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Chapter Sixteen He hated the way he was feeling. First, he'd felt angry. Then guilty. Then angry because he felt guilty. Then guilty because he felt angry. It was a vicious, neverending circle that was more than enough to drive a dragon insane. Above it all, Valgaav didn't want to believe that perky little princess. But no matter how desperately hard he tried to convince himself that it was a lie, there had just been something in her eyes, her voice, in the very story, that rang softly of truth. He could try every trick he knew to drown it out, but it was still there, quietly tapping away, refusing to be ignored. After Filia went back inside, he had left the house, heading into town to find things to do, killing time so he didn't wind up feeling inclined to kill princesses. Jillas had retrieved a pair of shoes and a comb for him, as well as a list of things they needed in town. If he was going to be out and about, he might as well do something somewhat productive. First stop was the bakery, a good fifteen minute walk from the shop. If it hadn't been for Filia's presence, he never would have walked away from Amelia, at least not before tearing into her, either figuratively or literally. But he would never, ever hurt Filia, not even through association, and that was exactly what was happening. The look in Filia's eyes said a hundred times more to him than anything Amelia had said. So he walked away. Valgaav had expected her to follow him. He hadn't wanted her to, but he did expect it. But he had thought she'd leave him alone if he told her to go. It wasn't until she told him that she loved him that his walls formed cracks, and the realization that he wasn't quite sure what would happen to him if she did go slammed into him with tremendous force. He realized just how disorienting it was, believing in something with every fiber of his being, only to find out it was all a lie. And he couldn't quite comprehend how Filia managed to hold on to nothing all that time and get through that darkness. He did not deserve her. He could just hope that L-sama would be merciful and never let Filia realize that. Walking through the crowded marketplace, he stumbled as someone collided with him. With a snarl, he looked over to see who it was, and saw a young woman crouching, putting things back in a basket. She had waist-long dark hair with a rich purple-black sheen, and when she looked up at him, her eyes were closed in a cheerful smile. "I'm so sorry, sir," she apologized. "My mind must be on other matters." Picking up her basket, she stood. "Are you quite all right?" Valgaav did not like this woman one bit, but he couldn't pin his finger down on why. Maybe it was that too-cheerful smile which reminded him of the princess. "I'm fine. Watch where you're going next time." He started to turn away, then glanced back to her. "Maybe if you opened your eyes you could actually see where you're going." She opened her eyes slightly, looking at him through her long lashes, and her lips curved into a coy little smile that didn't match her innocent appearance. "I'll bear that in mind," she said, turning away from him and moving back into the crowd. Valgaav started back on his course when he froze, his head whipping around to look at the woman. Had he detected shades of amethyst peeking out through those lashes? Standing on his toes, he looked over everyone's heads, trying to catch a glimpse of the woman, but she was already gone. An icy-cold chill frosted over his spine, and he looked at all the other faces around him intently, wondering if that woman had been Xellos, wondering if any of these other faces were him. He couldn't feel the Mazoku, but that didn't mean he wasn't there. As he continued to the bakery, his nerves felt frayed, as if the slightest sudden motion or noise would send him into combat readiness. Was it Xellos? Was it just a case of paranoia? Faintly, very faintly, he could feel fingers brushing over his hair, the slightest pull of strands catching on textures, smoothing and tugging, sending icy shivers down his nerves. He spun around, eyes intently snapping from face to face, trying to discern who just touched him. Eyes met his. Confused eyes, bewildered eyes, even hostile eyes, but no Mazoku eyes. Maybe he was going a little overboard with the paranoia. Forcing himself to calm down, he walked into the bakery, trying to keep from looking at everyone as a potential threat. Valgaav made the selections and purchases, carrying the wrapped loaves and rolls out of the store. The next stop was back at the house; he could give the breads to Jillas to take inside. Valgaav's posture was more aggressively defensive now as he started back. Holding the package to him. Shoulders hunched slightly in anticipation of attack. Eyes cutting through the crowd warily, intently. Hyperaware of everyone and everything around him. Looking for suspicions, praying he didn't find them. Was he that young boy who had cut in front of him, chasing a ball? That dark-haired siren, barely visible in the shadowy depths of the alleyway, leaning on the wall, watching the crowds go by, looking away, ignoring the world's oldest profession? The old beggar, the ratty scrap of material tied over his eyes, sitting by the wall, cup outstretched? Was it his imagination, or did that beggar somehow look right at him? Was he that blue-haired grandmother who somehow managed to stay right in front of him as Valgaav tried to get through a particularly crowded area, walking slowly? The man who cut him off, darting in front of him to duck into a shop? The flowergirl on the corner, with a basket full of violet bouquets? Or was he simply being ridiculous? The royal coach was still parked outside. A thin, dour-faced man with a pinched expression, clad in what Valgaav thought to be a rather epicene style of dress, stood by the coach, looking at the shop with a surly expression. He wore a crest on his clothes that matched the carriage, and the look he shot Valgaav suggested that the dragon was nothing more to him than something to be scraped off the bottom of his boot. Valgaav curled his lip back in a slight snarl, then he checked through the windows quickly to make sure Amelia and Filia were nowhere in sight. Jillas spotted him and extracted himself from a customer, hurrying to the door. "Welcome back, Lord Valgaav." "I'm just dropping this off." He put the package of breads in Jillas' arms. "What's Prince Perky's deal?" he asked, inclining his head toward the coach slightly. "Oh, him. Some attaché that was sent along with the princess." Jillas' tone didn't suggest he thought much of the man either. "He's a bit full of himself, isn't he?" "Well, he's full of something, that's for sure." Valgaav looked around. "Have you seen or heard anything suspicious or out of the ordinary this morning?" "Aside from the princess' arrival and the ensuing crowds? No." Jillas tilted his head, cocking one ear slightly. "Why?" "I'm just being paranoid. It's a long story. Still, keep an eye on her, will ya?" "I always have, my lord." "Any clue when she's getting out of here?" "Not a one." Valgaav sighed. "I'll be back later." "Would you like us to drive her off, Lord Va--" "No." He shook his head. "Leave her be. That's an order." "As you wish, my lord." Valgaav arrived at the market square, where the farmers had set up their carts with produce and other goods. A small patch of earth had been cleared out back behind the house for a garden, but it was already too late in the year for them to try to plant anything. Filia was expending finances, buying up various fruits and vegetables, canning them for the upcoming winter. Both Filia and Amelia were mistaken on the time, but he could see how. It felt like the battle of Darkstar had been much longer than a mere four months ago. It was there in the mornings, the traces of it, the whispers of cold in the chill of the dew. It was there in the cry of the geese, as they began their yearly retreat to warmer climes. It was there in the crispness of the air at dawn. But for now, it was just a promise. Orchards outside the village were still lush in their foliage, their branches heavy with red and golden apples. Berries held the plump luster of ripeness, and the afternoon air was warm and rich with the aroma of harvest, of the fresh-cut hay in the nearby fields. He looked over the list of purchases, and sought out some of the local harvest's bounty. A bushel of apples, a basket of cranberries, a bushel of corn, still wrapped in their green husks and sporting browning tassels. He purchased several bushels of potatoes, and arranged for them all to be delivered. A trip to the butcher's was next in line. The three of them had assured Filia that they would be able to stock up with wild game, but there were a few things which didn't fall under that category. A calf's head for headcheese. Lean-cut beef and beef kidney suet for mincemeat. Bacon and sausage. Pork shoulder and hamhocks for scrapple. He was too preoccupied with mentally calculating how much funds he had left on him to catch himself in time when someone clumsily careened into him. Valgaav yelped in surprise and staggered, reflexively reaching out to catch himself, only to grab a cart and upturn it, sending eggs spilling out, falling to the cobblestones, shattering. The sight of the splattered yolks and whites over the stones ripped the air from his lungs, causing his stomach to lurch as he choked back the urge to retch. Scrambling to his feet, he braced his hand on the ground, and felt a soft, yet sickening give under his hand. Pulling it back, he found an egg that had slipped through whatever means the farmer used to determine whether or not it was fertilized. He barely registered the farmer shouting at him as he shuddered violently, clawing at his hand, brushing off the avian embryo, hyperventilating. The shouts and the voices; what was past and what was present? He couldn't tell. They were all overlapping, too fast to discern any difference between. Desperately fighting down the sick heaves in his stomach, clinging to what precious little shards of the present he could find, Valgaav pulled free from the farmer's grip, ignoring the shouts of protest, and staggered off, shouldering his way through the gathering crowd. He had to get away. The air was too thick to breathe. He had to get away. He couldn't see that anymore, yet the sight was scorched into his mind. They had broken them against the smooth stone floors of the hatchery. Shattered the dusky, speckled shells, stomped on the fluid-covered, bloody embryos. He couldn't think about that anymore. He wouldn't. It was too dark there. Too dark. Away from the crowd. The noise. Quieter here. He dropped to his knees in the narrow, forlorn alleyway, digging his fingers into the grime, clinging to reality. Breathe. Don't think. Don't remember. Don't look back. Don't look over the shoulder. Don't look to the doorway. Don't see what comes next. Forget. Breathe. He could still smell the shattered eggs. Unable to fight it anymore, too preoccupied with fighting down the memories, fighting them back, locking them away, too intent on not remembering, he didn't care. His stomach heaved, protesting against the sickened sensation which settled there, borne from harried nerves. From pain. From too dark a day. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Finally, the storm passed. The memories retreated back into their deep, dark corner of his mind. The emotions quit threatening to break down the dam, to sweep him under in their tidal wave. He could breathe. His limbs were as shaky as a newborn's, the adrenaline having spent his energy. He shivered uncontrollably as a light breeze wafted over his skin, evaporating the sweat which soaked him. Trembling, Valgaav pushed away, rolling back to sit, sagging against the wall, holding his head in his hands. Breathe. He became aware of someone then, standing a few feet down deeper the narrow alley. His head snapped up, his gaze traveling up the interloper. It was the strumpet he had seen earlier that morning. Her long black dress was thin, and clung to every curve, barely worth its function in concealing anything. Her hair was dark, and in the shadows of the alley, that was all he could discern. It was cut straight and short, a pageboy trim that grazed her jaw. Her eyes were downcast, and all he could see were the lids, painted a smoky hue, and the thick lashes that brushed her cheeks. "A bit too early in the morning for one to get this drunk," she chided, her voice husky. "I'm not drunk," he retorted, his voice hoarse, and stared at her suspiciously. "Whatever the reason, that farmer you upset? He's gone off to demand payment from Miss Filia for the eggs which you broke." "Someone pushed me!" he retorted. "I didn't--" Abruptly, he cut himself off, his eyes widening as he stared at the woman, scrambling to his feet. Since when did prostitutes bother to address someone so politely? The woman raised her eyes to meet his, and he felt as though someone punched him in the chest, wondering why he was so surprised at the narrow, slitted amethyst ovals staring at him with a cunning light. "You," Valgaav growled. "It was you who pushed me!" Xellos' red-painted lips curled upward in a smile of malicious glee. "Sore wa himitsu desu." "Bastard!" Valgaav shouted, lunging at him before reason could make itself heard. Xellos blinked out of existence, appearing a few feet further back from his former location, this time in his more familiar visage. "You dragons and your tempers," he said cheerfully. "I wonder how Miss Filia will like to hear of your little episode." "Stay away from her," Valgaav snarled, his hands curved into claws, wanting nothing more than to rip that Mazoku to shreds. "Perhaps once upon a time, you might have had the resources to make that order somewhat less laughable, but not anymore." Xellos shot him a sadistic little smile and vanished. "You chickenshit!" Valgaav screamed, and punched the wall in rage before turning about to leave the alley. Something smacked him in the face lightly, and he blinked, stepping back to see what it was. It was a rag doll, with long hair of yellow yarn, wearing a pink dress, blue buttons sewn onto the face for eyes. It was suspended in midair by a length of rope knotted into a hangman's noose, and splattered with blood. Air congealed in his lungs, and his mouth turned dry for a minute at the clear-cut threat to Filia, then he snarled viciously, striking it as he knocked it from the air. It exploded in a spray of blackish-purple ichor, and the air reverberated with a woman's scream, so intense it iced over his blood. Precious seconds were wasted gathering his wits, and then he bolted from the alley, running headlong through the marketplace in a staccato pattern, trying to avoid the masses of bodies and merchandise while trying not to slow down. He didn't stop until he burst through the kitchen door, interrupting whatever was going on. Filia and Amelia were talking to the farmer, and wide-eyed gazes snapped to him as he charged in. "Where is he?!" Valgaav demanded before any of them could recover. Filia blinked. "He who?" "That damned Mazoku!" The farmer's eyes widened. "Th-there's a Mazoku here?" "No!" Filia hastily assured him, but it lost its impact as Valgaav had snapped the contrary at the same time. "Yes, no, which it is?" "There's nothing to worry about," Filia said, shooting Valgaav a glare that made him bite his tongue, but didn't stop him from storming out of the kitchen, doing a quick search of the other rooms. "What was that about a Mazoku being here?" the farmer asked. "It's a long story, but there isn't one here, and there's nothing to worry about," Filia assured him, glancing at the doorway. "Again, I apologize for the loss of goods." "Well, ain't like you didn't pay for 'em, I suppose. I'd best be getting back. Good day, ma'am, your highness." He nodded to the two women, and Filia ushered him out the door, sagging against it as she closed it. "What's going on?" Amelia asked. "A long story. Maybe this isn't the best time. I appreciate your help settling that debt. I should be able to pay it back in full by--" "Don't worry about it," Amelia said. "I've paid a lot more for just one of Miss Lina's dinners. Is Mister Valgaav okay?" "I think--" She cut herself off as he stalked back in, amber eyes wild, his hair in disarray and matted with sweat, yolk, and a blackish substance she couldn't identify. His clothes were covered in the same yolk and substance, as well as smeared with grime. "What on earth is the matter with you?" Filia demanded, putting her hands on her hips as Amelia backed up away from them. "What happened to you?" "Xellos pushed me into that farmer's cart," Valgaav snapped, "and he's threatened to kill you!" "Mister Xellos would never do that!" Amelia said in an astonished tone. "Get yer head out of the sand, princess," Valgaav retorted. "He'd do a hell of a lot more than that." "Valgaav, maybe you should get cleaned up and calm down and we can talk about this?" Filia suggested. "He's not here-" "Yes, he is!" Valgaav shouted, covering the distance to Filia in several quick strides. He grabbed her upper arms, trying to get her full attention. "Listen to me! He pushed me into that cart and he made a rag doll effigy of you and hung it!" Filia blinked, focusing mostly on trying not to wince. His grip on her arms was tight, painfully so, and she suspected it would leave bruises. "Valgaav, okay, just calm down, please..." His grip tightened even more, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out, which turned out to be a bad move as he gave her a little shake. "You're not even listening to me!" "Yes, I am, I just think you need to calm down and clean--" "Damnit!" Valgaav shoved her away from him hard enough that she stumbled, catching herself against the table. "Miss Filia!" "I'm okay, Amelia. Valgaav, just--" "He's here!" "In town?" "No, in this house! Don't you sense him?!" He was really starting to scare her. His eyes were wild, aggressive, paranoid, restless. His motions were predatory, stalking restlessly back and forth in front of the doorway as he watched her. "I don't," she replied, struggling to keep her voice steady and even. If she stayed calm, maybe she could reason with him. With a vicious snarl, he punched the wall, putting his fist through the wood, and Filia jumped. "Amelia, this isn't the best time right now. Maybe you should go." "But, Miss Filia? Will you be all right?" Amelia asked worriedly. "Are you trying to imply I can't protect her?" Valgaav snapped. Both women stared at him. "Amelia, I'll be fine," Filia said. "If you're sure..." The princess didn't sound convinced. "I'll stay in touch." "Have a safe journey home, Amelia," Filia said, still not taking her eyes off Valgaav, "and good luck." "Thank you, Miss Filia. You too." Quietly, the young princess slipped out of the house. "You don't believe me," Valgaav growled softly. "I believe that you believe it," Filia replied, "and I believe something did happen. That's why I'm suggesting that you take a few minutes to clean up and collect yourself so we can discuss this rationally." "Rationally, my ass!" "Valgaav." "I'm telling you, that is what happened." "All right. I believe you. Now calm down. Please?" "I'm just trying to keep you safe." His voice had suddenly dropped to such a sad little whisper that it broke Filia's heart to hear it. "I know you are," she gently replied, approaching him, lightly resting her hand against his cheek. He closed his eyes, reaching up to hold her hand to him, nuzzling it lightly. "Go get cleaned up. I'll make us some tea." "Get Gravos in here with you." "I'll be--" "Please?" Filia studied him, then nodded. "I will." |
to be continued...
Chapter Seventeen