Even with every precaution taken, things happened on the road. The wagon would break an axle, Medea cast a shoe. Someone would be poisoned or paralyzed or put to sleep, whichever affliction did not have its corresponding cure waiting in Eight's bottomless bag. Someone else would don an item with a sinister aura, and spend their time in the wagon barely able to move until they reached the nearest church and got the curse lifted. That was why Eight was fastidious about their belongings, keeping everything organized for quick access and making sure everyone had a few curative plants on hand at all times. He knew he was a nuisance about it, but he could deal with that. It bothered him when one of the team was suffering.
It was early evening then, and Jessica, being the token girl, was saddled with the unfortunate duty of chasing down Prince Charmles before he ran screaming into a nest of orcs or some such thing. Medea was grazing, Trode trotting close at her heels - he wouldn't leave his daughter alone again, not while the charmless one was still at large. Angelo was listlessly poking at the fire, and it was to him Eight went that night, his tunic pockets heavy with moon's mercy.
Angelo glanced up and smiled at the young guardsman. "Enjoying the dearth of whining?" he asked wryly.
Eight didn't smile. "Let me see your wing."
Angelo's grin faltered but didn't disappear; Eight saw his pinions tremble as he resisted drawing his wings close around himself. "We've got to work on your technique, my friend. I know they're magnificent, but-"
"Angelo," Eight interrupted with weary patience. "Let me see your wing."
Angelo opened his mouth to try to redirect him again - but his wing was already spreading of its own accord, albeit stiff and slow, and Eight was kneeling beside it to put his fingers in the feathers.
"I'm better at healing magic than you," the Templar pointed out instead, a sulky grumble in the words.
"But you haven't used it," Eight pointed out gently, and rather than explain himself, Angelo returned his gaze to the fire, let the pale flames hypnotize him as Eight stroked carefully through the down.
For once, Angelo's self-promotion was justified: his wings were magnificent, huge and silver-white, impossibly graceful for their size. Eight felt his own pinions huddle tight against his back, too aware of their smallness and shabbiness next to Angelo.
But however shabby they were, Eight's wings could bear him in flight. Angelo's never would.
Eight's fingers found the knotted mound of scar tissue near the middle and Angelo tensed, the movement so slight Eight never would have known if his hand wasn't on the Templar's wing. Silently, Eight called his magic, stroking subtle shimmers of blue-white light into the places where he sensed pain. The wound from that afternoon closed readily at his command, clean and strong, but Eight didn't stop, letting Angelo's deeper pain call his healing out of him until the cool tingle of it made Angelo gasp.
"You can't heal that, Eight," the Templar whispered as he strove not to tremble. "No one can."
Eight didn't answer at first, letting his magic speak for him as it wound over Angelo's feather-hidden scars. Angelo gasped again, shakier, and curled up with his head in his arm.
"I want to do what I can for you," Eight murmured then, his callused hands moving gently over Angelo's silken wings. "If you'll let me."
The pinions shivered; slowly, Angelo nodded. Eight smiled and curled closer, lending his teammate his warmth as well as his healing.
Eight could be stubborn about these things. But it was only because he cared.