Chapter 53 - Hanging Colors I

The festival came sooner than Lazar had expected. It was easy to fall into a rhythm of practice and research, the vibrant red leaves of the tree a constant, unchanging presence that seemed to blur the passing of time. There were the dark lines of the charts and notes, the lingering dull ache in his chest, and the woven strings of essence splitting across his vision.

“You know,” Ciel had remarked with a raised eyebrow one night. “Not that I don’t admire the dedication, but working yourself to the bone probably doesn’t help much with the magic thing.”

Lazar knew there was truth in the demon’s words. As much as he pushed past and tried to ignore it, a growing fatigue settled over him the longer he trained—an oppressive weight steadily crushing down. It made it more difficult to focus, but at the same time, he couldn’t afford to stop and take a break either. Not when he still hadn’t found a solution.

By then, he’d managed to create a fairly detailed diagram of the soul and mapped on the damage collected during the fall. The soul itself was comprised of several individual layers, and it was, theoretically, possible to pull essence down those different routes as if they were separate halls and passages.

The problem was that the damage was far more extensive than he’d thought, cutting as deep as the innermost core of the soul, which had only barely survived unharmed.

He supposed he should’ve expected this to an extent. He’d fallen all the way down to the Abyss, only a single plane above immediate destruction to the Oblivion in the Void. That required a near complete annihilation of the soul.

Still, there was a difference between mentally knowing something and being made to see it, Lazar thought. He couldn’t tell if it was hesitation, however brief, or inexperience on Julius’s part that had saved him. It was difficult to see the wounds and not think about the intention, the deliberation behind them.

Given the current state of his soul, there were no clear pathways he could draw essence in that wouldn’t inevitably pass through a broken area. His hand gripped at the mark. He already knew what would happen then.

“Hey.”

A low voice snapped the seraph out of his thoughts, and he glanced over to see Ciel raising an eyebrow at him. Around them, the mutters of the villagers filtered back into his attention, and Lazar silently adjusted the bag of food he was carrying on his back.

The residents of Carran had set out that morning, moving together in a slow, steady mass as they traveled to the place the festival would occur.

Every person in the small procession carried a bag or basket filled with either cloth strips, tents and bedrolls, or with other supplies for the upcoming feast. Even the children had a few of those cloth pieces in hand, a little girl in front of Lazar giggling as she twirled a long lavender strip in the air like a ribbon.

He admittedly felt a bit uneasy surrounded by so many people, even if they were focused on their own conversations. It wasn’t the entire village—according to Matilda, the people who traveled to the festival location rotated every year—but it did feel like it was.

“You thinking about that magic stuff again?”

Ciel’s voice remained casual. She had two bags on her back that clinked slightly when she walked. Pots and pans, Lazar presumed.

“I was,” the seraph admitted, and Ciel snorted.

“You really don’t know how to take a break.”

Lazar smiled a little at that. He adjusted the bag again. Though it was overcast again that day, the breeze was pleasant. Light and just chilly enough to make its presence known, but not to be overly distracting. It might’ve been his imagination, but the air seemed crisper and more full.

“I’m admittedly becoming a bit impatient,” he said. His brows furrowed. “I feel as though I haven’t made any progress.”

The flesh eater hummed at that. “Well, no point in thinking about it now. Might as well take a break while you’ve got the chance.”

“Perhaps.” Lazar carefully stepped to the side as the little girl with the ribbons wove around another child, the two apparently deciding to play a version of tag using the cloths to extend their range. The childrens’ parents watched with slightly exasperated, but fond smiles. Nothing, it seemed, could ruin the mood of the day.

The seraph glanced around, attempting to find Madeline and Matilda. Though they’d started out walking near each other, he and Ciel had quickly been swept into the crowd as they left Carran.

There. A little ways behind them, he could make out the two sisters walking near the edge of the crowd, slightly removed from the rest of the villagers.

He frowned. Though it was a bit difficult to see between the masses of people, Madeline’s movements seemed a bit unsteady. She swayed a little as she walked, and Matilda was keeping close. Even her pace was noticeably slower than the others around them.

“Excuse me,” Lazar said politely as he maneuvered through the crowd. His steps slowed the closer he got, and he frowned as he neared the two sisters.

Madeline’s brows were scrunched, and her hands shook a little around the straps of the bag she was carrying. Despite the clear signs of exertion, her eyes were hard, the most annoyed he’d seen from the human, and she was staunchly looking away from Matilda. The elder’s brows were furrowed, and it was almost jarring to see on her usually stoic features.

As the seraph drew near, Madeline looked up, and she beamed.

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“Lazar!” she called, moving a little faster. It was less to get close to him, Lazar suspected, and more to put more distance between herself and Matilda. “How do you like festival day so far?”

Lazar blinked. “It’s been nice,” he said simply, and the woman laughed.

“I guess it’s too early to tell, huh? But we should get there soon.” Her breaths were a little heavier and less even than usual, Lazar noted. He slowed his pace.

“Please forgive me for intruding,” he said slowly, “but are you alright?”

Almost immediately the smile vanished from the woman’s features. She pursed her lips.

“I’m fine.”

“No you’re not.”

Matilda approached, frowning at her sister. Her eyes shifted over to Lazar. “I’ve been trying to convince her to give me her bag, but she’s being stubborn.”

“Like I’ve been saying, it’s fine.” Madeline huffed and sped up her pace. “Everyone does their part, even the kids.” She nodded pointedly at the determined looking little boy holding a basket a few paces in front of them.

“You’re being difficult.”

“You’re being a nag.”

Matilda shot Lazar a look, but the seraph wasn’t sure what to say either. Madeline was clearly exhausted, but she seemed equally committed to continuing on with the procession. He frowned. They’d been walking since dawn that morning, and by now the sun, visible occasionally between the clouds, had already reached its apex.

“Perhaps,” Lazar began, choosing his words carefully, “It would be—”

“We’re here!”

Madeline’s voice, noticeably brighter than before, interrupted the seraph, and he looked up.

Past the crowd of people, against the grey horizon stood a line of trees. Excited murmurs rose, a few walking faster, and Lazar squinted in an attempt to get a better look at the area the festival would take place in.

Compared to the forests closer to Carran, the trees here were noticeably taller. Straight, thick trunks shot straight up into the sky like spires while horizontal branches stretched off of them. They were, however, completely barren, the wood of the trees a dull brown-grey. With their pointed tips, they looked almost like blades jutting out from the earth at a distance.

As the group neared and made the final ascent up a slight incline into the forest proper, Lazar noted the wind picking up around them. He inhaled, the breeze whistling with an unending, lively movement that rattled the branches but didn’t manage to break any off. If he closed his eyes, it sounded almost like music.

The procession of villagers continued into the forest, the chatter louder and more boisterous than ever. The sight of the trees seemed to have reignited Madeline’s determination, and she walked ahead of them, pointedly not looking back. Matilda just shook her head and sighed.

“…Will she be alright?” Lazar asked quietly. It took a moment for Matilda to respond.

“I think so,” she finally said. Her eyes never moved away from Madeline as she spoke.

The seraph frowned. The answer didn’t inspire much confidence, but the woman did seem fine for now. The villagers around them were slowing their pace, a few stopping and dropping their bags and baskets. Lazar looked around. There was a slightly wider space on the forest floor here, but there were still too many trees to call it a proper clearing. It seemed, however, that it was enough for the purposes of the festival.

As the people around them began to unpack, Lazar hesitated.

“Where should I put the food?”

Matilda waved to the left. “Should be over there,” she said. “Margaret’s managing the cooking.”

Nodding, the seraph made to leave, but paused. Up ahead, Madeline had shrugged off her own bag and was leaning slightly against a tree. She still looked rather tired, but didn’t otherwise seem injured.

Matilda, noticing his concern, waved him away.

“I’ll check up on her,” she muttered. Blue eyes shifted over to him. “You’d better hurry over with the food or you’ll delay the feast.”

Lazar nodded and, after taking a second to scan the crowd and note the area where a few people were unpacking pots and pans, he stepped over.

A man sniffing at what appeared to be a piece of cheese looked up, grinning when he noticed him approaching. Lazar carefully removed the bag and began pulling out its contents, internally impressed at just how much food the village had collectively managed to pack.

“You’re the newcomer, right?” The man grinned and set the cheese down, raising a slightly dirty hand that seraph took. The man shook it enthusiastically. On closer inspection, he realized that this was one of the two workers he’d seen that day when he’d gone to find Alaric.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Lazar said.

“This’s your first festival right? They don’t do this where you’re from?”

Lazar shook his head. “As far as I’m aware, no. Though admittedly I’m not entirely sure what the festival involves yet.”

“Eh, you’ll figure it out soon enough. Not like it’s complicated,” the man added with a snort.

The seraph pulled out the last item, a wrapped pack of dried meat, and set the now empty bag aside. He looked around, noting that there also seemed to be a good number of people clearing away fallen branches, setting up tents, some others standing as lookouts for the laughing children as they ran around.

“Do we have specific duties?” he asked, and the man chuckled at that.

“You talk funny. Nah, nothing that clear cut.” He shrugged. “Just do whatever you’re good at. Chopping wood or scouting or whatever. Personally I’m staying right here. Margaret keeps trying to get people to overcook the potatoes and I’m not standing for it this year.”

There seemed to be a joke there that Lazar wasn’t privy to, and he simply nodded. He’d brought his halberd with him, the blade securely wrapped with multiple layers of thick cloth to avoid accidentally cutting anything. He wasn’t sure how effective it would be at chopping wood, however, though when he glanced up he spotted Ciel some ways away cutting firewood with her axe without a care in the world.

“I’ll help here as well, if that’s alright.”

“Of course, of course! Everybody’s welcome,” the man said heartily. He raised a hand, moving to slap the seraph’s back, and he tensed but succeeded at suppressing the instinctive flinch. He was only being friendly, Lazar knew, and he did appreciate the sentiment.

By then, all the pots, pans, and cutting boards had been laid out, and an older woman who Lazar assumed was Margaret was walking down the array of ingredients, muttering to herself and marking them down on a list before pointing and directing the waiting villagers and assigning tasks. It was fairly well organized, and Lazar could tell just how familiar the festival was to the people of Carran to have developed such a smooth, unspoken system.

Lazar ended up on cutting duty. He began carefully dicing the vegetables into even pieces. It was soothing in a way, the sound of the wind whistling behind him and his hands going through the repeated, familiar movements.

Matilda’s voice suddenly rang in his ears, the memory of their conversation that night rising unbidden. His hand slowed, and his brows furrowed. Why was he thinking about that now?

Lazar shook his head and resumed working on his task. Today was meant for merriment, after all, no matter how uneasy the prospect of resting made him.

Through the branches, the sun was just beginning its steady descent towards the horizon. The laughs and chatters of villagers filled the space, the energy already vibrant despite them having only just arrived.

Slowly but surely, the seraph felt some of the tension bleed away from his shoulders.

The festival proper would begin soon.