"A healing soul suffers more than a withering one." It was a familiar idiom, repeated so often it was easy to forget its truthfulness. Overcoming ones flaws and atoning for ones sins was hard and miserable, but that was how you knew you were healing. If you didn't put the effort in, you'd spare yourself the pain, but your soul would wither and you'd face worse pain in the afterlife, chained to the bottom of the ocean.

Floreca now knew it didn't only apply to souls. The effects of soul-drain medicine were worse than soul-drain. She woke after a night of vague, nonsequential nightmares to a searing abdominal pain. She managed to overcome the residual terror from the nightmares and crawl out of the crevice to vomit over the cliff side, but vomiting hadn't relieved the pain – just added nausea, hunger, and thirst on top of it.

I want Franjo, she thought pitifully. It had been three days. Though the pain rose and fell like waves, it had been getting worse. She took the medicine every morning, and this was the first time the symptoms had persisted past nightfall. If she'd been at home, Karesema would have woken up with her, dragged herself out of bed no matter how tired she was, held Floreca's hair back and wiped her mouth and gotten her water and stroked her even after she fell back asleep, driving away the nightmares if not the pain. But here, trembling on the cliff side, Floreca's only company was a browning eggflower that had fallen inches from her nose. She pitied it. The rest of the eggflowers had fallen by the puddle. This was all alone, and probably as thirsty as she was, but unable to muster up the strength to reach the water source.

The Aĉaĵego was not neglecting her. But it seemed to have no idea what to do around a sick person, and Floreca was in no state to explain. It brought meat and was confused when she couldn't eat it. It curled up next to her when she slept, and didn't understand why she thrashed around in agony. It knew she wasn't feeling well, but it didn't know how to help her and that seemed to frustrate it – when she cried, it hovered over, its glowing silver eyes fixed on her and its tail flickering in displeasure.

It was still asleep now, and Floreca tried not to be bothered by that. The Aĉaĵego was a child inside, after all – the more she thought of it that way, the more its actions made sense, so she tried to remind herself every time it did something that bothered her. She wouldn't expect Jadinda to wake up and care for her if she was sick in the night, so she shouldn't expect it of the Aĉaĵego, either. She'd have to let this pass by herself, substituting happy memories for her sister's presence until the pain eased enough to allow her to fade back into sleep.

"How many days has it been?" Floreca asked, one time of many. It was hard to track the days. All that seemed to matter now were hours – how many hours of peace she had before the medicine kicked in and the symptoms worsened, and then, how many hours until the pain eased, and then how many until the sunrise, when she'd have to take her medicine again. She was getting progressively weaker as well, both in body and mind, even when nothing hurt. She often caught herself thinking things that made no sense, like dreaming without sleep. Her mind personified random objects and gave her strange emotional reactions to mundane events. And sometimes when she tried to sit up, patches of darkness covered her vision, her neck became unable to support her head, and she had to lay back down.

She longed for her sisters. She was starting to worry. Why hadn't Karesema come back yet? Even if she hadn't gotten any more medicine, why wouldn't she come to visit?

"She cast a stone at me. I loathe her, and she loatheth me," said the Aĉaĵego, when Floreca voiced the thought to it.

"But she wouldn't avoid me for that!" said Floreca, tired of chiding the Aĉaĵego to think positively about her sister. "Can't you fly down to my village and ask if she's all right?"

"Thy sister is not sickly."

"Healthy people can still get hurt."

"Thy sister is not sickly, and I loathe her. Thou art sickly, and I love thee. I will not leave thee, for I would miss thee and thou must not be alone."

She couldn't be angry at it after that. Its sentiments were kind. She had to be grateful, even if she disagreed.

The Aĉaĵego learned to take care of her. When she writhed around in her sleep and ended up somewhere other than her pile of bedding, it placed her blanket over her, tucked the pillow under her head the best it could without jostling her, and even lay her beautiful wooden doll in her arms. When she vomited it gathered water for her in a cup which it held with its tail, its only appendage which was capable of any fine motor control – though, even with its tail, it was unused to holding things that had to be kept upright and often spilled. It had stopped bringing meat for her and started bringing different kinds of fruits, which made her feel less nauseous.

When Floreca had the energy, she told stories. She had completely run out of stories about the Aĉaĵego. Like Floreca as a child, the Aĉaĵego liked stories about the Aĉaĵego most. Unlike Floreca, it didn't like to hear the same stories over and over again. So she made them up. Before, she would have thought making up stories about an angel was blasphemous. But in this case, the angel itself was asking her to do so, so surely it couldn't be wrong. The Aĉaĵego had asked about the goddesses, but she drew the line about making things up about them. Instead, she thought about some of the stories made up by the professional storytellers in her village. There were stories about heroic men who traveled the world and fought ferocious animals, rescued beautiful women, and usurped corrupt rulers. She started out retelling the bits and pieces of these stories she'd heard and replacing the heroes with the Aĉaĵego, but eventually the stories became her own, as she tailored the plots to the Aĉaĵego's interests and her own opinions about how the Aĉaĵego would act, if it was in those same situations as the heroes. Even for a story, the thought of the Aĉaĵego gallantly kissing maidens and outwitting intelligent monsters seemed a stretch.

Sometimes Floreca was not in the mood to tell stories. She tried to come up with something every time the Aĉaĵego asked, but sometimes, even when she wasn't in pain, she was so exhausted that it took every bit of energy she had just to remember who she was. She had none to spare on imagination, or speaking. The Aĉaĵego had tried demanding stories anyway, but it soon learned that even when she tried, her results were unsatisfying, and stopped asking more than twice an hour.

Sometimes it seemed the Aĉaĵego was getting better at conversing like a normal, well-mannered person. It had a habit of becoming irritated whenever Floreca spoke about her sisters, but it had grown more interested in speaking about other things. It told her more of the things it had seen, not stories, but descriptions of lands it had flown to and creatures it had observed. More importantly, it had become better at identifying and discussing feelings, allowing them to speak on a deeper level. They often chatted at night, awaiting sleep, Floreca burrowed in her blankets with her doll in one arm and one of the Aĉaĵego's forelegs in the other.

"I used to want to die," it confessed one night. "Like thy mother."

She forced her initial look of shock into an appropriate look of pity. "Why?"

"I was weary. I loathed to take sacrifices. I hungered and I ate them, but after I ate, I felt no better. Though I once took pleasure in conversing with my sacrifices, I no longer wanted to hear them, and I spoke to them no longer. I know not wherefore."

Floreca stopped to think about it. "I always liked to play with chicks, even though I know someday they'd grow into chickens, and we'd eat them. I thought maybe you felt the same about humans. But people are different. They know they're going to die. I'm sure they weren't the best company."

But it wasn't just that. Floreca had other people. The Aĉaĵego didn't. Though he had once served Terdiino, clearly he had no regular contact with goddesses anymore. Even if the Aĉaĵego had to kill at Terdiino's orders, even if it had even come to hunger for human meat... it would be horrible, having to kill everyone you ever spoke to.

"You must have been so lonely," Floreca said.

"I am not lonely with thee here," it said.

I am, she thought, selfishly, before casting the thought away. This wasn't about just her, and why did she have to keep reminding herself to be grateful?

"That's good," she said. She shifted, rolling over onto her back, eyes to the small sliver of the cave top out of which she could see moonlight. The mountain was closer to heaven than home had been. Why did it feel far away?

"That's good. I'm sorry about how unhappy you've been. But I'm glad you told me. I think it's helped me understand something."

"Understand what?"

She paused a moment. "My mother always taught me that everything happens for a reason. That was shown through all the stories about you that we learned. But I always wondered, what was the reason I had to be born into an unhappy family? What was the reason Panjo had to be married to a man who hurt her? The stories all had a good outcome to bad events, and I waited for there to be a good outcome to what happened to me – but it never happened. Now I understand. I was born into this family so I could, someday, help you. The stories helped me love you, even before I knew you. The death of my parents helps me understand some of your feelings, like loneliness. And because of that, I could help you feel better, and stop you from eating people!" She beamed. "It's really amazing, isn't it? It's just like an ancient story! Maybe someday there will be ancient stories about me."

"Perhaps there will," Aĉaĵego agreed. "I believe that a story about you would be a better one than most of the others I have been told."

Floreca had gotten used to hearing people coming up and down the mountain. She'd stopped hoping they would stop and talk to her. She only ever kept hoping that one of the travelers would be Karesema. When she saw a group coming up the mountain together, pulling a handcart with them, she gave up hope before they ever got near enough to see their faces. But she kept watching, anyway – the Aĉaĵego was hunting again, and she had nothing else to do. And then she noticed there was something familiar about the eldest woman's reddish hair, her white embroidered headdress. And the man's long, golden hair, shimmering in the sunlight. And she remembered what Karesema had said, about their cousin Sunbrila marrying a blacksmith from their village.

"Onjo," she said under her breath, the familiar term for an aunt. Her aunt, the closest thing she had to a mother since her own had passed. And her uncle, and cousins, and cousins' wives, too! She held back just a little longer, wanting to make sure her eyes weren't deceiving her, but then one of her cousins seemed to spot her. He gestured towards her to his father, and both her uncle and aunt stopped to look at her, and then the whole group, and then she was sure. No one else had ever stopped to squint at her like that.

Barely feeling her sickness, she half-ran, half-stumbled down the path to greet them. The whole group was still, then some of the men went to their handcart, turning it to its side and pushing it off the path so it wouldn't roll down.

She was almost close enough to reach them before she realized something was wrong. They shouldn't be just standing there, they would have recognized her by now, and her aunt should have been doing her part to shorten the distance. Her cousins' wives were standing a step behind their husbands, as if for protection. Everyone seemed to be looking to her uncle for something. He said something, and slowly, without taking their eyes from Floreca, her cousins knelt, then lowered their heads. Bowing. Her uncle followed them, and then, perhaps most reluctantly, her aunt.

"Onjo?" Floreca called. She took it upon herself to bridge the remaining distance, but her approach was slower now. Her aunt shifted, preparing to stand. "Onjo, what are you all doing? It's me! Floreca!"

Her aunt finally stood, brushing the dirt from her dress with a look on her face as though she was trying to brush away an embarrassing mistake, too. The others followed her lead, and her aunt put on a kindly expression as she moved towards Floreca, as if nothing strange had happened. Confused, but more relieved, Floreca ran the last few steps between them, and fell into her aunt's embrace.

"Floreca! You're so thin, poor thing! How are you feeling?"

"I'm so happy to see you, Onjo! I heard about Sunbrila – I really wish I could've seen the wedding. My sister said – I mean, how is my sister? She hasn't come in days. And... what was all that about? Why were you... kneeling?"

Her aunt released her, allowing her to greet her uncle and cousins. She acknowledged each one with a nod of recognition as they approached, but there was no time to verbally interact before her aunt spoke again.

"I'm sorry, dear. Your sister told us that the whole 'angel' business was just a ridiculous rumor, and it's not that we didn't believe her, but well... we didn't see you when we first came this way, so we didn't know for sure, and what with even the priests calling you an angelic name and everything... we thought it would be best to err on the side of too respectful."

"Angel business?" Floreca echoed. "What do you mean? The priests are calling me what?"

A look crossed her aunt's face as though she had just stepped into a puddle much deeper than she realized. "Karesema didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"I – " Floreca's aunt exchanged glances with her husband, then one of her daughters-in-law, before returning to Floreca. "I'm sorry, dear. I didn't mean to shock you – I thought Karesema would have told you." She wrapped a sturdy arm around Floreca again, snugly, as if she thought Floreca would need help staying upright. Addressing her daughters-in-law, she said, "Berilinda, Agata, serve my niece some lunch. Let's rest here. Floreca, I can't say I know the whole story, but I'll tell you what your sister told me."