Fallen Angel

Chapter 3.1

It wasn't until Michael took Gabriël from Joan's arms that she let go. The Lord Protector was the fastest flyer of the Vale and Gabriël's best chance at survival. She had no choice but to surrender her friend to him. With a mighty beat of his ivory-feathered wings, Michael flew Gabriël to the Hospitium himself without delay. Joan tried to follow, but the fight had worn her out. She ran most of the way, with Margaret and Catherine trailing her.
The lead physician of the Vale, Raphael, had already been alerted of the attack and stood waiting at the entrance. All colour drained from his earth-toned face when he saw the Lord Protector bringing in the wounded Archangel. It shocked everyone who had seen him fly over or who had been waiting with Raphael. The not-so-silent whispers flooded around the Vale as many recounted the sight. Fear struck them all. If it was so easy to strike at an Archangel, what chance did the others have?

As Raphael examined Gabriël right at the entrance to see what needed to be done, it became clear that the dagger had not only sliced several arteries and organs, but has also been dipped in poison. As the physicians rushed Gabriël into the theatre room to operate, the pharmacists got to work on figuring out what poison had been used. Joan recalled the Borgia Bastard was infamous for his use of Cantarella and warned Raphael of it. The panic that briefly crossed his face alarmed her greatly.
Time seemed frozen for a few seconds, but then an agonising scream came from the operating room. Joan broke out into a sprint, only to be stopped by Michael as he grabbed her by her arms.  

"There is nothing you can do! Stay here and let them save him!"

She knew he was right, yet struggled against his firm hold. He didn't know what it had been like to feel Gabriël's heartbeat slow, to feel his life slip away. Another heartrending cry pierced through the hallway. She fought harder, but Michael wouldn't relent and wrapped his arms around her, applying pressure to force her to calm down. Finally, she slumped against him, too tired and torn to continue.
Catherine and Margaret, who had been watching in silent fright, hurried to take Joan from Michael. He wanted her to be checked out as well, but Joan would have none of it, even after Margaret offered to do it. She only had a few bruises that would heal within a few hours, and the blood on her uniform wasn't even her own. Upon seeing her determination, Michael consented she remained with the girls on the condition that they wait until Raphael himself came out with more news.

"I need to return to the Gates and speak with Peter," he said. "The souls are restless, and we need to multiply the guard. Joan...you did well. I thank you."

And with that, he was gone. Joan couldn't have cared less about the souls. All that mattered was Gabriël.

Please, God, help him. Heal him. I will do whatever it takes, I swear. Just help him.

She prayed like she used to when she was alive, wondering if God also listened to his angels as He listened to the mortals on Earth. Or did He ignore them in their hour of need as well?
Another scream came from the room. Tears fell from Joan's eyes. Catherine cried too as she held her in what was supposed to be a comforting embrace. Little good did it do. Only Margaret kept her calm somehow, tracing the turquoise gems on her gold bracelet over and over with the same finger while she stared down at the floor.

Minutes became hours. The last rays of sun crept through the thin curtains. Gabriël's screams had stopped some time ago. Joan sat next to Catherine on the floor after she got Joan some other clothes to wear (it had taken her an hour to realise she was still covered in Gabriël's blood from when she held him). Margaret stood opposite them, back against the wall, silently praying. Others came to see how Gabriël was faring, but none had stayed long. All had gathered at the Agora to pray and light candles for him.
When the door finally opened, Joan jumped to her feed, her heart beating in her throat. Raphael appeared in the opening, taking off a blood-stained apron. He looked exhausted, his golden-brown hair tangled up in sweat and sticking to his forehead. A pinched look of defeat shone in Raphael's dark brown eyes, which were usually so full of life. It did not bode well.