As soon as I opened my eyes, a few things occurred to me. First was the incessant itching. That wasn't totally unexpected; annoying, yes, but it had also kept me up half the night. Then was the time of day; twilight was just coming in to bring the dawn. It was still dark, the torches still lit, but the rim of the sky was slowly turning purple.

I hadn't worn my shirt to bed (it was much too uncomfortable), so with a wave of my hand my black uniform appeared on me. Even though it was early, I couldn't wait any longer. I felt ridiculous with the state my wings were in but I held my head high, made my sword appear at my waist, and strode out into the street. I didn't stop, barreling toward my destination, until I reached it. With my heart in my throat, I threw open the doors to Metatron.

Metatron is one of the places in Heaven that is in perpetual motion. There is always something happening there, always occupied with angels reading. However, in the late evenings and early mornings, Metatron was at his lowest lull.

Angels don't need sleep. Most do sleep, especially mortal angels. It simply is a means to pass the time, especially during times of peace when there literally is nothing but basic maintenance to uphold. The same goes with eating, although that we literally don't have to do. I enjoy eating, a hangover from my mortal days. Other angels eat for pleasure. Sleeping is required every so often, at least once a few hundred years—though most take nightly naps. Thus, Metatron was largely empty.

"Auriel!"

I literally ran over to the reception desk. Auriel jumped, startled, knocking over his inkwell. I heard him swear under his breath. As I watched him be discombobulated I slowed my pace. Once I got to him, I was immediately worried. As he attempted to get the ink off his parchment (using the front of his robes to do so, which he quickly realized was a stupid idea, which led to even more swearing), I took the time to scrutinize him.

His brow was damp, hair sticking to it. Dark circles of purple created pockets beneath his eyes. His eyes themselves were dull, listless. He was pale, and I noticed he trembled slightly. I was unable to hide my worry, mouth dropping open.

"Dear Lord! Auriel! Are you okay?"

With some final curse words tumbling out of his mouth, he finally looked at me. "I'm fine."

"You look terrible!"

He paused and then smirked. "You're not looking so well yourself." He jutted his chin out. "What's with the wings?"

I glanced over my shoulder. They really did look terrible. "Oh. Er, yes, I'm molting."

Auriel snorted and shook his head, now trying to plot the spilled ink with a blank sheet of parchment.

"No, really," I said, going up on my tip-toes so I could grasp the edge of the desk and peer up at Auriel. "You look feverish."

He sniffed. "I'm fine."

"But you're not."

He slammed his fist down and glared. "I. Am. Fine."

I sank back onto the heels of my feet and pulled my fingers off the desk. I still looked at him. After a moment he stopped trying to clean, tossed the ruined parchment aside, and rested his head in his one hand. He peeked out at me with one eye.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Er, no. I wanted to check with you. I heard you were sick and—"

"Who told you that?"

"Well, Mikha'el did—"

Auriel snorted. "Of course he did."

I was quickly understanding this conversation wasn't going to go anywhere. I sighed. "Well, it is good to see you, Auriel, though I really think you need rest—"

"I appreciate the concern, but I will be fine." Then, almost as an aside, "I promise."

I began to walk away. "Metatron."

I looked around. Nothing.

"Metatron," I said again as I moved further into the library.

Still nothing.

"Metatron?"

"He's not here."

I turned abruptly and looked at Auriel who had spoken. "What?"

"He is not here."

I scratched one of my wings. "Well where is he?!"

"Helping another angel deep within."

"Oh..." I paused and turned back around then, heading to the door. "Well, as I said, I mainly wanted to check on you. Here you are, so I might as well take my leave..."

Auriel waved his hand dismissively, neck craned to look at his scrolls and parchment. He didn't even look at me.

"Er, goodbye then."

No response. So I left.

~

"Doing that well, eh?"

I froze. I had been rolling around on the ground in an attempt to scratch my wings better. I had found a patch with no grass, because I had found the grass just made it worse. Slowly, trying to act as though I wasn't covered in dirt from head to toe, I stood. I coughed into my hand and straightened my shirt. I look at him right in the eyes.

"Hello, Mikha'el. How might I assist you?"

Mikha'el dissolved into laughter. He waved his hand in front of him, shaking his head. "Weren't you a gladiator?"

"Yes."

"Weren't you cut up a lot?"

"I suppose."

He guffawed. "How did you tolerate that when you are losing your sanity over itchy wings?"

"Pain is one thing! I can manage pain! This? This is insufferable!"

Mikha'el calmed himself and wiped at his eye. "Ahem. Seriously though. Have you tried meditation?"

My mouth fell open. "Meditation?! I have zero concentration, and you're suggesting meditation?"

"Many angel's swear by it during their molts."

I grabbed a clump of feathers, tossed it aside, and then scratched. "Yeah well, I'm not many angels."

Mikha'el smirked. "I know. Suit yourself, it was just a suggestion."

"Is there a reason you were looking for me, aside from taunting me over my discomfort?"

He frowned. "Yes. I wanted to apologize for yesterday."

"What happened yesterday?"

"Would you stop scratching? And you walked in on Pet and me."

"Pet?"

"Pet. Papetriel. The angel I was with?"

"Oh." I grinned wickedly. "Your lover?"

He rolled his eyes. "Grow up."

"No. If you can poke at me over my wings, I get to poke at you over your sexual conquests. And that pun was utterly on purpose."

"If you must." Mikha'el sighed, his wings slumping. Then he grinned wickedly. "You can go back to your dirt bath, I have said what I came to say."

As he turned and started to walk away, a thought suddenly occurred to me. I reached out my hand. "Mikha'el, wait!"

He turned back around.

"Have you seen Auriel?"

"Not recently, no. Why?"

I put my arm down. "Might I ask a favor of you?"

"But of course. What is it that you need?"

"May you stop by today at some point and see how he is doing?"

Mikha'el cocked his eyebrow. "Can't you?"

I shook my head. "I am working on repairs in the Northern Court, then I have to oversee the training session at the barracks. Then I'm doing my loom class—"

"Loom class?"

"Yes! Loom class!"

He held up his hands.

I glared. "Then I have security rounds tonight."

"You can't fit in a pop in?"

"Please?"

"I just don't see why—"

"I'm worried about him!"

"He's sick Sera. He'll live."

"But he looks really bad!"

Mikha'el frowned.

"He looked feverish!"

Mikha'el crossed his arms.

"He hasn't even been to the medic."

Mikha'el sighed. "I really don't understand why you're not just taking it easy. Most angels are allowed rest during their molt, and most take full advantage of it; there are plenty who can fill in for you. You can go back to work when your molt is complete."

I gaped. "Are you serious?! I'm not going to just not do anything for a month!"

"First molts usually take longer."

"See what I mean?! I would go stir crazy!"

"And this, rolling around in the dirt, is not crazy?" he asked, gesturing at me up and down.

"Mikha'el, please—"

"Alright, alright. I'll do it."

I grinned. "Thank you, Mikha'el!"

He sighed. "Of course. You owe me, though."

"Anything!"

"Anything?" Mikha'el grinned wickedly.

"Er, within reason."

"No no, you already said anything..."

I laughed. "Fuck off."

Mikha'el turned around, waving over his shoulder. "I'm sure I could make arrangements with Pet. She's a gardener, and her schedule isn't usually that cramped."

I laughed and called out, "Thank you, Mikha'el!"

He looked over his shoulder and waved once more. "Enjoy your dirt bath!"