Gabriël still lay in Joan's arms. She rocked him like a mother would a baby. With every sway, she hoped it would rouse him. But he remained quiet. Too quiet. 

"Joan, let him go," Michael said hoarsely. 

She shook her head violently. He put a hand on her shoulder. 

"Please, Joan, let go of him. Allow him some dignity."

"Dignity? DIGNITY?" Joan's eyes flashed to him with rage, making Michael recoil. "There is no dignity in this, Michael! Look at him! Look at how he... Oh God, why? H-He was fine! He was walking and talking and -"

"I know, Joan, I know. The poison must have been more potent than we thought."

Joan dropped her head, touching Gabriël's brow with her own, and let her tears fall onto his face. He wasn't even cold yet. His blood was still warm and seeping from... his wound. Wait.

"He's still bleeding," she whispered, slowly raising herself up again.

"What?" 

"Michael, he's still bleeding! He's still warm. Maybe..."

She placed two fingers on Gabriël's throat to feel for a heartbeat. It had to be there. 

"Joan, he is not breathing," she heard Michael say. "Gabriël is gone."

"Shut up, Michael!"

She ignored the way he glared at her and closed her eyes to focus. Her fingers traced Gabriël's throat ever so carefully. There! Was that...?

"He's alive!"

Michael quickly placed his fingers where Joan's had been. He kept still for a second and then looked up at her, his face filling with hope. 

"Give me your blade," she said.

He handed Joan the dagger he had used on himself and she slit her wrist to hold it above the wound as he had done.

"Joan, if my blood did not help, what makes you think yours will?"

"You have another idea? Because if you do, I'm all ears! No? Then get another one of those vials."

Michael opened the satchel and removed the third and final crystal vial. He met Joan's gaze. This was their last chance. He opened it and poured the green liquid into Gabriël's mouth.

"Wait, not all of it," said Joan hastily. "Pour some in the wound as well."

"He needs to drink it," argued Michael.

"Just do it already!" she snapped.

"Mind who you are speaking to, young lady!"

"Michael, please! I'm trying to save our friend! Why aren't you?"

Joan threw him a desperate look, and Michael relented, pouring what remained of the vial into the wound. He sat back whilst Joan sat motionless, with one hand on Gabriël's throat, measuring his heartbeat, and the other over the laceration on Gabriël's side. Neither dared to speak, and both waited with bated breath. The sound of horses and a carriage outside made them jump. Michael hurried out of the room, somehow neatly avoiding the blood on the floor, leaving Joan alone with Gabriël.

"Gabriël, if you can hear me, open your eyes," she pleaded. "Please, open your eyes. You're still alive; I know you are. I won't allow you to die, so just wake up. Wake up and look at me. Please, I... I need you."

His heartbeat suddenly strengthened, pulsing steadier. The wound slowly healed.

"Wake up, Gabriël." She pulled him closer to whisper into his ear. "Yes. Yes, I want it too. I want you. Gabriël, please don't leave me again. Please, wake -"

Joan nearly screamed as Gabriël's hand shot up and grabbed her bleeding wrist. He gasped for breath, and his eyes opened wide. He looked straight at her.

"Oh, dear God! Gabriël!"

His free hand slid under her loosened hair and held the back of her neck. He pulled her towards him. His eyes were dark again. Frightening dark. 
She heard footsteps approaching and glanced up. Michael had returned, bringing Raphael along with him. They halted at the sight of them.

"Joan... You saved him?" Michael said incredulously.

"Clearly she did, Michael, but you can thank her later. I need to be alone with my patient now."

Raphael strode across the room and carefully helped Joan get free from Gabriël's firm grip. She stood and let Raphael take her place. Michael took Joan by her arm, leading her out of the room, but she stopped him.

"Wait. Raphael, his eyes. They're -"

"I know, my dear. Michael, outside."

Michael had Joan walk in front of him so he could close the door. They continued to the kitchen, where he practically forced her into a chair before walking to the sink. He drenched two kitchen towels in cold water. Then he sat down and threw one at Joan. He started cleaning his wrist. It had already healed, but she knew Michael hated blood on his clothing.
He ignored Joan completely, as she did him. She hadn't picked up the towel, which lay half on the table and half on her arm, and stared into nothing. A scream came from the bedroom, startling her. Already halfway to the door, she was stopped by Michael's commanding voice.

"Sit down, Joan. You have no business going in that room."

Joan turned around to face him. Michael was still seated, but looked at her with a steely expression.

"You heard that scream," she said. "What if Raphael needs our help?"

"If Raphael needed us, he would have asked us to stay. And you have already done more than enough for the Messenger."

"Excuse me?"

"Sit down and clean your wrist."

"No, I'm not doing anything until you tell me what that comment was."

Joan crossed her arms and waited for Michael to continue. His eyes narrowed at her. They were filled with distrust.

"Where were you?" he asked.

"I... I don't..." She fumbled nervously, taken aback by the question.

"I agreed to let you be Gabriël's keeper because I was certain you would not let him out of your sight. Yet I find you miles away and him on the brink of death. So I ask you to make me understand what made you forsake your task."

"I was... with my mother."

Michael gave an exasperated sigh.

"She's treating Gabriël with Raphael," Joan continued hurriedly. "I was worried I wouldn't be able to help if he had another seizure, so I met her to ask her for advice. I didn't think -"

"Exactly, Joan; you didn't think. You never think. You always do whatever you please, never once thinking of the consequences of your actions."

Joan's blood boiled. The nerve of him to pretend like she was the only one at fault here! She had told him countless times to double the guards at the Gates in case of an attack. If he had listened to her, they wouldn't be sitting here in the first place. 

"Michael, do you have a problem with me helping Gabriël?" she questioned.

"Of course not." 

"What then? Are you perhaps jealous that I was the one who saved him just now and not you?"

She realised too late that she went too far. Michael stood up so quickly that the chair fell over and banged on the hard wooden floor.

"How dare you? Gabriël is not here to speak for you now, girl, and I doubt anyone else would want to! So you would do well to hold your tongue and remember your place!"

The two glared at each other. Another scream made them jerk their heads toward the closed door. But neither moved towards it. Michael picked up the chair and sat back down. Joan sighed and took the towel from the table to clean the blood from her wrist. Her cut wasn't healing as fast as Michael's, but it had stopped bleeding. 

"I am sorry," she apologised, making her tone sound as solemn as his. "This whole thing has me on edge. We nearly lost Gabriël. It frightens me he is not out of the woods yet. But I should not have reacted the way I did. And you are right; I should never have left him alone. Please forgive me."

Michael regarded her quietly and then stood to sit in the chair next to Joan, never taking his eyes off her.

"You are right," he said, surprisingly kind and calm. "It is frightening. Even to me, I admit. And I suppose I could have expressed myself differently as well. So, yes, Joan, I forgive you. But you must keep in mind that this might be what they want. Putting us against each other, weakening us. To them, Gabriël is just a means to an end. Our end."

"Then tell me what to do to make them pay for this, and I will gladly do it." Joan clenched her fist.

"No doubt you will," Michael said, grinning faintly. "Perhaps the best way to win this particular battle is to make sure Gabriël heals so that he can join us once more. And after what just happened, you might just be the person to accomplish this."

"What do you mean?"

"Joan, I have to ask. How did you know the antidote poured directly into the wound would help?"

Instinct.

"My mother," lied Joan. "She told me that sometimes you have to battle the affliction head-on. That is what I did."

"Hmm. And your blood?"

"I do not know. Maybe it mixed with yours and -"

"No, mine would not absorb and streamed out of the wound the moment it touched him. But yours worked almost instantly. Then, the way he was holding you just now. Not to mention you feeling his pain several times, your reaction to his death..."

"What are you saying, Michael?" Joan felt more uncomfortable the longer he spoke.

"I have asked you this before, and I fear I need to ask you again. Is there anything between you and Gabriël? Anything at all that may explain what I've seen so far? Think carefully before you answer me, because if you lie to me now and are discovered, no one can help you."

Joan had admitted nothing to her mother, so she wouldn't do so with Michael. She was determined to keep this secret - for Gabriël.

"My answer remains the same. We are close friends, but only that. I suppose that seeing how we spend more time with each other than usual, we have perhaps come to care more for each other. And I feel responsible for him now, of course. But I cannot explain why I felt his pain. It is as great a mystery to me as it is to you."

Michael stared intensely at Joan. She returned the gaze, recalling the one time she faced a bull in the field near Domrémy. All she had to do was remain perfectly composed. Unwavering. Calm.

"All right then," said Michael. "Just know, I will keep a close eye on you. Both of you."

"I understand." Joan nodded slowly.

***

It took another hour before Raphael emerged from the bedroom and asked Michael to help him carry Gabriël out on the stretcher. As Joan waited outside with the carriage, she noticed Thirza was missing. Gabriël never closed the stable, and the horse did like to wander off. Maybe she was looking for Spiritus across the lake.
Gabriël still looked very pale as they carried him out, and he was unconscious again. Raphael had taken his shirt off to treat him better. A thin blanket covered most of his body.

"Joan, ride with Raphael," said Michael. "I will stay with Gabriël to -"

"Actually, I would feel more at ease if Joan sat with him," interrupted Raphael.

Michael turned and looked at him inquisitively, demanding even. But it was clear that the physician would not waiver at this.

"Very well then. Joan, you may remain at his side. Raphael, I shall join you."

Joan didn't give Michael time to change his mind and climbed into the carriage. She sat next to Gabriël, making herself as small as possible to allow him comfort. She heard Michael say something to Raphael, but the thick, velvety curtains muffled the words. No doubt he was objecting to this arrangement. But Raphael took the lead over Michael in medical emergencies. It felt good to know that others stoop up to the Lord Protector, even if it didn't happen often.
The carriage moved down the path at a slow pace. Too slow for Joan's liking. She did her best not to look straight at Gabriël, but peered through the cracks in the curtains. Nights were cool around the Lake of Nevaeh because of the daily mist. Tonight was no exception. The Agora and surrounding buildings remained warmer. That's what she wanted for Gabriël, for him to be warm.
He moved his head from left to right, muttering. Perhaps he was dreaming. Then she heard him whisper her name. A soft whisper, as if said to a lover in privacy. Joan leaned in, making sure not to hurt him. She caressed his cheek ever so slightly.

"I'm here, Gabriël. I'm here."

He opened his eyes; they were blue again.

"Joan..."

"Ssh, careful." She placed a finger on his lips. "We have to speak quietly. Michael is just outside with Raphael. We're taking you back to the Hospitium."

Gabriël tried to sit up, but grimaced in pain. Joan urged him back on the stretcher. She couldn't bear seeing him hurt like this. He noticed her expression and took hold of her hand, placing it on his chest. His heart beat steadily, stronger than before. The reassuring thump calmed Joan down. She looked into his glistening eyes. Tears glistened in those deep oceans. 

"Forgive me, Joan," whispered Gabriël

"For what?" she asked.

"Everything. What I said, what I am putting you through... I should never have placed you in such a position. I know better, but all I can think about is being with you and... having you. What I feel for you, it's... impossible to describe. But it's real. And if there's any chance... I want to ask you again to be mine."

The heartfelt confession took the angel entirely by surprise. Joan stared at Gabriël, letting his words sink in. She could say no. She should say no. Yet everything that had happened in these last hours had cleared up any doubt she previously had.

"There's nothing to forgive and nothing for you to be sorry about." She clutched his hand in hers. "I'll admit that your... actions earlier scared me. So I ran. But then I felt your pain and hurried back to you. Seeing you in your bedroom, wounded, bleeding, dying... I felt you die, Gabriël. It was the most terrifying sensation I have ever felt. It shook me to my very core. Michael gave up on you, but I refused. And somehow, you must've heard me because you came back. You came back to me."

"I did hear you, Joan. You said..."

"Don't," Joan warned him. "I remember. And I meant it, Gabriël. Somehow, we'll make it work."

Gabriël smiled at her words. She leaned in and briefly brushed her lips on his forehead. This quick moment was all they could risk. Patience is a virtue... but a very trying one.

***

Grigori wandered the hallways of the wintery palace amid the Circles of Hell. He had retired for the night, but then a message came from the Master to return immediately. And so he had left his tower room, walking back to the main quarters.
There was very little light in the palace, but it never bothered the servants. Darkness was easy to get used to, as was the cold of the ice that covered the walls. After a few decades, the only abnormality was light. Grigori was repulsed even thinking about the light that had once shone so brightly in his afterlife. Even the fires burned dimly. But he still preferred the fires in the palace over those in the Circles. Hell Fire could take many forms and colours, from poisonous green to blood red. And they were all meant to torture.
Grigori, of course, was no stranger to torment and pain. He had suffered enough of it during his life and had seen others inflict cruelty as well. And though he would never put someone through physical torture himself, he did not mind using his wits and words to drive a person into insanity.
But the Master was wise. He had explained it all - the agony of the Circles was meant as a lesson. And he was the only one who had not made Grigori suffer. No, the Master had granted him mercy, comfort, and even kindness. The latter was a feeling Grigori often missed in life. Only one other person had been kind to him. And that person was lost in the afterlife, not in the Circles nor in the Heavens. Simply... lost.

"Skulking about so late, monk?"

Grigori turned to see Cesare Borgia, who looked down on his tattered habit (although he had never been sworn into the monastery). He pinched his lips, hidden beneath his long brown beard. As an incentive to do his bidding, the Master had returned the Borgia Bastard's beauty and virility of his youth. No longer was he the man whose body had been scarred badly from battle wounds and disease, but a villainous Casanova.
He was dressed in a loose white shirt, black pantaloons, and black boots, and his wavy raven hair hung loosely over his shoulders. Many women had fallen for the rogue. Even his own sister, if there was any truth to the rumours. His sword was missing from his ruby-detailed belt, but he carried a dagger, similar to the one he had used on the Messenger.

"I serve the Master, signore. And right now, the Master has summoned me once more to his quarters. May I ask what you are doing here?" asked Grigori, hoping for a reason to send him away.

"I have the good fortune of being summoned as well." Borgia grinned.

"You? What could the Master possibly want with the likes of you?"

"Careful, monk. I have disposed of greater men than you for insulting me."

"Perhaps, signore, it is you who should be careful. You are a guest here. And guests should always speak courteously to their host and those who advise him. After all, who knows what might be... discovered?"

Was that fear he saw in Borgia's eyes? Yes. It was only a flicker, but enough for Grigori to know he now had power over this man.

"We mustn't keep the Master waiting. Please," he said, allowing Borgia to walk first.

They continued to their Lord's quarters in silence and found him standing by the window, a glass of wine in his hand. The fire Grigori had lit earlier in the Master's quarters had reduced to little flames, and shadows danced on the walls, almost threatening. 

"There's been a development," he said.

Neither spoke. The Master glanced over his shoulder, directing his attention to Grigori.

"Please tell signore Borgia what happened before you left the room earlier."

"Gabriël had another seizure from the poison," said Grigori, half-turning to the man next to him. "He died."

"What?" Borgia's eyes widened. "My Lord, I swear I used the dosage you gave me!"

"Calm yourself." The Master shushed him. "Of course you did. I lay no blame on you for this. In fact, there is no one to blame. For Gabriël is amongst the living angels, once more."

Grigori and Borgia looked at each other, unsure of how to react to such a revelation.

"Master, how is that possible?" dared Grigori. "Forgive me, but you believed him dead as well."

"It would seem I underestimated the girl. Joan did what Michael failed to do and saved him. I'm not entirely sure how, but I have a theory. One I shall keep to myself for now."

"How do we proceed from here?" 

"We do nothing." The Master moved from the window towards them. "Gabriël's darkest and deepest desire is enhanced by the poison, which is his desire for her. They will come together and break every rule Michael has enforced in the Vale. When he discovers what they've done, he will show no mercy. Gabriël will refuse to leave Joan, of course, and will not hesitate to follow her. When they are both cast out, we shall take them. That is where you two come in."

He turned to the Borgia Bastard, who stood straight as if awaiting orders.

"You will be the one to snatch them up for me," continued the Master. "I need you to pick out men, women... whomever you want and train them immediately. Joan and Gabriël will not be cast out as Fallen Angels, but Nephilim. We will need to be prepared to get them before those wannabees do."

"It shall be done, my Lord," Borgia answered, an excited gleam in his eyes.

The Master then turned to Grigori and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"And you, Grigori, shall welcome them here. Use your talent, that sweet gift with words that you possess. Convince them to fight for us, as you have swayed other exceptional souls. Make sure they know we will allow them to be together. We encourage it, in fact, because we wish them to be happy. All we ask in return is for them to fight with us."

"Yes, Master." Grigori bowed. "I suspect Gabriël will need more persuasion than Joan, but if I talk to her first and remind her of the pain Michael has caused, she may convince him for me."

"I knew I could rely on you. For now, we let it play out, though. Let them doom each other. And when we have them here, His Kingdom shall finally fall."