Eating Your Weight: An Offer of Salvation

[An Offer of Salvation]

Mittelt strode through the halls of the Sitri manor, her footsteps echoing softly against the lavish floors as she walked with her head held high.

It had been at least a decade since she stepped foot in the world below, and in that time, the Underworld hadn’t changed much. The air still carried that faint scent of sulfur, the false sky was still just a little too perfect, and that same oppressive weight of power saturated every air she breathed.

And yet, despite everything being the same, it still felt different. Because in all of her years stepping foot in the Underworld, she had never done so as a traitor.

Traitor. The word sat heavy in her chest, a bitter pill that she still hadn’t quite managed to swallow. She was a traitor. A Fallen Angel who had turned her back on her own kind and now relied on the charity of Devils and the protection of a human girl who wasn’t even out of high school yet.

Her former comrades would have called her pathetic. She would have agreed with them, not too long ago.

Mittelt passed by a series of paintings lining the walls, homages to lives since passed or perhaps just gifts from family friends. Her nose wrinkled at the displays. The Sitri family clearly had more money than sense if their taste in decor was anything to go by.

“Hideous,” she muttered, pausing in front of one particularly gaudy piece. It depicted a woman in frilly dress, her face so severe that Mittelt wondered if she had ever smiled in her life. The frame was pure gold and covered in ornate carvings that served only to make the entire affair more tacky.

Mittelt leaned in closer, noting the layer of dust that had accumulated along the top edge of the frame. Her lip curled.

“And the maids can’t even be bothered to do a proper job,” she muttered, feeling a bit indignant by proxy.

The irony of her criticism wasn’t lost on her, but she had carried a particular amount of pride in her work, whatever that may be. She knew a sloppy job when she saw one.

She moved on, continuing her aimless wandering through the manor. The place was massive, far larger than any home she had ever stayed in. Corridors branched off in every direction, each one more lavishly decorated than the last. Tapestries depicting ancient battles hung from the walls, their threads woven with such detail that the images seemed to move in the flickering torchlight.

Everything about this place screamed of old money and older power. It was the kind of home that reminded her of exactly where she stood in the grand scheme of things. Nowhere important.

Mittelt’s journey soon found her stepping onto a balcony at the end of a long hallway, the glass doors standing just slightly ajar to let moonlight pour through unfettered. A warm breeze drifted in, carrying with it the scents of the Underworld – sulfur and ash, yes, but also something else. Something green and alive that she hadn’t expected.

Mittelt stepped through the doors onto the balcony. The space was generous, easily large enough to host a small gathering, with an ornate wrought-iron railing that she sneered at upon first glance but she ignored the decor for now, her attention drawn instead to the view beyond.

Lush forests stretched out before her, a sea of deep greens and purples that seemed to go on forever. The trees were similar to those found above, but clearly hardier to survive the tough conditions that had only recently been done away with. Strange flowers bloomed in clusters along the forest floor, their petals glowing faintly in the dim light of the Underworld’s false night.

It was beautiful. Almost annoyingly so.

Mittelt stepped up onto the railing, her bare feet scrunching against cold iron. She stood there, hands held at her side as she beheld the scenery, and the wind picked up, ruffling her blonde hair and sending goosebumps racing across her exposed arms.

She stared out at the forest, letting her mind drift to a topic that seemed to pop up so often now.

Where would she be right now if not for Naomi?

Sulfur curled in her nose, carried by the breeze, and Mittelt felt her expression sour.

Dead. The answer was obvious. She would be dead, her body left to rot in that alley. Or if by some miracle she managed to survive that, killed by the first Fallen that she came into contact with for betraying their values.

Because that was what she was now. A traitor. A Fallen Angel who followed the wrong leader and ended up in the gutter because of it, alive only at the whims of a human she failed to kill.

Mittelt’s hands curled into fists at her sides. The memory still burned, the notion of waking up in an unfamiliar bed, her wounds healed but her pride in tatters, forced to confront the reality that she owed her continued existence to someone she had been sent to kill.

Naomi Kanei. The name stirred something in her chest, a complex tangle of emotions that she couldn’t quite unravel. Gratitude, yes, though she would sooner tear out her own tongue than admit it aloud, but also wariness, and something else that she refused to examine too closely.

These past few weeks had been... wierd. That was the only word for it. Strange and confusing and utterly unlike anything she had experienced before.

She had been a maid. An actual maid, forced to clean and cook and perform menial labor like some common servant. The humiliation of it still made her cheeks burn when she thought about it too hard. Her hands had never touched a piece of laundry before she found herself in that damnable household. It was beneath her, beneath any Fallen Angel of even marginal standing.

And yet...

Mittelt’s fists slowly began to unclench as she thought about the past few weeks. Despite the shame and embarrassment that clouded them, they had undeniably been some of the most pleasant in recent memory.

She scoffed at the thought, but it refused to leave.

Though it rankled her to admit, her life as a Low-class Fallen had been anything but glamorous. Certainly, she had all the freedom in the world, but when one was at the bottom of the totem pole power-wise, there wasn’t really much you could do with it. She had spent decades taking whatever scraps the Grigori threw her way, trying to improve her power and standing without putting herself at risk of being destroyed.

She had never had a place to call her own. Never had people who cared whether she lived or died, beyond the inconvenience of replacing her. Kalawarner and Dohnaseek had been companions of a sort, but companions in the Grigori were seldom trusted. They would have sold her out in a heartbeat if it meant advancing their own standing.

She would have done the same to them, of course. That was just how things worked, but not with Naomi.

The girl was strange. Powerful in a way that Mittelt still didn’t fully understand. She had defeated Mittelt effortlessly, had humiliated her in battle and then turned around and saved her life, bringing Mittelt into her home when she could have left her to die. Who did that?

Mittelt stared blankly at the cloudless sky, a spark of realization passing over her as her mind raced through memories of the past month. Safe. She felt safe with Naomi.

Years spent as an agent of the Grigori had taught her to watch her back religiously. Trust was a luxury that Fallen Angels in her position couldn’t afford. She had survived by being paranoid, by assuming that everyone around her was a potential threat.

But with Naomi, she didn’t have to worry about a knife in her back while she was cleaning shelves. She didn’t have to fear poison in her drink when she sat down to eat with the girl’s family. It was like she was one of them, even though she had tried to kill them all.

“You’re not alone.”

When was the last time Mittelt had felt safe? She couldn’t remember.

She inhaled, the brimstone-laden air filling her lungs. The wind picked up again, stronger this time, and she felt it tugging at her, and she followed its desire, stepping off the railing and plummeting several stories to the ground below.

Wind rushed past her as she fell towards the sprawling estate below, the ground rushing up to meet her. Mittelt’s eyes drifted shut as she allowed herself to enjoy the freefall for the barest moments, before digging inside and calling upon her Light and the blazing heat that lurked just underneath.

Tainted feathers drifted towards the ground as she shot towards the sky on wings black as sin. She soared through the air, catching the wind and slicing through the clouds high above the estate. She came to a stop miles high, hanging there as she stared at the false sky above her.

Behind her, a single black feathered wing flapped against the air, catching wind beside one of tattered leather. A dragon’s wing.

Her power – Naomi’s power – raced inside her, burning through her body with a warmth that was almost pleasant. It mingled with her own natural strength, practically indistinguishable from her Light, but different all the same.

Mittelt hung there in the air for a long moment, just thinking to herself.

Now that she was back in the Underworld, where cells of Fallen could be lurking around any corner, she wondered… What was she going to do now? She couldn’t play the part of a maid forever. Members of the Grigori would come after her eventually, seeking revenge or even just to wipe her off the face of the earth for the fun of it.

She knew she couldn’t defeat them all. But she also couldn’t just hide behind Naomi while the girl defended her. Not only was it unfair to ask her to keep saving her life, but Mittelt’s pride wouldn’t allow it.

Wind whistled past her, ruffling her dress. She could just leave. She had already paid her debt to Naomi, helped her against that Yokai and cleared things between them. The girl owed her nothing, and she owed the girl nothing.

And yet, something inside her quivered at the idea of leaving, a tightening in her chest that she had never experienced before and thus, couldn’t put a name to. Yet it was a powerful emotion, one that refused to be ignored for even a moment.

Mittelt growled, clenching her fists. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

The world around her answered with a cough.

Mittelt’s eyes narrowed, and she turned. One hand was already in motion as she threw a crackling spear of light at the figure hovering behind her. The force of her magic tore through the sky with a sound just short of a sonic boom as her weapon shot forth like a missile…

Only to be plucked out of the air like a ripe fruit, held between fingers glowing a soft yellow.

“Whoa, a little trigger-happy, aren’t we?” The voice was laced with amusement, and Mittelt created another spear as it came closer. “Those are some good instincts, though. I guess I should know better than to try and sneak up on you older kiddos.”

Mittelt’s eyes widened as a smirking face came into view. Tan skin, brown eyes, and a goatee that curled with the smirk of the mouth wearing it. The man had one hand shoved into his pocket in a lackadaisical manner, while the other was clutching her light spear like one might an iron pole instead of a mass of volatile energy forced into solid shape.

And behind him, ten massive black wings caught the air, dwarfing Mittelt’s two like the sun to the moon.

“G-governor General!” She stuttered, horrified. The spear in her hand crackled, casting harsh shadows across her face as she hovered there, heart pounding against her ribs.

What was he doing here? This was Devil territory, the seat of House Sitri, no less. There was no way the leader of the Grigori could just waltz in without anyone noticing. The Devils should be on high alert, sensing such a powerful Fallen Angel in their midst.

Unless he didn’t want to be noticed, she thought, her blood running cold as she stared at him. Azazel was older and far more powerful than most Fallen or Devils currently in existence. If he didn’t want to be found, he simply wouldn’t be. The fact that she had sensed him at all meant he had allowed it.

“Cat got your tongue?” Azazel asked, still wearing that infuriating smirk. He twirled her light spear between his fingers like a baton, completely unbothered by the volatile energy that should have burned through his hand. “I thought you’d have more to say, considering the circumstances.”

Mittelt’s jaw tightened. She wanted to fly, to flee in the opposite direction as fast as her wings could carry her. But she knew it would be pointless. Even at her full strength, she wouldn’t be able to outrun the Governor General.

“What are you doing here?” she managed, hating the slight tremor in her voice.

Azazel hummed, stroking his beard with his free hand. “Well you see, I heard tell about one of my agents going renegade and getting captured by the enemy.” His brown eyes glittered with amusement. “But Zariel was a little sparse on the reports, and I happened to have some free time. So I figured I’d check up on things myself. What a lucky break that I caught word of you in the Underworld, am I right? Really saved me a hike.”

He laughed softly, before his eyes trailed back to her.

“That said,” he glanced at her wings, then to the spear still clutched in his other hand, pink tinged with orange from a magic that a Fallen had no right to possess. “I’m glad I did. This little stroll is turning out much more interesting that I could have ever imagined.”

Mittelt’s grip on her own spear tightened. The silence stretched between them, punctuated by the crackling energy.

“Sir,” she began, licking her dry lips. “I–”

“Relax,” Azazel interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. I think we both know that.”

The blunt statement made Mittelt flinch, but she couldn’t deny the truth of it. Azazel was in a class of his own, power-wise. He could end her existence with a thought if he so chose.

“So why am I still breathing?” she asked, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.

Azazel tilted his head, regarding her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. “That’s an interesting question, isn’t it? Why would I let a traitor live?”

Mittelt’s heart stuttered at the word, and Azazel chuckled, shrugging. “I guess the only explanation would be if I thought you weren’t a traitor at all, wouldn’t it?”

Mittelt blinked. Blinked again. “What?”

“Oh, sure, from the outside, it looks bad,” Azazel said conversationally. “You were defeated in battle, captured by the enemy, and now you’re living in their house, wearing a maid’s uniform and serving them tea. It really doesn’t paint the best picture for our OPSEC, does it?”

A cold sweat broke out on the back of Mittelt’s neck. How does he know that?

Azazel smiled, as if he read her mind. “I make it my business to know things. You know as well as I do that the Grigori hasn’t lasted this long just because we have a couple of big names at the top.”

He tossed her light spear up and caught it again, the motion almost playful. “But that’s beside the point. The point is, I’ve seen your reports and your work. You’re many things – arrogant, impulsive, and undeniably sloppy – but a traitor? No. Traitors have conviction, and you’ve never had much of that.”

The backhanded compliment made Mittelt bristle. “Sir, I–”

“Let me finish,” Azazel said, his tone remaining light but the weight behind it stopped any objections she might have had. “You followed Raynare because she had power and influence, not because you believed in her cause. And when she turned out to be the traitor they’re calling you, you latched onto the next thing that offered you something.” He tilted his head. “Question is, what does this new arrangement offer you?”

Mittelt hesitated, considering the question. What did Naomi offer her? Safety? A place to stay? Food and shelter?

Warmth, a traitorous voice whispered in the back of her mind. Acceptance.

“Living,” she said finally, her voice carefully neutral. “The chance to keep breathing.”

Azazel hummed, clearly unconvinced, but he didn’t push the issue. Instead, he looked again at the corrupted light spear in his hand, watching the way the orange energy danced along the pink.

“This power,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “It’s not yours, is it? At least not completely. It belongs to that dragon girl.”

Mittelt stiffened. “She... shared some of her power with me. To save my life.”

“Fascinating.” He examined the spear. “I’ve heard of such things, but I’ve rarely seen them in person. What an interesting opportunity we have here.”

He squeezed his hand. The energy dispersed into nothing, the magic coming undone without so much as a whisper of destruction and Mittelt’s eyes widened at the ease displayed in the action. He didn’t even have to try to do that.

Azazel fell silent, shoving his free hand into his pocket to join the other as he thought. After a moment, he glanced up at her, and there was something else in his expression, something probing.

“You know, Kokabiel’s been making moves lately,” Azazel said, his tone still light. “Ambitious moves. Dangerous ones.”

Mittelt’s eyes widened slightly. Kokabiel was the one that Raynare was answering to, another Cadre, and the one responsible for Mittelt’s current condition.

“What kind of moves?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Azazel’s smile turned cold. “The kind that gets people killed. Too many people. I’m handling it, but it never hurts to have eyes and ears in unexpected places.”

Understanding dawned on Mittelt. “You want me to be your spy.”

Azazel chuckled. “Spy? No, I don’t think we need to be that hands on. I just want you to keep an eye out on things in that town for me.”

He drifted closer, his massive wings casting a shadow over her smaller form.

“You have an opportunity here, Mittelt. One that most Fallen in your position would kill for. You have access to a great deal of power and the opportunity to grow stronger than you ever would have alone. Add into that the novel nature of this power and, well....” He spread his hands, smiling widely. “The intelligence potential alone is invaluable.”

“And if I refuse?” Mittelt asked, despite herself.

Azazel’s smile widened and he tucked his hands into his pockets with a casual air. “You can run. Leave the girl, leave this place, and try to carve out an existence somewhere else. You’d probably survive for a while. Maybe even a few years, if you’re lucky.”

If she was lucky. Given how her life had turned out for her recently, Mittelt was starting to think luck had a vendetta against her.

“Or?”

“Or you stay,” Azazel said. “You stay with the dragon girl, nurture this gift she’s given you, and see where it leads. You report to me when you can, keep your ears open, and in exchange, the Grigori doesn’t mark you as a traitor.” He paused. “Unofficially, of course. Officially, you’re already dead. I’m going to have to have a talk with Zariel about misusing our resources on things as banal as assassins when we have a perfectly good task force already.”

Mittelt stared at him, struggling to process everything he was saying. He was offering her a lifeline, but with strings attached. Information in exchange for protection. Freedom in exchange for loyalty.

“Why?” she asked. “Why offer me this? I’m a low-class Fallen with no real power to speak of. I have no influence, no connections, nothing of value to offer.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Azazel chided. “You have something better than influence or connections.” He pointed at her chest, right where the warmth of Naomi’s power had settled. “You have potential. And lately, I’ve found that potential is worth more than just about anything else.”

He began to drift backward, his wings beating slowly against the air.

“Take some time to think it over.” He said, waving over his head as he turned. “But don’t take too long. Kokabiel’s not the patient sort, and neither am I.”

“Sir, wait–”

But Azazel was already moving, his form blurring as he shot upward, disappearing into the false sky above. Within seconds, he was gone, leaving Mittelt alone with the wind and the warmth of corrupted Light in her palm.

She hung there for a long moment, her mind churning. Here was an opportunity to gain back what she had lost. She couldn’t rejoin the Grigori, that bridge was burned, it seemed, but she could still serve in an unofficial capacity. All she had to do was be Azazel’s eyes in Kuoh, nurturing her power and feeding information back to the Grigori.

The thought should have been appealing. It would give her purpose, direction, something to do beyond cleaning floors and washing laundry. It would mean that her time here wasn’t wasted.

And yet...

You’re not alone.

Mittelt snarled, shaking her head violently. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

She let out a long, shuddering breath, turning to fly back down towards the Sitri Manor, its spires rising in the distance.

She had a lot to think about.