2.82: Dragons and Shadows

2.82: Dragons and Shadows

Filia moved first.

Not with a charge, but with two measured steps. Her sword rose into a clean guard. It looked like discipline, not bravado. The blade caught the light and flashed all the way to the back rows. She did not shout. She did not rush. That restraint gave the moment weight.

The dragon answered with movement, not sound. Its head dipped. Its joints folded one after another as the crew brought it forward. The neck arced down until its shadow covered Filia’s feet. Fabric scales rippled over the frame as it advanced.

Filia pivoted. Her first cut was never meant to land. She slashed through the air in a wide, readable arc, and the dragon’s head snapped aside at once. The audience could track it clearly. Her blade moved. The beast recoiled.

The dragon surged again.

This time it came faster. Its neck shot forward. Its jaws opened wide and fabric flame burst outward in a controlled plume. Filia threw herself into a roll, her cloak snapping behind her as she cleared the fire. She came up on one knee with her sword braced to the floor. Her balance held. Her breathing stayed even.

Applause rippled, then died when the dragon’s tail swept at her.

Filia jumped back and barely cleared it. The tail hit where she had been, and the crew drove the impact through the stage hard enough to make the floor shudder. She staggered, caught herself, and brought her sword up again. Higher this time. Her shoulders squared.

She advanced.

The handlers walked the dragon back in pieces. Its head drew up. Its neck recoiled. Its body shifted a section at a time. The retreat gave Filia ground inch by inch and made her look as though she were driving back a creature far larger than herself.

She struck again.

This time the blade came down in a vertical cut at the dragon’s throat. The head snapped aside at the last second. The miss was planned, but Filia still had to sell the effort. Her shoulders tightened. Her breath came harder. Her whole body went into the cut.

The dragon reared. Its wings spread partway, fabric pulling wide as the crew lifted them together. The sudden span filled the stage and drove Filia back toward the couch where Aurora slept. The danger now stood behind her, not in front of her.

Filia planted herself there.

She turned sideways and held the sword across her body. One arm stretched back toward Aurora as if that alone could keep the dragon off her. Her stance changed with it. No longer advancing. Refusing to yield.

The dragon loomed. For a long moment, neither moved.

Then Filia raised her sword again. Not to strike, but to point it straight at the dragon’s heart.

The gesture held.

The dragon stopped mid-motion. Its flames dimmed and pulled back into embers. Its head lowered a little. Not in surrender. In recognition. The threat remained, but it paused there.

The dragon halted.

Its huge body settled inward. Fire pulsed low in its throat. It no longer pressed forward. It remained where it was and filled the stage with its presence. Maleficent did not move. She stood exactly where she had before, still and composed.

Filia stood alone at center stage.

For a moment, she did nothing. Then she let out a slow breath, as if only now realizing the ground was still under her feet.

“I am victorious,” she said quietly. “But at what cost? The destruction of magic itself?”

No answer came.

She turned toward the couch.

Aurora lay there untouched by time, pale and still. Her lashes rested against her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell so slowly it hardly looked real. The sleep on her was not natural. It had been laid over her and held there.

Filia stopped at the edge.

For a single breath, her hands hovered, not out of fear, but because Aurora was so beautiful that the weight of her promise seemed to press down through her shoulders and into her spine. 

Then she reached out and took Aurora’s hand.

“She is lovely,” Filia said, her voice softer now, stripped of title and ceremony. “Surely the most beautiful princess in all the lands.”

She leaned in.

The kiss was meant to be a ritual, almost the closing of the story in itself, a symbol enacted for the audience and the kingdom alike.

Riko tilted her head, just a fraction, nearly spoiling the moment. Then she leaned into the kiss on impulse. 

The kiss shifted.

I felt it before I understood it, before I had time to prepare for the change. Riko tilted her head just slightly, a deliberate adjustment that had nothing to do with the blocking, and then her tongue slid against mine.

I felt her tongue on mine.

It wasn’t just a simple innocent brushing of our lips.

Ab-so-lu-tely not an accident! A real kiss!

My brain short-circuited.

Riko—BAKA—!

Heat surged through me in a dizzying rush, overwhelming, and my breath caught. The kiss lingered far longer than it should have, her lips locked to mine, intimate in a way that shattered the thin barrier between acting and the real thing. This was the kind of kiss that I share with Aoi-chan.

The script slipped away from my mind entirely, leaving me suspended in the moment with nothing to cling to but the sensation. 

DOKI—DOKI—DOKI

Shock hit first, bright and disorienting, but it didn’t twist into automatic rejection. I didn’t pull back. I didn’t freeze, really. Instead, I felt myself sinking into it, stunned by how warm it was, by how naturally my body responded before my thoughts could assemble any kind of protest. My fingers tightened reflexively, gripping the sofa’s leather. My knees went weak. I didn’t try to move away from her. If anything, I moved closer, as though some part of me leaned in before I could stop it. 

Her tongue pressed more firmly, moving confidently, absolutely unapologetic for what she was doing to me.

And Kami help me… I didn’t hate it!

That realization sent another wave of heat through my chest, down my spine, leaving me breathless and painfully aware of my own reaction. My pulse thundered in my ears, loud enough that I was sure the audience could hear it. My lips tingled where they met hers, oversensitive, alive, my whole world narrowing to the pressing of her mouth against mine and the slow, deliberate way she refused to let the moment remain staged.

Weird!!! I’m such an idiot! I love Aoi-chan! Stop, stop, stop! Stop enjoying it!

Then Aurora inhaled while kissing.

The sound sliced through me, grounding and electric all at once. Her breath hitched sharply and her fingers gripped mine with sudden strength. I stiffened, still unable to break the kiss. My own response kept startling me. I didn’t have the heart to reject her after so many attempts had failed. She got me this one time. My heart hammered ever harder, my awareness snapping back just enough to register the impossible truth of that.

She was waking.

I felt it through the kiss, through the way the air shifted between us, through the way Riko’s body tensed against mine, through the heat still lingering between us as if it had nowhere else to go.

Aurora’s lashes trembled.

She drew another breath, deeper this time, fuller, and her eyes opened.

You’re just milking it for its worth now, aren’t you?

Her lips faintly twisted as though she read my mind.

My win. 

And in that instant, everything tipped forward, unstoppable. The stage was no longer just a stage, and the moment was no longer something we could take back.

Baku noticed it immediately.

Their kiss did not end when it should have. Onstage kisses had a rhythm. Approach, touch, release. Breath and blocking set the length.

This one kept going. It ran past its mark and past the point where the illusion should have let go. One second became two and the gym went quiet, the audience realizing they were no longer watching something rehearsed.

Someone in the front rows shifted. A chair creaked and a few startled laughs sputtered out when the kiss still did not break. Baku felt his large ears warm beneath his false face. It was a real kiss, sustained and unmistakable, and low murmurs spread through the crowd.

Confusion. Surprise. Restless heat.

It has been too long, Baku thought. Then, more importantly, this kiss is far too sincere.

He leaned forward. Play and waking were no longer cleanly separated. Whatever spell still held the room had started to loosen, not from a blow, but from breath.

“Is it really…” Aurora’s voice was soft, clear and fully awake. “…morning?”

Relief went through Filia.

“Then open your eyes,” Filia replied, steady despite everything. “The curse is broken.”

Riko’s eyes flew open.

…Then she screamed.

A shadow dropped from above.

It hit the stage hard, too tall, eating the light around it as it surged forward.

“MINNNNNEEEEE!!!”

The shadow lunged and caught Sumire around the waist with one arm, hauling her half off her feet. Its grip was cold and crushing and it stole the breath from her lungs at once. The other arm was free, reaching higher, trying to drag her up and pin her completely before she could fight back.

Sumire did not scream.

Her grip tightened on the prop sword she held.

She ripped it up between their bodies and slashed hard across the arm crushing her middle. The silver-painted blade sliced through black matter that tore like flesh and smoked at the edges. The thing shrieked and its hold cinched tighter, trying to crush the air out of her before she could swing again, but Sumire hacked at it a second time, shorter and meaner, chopping down at the wrist and forearm that held her.

The shadow jerked, not letting go.

Its free hand shot toward her face.

Sumire twisted her shoulders and brought the sword down onto its arms in an attempt to make its grip loosen, jarring both arms hard, the metal bending.

That told her what the sword really was.

Cheap metal, painted silver, glitter worked into the paint. It wasn’t true steel.

The thing bore down harder, trying to fold her towards its chest.

Sumire drove the hilt forward like a punch and smashed it into the center of its chest, a ragged hole tearing through the black surface. It recoiled and relaxed its grip just enough for her to drag in one thin breath. She used it at once, wrenching her trapped hip sideways and ripping the blade upward through the arm around her waist, forcing the weak metal through a substance that it was never built to cut.

The sword gave with a sharp snap near the guard.

Half of it spun away and vanished into the dark beyond the footlights, the hilt and a jagged length of it remaining in her grip.

The shadow’s grip tightened, trying to crush her before she could use even that as a weapon.

Sumire rammed the broken length forward anyway and buried the jagged end in its forearm. Then she whipped her free elbow across its face, black shreds of its substance tearing loose and scattering.

The audience gasped, but Sumire barely heard their reactions.

Her blade was gone. What remained in her hand was barely a weapon, and she did not have room to swing even that. 

The shadow dragged her in tighter and continued to pull her against its chest. Sumire tucked her chin, braced one forearm across the arm crushing her middle, and drove her knee into its side.

The first knee jolted it. The second loosened its hold. Sumire drove her forearm into the gap before the arm around her waist could tighten again, then turned firmly and twisted the hold lower across her body. 

Its grip slipped. It was just a little, but it was enough to breath a little more.

She drove another knee into its side, jammed her forearm into the gap before the arm around her waist could tighten again, and turned hard to keep it from climbing higher across her ribs. Its free hand shot at her throat. She knocked it aside with her forearm, then drove a short elbow into the inside of the arm still wrapped around her, striking the joint. The arm gave.

Her shoes scraped against empty air.

The stage floor was far below.

The shadow hauled her higher and tightened both arms, trying to crush her before she could do anything else. One arm was still clamped around her waist while the other bore down across her upper body, trying to fold her forward. Sumire jammed both hands up under that arm, forced just enough space to move, and drove her head forward. 

Her forehead cracked into where its mouth should be.

More of its black substance tore loose.

The arm at her waist spasmed.

She dropped one leg, found its hip by feel, and stamped her heel into it hard, not to break it, but to twist it and throw its weight off. 

It twisted and she twisted with it.

One of its hands shot for her face. Sumire caught the wrist with both hands, turned it outward, and yanked while driving another knee into the same battered place along its side. The motion tore more of it open. Black strips flapped loose from its arm like burned cloth. Its grip was ragged now and slipping.

Sumire ripped one hand free and drove a palm heel up under its chin.

Its head snapped back.

She turned with it and drove her elbow into the arm across her waist.

Its hold finally broke and one of Sumire’s shoes hit the stage, then the other.

Air rushed back into her chest in a sharp gasp.

The shadow shrieked and drew itself back together as it retreated.

Behind it, the dragon had collapsed as the dragon crew abandoned it, leaving it in a heap. Maleficent still did not move from where she was. She watched Sumire regain her footing.

Aurora gasped. “You came—!”

The rest of her words died when she saw it clearly, crouched near them with Filia’s counterpart in its grip, the story torn apart in front of her.

“When I heard of your tale,” Filia said, stepping forward and placing herself between Aurora and the creature, “I promised myself that I would.”

Aurora’s hands trembled, her breathing uneven. Her eyes were fixed on the thing in front of them. Fear showed plainly in her shoulders and in her grip, but she did not step back.

“You’re… my prince,” Aurora said, her voice thin but steady.

Filia did not look at her, her gaze never left the shadowy creature, her shoulders squared. The broken sword was lowered, but ready as she shifted her stance.

“If you wish it,” Filia replied.

They faced the thing as one. Then the curtains dropped, not gently nor ceremonially. Darkness swallowed the stage as they slammed shut, and the world buckled for an instant. 

And in that break, Baku moved.

The dream split around him. Painted walls, smoke, light, and shadow pulled apart like wet paper torn too fast. By the time he stepped onto the stage, the false face was gone. Only his true form remained, tall and composed, his top hat straight, his coat immaculate while the world around him came apart.

He drew a long breath through his trunk.

The nightmare screamed.

It thrashed inside the breaking dream, its body collapsing and reforming as black shreds tore loose and snapped back into place. Baku opened his mouth, and the darkness rushed toward him in a stream, dragged off the stage and into him before it could cling to anything to stay free.

It resisted his inhalation, struggling harder.

Baku’s eyes widened as something was caught, something much denser than expected was hooked. His footing slipped a fraction, his heel scraping against the stage as he absorbed the strain through his large frame.

The shadow dissolved as he drew it in.

Wait… there are two entities instead of one… What is this?

…

With a sharp exhalation, he forced them apart.

One presence tore free.

Something spilled out of his trunk. He craned his neck seeing Aoi collapse onto the stage, ripped free from the shadow that obviously had devoured her and hit the floor with a loud thud, whole and intact, her body skidding a short distance before coming to rest. She did not wake immediately, but she still breathed.

The rest vanished into Baku’s grasp.

The dream snapped, but he quickly repaired it.

Everything froze at that moment.

Lights, air and sound, everything that made up the dream locked in place as he commanded. The world was told to hold right where it was. And it did…

Except for three.

Sumire stood rigidly, her breath caught halfway in her chest.
Riko’s mouth was still open from her scream, the sound trapped behind clenched teeth.
Yuna’s eyes flicked between them, calculating and wary, almost as though she were Maleficent herself.

They did not pause with the rest of the world.

They stared at Baku, trying to process what happened.

Then a fourth stirred.

Aoi groaned softly and shifted, her lashes fluttering as consciousness crept back in. She rolled onto her side with a faint wince, then pushed herself upright, one hand pressed to her temple.

“What… happened?” she murmured.

Her gaze lifted, and the tension drained from her all at once.

Sumire gasped and rushed to her side, wrapping her arms around Aoi.

“Aoi-chan!” Sumire’s eyes filled with tears and her teeth gritted as she stared at Baku.

“Oh.” Relief softened Aoi’s face, her shoulders loosening as if she had just realized she was safe. “It’s all right, Sumire-chan. I’m okay.” Aoi gazed into Sumire’s eyes, touching her cheek as though she feared that she’d never be able to touch her that way again.

She sat up properly and turned toward Baku.

“Don’t be afraid of him. He’s a noble baku, Sumire-chan… Everyone, please thank him for what he did for us today,” Aoi said gently, certainty filling her voice. “Thank you, Baku-san.”

The others hesitated.

Baku were guardians.
Eaters of nightmares.
Protectors.

They were supposedly good for the most part.

“…Thank you,” she said, her voice shaking with relief and emotion.

Aoi bowed her head slightly. “Thank you for protecting my dream, Baku-san.”

Baku inclined his head in return, a deep, old-fashioned bow executed with precise grace, his hand pressed to his heart. His hat tipped forward, the gesture polished and sincere.

“Your stage goes on,” he said warmly. “I look forward to seeing you finish your play. I will see to it that you may.”

He straightened and gave a brief wink.

Sumire and Riko stared at him in astonishment. Yuna tilted her head thoughtfully.

But then something twisted in his chest. Two presences had been inside him just now, but one had come out. One of them remained within him. The nightmare stalking through his dream world these months had been successfully consumed.

He faded from sight and the dream resumed its flow.

Despite his relief, he was filled with a peculiar disquiet.

He returned to his place above the audience and watched the play from there as he worked to settle his nerves.

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