The Thief of Skystead

What We Are

Waking up in the infirmary brought Azazel less pain than he thought it would. The medics must've really done their job, because he only has a few aches here and there. His wounds are mended, the toxins are flushed out of his system, and he's easily able to sit up and munch on the saltine crackers they gave him. Unfortunately, the medics can't do much about how painful it is to suffer through the general's newest tantrum.

Incensed and outraged, the general paces his room in the infirmary and shouts, "You think you'd learn, after a week of house arrest, to remain where you are expected to!"

Azazel sighs, dropping his chin in his hand and staring at the general with glazed over, impassive eyes.

"Instead, you have disregarded every measure set forth for your own good, abandoned the estate at your first chance, and have nearly gotten yourself killed!"

He glances down at his bowl of saltines, lazily inspecting it. It's more interesting than the general's fit, anyhow. Azazel couldn't care less about that perverted creep and his feelings.

"And worse!" The general roars, stopping to slam a fist down on the back railing of Azazel's bed. Azazel studies his crackers a moment longer before allowing his eyes to drift, casually, to him. Shaking and seething, the general hisses, "You have dragged my fiancé into danger, nearly costing his life."

He returns General Thurston's furious glare with a cool, indifferent stare of his own. He fights against his impulse to turn his head and glance to the left wall, where Alistair's hospital room rests behind. He does not wonder how Alistair is doing. And by no means does he worry.

No. Not one bit.

After a long, tense minute of fuming silence, General Thurston removes his hand from the bed railing. There's a dent in the frame.

"I hope you've learned something valuable today," he bites out, his voice trembling with rage. "Although, I suspect you haven't. It seems you'll never change."

A pleasant smile creeps on Azazel's face. "Yeah. Probably not."

Indignation flares in General Thurston's face. His expression seems torn, as if he's debating whether or not to kill him on the spot. Eventually, he decides to clasp his hands behind his back, as if for his own self-control, and sharply turns out of the room.

The moment he storms through the door, a flood of people come rushing in. Not just any people: his people. Gunnora and her entire family fill the room, all twelve of them, and they all talk at once. The little boys ask eagerly if the fight was cool. The little girls ask if he killed anyone. Even Fulk and Felicia join in the frantic interrogation, leaving only Gunnora to try and calm everyone down. The sudden commotion is making Azazel's head spin.

They finally settle to a degree, asking questions one at a time.

"Who attacked you?"

"How did they get away from Gunnora?"

"Are you okay?"

The last one makes him pause. Physically, he's fine. But his eyes won't stop drifting to the left wall.

Felicia hurries over to him with a folded quilt, opening it up and spreading it over his bed. Fiddling with it incessantly to ensure it's just perfect, she frets, "I was up all night worrying about you; all I could do was quilt this old thing together for you."

Azazel runs a hand over the hem, stunned. "You made a whole quilt in one night?"

"I actually made five," she answers, breathless and haggard, "I was so anxious."