I woke up, once again, to a thick blanket of proverbial fog coating my head. As before, I was far too out of it to care.

"Hey, purple boy, she's up," I heard Sparx's grudging voice.

Riiiiight, because sitting on an ocean is so up... I yawned wide and rubbed the sleep away from my eyes, too confused to wonder how the hell I was even alive.

"Cynder!" A voice sang—or was it yelled or whispered?—from the cellery next to me. Nooo, that don't make sense. It was different than before, scary. Something was wrong, so, so wrong. Fog chased me into confusion and I couldn't get out of it. Thinking hurt. A lot.

"I'm lost..." Why-oh-why was that all I could think to say? Why didn't the world make sense anymore? I buried my eyes under my paws and whimpered quietly.

"She's up, man, but she ain't moving," Sparx said, grudgingly not adding an insult. "Whatever's in the air really doesn't agree with her."

"Cynder, I know some part of you can still make sense of the world around you—there's a drug in the air called Angel's Folly. It's blocking your elements and making your thoughts disjointed. If you can, I want you to walk over to where our cells are separated and reach a paw through the bars—can you do that for me?"

I felt like his words should make sense, I really did—but how or why to carry them out was beyond my addled brain.

"Well," Sparx announced, "I have a feeling Cyn won't be touching wine or any other form of 'happy juice' as long as she lives."

Grumbling, Spyro sighed, "How on earth do you even know about alcohol?"

"Mushroom juice."

"I officially don't want to know."

"Then remind me to tell you later. For the moment, what can you do to help Miss Morning-After over here?"

I managed to get out a small pitiful growl that did me absolutely no good whatsoever. I didn't even know why it was a prudent time to growl, but I knew it was.

"She is going to eat you whole when she can, you know," Spyro muttered, shaking a purple head.

"Soooo worth it."

"Did I mention she'll have crystal-clear memory later?"

"Dammit..."

"Finally realized why I said be nice to her?"

"Yup."

"Good, now I want you to get her paws off her eyes—the sun might make the headache worse, but we need to talk and I have to get the poison as cleared up as I can so it's possible. I need to at least touch her paw or tail for that, and I don't fancy your chances moving around her tailblade while she's too drunk to be careful about not crushing you."

"Yeah, no crushing please." I felt little hands tug my paw away—or try to. I didn't feel like helping for some reason.

"She won't budge them and one of them is heavier than me! Not much I can do..."

"Crud. Cynder, listen to me or I will have to ask Sparx to make you listen. I'm sorry. Please move."

For some reason dread was boiling in my stomach as I heard faint slaps—was Spyro covering his ears?

"Now, Sparx."

"Swing low, sweet chariot—coming forth to carry me home, woahoahoahoah!"

I groaned, voice terribly weak. "Sp-Spanks, must you do that?"

I imagined the two trading glances. "Maybe I do must I do that! And you know, it might just be crazy enough to work."

I would have been glaring were it not for the eyelids and paws in my way.

"Let the joy come pouring down, rain on you and me—yeah!"

"Keep it up Sparx, I think it's working." Spyro's voice was sincere, if strained. Sparx sounded like a choir of dying cats.

"Hmph, Hmph Hmph—can't you feel it? Can't you just feel the love in the room tonight?"

"Be merryfull and kill me now..." I struggled upwards, or tried to before tripping over my own feet. Twice.

"Do ya mean merciful, sis?" Sparx asked evilly as I finally got my paw through the ancestor's-damned gate. "Remind me to get you hungover more often..."

Spyro snorted as his warm paw pressed against mine. "Good luck with that. Personally, I like her normal."

I felt heat rush away from my head, fog forced to part so for one ancestor's-blessed moment I could think clearly.

I collapsed, shaking. It was like the fog had been the only stability there was. Everything hurt—touch, sound, sight—all my senses overloaded my system.

For the first time since we left home, I was sobbing—possibly the first time in front of Spyro too.

"Shhh, shhh." The deeper voice was gentle as he squeezed my paw. "You didn't go through whatever the Scavengers have been using for withdrawal symptoms, but you're going to be okay, I promise. I overheard that we both will be in this supposed sick-bay for at least a week. We have a little time."

He was so gentle... I was so used to playing leader to our little rag-tag group of four that someone looking after me again was welcome, welcome relief. No offence to Kabby—but at least I could see Spyro out of dreamland. I squinted my eyes at him, and the scales that weren't newly burned sparkled a thousand shades of amethyst. His eyes looked over me, and I felt safe, like home. I wanted to lean against him, maybe even hide under those gleaming wings and pretend the whole wide world was leaving us alone.

But I couldn't. I could only put one name to the foreign emotions—a name I refused to utter, drunk or not.

A purple paw brushed my cheek then forehead through the bars. I wanted to lean into it, but didn't. For a split second I thought it was something more—but then he sighed.

"It looks like you have a fever again, you're h—warm."

Nope, Spyro, wrong diagnosis...