But I am not capable of Heaven, thought Lucius. The sensation was familiar in abstract but long absent from his body-memory. Rising. Carried.
"You--" It was a rasp. He tried again. "Archangel. You are, aren't you."
The body which bore him in its arms did not break stride. "Father. It's me."
Lucius lifted long-unfocused eyes to look upon the face of his rescuer. It remained indistinct, but the pale yellow of the hair above caught and held the cast of torchlight.
The Morningstar. He'd been right on both counts. "My lord," he murmured, contented.