December 1, 1966
Matthew was, by no means, a superstitious man. He was religious; otherwise he wouldn't have been a monk. However, unlike most of the other monks at the St. Christopher monastery in the Alps, he had grown up in a city. He'd been training as a teacher before his conversion in a school set up in West Germany by Americans. As such he felt that science had a decent say in the world though he believed his religion to be superior.
Even so, when he had first seen the lost traveler lying in the snow he'd started. It was, of course, his duty to take in travelers. The monastery had a long history of doing so, dating all the way back to the Middle Ages. It was why he was out here in the first place, making a safe circuit around the monastery in case anything was wrong. However, he was sure that in all of the years of the order they had never come across quite such an unusual traveler.
His first thought when he saw him was that he was looking at the Devil, but he banished it quickly. If the Devil were indeed in the snowy mountains then he wouldn't have collapsed in the snow and he wouldn't need the pack on his back. It was logical, although Matthew was surprised at just how logical he could be in the circumstances.
He crouched down by the man, a term used because it was the only thing that he was prepared to believe that he was. The storm was getting worse by the second and, if he didn't want the man to freeze to death, he'd have to take him in. The only problem was his more superstitious brethren; certainly they wouldn't spare a thought about letting someone who looked so much like a demon perish from the elements.
Even he had his own doubts. The devil did have his tricks, didn't he? However, these last lingering thoughts were brushed away when he heard a small cry. The man was protectively holding what looked like a baby, although it was hard to tell. The baby looked quite a bit like the man except for his deep blue skin. That could have been from the cold, but Matthew doubted it.
It made up his mind. Summoning up his strength he managed to drag the man and the baby into a side room. Matthew tripped once or twice on his way there, the chill and the weight of his cargo getting to him. However, he did manage to get them there without alerting any of the other monks.
Exhausted he propped the man and the child onto one of the spare cots. He was getting older, and a little fat in his sedentary life style. He'd have to work on that. With that thought in mind he set to kindling a fire in the room. The stone absorbed heat well and in a minute the room was at a better temperature.
He brought the baby closer to it first, wrapping it in a blanket laying it out on a cushioned chair. It made sense to give the child preference, it was obviously more delicate and had been exposed to the cold for far too long. Matthew had to admire how expertly it had been bundled up; the child probably wouldn't have survived otherwise.
By his estimation the child was only a few months old. He wasn't sure; he'd never seen a baby with a tail before. However, the boy seemed to be doing fine. Matthew smiled. He was going to make it. He made sure that he was settled before turning his thoughts to the man, wondering perhaps if he was the child's father or brother. Either would make sense.
Something cold pressed up against his throat. Matthew froze.
"Stay away from him," a voice hissed.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the man was up. Matthew swallowed which just made the knife press deeper. Calmly he tried to collect his wits. The man had spoken in German, although his words were broken. He was foreign and, judging by the lilt of his accent, probably Russian. Not that it made that much of a difference.
"I have done nothing," he said calmly, "Simply brought in a man and a child from the cold. Is the boy your son?"
"None of business," the man snapped, "Where are we?"
"St. Christopher's monastery in the Alps," he said, surprised at how level he managed to keep his voice, "Our patron saint is the one of travelers."
"I know," snorted the man.
"Ah, then you know that as such our order is dedicated to helping wayward travelers?" asked Matthew sharply, "I was not harming him; simply trying to make sure that he wasn't frost bitten."
Slowly the knife was removed from his throat. The man didn't put the knife away though and was still looking at him suspiciously. Matthew moved to the side and allowed the man to approach the baby. He put away his knife and picked it up. It cooed and reached for his face. He began whispering to it in what Matthew could only assume was Russian. He had never been that learned.
When he was done ascertaining that the baby was indeed alright he put him down again.
"I make mistake," he said.
"Yes," Matthew said, "You did. Now, my name is Brother Matthew. I am a monk here."
"Da, I can see that," the man said, "I am Azazel."
Matthew's heart stuttered for a moment before his eyes narrowed.
"That is not funny," he said.
"My friends thought it was," Azazel said drily, "Still do not think I am demon?"
There was a slight smirk in his words. Matthew felt a mixture of irritation and anger rise in him.
"A demon would not have tried to protect his son," he said.
Azazel's smirk slipped for a moment before he turned his eyes to the child.
"Thank you," he said simply, "Not for me, for him."
"I told you," said Matthew, "It is my duty to help travelers."
"Refugees better term," said Azazel, "But he is so small."
He looked miserable for a second before hardening his face and putting the child down.
"Now," Matthew said, "is there anything you need?"
Azazel raised an eyebrow.
"It's cold out," said Matthew, "I…some of my brethren are more superstitious than others. It might be safer for the two of you to stay in here."
Azazel snorted and sat down on the edge of the cot.
"Them and rest of world," he said.
Feeling perplexed Matthew sat down on another chair. Outside the storm howled loudly.
"You may be staying here for a while," sighed Matthew, "These storms will often last for days, sometimes months."
"Nyet."
"Pardon?"
Rolling his eyes Azazel disappeared in a puff of black smoke. He reappeared inches away from Matthew. Matthew coughed and looked at him with wide eyes.
"How else you think I survive?" he asked.
"That's incredible," Matthew said.
Azazel laughed.
"You have not seen what I have," he said, "Makes no difference. We will leave when storm lessens and I can see where I am going."
"Alright," Matthew said, "But in the mean time the two of you will stay here until you have recovered. And, as I said, it may be better for you not to leave this room."
"Da, da, I understand," Azazel said, waving his hand dismissively.
The storm would, in the end, last for a week. In that time Matthew made surreptitious trips down to the side room with food for them, although he highly suspected that Azazel may have teleported around the monastery. Matthew made sure to have the only key, but he doubted that that would be a real obstacle to someone like Azazel.
The teleportation was a strange thing, something that Matthew was constantly getting used to. Azazel told him that the only reason he'd faltered in the snow was because he'd used it too much, but he seemed adept at casually using it around the room if he needed to get something that was out of arms reach.
The more he heard about it the more he thought about it. An idea was entering Matthew's head, though he was almost scared to voice it. Azazel didn't seem to be the type he would normally want for a job like this, but Matthew had seen what he was capable of. It was something that could be used and, in return, he could give Azazel something he wanted.
There were many things he wanted to ask, like what was in his pack for one. It had been heavy, he knew that, much too heavy to just hold things like clothes and food. Matthew knew it had weapons on it, just like he knew that Azazel was armed. It was something he wanted to mention, to drag out in the light of day where it could be explained and wouldn't be so sinister.
Still, he could tell that he wasn't fully trusted by him. He revealed very little about himself except his name and that of his son's; Kurt. It was obvious that the man was still suspicious of him and Matthew wondered what kind of a life he must have led to be that way. Then again, it couldn't be easy going through life being that different.
"Were you born this way?" asked Matthew one day.
Azazel, who had begun to feel somewhat more comfortable, a fact that Matthew could tell because he didn't constantly draw his knives each time Matthew came down.
"Da," he said, "Him and I."
He flickered his tail towards his son, whom Matthew had found a box and made into a makeshift cradle for.
"I see," Matthew said.
"You do not," replied Azazel, "There are others like me, others that are…mutated is word I think. Different though. People who can read minds, manipulate elements."
"Was his mother one such as that?" asked Matthew, tilting his head towards Kurt.
Azazel's expression became hard and Matthew wondered if he'd asked the wrong question.
"She was," he said, "His skin and eyes like hers. But…"
His tone became like a sneer.
"...never mind," he said, "When it was over I could not leave him with her though. She would have dropped him in well or something."
Shaking his head Azazel picked Kurt up, though the baby was fast asleep.
"But there are people like us all around the world, different," he said, "Born that way."
His eyes narrowed.
"Persecuted for being that way."
Matthew chose his words carefully. He could tell that he was on thin ice.
"People often tend to fear what they don't understand," he said.
"Except you," said Azazel, "Why is that?"
In the situation Matthew felt that his best course was honesty.
"I had time to get over my fear before you awoke," he said.
"And I do not frighten now?"
He hesitated.
"I won't lie; you do frighten me, but not because of what you look like," he said, "It's the knives if I am to be perfectly honest."
Azazel threw his head back and laughed.
"You would think in monastery of all places they would have called for mob with torches and pitchforks."
"I find the old drawings of demons to be highly overrated," Matthew said dryly, "How does anyone know they look like that? Of course they were just doing a take-off of old pagan gods and goddesses, which could of course have been demons, but I think it's more likely that people don't need likenesses to be drawn to idols."
He sighed.
"And I find hiding behind the excuse of religion to commit acts of terror to be abominable," he said, "There are still countries that burn witches, a detestable practice."
Looking up he saw that Azazel's head had cocked in interest.
"Preacher in my village had idea that I was demon spawn," he said.
"And that is the kind of twisting that I mean," Matthew said sharply, "It demeans our religion when people use it as an excuse to persecute others. We were told to live in peace."
"I have never lived in peace."
"I know," Matthew said.
Giving him a sharp look Azazel's tone changed.
"I have killed people."
"I know that too," said Matthew.
"Do you now?"
"The knives gave it away."
Azazel laughed again. Kurt woke in his arms and Azazel shifted him, trying to get him back to sleep. Once he had quieted Azazel turned his attention back towards Matthew.
"And you tolerate presence because…?"
"Because you claimed sanctuary," said Matthew simply.
Raising an eyebrow Azazel put Kurt back to bed. The storm let up two days later. Thick snow blanketed the area, but it was clear other than that. Azazel carefully bundled up his son and Matthew began preparing food for them to take with them. It was then that he decided to voice his idea, for better or for worse.
He knew that there would be no introducing this idea to most of his brethren. He'd have the best success with his brothers who worked at the observatory higher in the mountains. Matthew could think of only two or three that he could trust in the monastery though, but he knew that he would have to at least try.
"We will leave soon," Azazel said.
"And go where?" asked Matthew, "If you don't mind me asking."
Azazel looked him over before shrugging and returning to the cot.
"Does not matter," he said.
His voice became bitter.
"I take syn with me for three months," he said, "Different place each week. Not fair to such young child."
"You've been travelling quite a bit then," Matthew ventured.
Laughter left Azazel, but that same bitterness lingered in it.
"Why else would I be in God-forsaken mountains with a child in middle of winter?" he demanded, "You think I am fool? I was running!"
His voice raised and Matthew made a motion for him to keep his voice down. Azazel complied, shooting a sullen look at him.
"I see," he said, "I can't imagine the life that you lead would be particularly safe."
He hesitated, wondering how his next words would be received.
"Several miles away," he said slowly, "There's a gamekeeper's house that's unoccupied now. There are a few cabins in a radius around it for times of need, to shelter travelers. All stocked with enough supplies for five days, the average time for a storm."
Azazel looked at him suspiciously.
"You could stay there, with your son, if you'd like," he said.
"In return for what?" he asked shrewdly.
"Your…unique abilities would allow you to rescue travelers with greater ease then we could ever hope to," Matthew replied, trying to explain without sounding like he was taking advantage of the small family, "In return you would receive the house and board."
Azazel continued to look at him with suspicion. Just then the Kurt cried out and Azazel disappeared in a puff of black smoke. When he reappeared he was next to the boy and picked him up, cradling him. Matthew watched for a handful of seconds before he felt that it was safe to speak again.
"Whether you like it or not you almost died out there that night," he said, "I'm not sure how you feel about that, but I know you want to protect your son."
He received a sharp glare in reply, but he could see that Azazel was hesitating somewhat. The child cried out again and Azazel held him closer.
"Da, I will," he said, "But understand; only temporary. Just until he is strong, ready to face world."
"Temporary," Matthew said, "Of course."