|
Chapter Three There was a soft, but incessant pounding noise. "Oneesan! Are you awake? Oneesan?" A pause. "Miss Filia?" Groaning tiredly, Filia tried to combat the lure of the voice, pulling her out of the sleep so deep it was dreamless. She didn't want to wake up. It was warm there, and comfortable. Completely lacking in the dark thoughts that plagued her days. "You better answer the door before Jillas wakes the entire area," a distinctly masculine voice said quietly near her ear, and as the words came, the surface under her hand rumbled in perfect time. Two seconds later, it hit Filia full force that she was sleeping curled up next to a male. She shot out from under the blankets and to her feet as if jabbed with a hot branding iron and looked down, blinking as spots formed in her vision from getting up to quickly, staring in incomprehension at Valgaav. He was glaring viciously at her, or at least trying to. The pain and weariness in his face took the edge from it. "I didn't mean for you to get up that fast, Golden. Now go get the door." Completely flustered and at a loss for words, all she could manage to do was open the door and let Jillas in. As the door swung open, the delicious scent of sausage and pancakes laden with syrup filled her nostrils, and she realized just how hungry she really was. Almost hungry enough to give Lina a run for her money, Filia thought wryly as she stood aside to let the fox-man in. "I'm sorry to wake you, oneesan, but the food will get cold, and it's getting late," Jillas said, hurrying in. "I brought some for Lord Val-" He stopped, blinking. "Lord Valgaav! You're awake!" Quickly, he hurried in, setting the dishes on the table. Filia leaned against the door, letting it shut with a heavy thud, and stretched painfully, trying to work out the soreness from her back and shoulders. "Jillas." "We were so worried about you!" Jillas said. "Oneesan, that is, Miss Filia, found you and we brought you here." "Where is here?" "I'm not exactly sure," Filia said tiredly. "I didn't think to ask the name of the town last night. All I know is, we're a good day's flight to the south from where we were." She walked over to the table and picked up one of the plates, sitting down on the bed as she tried to control her ravenous hunger and eat with ladylike bites. "I'll ask when I go out today," he told her. "It might be better if you waited until tomorrow before venturing out. I'll find out as much as I can about the town first." "Thank you, Jillas." He gave her a beaming smile, then turned to his master. "Are you hungry, Lord Valgaav?" "I don't require food, remember?" "Nuh-um," Filia mumbled around a mouthful of food and swallowed. "I'm not sure how, but I'm not finding any traces of Mazoku in you anymore." His eyes widened, and she saw they were still a dark amber, but the pupils were more normal, no longer holding the slitted, feline appearance of a Mazoku. "What?" "Your horn's gone, and your eyes are different," Jillas said. "Must've happened when you bonded with Darkstar, somehow." Valgaav said nothing in response. "It wouldn't hurt you to try and eat something," Filia continued. "The sooner you get your strength back up, the sooner you'll be feeling better." "And the sooner I can get away from you. Good logic, Golden." An elven archer couldn't have hit the bullseye with truer accuracy than he did with his words. Filia shut her eyes, growing completely still as the pain spiraled outward from the vague area of the center of her chest, her lips still closed over her fork. He couldn't have hurt her worse than if he had ripped out her heart and torn it to shreds. But she deserved it for what her people did to his. Jillas kept his eyes downcast, unsure of what to say, and opted to quietly fetch the plate. "Here, Lord Valgaav. The sausage is really good," he said quietly. Filia didn't look up from her plate, eating in silence. Her appetite was gone, replaced instead with a heavy sensation in the pit of her stomach. Part of her wanted to scream at him, but the she remembered the evidence of torture his people endured at the hands of her own. Torture he had to have witnessed, remembered. Jillas helped him eat, for sitting up and handling the fork himself clearly resulted in too much pain. Valgaav managed about half of what was there before waving his servant off, shutting his eyes tightly in a silent groan. "That's enough." Filia ate as much as she could stomach, then set her plate aside, kneeling beside Valgaav, checking his wounds as Jillas gathered up the plates. "I'll be back later," he told them. "I'm going to go see if there's any work here." "All right, Jillas," she replied quietly. He slipped out of the room. So far, it seemed as if the injuries were healing well. The bedding was damp and sweat-soaked, and a hand to his forehead confirmed her suspicions. "Fever's broken," she announced, her voice wooden to her own ears. "The healing spells worked." She moved down to rest her hand on his ankle. "Can you feel this?" He was quiet for so long, she finally looked at him. "I think so." Filia frowned, growing worried. "Try to curl your toes," she instructed, looking to his feet. They moved slightly, but not enough to suit her. "A little more." "What do you mean?" he demanded irritably. "I'm curling them." Filia sighed and sat back against the bed. "Don't tell me I'm paralyzed," he growled. "You stupid dragon! You should have just let me die!" It was too much for her frayed, tired nerves. She was hurting too! Yes, she felt horrible for what he had suffered, but she was trying. He didn't have to make her into a whipping post. "Maybe I should have!" she snapped back, unsuccessful in her fatigue to keep the hot tears which formed from falling. "How much more penance do you expect from me for something that happened before I was ever born?" She tried to glare at him, but lacked the energy. "Nothing you will ever do will change what happened." "No," she agreed weakly, and reached up, listlessly brushing her fingers over her cheek, wiping at the salty wetness in a futile gesture. The tears wouldn't stop spilling out of her eyes, although no sobs gripped her chest. "I suppose not." "Why're you doing this?" Filia remained quiet, contemplating her answer. "Because I don't want to be like them. I don't want to turn my back and leave someone to die. It's over, Valgaav." Her voice choked and strained against the emotion, and she drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "All of it. They're dead, and you know what?" She looked at him then. He was silent, looking at her, eyes narrowed. "I hate them too. I love them, but I also hate them. I hate them for what they did. It was wrong, and I know it. I know nothing will ever bring your people back. I know nothing will ever make up for it. I hate them for their lies. And I don't want to hate. We're the last of our kind because of that hate." She closed her eyes, laying her head back against the side of the bed, surrendering in the battle against the tears. "I'm better than that. I won't live out their legacy for them. I'll make my own." Nothing more was said then. The minutes kept count of the silence as they ticked by, and Filia was the first to break it. "Besides," she told him wearily, "you're still able to move your toes. That's a good sign. Your back's very likely injured from the fall, but I don't think it's permanent." Valgaav was the next one to break the silence. "Get me water," he ordered. "I'm thirsty." Her breath shuddered as she sucked in a deep lungful of air, and nodded. Reaching up, she used her sleeve to wipe the tears off her face and stood, not looking at him. "I'll have to go fetch some fresh water. I'll be right back." Grabbing the pitcher, she stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind her. As soon as she was relatively alone, Filia's expression crumpled against her will, and a low, wailing moan escaped her lips. Leaning back against the door, she pressed her free hand against her mouth, choking down exhausted sobs. To Filia, at that moment, it felt as though she might shatter into millions of pieces if she moved. How she was holding on, she couldn't tell. The pain in her chest was blinding, suffocating, and it felt so completely hopeless. Endless. She could deal with pain, loss, grief, heartache. All of those were just very much a part of living, and came hand in hand with the better parts. But she didn't know if she could cope with the sensation of endlessness, the feeling that the pain which stretched out before her would last for an eternity, with no respite. She couldn't deal with the utter hopelessness. Why hadn't anyone killed her too? Was this her punishment, forced to live with the burdens of the sins of her fathers? Smothering down a soft wail, the concept of death seemed to be more of a release than a punishment. Water splashed on her feet from the pitcher, held loosely in her other hand, and that brought her back to the present. No, she wouldn't think such thoughts. She couldn't. Valgaav still needed her, whether or not he liked it. As long as she was needed, she wouldn't shirk her responsibilities. Filia wouldn't allow herself to leave under that cloud of dishonor. Suddenly, the realization dawned on her that Valgaav had to know what it felt like. Did he know the hopelessness? The endlessness of the pain too? The anguish so intense it was crushing in its weight, making each breath a struggle to breathe? The hurt and weary anger faded away into sympathy. How alone he must feel. Silently, she breathed a prayer of gratitude for what she felt. If it would make her more sympathetic, more understanding, if it would enable her to be of better aid to others, then it was a gift, not a burden. In the prayer, she apologized for her thoughts of suicide, and offered up thanks for the anguish that still ripped at her heart. In his shoes, she would be more capable now of understanding his needs. Breathing unsteadily, she rubbed at her eyes with her sleeve again, bringing herself back under control before heading downstairs. "I know nothing will ever make up for it. I hate them for their lies. And I don't want to hate. We're the last of our kind because of that hate." Valgaav stayed silent, watching her, observing the tears that spilled out of her blue eyes. He tried to tell himself that she was lying, that she was just being an overly-pious, typical Golden, but the thoughts rang hollow. Filia closed her eyes, laying her head back against the side of the bed. She no longer seemed to bother with trying to wipe away her tears. "I'm better than that." Her voice was a hushed, tremulous whisper, but he could hear the core of strength behind the words. "I won't live out their legacy for them. I'll make my own." He didn't care. If he kept telling himself that, maybe he'd believe it. It was just words, pretty packages with no substance. Valgaav had given up on the need for words long ago. Anyone could say whatever they pleased. It was always their actions that spoke the truth when everything was said and done. She could talk until she was blue in the face, but it was nothing but empty words in the end. "Besides, you're still able to move your toes," she said, drawing his attention back to his physical state. Her soft voice lacked any strength or sign of life. Just a bone-deep exhaustion that he could hear. "That's a good sign. Your back's very likely injured from the fall, but I don't think it's permanent." He had driven the sword of words in deep, and he knew it. Yet, she was still taking his condition into consideration? Valgaav narrowed his eyes. The priestess was up to something, she had to be. That compassion she insisted on showing couldn't be real. He couldn't believe in it. Ever since her people had slaughtered his, not a single soul alive in the past millennia had shown him compassion, not really. What Gaav had done was for his own purposes and cause, as selfish as they might have been. His master had been good to him, and understood the nightmares that had haunted him before his body had come to realize that Mazoku did not require sleep. Gaav had earned his trust and his loyalty, but compassion wasn't part of the late Demon Dragon King's vocabulary. And how ironic was it that a member of the very race ultimately responsible for every bit of pain in his life would be the one to show him the compassion he could no longer recall ever receiving? He wouldn't feel sorry for her. Let her work herself to the bone. She owed him that much. The release of death had been within his grasp, and she stole that from him, just as her people had left him to die slowly, mocking him in their laughter. She was just another stupid, vicious Golden, and...damnit. He had to find a way to get himself to believe that. She wasn't worth his thoughts anymore. Ignoring her, he turned his attention to his physical condition, and realized he was desperately thirsty. Looking over to Filia, he snapped at her to fetch him some water. It was only after the surprise smacked into him as she nodded to him, pulling herself to her feet with evident weariness, did he realize he expected her to tell him to go to hell or get it himself. But she still brought aid to him without complaint, without consideration for her own pain, in spite of everything. He was successful in fighting off the guilt -- until his ears picked up a soft wail from the other side of the closed door. Looking down to the gap at the threshold, he could make out her feet. Although they were clearly being muffled, he could still make out her wearied sobbing. Valgaav hurried to mentally recount all the reasons why he should hate her, why he should make her existence as miserable and pathetic as possible, and the end result only left him feeling worse. Maybe, just maybe, he had been a bit too unnecessarily harsh on her. Just maybe, his words might have been a bit uncalled for. And just maybe, he should at least attempt to apologize when she returned, or, failing that, be just a little more tolerant. Filia stepped back into the room, mentally rehearsing what she was going to say. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her as she carried the pitcher to the table and poured him a glass. Taking a deep breath, she turned and walked to him, kneeling by his side and setting the glass on the floor. "I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier," she said quietly, carefully raising his head, resting it on her lap to help him sit up a little more while trying to minimize strain on his back. "It was uncalled for." His eyes snapped up to meet hers, and he scowled. "You're a fool," he muttered harshly, and she held her breath, fighting back a fresh wave of tears. Concentrating on her task, she picked up the glass, holding it to his lips. "Drink," Filia said softly, careful not to meet his eyes. He continued looking at her for a few moments before making a decidedly exasperated sound. She carefully tilted the glass, taking the utmost caution not to spill any, and he brought his hand up, wrapping it lightly over hers to help guide her. Finally, he pushed her hand away, relaxing. Filia set the glass down and started to move out from under him when he stopped her. "What I meant was, it should me be saying that." Filia blinked. "What was that?" He gritted his teeth, closing his eyes. "What I'm trying to say is, I'm...sorry," he muttered. Her heart throbbed with a deep ache, but it was different from before. The sensation now was that it was too full to properly contain everything she felt, and it forced hot tears back into her eyes. "Oh, Valgaav," she whispered, stroking his hair lightly, "you had every right, if what I feel today is how you felt all these years." Valgaav pushed her hand away, closing his eyes, wincing a bit as he drew in a deep breath. "Knock it off," he muttered. "You're a dragon. The kicked puppy act doesn't suit you." Filia closed her eyes tightly, but nodded. "Past is past, I guess," he continued. "If you're serious about trying to make up for it, then the least you can do it quit the self-flagellation routine. We're survivors, the three of us, whether or not we want to be. If you're serious about not being like them, then quit living in the past." He paused for a moment. "I'm sick of it." "All right," she whispered. "I'm sor--" "Shut up, Filia," he said, cutting her off. But his tone lacked harshness, taking the sting out of the words. She didn't know what to say then, so she merely nodded. With meticulous care, she raised his head again and eased it back down onto the pillows. "Your strength has improved," Filia told him. "I'm going to try casting a recovery spell now." He didn't reply, except in way of a facial shrug as he closed his eyes. Filia held her hand over him, concentrating on the spell. "Oh, blessed and humble hand of God, life and breath of Mother Earth, come before me and show your great compassion and deliver us. Recovery!" Gradually, she moved her hands away as she felt the spell take a foothold in him and begin to work on repairing the wounds. "Go lay down," he told her then. "I'll be fine for a while. If your eyes and voice are any indication, you're still about to topple over again, and I'd rather not have you fall on me." Filia sighed and nodded, getting to her feet again, knowing he was right as her body kept protesting against anything she forced it to do. "I'm not cold anymore. Take a couple of the blankets for yourself." Filia managed a small, but sad smile as she looked at him. "Thank you," she whispered. "Are you sure you'll be all right if I fall asleep?" "I'll figure out a way to wake you if I have to." "Maybe I shouldn't..." Valgaav closed his eyes, growling in annoyance. "Stubborn child. Let's see if you can follow me here. How in the hell do you propose to take care of me if you can't even take proper care of yourself? Now sleep, before I knock you out myself." Filia sighed in defeat and nodded, taking her cloak back to wrap herself in. He pushed off the top blanket. "Take this. I don't need it." Sitting on the bed, she removed her shoes and bunched up her cloak to use for a pillow. Hesitating a moment, she studied Valgaav, who kept watching her. "What?" It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she was glad he survived. Instead, she only shook her head. "Nothing," she said softly. If she told him that, he would probably snap at her again. Covering herself with the blanket, she lay down on the bed. "I'll try not to sleep too long." It was only in those few moments just before she slipped off into unconsciousness did she realize he'd begun calling her by name. |
to be continued...
Chapter Four