The awful cage of self was a torture that belonged to the truly sick, the truly wounded. Ezekiel had gone mad for two months, unable to move or breathe, laying in his father’s home and waiting to heal. His world had grown so small then, and he could only imagine that Halo, of all people, would despise this fate. If she had fallen in battle it would have been kinder.
Amber eyes darkened at her voice, but he opened the door and came into the room quietly. She was in a bed, bedraggled, a red bandage over her eyes. A flash of sorrow crossed his face, and when he realized she could not see it, his ears fell back further. There was no amount of words he could offer her, nothing he could do to change what had gone on. He recalled Gabriel, stoic and stern, and knew what he would say. God was cruel; sometimes he makes you live.
“Oh Halo,” he slipped, allowing the damned sorrow to enter his voice. Pity, perhaps. She wouldn’t want that, he knew, but how could he not pity her? This was a truly awful thing to see.
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