Chapter Four Filia narrowed her eyes in weary annoyance at the misshapen lump of clay on the wheel which was supposed to be a delicate teacup. What used to be so easy... She shook her head and mashed it down, dipping her hands into the bucket of water beside her. Try, try again. She closed her eyes, cupping her wet hands over the clay, manipulating the wheel's pedal with her feet once more and didn't focus on shaping it yet. Filia concentrated on her breathing, trying to relax. That was her problem. Filia was having difficulty keeping her touch light, and her hand steady. She hated the sense of hopeless endlessness that settled over the house. At least from her view. She hated Xellos, but she feared him now too. Not quite as much for her own sake, but... Damnit. He knew exactly which buttons to push to jerk her heart around the way he wanted to. The problem was, Filia couldn't tell whether or not he was bluffing, and she didn't think she could live with the consequences if she happened to be wrong. Her hands twitched, and her fingers tightened into fists, making an even bigger mess of the clay. Three weeks. Three weeks since he had walked out. It felt like it had been forever and yesterday all rolled into one, and nothing changed the fact she still wanted, still needed him. Where are you? Filia looked to the window bleakly, torn between wishing him back, and glad he was gone, and safe. He couldn't fight Xellos. Maybe Miss Lina could, but even that was still just a maybe. The Sword of Light was gone. Filia began to remold the clay, staring at the lump with a sense of detachment. She wanted Xellos out of her life, to leave her alone, and achieving that seemed impossible. Maybe not impossible, but...all the possibilities were too riddled with 'what ifs' and 'maybes'. She started to try to reshape the lump into a simpler vase design instead, but it was useless. Lethargy had begun to settle in, and she just didn't feel like bothering anymore. Filia mushed it down into a ball and stood to return it to the container with the rest of the clay. Filia felt a rather deep-rooted sense of alarm as she opened her eyes, finding herself sprawled on the floor by the pottery wheel. She still felt a bit woozy as she pushed herself up into a sitting position, looking around frantically. Still alone. No one saw, as far as she knew. Filia wondered how long it had been, but doubted it was more than a few seconds, based off the previous three times it had happened. She carefully stood, sitting back down on the bench until her head felt clearer. Filia knew she had been stricken in the head initially the day Valgaav left. While she hadn't noticed anything amiss at first, the following week had been spent in bed, drifting in and out of sleep. Filia looked down at the lump of clay, now wasted as it likely had picked up even the smallest bits of debris from the floor. She crouched and picked it up, looking at it without really seeing it. What was going on? Her first inclination was to blame Xellos. The idea of confronting him over it left a sour taste in her mouth. Not that confrontations with Xellos were proving to be a good thing, but a sudden surge of...territoriality, perhaps...left her feeling somewhat aggressive at the mere idea of telling him. That emotion in itself left her unsettled and wary. She didn't even feel very much like herself anymore. Filia contemplated telling either Jillas or Gravos, or both, but quickly ruled it out. That same aggressiveness rose up in her at the idea, although nowhere near as strongly. But Jillas would fret and worry and fawn over her even more than usual, and Gravos, he would try to be helpful she knew, but she doubted the odds of that being the end result. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she just wanted to leave. Go away somewhere, far away, rather like a hermit. It had to just be the stress and frustration. As she started to stand once more, a sudden flash of movement at the corner of her eye sent her jumping a foot in the air with a startled shriek, stumbling backward and grabbing hold of the shelf there...which was not quite strong enough to support the weight of a falling dragon, even one in a humanoid form. The shelf broke free of its supports, and drying pottery crashed to the floor around her as she fell. "Oh, dear. I always knew dragons were a bit clumsy, but isn't this a bit much, Miss Filia?" She looked up at Xellos, at his perpetually cheerful expression, and a wave of hatred washed over her, so bitter and intense it robbed her of her breath. All she wanted more than anything else in existence, even more than Valgaav's return, was to see that Mazoku dead, preferably by her own hand. But it was a flash fire, blazing with impossible heat, and dying down to ashes that left her cold and apathetic. "What do you want?" Her tone sounded wooden and dull, even to her own ears. "I'm simply informing you that at this present time, Lord Beastmaster requires my services, so I'll be taking my leave." "Good." "I will be returning, most assuredly," he continued, and cracked his eyes open to slits, that smile still affixed on his face. "I trust I can count on you to be able keep things as they have been?" Filia didn't answer as she studied a drying, but now damaged teacup, turning it over slowly in her hand. She could hear between the lines. No attempts to run away, no attempts to bring in aid, no attempts to find or get word to Valgaav. In short, behave as always, or suffer whatever evil consequence he should care to mete out. "Miss Filia?" She finally looked up at him. "Of course. Whatever." "You do not sound happy with the arrangement." Xellos walked over to crouch beside her, and Filia cringed away from him. But when his hand touched her cheek, it was astonishingly gentle. "Do not worry, my little dragon. I shouldn't be gone long, and when I return, I will help replace what you've broken." I'm not your little dragon, and I sure don't need your help, she thought acidly. But what escaped her lips was a bland sound of agreement. He slid his hand behind her back, helping her to her feet. Filia looked at him, seeing how close he was to her, and it took every ounce of willpower not to sink her fangs into him, to savagely attack with every fiber of her being. Xellos' eyes met hers, wide open. They stared at one another for a moment, then he smiled, a thin-lipped, terse expression. "I'll be checking up on you when I can." They both knew it was less a helpful promise than it was a subtle threat. "I'm sure you will." Her tone was just dry enough to be ironic. "Then good day, Miss Filia. I will see you shortly." With that, he disappeared. Filia turned her attention to the mess, staring at it. Part of her wanted to immediately start working and cleaning it up, setting things back to rights and replacing what was damaged. In the end though, she just turned and walked away, leaving the shop. "Hi, oneesan!" Jillas said, looking up from where he sat on the kitchen floor, working on building some sort of device. Filia moved her hand in a vague sort of fashion that might have been a wave. "I'm going to lay down for a while, Jillas." Immediately, his ears flicked back, his expression growing concerned. "Are you all right, oneesan? You look pale." "I'm just tired. Oh, and don't bother with the shop. I'll fix the mess when I get up." "Mess?" "I stumbled and pulled a shelf down." Filia shrugged. "I'll deal with it later." "Do you want me to bring you some tea?" For a moment, that sounded good, but then she realized it meant he would likely come into her room, and at the moment, she just wanted to be left alone. "Later, Jillas." His ears drooped, but he gave her a smile nevertheless. "Okay, oneesan. Just let me know." "I will." She went into her bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind her before starting to pace, feeling like checking everything, making sure nothing was out of place. Filia moved her vanity stool a few inches to the left, adjusted the positioning of her brushes, and straightened the mirror so it was in perfect alignment with the vertical supports. Most things were as she wanted them, so after a few more minutes of pacing, Filia lay down on her bed, curling into fetal position. She drew the covers up until she was completely under them, tucking the ends under her head, covering her closed eyes with her hand. With the drawn curtains, the blanket, and the hand, it was finally dark enough to be satisfactory, and she drifted off to sleep. He couldn't sleep, and he didn't really care to attempt it. The black void in his memory pulled at him, dragging him down like a black hole. Valgaav could clearly remember his day up to where he started to chop more wood for the woodpile, and he could clearly remember the kitchen, talking to his servants, seeing Xellos, seeing Filia... He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to block out the memory of how she looked, flaring his wings and covering his head, one paw over his snout, as if trying to block out the vision by with even more darkness, as if the intense shadows of the deep cavern weren't enough. But it was useless; the image was branded there. Had he done that to her? Had he marred that sweet, gentle face? Injured the very hands that had brought him back from the brink of death, and carefully tended to his wounds no matter how coarsely he treated her? He must have. Vaguely, he could recall chopping wood; nothing coherent, just flashes of memory. Just as vaguely, he recalled coming to in the kitchen, the images forming in his mind as disjointed pictures. Clarity would diminish, tapering off, and then grow stronger, with that haunting blankness in between. No matter how hard he tried, Valgaav could not recall the most important time for the sequence of events. From the haziness of his memory, and the headache which had lingered for days afterwards, he guessed it was likely due to the blow he'd received. Hardly unheard of, but damnably frustrating all the same. Sometimes, though, he quit trying. It seemed to logical, too believable. He had heard confirmation from Filia's own lips. If it was the truth, then he didn't want to remember. When he tried to sleep, it was worse. When he slept, his subconscious filled in that blank. Several times, he had woken into a cold sweat, pulling out of nightmarish depths where his worst fears were realized. Even now, he could hear the sickening sounds of flesh striking flesh, of bone snapping. He couldn't tell if it was just a nightmare, or the truth. More than once, he entertained the notion of just giving up, giving in. What was the point of remaining, when he had lost everything that had ever mattered to him, time and time again? This time, it was by his own hand. His tail twitched in agitation as he closed his wings even tighter over his head. Somehow, he had endured thousand of years of pain, but he suspected it was by the grace of the Mazoku nature which had been bestowed upon him. Now, all those memories still remained within him, but he was Mazoku no longer. Valgaav was a dragon again, through and through. The very idea that he had brought down harm on his own mate was unreal, unthinkable. But he had once before. Talons dug into bare rock, overpowering the granite, carving little furrows as they dug in. The idea to escape the pain was briefly overwhelming, and quite a pleasant notion. But only briefly. Filia had given up part of her own life energy at his expense to save him, even after all he had done. It felt too much as if to take that, it would just be another way to hurt her. But in spite of everything, there was still one more reason. Xellos. No matter what, the idea of leaving Filia at his hands revolted Valgaav. But he couldn't go to her -- wouldn't go to her, not until he was certain he would never again bring her harm. "Filia," he whispered, wincing at the sound of her name. Gods, but he missed her, everything about her. Her expressive eyes, her laugh, her gentle smile. Someday, he vowed, he'd find a way back to her, try to win her back. Someday, he'd find a way to make sure he'd never harm her again. Someday. But, not today.

to be continued...
Chapter Five