Chapter 41 - Madeline and Matilda

Ciel was the one to break the silence with a loud snort. The human took a step back.

“Gee, what gave it away?” The demon grinned, and the woman didn’t look remotely reassured. Her gaze was still shifting between them, brown eyes in constant motion, and it occurred to Lazar that they probably made for a very strange sight. He cleared his throat.

“Thank you for helping us,” he said politely. “You’re correct, we’re not from this area.” He paused, considering, and carefully picked out his next words. “Apologies for our… appearances. We ran into a bit of a scuffle.”

The woman nodded slowly, though her fingers remained clenched around the basket handle. It was well worn, Lazar noted, with a number of different colored patches woven in paler or darker shades of wood. The stranger shifted her weight, long hair swaying with the movement. Still, despite her clear unease, she didn’t turn to leave yet.

“We’re trying to reach the village by the edge of these plains,” Lazar continued, “but I’m afraid we don’t know this area well.”

The woman’s eyes widened a fraction in recognition. Her gaze darted between them again, and Lazar could practically see her mind churning. After a brief moment of silence, her expression brightened.

“Oh! You must be refugees.” The tense line of her shoulders relaxed, and she nodded to herself, seemingly satisfied with the explanation. “What area are you from?”

“North,” came Ciel’s drawled response. The woman’s eyes softened.

“I see. I can’t imagine how hard the journey must’ve been.” She smiled warmly. “No need to worry, Carran’s very welcoming! I was actually a refugee too, you know. You won’t find a nicer place on the plane.”

Ciel raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Sounds like those Ash Riders’re causing problems.”

The woman deflated a little at that. “Ah, well, it’s not much worse than other factions. I don’t know whose territory you’re from, but the riders leave us alone for the most part.” Her eyes widened, and she flushed in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I completely forgot to introduce myself!” She bobbed her head in a gesture resembling a bow, her hands remaining steady on the basket. “I’m Madeline.”

“My name is Lazar,” the seraph responded politely.

“Ciel.”

Madeline nodded, repeating the names to herself under her breath. Her brows furrowed, and Lazar realized she was staring at the large stain and tear near his abdomen.

“That looks serious.”

One of Lazar’s hands drifted to the area self consciously.

“It’s fine. It’s already healed.”

Madeline hummed, though her brown eyes remained doubtful. “When we get to Carran, I can ask my sister to look at it. It wouldn’t be good if it got infected.”

The seraph blinked. They hadn’t discussed her leading them back to the village, but it seemed like Madeline had already decided on that course of action and assumed they would go along.

The woman in question frowned up at the overcast sky. The layers of flat grey clouds were now a shade darker, blending more seamlessly into the dark tops of the trees. The bright light of the realm gate continued to beam upwards, and around them, shadows lengthened across the hard earth like outstretched fingers.

“We should hurry back before it gets dark,” Madeline muttered. She straightened and gestured to the two of them, basket still held carefully in her other hand. “This way! It’s not too far from here.”

Lazar exchanged glances with Ciel, who looked unbothered at the turn of events. The demon simply shrugged and stepped forward to follow, and after a final sweep of their surroundings, Lazar did as well.

Around them, the web of branches grew denser, the patches of white moss more frequent. Some of it speckled the ground itself, appearing like snow in the distance. Lazar had to carefully maneuver his halberd to avoid hitting any trees. Ciel, in contrast, didn’t seem to care that she kept snapping branches.

“—lot of beasts lately,” Madeline was saying. “But as long as we stick to the edge of the forest, we should be fine.”

She maneuvered over increasingly bumpy earth with practiced ease, carefully protecting the contents of the basket. Lazar noted that the woman maintained a relatively slow pace, and every now and then she’d pause to catch her breath before continuing. He frowned. He knew that humans had less stamina than seraphs did, but this seemed odd even by human standards.

Despite the occasional pauses, Madeline maintained a cheery tone as she spoke. Up ahead, the trees began to thin, and through the gaps between crooked branches and ragged trunks, Lazar could make out the silhouette of a few distant buildings sitting on the horizon. He stepped closer to Ciel, keeping his voice quiet so that Madeline didn’t overhear.

“Do you know what’s north of here?”

The demon snorted. “Hell no. I just picked a direction. Worked out, didn’t it?”

Lazar’s eyes shifted to Madeline continuing forward steadily, unaware of the conversation taking place behind her, then back to Ciel.

“I suppose so. For now, the refugee story seems reasonable, but we’ll need to gather more information about this plane if we want to be convincing.”

“Hey, worst case scenario just say you hit your head and got amnesia. Works every time.”

Lazar smiled at that. “I don’t think that works with two people.”

“Call it collective amnesia. You gotta build on these things.”

“We’re here!” Madeline’s voice rang out from ahead, and Lazar turned.

Around them, the trees thinned until only a few stray trunks jutted out from the ground, scattered away from the greater mass of the forest. A thin trail of slightly more compact dirt wound upwards towards a small village comprised of squat wooden houses built around a dusty road. Surrounded on one side by the vast barren field and on the other three by sprawling forests, the buildings were easily dwarfed.

Though there wasn’t much greenery in the village that Lazar could see, he noticed a number of houses had long, vibrant pieces of fabric decorating their doors or trailing outside the windows. The patches of bold color were stark against their monochromatic backdrop, remaining strong even against the clouds of dust that rose from dry, cracked ground.

Besides the cloths, long black strings wove between buildings and around corners, held up on plain wooden poles. From what Lazar could tell, they seemed to extend far into the village, but from a distance it was difficult to tell their purpose.

Madeline gestured to a small home at the edge of the village, not much more than a shack. From their current angle, a stone well was visible by the back, and a line of damp clothes hung in the back to dry. Through cloudy windows, the warm glow of candlelight filtered through the glass.

Madeline stepped up to the front entrance and waited until Lazar and Ciel had caught up with her before raising a hand and knocking. She’d barely lifted her fist away from the door when it swung open, revealing a woman standing in the doorway who Lazar assumed was the sister she’d mentioned.

She was a little taller and older than Madeline, dressed in simple, practical clothes with a small knife fastened to her side. Her soft brown hair fell in similar long waves. Her blue eyes, however, bore none of the warmth of her sibling’s. They were narrowed, studying Lazar and Ciel with a sharp look.

“I told you to stop heading out by yourself.” The woman’s voice was like her eyes—flat and carrying an icy undercurrent. Madeline didn’t seem remotely bothered.

“It wasn’t very far,” she said easily.

“The riders passed by the woods. They could’ve seen you.”

“I was careful,” Madeline insisted. “Really, I’m fine! Besides, I wouldn’t have seen Lazar and Ciel if I hadn’t gone out.” She gestured at the two of them, sounding a little proud to have remembered their names immediately. “They’re refugees from the north.”

Her sister raised an eyebrow. “The north, is it.” It wasn’t a question. Blue eyes scanned the two of them, taking in the blood stains and lingering especially long on Lazar’s gleaming halberd. The seraph resisted the urge to tighten his grip around it. These were first plane humans, he reminded himself, and it wouldn’t do to needlessly antagonize them simply because he felt a little tense.

Normally he was much better at hiding these things. He frowned internally. The fight against Nero and the promise had brought new clarity, but with it had come a constant, thrumming anxiety. He couldn’t tell if it was an aftereffect of the fight or if he’d become more high strung since falling and it was only becoming more obvious now. He shook his head and focused on the conversation.

“I suppose you just believed them,” the woman was saying.

“They were trying to hide from the riders, and they didn’t do anything on the way here,” Madeline pointed out.

“And that was a risk you were willing to take.”

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The younger sibling chuckled nervously. “Uh, yes?”

The woman stared at them a little longer, those blue eyes distinctly unsettling, before, after what felt like hours, she sighed and stepped away from the doorway. Madeline’s eyes brightened, but before she could say anything, her sister interrupted her.

“Call Alaric. He can decide how to deal with them.”

Madeline nodded and turned back to Lazar and Ciel. “Don’t worry, Alaric’s very kind,” she said reassuringly. Stepping away, she reached for one of those odd black strings, pulling the one furthest to the left.

The moment she released the cord, the string vibrated in time with the ringing of a small bronze bell. A second section of string began to shake in turn, and another bell rang further away in the distance. The movement continued, running down the streets in an intricate web of string and sound.

“A friend designed it,” Madeline said when she caught Lazar staring, sounding proud.

At the door, the woman cleared her throat impatiently. She stretched out a hand towards the seraph and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not letting you in my house with a weapon. Hand it over.”

Her eyes were focused on the halberd, and Lazar felt himself tense instinctively. It was a reasonable request, he told himself, and not complying would likely lead to far more trouble. Besides, it wasn’t as though he was incapable of defending himself without it, he reasoned. This was different than when he’d just fallen and barely been able to move.

Exhaling and forcing himself to relax, the seraph carefully set the halberd in the woman’s hand. He could still feel the lingering chill of metal on his fingers.

She took a second to scan the weapon, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. She turned to Ciel next.

“Wipe off your hand. I won’t have you tracing blood on the floor.” She paused, frowning and eyeing first the demon, then the doorway critically. “You’ll have to duck.”

Ciel saluted lazily. She moved to wipe her bloody hand off on her clothes, and Lazar quickly pulled out one of the torn scraps of cloth and handed it to her. Somehow, he didn’t think the woman would appreciate it if the flesh eater simply moved the blood to another part of her clothes.

Ciel snorted at the gesture, but roughly wiped away the lingering blood and flesh from the wolf demon hybrid they’d encountered. It had already mostly dried by then, and dark flakes of it scattered onto the ground.

The woman nodded in approval and turned to enter the house, but before she could do so, Madeline tapped her shoulder. She raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“You forgot to introduce yourself,” Madeline said, smiling.

The woman frowned at that, glancing back, then over again at her sister, who continued to stare at her with hopeful brown eyes. Finally, she sighed in defeat.

“Matilda,” she muttered. “Now hurry inside.”

—

The interior of the home was perfectly clean, the furniture simple but practical. Someone had hung colorful cloths from the ceiling, adding a bit more vibrancy to the space, and vases of dried flowers decorated pristine little tables and shelves. It was cozy, Lazar thought. The warm shades of the wooden floorboards and walls was further emphasized by the soft candlelight and the evening light streaming through the windows. The seraph had always enjoyed the shifting skies of the first, second, and third planes. There was something special in the knowledge that even the first plane’s overcast sky could turn to warmer colors.

“Dinner’s on the stove. It’ll need to be reheated,” Matilda said. She strode across the living room and propped the halberd up on the far wall beside the windowsill. Lazar’s eyes lingered on it, memorizing its location. Caught in the light, the silver metal shone brightly.

“I can do it!” Madeline set down her basket and hurried over to the kitchen, which was little more than a stove and basin placed in the corner of the living room. A pile of wood was stacked beside it, and though not actively burning, a few lingering embers glowed within the firebox.

Madeline hummed as she lifted the pot lid, inspecting its contents and stirring the ladle a few times.

“Hm, there’s probably not enough for everyone, especially if Alaric’s also coming…” she muttered to herself. She turned to her sister. “Matilda, Lazar said he was hurt on the road. Could you take a look? I’ll make some more food.”

Matilda leveled the seraph with a flat stare, but sighed in begrudging agreement. Her eyes shifted over to Ciel. “And you?”

The demon had taken a seat on the worn couch. Every time she stood up, she did indeed have to duck to avoid hitting her head on the ceiling. Now, she snorted and waved nonchalantly.

“I’m doing just great, thank you. Don’t mind me.”

Matilda didn’t look particularly impressed at the response. She frowned, eyes hard as she studied the demon, who simply met her gaze with a raised eyebrow, posture relaxed.

“Matilda, they didn’t do anything on the way here,” Madeline reminded gently.

After a few more seconds of silence had passed, the older sibling finally sighed and turned away. She jerked her head, gesturing for Lazar to follow, and made her way down the narrow hall.

The floorboards creaked beneath their feet as they walked. Lazar noted that, while still small, the inside of the home was a bit bigger than the outside would have one believe. Isolated from the windows, dark shadows cloaked the space, and the walls were completely bare.

Matilda turned into the furthest room, and the seraph followed her inside. It looked to be a bedroom, with a single bed and desk pushed against the sole window. A bookshelf stood in the corner of the room, filled with books, journals, and scattered piles of loose paper. Compared to the rest of the spotless home, Lazar noted that a thick layer of dust had collected over the desk and bookshelf. The thin blanket over the bed, too, looked like it hadn’t been used in a long time.

Matilda stepped over to the desk, tugging open a drawer and rummaging around before pulling out a wooden box with a simple clasp and two black handles. She gestured at the bed impatiently.

“Well? Which wounds?”

Lazar paused. The mark of the fallen felt heavy on his chest, and though it hadn’t yet expanded, it would be blatantly obvious. While he didn’t know much about first plane customs, fallen weren’t viewed particularly well anywhere, and he’d rather not ruin the hospitality they’d been shown so far.

“It’s really alright,” he said. “Most of them have healed.”

Matilda gave him an unimpressed look and didn’t move from her spot.

Lazar frowned, thinking. “There’s a few minor cuts on my back,” he said slowly, “but none of them are serious.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Still, Lazar hesitated. The idea of turning around and leaving his back exposed to a stranger was unnerving, regardless of the intention. Especially without his wings, when his entire being felt lopsided and too light.

Matilda’s eyes narrowed, and her lips drew into a frown as she studied him.

And then, to his surprise, she reached for the knife at her waist and set it down on the bed where he could see it. The seraph blinked at it, the grey sheath sinking into the blankets. Matilda didn’t say a word, letting the gesture speak for itself.

Lazar’s eyes traced the plain wood, which was well worn and chipped in a few places. He took a steadying breath, then turned around to remove his coat. Behind him, he heard Matilda rummaging around the box and was careful to move his shirt to the front, using it to cover his chest. The slight chill bit against his skin, and he was once again acutely aware of how light his back was without his wings.

It occurred to him that the last time someone had checked his back for wounds had been in the dark, damp cell of Elysium’s prison, and his wings had been matted and filthy then.

He closed his eyes. That Julius was gone now, he reminded himself. If anything, looking back on it now, perhaps that should’ve been the first sign that something was wrong, that neither of them knew each other as much as he’d thought they did.

You’re crazy.

“I fell while we were traveling,” Lazar said. “The cuts should all be rather shallow.”

Matilda scoffed. “Let me do my job.” The sound of rummaging stopped. Lazar heard the woman turn, but the moment she did, she paused. He fought down the urge to tense, even as he felt the heavy weight of Matilda’s stare on him. He hadn’t felt any scars from the loss of his wings, but he suddenly wondered if there was some other indication of their former presence that he’d missed.

Before Lazar could think of something to say, he heard Matilda move again. The first aid box was set on the bed beside the knife, and Lazar could see its contents in the corner of his eye—rolls of bandages, clean cloths, herbs, needles.

“Well, you’re right about the cuts. Cleaning them should be enough to stave off infection.” The woman’s voice remained flat and difficult to decipher, but her next words were just a little slower. “I can’t do anything for the scars.”

Lazar froze, then realization dawned on him. The whip scars. His shoulders relaxed. It didn’t have to do with his wings.

“Thank you for the help,” he said sincerely. Matilda didn’t respond, just quietly turned to grab a cloth from the box and a small bottle. She moved with practiced efficiency, clearly having done this before.

“Madeline said you were from the north.” The woman suddenly broke the silence.

Lazar glanced back. “Yes,” he confirmed slowly. Matilda just hummed and continued, not speaking again until she was done. She rose, smoothing out her dress and tossing the dirtied cloths into a basket set in the corner.

“That should be enough for now. You’ll need to get new clothes after Alaric talks to you.” She eyed his stained, ripped coat pointedly. Lazar turned away and slid it on, quickly buttoning it up. He felt much better with his mark covered.

Through the walls, the seraph could hear the faint clanging of pots and the screech of furniture being shifted. He recognized Madeline’s cheery tone and Ciel’s familiar drawl. There was a third unfamiliar voice, however. Low and steady, the kind that held weight with little effort.

“Alaric must’ve arrived,” Matilda muttered. She turned to the door. “Come.”

When they stepped back into the living room, two smaller tables had been pushed together and moved in front of the couch to use for extra seats. A warm, earthy scent wafted from the open pot sitting on the stove, and the bowls had already been set.

Ciel was lounging on the couch, and she was the first to notice them. She raised an eyebrow, and Lazar simply nodded, which she seemed to take as a sign that things had gone smoothly.

Standing halfway between the couch and stove was an unfamiliar man. He was rather tall, with dark skin and closely cropped hair. He appeared to be in his middle ages, and his posture was perfectly straight, carrying an air of dignity that came with years of practice. Lazar’s eyes fell on the sheathed sword resting at his hip. Based on the way he carried himself alone, he guessed the man had some sort of formal combat training.

Madeline turned and smiled warmly at them. She opened her mouth to speak, but Matilda ignored her, instead striding forward to the man who Lazar assumed was Alaric. She said something too low for Lazar to hear, occasionally gesturing with her hands, and Alaric frowned. On the couch, Ciel turned to the two, golden eye sharp as she studied them.

After several more moments passed, Lazar felt eyes on him and realized that both of them kept glancing over in his direction. Alaric’s frown had deepened, and by the time Matilda was done speaking and he’d straightened again, the seraph’s unease had only grown.

With slow, deliberate steps, the man stepped forward and nodded at both the seraph and the flesh eater.

“Good evening. Lazar and Ciel, is it?” he greeted. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Alaric.” Steady dark brown eyes studied them closely. “I believe we have some things we need to discuss.”