How long have Elgor and Alteir known each other and how did they meet?
((They’ve known each other for about 50 years at this point. By now, they pretty much may as well be married, but it certainly didn’t start that way. Here’s a rp with @renegadenephilim of how their first meeting played out!))
—–
Most can agree that the Earth is a desolate, dark place, razed by the hoards of demons that roam it. Light itself seems to struggle to reach the planet, and even when it does, it rarely offers comfort. The harsh sunlight that beats down on the Ashlands is proof of that, leaving little of that desolate realm and the broken skyscrapers that border it trapped under heat so thick that it warps the air.
Such heat should be stifling to all that attempt to move through it, but for one particular runaway frantically climbing the broken flights of stairs that still line the inside of one of the dilapidated skyscrapers, it could hardly matter less. Many don’t dare to climb so high, where they could be picked off by the remaining Hellguard who still patrol the skies. If he can just find somewhere high enough to hide himself from the hoard for a while, he stands a chance of survival.
With every flight he climbs, with every bit closer he gets to the sun, another one of his scales turns gold. That might concern him, if he wasn’t so worried about hiding himself.
Another few flights of stairs finally take him to the roof, where there’s just enough left of a storage room at the very top of the building for him to squeeze into. He pushes the door open and forces himself through its frame, ignorant to how the sunbeams shining in through the holes in the ceiling seem almost opaque in how bright they are. He has enough space to huddle in the corner and keep himself out of sight, and that is what matters.
That is, until his tail sweeps through one of the rays of light, and is met with a burning sensation across the skin that came in contact. The demon hisses and brings his tail closer to himself, only for his eyes to go wide when he sees the change in color to his hide.
"What in the nine circles…?“
He tilts his head skyward and gazes into the strange, unearthly light. It yields no answers for him, instead leaving only a split second for him to react as its luminosity increases exponentially, bathing everything it touches in burning white.
There’s no scream, no roar, or no sound of impact—just a brilliant sunburst that encompasses the entire tip of that skyscraper, large enough to be seen from miles around, burning brighter than the sun for the crucial few seconds that it lasts.
While there are, fortunately, no Hellguard close by enough to be of any concern, there is one former member of their armies whose eye is caught by the brilliant light.
He notices it only as a glint off the weapon he sharpens at first, but then it becomes far too bright to be natural, in a way that is all too familiar. From where he sits in one of the half-ruined buildings across from the source, he turns his white-blue gaze upward, and finds, to his chagrin, that the light is so bright even he now has to squint against it.
Perhaps that shouldn’t surprise him, but the presence of the golden light itself does. Why would it be here, so far away from any place one would expect it?
He takes it upon himself to investigate. He takes to the air with redemption cannon in hand, just in case.
Fortunately for him, it becomes evident that the weapon he carries will not be necessary as soon as the ruins of the skyscraper’s peak are reached.
The being caught in the epicenter of the light lies motionless on the ground, taking only the slow, shallow breaths that those without consciousness can take. There’s no evidence of a struggle in the area, but the wounds he’s sustained might have suggested otherwise in any other place.
Fragments of scales and tinted bone surround the being’s body, as if they were forcefully shorn away from him by the light. His hands and feet are bloodied, yet still shimmer with the remnants of the energy that just burst throughout the sky. This same energy crests the back of his head and the tip of his tail.
Most striking is the damage–if it can be called that–to his wings. Blood runs down them in thin streaks, acting as lingering evidence of the transformation they’ve just been dealt. They now faintly resemble the build of the Destroyer’s wings, save for the golden membranes that bind them to his back and tail. Those too glow with the same heavenly light.
It’s obvious that this creature used to be a demon from his horns and animalistic features. Now that he’s been touched by the light, however, it’s hard to say what he should be called.
The fallen angel hovers a short distance away from the unconscious demon, pointing his weapon almost without thinking.
Every bit of ingrained instinct in him is trained to kill demons on sight. Uncountable years of combat have made it second nature, if not first nature. It’s almost everything he knows; it’s almost everything he’s ever done.
But he doesn’t shoot.
This demon–if he can still truly be called such–has been touched by divine light. For what reason, the angel could not begin to fathom, but he would know that reason if he could.
At his wordless command, he summons the only companion he has left in these uncertain times. As if materializing from shadow, a griffon-she-wolf-hybrid steps forth, sniffing at the demon cautiously. She, too, is more than familiar with killing demons, and the smell of this one’s blood makes her go tense, as if about to attack.
“No,” her handler commands. “We’re taking him with us.”
The beast’s canine head snaps up to look to her companion, as if looking for confirmation that she understood the order correctly. The look she gets in return confirms that, yes, she did.
She shifts her taloned feet uncertainly, but ultimately obeys. With her handler’s help, the demon is carefully, gently lifted onto her back, and they depart, returning to the hideout they’ve holed themselves up in as of late.
—–
Some time passes before he begins to show the first signs of consciousness again, but sure enough, his breath hitches in his chest after being shallow for so long. The ringing of his ears is the first thing that stirs him, but its effects are not enough to rouse him completely. The splitting headache that grows more pronounced with each throb in his skull prevents that.
Altael doesn’t know that he’s been moved, nor does he know that his body is no longer the one he started out with. He can barely feel anything save for his head, and even that sense is limited. Try as he might, he can’t find the strength to open his eyes yet.
The only thing he has the strength to do is exhale a weak, quiet groan, and even that is hard to hear above the ringing in his eardrums.
"Hm,“ his impromptu caretaker hums at hearing the first signs of wakefulness from the demon after so many hours, musing mostly to himself. “Perhaps you’re not dying just yet after all.”
He sets the blunt end of his lance to the floor and stands, at which his beast companion’s canine head snaps up to attention. The floor creaks faintly with the weight of the angel’s steps as he comes to the side of the makeshift bed the demon lies atop.
He’d managed to wrap up the worst of the wounds with bandages, but he could do little else with any certainty on his own. Perhaps now that the stranger is beginning to stir, there is more he could do–but he has questions first.
"You. Can you speak yet?“
In his dazed state, Altael doesn’t entirely recognize the words being spoken to him, nor does he recognize that he should be concerned that he’s no longer alone. The pain in the base of his skull is still his most predominant concern–all else is second to it for now.
Still, he manages to roll his head to the side with another quiet grunt. The movement makes the ringing of his ears grow louder, but he still attempts to open his eyes and track the source of the noise that pierces through the constant drone.
Eyes as golden as his wings slowly crack open and blink, but there’s no focus or recognition to be found in them. His vision is too blurred for him to make out anything but this stranger’s outline, but at least he doesn’t look like a demon. He hasn’t been brought back to the horde. That means he can still work through whatever this situation is, whenever he regains his wits. That’s a good start.
“Rrrgh…” His first attempt at speaking only comes out as a pitiful growl that might have been another groan if he could have worked his voice up. Another few seconds pass before his second attempt at speaking.
"…What?“
He might be able to speak, however simply, but his ability to hear and process words isn’t entirely there yet.
"So, that’s a definitive ‘mayhaps,’” the angel standing above him decides aloud, shrugging and nodding. “I suppose I couldn’t have expected much better just yet.”
He turns, his long feathers ruffling slightly with the movement. He pulls a chair up close by the bedside and sits in it somewhat heavily. His lance remains in a loose grip at his side.
"It appears as though you won’t be moving anytime soon,“ he observes. “Hopefully you’ll be talking sooner.”
He can vaguely tell that quite a few words were just spoken, but there are very few he can definitively make out before the sound of his captor sitting down in his chair makes him flinch and close his eyes. Each new movement and noise he processes wakes him just a little further, regardless of whether or not he really wants to be awake yet.
"Head hurts,“ are the next two words he strains to push out, in an attempt to justify his slowness to respond. Though he hasn’t spoken much yet, his voice seems tinged with a slight accent.
He draws in a deep breath and brings his hand to his face to rub at his eyes, only to find that his fingertips feel…odd, to put it mildly. This must be a side effect of whatever head wound he was dealt to put him in this state–why else would his hands not feel like his own?
The angel actually gives a faint chuckle at that.
"I would imagine all of you hurts,” is his amused response. “A demon touched so directly by holy light should be thoroughly dead.” He leans forward, now unsure whether he’s talking more for his own sake than for the sake of actually receiving an answer to his questions.
"I would ask you why you aren’t, but you don’t sound quite well enough to be interviewed.“
Is that what happened to him?
This revelation manages to stir Altael a little further, enough for him to put actual effort into making his eyes focus again. He starts by looking at his…his paw. This is not his hand, so why is it attached to his arm?
Much to the protest of his head and wounds, he pushes himself slightly more upright, enough to give the rest of himself a look over. His legs seem to have suffered in much the same way, and where that flame on his tail came from is entirely beyond him. Then he catches sight of the golden membranes affixed to his tail.
He follows these up until he sees where they connect with what once were his wings, but are no longer shaped as they used to be. Flexing the one splayed out at his side confirms that it is his, unbelievable as it may be.
“Is…that light what did this to me?” He hesitantly asks, apparently more concerned by his new appearance than the angel he’s keeping company with.
"I can only assume so,” is the fallen angel’s uncertain response. “I didn’t witness any transformation firsthand; I only saw the light from a distance.” He drums his armored fingers along the hilt of his lance.
"You’re fortunate I found you before the Hellguard did.“
It’s only now that Altael chooses to size up the one who will either turn out to be his savior or his captor. Any angel is enough to set him on edge, even when fallen, but this one seems surprisingly…docile.
And alone. He’s never seen a fallen angel that was without similar company. Everything he knows of the angels who scorn the light tells him that they’re rarely without their flock. Is this one truly on his own, or are their more lying in wait?
Altael’s train of thought is betrayed by how his body goes tense, but he makes no attempt to flee—yet.
“Is there a reason you decided to bring me here, instead of killin’ me?” He surveys the rest of the visible hideout before he speaks again. “…wherever here is.”
”‘Here’ is not far from where the light touched you,“ the angel assures him. “As for why I brought you here, I have questions you can’t very well answer if you’re dead.” He pauses, putting a curled finger to where his helmet covers most of his obscured chin. His white-blue eyes narrow, dimming their glow slightly.
"Although, it… doesn’t sound as if you know what exactly happened to you, or why.“
Well, that’s encouraging. He’s only alive so he can be interrogated.
Altael breathes out a rumbly sigh and lets some of his tension fade, though not all of it. There may be little point in doing anything but cooperating, since he certainly can’t fight in this state–and even if he could, he has no idea where his weapon is. For all he knows, his spear could still be in that building.
"You’re right, I don’t.” He gives himself another good look over. Once again, his eyes settle on his new wings. “Ain’t never heard of a demon touchin’ the light ‘n lookin’ different instead of dead.”
"Nor have I,“ the fallen angel agrees in a disappointed sigh. It was a longshot, but he’d sort of been hoping maybe this was something the demon might know about. His hand moves from his chin to the back of his helm.
"But there must be some reason to it, yes?” he presses, perplexed. “I imagine you want to know more than I do, even, er…” He pauses.
"… I suppose I should ask your name, if you have one,“ he states out of formality.
It’s Altael’s turn to give a dry chuckle at that. Perhaps it’s rude to laugh, given that he might owe this angel his life, but he’s at a loss for what a better reaction would be to this mix of politeness and ignorance. That contradiction strikes him as amusing.
"Do you think they don’t give us names in Hell?” He asks out of amusement rather than offense. Before the angel can answer, he speaks again. “It’s Altael. Legion Champion and battle strategist…”
His voice trails off, and his smile goes with it. Too much has changed now for him to retain his titles, hasn’t it?
"…Former Legion Champion might work better, now that I think of it.“
"Eligor,” the fallen angel states in a very similar tone of voice to that last detail about the demon’s status. “Former Storm Warden of the Hellguard. Not that the former part is difficult to ascertain.” He sniffs disdainfully, wings twitching. He can’t help but notice, ironically, that their names almost sound as if they should belong to the opposite race.
"Are you a deserter as well, then?“ he guesses.
"Only recently,” he confirms with a shallow nod, “It’s why I was runnin’, before…all this.” That statement is accompanied by a gesture to the rest of himself–which he still can hardly believe looks the way it does.
"I figured I didn’t have long ‘till someone found out I was gone, so I thought I’d lay low in that skyscraper. Look how well that turned out.“
"Indeed.” Eligor shifts in his seat. He considers asking why a Legion Champion would desert Samael’s forces, but ultimately thinks better of it. Regardless of how much he may or may not have helped Altael, he’s not owed a life story.
"Well,“ the angel decides, rising to his feet somewhat heavily, “I suppose that would mean we’re not enemies, at the very least. Technically speaking.” He makes a small shrugging gesture.
"I’d been waiting until you awoke before attempting to treat your wounds any further. Truth be told, I’m not much of a healer at all, let alone for a race I’ve never tried to heal.“
Technically allies is better than outright enemies, but he knows better than to fully trust Eligor, even given their circumstances. Whether or not there are more fallen angels nearby is unclear, nor is it clear if there’s anyone he reports to. The last thing he needs is for more people to know of his continue existence.
But that doesn’t mean he won’t take the extra help while it’s still in reach.
"You’ll…have to tell me what is and isn’t damaged. Lotta my body still feels like it’s asleep.”
To confirm this, he flexes his new paws again, invoking more of that uncomfortable pins and needles feeling–but somehow managing to unsheathe a set of claws he was unaware he still had. He raises one glowing brow at this sight.
"…Those’re new,“ he observes somewhat bluntly.
Eligor squints at him.
"You… didn’t have claws before?” he asks incredulously. “I find that hard to believe.” He looks the demon up and down, half-turning as if to step away.
"Exactly how different were you before?“
Altael sheathes and unsheathes his claws twice more to grow accustomed to the motion before he answers Eligor. His look of incredulity is met with one much like it.
"Of course I had claws, they just didn’t look like this.” He turns his wrist so he can inspect them a little better. Their curvature is more pronounced, just as their ends look much sharper than they’ve ever looked before. He might actually be able to use them for self defense now, as opposed to intimidation.
"I also had hands instead of paws. Can’t fathom why the light decided to take ‘em from me.“
The angel doesn’t really know how to respond to that. He’d sort of assumed the only major change the divine light made was adding a golden color among all the black and red. He didn’t realize there were any major anatomy changes.
"Your wings.” He gestures to the limbs, venturing a guess based on what he knows of the typical Legion Champion. “Were they always right-side-up?”
It isn’t unheard of for a demon to have actually functional wings, but it is rare. Even then, it’s usually only a trait observed in demons who were once angels.
“They most certainly weren’t,” Altael answers assuredly, as if that’s the one thing he still knows to be true of himself in the midst of all of this confusion and change. “That’s what’s so strange about this–I barely look anything like I did before.”
He brings his paw up to feel at his face again. His horns still seem to be intact, as does his nose and mouth, along with the scars that frame them. That confirms that his general facial structure hasn’t changed, but until he can find a mirror, he won’t know for sure if his transformation was only applied from his chest down.
"Really?“ Eligor asks mostly rhetorically, his gaze scrutinizing. This whole situation is even more unorthodox than he’d originally thought. Ironically, he gets roughly the same idea Altael has–getting him a mirror to figure out exactly how much has changed.
"Wait there,” he directs more than requests, turning his back to the demon to step toward an open doorway nearby. He points to his beast companion at the far end of the room, then back to Altael.
"Marchosias. Watch him.“
And with that, he leaves, the cyan glow of his wings being the last of him to disappear beyond the doorway. The griffon-wolf obeys the command dutifully, padding over to take her handler’s place sitting upright by the bedside.
And he’s gone. Lovely. He wasn’t very at ease to begin with here, but now that there’s a large canine griffin sitting just a foot away from him while he’s in a weakened state, he couldn’t unclench his neck muscles even if he tried.
He looks the beast in the eyes. Then he looks to the door. Then he looks to her again.
What is one supposed to say to break an awkward silence with a fallen griffin, exactly?
Marchosias, for her part, looks quite at ease. Her posture is attentive, but neutral, and thanks to her canine face–rather than avian–her relatively relaxed expression is easy to read.
She tilts her head to one side, regarding the demon with curiosity. One of her ears angles backward as the sound of something heavy being dragged comes from the direction her handler left in, but her ice-blue eyes remain fixed on Altael. Her long, fluffy tail drags across the floor as it sways from one side to the other.
She’s not yet very familiar with this stranger, but if her master is letting him be here, then she figures he’s probably okay.
He can’t quite fathom why he feels so inclined to do this, but he tilts his head in the very same way that the she-wolf does, first at her, then at the loud sound coming from beyond this room.
If he’s dragging a weapon in here to kill him with, it seems to be giving him some trouble. Not that he thinks he would do that so spontaneously after this.
"That better not be his gun,” he mutters to no one in particular, sounding only mildly disdainful of that possibility.
That theory is disproven momentarily, when Eligor backs out through the same doorway and the object he’s dragging is revealed to be a large, framed mirror about as tall as he is. It looks as if it was meant to be wall-mounted, but met a milder version of the unfortunate fate the rest of Earth did. As a result, a crack runs across its reflective surface, but it remains otherwise in one piece, which is more than what can be said for most fragile objects made by humans.
"When I fell,“ he explains without the slightest prompt or even a hint of strain in his voice, “the first thing I wanted to do was see how much had changed.”
Marchosias moves aside as her master positions the mirror before Altael. He remains to the side of it, holding it upright by keeping one hand on the ornate frame.
"So. How drastic is it?“
There’s a long duration of time where Altael is completely silent as he takes himself in, bit by astonishing bit. The face that stares back at him is only barely his own, and the body it’s attached to is more animalistic, more rounded, and more flecked with gold than it ever was before now.
The glow that comes from his wings is so unnatural to him that it almost makes his skin crawl. Why is the glow that adorns the feathers of the soldiers of Heaven radiating from his membranes? Why does it crown his head and the end of his tail? Why is he, being what he is, the source of it?
"It’s…quite drastic,” he answers quietly, his voice weighted with uncertainty and dismay at what he’s become.
Eligor hums pensively at that.
"It was the same for me,“ he offers sympathetically, the feathers of his wings ruffling briefly. “It could have been much worse, however.”
Having worked under Samael’s command, perhaps Altael knows that as well as anyone. If there is one horribly perfect example of how far even an archangel can fall, it would be The Blood Prince.
"Can you tell how badly you’re wounded, at least, and where? Other than where your bandages are bloodied, that is.“
"Mmh…something definitely happened to my head,” he posits, putting his anxieties surrounding his new form to the side for the moment. There won’t be much he can do to find more answers to his questions if he isn’t in good health.
He flexes his paws to work some more feeling into them. They’re sore, but he can feel no wounds splitting apart from the movement. Unfortunately, attempting to flex his wings does not yield the same results. Moving those both stings and aches at the same time, especially around the bases.
"My wings, too,“ he adds, curling his tail closer to himself out of reflex. "Feels like they got torn out and stuck back in.” For all he knows, that could be exactly what happened to him. It’s gruesome to imagine, but he can think of little else to explain their shift.
Eligor could almost believe that really did happen.
"You won’t get very far trying to go anywhere, in that case,” he observes somewhat unnecessarily. “Perhaps you are blessed, at least, in that it was not someone else who found you.” He sets about the task of dragging the oversized mirror back to its original place.
"A fallen flock would have been unlikely to take you in,“ he elaborates, gradually moving farther away. "The Hellguard would have killed you on sight.” He knows that to be a definite fact. “And if you’re a known deserter, then even your own hoard happening upon you may have been your end.” Another dry, almost humorless chuckle echoes from beyond the doorway.
"You and I may not be so different–neither of us is spoiled for allies right now.“
‘Thanks for the reminder of how desolate my life has just become,’ is what Altael might say if he wasn’t wounded and in this stranger’s care, essentially dependent on him until he’s healed, but God, is he tempted to. He at least waits until Eligor has left the room to reach up and pinch the bridge of his nose.
"So you’re suggestin’ an alliance?” He calls out after him, only to wince as the sound of his own voice makes the ringing in his ears rear its head again.
Some ally he’ll prove to be, barely able to speak or move yet without causing himself pain.
"That I am,“ Eligor calls back over the dragging sound from the other room. Once the mirror is back in place, he returns near to the makeshift bedside Altael seems to be restricted to for now.
"Or at least, I’m offering you a place here, and what help I can give you, in exchange for allowing some further prying as to what happened to you, how, and why.” He shrugs, as if that’s about the most plain way he can put it. It’s not the strongest grounds for an alliance, by any means, but it would at least be a fair enough trade.
"I imagine you’ll want to know the same, once you’re in any state to go looking for answers. One way or another, unless you plan on crawling out of here rather than walking, it looks as though you have time to think on it.“ He doesn’t necessarily enjoy the idea of being bedridden in a stranger’s home, but it’s easy for him to decide it’s for the best when weighing it against his other options. As an enemy to the horde and the light alike, with very little means of currently defending himself, he must take aid where he can get it.
And if Eligor is just as curious as he is to understand why light returned to a barren, broken Earth for just long enough to touch him, then he sees no reason why he shouldn’t allow him to help search for answers.
"If you’re sure this is something you want to pursue, I won’t stop you from helping me. I just can’t guarantee there will be any definite answers out there.”
He especially can’t claim to understand the mysteries of the light, and if someone who used to dwell among it even seems stumped, he isn’t optimistic that unraveling this will be easy.
"I can’t say for certain, either,“ the angel concurs, "but it is worth trying. For now, though, you’re in need of rest, and perhaps an effective painkiller.” He turns, once again stepping away into another room. Some sounds of shuffling various containers soon follow.
"We don’t have much here, Marchosias and I,“ he speaks up from across the hideout-made-home, "but what we do have, you’re welcome to.”
As if to confirm her agreement to that sentiment, the wolf-griffon turns her head to face Altael with her mouth hanging open in that relaxed, almost-smiling expression a canine at ease often has. Her long tail wags slowly as her handler passes by once more, this time holding a glass half-full of a glowing green fluid. He offers it toward Altael.
"This should help.“
Altael doesn’t delay in taking the vial of healing fluid from Eligor, not even long enough to thank him first. He brings it to his lips and tips his head back and downs the entire thing in just a few large gulps. He takes in a deep breath once he’s emptied it, then breathes it out in a relieved sigh as soon as he feels his headache beginning to fade.
"Thank you,” he says at last, “For that, and for the shelter.” Soreness still tugs at his weary limbs, but with some of his clarity restored, he already feels that much better. The golden flames atop his head and tail brighten as a reflection of this.
"I can’t say I’ve met one of the Fallen who was quite so generous,“ he observes after a few more moments of silence, with a tilt of his head that betrays his own curiosity. He leaves that statement open ended, should Eligor decide to elaborate more on the nature of his willingness to help.
"Nor have I,” Eligor sighs, speaking without looking his guest in the eye. He reaches a hand over to pet Marchosias behind the ears, at which she closes her eyes in content.
"I fell because my views and values are no longer aligned with my former comrades and superiors,“ he explains. "This violation of the truce, this Apocalypse—I can’t support it. The humans didn’t deserve this.” He gestures to the space around them.
"And those who have fallen farther than I… They might like to think themselves different from the Hellguard, but right now, I can’t agree. Both sides seek only to benefit at the expense of what has happened to this realm. Both sides, as they stand now, are devoid of honor.“
He can check that off as another first for today—a fallen who fell for a noble reason. More intriguingly, he seems to have fallen for the exact same reason he deserted his own horde.
“Mmhm,” he nods in agreement, lacking the lengthy words Eligor possesses to articulate himself, yet sharing in his sentiments. “That makes two of us, I reckon. I left my legion for the very same reason.”
He shifts position again, this time a little closer to sitting up. His tail curls around his legs as he pulls them closer to himself and lets his gaze fall to the floor. It’s odd, speaking so candidly about this after so long keeping it to himself, though he can’t deny that he enjoys this strange freedom.
“Bein’ a strategist in the horde…I feel as if I was one of the only ones puttin’ any thought into the carnage we were spreadin’. Might’ve been why it was so hard to stand.”
Eligor gives a thoughtful hum at that. Before today, he never would have imagined a demon who didn’t enjoy carnage might exist.
This one really is different, then.
"Could that, perhaps, be why the light chose you?” he ventures.
"Erm…“ Truth be told, he hadn’t really considered the possibility of his morality being a part of this. He’s heard plenty of tales of demons deserting their posts, but almost all of them end in death–certainly not a physical change in their appearance.
"I’ve never heard of a demon bein’ touched by the light before, regardless of why they left their posts,” he refutes, though he doesn’t sound too sure of his words, “And even if it was, I’ve still got plenty of sin on my conscience. It’s not like I went my whole life secretly bein’ some beacon of morality.”
He’s been intelligent enough to be above senseless violence himself, but there’s still plenty of bloodshed that was orchestrated under the structure of his military planning. Just a few hours of finally taking action against it can’t have been all it took to redeem him…
…Could it?
"I know it’s supposedly easy to fall from grace, but I’ve never heard of it bein’ easy to rise to it.“
"I haven’t, either,” Eligor agrees. “But then, the Creator works in mysterious ways.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I thought it worth considering.” He shifts his wings to resettle and fold them to his back.
"We’re not likely to get very far merely speculating,“ he points out, turning away. "Get your rest. Call for me if you need anything.”
It seems that regardless of whether he wants for it to or not, this conversation has decidedly ended for now. The angel has a point–there’s little he can do now if he has no answers beyond attempting to restore his strength. Perhaps then he’ll be able to ease some of the dead weight that he’s become on this unfortunate fellow.
"Very well.“ He eases himself back into a more relaxed position, rolled onto his side with one of his wings awkwardly folded over himself. Strange as it is to have them be so large now, their warmth is at least pleasantly comforting.
Though he closes his eyes, he does not drift into anything close to a restful slumber. Too many questions without answers still weigh on his mind for that, and instinct dictates that he should never lower his guard in the company of the enemy.
Even if the company of the enemy has been quite beneficial so far.