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Note to Readers: Don't blame me! Blame my muse! ~ Zanne Chapter Seven By the time dawn came, Valgaav was miles from any town. There were no villagers to see him and become frightened, or worse yet, try to attack. He could handle any of them easily. He just didn't feel like dealing with it. Not for his first time in true flight in over a thousand years. Most dragons sported scales and wings of leather, and were cold-blooded. The Ancients had wings of feather, and their hide was more of a tough, pebbly leather than actual scales, and they were warm-blooded. It was the warm-bloodedness that enabled them to make their home in the snow, amid the freezing cold that would eventually prove fatal to any beast that could not regulate its own internal temperature. As the sunbeams spilled over the mountains to the east, creeping further up the sky, Valgaav closed his eyes, ruffling the feathers in his wings slightly, letting the air current carry him higher. As a Mazoku, he could hover in mid-air with no effort, he could simulate flight if he so wished, but there was nothing as exhilarating as the real thing. He had forgotten how good it felt, to ride the currents up to where the air thinned, to hear the soft whine of the wind whistling past his ears, to feel the paradoxical mixture of warmth and cold as the air chilled him, but the sun soaked into his blue-black feathers and hide. But there was no freedom in it now. His spirits were too weighted down to be lifted; at best, it was a balm, easing some of the ache that had gathered there for a millennia. Valgaav had no intention of going back, originally. It was better for all them that way, to his way of seeing it. The words, the promise that he would, escaped his lips before he thought better of it, just searching for something to make her stop crying, hurting. Now that they were said, he had to return. He was an ass, he'd admit to that, even proudly. But he wasn't so much of one that he'd lie. After all, he never said for how long he'd be stay once he did come back. Filia wasn't just another Golden, he reflected. Time and again, she proved herself to be in possession of a level of compassion he'd believed those cold-hearted, cold-blooded bastards were incapable of feeling. And he also felt she deserved more. What she didn't know was that after each time his mind slipped back into the past, reliving it, he'd watch her. He'd already injured her several times. Valgaav could sense Filia was a Golden, and during those times, that was all that mattered. He didn't remember who she was, or what she had done. All he could see was an enemy to destroy. Sooner or later, he'd hurt her more than just a few bruises or a sprained joint. It was just a matter of time, and he wouldn't be like them. He wouldn't attack someone for no reason, or worse, a poor reason. That wasn't something he could tell Filia, though. No, not with her heart. She'd just bend over backward and work even harder to find a way to help him, and she'd already done so much. Filia was a Golden, but she wasn't one of them. She hadn't even been an egg when the attacks came. It took him a while to realize it, but by punishing her for what they'd done was just as bad as what they had done to his own people. They were innocent of the crimes of which they were accused. He still used her being a Golden to keep her at a distance, though. It was almost funny. Filia thought Valgaav was punishing her, when all he was trying to do was make her stop caring so she could focus her energies elsewhere. He'd done nothing for her except to bring hurt, and the more he did, the harder she tried to bring peace. He didn't deserve that. Valgaav closed his eyes, lowering his head a bit as he drifted, held aloft by the currents. He could still hear her screaming, feel her struggling, feel her terror laced with a deep and wounded compassion that he hadn't been able to understand, still couldn't fully understand, at the time. He could recall too clearly the look in her eyes as he gripped her arms, forcing her to hold the weapon, forcing her to summon Darkstar. And even in the end, he could tell she had held out against trying to harm him as long as she could. Valgaav had done nothing to her to deserve that, yet she gave it anyway. He'd been as scathing and spiteful to her as he could be, and she kept trying. Oh, there were times the fatigue, the pain, and her temper would emerge, but once it was over, she always apologized, even though she hadn't done anything wrong. He didn't deserve her. He was glad the other Goldens were dead. They didn't deserve her either. How she had avoided being corrupted by them, he wasn't certain. But they would never have the chance now. It was funny how he'd always been able to think more clearly when flying. "What's so funny about that?" Caitarina looked at him through her hair, which had tumbled into her eyes in her laughter. It was the color of dark wood, until the sun touched it, giving it a golden sheen. Her amber eyes were impish as she peeked up at him. "Val, you know how it gets harder to breathe the higher you go?" "Uh-huh?" He crossed his arms, sitting back with a mock scowl, waiting to see where she was taking this. "The air's thinner. Less of it gets to your brain. Maybe you're not thinking more clearly but just delusionally." Her lips parted in a huge grin. Val dragged his palm down his face with a sigh, then peered at her before scooping up a handful of snow, throwing it at Caitarina. "I don't think ‘delusionally' is a word, so who's the crazy one now?" She stopped laughing, but the impish grin and gleam to her eye remained. "Oh, I never said I wasn't crazy," Caitarina replied, crawling across the snow to settle down beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. "I'd have to be crazy to love you." "Oh, that does it!" He pounced her then, causing her to shriek breathlessly even while laughing, and shoved a handful of snow under her collar. Her eyes widened as the cold hit her skin, and she started playfully pummeling him with her fists while trying to squirm out of his grip. "Val! You jerk! I'm gonna get you for this!" "Why? What's wrong?" He easily captured her wrists, smirking her. "A little cold, are we?" "I'm telling your mother on you," she retorted in imitation propriety. "Aww. Would it help if I warmed you back up?" With that, Val lowered his head to her neck, closing his lips over the flesh made wet by melting snow, kissing her as he exhaled softly, using his breath to warm her. Caitarina whimpered for a moment before purring quietly. "You're evil," she whispered. "Just pure evil." "Hmm. Takes one to know one," he replied, punctuating his words with a light nip. This is a most curious turn of events. Reports of an Ancient dragon in flight had reached him, and he already guessed the answer before he arrived, lingering out of sight, high above. He had watched the dragon suddenly stiffen in flight, and land heavily, just this side of crashing, on the plains below, curling up. The anguish was quite a pleasant sensation. It would be a terribly simple thing to kill him now. Far too simple for his liking. There was no fun in it, no fun at all. There was no hurry. Time really was a meaningless thing to him, and of which he had plenty. He could, and would wait, and bide his time. He didn't want an easy victory. He wanted the spirit dead long before the body. That was always much more tasty. With a faint smirk, and a dark flash, the Ancient on the ground below was left alone once again. Digging his talons into the ground, crushing the turf, Valgaav gritted his teeth, willing the pain to abate. The ache inside was so intense, it felt like something was physically inside his chest, twisting and gnawing. He had refused to let himself think of his family, or of her, for years. Now, he could remember them with a crystal clarity as if it all happened yesterday. Desperately, he pushed the thought of his younger brother out of his mind even as the circumstances of Caitarina's death came slipping in past the walls. They were dead, and there was nothing he could do to change that. Remembering them was pointless. Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, he fought down the rising sensations. He hadn't cried once since that day, and he was not about to start. There was nothing he could do. Everyone he ever loved died. His family, Caitarina, Gaav, everyone. No more. He wasn't going to let anyone that close again. He wasn't going to lose anyone again. With a low growl, he beat his wings down once with a powerful stroke, kicking off with his hind legs, ripping his talons from the ground as he took to flight, beating his wings furiously to gain a tremendous level of speed, trying to out-fly the pain he wished would stay behind. It didn't take him long after that to reach the vicinity of his cave, not at the pace he kept. Wearily, his shoulder muscles burning from the exertion, Valgaav landed and walked through the entrance, staying in his dragon body. The fit was tight in parts, but he knew it would be large enough once he was inside the greater chambers. Then, he'd just curl up and sleep. And pray to whomever might still be listening that for once, the nightmares would leave him alone. As he moved in further, Valgaav gritted his teeth in a low snarl. Already, he could tell that his plans would have to be put on hold. Someone else was there; he could smell them. Pausing for a moment, he set the small sack containing his clothes and traveling food aside, and shifted into his humanoid body, crouching low. Since the intruder was still beyond the range of vision, he closed his eyes and focused all his energy into his other senses. He could make out the shuffling sounds of a large hulk of a being moving about. There were a few grunts, a sound that suspiciously resembled scratching, and some incoherent muttering. Silence for a moment, then a loud, long sigh. Twisting his face slightly at the odor of someone who'd gone without bathing for a while mingled with the acrid scent of cheap alcohol, Valgaav narrowed his eyes in derision. Whoever had decided to move into his home in his absence would be easily dispatched. "That's funny. I don't recall leaving the door key under the mat for anyone," Valgaav commented, crossing his arms as he stood, striding toward the source, prepared for anything. Well, except for a high-pitched, and rather startled shriek as whoever was in his cave scrambled to his feet, sending rocks rattling about as the massive bulk collided with a wall. "Who goes there?" a rather familiar voice demanded, the words a bit slurred. Valgaav stopped, his eyes widening as he realized who it was, then smirked, leaning on the wall. "Well, well, well. Gravos. I'd thought you were dead." There was a slight pause. "L-lord Valgaav?" Gravos stammered, staggering toward him and squinting. "Is that really you? I thought you were dead!" "Only mostly dead, but that's another story." "What happened to your horn..?" "That's anoth-- well, it's not another story, but it's a rather long one and I'm quite tired from my trip." "Where-- Oh, yes, of course!" He started to hurry to prepare the place for Valgaav, only tripping over his own feet in the process. Valgaav sighed. "Don't worry about it, Gravos. I just want to rest." He paused. "It's good to see you again." "I looked for everybody. Inverse hit me with a Dragon Slave and it took a long time to figure out which way to go to return home, but when I got back here, everything's gone." "You missed a lot. I'll let Jillas explain it to you." "Where is he?" "I left him with Filia," Valgaav replied, easing himself down to the floor, flexing his stiff shoulders. Gravos paused, making a confused sound. "Who?" "She's another long story." "Oh. Okay. Are you back to stay, Lord Valgaav? Do you want me to go hunt down Inverse and bring her head to you?" Valgaav smirked slightly. "A pleasant thought, but no, to both of your questions. I just returned to see if there was anything here I wished to keep." "Oh." The large servant sounded dejected. "But you may go with me if you wish." "I live only to serve you, Lord Valgaav." "Rest, Gravos, and sleep off that ale." "Okay, oneesan, I think it's done." Filia looked up from the shelf she was sanding down for Jillas to stain. "Oh, already?" "I think. I've never built a kiln before," Jillas said. She stood, dusting off her hands on her apron. "Let's take a look then, shall we?" she said, stepping past him with a small smile. They went out back to where the box-like small shed Jillas constructed was located. The walls were thick, solid stone, and as Filia inspected the design, she was even more impressed with Jillas' abilities than she already was. He had designed and built it from scratch, with precious little more to go by than her own descriptions and sketches. "It looks wonderful, Jillas!" she exclaimed, hugging the fox-man. Jillas gave her a wide-eyed look of utter adoration at her praise, glowing proudly. "I'm so glad you like it, oneesan!" he cried, hugging her back tightly. "And I got you to smile!" Filia blinked, patting his head. "What do you mean?" "You've been so sad, oneesan." Closing her eyes, she forced the smile not to slip off her face. "I'm fine, Jillas." "He'll come back. He said he would, so he will," Jillas replied as he stepped back, speaking confidently. "Just give him some time." Filia felt her smile grow wan. She didn't have the assurance of the loyal servant, and in the five days since he'd left, her doubt was growing stronger. "I'll go throw some clay and make a bowl, if you'll start up the fire? We need to test the kiln." "Okay, oneesan!" "Jillas?" "Yes, oneesan?" It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him that she was not his oneesan. Instead, she just gave him a small smile. "Thank you." The days began to pass by at conflicting paces. Sometimes, the hours flew so quickly, Filia wondered where they all went, but decided her question was answered the way other hours seemed longer than usual. The kiln's first firing had been a success, and while Jillas worked to finish up the last of the work on the shop, Filia threw herself into the clay, losing herself in the comforting familiarity of the control she wielded. Her legs were sore at first, out of practice spinning a pottery wheel, but she barely noticed. After the breakfast dishes were cleaned, and a light lunch was prepared in advance, Filia sat at the wheel, throwing clay, letting her wet hands lightly skim over the rapidly spinning clay, gently coaxing it into whatever shape she'd fancy, pressing her fingers into it until it would reach an almost impossible thinness, crafting tea pots and cups with utmost care. At night, after supper, she would take the time to press the clay into molds, forming dainty saucers. By the candlelight, after that was finished, she would return to her wheel, making more sturdy vases and bowls, objects that did not require the strict concentration for the delicate tea sets. As they dried, she began to paint and glaze them, pouring her attention into the delicate patterns laid down by her brush. She did one set a day, careful to stay within the same colors and patterns, making each hand-painted item as identical to its partners as possible. The kiln was kept running constantly, as the sets were completed, and fired. Whenever they were ready, she began arranging them on the shelves of the shop meticulously, waiting until she had as much merchandise as possible before she opened, hoping she would busy enough to find it difficult to have the time to work on new sets. Closing her eyes, she took her bare feet off the wheel and tilted her head back, working out the stiffness and kinks in her neck as she waited for the wheel to come to a stop before pulling off the bowl she'd just made. That would be enough for one day. Sleep was a tempting prospect. Fighting down a yawn, she carefully lifted the bowl and set it aside to dry, studying it to make sure she didn't damage it in the process. Satisfied with her work, Filia headed out to the back, where it was faintly lit by the orange glow from the vents of kiln. Using her arms to prime the pump handle, trying to avoid getting wet clay on it, she got the water going at a steady stream, sticking her hands under it to rinse them clean. Then, a deep, chilling sensation warned her she was suddenly no longer alone. "My, my. I see you've been quite busy, Miss Filia," a cheerful voice behind her said. Namagomi. |
to be continued...
Chapter Eight