"What's going on, here?"

The Infirmary is not blind to its scuffles that break out among it's patients, emotions are high, pain is mixed in, being surrounded by those watching your movements would make anyone stand on edge for even the slightest of things. They are always watching diligently for scuffles that do break out, to keep their patients safe from harm and to keep their fellow healers safe from harm, and when they catch sight of a scuffle, they are quick in joining it to bring about peace once more.

So, when he spots on out of the corner of his eye, he's quick is softly dismissing himself from his class to investigate.

There's a burnt hand, that's what he zones in on first, a hand burnt crisp waving around in the air in the patients irritation.

Poor Inca, looking so out of his element, as he's just trying to disinfect the burn and bind it in bandages.

"Zaveriel."

Wild eyes turn to him, and they shrink back, averting quickly at the expression they lay witness to in his gaze.

"Hi, Akriel."

"Hello," he reaches for his hand. "May I see this?"

Zaves nods, looking down to his feet, and lowers his burnt hand down for his older brother to tenderly examine his wound.

"Were you playing with the holy fire, again?"

He nods silently, hissing when he presses a finger lightly to one of the blisters that litter his hand, Zaveriel doesn't like making Akriel upset at him. Akriel's like Raph, he's strict when it comes to certain things and doesn't take others disrespecting the healers under his command, and he'll tan you if he catches you doing so.

"You're going to sit down, still yourself, and let Inca tend to your hand." Akriel looks down to his younger brother. "Aren't you, Zaveriel?"

He nods meekly, chancing a glance up at him, and nods again at the look he gazes into. It's the look that promises repercussions if he doesn't settle down and allow Inca to work. It's the look he gets before Akriel takes him by the arm, turns him around, and tans his hide. If he doesn't do as he's told.

"Yes."

His older brother reaches up and pats his cheek tenderly. "Good boy." He looks over his shoulder to Inca. "If he gives you any more trouble, just call for me," he looks back to the baby Virtue. "But that won't happen, will it, Zaveriel?"

"No."

Zaves doesn't like that look and refuses to look up until his brother squeezes his arm, and leaves them in favor of returning to his class.

It isn't long until his attention is called back to the pair.

Akriel turns to look at the sound of their struggle and heaves a large sigh, gesturing for his class to follow from over his shoulder, to return to their sides once more. He catches Zaveriel by the back of his tunic, the collar, much like a feline catches a kitten by the scruff of its neck and pulls him away. Inca looks up at him. "I will tend to him, Inca, you go take a moment to regroup and return to another patient." His healer nods in appreciation, turning to walk off, Akriel turns to look down at his younger brother, whom he has 'by the scruff of his neck'. "Hello, again, Zaveriel."

"I'm sorry!" He blurts out quickly. "It just hurt!"

"You struck my healer."

"I didn't mean to!"

"I don't care very much whether you meant to or not." He pulls him closer. "You struck him."

The older Virtue turns him none to gently to the bed he stands before. "Sit." Zaveriel falls backward to sit on the bed silently, watching with wide attentive eyes as his older brother sits in the chair Inca had abandoned, reaching out silently for his hand. He's not as gentle as Inca had been trying to be as he washes his hand clean and binds it in a bandage, leaving his appendage disinfected and aching, and Akriel gives him a long silent, hard look.

He stands from his seat. "Stand up."

"Ak, no, no, I'm sorry!"

"I'm going to let you keep your trousers on, but if you want to fight me, we can remove them."

"No! No! I don't want to fight! I don't want to lose my trousers!"

The specialist twitches his finger slightly. "Then stand." Zaveriel stands quickly, standing before his older brother and his class behind him, the embarrassment about what's about to happen is outweighed by the notion of what's about to happen. Akriel turns his finger slightly. "Turn." He sniffles softly, as he turns slowly, flinching at the hand that curls around his upper arm. "Now explain to me, what happens to those who strike my healers?"