"Oh, hello Miss Filia."
There was white. Lots of white. As though the gods had proclaimed 'Let there be white!' And then it was. Only in this case it wasn't so good.
It seemed to cover everything, and Filia wondered if for a second if she'd died and ended up in heaven. It was odd because she didn't expect heaven to resemble her kitchen, if only vaguely. And it smelled bad. And Xellos was here. Definitely not heaven then.
Hell then? Perhaps she should have rejoined a temple and this was her punishment?
But no, not the after life. Just her kitchen.
Slowly, Filia took a step backwards. Took a good look at the room. Then a step forward.
Flour. That's what the white was. Flour was everywhere. It was like someone had thrown a bag of flour into one of Jillas's 'fan's'.
Filia twitched.
"Or should that be Boss?"
There were eggs on the curtain.
Filia twitched again.
"Either way is fine with me, really. Heaven knows you uptight dragons are obsessed enough with names and titles."
She focused on her kitchen; that was the key. Don't look at Xellos. It was safer this way.
A spatula was imbedded in the counter and there was a pan hanging randomly from the ceiling. It was so close to the entrance of the kitchen, the dragon narrowly missed whacking her head on it. Why it was there, what had stuck it there, and if it represented her doom, like skull hung near the entrance of a village, Filia did not know.
Twitch.
"Just don't tell my mistress I have a second job. Tax purposes and all."
What was that on the oven? A moldy, decomposing horse? A severed head?
"Unless you guys cover dental…"
…Or was it a cake? There appeared to be watery icing on it. Yes, there was the bowl, battered as though Lina and Gourry had eaten from it, upside down, suspended on the fridge.
'Just as the Gods and Nature intended,' she thought using the sarcasm she'd learned from Zel and Lina, ignoring her panic-sense. It may have grown a bit disused and dusty since the time she'd given up traveling, but now it was screaming bloody murder, shrieking for her to run far, far away. But no, this was her house and she would not be frightened away by a Mazoku. Even one such as Xellos.
The dragon could see frosting dripping and appearing to shudder for some reason. It continued to do so far a few moments, making its way shakily to the sink. From there, it fell—dived—into the rusty (it had been sparkling when she'd left), splattered (from what exactly?) sink. The sink shook. Filia stared at it for a moment.
The free-fall hadn't killed the blob; it continued to shudder about, shaking the entire sink.
Filia couldn't blame it; if she'd been brought into the world by Xellos' twisted hands, there would be shuddered involved (and who knows, maybe in the sink after a suicide attempt as well?).
Oh, what blasphemy and misdeeds and simple evil had befallen this room?
She'd been taught that cooking was an act of love, putting your heart and soul into it and receiving something marvelous from simple ingredients, implements, and your own hard work (and a preheated oven). No matter what she cooked, Filia had always tried her best. She might not be the best cook in the world, but she was a decent, hardworking one. What she lacked in talent she made up for with will and hard work (and perhaps a tad extra butter.)
Nothing like this had ever gone on in her kitchen. Sure, there had been spills, occasional messes and one mishap or two with the grater, but things had been peaceful. It had been a fine kitchen, well stocked and well taken care of. A cheerful place an amateur cook would have been pleased to work with. What had Xellos done to the place?
This was an abomination.
How tempting it would be to just walk out now, listen to that screaming danger-sense, that collection of valuable nerves, tendons and glands. Just set fire to the place (she was insured) and run far, far away with no responsibilities. It went against all her training and common sense, her pride, but where had those things taken her?
Into a terrible, hell hole that had once been her nice, clean kitchen.
And with Xellos in it.
…Perhaps the arson idea had merit to it.
She could slowly back out of the kitchen, go upstairs, grab Val and then grab the box of matches Jillas kept near his bed side. All it would take was one quick like 'flick' of the wrist, get the match burning nice, and then just toss it into her small living room.
Her and Val could live a new life, someone warm and tropical maybe. They could take strolls on the beach, (well, she'd take the strolls and hold little Val) stretch out on blankets or better yet, beach chairs (she disliked having sand everywhere) and tan on the beach (again, she'd do the tanning while holding Val or just depositing him safely at the nearest chair). She could teach Val to swim (as soon as he hatched), and spend their days drinking exotic fruit juices. It would be an easy, relaxing life. So much different than the one she was leading at the moment.
But no, it wouldn't work. She didn't tan, she burned. Her sunburns had in fact been legendary at the temple. The sun block had been foolishly forgotten during one of the temple's few vacations off ('"Do the Gods' take vacations, Filia?"' '"…no, Master"'), and Filia had foolishly thought she'd be okay. She had not been.
The dragon had spent the rest of the vacation laying on her stomach, rubbing baby oil on her red back after a mere hour of time exposed to the sun.
And she also hated sand. And she wasn't big on swimming. And she was allergic to many, many different fruits. And she wasn't too fond of warm weather. Still, it had been a nice fantasy.
So, the ex-priestess re-discovered her pride, scraped together some non-panic-y emotions, and tried to focus on her anger. It was a somehow a safer emotion than either this hollow 'why bother' apathy that had taken over after entering the kitchen, or panic.
This was her kitchen, her home, her nest. Val lived her in relative safety. She had a normal, peaceful life full of sunshine and brightness. This was her decision. Life in her hands, not thoughtless Elders, not vague, cruel, unhearing Gods, not Fate, not even almost completely reckless and almost never feckless friends.
Her hands.
But why did that only make her feel more useless, why did the hollowness only grow at the thought of pleasant times, colorful curtains letting in sunlight, and future walking Val to school, helping with his homework, and selling things to customers who never seemed truly there?
Was that why the site of clay, not yet molded, not perfect and somehow wonderful because it wasn't so perfect, it wasn't anything yet, made her feel so happy?
Possibilities.
Like Val.
Not even hatched, innocent, pure, life completely ahead of him.
She, Filia Ul Copt, who had once lived as a priestess, one who could never completely follow orders, who'd and probably always would have a little voice in her head asking questions, who could let her emotions take over, who was now a mother, who had stood against what she'd thought of as evil…
Wasn't sure about things anymore.
Like a virus, a fungus, a sickness, a change, the uncertainty had grown.
In the beginning, she had been certain she'd been doing the right thing. Or maybe the wrong thing. It didn't even matter 'cause guess what? It was her choice to make.
The exhilaration of that knowledge had killed off any doubt. For a time anyway. So what about giving up being a priestess? It was her life. Buying a house, starting a business that she didn't know a thing about running. It was her life. And raising Val, not sending him to a temple to be raised by people who might have a better grasp on this thing called 'parenting'; raising a child when she had no idea of what she was doing? It was her life.
No, it was their lives.
That's when the virus, the fungus, the sickness, the change, the uncertainty, had crept in.
No longer just her. Them. A more exciting, frightening word than she had, could've, imagined.
They were in this together. Right now, Val was just an egg. But in time he'd hatch and be a baby. A child. A person.
Suddenly, all those decisions made half seriously, projects that she hadn't been working on in complete earnest and intense concentration, seemed to loom over her. Bills, payments, her business seemed to take a whole new daunting light.
It was like being part of a play, and then finding out what you'd thought was originally just fake scenery made of wood turned out to be real. And all those people whom you'd thought of as actors turned out to be just as real as the background. The old crone's warts weren't clever makeup. The sword that had been thrust into the hero's lovely bride had been a real sword and now someone was really and truly dead. The poison the monk had drunk hadn't been grape juice. Blood had truly been spilt, lives taken and those people weren't going to stand up and bow to the final applause. No audience. No curtain. No stage.
Back at the temple, back when Filia had been young, the children had played different games involving these little men carved out of stone. Each man had a strength and weakness; every child had enough to form an army and would do what you did with an army. At the end of every 'war,' the winner would take one of the other's men that he'd beaten.
Lots of children would whine to the Elder's about this, saying it wasn't fair and they wanted their stone man back. The old dragons had never made one of the children give back their won men. A lesson was being taught.
You lived with what happened. No 'takesy-backsies' as Lina had once told Amelia after quickly trading some kind of plate of food during dinner. No retrials, no going back and redoing something. What was done was done.
But, she had never had any interest in those toys and maybe had missed that lesson.
Now she was learning it.
But this homely home, this safe nest with its wonderful egg nestled inside…
Was that—
No. Yes.
---what she—
No. Yes!
--Wanted?
No! Yes!
She no longer knew.
"So, what do you think?"