The wagon looked like a house on wheels, from the outside. On the inside it was anything but. On the inside it was a bed that ran the length of the wagon, a black iron stove in the corner, and a pair of chests that probably held clothing or valuables. Onainat took the bed. He was sitting on the floor, close to the iron stove, drinking in the warmth of it through his skin. You could forget how cold the desert was if you let yourself. Part of him simply couldn't believe what he'd seen. Part of him simply couldn't believe that he'd been in the shadow of Yggdrasil, that he'd seen the realm of the gods, the Empyrean extending endlessly before him. He could have climbed into the endless tower that stretched to the highest point in creation. He could have combed the heavens for the souls of the departed. He could have... but when he looked at Onainat's slight frame he thought again. Tucked under a pile of blankets, one bare shoulder exposed, she looked more peaceful than he could ever imagine being. Was she dreaming of coins and other various things that shone in the sunlight? That dream would seem superfluous, but it was probably the best dream for her. The only dream.

( He was waiting for her to wake up. )

Ash was still floating before him, floating like snow. Flecks of ruin clinging to his clothing. Skandra resisted the urge to wipe his face clean as he shoved the Vel into place on his belt. Whatever it was... whatever madness they had created... it was done. His body ached with the strikes that thing had managed to land against him. Hard to care that this women's clothing he'd stuffed himself into was torn to hell. Harder to care that Uathis was probably going to die. His breath was coming ragged to him now. Onainat was going to live. That was the important part. A dragon. He should have guessed, if he had half a brain. The desert heat hadn't bothered her at all. It had nearly ruined him. Skandra could feel whatever strength he had left seeping out of him. Exhaustion setting in. She was going to have to carry him back, or else wait for him to wake up with a little more energy.

Skandra felt every bone creak as he moved, felt every tense muscle screaming out against the surface of his skin. Couldn't stop the grunts that were escaping from the back of his throat as he lurched toward... something. Something worth having, or something that was irrelevant? That probably depended on whether or not he died here. It wasn't going to be that way. But on the other side of the door they'd taken to get here was a desert. And only a peddler's mad company to keep him safe until he reached civilization. Whatever that creature was, it had been blown to hell, but he didn't know if that was enough for him. Almost he regretted coming here. Almost. Running a gloved pair of fingers across his cheek rewarded him with blood on leather. Still bleeding. From his face, even. Tomorrow morning, if he saw it, was going to be miserable. His only company would be agonizing stiffness in his muscles.

( And a vicious headache. )

Skandra could see why they were called the Hanging Gardens. Hard not to, with a thousand strands of... something green... hanging in your bloody fucking face. They were vines but thicker, coated with coarse thin strands of green that seemed like blades of grass but looked more like hair. And they were dotted along the way with flowers. Dandelions. Poinsettias. Every type of flower that was not a flower and some that were. Reds and greens and blues abounded. Everywhere. Though there were paths between these hanging things - gaps where the vines did not drop - Skandra couldn't help but feel they were walking in a maze. West. West to the Fountain of the Dome of the Eternal Sky. A florid name for something like that. What would they see when they arrived? And more importantly, from what were the vines hanging? He thought he saw coarse wood when he looked up. He thought he did. But water would drip down, and he would flinch to save his eyes, or one of the vines would move and he would be looking for something to jump out at him. Funny how strange such a beautiful thing could be. No one had ever seen its like. Entire flower beds growing, hanging, on each of these vines.

( Incredible. )

As the mist parted before him Skandra wished he could cast off that ridiculous red hat. It stood there like a beacon, perched atop his head and howling, inviting the enemy to come and find him wherever they might be. Those black shapes were growing closer all the time but with them came a sense of... something. Dread, maybe. Not dread but something just as ominous. He couldn't put his finger on it. Hating his hat for being his hat - however temporary the arrangement - was a response to that dread. He could bow down to it, give in to it, or he could push on. Pushing on was the better option. So that was what he did. All this time walking through nothing but mist like soup and they still hadn't found a thing. Only a curious sound which he thought was drums. It sounded like drums. Skandra wanted his sword in his hand. It would have comforted him. This was the other side, the realm beyond realms. All points intersected in that one place but he didn't know how to get back. Maybe that didn't matter anymore. Maybe he wasn't supposed to get back. Or maybe this was all some sort of cosmic joke. Maybe there was no getting back.

( Still, he wished he knew what the hell to call the place. )

"If this is a dream," Skandra muttered. "We can't be having the same one. Can we?"

He was lying on his back with the sky spinning above him, spinning and yet stationary, as though he was the only thing moving and the sky itself remained untouched. Perhaps it was true. But he wasn't moving. Only the sky was moving and it wasn't. Moving. Skandra spit up water, drenched his throat and his face in the stuff. Swimming. He hadn't been swimming. Every muscle ached. His eyes burned as though they'd never seen light before, as if the desert with all of its torments was nothing beside the radiance of this sun. This sun. Why this sun? Why not the sun? It was this sun, not the sun. His clothing was clean. Not wet but clean. Only his head was wet, only his face, as if the water in his lungs had come from nowhere and was nothing. Onainat likewise coughed up that water. It was pointless. There was no reason for it but it was happening.

"If this is a dream," Skandra muttered. We can't be having the same one. Can we?"

( He was still on his back. )

Despite the bells - which he was systematically cutting from the belt as they walked - good time was made on the non-existent path. It wasn't just a way home that he was thinking about now but the end of his journey. He'd come here looking for something, after all, and now that the fear of death was behind him Skandra Tyullis meant to find it. Doing so without a map, or at least without a map that had discernible landmarks, was slow going. You could walk across the desert for a thousand years and never find anything worth a damn. With all of the sand kicked up by storms... no surprise he saw as many bones as he did dunes, and no markers to name them. Here the sand shifted all the time. Here a thing could be exposed one day and hidden the next. How massive was this graveyard called a desert? Did it extend all the way to the peaceable kingdoms of the west? To the badlands of the north or the mysterious empires of the south? He didn't know. Knowing would have been nice. Knowing would have at least made him feel a little better about the legend he was joining should he fall. That was closer than he wanted to admit.

( Certainly closer than Onainat thought. )

Reaching for something that wasn't there. Bad sign. Skandra glared through the haze of the desert at nothing in particular before he decided that there was no tree, and that there was no spring. Why did someone always imagine a single isolated tree in the middle of all this nothing? Skandra would have settled for something closer to a city. He wasn't a creature of wilderness and forests sprawling but a creature of the city. Any narrow crawl of degenerates and well-intentioned criminals was his to command as he pleased. This, on the other hand, was the sort of shit he hated the most. Just because he'd done it before didn't mean he was interested in doing it again. Doing what Shantar said usually require outstanding feats of concentration and willpower. This, on the other hand, was something entirely different. If Skandra didn't want to wring the old man's neck every day for a thousand years he would have killed him. Of course, there was a voice in his head telling him that it could have been worse. It always could be worse. He could be, obviously, dead. For that he hadn't decided whether to thank Onainat or curse at her.

( His lips were dry. )

There were, upon reflection, a great many things about this world that no one knew. Oh, you could prattle on about science and the discovery of the wheel, of fire, but there were too many things that a person didn't know. One of those things that currently plagued Skandra Tyullis was how to pick a very peculiar lock. It was, apparently, designed by a dwarf of some repute and a known scoundrel who had a debt to pay off with the local magistrate. Or so the story went. Therefore it was the most confounding lock he'd ever seen with his two eyes. It was also problematic because, in two minutes' time, he was to be securely fastened in a cage that had the lock affixed prominently to it. That cage would then be thrown over the side of a barge, and he would sink to the bottom of a river without a name and die. Seemed like a lot of work to kill one person. Then again, considering the source of his current troubles, he shouldn't have been so surprised. Over the years and in a variety of ways Skandra Tyullis had proved to be a thorn in the side of Uathis. It only made sense, given how often he'd tried in the past, that this semi-obscure mage who fancied himself a collector of ancient things would want to be sure.

There was sure, and then there was...

( ...overkill. )