You jump into the water before one of the older kids can push you in. They’ve no patience with pupas, particularly with pupas what are scared of water -- like, you just watched a tall olive punt Hester Amayye off the dock because he was sick of Hester’s snivelling.
And, like, you could totally have told her snivelling wouldn’t help. It doesn’t matter that your whole cohort’s never been in water over your heads before, never been out of the baby hives and their shallow pools, ‘cause in a few weeks? The fishery hives are gonna pick apprentices, and nobody wants to bid on a new ‘prentice who can’t swim.
If you don’t get ‘prenticed, you’re on your own for finding a way to make money beyond whatever stipend you get, and most kids in the baby hives don’t have that big of a stipend.You certainly don’t. But it’s fine, because, like, you’ve been practicing your swimming, and how hard can it be?
You smash through the surface hard enough to hurt your stomach, but -- it’s a hot night, and the water’s deliciously cool.
Cautiously, you open your eyes -- the big kids said it would sting, but it doesn’t really. All around you, everything is blue-green and shimmery and kinda blurry? Anything more than a few feet away fades into darker blue and then into black, but you can still see okay up close. You’re already bobbing back up towards the surface, but you push yourself back down because --
You have the weirdest feeling?
Somewhere out in the deep, beyond where you can see... something is listening. You know it is. It heard you get into the water, and now all its attention is on you, which should be creepy? It’s not, though. It just feels -- focused.
It takes a lot more effort than you’d think to keep yourself from floating up, but you curl your toes into the sandy floor of the bay. The sand slides away under your feet and over on top of them until they’re buried, and then you just huddle there, hugging yourself, cheeks puffed out with air and eyes bugged out with trying to see... what? Something. Something big and old and watchful.
Besides that feeling of being noticed, you don’t see or hear anything before your lungs finally start burning and you have to claw your way to the surface again. But just for a second, just before your ears come out of the water, you think you hear a deep, old, far-off voice say Ah.
Then you pop back into the air with a splash, and Hester’s clinging to the edge of the dock and crying and the big olive is teasing her and the other pupas are trying to drag themselves out and someone says, “Hey, how long were you under?”
And that’s what you remember, mostly, of that night: you stayed under for two-and-a-half minutes, longer than everyone else in your cohort. You’re very proud of that, and it’s not until sweeps later until you remember that odd feeling, and wonder about it.
Anyone can walk down a street to market, wrapped up warm with a basket in the crook of their elbow. Anyone can glance at their hate-friend’s shop. And anyone would be interested if their hate-friend, who is rust and makes bad decisions, had a great big indigo leaving their hive! It’s just practical: what if Pheres got murdered by one of his highblood dates?
Plus, something about this tall, lean figure tugs at your attention.When you look closer, they’re in full paint, all swathed in indigo veils and beads, and for a second you think to bow.
Between one blink and another, though, your vision refocuses: sure you’ve never seen but one troll who gangles like that, with those little hooks of horns and ears big as hopbeasts’. Sure you’ve never seen but one pair of eyes corner-to-corner blue as the dawning sky.
There’s -- there’s kind of a little lurch in your heart when you see them! But that’s no excuse, not for you as have grown a relationship in rocky soil a hundred times before. You shake yourself some, straighten your spine like an iron rod, and call out to them, voice high and clear as a bell:
“Riccin! Hey, Riccin! You’re not sneaking off without saying good evening to me, are you?”
[CODENAME: FIREWALL]
7.5 sweeps//14ish Earth years
PDPO Headquarters, Malseka
cw: attempted murder of a child
Above you, a humming white light. Brighter than any candle: you cannot remember any light so bright and clear since before the cult took you. They let you wash the blood off your hands before they put you in here, but you can still see it caked under your nails. In your nailbeds. The light makes it look black.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
You look up. The troll across from you is dressed in an iron-gray uniform, clean Imperial lines; not angry, her face, not hateful.
Pitying.
“We’ve been trailing your people for years. What do they call themselves? Children of the Redeemer? They’re crafty ones -- most of them fled when we turned up. Except the ones with you.”
Your hand creeps up to your neck, to the thick pad of bandages there. When the Imperials came, you were kneeling for the tattoo needle, hair pulled away from your neck so that Sister Nadloj could work. You barely noticed the commotion, until Sister Lorataga grabbed you by the arms, pulled you up--
“It wasn’t a murder-suicide,” says the Imperial. “They didn’t try to kill anyone else, not even the other children. What’s different about you?”
A knife at your throat, its bite a sharp and sudden pain -- your own indigo blood gushing out over your hands, down your shirt, matting your long hair--
The Imperial shifts in her seat. “You’re going to have to talk to us sometime,” she says.
Do you, though? You guess Sister Lorataga is dead, and everyone else they captured, otherwise they’d know that you don’t speak to anyone. And they took your notebook with the rest of the things you had on you.
“I understand you’ve indicated that you can’t speak out loud. My bosses say it’s just that you won’t.”
Of course. You pointed at your mouth and shook your head, covered your lips and your bandaged throat with your hands, you hadn’t even screamed when they pulled you out of Sister Lorataga’s grasp -- but leave it to the Imperials to think you’re lying.
There’s a long stretch of silence: you feel her eyes on you, but keep your gaze on the metal table. Then she slides a pad of paper across to you. Lays a pen on top of it.
You look up warily.
“Look.” She flips her hair, looks, suddenly, only a few sweeps older than you. She’s leaning in now, trying to catch your eyes. “As far as I can tell, the cultists tried to kill you and then left you with us. So however special you were to them, you’re not now.”
You hadn’t even thought to fight back, after the first cut. Sister Lorataga held you while Sister Nadloj stepped closer to finish you--
The Imperial’s talking again. “Our scans say you have some interesting psionics. We can help you train those. We can look after you. We can stop them from trying to kill you again. What do you owe them, really?”
Every member of the cult knows it’s better to be culled than to say anything to the Imperials. But your own blood is still on your hands. The glare of the overhead light might be pitiless and cold compared to the shifting candle-shadows of home, but it shows the entire room in sharp relief. You can see clearly for the first time in what feels like forever.
You look up, setting your jaw. Picking up a pen, you write a few deliberate sentences on the pad, turn it back to face her.
I’m the Redeemer’s daughter. I don’t know why they wanted to kill me, but I know a lot. What do you want to know?
“So, kid,” says Sernya, long legs crossed in front of them. “Not partying?”
You look up from the nets and shake your head. “No, cap’n.”
“Hmm.” A pause. “Why not?”
You hesitate. The two of you are the only ones here in Sernya’s dockhive, Ephesi House compared to the thirty or so trolls that are usually onshift and ashore at any given time. Outside? It’s pretty quiet. The festival’s mostly up by Market and higher, where the highbloods live and tourists stay. But if you pay close attention: distant music and chatter, the smell of frying fish wafting even all the way down here. The rest of Sernya’s crew is out there. So’s Daaeme, and all of your neighbors, and some lusii – not your mami, of course, or any of the others who are too big to walk the crowded streets. You should be out there, though. Double-full moons only happen once a sweep: even if nobody calls it a holy night anymore, it’s supposed to be good luck to go. Daaeme said you should go. You planned to go!
But when you hit the top of the Market stairs, you saw all these clustered stalls and booths, crowding each other and the original buildings. Saw the masses of people talking, jostling, eating, laughing, shouting, singing, kissing, fighting, running – and something in you just stopped. Wouldn’t take another step. Just thinking of trying to walk into that crowd – let alone find Daaeme or your crewmates in it – made your throat close up bigtime. For some reason you found yourself thinking there’s no air down there, and then you turned around, walked back down the stairs, went to the dockhive, and got to work mending the nets like it was any other night when you were stuck ashore.
Not that you’d tell Sernya that, of course. Sernya’s like thirteen sweeps at least, and your boss, and cooler than anyone you know. Admitting that you ran like a coward from nothing scarier than a crowd? That’d be almost as bad as actually heading out there. So instead you scramble for a different reason and end up blurting, “Um, like, I’m not a Lunaire? Cap’n,” you add hastily.
Sernya laughs. “Neither is anyone out there, if you ask.”
Your ears heat up and you quickly check to make sure they’re covered by your hair and bandana. Everybody knows that the Culte Lunaire doesn’t exist anymore, since it’s not an Empire-approved religion. Everybody also knows that at least two thirds of the city’s population is in the cult. But that’s not something you’re supposed to talk about.
“I get what you’re saying, though.” Sernya fiddles with the chain of the necklace they always keep tucked into their shirt. “Sometimes all the pageantry can be a bit… much.”
You nod gratefully. It gets quiet for a bit.
Then Sernya stands up. “You geared up, kiddo?”
“I–” What? “Yes, cap’n!”
“Good. C’mon, we’re going out.”
“Uh – sorry, cap’n, just us?”
“We’ll take the Éclat.” They’re strapping on sandals, slinging a lanyard around their neck. “Get a move on. It’ll be open water.”
Your eyes get big, but you don’t say anything, just stow the nets and scramble after them. Every so often, Sernya takes their first mate or one of the other senior sailors out on the Éclat de l'Impératrice alors qu’elle daigne conquérir, their wicked-fast, two-troll sloop. They really only do that for the big races in the dim season, and getting chosen to sail with them is a big deal. You’ve never heard of someone going with them at any other time, or before sailing on the big boat for at least three sweeps. You haven’t even been on the crew a full sweep yet. Your palms start sweating.
Down at the pier, Sernya unlocks the Éclat from its berth, raises the mast, and holds the boat steady while you awkwardly haul yourself onboard. There’s not a proper deck on a boat this small – you have to sit on one side and make sure the sail and the heavy, horizontal bar of the boom are pushed to the other so that the whole boat doesn’t tip straight over. “This is a lot more sensitive than a bigger vessel,” Sernya tells you seriously. “Don’t pull on the mainsheet, or you will start us moving before I’m on, and no way in hell are you ready to sail alone. So don’t. Got it?” You gulp and bob your head. “Good. I’d just have you tow us out, but you’re, what, a meter tall?”
You’re a hundred and thirty centimeters, actually, but you keep your mouth shut. Sernya loops their fingers through the bow handle and wades out into the harbor, towing the boat behind them. The sail drifts slowly back and forth, and a narrow rope hits you in the back of the head – the mainsheet, being pulled by the sail instead of the other way around this time. It’s not moving much, though, not enough to pick up any speed. As long as you don’t pull hard on the mainsheet, and a gust of wind doesn’t come up, you should be fine. You should be fine. You should be fine.
(But what if you’re not, what if you mess up –)
You’re clearing the last row of buoys now, and nearly out of the bay itself; Sernya’s swimming, but still towing the boat. They let go and paddle around to the side of the boat. “Get ready,” they tell you. Then they brace their hands flat on the boat’s surface and boost themself up.
The Éclat lists wildly for a moment, but you lean back hard, out over the water, and balance Sernya’s weight until they can settle in the tiny bench by the tiller. “Grab the sheet, kid. Don’t wrap your hands in it, remember, that’s a great way to fuck things up.”
Sernya pushes the tiller far out to the right – to starboard – trying to turn the boat in the water; gingerly, you take the mainsheet in both hands and start pulling it in. Rope rattles through the little pulleys on the boom, and the sail angles towards you, gently swelling with wind…
And you start moving slowly through the water, the same wind plucking at your bandana, drifting at an angle towards the bay’s mouth. Normally the harbor is swarming with sloops and coracles and there are trolls stationed to keep an eye on the traffic – but everyone’s at the festival. The Éclat’s the only thing on the water.
The rocks at the baymouth are very close now, and when you glance at Sernya, they’re grinning. “Ready for the fun part?”
Tha-THUMP goes your bloodpusher. You nod.
“Coming about, then. Watch your horns.” They push the tiller in the opposite direction and both of you duck as the Éclat turns and the boom swings over your heads. You hastily scramble for the other side of the boat to keep the weight balanced again, and slowly, slowly the Éclat drifts out of the protection of the rocks.
Sernya licks their lips. “Almost…”
It’s more sudden than you thought would have been possible. The wind, blowing over nothing but open water, fills the sail with a snap, drags a foot of the mainsheet through your grip before you think to hold tighter – the boat pulls out to sea in a sudden burst of speed, then slows down.
“Haul in!” shouts Sernya, so you brace yourself and haul hard on the mainsheet, dragging the boom and sail back towards you. The canvas bells out, taut and straining, and the Éclat begins to tilt towards the water on the sail’s side, cutting through the waves faster and faster. Spray slaps you in the face – bigger waves soak your feet. “Haul in!” Sernya calls again, and you gulp but you haul in, and the Éclat lists more steeply, Sernya sitting on the boat’s side next to you – though the boat is at a forty-five-degree angle now, and both of you are nearly standing, and you are going so fast. The wind snatches the bandana from your head, flings it out across the water, and Sernya’s laughing, has pushed the tiller as far towards the sail side as they can. Looking out past the prow of the boat, all you can see is the jagged line of the coast, the deep blue of the sea and darker blue of the sky, the green and violet light of the moons – your lungs are full to bursting, the wind fills them like it fills the sail. A grin stretches your face until your cheeks hurt. Your hair flies into your eyes. If the Éclat lists much further, she will capsize, you know, you’ve seen it happen. But you and Sernya and the wind and the sea, you are all keeping the Éclat balanced between you – and she cuts through the water like a knife through butter. The horizon has never been so far away, but all the same, it pulls on you. Somewhere out there is something for you, somewhere out there is freedom – all you have to do is go get it.
*
You don’t capsize the Éclat that night, but you and Sernya are both battered, draggled, and soaked to the skin with spray by the time you get the boat stowed away and head back to Ephesi House, several hours later. You’re so tired that every bone in your body aches, but you can’t stop smiling – even Sernya’s looking pleased around the pipe tucked between their teeth.
Up by Market, the festival’s still going on – will go on ‘til dawn and after. Nobody’s around except an oliveblood staggering, drunk, into the dockhive next to Sernya’s. You wring your hair out and shove it out of your face as Sernya unlocks the door.
“Go scrub down, kid,” they tell you. One callused hand lands on your head briefly. “You did good.” And they’re gone off into their own respiteblock, before you have time to stammer out a thanks, a farewell, anything to express the joy and pride bubbling in your chest.
(Later, Daaeme’s going to ask why you ditched her at the festival – going to try to pick a fight about it, actually. But for once, it won’t work: because you sailed a racing boat, because Sernya Ephesi said you did good, because the horizon is calling your name, and you can’t wait to answer.)
Mistletoe Meme for Ariste and Weeds +-+ Because I must
>The Twelfth Perigee’s Ball
“Lady Arneus!”
You bound up to the petite violinist, skidding to a halt mere inches from her side, catch her about the waist, and whirl her off her feet into a spin that culminates in a French dip and a sound smooch to the lips.
Prior to your precipitous arrival, you had not had the time to take in much of her appearance beyond that you recognized her, but now ‘t doth occur to you – she has an actual gown on. Draped in gray and green silk, face made up, arms and ears and horns adorned with jewelry, she is a far cry from the wild thing of the woods you previously encountered, and you are momentarily taken aback – as is she.
Momentarily. “Orpheo, WHAT–” her voice climbs several octaves in the space between words– “do you THINK you’re DOING?”
“A thousand pardons, Lady Arneus,” you say smoothly, and bow your most flourishing bow to her. “I am not normally so intimate in my greetings, but –” you dodge a smack– “if thou wilt but listen– LISTEN! Thou standest beneath a mistletoe, ‘tis thy own fault.”
“Oh, yeah?” Her eyes narrow, and she makes as if to grab you by the arms, though you cannot discern whether she means to kiss you in return or strike you.
Regardless, you sidestep her advances and grin ear-to-ear. “Alas, I have left mine own partner unattended for too long – but hast thou brought thy violin? I suggest a duet later, but for now – au revoir!”
And you are gone into the crowd, though not before you hear her irritated shriek.
The alley ends in a blank wall, ‘cause of course it does! The nearest possible spot to grip onto is high above your head, and jumping for it doesn’t work, and scrabbling up the wall below it doesn’t work, and you spin around to go back the way you came, but -- the cobalt caught up sooner than you hoped, because she’s two steps behind you and next thing, her cutlass is pressed up against your neck and you’re pressed up against the wall.
You should have expected this! Getting overconfident, going out and about on your own much more lately ‘cause you’re puffed up on the knowledge that you’ve added one more member to your clade who could smack anyone that meddled with you. Or: being too free with your caegars, maybe, that people see you’ve more money than a girl like you should. Or maybe it’s just that you’ve got your head in the clouds, walking along and paying no nevermind to your surroundings, to looking for the kind of person who sees a small jadeblood with grab-able hair and no weapon and thinks easy mark.
Whyever, here’s you: back against that wall you couldn’t climb, clutching your satchel to your chest. The cobalt staring you down, little bit winded now and definitely mad -- you don’t know if that’s on account of chasing you, or on account of the deep scratches on her arm.
“Now then,” she says. “Give me the bag, then empty your sylladex. Nice and slow this time. No funny business.” She presses forward a little, and you feel a sting. Something thicker than sweat drips down the front of your neck.
You try not to swallow too hard; you remind yourself that this is your fault. She didn’t plan on cutting you at first, probably! Oh, she waved her sword around some, she’d grabbed you, but everyone does that. She didn’t touch you with it until you raked your nails down her arm and sprinted for the alley! Which you’re not exactly sorry for! You only wish you’d picked a better alley, because now she’s caught you, and now she’s mad, and you can probably expect at least a beating and maybe worse. Unless--
Were those footsteps? Maybe you’re just imagining it, maybe you shouldn’t hope for someone to come and save you, but -- well, screaming high and wordless into the cobalt’s face can’t hurt! Neither can stomping down on her instep -- so you do both, just like Anzure taught you sweeps and sweeps ago, and hope, hope that she doesn’t slit your throat on instinct.
You stop in front of the wooden wagon-hive-thing and scratch your head. If you’re honest, you’re a little bewildered -- you don’t think you need anything forged or welded or whatever, but here you are at a blacksmith’s shop, looking blank. A donkey lusus nearby raises its head from the grass and gives you a curious look; you shrug helplessly at it.
All you really did was get into a conversation with this little midblood at the farmer’s market. You’re used to a little bit of adjustment when you talk to people who don’t live out in the middle of nowhere like you do, but this girl... talked a lot. And she talked fast. And before you knew it, you’d gone from discussing herbal remedies for orf to agreeing that yes, you do need to meet her friend who runs a travelling smithy and no, you’re not busy right now, and of course she can write down this friend’s name and coordinates for you.
You squint at the paper she gave you and knock on the door to the wagon. This should be the place, though who knows what you’ll say when the door opens. What had the midblood said? Something about both of you being from mountain regions, and being into animal husbandry, and so on. Maybe you can at least buy some fencing?
...If this troll ever opens the door, that is. You knock again. “Hello?” you call. “I’m looking for Vatrra Asilas?”
Comtesse Goldhand16 sweeps || ~34 Earth yearsThe City of Falling Stars, southwestern Imperial Spaceport and cultural hub
You know the moment that she enters your ballroom – though your servants do not announce her, though she makes no sound as she passes the great doors. She is a flash of vibrant red in this sea of blues and violets, and around her, your guests turn to stare. Silence spreads across the room in ripples until all conversation has ceased; even the music falters to a stop.
“Ah, Mademoiselle Botanist!” You straighten up from your customary sprawl; your voice rings out clearly in the sudden still. “Pray enter and be welcome.”
Her blood is near the lowest the spectrum has to offer, but she carries herself as proudly as an Heiress as she crosses the floor to where you sit. Whispers spring up behind her – tight knots of trolls hide their mouths behind fans or hands or glasses, their eyes flicking from you to your latest guest and back. She reaches you: she stands across the banquet table from you, looking down into your eyes, and she does not curtsy.
The whispers grow louder.
Your lips twitch involuntarily and you rise, skirts flaring, before anyone takes exception to her discourtesy. “I am la Comtesse Goldenhand,” you announce in the rich, exotic accent you yourself have popularized. “As you must, of course, know. I confess, your attendance was a pleasure that I had hoped for, but had not dared to expect.”
The Botanist Vinescar smiles at you, eyes glittering above her dimpled cheeks, and your bloodpusher does a complicated leap. She is beautiful, as you have heard: short curls and soft curves, a few inches shorter than you. Moreover, she is a lowblood living in this city of highblood glamour, and you are not the only one who burns to know why – merely the only one who dares invite her into your hive.
Even you, with your spies and bribed officials, know nothing of her earlier life beyond what rumor relates, and rumor is very dark indeed. Your watching guests are sure to be whispering tales of witchcraft and necromancy, of razed cities and slain nobility – Revenant, they name her, though never where she can hear. And just lately, your informants tell you, she has been asking questions… about you.
“How could I refuse?” she says now. “Such an exclusive invitation from such a fascinating hostess… I could not fail to be intrigued.” She turns to survey the block – her eyes pass through the audience as if they are of less merit than even the wallpaper, and land back upon you with an intensity that is almost palpable. “And your hive… it is quite lovely.”
“It is made so by your presence.” You give a predatory smile. “I have heard much about you, mademoiselle.”
“And I about you.” Her own smile is just wide enough to show fang. “But please, call me Vinescar.”
“Vinescar, then. Perhaps you ought not to believe all you hear; gossip can be such a dangerous thing.” Everyone is watching, far too closely for any freedom of inquiry. A turn upon the floor might offer you some scant privacy, and the added notoriety of having stood so close to the Revenant. Smoothly, despite the racing of your pulse, you step around the table and extend your hand – the flesh one, not the gold. “Would you honor me with a dance?”
Her smile grows almost mischievous; her long ears flick forward. “A dance without music sounds an awkward one, Comtesse.”
Your eyes do not leave her face as you raise your hands and clap briskly. You are rewarded by another sparkle of her deep orange eyes when the musicians scramble into position and begin once again to play. This time, you say nothing – merely reach out to Vinescar again.
Her hand, when she rests it in yours, is the warmest thing you’ve touched in decades, and her first steps onto the floor are practiced. Investigation, you decide, will have to wait.
