So basically nothing happens here but I wrote it and I figured I should post it. HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY. I'll label this one complete, but there may be a third part after Uriel's recovery depending on how I feel. Don't wait for it though. Hope you enjoy!
When Abaddon failed to fall ill despite his exposure to the plague he gathered a squad of those similarly immune and led them against the demons. Without knowing how the plague was spread, there was little they could do but destroy everything: kill the demons, demolish their stronghold, burn all that remained. It would be a long while before anything could inhabit what they'd left behind.
When they returned Abaddon did not retreat to his home—he had not been there since the morning of the plague, so he supposed he ought to save himself some trouble later and stay in the infected barracks. His presence worked wonders among the Hellguard, and as tales of the excursion spread he might have sworn there was more energy all around despite the circumstances.
He still had his duties, however, and it was not until much later that he was able to justify a purely selfish visit.
Uriel had not awoken even once during his absence, the healers told him, although she had stirred some in the past few hours. That was encouraging, but like the other afflicted angels her feathers had begun to fall out, and even if she made a full recovery she would be earthbound for a time.
Abaddon grimaced. Rare was the angel who preferred to walk when their entire realm had been built around flight. It seemed unfair, that she should be so inconvenienced in exchange for proving her mettle yet again.
He could not rationalize any more than a simple inquiry as to her condition, but the staff seemed to anticipate his need and gave him her location without any fuss. And so, feeling somehow indecent, he made his way to her room.
Uriel woke again buried in soft blankets, sinking into a soft bed that was definitely not her own—there weren't enough pillows for that, for one thing, and the one pillow she did have was not near firm enough. But it was comfortable, and surprisingly cool for the weight on her, and for a moment she relaxed and contemplated returning to sleep.
But then she remembered what she had fallen asleep on—hard armor, calloused hands—and distantly realized why she was not in her bed.
Taking a deep breath, Uriel sat up slowly—and was assailed by the same pain in her blurry memory, almost instantly feeling sick as well. From somewhere far away she heard a rustling of cloth, and then a hand grasped her shoulder.
"Uriel," a familiar, gruff voice said.
Uriel moaned and pressed the heel of her hand into her brow. Everything hurt and she was sore, and tired, and freezing now without the shield of her blankets, and she swooned as a darkness fell over her mind—but the hand gently pushed until she was laying down once more, and then the bed creaked under a new weight at her side.
"Uriel," Abaddon repeated, and Uriel appreciated the quiet of his voice: she wasn't sure her headache could take much more. "How do you feel?"
Uriel sighed and opened her eyes to look at him, distantly noting that he was wearing robes instead of armor.
"Ill," she responded. Her voice sounded weak even to her.
Abaddon's wings shifted at his sides. "A demonic plague," he said. "They intended it to spread across the White City before claiming any victims, but you and your squad fell ill so quickly there wasn't much of an epidemic."
It took Uriel several shamefully long moments to understand what he'd said. "Then, you…"
"Don't appear to be in danger," he finished for her. "It seems to be more effective the younger the victim is, and I am ancient indeed." He chuckled softly, and the warm sound was a balm on Uriel's spirit.
"How many dead?" she whispered.
"...Three," he said quietly. "Their deaths are not your fault."
"But they are..." Uriel paused for breath, closing her eyes against a wave of nausea. "...my responsibility."
Abaddon's expression hardened. "Then you may deal with it when you recover. You are not out of danger yet."
Uriel blinked up at him blearily. Seeing Abaddon out of his armor was rare indeed, but he looked no smaller for it.
"You are quarantined as well."
Abaddon scowled, but to his credit he hid it well. "I am infected, even if I am not ill. So, yes."
"Then..."
"The demons have been dealt with," he assured her, in a tone that told her exactly how he felt about the ones responsible for their woes.
Uriel sighed and closed her eyes. Then, that was everything taken care of… The only thing left to do was to wait for the plague to run its course.
Abaddon's weight disappeared from her side as he pulled the covers back over her. "Rest. I am perfectly capable of maintaining the Hellguard without your assistance for the time being."
"But..." Uriel laughed quietly, though it hurt her throat and left her without breath. "Who will you complain to while I am gone?"
"I'm sure I'll live," he said sardonically. "Be sure to get better so you can make up for it when you return."
Uriel smiled, allowing consciousness to slip away. "Yes, my lord."