As the years ticked by, so did my ever growing duties. Mikha'el came to me more and more for help. The answers he sought from me were anywhere from, "Where do you think the new peach tree should be planted?" all the way up to, "I believe we have the opportunity to wipe out a legion of demons. Our tricksters have fed us reliable information that two nights from the solstice a satanic ritual will take place, putting their shamans in a vulnerable position. They are to do the Hell gate opening at midnight in the Mesopotamia region on The Surface. Our information states the ceremony will be guarded by two Fallen, and secured with traps and sigils. Which garrison do you think would be most suited for this task, and from what direction should we stage our attack from?"

(The answer to that particular assault was thus: We would allow the trickster demons who were working as double-agents to tell the Fallen us angels knew of their plans, and were going to stage an attack. Thus they would be prepared for an assault and waste resources and manpower beefing up security at the ceremony.

For whatever reason, usually only one angelic garrison was deployed to clean up such situations. It seemed silly to me for, even though one garrison was quite large, this tactic had come to be expected. So, I insisted we deploy three garrisons, not one. Mikha'el had objected at first, declaring three full garrisons was over-kill. I counter-argued with my strategy; we would send a small team in up front and make it appear we were losing. Then, we would send "backup". In the confusion of more angels arriving, we would unleash the third wave, pinning the demons in a bulge tactic, while we sent in our own mages to stop the Hell rift from opening on the surface. The mages would, of course, have body guards, a seraphim each.

It worked. Spectacularly. We even managed to take down a Fallen that day. I'm happy to say after that win I was put in charge of most strategic military planning. I was unanimously put in charge of high-stakes military planning.)

My studies began to fall to the wayside. Not that there wasn't more to learn. There was—of course there was. However, between my patrols and military duties, I rarely had time to exhaust toward being in Metatron.

It was sad, really. For years I had come to rely on the fact that I would see Metatron and Auriel daily. When that changed, slowly but surely, I missed them. For better or for worse that ache only became apparent to me at night, right before my head hit the pillow. During the day my mind was focused elsewhere so I had no time to lament.

The more I grew the more the relationship between Mikha'el and I began to subtly shift. I'm not sure exactly when it had happened, but it struck me one day that Mikha'el no longer saw me as a student but an equal. We had been planning something mundane together, like repairing a crumbling archway or something. Mikha'el had looked at me, palms pressed against the table.

"Are you all right, Sera?" he laughed. "You look like you just swallowed a fly."

I couldn't speak. I was at a complete loss for words. He smiled and tilted his head slightly, appearing slightly worried. "What?"

I smiled, willing myself to speak. "I am just...Very grateful. For everything you have done for me."

He looked very perplexed. "It is no big thing."

"But it is," I said a bit desperately. "Thank you."

Mikha'el became solemn. He still was largely confused, but he nodded curtly. "You're quite welcome."

There were still things I had to learn, and they had nothing to do with books. One of which came to me two-fold. I awoke one day as normal. However, as I went through my routine of eating a simple breakfast of milk and honey bread with some grapes, my right wing itched. Thinking little of it, I scratched. It wasn't until later that day did I find myself scratching my wing again, rather fiercely and absentmindedly. I stopped, only to realize my other wing itched too. I scratched it.

By the end of the day I was quite desperately clawing at my wings. They wouldn't stop itching, and I was scratching them raw. Feathers were flying everywhere every time I scratched. It was driving me crazy, if I'm being honest. By the time I swallowed my shame and showed up in Mikha'el's abode, I was extremely cranky.

"What, Sera?" Mikha'el asked, rather annoyed. "It's my day off. That's why I didn't answer the door. I too get rest from time to time."

I was scratching at all six wings. I folded around me, great plums of feathers accumulating all around me. "I itch."

He looked at me like I was stupid. "What?"

"I am so itchy!" I snapped. "Is there some sort of itching bramble in heaven, or poison ivy, or—"

Mikha'el had begun to laugh. "Oh. That."

"What do you mean, 'that' ?" I snapped once more, feeling more like a dog than an angel. "Why am I—"

"Mikha'el," a rather gorgeous angel said over his shoulder. She came up behind him, clasping her hands on his shoulder and leaning her cheek against them. She looked serene, almost sleepy. "Why don't you come back to bed?"

All at once I realized two things. One—Mikha'el was naked. Two, so was this female angel. Abruptly I ceased scratching, absolutely mortified.

She looked at me once more, eyes bright green, her hair a honey kissed blonde. "Who is this Mikha'el?"

Mikha'el laughed. "This is my best friend, Sera. He is going through his first molt, apparently."

Any embarrassment I felt over interrupting them evaporated. "Molt?"

Mikha'el laughed again. "Yes."

I began scratching again. "Like a bird?"

More chuckling. "Yes."

"I'm not a damn bird!"

Mikha'el outright guffawed, and the angel at his side giggled. Gently then he grabbed my arms and pinned them to my sides.

"Yes, I know. Every angel goes through a molt every hundred years or so. How else would we repair mangled wing feathers? Flying, as you know, isn't purely magical. We need our wings, and we need them to be in proper working order."

"Well yes, that makes sense, but—"

When I didn't continue, Mikha'el raised his eyebrows. "But...?"

I gaped. "Did you say every hundred years?"

"Yes."

"I've been here for a hundred years?"

"Give or take, yes."

"No."

"What do you mean, no?"

"I mean no! I've been here but a handful! Maybe like, ten, or twenty if I'm being generous. One hundred?!"

"Time moves differently in Heaven and Hell than it does on The Surface." He looked perplexed. "Has that never been explained to you?"

I began scratching my wings with more vigor. "It was not! Would I be so damned surprised right now if it had?! One hundred years, really—"

Mikha'el had begun to laugh again, though he tried to stifle it. His shoulders shook. "Look, Sera. Why don't you go to the medic before you seriously damage your wings? They have balms to help soothe the itching. And stop scratching, goodness gracious."

I glared and continued to scratch.

The angel at his side giggled, and she looked up at him." Mikha'el—I know we all get a little cranky when we molt, but isn't this a bit extreme? "

Now Mikha'el laughed outright. Kissing the top of her head, he draped his arm around her shoulders and led her back into his living quarters. "He's already is a grumpy mess. You think this is bad? You should see him when he's having a rough day—"

The door shut in my face. I stood there is disbelief, scratching madly. I had half the mind to pound on the door and demand he come back. Instead I just stood there, calling out to him, letting him chose me or sex.

"How long do we molt for? When does it stop itching? How long before new feathers grow in? Mikha'el? MIKHA'EL!"

He, evidently, chose sex.

Grumbling I stalked away off to figure this molting business by myself. However, instead of going straight to the medic like Mikha'el had suggested, I went to Metatron. Angrily I threw open one of the doors so hard it banged against the wall. Metatron's eyes appeared immediately, glaring.

Oh. It's only you.

I looked up at him, scratching.

What might I help you with today, Sera?

Furiously I unfurled all my wings. Feathers spread out everywhere. He looked at me up and down, and I could tell he frowned.

Oh. That.

"Yes that! Why does everyone have that reaction?! 'Oh, that'—like I'm just supposed to know we molt—"

Metatron was chuckling. I ripped out a handful of loose feathers and threw it at where his eyes were in the archway. They, of course, didn't get very far, being feathers. I stuck my tongue out at him. It made him laugh.

What can I do for you, Seraphin?

"I need every book on molting!"

Why don't you just go to the medic and—

I growled. Loudly. Literally.

...or don't. Fine. Your books shall be waiting for you.

Without a thank you I stormed off. As I walked (itched) past the front desk, I forgot my woes for just a moment.

"Where is Auriel?"

His desk was empty. Metatron appeared against one of the first bookshelves to respond.

He has fallen ill.

"Ill?"

Sick.

I was floored. "Angels can get sick?"

It is rare, but yes, it happens from time to time.

"Well, is he alright?"

Indubitably. In fact, I would be surprised if he does not return for tomorrow's shift.

"Oh. Alright. Thank you..."

Yet even at Metatron's words, a deep anxiety filled me. Auriel? Sick? How did angels become sick? It was frighteningly absurd. So, my studies veered from my persistent itching to angel sickness.

Most of what I found wasn't good. Angels, I found, for all intents and purposes, did not get sick. I found a plethora of maladies that one could attribute to various hexes, curses, and spells. Furthermore, I read about angel corruption; it was what I had when Meridian had sliced me repeatedly with her sword. My body was fighting off the demon blood, and it was venomous to me.

There were other ways angels could become corrupt. Binding their grace with a spell (which I had read about in my own blue book, the one I still carried around with me). Spending too much time in Hell. Spending too much time in the company of demons. (Yet another testimony to Fallen not being demons, unless corrupting their own blood willingly. Fallen do not cause angels to become sick.)

This new information spurred me to triple check the assignment logs. I knew Auriel hadn't been assigned any irregular missions. Even so, I needed to make sure he had taken part of something I simply had not been privy to.

I found nothing.

Frustrated, I left Metatron even more bothered than I had arrived. I think had someone looked at me wrong I would have smote them. Everyone could tell my mood was foul, and they scurried away from me.

"Help!"

Without even waiting my turn, I barged into one of the medic tents, found a chair, and plopped down. A great plume of feathers erupted from me when I did so. A medic came to me, smiling.

"Ah yes, Seraphin. We have been awaiting your arrival."

"You have?" I grumped, scratching.

She laughed. "Indeed—Mikha'el warned us you would be coming."

I bit my tongue from saying something uncouth. Instead I just frowned at her, itching madly.

"I know," she said in a placating manner, putting her hand on my shoulder. "The first molt is rather difficult."

I wanted to rip her arm off. She cautiously let go of me, her smile fading, when I hisses at her quietly.

Literally.

I went home that day with three things:

Instructions for wing care (Keep them clean and dry. Try not to scratch. New feathers will come in painfully—use the ointment when that happens. For itching use the OTHER ointment. Try not to rip old feathers out, no matter how compelled you are to do so. If there is an ingrown feather, go to the medic for assessment and help. NEVER TRY TO REMOVE AN INGROWN FEATHER BY YOURSELF. Do not be alarmed by small flecks of blood, especially at growth sites. Seek medical attention for large amounts of blood, pain, or signs of infection such as oozing or red skin that is warm to the touch, etc. etc.)

Abject horror over how long a molt would take ("WEEKS?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WEEKS?! THEN AT LEAST TWO MORE FOR FULL GROWTH?! SO WE'RE TALKING A MONTH AT LEAST?! NO, I WON'T GO THROUGH WITH THIS, JUST CHOP THEM OFF, I'M DONE—") (Yes I really made that much of an ass out of myself. Moving on.)

And a nagging worry that something was wrong with Auriel. I had asked the medic if he had been to see her.

They didn't even know he was sick.