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The figure on the bed is more an amalgamation of splints, bandages, and probes than a body. Peter's frame, normally lithe and imbued with his vivacity, now strikes Abel as shockingly frail. Although he's spent a fair amount of time appreciating each detail of Peter's form, he hadn't realized just how many parts of it could break. Evidence of the shockwave's incredible strength, and the force with which Peter impacted the ground, can be easily read from his torn skin, shredded feathers, and countless broken bones.
When Abel approaches, his steps against the hard floor form a sharp contrast with Peter's quiet stillness and the melodic tones of the monitor devices. He seats himself as silently as possible, letting the hush—respectful, reverent, yet as tense as a held breath—fall over the room once more.
Abel has spent the vast majority of his existence feeling weak and useless. The seeds of his father's small cruelties, which long ago became pinpricks of self-loathing within his own soul, now turn into sharp blades that pierce him to the marrow. He fervently wishes—hoping against hope—that he can effect a positive change, just this once.
In a desperate bid to accomplish something to try to save Peter, he reaches for magic. It briefly brushes his fingertips before he clenches his fists and lets it fizzle away. He has no experience tapping into his angelic power, and can't be certain of the results. He won't take the chance when it could hurt instead of help.
With no better options, he sends a plea to God. He speaks the truest language he knows, and though the core of the world itself resonates to its frequency, the words are ash in his mouth. "Lord, I beg you: save this man, your beloved son and faithful servant. In his mortal life, he devoted himself to spreading Your Word; in Heaven, he continued to serve You by welcoming redeemed souls, in the hope that they might find joy in their afterlives. It is because of his duty that he is now in need of aid, and I ask that you grant him the ability to return to it. But—" His voice falters, but he continues, half-whispering, "—if You decide that his tenure must come to an end, then take him into Your arms and grant him peace in whatever lies beyond Heaven. And walk with me, granting me the strength to keep my feet on the path You lay for me. Amen."
Speaking aloud the possibility that Peter might not wake is palpably different from—and much more terrifying than—thinking anxious, half-formed worries. Abel spent thousands of years being alone before he'd met Peter. He'd managed, but going back to that life now would be torture—an eternity of hollow emptiness and absence. Hadn't he said, just that morning, "I don't know how I ever lived without you"? He curses himself now, for taking Peter for granted, for assuming the very best thing he's ever had was going to last, for believing he could ever be that lucky.
Looking toward this potential future is like staring down the barrel of a gun. It's unfathomably long and dark, with no opening on the other side to provide illumination. The only light that awaits is the spark of a flintlock; the only surety is the promise of more pain.
Seeking reassurance, Abel searches Peter's face, but there is none to be found. Peter's eyelids, partially concealed by gauze, remain shut. There is no slight flutter, no movement, no indication of dreams. They offer no insight into when, or whether, he might regain consciousness. Abel would give anything to see those eyes open again, for them to linger on his lips or caress his cheeks. He realizes, belatedly, that Peter's cerulean gaze is burned into his mind, but it might be a beautiful curse.
Being haunted, and seeing a ghost's stare at every turn, would not be new. Teal irises or gold; ichor or blood; his own name torn from another man's lips—in ecstasy or in guilt, but desperate and pleading either way.
Dwelling on this mental imagery incites an onslaught of emotion. Panic crushes his lungs and claws at his throat. Grief plunges barbed talons into his ribcage and clutches tightly at his heart. In their shadow comes love, but without sweetness; it is salt and lemon juice, sharp and acrid, poured liberally onto open wounds.
Is this Abel's fate? To love, but not realize how deeply, until that love is shrouded in mourning? This story is one he's lived before, and recollections of loss surge to the surface of his memory. Cain. His mom. His dad.
His elbows hit his knees, and his palms catch his face as he falls forward. Moisture seeps through his fingers and he lets himself cry noisily, alternating between high keening and ragged sobs.
Oh, snarls the contemptuous part of Abel's inner monologue, where did this come from? I didn't see you crying like this for your dad. Your DAD! Even in grief, you can't be the better son.
As upsetting as Peter's current condition is, Adam's death is still raw; the pain lurking at the corners of Abel's consciousness comes flooding back, carried in as a natural part of this tide of sorrow. He can't physically cry any harder, but he finds himself curling up: pulling his heels up onto the seat, burying his hands in his hair, and tucking his chin to his knees.
In its sinister hiss, the voice continues. War is coming, and here you are, hiding and crying like the weakling you've always been. Anyone else would have been a better fit for the role of Head Exorcist. You thought it was something you could handle? An opportunity to prove yourself? A way to honor your father? Bullshit!
Between stuttering, gasping breaths and welling tears that render all the world a blur, he cannot muster the will to fight. He fully surrenders to his weeping, but neither the water streaming down his cheeks nor the sounds ripped from his vocal cords can drown out his inner demons.
Seeking peace with those who killed Adam, and did THIS to Peter, is a travesty and a disservice. If this is how you show your love for them, you should be fucking glad they're not around to see it.
Abel is spiraling, and there is no one to catch him. Peter—who should be his rock, his foundation—is quiescent, unmoving, unreachable. There is no soft embrace to hold Abel up, and no steady shoulder for him to lean on. There's only a gaping void in his chest, and a long way to fall.