Henry turned to Noir, a warm smile on his face. "Ah, by the way, if you're going to live here, you should know our names first. My name's Henry Adalman, and the elder standing next to you is Fredric Jones."
Noir inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. "My name is Noir," he said simply, his voice low.
Henry raised an eyebrow, his curiosity evident. "Noir, huh? No last name?"
Noir closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head. "My parents died when I was six. I don't know where I come from. I've lived on my own ever since." His tone was calm, though the story was a carefully fabricated lie.
Henry's expression softened, his brows furrowing with sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said, his voice apologetic. "I shouldn't have asked."
Fredric, observing the exchange, decided to lighten the mood. He clapped his hands together and let out a hearty chuckle. "Ho, ho! What do you think of this place, Noir? It's a bit shabby, sure, but with some renovation, you could fix it up in no time."
Noir glanced back at the elder, then turned his gaze toward the house again. After a moment's thought, he nodded. "Yes. Can I take it?"
He had already noted the house's location—it was isolated from the rest of the village, a perfect spot for him to live without drawing too much attention or disturbing anyone.
Fredric smiled and turned to Henry. "So, how much will it be, Henry?"
Henry hesitated, his hands fidgeting slightly. Then, with a deep breath, he spoke. "He doesn't need to pay for it," Henry said, his voice steady but warm.
Noir blinked, momentarily taken aback.
Henry smiled genuinely, his expression kind. "Everyone has their own battles," he said. "I don't know yours, and you don't know mine. But at the end of the day, we're all equals. I welcome you to our village, Noir."
Fredric chuckled, folding his arms. "Oho, isn't it my duty to say something like that? I am the elder, after all!" he quipped, his tone light and teasing.
Noir glanced between them, his lips parting slightly, but no words came. For the first time in a long while, he felt something he couldn't quite name—gratitude, perhaps, or even guilt. He bowed his head slightly, unsure how to respond to such kindness.
Henry patted Noir on the shoulder. "Take care of the place," he said with a grin. "It might be old, but it's still got good bones."
Noir nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."
Present
Noir stirred awake, his crimson eyes blinking open slowly, still heavy with sleep. A faint murmur escaped his lips as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Everybody has their own battle, huh..." he muttered to himself, recalling Henry's words from the day before.
Sitting up, he shifted his weight and stretched his upper body, rolling his shoulders and swirling his right arm experimentally. "Hmm... I guess I'm fully healed," he said quietly, tapping his side as if to double-check.
A soft rustling sound drew his attention. Turning his head to the left, his gaze fell on the sleeping form of the angel. She was slumped in a chair by the window, her arms crossed on the sill, forming a makeshift pillow beneath her head. Her silver hair shimmered faintly in the soft morning light, and her face, peaceful in slumber, was framed by golden eyebrows and pale, sun-kissed skin.
Her wings were nowhere to be seen.
"Hm," Noir mused aloud, his expression momentarily thoughtful as a flash of memory struck him—the meadow, the battle, and the way she had stood her ground.
Shaking the thought away, he stood and walked over to her. With surprising care for someone of his demeanor, he gently slipped his arms beneath her, lifting her from the chair. She stirred faintly but didn't wake, her breathing steady and soft. Noir carried her to the bed, laying her down with the same careful precision.
"Strange angel," he murmured under his breath, letting out a quiet sigh as he stepped back.
His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer. Her silver hair spilled across the pillow like a cascade of moonlight, and her serene expression seemed worlds away from the fierce determination he had seen in her eyes before.
"Golden brows, pale skin, silver hair... and she can hide her wings too," Noir muttered, his curiosity piqued. "What an odd one."
For a moment, he found himself staring, his thoughts jumbled. Then, almost without thinking, he felt an inexplicable urge to poke her cheek.
Driven by a mix of curiosity and the strange pull of her beauty, he reached out and gently pressed a finger to her soft cheek.
Her face twitched slightly, but she didn't wake.
Noir pulled his hand back quickly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Even asleep, she's stubborn," he muttered, shaking his head.
He turned and moved back to his side of the room, his mind still lingering on the angel who had unwittingly become his companion.
Noir stretched his body, the tension in his muscles easing as he clenched his fists tightly. His movements were deliberate, as if testing the strength within him.
"Should I regain my strength?" he murmured, his voice low and thoughtful.
He bowed his head slightly, his crimson eyes flickering with renewed determination. But just as the resolve began to take hold, a memory surfaced, vivid and unrelenting.
The scene was bathed in crimson. He stood in the aftermath of carnage, his body soaked in blood. The metallic scent of death filled the air, mingling with the rain that fell in thick, red droplets.
Corpses of angels and demons alike were piled high around him, a grotesque monument to the slaughter. His clothes were drenched, his sword dripping with the lifeblood of countless foes.
His crimson eyes, once sharp and focused, had darkened into pools of blackness, with only faint red pinpoints of light remaining. They radiated a chilling emptiness, devoid of humanity or mercy.
Noir snapped back to the present with a sharp intake of breath. "Ughh..." he groaned, his hands flying to his face as if to shield himself from the lingering echoes of that day.
His breathing came in ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling as he tried to push the memory away. It clung to him like a shadow, heavy and suffocating.
After a long moment, he exhaled deeply, the sound trembling with effort. "Hoooo..."
Slowly, he straightened his posture, his movements deliberate and precise as he fought to regain control. His crimson eyes, now steady, gazed ahead with quiet resolve.
As Noir sat in silence, the unpleasant memory faded, leaving behind a dull ache in his chest. Suddenly, his stomach growled, breaking the tension.
"Hm," he muttered, placing a hand on his abdomen. "I guess I'll hunt some wild boar."
He stood and glanced around the room. The state of the house was... less than ideal. The interior, though sturdy, bore the marks of years of neglect. Dust clung to every surface, and cobwebs stretched across the corners like abandoned silk. The wooden beams of the ceiling had darkened with age, their once-polished surface now rough and splintered.
A small table sat unevenly in the center of the room, its legs slightly warped. On it rested a tarnished brass candlestick and a half-empty pitcher of water. An old stone hearth dominated one wall, its blackened bricks hinting at years of use, though it now stood cold and empty. Near the hearth, a pile of firewood was haphazardly stacked, with several logs spilling onto the floor.
The lone window in the room allowed beams of golden morning light to pierce through the haze of dust, illuminating the clutter. Scattered across the floor were fragments of broken pottery, discarded tools, and a few forgotten books, their pages yellowed with time.
Noir shook his head slightly. He hadn't paid much attention to the state of the house before, but now it seemed glaringly obvious.
Meanwhile, Nimfa stirred as the warmth of sunlight touched her face. Blinking against the brightness, she sat up abruptly, her silver hair cascading around her.
"Huh? When did I fall asleep? And why am I in bed?" she asked aloud, her voice tinged with confusion.
Her gaze darted around the room as memories from the meadow flashed in her mind—the battle, the monstrous beast, and the demon who had saved her. "Noir," she murmured, the name lingering on her lips like a puzzle she couldn't solve.
Shaking her head vigorously, she tried to clear her thoughts. With a sharp slap to her cheeks, she muttered, "Get a grip, Nimfa!" Her sudden movement sent her hair flying upward, catching the light like strands of silver fire.
As she calmed herself, her gaze fell to the mess around her. The disarray was almost overwhelming—the dust, the clutter, the sheer neglect.
"This place..." Nimfa muttered, rising to her feet. She brushed her hair back and stared at the room. "Does he really live like this?"
Outside, Noir gathered his gear near the doorway, his crimson eyes sharp and focused. "I'll clean later," he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible. His priorities lay elsewhere now—there was food to hunt, and the forest awaited.