"Bleeding eyes?" Ishiah asks, closing his own eyes and trying to imagine a reason for that. Hemorrhages? "That you aren't able to heal on your own?"

Balancing a pitcher of water, a bucket of ice, and four glasses on a tray, Ishiah walks back to the coffee table, pouring four glasses out easily.

"Reorganizing your memories and your motivations doesn't surprise me," he says, jaw forming a hard line. It's the type of thing angels would do, never holding back when there's a greater mission at hand. Finding themselves lacking in free will. "But hurting Dean — did that happen as a reflex, or was it a pointed attempt on his life?"