Please see introduction for disclaimer regarding this work.
-Thanks to everyone who has read my work so far. In particular, I'd like to thank 'Windigo the Feral NYAR' for reading and reviewing my story. I would read and review yours, Windigo, but when I checked you didn't have any. Don't worry, I will continue, and Fou-Lu and Yahla should end up back together…eventually. ^_^ In fact, here we're back to Yahla, who's been lying around unconscious since we last mentioned her. The lazy bum… I apologize for taking so long to write more. My brain died, and my vocabulary went to the bathroom and got stuck in the toilet. We had to call a plumber. This chapter is rather short, but it was such a good place to end ^_^. Oh, and you lurkers out there (if you exist, that is) please review, or no more will be posted. And remember, it's not a threat, it's a promise.
Want fries with that?
Chapter Ten
Hither and Yon
She had been asleep for a long time.
That was the first thought that asserted itself as consciousness returned to her inert body. As it made itself known, other senses returned; the breath of air over bare skin, the earth harsh and unyielding against her back. There came the unequivocal drone of nothing, and the weight of limbs that had lain too long unmoving. Her wings were numb from where they had been constrained against the ground, crumpled under the weight of her form. Her nose contributed nothing useful to help her reorient herself. The breeze that wafted over her naked body carried no unusual scents or smells, at least none that she associated to familiar locations.
It was dark, but her eyes were closed, though she had not noticed it until just then. Yahla opened them with some effort, blinking the crustiness from her lashes. Her sight now unhindered by a veil of lids, she remained sheathed in obscurity, but a little more could be seen. Primarily, a red glow highlighted the different facets of the pockmarked stone ceiling above her, growing clearer as she adjusted her eyes. It was granite from appearances, an ashen wall of igneous rock that had formed on the interior of the earth.
Yahla cursed weakly as she pulled herself into a sitting position, arms going to hug her midsection as it twinged in protest. Her eyes closed and she swayed slightly. Her skin felt dry and doughy, and her hands seemed cold and clammy in spite of the warmth around her. She had no obvious wounds, but her body ached everywhere, as if there were bruises layering her insides. Her stomach added nausea to her other pains, and she doubled over abruptly and threw up.
After several minutes of retching, she had nothing left to bring up, not even stomach acids. With the taste of bile in her throat, the dragoness wiped her mouth clean on the back of her hand, grimacing at her inability to dislodge the unpleasant taste. She raised bleary eyes to peruse the surroundings, hoping unrealistically for a pool of water to wash away the acerbity. There was nothing. The area around her was barren and dry, much like the inside of her uncomfortably sticky mouth. The part of her mind that still functioned normally realized that there would be no water for some time, for she sat on one of several islands and paths that rose from a lake of searing magma. It flowed in viscous waves around and over slabs and boulders, radiating the vermilion light that was the only illumination.
The heat was suffocating, dehydrating anything and anyone that came within its grasp. Yahla not only had nothing to drink, she had lain unconscious in such conditions for several days. Goddess or not, she was getting close to death.
When she attempted to stand, she found herself dizzy and unable, sinking limply back to the ground. Her heartbeat sounded weak and irregular in her ears, and it was far more rapid than it should be. Likewise, the dragoness' respiration was shallow and quickened, one panting breath after another.
I be not comprehending… she thought dazedly, I be a dragon…I shouldst not be so affected… A dragon at the peak of its powers needed neither eat nor drink. But Yahla and Fou-Lu were flawed, and thus required both. However, they could go months without, if need be, and Yahla was quite certain that that much time had not passed. Something had happened, weakening her, and in her confused state Yahla did not immediately understand the implications. 'Tis as though I hast become…mortal…
Tired and disoriented, her muscles starting to cramp, Yahla gave into the urge to sleep.
A warm liquid dribbled between her lips, soaking into the parched tissue of her mouth, and the hand that massaged her throat compelled her to swallow. At this point it wasn't really necessary. She was starting to wake up, and instinct would encourage her to swallow on her own.
For a while, when she was deeply unconscious, her body would not have done so by itself, and she would have choked to death without aid.
Yahla moaned and her head lolled to the side, the broth that was being carefully administered between her chapped lips running out the side of her mouth and into her hair. There was a string of creative cursing, and her face was wiped off with a damp cloth. The harsh fabric grazed her cheek, and she groaned and awoke fully.
Her mind still full of dreams of fire and desert, her eyes eased open, then flew the rest of the way unclosed. Had she the strength she would most like have pulled away, startled by the sudden sight of a face adjacent to her own. Instead, she choked on the broth still in her mouth and started coughing.
The short mortal that had been seated next to her drew back as the dragoness tried in earnest to launch her lungs out of her chest cavity to somewhere across the room. Her eyes blurred as she attempted to catch her breath before the next spasm hit.
"Heigh ho, lassie! Easy there! Trying to hock a lung, are you?" a gruff voice said kindly, and its owner helped her sit up and patted her on the back until her coughs subsided. His arm presently supporting her, he continued, "Looks like you've been getting things down the wrong tube, there. Now, lie back and make yourself comfy. Isn't for you to be trying to move about already."
Yahla cleared her throat, and replied hoarsely, "I be thanking thee," as the dwarf assisted her to lay back down on the sleeping pad he had spread on the floor. It was green, too short, and lacking in blankets. From appearances Yahla would guess that the dwarf had none and did not need them. It was unusually warm, and blankets would only overheat the wearer. "Mayest I be knowing who aideth me thus?" She coughed again for several moments, before she got herself back under control.
The dwarf, who could stand no higher than four feet, smiled at her through his extensive beard. The whitened whiskers were the only hairs he had. He was completely bald otherwise, even lacking eyebrows that had apparently been singed off at some point. His nose dominated most of his face, as red as the skin around it. The color of his face remained permanently flushed due to constant exposure to heat and hard labor. "You're welcome, then. I'm Dalindrar, a smith." He handed her a cup of water, which she held in her shaky hands. "If you're well enough to drink by yourself, down as much of that as you can. I'm off to make you up some more broth." The blacksmith's rough face looked vaguely sheepish. "I'm sorry to say what I'd already got made up is at the present all over your front."
Yahla glanced down, found herself partly covered in soup, and decided to deal with it later. Right now, she would drink as much water as her stomach would take, and then drink some more in an attempt to revitalize her dehydrated body. As she drank, she surveyed the area around herself, taking note of the scarcity of any decorations or trimmings. The only personal touches she saw were three weapons that had been mounted on the wall, two swords and an axe. They, too, were functional objected, bare of anything but cold steel.
Where she and her bed had been laid, the floor was wooden. Planks had been sanded down and laid parallel to one another, and a trap door had been laid next one of the house's two windows. Farther into the main room, the floor was stone, though of a darker shade than the brick walls. There was a stack of crates and a cracked pot near where she lay, and beyond that what appeared to be some manner of forge. A box of coal and a hammer were set up against the wall, and in the center of the area was a black anvil sooty and scratched from use. Beyond, a massive hearth rose, connected to dozens of pipes that lead off into the walls. A chimney started at the top, gathering the smoke form the fiery coals below. It was an impressive set up, obviously tended carefully. The forge and surrounding tools took up half the house, and it was clear that the dwarf's first love was his work.
Several minutes and a great deal of water later, Dalindrar returned with another bowl, this one soup in which floated several chunks of meat. It wasn't much of a broth. It was more a stew, thick and rich. He proffered it to her, and she took it gratefully. "Hopefully, this time it won't end up all over everything."
He hadn't offered her a spoon or anything, so she used her claws to spear the bobbing pieces of meat, before drinking the rest. It was rather difficult to do lying down, but the goddess didn't fancy sitting up any time soon. She still felt far too invalid to manage such a thing. The soup was surprisingly good for something made by a mortal who appeared to lack any kind of silverware.
As she ate, the smith watched her, seeming to examine her from head to toe. It was not a rude look, nor a lascivious one. It was simply curiosity, but it made the dragoness vaguely uncomfortable. As she finished up, she remarked, more to break the silence that anything else, "Verily, thy potage is most savory."
The dwarf looked searchingly at her, and she shifted under his gaze. "You're saying you like the soup?" he asked at last.
"Yes," Yahla replied, not understanding the question. The language truly had shifted over the years. She hardly understood a word the dwarf was saying. "For what purpose dost thou inquirest?"
"Why didn't you just say that, then?" the smith questioned, grinning. "It's a lot easier than using all those big words, lass."
"I didst sayest this!" she huffed from her position on the floor. "Dost thou findest mine manner of speech someway laughable?" Even though she was ill and incapable of strenuous movement, her tone implied deadly consequences.
"Ho…" Dalindrar said to forestall her fuming. "Don't be getting your dander up, now. I just was joking with you. I fess, I, too, get made the laughingstock for how I talk. City folks think I'm an old hillbilly, and that I talk all folksy. Leastwise, they say its 'quaint' and 'cutesy.' I'll show them 'quaint!'"
She studied him with new interest. "I wouldst take it that thy speech is unsemblable to that of most present day mortals?"
"Yeah, you could say that, heigh ho," the dwarf said with some sarcasm. "Didn't you notice?"
Yahla shrugged. "All humans soundeth as one to me."
This time it was Dalindrar that fumed at the comment, much as she had expected, and she laughed softly to herself. "I'm a dwarf! There's a mighty big difference!" He paused, and glanced back at her. He put a thick hand up to scratch the back of his bald head as he eyed her contemplatively. "But that does bring up a good point. What are you?"
Yahla suddenly understood all his curious looks. She was in her normal hybrid form, of course, and though it was hardly worth noticing to her, it was certainly enough to make any mortal stare. Especially since she was covered in dried blood that was not her own. "I be a dragon, an Endless." She watched him carefully, curious to see his reaction.
The dwarf stared at her, twirling the wiry tip of his beard between his callused fingers. He didn't seem to notice he was doing it. Finally, he demanded in a rather harsh tone, "Dragons are supposed to be gods, right? If that's the case and you're one, what in hell were you doing dying of dehydration in the middle of a volcano."
"What I wert doing? For a great tract of time I layest dead to the world," she offered.
"That's not what I meant and you know it. How'd you end up in that fix?" When she looked uninclined to answer, he added, "For several days I've gone to a mighty hassle trying to get you back to health. The least you could do is answer my questions."
"I wilt be the first to admitest that I knowest not," Yahla said finally. "But one moment I be with mine husband, the I be awakening amid pools of molten stone."
"…Your husband?" the dwarf asked, raising a hairless brow.
"Mayhap thou knowest him. He is Fou-Lu, God-Emperor of the Fou Empire," the goddess said, unable to keep the twinge of pride out of her voice.
He stared open mouthed at her, meeting her steady gaze. At last, Dalindrar shook himself and responded, "Ho…you damn well better be joking, lassie. His Nibs?" The smith said it like it was the most impossible thing in the world.
She smiled slightly, finding amusement and fond memories in the invocation of her husband's name. "I jokest not. He is mine mate. Please," she added after a moment. "Wilt thou tellest me where we art? For I wishest to be wise to how far from mine husband's side I be."
The dwarf finally found his voice, though it was a great deal less steady than it had been. "Ho.…damn, lassie. You're under Mount Glom…smack dab in the center of the Alliance."
