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Summary
I reached out to Abaddon with my secret senses, looking upon him with the penetrative gaze of second sight.
He had refused to let me mend his injuries with my biomantic abilities. Another time, I would have contributed this to his reluctance to depend too much on the sorcerous Arts, trusting instead the mundane medicae skills of the Legion’s Apothecaries and his own transhuman physiology to restore him. Now, I wondered if he thought the pain a penance. Whether it was for killing Sigismund, whom he had once called brother, or almost failing to do so, I could not begin to guess.
I wondered if he felt pain, or only frustration at the forced inactivity. It is not in his nature, and he does not tolerate idleness with grace. None of us do. We are weapons, made to be used. When we are not actively at war, we hone our edge in the training halls. Even in exile, in the decades before we tracked him down, Abaddon had found myriad ways to occupy his time.
Well. Boredom, at least, was something I could cure him of without resorting to forbidden skills.