"The Rift cursed you?" She edges forward cautiously. He certainly seems less energetic compared to their first meeting; paler, clammy, moving as if every action is a massive, insurmountable effort.

"Heal me of what?" She starts edging back, one hand raised as if to ward him off. "I'm not sick."

But Gabe is, it strikes her. He is sick, exhibiting all the symptoms typical of the common flu.

"Are you?" Her tone falls somewhere between disbelief and concern. She does not have the most refined grasp on the concept of angels, but it was her general understanding that they do not inexplicably fall ill.