Samandriel hadn't ever expected someone to be horrified at what was done to him and Mitchell consistently proved that wrong. He didn't...
He closed his eyes, remembering his brother's cruel smirk as he passed sentence, the way his blade cut through flesh so easily watching...just watching his Grace tucked away in a bottle where he would likely never know it again no matter how it called to him. He still hadn't forgotten the completely hollow feeling being without it left him. It hadn't diminished in the slightest.
"Who are we to question the judgement of the host of Heaven?" Samandriel asked softly, managing to keep his voice even. He didn't think his brother spoke for Heaven. His brother spoke for himself and against anyone their Father or elder brothers might have liked even a little bit more than him.
Delicate fingers reached to catch Mitchell's, drawing him closer, back still to him. Anyone else, he didn't think he'd allow to touch him where it still felt like a wound on his very soul, but he guided those fingers up to the scar on his throat anyway.