Chapter Sixty

"Long time, no see." Cautiously, I rise to my feet, watching the black silhouette against the stained glass window cautiously. It seems flat, almost, like a shadow, eerily so – the only sense of the third dimension is in the beautiful white wings lain against Black Wolf's back.

It has been a long time, hasn't it? I shouldn't have waited so long to apologize.

"Yeah, this is kind of really bad timing." I tilt my head to one side. "Wait, am I dead? Did I die? Is this my death hall or whatever?"

A thunderous chuckle assaults me from all sides. Your death is still very much in question, but your uncle shall not allow another of his family to die. The reason I wish to be reunited with you is much less dire.

"Oh, yeah?" With stiff, unresponsive legs, I walk cautiously towards the wolf, annoyed with his sense of mystery. "Well, what reason, then? No offense to you, but shouldn't I be focused on… I don't know, surviving? Especially since I'm in such a state of peril?"

One of the reasons I called you here was so that I could apologize. His head swivels halfway towards mine in that spectral manner of his, with only one burning blue eye gleaming like the heart of a dying sun. My words were spoken out of hatred and prejudice. Now, living this nightmare the second time through… I finally get a sense of my nemesis, and I see his point now. It pains me to say it, but I am united with him against a common enemy.

"Well… that's something, I guess." Awkwardly, I shift my weight. "So there's more than that, then? Does it have something to do with…?

A heavy sigh bursts through the halls, and his ears flatten against his skull. I only figured that you would like whatever answers I can provide. I am not a genius, I am not the patron of intelligence or anything remotely resembling it, but I have the same warrior's scrutiny as you, so I shall share what I know. Tell me, what is it you wish of me?

Surprised, I blink several times, drinking in the offer. "…Wow. Okay, thanks. First off – should I be asking any of these? Bryon said something about… about her being able to get me if I knew too much. So is it smart for me to asking anything?"

Black Wolf moves to face the stained glass window again. He seems to think before he answers, remaining utterly still as he does, those massive eyes trained outwards. This isn't the haven of knowledge that my rival maintains, but it is sound. Speak freely. Fear not our conversation being overheard.

"Fine." I shrug. "My life is in your hands, then, I guess. Tell me this: what did she mean when she said that she was the child of God?"

She meant that she was infused with abilities unbeknownst to many, abilities that allow her to compete with others similarly able for the title of the next cycle's God. I believe that my rival spoke with you about the different turns of the different eras of this world?

"Yeah, he did." I blink repeatedly. "He said that… each time, the world was primarily the same, but everything was just a bit different. He said that each time the world was reborn, it had certain qualities that remained identical, but… almost like each had a personal spunk added in."

Now, envision each one of those little worlds as an embryo, or a womb. That is the best description I can think of their worlds, of ours. It is like a species that lives only to reproduce, to pass on the chain of command. They all create these beautiful, wonderfully deep and complex and sensory worlds all to raise the next link in the chain, the one that shall create the next world. Do you understand?

"Um, my brain's starting to hurt, but I think so. Everything but… embryo. What does that even mean?"

I'm going to take the liberty of assuming that you know the definition of embryo, and that you're just having difficulties connecting two and two. This world is so cleverly built up and arranged, made imperfect so that the creatures in it may learn and evolve alongside the child. All strands are tied together, showing the child what their world is to be. The web which the wolf called Jane studied, watching how every single person is intertwined with everyone – everyone – else on the planet. Just like a child becomes an adult after being subjected to heartbreak and finding the light in it, so does the heir. And that is the purpose of this world.

My skin prickles. "…That's extremely pessimistic. Wow. Kind of belittling."

Not entirely. Optimism has never been my thing, but we also get to decide what sort of world this will be on our own. We are not puppets; we are defined by our own choices, with no divine intervention. Your uncle could probably talk forever on this topic. Let this suffice: if you add a slight bit more benevolence into the world, you pull on the web's strings, you influence others to do the same. Making the world a better place is not as pathetic as it seems to be.

"I guess. But… wow. That's seriously depressing. Has Bryon known all this? How is he not wallowing in sadness?

The wolf snorts. Have you not seen your uncle? He is content with his role. He is happy with what he is given. No ambition for eternity rests in his soul. I would've liked to know him longer, perhaps he would've influenced me the way I can tell he's influencing you. It's such a pity, though, that he was caught in the net of one so foul.

"Theobella."

Whatever's left of her, yes.

"I need to know: who is Theobella? And… and Belle?"

I take it you recall the myth your uncle told you of the Tyab'la.

A shiver runs down my spine. "No."

Yes. The answer has never been all that far, either.

Emilio's voice echoes through the chamber, chanting her name, his accent spiking the word so that it's nearly identical to the name of the monstrous creature lurking in the shadows. Tyab'la. Theobella. On Emilio's tongue, they are one and the same word.

I hug myself. Shock sends shivers through me, and an awful sort of comprehension. "My baby Belle… my baby was the Tyab'la? All along?"

No. You've got it entirely wrong. The wolf shakes his head from side to side. How can I explain this, how? How? Penryn, the one you know as Belle is my daughter. She is the child of the Clockwork Angel, born in a time of strife and war, her very first words being pleas for safety, her first sights that of my opponent and I caught in a bitter battle. My child, born in war, yet still... so beautiful.

"…No way. That can't be possible." He gazes steadily at me. With disbelief, I shake my head, my knees quaking beneath me. "No! No way! I... I refuse to believe that!"

It is true. He sighs, the sound sweeping through the corridor like a gust of wind. I am ashamed to say it, but it is true. I was a terrible father to her, even on my best days, but she cared not. How she loved me! How she did! My wife gave her the name Theobella – she quite liked it – but I gave her the nickname Belle, and it stuck. The moment I forsook her, you must understand, she dropped the name. You witnessed it.

"Holy..." I run a hand through my hair, still trying to absorb the bombshell. "I don't really understand what I saw. Explain, please."

Belle died. She was slain and her head severed by one… one she truly loved. I notice with fascination the difficulty he has relaying his thoughts, and the human emotion glimmering in his eyes. She was reborn, but not all her emotions travelled with her into the next life. She was angry, furious with the world and those she loved, and so she chose to leave behind a portion of emotions – some of love for me, some of love for those she knew would stand in her way. She did not sacrifice her love for her mother – her love for you.

"Me?" I furrow my brow. "Why me? I didn't do anything."

The wolf studies me out of the corner of his eye as if I'd acted extremely stupid. Precisely. You did nothing. She still looks upon you fondly – true, that fondness is now muted, as she severely incapacitated all her emotions by picking and choosing. …My story, I cannot stall telling for any longer, if I do not wish to send you into battle without an inkling of her backstory.

"Your story?" I echo, confused.

The story of how I became the way I am. He shakes his head miserably, dropping his snout down, gazing at his paws. You see, my rival and I, as we faced one another at the beginning of time, we were not very careful with our brawling. It was messy and untidy. We ripped into one each other, tearing off limbs and making flesh fall from the sky like rain. My daughter, already having been reborn enough times to get the hang of it without having to leave anything behind, and my wife looked on, frightened by both of our displays of such… primal, thoughtless violence. I see now it was wrong.

"Yeah, no dip." I tense up, as if expecting a blow, crossing my arms over my chest. "So… what happened?"

…I don't quite remember. This is… I have tried so hard to forget. I remember being thrown backwards to where my beloved was crouched, I remember her cry of pain, and I remember… her blood. Everywhere. I don't know if it was my fault or the bastard's. But my wife died as a result of us fighting. I was… I am devastated. And so was she.

Theobella stepped between our fighting with only one thing in mind: her own death. We accidentally struck her. I do not remember who dealt the blow. Once she had died, the way I understand it, she took my wife's spirit with her through rebirth. She tried so hard to save her last object of affection. However, such things… cannot be done without sacrifices. Instead of picking and choosing the emotions she wanted to keep, Theobella released all of her hold on anything that made her remotely human, remotely my daughter. Not even her love for her mother was kept. She became utterly emotionless, with only a reminisce of her hatred to drive her forward. And my wife, too, was changed – she had on the most part returned, but her will to survive, her desire to fight for what's hers in the world was no longer there. She'd become a wishy-washy and weak, nothing like the woman I'd given up so much for.

"And so… you abandoned her?"

The wolf's ears twitch in annoyance. You seem to have prejudiced me as some sort of a monster. I'm not. I tried to reason with her, but she would not be reasoned with. Theobella had addled her mind. And Theobella – she became the Tyab'la. Not furious at the world like Theobella, merely… above it. The last act of emotion I ever saw in her was when she condemned the Albino and I to this life – an eternal life of suffering, living on far past the will to survive, made the two martyrs in her trap. Benevolence and belligerence – that is what we represent, why she has us going around on endless circles. She never wants us to forget that we killed her mother. And so she has taken our hatred for each other and allowed it to fuel our own punishments. I see no escape from her.

"So…" I look at my hands, lost in thought. "So that's the Theobella – the Tyab'la – that enslaved Bryon. That killed Bezaliel?"

He sighs wearily, looking down upon me with ancient eyes, seeming somewhat sad, somewhat defeated. Yes, it was. She is driven. She is precise. Deadly. But she is not the only one in the world. She shall have to compete for her placement at the very top – and, might I say, the other competitors are looking much more adept, much less tainted by the emotions in their other lives.

"Is there any way to kill her?"

Not that I know of. However… this is not my field, knowledge. Perhaps you'd have better luck speaking to my nemesis.

"Can I… can I see what you're looking at? The stained glass window?" I hesitate, wringing my hands. "Does it have something to do with… what's going on?"

With a soft grunt, he unfurls his hind legs, slowly rising up like a shadow. The long, plush tail of his is drooping and limp, perhaps reflecting his morose mood. Slowly, gazing up at the window, he backpedals, his ears folding back a little more with each step. The bright, vibrant colors of the stained glass fracture in his blue eyes, capturing the scene and imbuing it with his horrible grief.

There, upon the wall, is a stained glass mural showing an angel with white wings curled up beside a woman with long, brown hair upon a couch, both sleeping, and a little girl wedged between them, her hand entwined with her father's.

My heart breaks a little. Seeing her pudgy, pale fingers alongside his tough, caramel ones fills my gut with sorrow. A happy family, a cheery life, until… until the Big, Bad Wolf creeps along and screws everything up.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, turning to him. "I'm sorry that everything in your life is crappy."

That's life in general, Penryn. I'm going to try to make the best of it from now on. That white lunatic has one-upped me for too long – we'll see who the saner one is.

Lifting his gaze to mine, Black Wolf smiles, his white teeth peeking out from beneath his dark lips. But you've got to go now. By my words, heal quickly, Penryn Young. You've spent enough time in a hospital bed. You don't have time to waste talking to me. Know that I'm only ever a sunbeam away.

The first thing I'm aware of is aching pain in my ribcage. Moaning, I try to move in my sleep to ease the steadily increasing burn of agony, but all I manage to do is stir my bones more and alight an inferno of pain along my back. Sleepily, I try to cushion my head a bit more, to ease its throb, but my wrist is clunky and half-sheathed in a cast. No position is comfortable; every one seems worse than the last.

"Do you want me to get you something for that pain?"

I open my eyes to see Emilio sitting beside me, looking exceedingly bored. He flips through an issue of Southern Living, glancing up at me over the edge of the magazine. Stubble roughens his chin, and a weary look clings to his gaze, evident in the purple bags beneath his eyes.

My gaze wanders further throughout the room to find that I'm in what seems to be Raffe's apartment room – tucked neatly into his bed, I lay, a nest of pillows keeping me carefully from falling off the edges. My hair is spread around my head like a crown, and feels… clean, in comparison to the rest of me, all wrapped up in blood-caked bandages. A few battered-looking stuffed animals sit on the desk closest to me, and a half-eaten bag of chocolates sits suspiciously close to Emilio. Shiny wrappers littering the floor at the base of the Hispanic's stool betray his theft.

"What…?" I rumble into a fit of coughs, sending spasms of pain through my bones.

"Don't try to talk unless it's absolutely necessary." Again, he glances up at me, lips twitching in a wry smile. "Three of your ribs are cracked from the little mishap with Theobella, and another one of them was snapped, not just fractured. Also, there was a lot of internal bleeding, plus some spinal difficulties that I honestly didn't catch the name of. All that's been remedied, but you'll still hurt like hell. Oh, and your wrist has a small sprain. I think your husband might've cut off the circulation in your other hand."

"What…?" This time, my attempts at speech are slightly more effective, only resulting in a deep, uncomfortable ache. "What do you mean?"

"I mean Raphael. He watches over you at night, seeing as this is his apartment, and I get the day shift." Emilio sighs, flipping a page with an expression of extreme boredom. "I just arrived. Think he'd liked to have been the first face you woke up to."

"So…" I swallow, finding my mouth to be uncomfortably dry. "So all that really… happened? Thea…? Theobella…?"

Shutting the magazine and laying it on the nightstand, he stares at me broodingly. "Don't think about Thea. But I was right about Theobella. And to think, you didn't believe me."

"Poor Sariel," I whisper, biting my lip to stem tears. "I can't even imagine…"

"Neither can I." His jaded sigh echoes around the room. "Angels are famous for being biologically polygamous, but once they've got a love of their life, they get immensely attached and, well, screw the rules of biology. You remember what happened to the other Watchers after they rose from the Pit to find that their loves had perished, don't you?"

I nod gravely. None of them had lasted very long on their own.

Emilio's sadness seems to reach the tips of his lips. "No one's seen anything from him since that night. I assume he's giving his wife a proper burial somewhere. We'll have to see if he comes back."

"Does he still blame…?" I trail off, my breath catching in my chest. Another painful punch of emotion hurls itself at me. "Bryon."

"Bryon… is having his own difficulties. ...This is awfully heavy. Are you sure that this is what you want to be discussing?"

Reluctantly, I open my eyes and peer sideways at him. His almond-shaped eyes are softer than usual, his lips perked in a sad sort of smile. "How long was I out?"

"A few days. You didn't miss that much."

"Then yeah, update me." I readjust, gritting my teeth to ignore the sparks of pain through my torso, the fire along my back. "I plan on rejoining society… as soon as possible."

"Well, then, you should know that my guard on you is going to be even more diligent than before," he says firmly, as if I'm going to argue. "Ogden has found a chink in the armor of the perfect man everyone believes the King to be, and he's extorting it viciously. Everyone that doesn't directly know him doubts Bryon's ability to lead now. Through the whispers and rumors he's so excellent at harvesting, Ogden has everyone believing that both Bryon's father and wife have abandoned him, that, somehow, the leader of the Watcher's ill will makes him unable to be a good King. My people are stung by their king's dishonesty to them – in their time of moral weakness, they are accepting whispers such as that to be true. Should it continue, it will be the Young family's downfall."

"What…" I turn my head towards him, peeking through slits between my eyelids. "What about you?"

"I will stay by your side."

"No, no… I mean, what would you… do… if you weren't here…?"

Emilio is quiet for a moment. Looking at his face is like reading the emotions of a cat – it's simply impossible beyond the bland observation that he's lost in thought.

"I would stand by my King," he says finally, voice adamant. "From the day I first met him, I knew that his weakness was kindness, and that, one day, a creature with much greater ability than me would take advantage of it. Now that's happened. What do I think? I trust Bryon enough to take care of this little situation. Besides, I am emotionally tied to his family – you and Paige – and I'll stay by your side, if only to spare my own feelings."

"That's selfish," I tease, smiling slowly.

Shrugging, Emilio settles back in his chair. "Anyway, things around here have been less hectic, but not by much. Uriel was outraged to learn that the monster he'd been warned about when he'd first entered the Triangle is – in fact – real. He's giving Raphael hell about that. Michael, too, arrived today, upon Uriel's request – that's where the angelic bastard is right now, actually. It's a welcoming committee for the most warlike angel. Think of what you know of angels and think of one that is especially bloodthirsty in nature, give him a fur coat, and you have Michael."

"Yikes."

"Precisely. However, I've been noticing that your uncle and your boyfriend have gotten much closer. Perhaps a few apologies were exchanged, perhaps they weren't, but Bryon gets pulled from his misery by Raphael whenever he's feeling under the weather. I saw them training the other day, with the angel showing my King how to better defend his right flank during hand-to-knife conflict. Also, Hugo has grown reserved, churlish, and Bay has taken up the hobby of ice-cream making to accommodate the boy's depression."

"And… Audiat?"

"The Lioness, Ariel, keeps her on a short leash." Emilio shakes his head wearily. "She trusts Bryon about as much as she trusts any ally, which isn't enough to allow him to get anywhere near practically her only friend. All Theobella's talk about making him suffer did not instate much trust in her, and she wishes not for Audiat's neck to be the next snapped."

"You talk so fancy," I whisper, smiling to myself.

"One of the advantages to learning a second language is that you learn all the proper ways of saying things." Emilio's lips twitch. "Tell me, what else do you need to know?"

"What…" I hesitate, uncertain of how to phrase my question. "What happened? I mean… really? What's Bryon… said?"

"Not much," Emilio sighs, studying the ceiling. "He's kept his trap safely shut, saying no more than he has to. However, I think I've connected a few strands, if you'd like to hear my theories."

I nod slightly. "…Theobella… is the Tyab'la. You know?"

"Well, there goes one of my theories." Emilio cracks a smile. "It wasn't that difficult to figure out. It'd been bothering me ever since I saw her reborn – that doesn't happen to normal creatures. Lucius's translation of her name into Gorgeous Terror was only the icing on the cake. It's sad, in a way. But we must prepare ourselves. You should know that your uncle's taken more security measures than just me. Even Rumbbaa has been called into the ring."

"Rumbbaa?" I blink a few times. "Where…?"

"He's stationed at the human camp, taking up an entire barn." Emilio shrugs. "He'd be extremely efficient against an angel attack, but not a Tyab'la one. Seeing as angel attacks are rather protected against at the moment, I don't think that security measure is necessary, myself. But it's not the only one in place. Loyal Nephilim are scurrying all over – they replaced the human staff yesterday, and it's irritating me. We don't know if we can trust most of them, especially after all that's happened. I urge you to stay close to those you only know well – Koby, Jersey, Me, Daine."

I smile my agreement. "So… so when will Raffe get back?"

"Good question." Emilio pulls an ancient slide phone out of his pocket, his eyes grazing over the screen quickly. "He's at his daily meeting with Uriel, bickering with him, trying to sway Michael's opinion. They've lasted anywhere between a few hours and, once, thirty minutes, when one of Uriel's goons 'accidentally' knocked Raffe out for the count. He might hasten, though, if Hugo delivers the message that you're up and at 'em. Actually, maybe you shouldn't be up and at 'em."

I shrug weakly, ignoring the spike of pain in my ribs. "I feel okay."

He studies me with concern. "Try to rest. If you're too stubborn to sleep, I can fetch you a book or something. Listen to me, Penryn – I've done more than downplay your injuries. You're hurt, badly, and even though you heal quickly, your bedrest will not be dashed off for any reason."

"…How bad is it, then?"

Leaning forward, he gently clasps my shoulders, his eyes soft, kind, as they look deep into mine, almost like chocolate syrup. "You're incredibly strong, Penryn. I've always respect that, but you've given me a whole new level of reverence. You lost so much blood and nearly had your spine broken. You had your organs crushed and bruised. But, because of that, don't you dare leave this bed."

"Okay." I hesitate, glancing at him questioningly. "Hey, Emilio? …Where is Paige? And my mom?"

"They're safe, Penryn." His lips pull back in a loose, warm smile. "Bryon made sure of it this time. If it's any consolation, Pepper's with them this time, and I believe he can fight off Black Wolf if he put his mind to it. Don't worry about them. You focus on getting better. Just use that mind of steel and will yourself better." He rubs my shoulder comfortingly, digging into the tense muscles like a masseur. "Or I will drug you."

"Thanks, Emilio." Exhausted, I turn my head away from him, shutting my eyes. "I don't think that'll be necessary. Wake me up when Raffe comes."

"I do worry about him," Audiat frets, pulling at her jacket, bouncing on the balls of her feet and staring out at the human camp. The ants roam and dance over the fields, each little man a tiny black speck.

"Worry about who?" Daisy pulls a bead along the necklace she's making, tying it onto the strip of leather with a tight knot. "There are a lot of people to be worrying about, Audiat. For example, I worry about you and Ariel. It must be quite a shock."

Gritting her teeth, Audiat shuts her eyes and breathes deeply to soothe the spike in her temper. "Ariel's just dandy, so there's no need for that. I'm worried for all the hims – Sariel, Hugo, Bay… Bryon. Have you seen him recently? …I don't want to sound needy or obsessed, but… I'm uber worried."

"Well, you've got every right to be." Daisy shrugs. "Hell, I'm torn up about Thea, but I can't be feeling the same way Bryon is. She was his compass needle, always pointing him in the way to go, you know? Whenever you slip through the cracks and meet up with him again, you'll have to be sure to give him lots of attention, like a little doggy. You're one of the legs on his chair, you know."

"I know." Audiat stares broodingly back at the pale-haired woman destined to take Thea's position in the Wives. "He… he can't take much more. I remember… I remember last time, he was already starting to break a little bit under the pressure. Being as old as he is and as… oh, I don't know…"

"Loving," Daisy supplies, glancing up from her necklace.

"Right. Being as old and 'loving' as he is, I don't think he can take much more emotional trauma, you know?" Audiat fidgets, toying with the edge of her shirt. "And what if, you know, she comes back? I know if he sees her, he's going to poison himself, rah rah, but… can he really be prepared at every moment?"

Daisy stares blankly at her for a few moments. "Do you need a paper bag, honey? You're stressing yourself out."

Moaning, Audiat collapses into her chair. "I don't understand how you can be so calm about this…!"

With a heavy, pitying sigh, Daisy shifts closer to Audiat, resting her hand on the little angel's forearm. "You've got to have a little more faith in your future, Audiat. Tell me what would make you happy, right now, in this instant."

"Cocoa." She smiles weakly. "A hot mug full of hot chocolate. And enough bubble wrap to package the Eifel Tower."

"Thea, honey," Sariel calls, staring down at the little bronze dragon sitting proudly before him. "Bryon just brought me a mouse. What do I do?"

He's in a two-room log cabin, in a living room sort of area with a bed in one corner and a couch in the other, the floor sheathed in a great rug. A few perches that look like they were made for birds are splayed throughout the house. The windows stream with morning light. An itty bitty dragon sits before a towering Sariel, both frozen, waiting for a movement from the other.

Thea sticks her head in through a doorway, smiling cheerfully, her hair pulled back in a messy braid with hair flying everywhere. Upon her shoulder, another Nephilim perches, a winged one, one that's dull brown in color, with a furrier mane around her head and eyes like silver coins. She grins down at the little dragon I realize is Bryon, her eyes glittering with adoration.

"Oh, look at that," she coos. "He must've missed you while you were off with the men on your hunting trp. He probably wants to go with you next time, so he's showing you what a vicious predator he can be. Just pick it up and tell him what a good hunter he is."

Sariel nudges the rat with his toe, his face remarkably squeamish for a big, tough angel. "But I don't want to pick it up."

"Sariel!" Thea snaps, sounding appalled. "He caught that for you! All I've ever gotten are spiders and the occasional grub!"

Still, the big angel seems unwilling to touch the prey – he glares down at the mouse, his face one of repulsion. The tiny Bryon dragon, an absolutely adorable fun-size version of the earth-shaking monster, squeaks, sounding like Belle. He cocks his head to one side, delighted smile slowly faltering. He whistles a question, his eyes filled with worry, and he noses the mouse closer to Sariel. The angel's expression is far beyond repulsed.

"Oh, heaven, this is a stage, right, Thea?" He glances up towards her. "He's not going to bring us rodents for his entire life, is he?"

"Well, I have no idea." She shrugs. "Cora's not even begun that stage. I'll ask Daisy when she brings Kia over."

Bryon pops and whines, nudging his mouse. His eyes grow despairing as Sariel still ignores his offering.

"Oh, is Penemue coming, too?" Sariel grins. "Should be fun!"

"No, just Kia and Daisy. We're all going to go down to Town Square and take part of the Festival of Blades. Cora's been counting the days, but you'll need to take Bryon elsewhere."

"Huh?"

"He's terrified of violence," Thea reminds him. "This could possibly be the most traumatic thing in his young life if we let him anywhere near a festival celebrating swordfighting. He'd wet himself."

"Well, that's okay." Sariel grins, looking down for his son. "We'll have a bit of father-son bonding time, right, boy? Bryon?"

Sometime during the conversation, Bryon had crept off to a dark corner of the room. He skulks there, face to the wall, his head buried beneath his paws. When Sariel calls his name, he lifts ever so slightly from his miserable, curled-up ball, staring back at his father with massive, tear-glazed eyes. Whistling softly in response to his name, Bryon fakes a slight smile.

"Oh, little man..." His face tensing in disgust, Sariel leans down and picks up the rat by the tip of its tail. "Here. There. I'm holding it. Thank you so, so much, Bryon, I'm so glad. Never prouder."

Squealing with delight, Bryon dashes forwards, jumping onto Sariel's shoulders with one great bound, perched on his shoulder like a parrot. He nibbles affectionately at Sariel's ear, happily prancing on his shoulder like a cat pawing at a bed, popping and whizzing gleefully. Sariel's great chuckle echoes through the room as he tries to block Bryon's gentle licks, his grin a thousand times more potent than his expression of disgust had ever been.

"Stop that, you silly thing!" Sariel chuckles, shoving Bryon's nose away. "Oh, Bryon, you are, without question, the silliest son I could ever ask for." Tenderly, he takes Bryon in his great hands, cradling him like a baby, his eyes soft and almost teary. "I love you, little boy. But don't you drop any more dead animals at my doorstep ever again, lizard thing. I will not touch them next time, no matter how many sad-eyes you give me."

"Hey, Penryn." Gentle fingers stroke my forehead, the backs of his knuckles slowly trailing down my face. Though my ears are muffled as sleep-drugged ears can be, I swear it sounds like a baby voice to me. "How are you feeling, huh?"

One of my hand flies out blindly – it sends ribbons of pain through my torso, and, although I try to lace it through his fingers or maybe grip him tighter, I feel the smack of a forehead under my palm. Raffe grunts.

He laughs somewhat breathily, sounding stressed and concerned. "I see you're feeling better." Still chuckling, he climbs onto the bed beside me. If I had not opened my eyes, I would not have been able to tell – his every move is limber, careful not to stir the cushions and disturb me. "But how much does it hurt?" One of his hands hovers over my ribs, as if afraid to touch me.

"A lot." Ignoring the pain, I scoot closer to him, grimacing at the pain. "…But I'll live."

"You'll live," he says quietly, his voice even and emotionless. With more gentleness than I'd thought he was capable of, Raffe wraps his arms around me, pulling me closer to his warm chest and pillowing me against him. His hands are soft upon the stinging cuts along my back.

"You'll live," he repeats, his words riding upon a slow, relieved exhale, then turning back into the mocking tones I know they often are. "You know, you'll lose your appeal if you keep faking out on me. I advise just picking one: dead or alive. All this uncertainty is really a hassle."

I laugh at that, tickled that he'd bring up such a trivial thing in a time of such misery – but then, before I can truly enjoy that warmth of being by his side again, new agony sears in my ribs. Each dying laugh brings another inferno of pain to my ribs. I cry out softly in the middle of my laughing, the chortling quickly becoming tears.

I'm not sure why I cry. I've given up trying to figure out things like that, being a teenage girl. It's just part of the package. I could be crying because of my damned ribs or Raffe's suffering political party or the tragedy that is Theobella's life or maybe just my own hapless situation.

Every time my shoulders shake or my lungs inhale too sharply, the pain intensifies again, causing more emotion and more tears. I try to huddle against Raffe, to drown my sorrows in him, and he happily obliges.

Hushing my weeping, wiping tears from beneath my eyes and hair from my face, he cuddles me, pressing his almost-kisses to my forehead, on my cheeks, along the bridge of my nose.

"Did I ever tell you about that one time that one time Josiah and I were scared out of our wits by a pack of cats in an alleyway? No? Well, now's as good as time as ever, isn't it?"

"Yes." Sniffling, stifling my tears, I smile up at him. "Please. Tell me. I'm… I'm sorry for crying."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Your eyes were sweating, so what? It can happen."

In that moment, I notice his eyes are glassy, too – not the extent of mine, of course, but they're filled with emotion for me, for the situation. Perhaps I shouldn't feel as honored as I do to be able to witness the Wrath of God's weakness, to invoke it, but I truly am. With one finger, I dab at a bit of wetness outside of his eye, making it like it was never there at all.

Clearing his throat, he begins. "So, Jo and I, we were coasting along over this big city, a place called Jueera – you would've liked it, I think. Gabriel had told us to search for this big, mean Fallen angel, a badass called Abbadon. Now, you see, Abbadon has this irrational aquaphobia…"

With each of his words, a little bit of the stress in his voice relaxes, and a little bit of the tenseness in his muscles loosens. He clutches me tight without realizing, strokes at my hair absentmindedly, as if I am a kitten for him to coddle in his grief. It's only the tender glances he offers towards me whenever I attempt to laugh at Josiah shrieking at felines or Raffe's hasty retreat after the sound of scampering that tells me he values me more than just some teddy bear. And it helps. Hearing his voice soften… helps.

When his story ceases and I again emit a stunted sort of giggle, he rubs a thumb against my chin.

"Your bandages make you look like a mummy," he chuckles, rubbing his nose against mine.

"Does that surprise you? Can't you picture me as an Egyptian queen?"

He raises an eyebrow chidingly at me. "You're the Evil Queen, remember, Greedy?"

"Ah, but" – I rest a finger on his lips – "what if I'm the Evil Egyptian Queen? Cleopatra's evil stepmother."

"Then the Egyptians would've died off much, much sooner they did." Raffe cracks a wry smile against my finger. "Death by Penryn would be a terrible way to go. Besides" – he purses his lips and cocks his head, making him seem sideways – "the prospect of having an ancient, shriveled up, and probably cursed corpse in my arms is not anywhere near as attractive as this."

"So, I can't be a queen because of your discomfort?"

Raffe smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. "Yeah, seems so. Tough luck. I'm not being that selfish – after all, I'm saving the great Egyptian civilization."

"Watch it, mister, or I'm going to leap out of these mummy bindings and wring your neck."

"Death by Penryn." He shudders exaggeratedly. "What a terrible way to go."

I hope you all had a very merry Christmas, and a happy, happy Hanukkah!

Sixtieth chapter. Heh. This is… so long. I have a deadline now; for anyone that isn't aware, date and description for End of Days (the final book) have been released (thanks to Aza White). Gotta finish this by May 12th. I can do it.

Dearest EquestrianGirl21: I told you there was Raffryn on the way. You, child, need to learn the value of patience. Haha, it's fine, I was counting the chapters till the next Raffryn scene, too.

POLL: Ogden's campaign… looking pretty good right now. How so?

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh