed to be a uniform for dueling, then his got lost in the mail.

“If you go ahead, I’ll hold her off as best as I can. Maybe try and get some distance too? I think that’ll help your head. Miss Yaz - I mean, the Nagi with the bow, is a friend too, she should back you up.”

Another crash of magical arrow meeting magical hammer.

“I practiced a bit with Yuki, no worries. If we’ve got them outnumbered, we might as well take advantage of it, right?”

He hopes that’s a good enough reason for the plan to be a good one. He can’t think of a better one. Squinting into the light, he puts one foot back, holds his hand ready, and focuses on the silhouette before him.

“Could you please just leave, then? I’m pretty sure nobody would get hurt that way.” His wrist itches. Now is probably a bad time to scratch it. “And, besides, I’m not really interested in being King? Or transforming anything? Really, it’s neat enough to be here.”

Thank goodness he practiced talking with Yuki while practicing with Yuki.

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.