Once inside, Herbert breathed a deep sigh of relief, which developed into a spluttering cough that he covered with both numb hands. It was warm, and he could feel sensation returning to his chillier extremities. He brought his hands up to his eyes and wiggled his fingers. They ached numbly. It would not be long before they burnt, recovering from the cold.

The only place name that Herbert recognised was Jericho. He knew Jericho to be under the rule of Mandatory Palestine. However, he was certain that in was inland, which made her statement about its coast rather confusing. Last Herbert heard, the populace were not winged. This set cogs turning in his head. Jericho was ancient, the disputably the oldest city, from a time of myth. The angels could have easily brought its name from the heavens at its conception. He tried not to think too hard of the implications as his head began to hurt.

“I think anywhere would be warmer than here,” Herbert agreed, shivering at the mere memory of the lurking cold.

Twelve bags, he noted, and a fireplace too, a godsend for sure. The tapestries, whilst ornate, held Herbert’s attention for little more than a moment, as he moved to sit near the hearth of the empty fireplace. He slumped against the wall. The weariness began to set in, and he felt three times his age, aching to his bones and groggy, with eyelids suddenly heavy. He rubbed and hand across his face and shook his head, in an attempt to clear it a little. 

He diverted his eyes respectfully from Dzel, who revealed a scandalous amount of skin, but not before he could see the wounds. She was an amalgam of injuries, like an educational diagram, with bruises and cuts of varying severity. They marked her, just as the wings branded Ryann. The serrations on the thigh were brutal, deep and jagged. That Dzel was walking was astounding. Herbert was unsure how much could be done without needle and thread, but left Dmitri to it; there was nothing worse than backseat doctoring. Besides, he was too tired by half.

Instead, he turned his attention to Ryann, who was rather vigorously shaking each item she found whilst rummaging through one of the packs. He smiled at her out of politeness, and gave a half nod, pleased that she was so excited, but envious of her energy. 

Despite this, Herbert got up a brought a bag back to where he had been seated, sitting down with it. There was a book that he took out and placed beside him, with the careful reverie that all books deserved. A work of fiction, judging the book by its cover. He pulled out the clothes, which had been folded quite deliberately so they took up as little space as possible. A red and white plastic bottle fell out with them, skittering to a stop against the hearth. Curious, Herbert picked it up. “Extra strength Tylenol” was plastered across the front. From the looks of it, they were paracetamol tablets, but the garish packaging called it acetaminophen; it was from across the pond. 

The contents of the packs were exactly what one would need to brave the mountain weather, so there was a slim chance that the owners of the packs were not as lost as the rest of them. A party of at least twelve could be in this very castle then. His mind went to the altar, the charred corpses circling the room, and then he thought no more of it, but felt an echo of the chill. 

He stripped off his shoes and socks, both soaked, and rolled up the hem of his trousers. He used the thermals to brush his feet dry and rub some heat into them, slipped into new socks, and then the boots, tying them tightly as they felt a few sizes too large, but at least they covered the skin revealed by the rolled-up hems. He threw the coat on over his wet shirt and fastened it up all the way. The gloves lay across his lap with the scarf and hat. Herbert let out a contented sigh, feeling warmer than he could ever remember. The book went into a coat pocket, and the “Tylenol” into the other, not before he took two tablets dry for his developing headache. It would make sense to offer them to Dzel once she had been seen to. Ryann went about modifying her coat with a knife, which brought a genuine smile to Herbert’s lips, and he closed his eyes and lay back against the wall, enjoying the contentment while he could, disregarding the gnawing hunger and thirst.

A flash of green forced Herbert’s closed lids open. He looked around, a little confused, until he saw the glow coming from Dimitri, or rather, his hands. They were luminous, and blazed a grassy green. Dzel, for her part, didn’t seem as concerned as one would expect, so Herbert made an effort not to cry out in exclamation, making his mouth a thin line. His body went rigid with effort and apprehension. When the stroking hands reach the wound on the thigh, the only wound Herbert could clearly see, Dimitri slowed, and made a semiconscious declaration, to himself more than anyone. And then the wound began to knit together, and Herbert felt sick. 

Clearly, he was very far from home, but what he just witnessed was storybook magic, fairy tale wizardry. There was no small part of Herbert that thought this was a very precise, and realistic, lucid dream. The healing made a mockery of science and medicine. Perhaps this was the contemptuous part of his brain jeering him. Perhaps he’d just witnessed a miracle. Perhaps this truly was purgatory, and he was being tested. There were many possibilities, each a little less feasible than the last. He handled the thought-chain, picked it up, and locked behind a door of his mind with the rest of his disbelief, which he would return to later. He had not even considered possibility of this “magic” being used to inflict a wound. It took half the effort to harm than to heal. And so, only slightly catatonic, he sat there, warm, with a lump of icy dread in his chest, looking inwards. 

The monk’s demand roused Herbert from his stupor. He looked around the room. Dimitri was on the floor looking exhausted, and Ryann handed him a bottle. From the casual manner with which Ryann conducted herself Herbert assumed this was not as astonishing to her as it was to him. Maybe she had merely missed it, distracted with her coat. 

Bizbee grated as it nuzzled itself into a bag. He hadn’t noticed it leave his shoulder.

Herbert stood, rigid, and, mechanically, began to put the wood into the firebox, his eyes far off. When there was enough, he patted his coat absently, already knowing what his hands would tell him. He didn’t have any matches. Sighing, he sat back down again, gathering the hat, scarf and gloves that he had scattered by standing, pointedly staring into his lap. He barely registered Ryann’s bizarre question about a crab, but part of him did, and he frowned, remaining silent. 

He spluttered into his closed fist.

[i]I’ll be back soon Liza[/i], he thought, [i]don’t you worry.[/i]