Despite the regulations and the care taken by his entire team, Langing found himself facing a problem he had sought to avoid from the outset: The Angel was ill.
Dealing with ailing flyers was not uncommon on the farms outside Dulcamara, where quality standards were low, but the flyer in question did not come from a farm and had not been in contact with anyone who was ill. Worse still, there were no common colds in the city, let alone within the Solanum.
"How can you catch a cold when you live in a cell?" Langing asked as soon as he entered for his daily visit. The Angel was on the floor of his "room," in the far corner from the door, wrapped in his long wings like a blanket. The chimera could see at a glance that his feathers were fluffed up, just like those of the winged creatures he had treated so many times on the farms.
"It's not a cold, it's an allergy," the Angel murmured without lifting his head. Langing rolled his eyes.
"Sure, an allergy to the room you've been living in and the same five people who visit you," he replied, the opposite barely moving.
"This place makes me sick," his voice sounded muffled, and it was clear that he was trying to hold back his mucus and prevent it from stopping him from speaking. âYou are all despreciable.â
Langing knew the "despreciable beings" speech by heart. From the moment he was captured, the flyer had referred to his captors in this way. When he deigned to speak, that is, which was not always the case and usually reserved for Langing. Had it been anyone else, that attitude would have earned them immediate execution, but the Angel was not just any flyer. He was the kind of flyer who deserved special attention and his own room in the Solanum.
"If you were allergic to the tower, you'd be dead by now," growled the chimera, approaching the boy. He could feel the heat emanating from his wings, a sign of his fever. He put a hand on his forehead to confirm it, but the blond didn't even react to the contact. "You're burning up. I need to medicate you."
"Drug me," he corrected as the chimera touched his cheeks and neck to try to gauge what dose he needed. Suddenly, the Angel's olive hand caught his, forcing his fingers to intertwine. "Don't you dare," he murmured, breathing heavily.
"It's not like I have a choice," muttered the chimera, pulling his hand out of the sick boy's grip. The latter finally looked up, his hard grey eyes staring at him with what he assumed was anger, weakened by illness. Langing almost felt sorry for the young man, then reminded himself that this was not something he should feel for the flyers. "It's protocol. We don't kill flyers in vain."
A growl from the Angel brought him back to the natural dynamic: him on one side, the Angel on the other. Captor and captive. His pity and sympathy had to be reserved for his own kind; he had no reason to offer them to a potential threat like the one in front of him.
From the bag he had brought, he took out a vial and a syringe. "It's standard medicine, the same we use on the farms," he said, imagining that it might calm the boy down.
"They kill them on the farms," he replied. Langing inserted the needle into the ampoule and began to fill it. On the farm, Kyl was in charge of medical procedures, but they both knew that the Angel would never let him near him. Langing was the only one with whom he remained still,nearly docile.
"Give me your arm," he said, approaching once more the ball of feathers he was obliged to care for. The ball in question remained motionless.
"I've never been injected," Langing might have thought the young man was scared if he didn't know him better. But if there was one thing he knew about him, it was how good he was at feigning vulnerability. He wasn't going to fall for it this time.
"Aren't there any medicines where you come from?" Silence. Obviously. "Your arm." Reluctantly and a little shakily (surely from the fever), the Angel offered his arm from between his wings. Langing didn't hesitate for a second to take his wrist and quickly inject the cold liquid directly into the Angel's bloodstream. A stifled cry escaped his mouth as soon as the needle entered his body.
"This is immoral," he whispered. Langing couldn't feel bad about that comment. It was medicine, it saved lives, but wasn't moral enough?
"I don't know how your people do it, but this is how we keep people from dying here," he said. The Angel lowered his wings, letting him see how he rubbed his wrist, unaccustomed to the sensation of being pricked. "It will stop hurting in a few minutes. And you'll feel better in a couple of hours."
"It makes me sick to be here," Langing seated himself on the floor in front of him. Their eyes were now at the same level. "Your medicine won't cure what needs fresh air."
"They'll never authorise your release, especially if you don't give us something to work with." He hoped his comment would annoy the Angel, that he would roll his eyes and mutter in irritation at not getting what he wanted, but he didn't. Without changing his annoyed expression, he said:
"They never authorised that release."
Langing felt the bristles on his neck stand up at that mention. For the last two weeks, the Angel had remained silent on the subject, which had made the chimera's guilt more bearable. But he hadn't forgotten the slip, of course he hadn't forgotten. He was just waiting for the right moment to bring it up.
It had been a mistake, an instinct that hadn't been silenced in time. Langing was not good at seeing people cry, much less those younger than him. The Angel had taken advantage of that and manoeuvred him out of his cell. Not much, just enough to take a breath and stretch his wings without flying. Enough to break the rules of the Solanum, and if that was discovered, Langing would be slain on the spot..
"It won't happen again," he replied. The Angel let out a small snort. Langing wasn't sure if it was mocking or not.
"Fresh air would cure me immediately. It's happened before," the chimera raised an eyebrow. "I'm just saying that if you're really compelled to keep me alive, you'll negotiate a visit outside this prison."
He thought about it. "It's happened before." He would have to figure out how to make it happen. And it would have to be with all the equipment and shackles on his feet and his wings chained. That is, of course, if the medicine didn't have the desired effect.
Or... Maybe he could do it even if the medicine cured him. A "little gift" to strengthen the trust between the Angel and him. Perhaps that way he would begin to reveal information about his actions more casually and more frequently. The faster he could get information out of him, the faster he would return to his farm, far away from Solanum and its people.
"I can negotiate that," the Angel, who had been distracted by the wrist where he had been injected, raised his head. His expression was somewhere between surprise and distrust. "But I need you to give me something to work with," distrust filled his face, sullen. "Quid pro quo. Otherwise, you'll just get another injection."
The Angel thought about it. Langing could almost see his internal dilemma and wished he could hear the thoughts behind his grey eyes. After a few seconds, he spoke.
"Bulala-what?" asked the chimera, puzzled.
"Bulalakaw, it's my name." Langing raised an eyebrow. How was that relevant? Did he think the people of the Solanum were stupid? "Ask your sorcerers about the meaning. They'll find it... interesting."
Langing sighed and stood up. "If you say so."
He approached the door, ready to end today's visit and send whoever was on duty to watch over the AnâBulalakaw.
Before leaving, the Angel spoke to him. "Tell them that keeping me locked up here will kill me." A hint of panic in his voice made Langing turn around. "I mean it. Neither you nor I will gain anything if you don't get me out of here."
Langing bit his lip. "Of course."
And, without allowing himself to hear any more, he left the cell.
