Gabriel gave a slight and rueful nod, and then tried to smile, one that was equal parts rueful, grim and sad. "The only ones among my siblings who have been injured in this kind of fashion have died soon after, because it's always been others of my siblings who have caused the injury."

And when angels were fighting angels directly, with intent to harm, that intent preceded death. Anything else, anything to contain or withhold, used a different kind of magic, different kinds of spells, had different effects. Gabriel didn't explain further, but the deep sorrow in his eyes and the lines on his face said enough, for those of the crew who knew the basic story.

The Archangel would have asked who China was, but there wasn't a pressing need to distract anyone from feeling faint, so Gabriel felt he could wait. Instead he braced himself, carefully pushing himself up from his seat on the pew's arm, and took a limping, experimental step. The movement sent fissions of complaint all through him, and even though Gabriel didn't need to breathe, it still made him stop short, trying to keep the pain from showing too badly on his face.

"I think I'm going to need the help," he admitted without compunction, his voice strained. Even with a cloak, he'd never quite realised how much he used his wings in little, instinctive ways until all of a sudden he couldn't move them without knowing it very clearly.