Chapter II, Pt II

As Madame Dumonte neared the grey'd form of the church, she witnessed three alarming sounds from within the cathedral building. Firstly, was the helpless cries of men, and secondly, was some sort of small explosion with the splatter of liquids shortly after. She hurried as fast as frail legs could hurry to the scene, empty basket in arm, stopping at the torn doors of the entrance to find a rather horror stricken ending. There, on the bare wood of the church floors, were three bodies. Two of them were men, with absolutely nothing but the air itself for heads. Near one of the bodies was a crossbow that had been shot, however, if it was loaded correctly the arrow would no longer be in its place. The blood was slowly flowing out from the men's necks as if Time itself were slow'd and the river was coping to keep pace. Darkened petals of cherry blossoms were slowly merging with the thick viscus fluid, creating an off tinge of black that soaked the ground. The smell of blood combined with the powerful perfume of the blossoms contorted her stomach like none other, it was a feeling of extreme nausea as much as the sight.

In an inverse state, the third body's head was much intact, as was the rest of it. As her eyes fell onto this one being, the smell of Death seem'd to have been completely washed away by the warm current of perfum'd blossoms. This small being was a sweet sight, as sweet as flowers, perhaps (dare she say?) Even sweeter. This little delicacy was dressed almost completely in a bright pink shade, much like the same cherry blossoms found in the very church. It was a small female child of mild age, unconscious with a soundless slumber, and almost appearing dead, save for the slight fall and rise of the tiny chest. This child's face was a perfectionist's ideal, such a cherubic quality in all its beautific daintiness. Here, laying on the cathedral grounds, was the very image of a miniature angel or some celestial entity. Surely, this was some sign from Above.

Forgetting the flowers and the dead men altogether, Madame Dumonte gathered the small angel in her arms. She was amazingly light, and easy enough to cradle in her arms. Absently, in her sleep, the child nuzzl'd her small face, turning her head against Madame Dumonte's arm. A warm feeling ebb'd and surged through the old lady's; body she had held many children, but none of her own, and none quite like this. Out of the torn building of the church the woman headed, child cradl'd softly in arms, and a smug look of one who has been smote by the intense sanction of a field of flowers a thousand times over.

Back into her small cottage of a home she headed, deep within the slums. So much wealth of the land was being drawn for the war, that it seemed the very buildings and neighborhoods were dying just as much as the men. She lay'd the small child into a cot, near the open fireplace where the heavy smell of breakfast and other meals resided. And Madame Dumonte, peering with an intense serenity, had never known the feeling a mother can hold for a daughter. Until now...