My Angel-Yogscast fanfiction

Chapter 32: Accord

Mia/Carys's POV
Sunlight makes its reluctant appearance upon my bedsheets once again. The cold chill of the night still grasps the room and the ticking on tiny bugs plays a subtle orchestra in the twilight. Stars, having completed their service, begin to fade into memory and exchange places with Cotten candy clouds. Much of the world remains silent, desperate to cling to fading moments of rest and peace. I, however, do no such thing.
Martyn lays next to me, indulging in sleep, smiling into his dreams. Bruises and cuts adorn his face: a common shadow of the war. Few of us are completely able-bodied after the events of our previous battle. All things considered, he has survived well. I brush the backs of my fingers against his cheek, running over the magenta bruises that blend to green, then yellow, then black. The colours blend in a fascinating way. In a sense, war can bring the most peculiar of beauties. Martyn tumbles over to his side, his closed eyes facing mine. I watch him for a moment longer, ensuring he isn't in any great deal of pain or in need of my protection. Once it is clear that he is at peace, I release myself from the bed, slipping on a pair of shoes but retaining my night clothes.

I hobble down the hallway of Kim's base. Even though we've only been home for a few days, she's been able to tidy away the chaos. Whenever possible, I've lent her a hand, only partially because the mess irritates me. I pass an endless number of rooms until I reach the one I know to be the infirmary. I slide open the oak doors and clip behind the curtained off area.

Within her bed, Araquiel sleeps. The damaged angels seems almost peaceful and tranquil, although...when doesn't she? Her golden hair has been braided onto her left shoulder, for practical reasons but to cheer her up, I interwove a few pink and blue flowers. I place my hand on her wrist, carefully removing her arm from the comfort of her blanket. Her pulse is doing well and her breathing is steady. I adjust one of the tens of tubes and tunnels that flows through her medical gown, releasing a steady flow of pink liquid into her chest. Her bruised and mangled lips turn up slightly, relief is a resource she's barely been able to experience as of late. Her face alone fills my heart with a pain; someone as sweet as her should never have to suffer to the extent she has. She did no wrong, yet here she is: broken...quite literally I'm afraid. Suddenly, her eyes begin to open. Her blonde eyelashes flutter up, revealing her blood-shot yet smiling eyes,

"Hey there, Trouble." Her raspy voice sings, a few letters lost within her, I sit beside her, right where she can see me,

"How are you doing?" I ask,

"Not too bad actually...but I think I'm about to throw up." She murmurs which turns to gagging. I snap into action, placing a bowl under her chin, trying to support her so she doesn't choke. She sinks back into her pillow, her skin turning to snow yet burning like lava as I wipe around her mouth. "Sorry."

"It fine. I need to clean your wounds okay? Tell me if it hurts too much." I warn, taking a sterile cloth and approaching her face. I gently dab along the stitches along her hairline, cleaning the large gash that came so close to damaging her skull: looks like I didn't do such a good job at protecting her when we fell down the slope. Occasionally, her barred teeth release a whimper or wince but the angel soldiers on. I'm certain I'm not doing this correctly, biology was never a strong suit but I'm the only one who can treat Araquiel. I provide her with a moment of rest before tucking back her bed sheets and cleaning the rest of her wounds and changing her bandages. To ensure I've covered them all, I repeat the wounds over in my head,

"Broken leg: clean around her cast for hygiene
Large scrape on right thigh
Stitches on abdomen
Gash on left shoulder
10 cuts on arms
2 cuts on neck." But examining her body, it's hard to ignore her other injuries: loss of hearing in left ear; burns of varying degrees; more bruises than I can count. Only small parts of her body remain to be purely her skin colour. The worst part: she still smiles. Her body is destroyed, she'll certainly be experiencing trauma for years to come, she's in total agony yet she still smiles. If I were in her position, I'd complain to no end and refuse to experience anything even distantly resembling  positivity. She's the strongest of all of us.