It was near dusk, and Joan grew more impatient by the minute. She plucked at the grass to keep herself busy, taking in the waterfall's sound and the birds fluttering around her. But her mind always went back to that one place, that one moment, that one person.
Finally, she heard a rustle behind her, and an old woman came out of the bushes. Though her face bore the wrinkles of a seventy-year-old, the fair beauty she had been in a previous life was still beneath the surface. Her hazel eyes were filled with kindness, but that did not take away the authority she commanded when needed. Her long grey hair was bound with ribbons, and she wore the simple garments of a farmer's wife. On her hip, she carried a small bag, usually used by apothecaries.

"You better have a good reason for dragging me all the way out here," spoke the old woman. "I did not die a young girl as you did, ma fille."

"Forgive me, maman. But something is going on, and I need your counsel."

Joan had witnessed from above as her mother, Isabelle Romée, fought to have her exonerated of the charges that had led to her death, taking her plea to the Pope himself. Never had she seen her mother so brave and fierce. 
She remembered being summoned to Michael's Villa one day for what she believed would be another scolding. Instead, she found Isabelle there, talking to Michael and Gabriël. Isabelle had been allowed in the Vale as she was deemed of value. Her wisdom was not the kind to be learned from books, but from life itself. She could help in the Scola and the Hospitium, and help keep an eye on her rebellious daughter. They could not meet often, though, which made the moments together more precious.
Isabelle approached her daughter for an embrace, smelling of the sweet fragrances of freshly cut herbs. It reminded Joan of home.

"Alors, what is so important?" asked her mother. "Your message sounded urgent."

"It's not urgent," said Joan. "But it's something that cannot be discussed in a public place. We can talk privately here."

Isabelle's expression hardened. The look she gave her daughter instantly made Joan feel like a child again.

"Joan, what are you involved in that Michael can't know about? Have you done something? Something to work against him?"

"No! It's got nothing to do with Michael himself. Only... if he were to know -"

"Stop talking in riddles, girl," demanded Isabelle. "Tell me what's going on, immédiatement!"

"I-It's Gabriël. He... I..." Joan stammered incoherently. 

"What about Gabriël?"

"He's been poisoned."

"Yes, I know, Joan. I'm treating him with Raphael," Isabelle responded impatiently. "What of it?"

"I... I'm worried about him. What if Raphael's treatment doesn't work? What if it destroys him? We don't know what happens to the Archangels when they... when..."

She pressed her quivering lips together and swallowed. Her mother's stern gaze wavered. Isabelle put a comforting arm around her daughter.

"Calme-toi, ma fille. It will work." 

"But what if it doesn't?" Joan couldn't bear to even think of it.

"It will. Or do you doubt Raphael's skills? Or mine, for that matter?"

"Of course not. I just... worry."

Joan could tell her mother felt there was more. She averted, but still noticed the look from the corner of her eye. Isabelle regarded her with scrutiny, her head slightly tilted. Then she gasped. She gripped Joan's hands and pulled her closer as if to make sure the secret was kept in the space between them.

"Tell me the truth, Joan. Have you, in any way, done something with Gabriël that would give Michael cause to cast you out?"

"N-no... I... He... We didn't -" 

"Don't lie to me! You drag me here to express your concern for Gabriël, but you don't want Michael to know it? Do not take me for a fool, girl! What happened between you two?"

Joan stared back into her mother's unrelenting eyes. She felt lightheaded and planted her feet firmer upon the rocks to keep her balance. There were a hundred reasons she could offer why she had asked Isabelle to meet at the waterfall. But none of those reasons included the actual one. She couldn't risk putting her mother in danger. Michael would show no mercy to anyone involved. There was no other way. She had to lie to keep her mother safe. Gabriël. Herself.

"We did nothing, maman," Joan whispered. "There is nothing between Gabriël and me. Yes, perhaps some feelings, but they are of friendship, no more. My only fear is that others may draw the wrong conclusions like you just did. You know what he did for me, maman. And what he still does. I feel... indebted to him. So, am I not allowed to feel saddened by what has happened? To worry about my dearest friend?"

Isabelle had seen through the lies when she was a child, but Joan had learned how to keep certain secrets during her time in the army. She prayed her mother couldn't see the lie on her face.

"Swear to me." Her mother gripped her hands tighter. "Swear that you will hide whatever else you feel. From everyone. Including Gabriël."

Joan said nothing. She suddenly noticed how the air had filled with a fragrant aroma. Flowers grew nearby, but she had never managed to find them when she came here. The scent calmed her. A sense of clarity almost.

"Joan, answer me, please. I don't want to lose you again."

"You won't, maman."

Joan lowered and turned her head so the tear rolling down her left cheek remained invisible. 

***

Gabriël sat a while on the porch after Joan left. The gentle breeze brushing his skin cooled him down. He looked toward the stable. Thirza normally came over whenever he was outside, but not this time. Her silvery voice murmured in the back of his mind. From the little he understood, he could tell she was scared. It seemed to be the only emotion others felt around him lately.
As the sun disappeared beyond the hills, Gabriël returned to his bedroom. Weariness had come over him. He tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he could not help but think of Joan. What had got over him to treat her like that? 
Gabriël turned onto his side. His eyes fell on a piece of clothing on the floor that wasn't his — a leather vest. Joan's vest. He grabbed and held it close, picturing her as he took in her lingering scent. Her dark hair loosening and falling over her face. Her lips touching his as her whole body pressed against his.
Even if he could let go of what had happened at the Hospitium, he couldn't — no, wouldn't — forget what happened after Michael left them. But he had gone too far. He had put both of them in danger. Michael wouldn't forgive him for breaking the most important rule of the Vale and would only have another reason to cast Joan out. A final reason.

A sudden sharp pain overtook him at his wound. Stinging. Burning. He tried to sit up, but it felt as if the pain had chained him to his bed. When had he last taken the antidote Raphael made? The satchel, where was — the living room!
With the greatest effort, Gabriël rolled off the bed. As he thudded on the floor, images flashed through his mind. Disturbing images. Torture chambers with prisoners, battlefields with no survivors, animals tearing each other to shreds, blood everywhere... Then he saw Joan. She was wounded but still standing, surrounded by demons and shadows. And facing Joan... Borgia!
No, he wouldn't let him harm her! Gabriël tried to crawl to them, but the pain consumed and paralyzed him. He could only watch as this monster fought his love. His love... His heart...

***

Joan galloped back to the Agora. Frustrated that she had behaved so impulsively, putting someone she loved in danger, Joan didn't want anyone near her now and left her mother behind at the waterfall to collect angel's trumpet for Raphael's apothecary. Being alone was necessary sometimes. But she knew she had to return to Gabriël. Sooner rather than later. However difficult it would be for them to be together, Michael had given her a task to fulfil. Gabriël needed to be cared for. She had volunteered. Like he had for her.
As she rode closer to the Agora, she recognised Catherine and Margaret in the distance. They noticed her as well and waved. As Joan waved back, she was overcome with a stinging in her heart. It came so suddenly that she cringed in her saddle. Spiritus stopped mid-gallop, clearly sensing Joan's distress, and she fell off his back.
Catherine and Margaret yelled to her, but she barely heard them. An overwhelming pain had her in its grip. Joan closed her eyes firmly, and then she saw him — Gabriël. He lay on the floor of his bedroom, unconscious and... bleeding. She tried to shout out to him but couldn't utter a word. Then, the image of Gabriël and the pain were gone, just as fast as they had come. Joan opened her eyes and saw Catherine holding Spiritus' reins while Margaret knelt beside her.

"Joan, what happened?" she asked, worry in her tone.

"I'm not sure," Joan panted. "But I've felt this before. I need to get to Gabriël."

"Gabriël? What do you—wait, Joan, you're in no condition to —"

Joan ignored her friend's concerns as she scrambled to her feet. Her wings grew out with such a force that Margaret was thrown back. In less than a second, she soared through the sky, hearing Catherine shout after her. There was no time to explain anything to them. She had to hurry. But it was difficult to fly with the shock still in her. Joan descended closer to the ground to ensure she wouldn't hurt herself if she fell.

"Joan!" Michael appeared above her, making sure not to strike her wings. "What happened?"

"It's Gabriël; something's wrong! You're faster! Hurry!"

The Lord Protector did not hesitate. With a single beat of his wings, he flew higher and continued to Gabriël's home. Joan dropped to the ground at the crossroads near the Lake of Nevaeh. Her wings retracted as she sprinted over the winding road. She didn't care if her entire body burned and ached. The only thing that mattered was Gabriël. When she saw his home in the distance, she ran faster, rushing through the house to his bedroom. What she saw inside made her recoil and gasp in horror.
Gabriël lay in Michael's arms. Blood dripped from the open wound at Gabriël's side, spilling all over the floor like he had just been stabbed. He was as white as a corpse and barely breathing. Michael's eyes, obscured by his hair as he was hunched over Gabriël, briefly glimpsed up to meet her terrified gaze.

"Joan, come here. I will need your help." His tone was commanding but worried.

She blinked at the sound of his voice and stumbled towards them, falling to her knees beside Gabriël.

"Tell me what to do," she said.

"Raphael should have given Gabriël a few antidote vials. Search for them and bring them all here. I need to stay to keep giving him blood."

"Giving him —?"

Only then did she notice that Michael's right hand was just above Gabriël's wound and that his own blood was dripping into it from a cut on his wrist. He was keeping Gabriël alive with his blood.

"Joan, the vials!"

She searched the nightstand and the wardrobe, cursing as she ransacked every cabinet, not caring if Michael reprimanded her for it later.

"There's nothing here!" she yelled.

"Check the front," ordered Michael.

Joan ran to the living room, nearly slipping in the growing pool of blood. She looked around, finally seeing a small crimson satchel near the bookcase. Snatching it up, she hurried back, hearing the soft clink of bottles. Anxious, she took out one of the vials. It contained a light green liquid.

"You need to make him drink it," Michael said, his skin pale from blood loss and likely fear, as Gabriël seemed to lose more blood than he could give him. 

Joan knelt beside him and carefully opened Gabriël's mouth so that she could pour the liquid in. It trickled down his chin. She tried again and placed her fingers on his throat to help him swallow. Nothing.

"Michael, he's not drinking it. He's not... Oh, God, please, no!" Joan cried.

"No." Michael shook his head in disbelief. "No, you cannot die. I forbid it. Joan, take him."

She barely felt Gabriël's weight as she cradled his head between her arm and breast, near her heart. Her hand covered the wound, but the blood flowed through her fingers. Michael opened another vial and did all he could to make Gabriël drink, but it was to no avail. He fell back against the bed, blindly staring at his friend. Joan's eyes flashed from the Lord Protector's defeated expression to Gabriël and back as the terrible truth sunk in.

"H-he's..."

She couldn't say it. And Michael simply shut his eyes.

***

Grigori looked up as he heard the Master gasp. The servant stepped forward, concerned as to what had occurred.

"Master? Is something amiss?" 

"I'm afraid, Grigori, that Gabriël... is no more."

Grigori's jaw dropped, and his eyes widened in disbelief. The Master's blood had been mixed in with the poison that had been on Borgia's dagger. Because of it, a link would be formed between the Archangel and the Master. It would allow him to feel what Gabriël felt and, in time, even take over his mind and body. It was a risk, but one worth taking. Yet of everything that could have gone wrong, Grigori had never imagined this.

"But... Gabriël's an Archangel," he argued. "Surely, the Lord wouldn't let His Messenger die?"

"It would seem that the concoction we made was stronger than intended," answered the Master. "Even so, I had expected a different outcome. And I, like you, imagined His Archangels meant more to Him. Though, He is a capricious and ironically resentful God."

"What about the girl?" asked Grigori. "Is there any chance we can still get to Joan?"

"I needed both of them, Grigori. But I suppose, in light of things, it is better to have the warrior on our side than the errand boy." The Master sat in his throne-like chair with a pensive frown, swirling the wine in the crystal goblet around. "This can go two ways. Either Joan will blame Borgia and all of us for Gabriël's death, as we are the ones who poisoned him and vow to kill us all. If she becomes Michael's right hand and strengthens his pretend army, we could have a severe problem. Or... Joan will blame those who failed to heal him and lose every shred of faith she has left. She will lash out again and again until she completely isolates herself. Instead of being an advantage to Michael, she'll be a liability. It won't be too hard for the Lord Protector to seal her fate then."

"I understand. So, we wait?"

"We wait."