Thirty-Three: Awakening

Dazed first, then aware, Lilith woke into full daylight, a spill of milk-white sun pooling across the sheets.

She sat up slow, one hand to her waist where a crimson mark bloomed like a pressed petal; her head rang like a jar tapped too hard.

She propped the pillow upright like a small wall and leaned back against it; the Little White Dragon closed her eyes and drew a breath, memory rolling in like a tide.

Last night, she’d confessed to Nidhogg.

She’d braced for rejection, ready to crawl back to the inn and cry in the bathroom like a kitten hiding behind the shower curtain.

Instead, Nidhogg accepted. Swift as lightning over open sea, she had Lilith crying in the bath and on the bed half the night.

Lilith hadn’t even processed it; the female inside her was dragged awake like a lantern suddenly lit in the dark.

Heat rushed up; she flushed scarlet and buried her face in the upright pillow, a shy bird tucking into a hedge.

The pillow stopped being a backrest and became a sand dune; she clawed it down and hid inside its soft drift.

Pillows don’t talk, so it held its silence and let her burrow.

She sprawled across the wide bed, a lone figure on an empty shore; she searched for Nidhogg’s lingering warmth and found only last night’s traces like dew-darkened marks on the sheet.

Her head, usually forgetful as a sieve, turned sharp as a blade; each stain called back exactly how Nidhogg had pressed it there, memory crisp like replayed film.

She couldn’t stand it. She squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to get up and throw that pink-memoried sheet into the washer, but her punished waist protested like a rope pulled too tight, and she stayed.

The alarm clock had halted like a stalled heart; it sat frozen, looking broken.

After a moment, she remembered dragging it into the fray during one struggle; it fell, bought her five seconds of breath like a brave lookout sounding the last warning.

Great grace, forever remembered. Rest easy, Mr. Alarm.

She gave the fallen hero two seconds of silence, then turned to the window. In Lamter, morning sun usually came gentle; sea-damp air raised a thin fog, a gauze veil that softened any glare.

But today’s light wasn’t gentle; it was a blade across water. In a past life, likely kin to Elasha, the Little White Dragon had never handled such glare; one glance told her the hour.

The sun stood high; it had to be afternoon.

She remembered the last time she blacked out, she’d seen the newborn sun; so she’d slept four or five hours. No wonder she felt hollowed out, and maybe she should lie still a little longer.

She tried, but sleep wouldn’t land; her mind fluttered like a sparrow that wouldn’t perch.

Her whole body felt disassembled, bones scattered like chess pieces after a slammed board.

Forget the numbing waist. The insides of her thighs felt chewed red by a certain Black Dragon; even turning over was a knife-twist.

So she didn’t dare wriggle like she had at waking; she lay obedient, waiting for Nidhogg to walk in and lift her out like a river carrying a leaf.

She placed her small hands over her flat belly. Since waking, something inside had been moving, first a ripple, then a swell; in just this short while, it felt doubled, a shape pressing like a fish in a pond.

What the hell was that?

Panic pricked like cold rain. She pressed both hands to her belly and summoned her Star Energy, trying to sketch the thing’s outline like tracing constellations through cloud.

But she was only an astrology apprentice; at her current level, Star Energy couldn’t peer into living flesh. After straining and getting nowhere, she gave up, palms warm on that strange belly, lying quiet as a pebble.

Nidhogg was nowhere. She’d left only a cup of warm water by the bedhead, then vanished like a shadow at noon.

A small, abandoned ache rose; her mood sagged, a drenched stray under a sudden downpour.

Her pretty, ocean-blue eyes glazed with waterlight; she drooped her head and cursed the missing Black Dragon under her breath.

Sweet words flowed like honey last night; today, she pulled the plug, wiped her hands clean, and ghosted.

Hmph.

She pouted, cheeks puffed like a tiny drum.

While Lilith sulked, Nidhogg walked in with a bag, the Black Dragon’s steps calm as evening tide; she saw the Little White Dragon awake, pulled a chair to her side, and set the bag by the bedhead.

“Awake?” Nidhogg smiled and opened the bag; only then did Lilith notice breakfast: pork chop sandwiches made by Mio, and a cup of steaming milk.

“Awake.” After the water, her throat felt better, no longer smoked-out; still, a husky rasp clung like dusk.

“If your throat’s sore, don’t talk yet. You used it a lot last night. Let it rest.” Nidhogg set the milk to her lips, voice mild as winter sun.

Lilith shot her a wounded look, then stuck out her tongue to test like a kitten tasting a saucer; the warmth was just right, silk-soft and not scalding, even for a heat-and-spice lightweight like her.

Looked like Nidhogg handled care well. Lilith hugged the milk, took a sip, and her eyes curved shut like crescents.

She decided on amnesty; Nidhogg was forgiven.

“Anything bothering you?” Nidhogg was amused by Lilith’s quicksilver face; when she’d entered, the little dragon had looked like a rain-soaked, abandoned pup, all grievance and spark. One sip of milk, and she turned into a child with candy, forgetting anger in a heartbeat.

Still a child, Nidhogg judged, a thought like a calm ripple.

“Besides my waist and legs, mostly my belly hurts.” Lilith reported softly. The Black Dragon set her left hand on Lilith’s stomach; after a quiet beat, she spoke.

“It’s nothing. You’re ovulating. Normal.”

“Oh, so an egg’s coming. I thought it was serious…” Her words snagged on a wire.

“Wait—an egg?!”