"Mi...euh...Sharael, what's wrong?"

It was a chaotic sight. All the furniture in the room had been pushed into one corner. The angel boy was hidden somewhere behind it all, pressed up against the walls, the tops and ends of his wings the only parts of him visible beyond the jumble of bed and table legs. His pain, though, radiated from him like a beacon, reaching all the way past Mirk and down the hall at the far end of the long-term ward. The boy’s aching wasn't as severe as it had been when he had first arrived, but if Sharael hadn't let another one of the healers close enough to put up a ward against the emotion at the end of the hall, Mirk would have felt it instantly upon leaving the room he'd spent the night in at the other end of the floor.

Sharael paced around the perimeter of the pile of furniture like a guard dog, her feathers standing on end and her fists clenched at her sides. "Can't you shield any better than the rest of these idiots?" she snapped at him, putting herself squarely between Mirk and her brother. "If I'd known you were so useless even when you were rested, I'd have never let you in."

"I can try," Mirk said, offering her a weak smile. It only seemed to make the girl angrier that he wasn't deterred or annoyed by her insult. Mirk closed his eyes and focused, taking a few deep breaths to center himself before shifting all the magical potential he had to his mental shielding. It would drain him fast to keep his shields held so high, but if it meant being allowed closer to the boy, he was willing.

Though he couldn't be certain without speaking to Samael or looking further into his mind, Mirk thought he recognized the powerless, desperate slant to his despair. It was the same way Mirk had felt when he'd been in the throes of the kindling sickness.And when he’d been sick, the thing he’d wanted the most was someone to talk to, even if it was painful..

"How do I feel now?" he asked Sharael, blinking his eyes open.

Sharael scowled at him. But she turned to consult with her brother, ducking one of her wings so that she could peer over her shoulder at the pile of furniture behind her. "What do you think, Sam?" she asked him in angelic.

"It's...it's all right, I...I suppose..."

Turning back to face Mirk, Sharael gave him a wary visual once-over. Checking for weapons. Mirk would have laughed, if the situation hadn’t been so tense. "Come in and shut the door."

Mirk nodded and complied, though he kept his distance from the pile of furniture, not wanting to strain Samael further until he invited him to approach. He remembered how even the gentlest emotions had felt like white-hot agony against his mind when he'd had the kindling sickness. And how powerless he'd been to keep them out of his head, even when he’d done his best to shield. It was important for him to stay calm. Focused. Even. Mirk's eyes flicked to Sharael. "The shields on the room aren't good enough to help him, non?"

Sharael snorted. "What gave it away?"

It was curious that her emotions had no effect on her brother. Then again, her shields were particularly good. Some combination of that, shared blood, and common suffering made her presence uniquely bearable. "I was sick like him, before," Mirk said. "They tried to keep me in one of these rooms at first. It was awful."

Sharael didn't reply, continuing to stare him down in that uncanny, unblinking way common to full-blood angels, the one that made it feel as if something was about to lance out of the sky and strike him dead. Her fists were still clenched at her sides. Someone really should have gone to the armory and fetched her a sword. Perhaps having a weapon in hand would make her feel more at ease. "Can I look at him?" Mirk asked, once it became evident that Sharael wasn't going to break the silence. "Methinks I remember enough angelic to get by..."

After a long pause, Sharael stepped off to the side. "Ask him first. And get away the second he tells you to. Otherwise I'll throw you out."

Considering Sharael's barely-concealed disdain, Mirk assumed that he'd be leaving through the window rather than the door, should he cross her. If it hadn't been for her attitude, the way her emotions almost always made it onto her face, it would have been hard for Mirk to keep in mind that she was only a girl and not a woman fully-grown, despite her towering over him and her giant wings that could have filled the whole when room fully outspread. His cousin Claire was a third of Sharael's size and decades younger, but they were the same age, mentally. And if Claire had been over six feet tall and capable of hurling boulders, Mirk could only imagine the trouble it'd cause.

Mirk approached the pile of furniture, cautiously. He fumbled with the conjugations, but called out to Samael in the most polite angelic he could remember. "Samael? I'm a friend. I want to look at you. Can I come?"

"If...if you have to..."

He pushed the bed aside, just far enough to see more of Samael than the tips of his wings. The boy had turned to face him, his back pressed into the corner. His chin and cheeks were slicked with tears and mucus from his running nose and brimming eyes. And his eyes glowed a bright lavender Mirk had only ever seen a flicker of when his father let his anger get out of hand. Mirk worked up a smile for Samael as he crouched down to speak with him at his level. "Body...leg...no, chest. Your chest. Can I see?"

The boy obeyed, immediately. It worried Mirk. Samael worked his robes out from underneath himself and pulled them up to the level of his shoulders. The wound that divided his chest from his collar bones to just above his navel was healing well. Half of the stitches had fallen out, though the incision was still weeping, a line of blood and serum trailing down his front and saturating the waistband of the tight, knee-length braies that angels wore beneath their robes. If the boy's mind hadn't been in such turmoil, the wound would have been nothing but a scar. Angels healed at an astonishing rate, provided they had access to enough light magic.

"You are healthy," Mirk said, trying his best to both feel and sound encouraging. But as he took in more of the details of Samael's body, his optimism faltered. The boy was painfully thin, his wings starting to go bald in places. "But hungry," Mirk offered in explanation, knowing full well that Samael would be able to feel his dismay, despite his thick mental shields.

The boy nodded as he pulled his robes back down. "The food they brought made me sick."

"What do you like to eat?"

"Fruit...vegetables...everything they brought me had...had animals. I could feel the pain..."

The light in Samael's eyes flared more brightly at the memory of it. Mirk sighed. He was familiar enough with what was bothering him — he'd been able to continue to eat meat for a few months after his empathy had first manifested, but, slowly, the mere thought of eating something that'd once been alive, that'd rolled happily in the sunlight and had cuddled up with its brothers and sisters and mate, was enough to turn Mirk's stomach. In his case, it was due to the strength of his empathy combined with his deep connection to the Earth. In Samael's case, it had to be from empathy alone.

It was easy enough to avoid meat at the dining hall, though it left him with nothing but potatoes and rolls half the time. But Mirk suspected that Samael wouldn't be able to stomach butter or eggs or milk either. Getting the cooks to make something edible that didn't involve any of that would take a hefty bribe.

"I understand," Mirk said, resisting the impulse to reach out to the boy to comfort him. "I will bring you good food."

Samael's eyes were still constantly leaking tears. But their glow faded the longer Mirk looked at him, his posture stiff with pain, but less afraid. "Has Lord Imanael come?" Samael asked in a whisper, as if afraid that they’d be overheard.

Mirk shook his head. "You are safe here."

The boy looked away from him. A moment later, Mirk heard his voice inside his mind, faint and ringing. He still wants me. I know he still wants me. He will come for me.

Though he didn't lower his shields, Mirk tried speaking back to him mentally. He wasn't blessed with the gift of telepathy, but Samael's magic was so strong, Mirk doubted that it was strictly necessary. We won't let him take you. But I know it's hard not to be afraid. You'll feel less afraid eventually. Healing the mind takes twice as long as healing the body, even for angels.

There was no time to react. Samael's presence slipped fully past his shields, filling Mirk's mind, rifling through it like it was a box of oddities someone had left out for the rag men. Samael saw everything. And he lingered on the worst of it, drawing it up into Mirk's conscious mind.

The feelings raced through Mirk, as fresh as if it'd all happened days ago: terror, heat, the press of hands three times as strong as his own pinning his shoulders to the cobbles, claws piercing vulnerable flesh and a hissing voice as smooth as velvet, darkened with rage. Stop fighting and enjoy it. You're a man. Now be a man and give me my child!

Then the boy's presence was gone and Mirk found himself down on his knees, breathing hard and clutching the sides of his head. Mirk could still hear Samael's voice through his mental shielding, clearer than before. You do understand.

Mirk lifted his head to stare at Samael. The boy was at ease now, no longer pressed back into the corner, only leaning against it instead, his legs crossed. His eyes were still steaming tears due to the pain of Mirk's mind being so close, but they weren’t causing him any distress. Mirk hesitated. Did Imanael...?

Samael shook his head. But it was like that, in a way.

I would have told you if you'd asked, Samael. It's not nice to go into other people's heads without asking first. It makes them feel afraid, even if it makes you feel better to know.

The young angel looked ashamed, fidgeting his wings. I'm sorry. It's habit. Lord Imanael made me do it to everyone who came to serve him. I would look first, then he would check to make sure I found everything. And then...then it was everyone I met...

It doesn't hurt you to look? You had to be able to feel how painful...

Samael shrugged both his shoulders and wings. It's different when I'm in control.

All right...

I really am safe here, aren't I? I could see. There's a monster here who protected you when you were sick like me. Will he protect me too?

Mirk couldn't help but laugh at this, just a little. If I ask him to, he will.

He took care of me while I was sick too, I remember now. Was that because you asked him to? I can’t remember feeling anything from him...

Mirk nodded. But he's not unkind. He just doesn't think of things like that. He's not like us.

Samael looked up, leaning to one side to peer past Mirk and the wall of furniture, wincing in anticipation. They're trying to bring us food again. I...you should go. Sharael is going to get angry soon. I don't think I can handle your mind and hers at once.

I'll do my best to help you, Mirk thought to Samael, as he backed out of the pile of furniture and got to his feet. I'll talk to the other healers. We'll find food you can eat. And I promise I'll find you a place to stay where it’s quiet soon.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The boy nodded, drawing his knees up to his chest again and wrapping both his arms and wings around himself. Put the furniture back, please? It...helps.

As Mirk moved the bed back into place, blocking Samael from view, he thought the problem over. There wasn't anywhere in the infirmary fit to put a child with such a sensitive and damaged mind. The only place he could think of that stood a chance of providing Samael with enough peace to recover was his own room in the healers dormitory. Emir had put weeks worth of effort into its shields and wards and Mirk had added his own on top of them once he was well enough to get out of bed. It was a fortress against stray emotions.

Giving it over to Samael would leave him with nowhere to go. But that was a secondary problem. The two young angels had given up so much to come to the City of Glass, and so had his godfather. Being unwilling to sacrifice anything in return didn't feel right.

"Get back! Roll it!"

Mirk looked up. Sharael had gone out into the hall, standing in the middle of it with her fists on her hips and her wings outspread so that she filled the entire width of it. Sighing, Mirk went to the door and poked his head out past its frame. Two of the long-term ward nurses were at the far end of the hallway with their cart full of trays, debating with each other what to do about the furious angel blocking their way.

"It's all right, Sharael. I'll take care of it." Mirk nudged aside one of her wings and slipped past her, ignoring her bristling at being touched as he headed toward the cart at the end of the hall. He took two trays off it and sent the nurses back on their rounds with reassurances that they wouldn't have to check in on the two young angels again unless an officer ordered them to. When Mirk turned back around, Sharael was still blocking the hall, scowling at him.

"I've told them twenty times he won't eat that garbage. Are all humans idiots?"

Laughing to himself and shaking his head, Mirk crouched down, setting the two trays on the floor to pick through their contents. Meat stew, potatoes swimming in butter, rolls that were likely to be as edible as stones without dipping them in the stew to soften them first, a pair of bruised, misshapen apples. Standard fare. Mirk shuffled the dishes around, putting both bowls of stew and the apples on one tray and the potatoes and rolls on the other. Picking up the tray with the stew, Mirk got back to his feet and presented it to Sharael. "Tiens. Stew for you, the apples for him. It's not much for your brother, but it's a start. Methinks it'd be better if he didn't eat too much to begin with anyway."

Sharael took the tray from Mirk, her nose wrinkling as she stared down at the stew. "This smells worse than the privies."

Though he agreed with her, Mirk tried to sell her on it anyway. A growing angel needed three times the food a working man did, and he had an inkling that Sharael had another half a foot of growth left in her. "That's one of the cooks' best. And it's from a fresh pot too. There's still meat in it."

"You people are barbarians," Sharael muttered.

"I'll find something more for your brother later. But methinks you'll both need to do a little adjusting. This isn't like the Empire. Life is harder here."

"I suppose it's better to be free and hungry than a fat slave," Sharael said, though her disdain at the stew showed no sign of lifting.

Mirk chuckled. "That sounds exactly like something a true K'maneda would say. Or so I've been told."

After a long pause, Sharael turned her downward glare on him. "Thank you."

Waving her off, Mirk shrugged. "It's the least I can do. I have an idea about a better place for you both to stay, though it'll take a few days. In the meantime, hold on just a little longer. You're both at the end, I promise."

Sharael snorted, turning away and pulling her wings in against her back to clear the doorway back into her brother's room. "The end will only come once Lord Imanael is dead."

Such a bleak statement coming from such a young girl should have horrified him. Instead, all Mirk could do was laugh again. The pervasive bloodthirstiness of the average K'maneda was making that kind of sentiment mundane. "Yes, you'll do well in the K'maneda, if you decide to stay...but be kind to the other healers, Sharael, please. Methinks causing trouble will only make more of them come bother you."

Sharael didn't reply, though she did shut and lock the door to Samael's room after herself. Mirk returned to the second tray at the end of the hall, picking it up and sighing at the way the butter had already congealed on top of the split potatoes.

There was much to be done. But there was one final stop Mirk needed to make before he could get back to work with a clear conscience. Despite the worry churned up in the pit of his stomach by the last two visits, Mirk had a feeling the final one was going to be the worst.

Steeling himself and affixing a protective sort of smile on his face, Mirk headed off in search of Genesis.

- - -

"Well...you're looking a little better, messire..."

It was a partial truth. In some ways the commander had improved. Though Genesis bruised easily, the marks faded as quickly as they came. The ring of blisters left behind by K'aekniv's burning right hand had all healed, nothing left but a few patches of redness where his fingers had dug into the little extra flesh there was on Genesis’s thin neck. And Mirk had checked his knee already — all the bones and tendons were in their proper places, the bruising on it faded to yellow.

But Genesis's arms were completely shredded still, the open wounds weeping pink onto the bedsheets, the skin between all the cuts purple and dead-looking. No one had tried using the potion Mirk had mixed on the binding runes. It was exactly where he'd left it atop the supply cabinet. Mirk hoped it hadn't spoiled.

The wounds weren't his greatest worry, however. Regeneration took energy, and Genesis didn't have much to spare. The commander had already been on one of his thinner fluctuations before everything had gone wrong. If Genesis didn't wake up soon and start eating again, his body would eat itself down to the bone in an effort to repair itself. The healing process had already hollowed out Genesis's cheeks, making his features even sharper and more angular than they already were. Mirk had been hoping that seeing Genesis in such a state would trigger his sympathy, but not the rest of it.

It wasn't working. A small part of Mirk wanted to kiss one of those hollowed cheeks, to comfort Genesis in a way that he'd never accept as his waking self. Mirk banished the thought with a shake of his head, sitting down in the chair at Genesis's bedside that K'aekniv had long since vacated and picking at his lunch. Healing someone else took double the amount of energy that it took a body to heal itself. He'd need his own strength if he was ever going to get the wounds on Genesis's arms closed.

The butter on top of the potatoes he'd taken off Sharael and her brother's trays had gone completely solid. Mirk scraped at it, half-heartedly, in an effort to get at the vegetable underneath. It didn't help keep his mind off of Genesis's lifeless body on the bed before him.

He’d hoped that Genesis would have woken up by then, but would still be too weak to get up and run off to some hidden corner of the City to nurse his wounds and prepare for his next assault. It was always constant activity with him: the complicated mechanizations of his dozens of plans were unceasing, and when they relented a little, Genesis was always quick to stuff the gaps with extra assignments from the assassins and his dogged pursuit of arcane mysteries Mirk never understood the point of. The open wounds on Genesis's arms made it all clear to him, finally. It was the only explanation that made sense. Genesis never did anything without a clear and immediate purpose. And the purpose behind his endless shelves of grimoires, of his reams of notes, was escaping the magic on his arms.

It made Mirk feel foolish, thinking he had a difficult life in comparison. Still, he wished he had even a fraction of Genesis's focus. To Genesis, the tasks piling up before him would probably seem like nothing. Which was half of the reason why he'd made himself return to Genesis's room. He needed Genesis's advice. The magic that was on the rest of the Montignys was probably from Imanael, and no one knew his magic quite as intimately as Genesis. Unless there were whole legions of bound fighters tucked away in all the realms the Empire had dealings on. Mirk didn't want to think about it. Not about binding magic, not about what had been done to the Montignys in his name, not about Samael's suffering, not about making things right with his family, not about any of it.

Most of all, Mirk didn't want to think about the other reason why he'd come to Genesis's room. Despite everything, he still found Genesis's presence comforting, even when his magic was so faint that it did nothing to dim the constant patter of foreign emotions against his mental shielding. And at that moment, he needed at least a little comfort.

He made a token attempt at eating one of the rolls. As he'd anticipated, they were completely inedible without dipping them in something to soften them up first. Mirk wondered if they were even worth pocketing to take out to the birds that congregated on the parade grounds in front of the infirmary when the transporter wasn't in use.

Mirk had given up on the potatoes as well and was deliberating between setting to work on Genesis's arms or trudging back to the ground floor to see if his help was needed elsewhere when he noticed it. Genesis's breathing had grown faster, from the near-death slowness of sleep to the merely unnatural slowness of consciousness. Mirk sat up in his chair, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Genesis's face. He was staring up at the ceiling, expression blank.

"How are you feeling, messire?" Mirk asked, quietly, sinking back into his chair.

"I am...fine. At present."

"I'm glad. You were very...sick. For a while."

"I believe...sickness is not the...proper term. For what occurred."

Part of Mirk had already forgotten the finer details of that. Maybe it was willful, maybe he was just overwhelmed by so many things happening at once. Nevertheless, Mirk shook his head. "Niv told me about that. Imanael, and what those do," he said, gesturing at Genesis's shredded arms. "None of that was your fault."

"I refuse to not take...responsibility for the...things I have done."

Mirk sighed. "It wasn't really you doing them. You didn't have a choice."

"There is always...a choice."

"Not when there's that kind of magic involved. Besides, I know you, Genesis. You'd never hurt me. Or Niv. At least not badly."

"And yet."

There really was no arguing with Genesis when he had his mind set on something. Mirk decided to shift his approach. "I'll admit, I would have liked to know more about this before something happened. Why didn't you tell me about the bindings? Maybe there's something we can all do to help, you can't be—"

"There is nothing. There is only...this."

Mirk bit his lip, debating whether it'd be better to leave Genesis alone, to get up and leave, or keep trying. It was clear being alone was what Genesis wanted. But something in Mirk protested the thought of leaving the commander alone to do battle with his thoughts. If he was honest with himself, Mirk had to admit that Genesis was right, that none of them were likely to be any help in managing the bindings. Mirk didn't know the first thing about that kind of magic, and he doubted any of the men of the Seventh could do much better. The only thing he could do was stay. And attempt to fix the wreckage the binding spell had left behind on Genesis's arms.

Mirk set his uneaten lunch aside on the nightstand, clasping his hands awkwardly in his lap instead. "You really did do a good thing, though. That boy and his sister will be getting better soon. And it's all thanks to you."

"You would all be...better served by staying...away."

Mirk's first impulse was to keep holding on, to reach out and take Genesis's hand. He held himself back from it. But he did stand up so that he could see Genesis's face clearly — he was still staring up at the ceiling, his face still blank. Yet there was a sort of emptiness about him that made Mirk want to cling to him even more tightly, even if only in spirit. "Methinks you'll have to try harder than this to get me to go away, messire."

Finally, Genesis's blank mask cracked. He frowned as he glanced over at Mirk waffling beside his bed. "And they call me...mad."

Mirk laughed, shrugging. "You don't abandon your friends when things get hard. And I'm your friend, Genesis."

That wasn't the half of it. But Genesis didn't have to know the other half. In time, perhaps both their madness would pass. Mirk should have been grateful that his was so trivial in comparison. And yet, keeping himself from taking Genesis's hand, from pressing his cheek to it, so that Genesis could sense some of his concern and care through touch since his magic warded off all attempts at empathic closeness, was taking all the restraint Mirk could find.

Sighing, Genesis fixed his eyes back on the ceiling. "There will be no...talking sense into you, will there?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Then you continue...at your own peril."

"Let's not be so dramatic. It's not like you. Besides, I have to fix the cuts on your arms. I mixed that potion hours and hours ago. Methinks it'd be a waste if I let it sit any longer and it went bad. And you don't like wastefulness."

Genesis didn't reply. But he did flick a hand at Mirk, an unspoken show of his assent. Mirk went to fetch the bowl of potion from the top of the supply cabinet, bringing a rag along with to help apply it. "And I need your help with something too. You remember how sick all the Montigny men looked in the recording Laurent showed us? The Circle wrote to me. There's some sort of magic on them, and they expect me to take it off. How about a trade? I'll fix your arms, and you can take a look at the healer's notes and try to sort out what's wrong? You know I'm not nearly clever enough to sort it all out on my own."

For some reason, Genesis seemed skeptical. But he nodded all the same. "...explain."

So he did. And as he did, working at closing all the cuts down the length of Genesis's arms the whole while, Mirk began to feel better. The situation with the Circle was still worrisome, but Genesis's black mood seemed to lighten at the prospects of undoing some of Imanael's work, even if he was powerless to lift the spell that he was trapped in. Mirk liked to think that having his arms back to normal helped cheer Genesis some too, though none of his healing magic could do anything to the magic imbued in the scars that remained once he had finished.

There was still tension between them, an uncertain strain, but Mirk hoped that, with time, that would fade away. Just as the sickly purple scars around Genesis's wrists would fade back into whiteness.