Tyrael and the Horadrim were settling into Westmarch's new culture of work-and-fix, and he was reasonably sure Rathma was too. Things had been calm and quiet for a while now, and Tyrael was really starting to think-hope that they'd managed to carve out a little slice of peace during this time.

Or at least, he had been.

On a normal afternoon in the quiet autumn season, the old Nephalem reappeared. In front, almost on top of Tyrael's cluttered desk, Rathma abruptly re-entered the angel's immediate sphere of attention.

Now, this was not especially out of the ordinary. Rathma came and went without warning, at random. His habit of appearing out of thin air had become familiar to Tyrael, and the former angel had (mostly) stopped jumping up when he made his entrances. (He thought maybe the nephalem was just trying to get a rise out of him. Literally.)

And so, during this particular interruption into his day, Tyrael was not immediately alarmed into action. He looked up, stared blankly, and Rathma stared back. Dully, Tyrael noticed his normally-pale nephew was...very red. Very, very red. In fact, he was dripping red onto Tyrael's desk.

Rathma broke the stare first, likely not because he wanted to, but simply because he was in the midst of collapsing. His head smacked into the desk on the way down, and he landed in an unceremonious heap on the floor. There was a beat of shocked silence as Tyrael processed all this.

And then, Tyrael did jump. Up, out of his seat, up, over his desk.

"By the light!" He skidded to his knees beside Rathma with a shout of alarm that morphed into a call for the other Horadrim. Desperately and despairingly, he pulled the pale figure over. Pulled his head into his lap, checked for any...obvious damage. He cursed the gloves he wore, for he could not check a pulse with them fastened on.

He didn't find much more than a bruise, not that Tyrael really knew what he was looking for. Cradling his head, Tyrael checked the rest of his body for the source of the [red-red-red]. His hands were slick with it, it was everywhere he looked, where was it coming from-?

The Horadrim were there now, bleating out noises of confusion and alarm. Apprehensively, Tyrael continued his search for wherever all the blood-red-blood was coming from. He did not notice their healer beside him, or the way Rathma stirred ever so slightly. The cloak he always wore fluttered around him, making it difficult to see-

"It's not mine." Came the rasp. Tyrael looked down, incredulous. Rathma squinted up at him (he had red on his lips, cheeks, in his eyes.)

The noises had ground to a halt as everyone acknowledged what the nephalem had said, then started back up all over again. Demands of explanations, sighs of relief, curiosities and worries. With a huff, Rathma tried to raise a hand, found he really couldn't. He was awfully tired, but…

"Apologies for- for the mess?" He offered to Tyrael's panicked stare. The (former) angel didn't reply - not with words. Rathma blinked as he found himself yanked into a forceful hug. Of course he could feel the rawness of Tyrael's [human, so human] emotions. Panic, fear, relief, anger-fear. It was so strange to feel such things from...anyone really, about...himself…

Things were still for one frozen moment. Something in his heart simply melted away in that space, some part that had long been abandoned and forgotten about by everyone who mattered-

"What in the Burning Hells happened to you?" And then Tyrael was letting go of him, and he was still really quite afraid, but he was angry too, angrily relieved. "Whose blood is this if it's not yours? What did you do?" And full of questions, as he so often was. Rathma couldn't help the tiny smile.

"There are cultists in the Moors." He answered truthfully. And Tyrael looked real angry then, real unimpressed and like he wanted to call his nephew ten different kinds of idiot (which, well, he kind of was). He sucked in a breath, and Rathma thought he might do just that before he abruptly let it out again. The once-angel's face abruptly looked as old as Rathma sometimes felt, and he couldn't help but feel the slightest bit guilty for dropping in so messily.

"Fine. We can discuss your...findings, later." Tyrael spoke very patiently. Rathma was fascinated for a moment, before he let out an abrupt alarmed squawk. He hadn't realized Tyrael could just pick him up like this, but there they were.

"And you are not leaving until we've gone over what happened, why you're covered in blood, and how dumb whatever it is you did probably was." Tyrael was speaking conversationally, and Rathma lashed his tail in agitation.

"I can walk-"

"You hit your head on the desk. Could be a concussion, yes?" Tyrael smoothly replied. Rathma glowered. "One should not be walking freshly concussed."

Rathma gave him the flattest look he could muster. With a twist of his hips and a swish of his tail, he elegantly flopped out of Tyrael's arms. His hooves clopped against the wooden floor, much louder than his usual dainty clip.

The Nephalem didn't go far, choosing instead using his uncle as a crutch of sorts.

"You're not carrying me like that." He stated. "...Might drop me." Tyrael looked cross, but relented. He hadn't really expected to get away with that anyway.

The group began their shuffle out of Tyrael's study. Adrenaline had begun to wear off, replaced with wary relief and dull amusement. It may have been a time of peace, but Sanctuary was as dangerous as ever. Trouble was brewing beneath the Moors...