"Stabbed is a nice way to put it," Cyril interrupted with a very displeased tone.
"-Skewered you, he had pierced through one of the lower lumbar bones in your spine," Layla continued. "To salt the wounds, I'm told he had twisted the blade inside of you. This had shattered the bone into a lot of pieces. I wasn't there to see it, I'm only recounting what Bishop Luis had explained. The important point here is, you're not completely healed. He said the extent of your injuries will leave you paralyzed from the waist down."
Priscilla looked at her, not fully understanding what that meant.
"Your body... Couldn't handle half of what it needed to do to reconstruct the bone," Layla said. "And not even Lady Cyril here could do anything about it. Look, whatever you've been through recently, it's left your body in a... Less than optimal state."
"But.. how?" Priscilla said with disbelieving eyes. "I've always taken... Care of..."
And like a hidden viper, the memories sank their fangs into her mind. The expedition, the deaths, curses, and the monsters. Blood, blood, and more blood. All the terrible things that had cascaded over their little group since they arrived, all of which, when taken one by one didn't seem so bad, but all at once... It was too much to bear for the poor girl. Tears began to trickle from her eyes as she remembered that terrible face from her dreams.
That sadistic and twisted monster that stabbed at her. It hadn't been a dream, because she remembered being hoisted into the air by her throat. Yes, she felt the bruises now. They seared themselves into her pale skin like brands, so she may always remember. She remembered how angered he had been when she called - She looked to the angelic beauty next to her, and she looked back, her left face hidden behind a veil of silky white.
He'd been angered when she called out to Cyril.
— † —
The door to the chambers shut silently, Cyril's face hidden in the shadow of the sunlight. Back in her black dress, the sun revealed that the dim room hid. Red specks dotted her wings from her two-day hunt. Her dress was even more bloodied than her wings. her body had only been quickly wiped down before she laid with Priscilla. That had only happened when word that she'd been calling out to her in her sleep.
Bishop Luis was beside the door when Cyril was there. He looked at her, curious to her expression. She hid it behind a curtain of white and hadn't moved away from the door as she looked down at the iron handle. He could hear the breath of rage she blew out to calm herself.
The Bishop felt for the deity. In the span of two days, even he knew she was nothing more than a girl herself. Unlike Alistair, who'd been regal and composed every time he held his yearly conferences, this girl wore her heart on her sleeve. From her annoyances to her rage. To her compassion to her sadness. Her two-day hunt of undead had been a pure venomous rage. Her quick flight back to the church housing had been pure fear and concern.
He looked away from her, and out the window that lit the hall around them. Pillars of smoke rose everywhere, contrasted by the beautiful winter blue sky. Nearly half the city had been razed, leaving only charred bricks and bones. As if a fire god had feasted off a fat stone pig and just left the bones on its plate.
Cyril's shoulders were trembling when he looked back.
Bishop Luis spoke. "Your Grace--"
"She had to be sedated again," Cyril cut him off. "I didn't know what else to do."
"Lady Hammel has gone through something terrible," Bishop Luis said. "Comfort and care are what she will need for the foreseeable future. I've seen many people like her."
Cyril finally looked up to him. Her left face still marred with those terrible black webs. He kept his pleasant smile, but he flinched in his heart.
"I haven't," Cyril sighed. "I know about PTSD, aftercare, both physical therapy, and mental therapy; but I've never seen it."
"What is PTSD?" Bishop Luis repeated the acronym.
"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," Cyril said. "It happens when people go through something terrible, and they have nightmares, flashbacks, and get randomly triggered by things that remind them of the event."
That sounded like a lot of people he'd been treating.
"How does one deal with this disorder?" Bishop Luis asked.
"Teaching people skills to cope with it. Help them change their view of themselves, and just being there for them." Cyril couldn't remember if she had been diagnosed with it. There had been a lot of things the doctor said she had, then said she didn't have. It was a labyrinth of crap she had to deal with in the hospital.
"Have you ever treated anyone with it?" Bishop Luis said, not actually comprehending the part that 'She didn't know what to do'.
"I've never treated anyone in my life," Cyril chuckled at the implication. "As someone who's spent most of their life dying, I was the one being cared for."
"Gods can die?" Bishop Luis smile twitched.
"Anything can die," Cyril said. "I had."
With that, she stepped away from the door and walked down the hall. Bishop Luis jaw moved around as he digested it. A simple phrase, uttered by many. And it took a whole new light when uttered by what was supposed to be the strongest being ever. By the time she had reached the end of the hall, Bishop Luis scampered after her.
The Cathedral's housing was by no means humble. The halls weren't decorated with expensive items, but more so it in liberal usage of space. The hall was long, and when she descended the stairs, she took only one-fourth of the stair's width. The stair was nice " T " shape as she hit the landing where Fenrir stood guard.
"Cyril," He greeted her with that wolfish smile he always had.