Soft… and wet. Euegh—that's drool. Definitely drool.
Zhou glares at the offending puddle and rolls over, surveying the room.
Ragged stone walls surround him, and a single torch lights the room. A heavy white blanket rests atop him. He bounces experimentally. Yes, a cot. A quick look to his left and he finds an apple, bread, cheese, and a glass of water on a bedside…rock. A bedrock?
"Afternoon, Zhou," someone greets. Someone familiar.
"Az," he hoarsely returns. His mouth feels fuzzy and thick.
She strides into the small, dim room and shows him a little, round white pill between her fingers. "It's what's keeping your from jaw from swelling. Where do you want it?"
"Bedrock."
She pauses and looks at the floor. "Is this bedrock?" she murmurs to herself.
"No—here," he mumbles, gesturing to the bedside rock.
"Oh." She sets the pill there and fixes him with a concerned gaze. "You alright to eat and drink?"
He gingerly touches his jaw. "Mmhmm. Yeah." It feels like someone shoved a golf ball in his mouth.
She smiles and sits, stretching her legs out and leaning against the wall. New t-shirt, he notes. It has "Foo Fighters" written on the front in a white font, rather than a white hand on black fabric. Apparently she only knows how to wear two colors.
Zhou sits up and takes the pill with water, spilling some down his chin. He wipes it away with his sleeve, and he realizes he still has her sweatshirt on. "You—?" he asks, gesturing at the sweatshirt.
"Nah. You look cold."
He smiles crookedly. Concentrating, he carefully forms the words, "Is it just you here?"
She shrugs. "I'm the only one you see. The masters here are… tentative, to be seen by humans." He opens his mouth to ask more, but she just shakes her head. "I've never seen them," she explains. "They just leave notes and supplies around. This room is yours until you're ready to leave."
"When will that be?"
"When you have the dragon under control."
"I do."
"Not judging by that jaw of yours. Or the sizeable bruise on your stomach."
He waits a beat. "I've had worse."
She rolls her eyes. "Don't you Monty Python me."
He rubs his eyes. They feel sticky, like something's pulling them shut. "What's the pill?"
"You'll probably crash in a couple minutes here. I'll be here when you get up."
He nods and settles back down, eyes fighting to stay open for that long. The last thing he thinks of is the smell of freshly dried laundry and tiny undertone of apples.
He wakes the next day, jaw recovered, and sure enough, there sits Az. Asleep, but still there. It makes a little butterfly whirl in his stomach. How could it not? Ignored by the very organization he's supposed to defend for years, looked at with scorn and pity, and here sits a woman waiting while he recovers.
God, he needs a drink. Stop those thoughts there. Those thoughts go too far and they mean trouble. Don't go putting hope in people that don't care, he reminds himself. You're not good for anything or anyone in this world.
She stirs. He swings his feet over the side of the bed and bites into an apple.
"Keep sleeping," he says. "You're nice to watch."
She unfurls and wipes her eyes. "Uh… thanks. How long you been up? How's the jaw?"
"About a minute, and it's fine." He touches it. No pain. "Yeah. It's great."
"Eat and drink, then. Meet me out where we fought. I have something to show you."
Once he's done eating, Zhou gazes at the passage. He wants to get out of here. Running his hand through his hair, he stands and walks out. Unlike the other passage, torches line the hall and chase away most shadows. A bat flutters out of the wall and Zhou smiles—if only it were blue like a zubat. This feels like some calm adventure to him, like the slow pace of Red Version. You move when you want, and there's no such thing as moving late.
The passage opens up much like the other one did, and would you look at that? Flames again. He steps into the ring. The room shifts. He keeps walking. Rocks move and the flames fly upwards to form a sun-like lamp above. Something moves. Zhou halts and stares with wide eyes at the sight before him.
A long, black, sleek, enourmous dragon stares at him with glittering emerald eyes. It snarls softly, exposing its pearly teeth. "You silence me," it rumbles.
"You don't listen to me," Zhou replies. He stands straighter and stares the dragon in the eyes, even as it starts to slither around the room, more like a basilisk than a dragon. It fills the room until it becomes the walls surrounding Zhou. He licks his lips and lifts his chin in defiance.
"You're weak, boy," the dragon rumbles. "You fight and fight, but every single time you step on the cusp of greatness, you fall backwards. You claim someone pushes you, but no one else is there."
Zhou glares at the dragon. It faces him, emerald eyes glittering. "Name a time," Zhou challenges.
"Iron Fist," the dragon hisses. "You and I both know you could have beat him. But you were drunk. You ensnared yourself."
"I drink to control my strength. To control you."
"Because we accidentally killed someone once? My poor boy," the dragon mocks.
"A warrior does not kill unless necessary."
"Your master wanted to kill you. He knew I was within you. He knew he could have my power if he killed you, so I struck first."
"That's not true!" Zhou shouts.
"He is the one that ordered you to drink!" the dragon bellows. The rocks above shake, and little pebbles clatter to the ground. "He set you up for death! He lied—he told you only drink could control the dragon, so he could murder you when you were passed out on the sidewalk."
Images of his master, so kind, taking in the lost little boy and training him to be a warrior. Taking him out for drinks. Teaching him to fight every drunken night.
You have powers the world is not ready for, so you must drink to control them. Otherwise they will take you over in a fiery rage. Your dragon will kill anyone that gets in its way of power. It is a blood-thirsty monster, Zhou. It will control you if you give it the opportunity.
"Lies!" the dragon roars, as if it can see Zhou's memories and thoughts. "How can you not see the lies when they stare you in the face?"
"You are the lying serpent!" Zhou shouts back.
"Your mind is filled with stories! I am not Satan! I am not tempting you! I was gifted to you because you are worthy of my power. I will give it to you if you only let me."
"I know you're not Satan," Zhou says.
"That is what you're focused on?"
"You're a vehicle for death and destruction."
The dragon roars in frustration. Zhou folds his arms and closes his eyes. The roar fades. He opens his eyes and finds himself in the stone fighting ring, just him and Az. Az narrows her eyes. Her hands ball into fists.
Zhou stares back at her, defiant. She can be as angry as she wants, but he refuses to break the oath he made to his master.
She stands and points to the passage that leads to his room. "Your room's that way. Hang a left and you'll find the kitchen, to the right's the bathroom." And she walks away, silent.
Zhou knows she's disappointed. But she shouldn't expect anything different.
He finds his way to the kitchens. Empty.
He'll show her. In the cupboard, he finds three bottles. When he cracks one open the smell of alcohol almost bowls him over. Perfect. It slides down his throat, the burning sensation like home.
Az taps a message on her phone and sends it. A simple "Understood" answers her. She slips her phone into her pocket and blows out a breath, staring at the abyss on the other side of the fighting ring. Sometimes wind comes from the abyss, carrying the wild and cold smells of the Niflheim winter. It fills her with a tireless energy—she wishes she could run there instead of waiting around in this cave, instead of pacing in cities on earth. The hellhound in her growls in agreement.
She remembers when she first achieved the power of the hellhound, much like Iron Fist achieved the power of the dragon in K'un L'un. Her mother, a Frost Giant, brought her to Niflheim from Moscow where she was born when Az was eighteen. She learned how to fight from her mother. All her mother wanted to see was the power of the hellhound go to her own daughter rather than some hellish king.
So Az took the challenge two years later after rigorous training, after the Frost King Laufey had died at the hands of Thor and Loki. Az won. The hellhound, a giant, frost-clad hound with glowing red eyes, fought tooth and nail. It raked its claws down Az's face. Az tore out its throat with a ragged dagger. Immediately, power had filled her, like a raging fire, and the hellhound's voice whispered in her head:
Destroy the Hand.
Footsteps tear her attention back to the present. Unsteady footsteps. She turns and watches Zhou walk, reeking of alcohol.
"I want a rematch, Az. I'm ready this time," he calls.
She lifts a brow and looks him over, eyes lingering longer than they should on his ass and chest. They flicker to face, then to the bottle hanging from his wrist. "Are you ready this time?"
"I have the dragon under control," he answers, eyes roaming her body. His brain fuzzes and his mind wanders to an imagined conversation—he never had to take an oath of chastity. It could become a real conversation…
"You're drowning the dragon again," she states, pulling him from his thoughts.
Zhou steps forward before he forces himself to halt—no, he will not be that sort of a drunkard. He chooses to focus on his challenge instead, like he came here to do. "This is the only way we work together."
Az frowns and stands from the stone ledge. "We don't leave this place until you find another way. You don't have to drown him to keep him in line," she tells him, frustration slipping into her voice.
Zhou blinks in surprise. "You…" It's on the tip of his tongue, you actually think I can be something, but he doesn't dare say it aloud. Her faith may well just vanish if he does. He'll prove her right—he can be something. But it'll be on his own terms, not hers.
She draws closer. He gazes at her, eyes softening, hand reaching out to settle on her waist. She presses herself against him and that smell of laundry and apples wreathes around him. Her hand slips into his. He arches toward her, his arm snaking around her back. His eyes trace the scars raking down her face, reminiscent of an animal mauling. If he could just drag his lips down those scars… "You don't need to subjugate the dragon." And she rips the bottle from his wrist and smashes it on the stone.
The dragon lifts its head. Zhou sucks in a breath and squeezes his eyes shut. "Oh, love. You don't know what you've done," he manages, smiling humorlessly.
"No, I think I do. Let the dragon out, Zhou."
And oh, he does.
He shouts and attacks.
Her eyes light up and she springs backwards. "I'm not holding back!" he snaps.
"Neither will I."
He stumbles forward and throws himself into a somersault kick. His heel just catches her shoulder. She jerks forward and uses her momentum to grab his leg and flip, taking him with her.
"Oof!" Zhou finds himself splayed across the ground, head spinning. Footsteps.
He tumbles backwards and lands on his feet, crouching. She stands where he had been, hands balled into fists, grinning. "You're fast," he compliments.
She kicks. He ducks. She brings her elbow down. He brings his palm up. Once her elbow meets his palm he grabs, pulls her forward, and throws them both to the ground. They roll over the flat stone.
Az wriggles free and springs back. She scowls, reminiscent of a wolf.
He jumps to his feet and balances unsteadily on one foot. Center your chi, he reminds himself. The dragon gets to its feet and opens its jaws. Fire pools in his chest.
With a shout, he runs, spins, and kicks. Az dodges, but another foot comes to meet her. She blocks with her forearm, but he shifts and spins, repeating the same kicks. My wings are a hurricane! he thinks.
Az ducks and rolls. Zhou lands on both feet, tipping precariously forward. Oops—he falls forward and rolls. She leaps over him. He unfurls and jumps to his feet.
"On your back!" she growls, swiping her foot low. He falls, catches himself with his hands, and pushes himself back to his feet. Woah—the edge of the ring. The abyss yawns behind him. He lifts his hands to yield, but her eyes are wild like fire and don't register the danger.
She kicks him in the chest.
His breath flies out of him and he falls back. Right over the cliff.
The world stills and clears. Gravity wraps its hands around him. The dragon tries to flap its wings.
"NO!"
She rushes forward, grabs a pillar with one hand and seizes his shirt collar with the other, both of them hovering over the abyss. He slaps his hands on her arm and holds tight. With a grunt she yanks him back. He pulls him with her and they collapse back in the fighting ring, him lying on top of her. "Holy shit," he breathes. "You win."
"My heart's in my mouth and my stomach in my throat," she growls, arms tightening around him.
He laughs and buries his face in her neck. "Is this how I can get you to hold me?"
"You could just ask," she laughs breathlessly, mouth brushing his ear. She pushes against his chest. "Get off, you drunk lug."
He scrambles off her and sits on the stone floor for a few moments, trying to wrap his head around that brief moment of weightlessness. Az stands and holds her hand to him. "C'mon. Don't think about it too long."
He takes it and she pulls him to his feet, only for him to trip into her. "Whoops."
"Yeah, sure," she scoffs.
He sets his hands on her shoulders and steadies himself. "You saved my life," he softly murmurs.
"In payment of that debt, you go sober," she orders. He frowns. "You lost," she reminds him.
"Not because of the drinking," he says. "You're a good fighter. Plus, we had no terms for the fight."
She hooks her fingers in his belt loops. He swallows hard and sets his hands on her waist. "Not as good as you could be."
"Why do you think that?" he asks, exasperated. "I'm nothing—what makes you think I'm worth anything? I'm just a drunk man with no hope and nowhere to go. You're wasting your time."
She shakes her head and steps away, eyes fixed on the ground. The air feels colder. "The passage back is open. Just… go home. All you want to be is mediocre, thinking you could be better but never wanting to try."
"Because I lost? You're a warrior from Hell! How am I supposed to beat you?"
"Then how did you ever even think you could beat the Iron Fist?"
"I never thought—,"
"You don't deserve any titles. Go home and drink yourself to death," she snaps. "You're right, I've wasted my time with you. You're a drunkard and apparently a liar, too. I don't know what I saw in you—definitely not a dragon."
Zhou scowls and storms out. The passage waits, a hungry maw, ready to devour him, swallow him into the stone. He glances back. Az faces away, phone out, fingers tapping away.
He plunges into the shadows. The warmth tickles his neck as it leaves, calling him back. Shivering, he zips his sweatshirt up to his neck and throws up the hood. Oh. Her sweatshirt. Zhou halts. He presses his palm against the freezing stone. A heavy sigh escapes him and he glances back at the shadows, the faint light from the fighting ring flickering deep within.
"I can try," he mutters, glaring at the ground. There will always be alcohol, he thinks with a wry smile. He can always go back. When he looks back up at the passage, snow swirls at the end and a stray flake whisks through the air to melt on his face.
Shoving his hands in his pocket, he turns and walks back into the warmth. He's never really liked winter.
Az watches him with guarded eyes. He touches his knees to the ground. "I'm sorry. Just one more chance. Please."
She pulls her knife out and tosses it to him, handle first. "Make an oath," she orders.
Zhou flips the knife in his hand and drags it across his palm. He holds his palm out and lets the blood drip onto the floor, but he says nothing. Their eyes meet. She smiles and nods.
"Catch," he says, throwing the knife back. She snatches it and wipes his blood on her palm before slipping it back into her belt. "So where do we start?"
"How about a conversation?" she proposes.
"I'm listening."
She scratches the back of her neck. "So… I'm not exactly a fan of the Hand."
Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think; any critiques, suggestions, or random thoughts are welcome.