Iuliael makes a little distressed sound, huddling in on himself. He doesn't look like an angel just now. A still photograph would resemble some kind of bizarre gold-streaked rag sculpture set with weeping blue eyes, but he moves and flows too much in real time.

"Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come, have mercy," he mumbles, unable to carry the tune. After the Severing there had been a long time when Iuliael had sung nothing but that in different languages - that praise seraphim in Heaven sing continually. It gave and gives a little bit of comfort to know that the Dove sings it at the same time he does, even if the timing and chosen language is probably really, really off.

But this really isn't the time for that. The bleeding psychopomp speaks and Iuliael tries to gather himself, his form becoming less disorganized. He's in that place that Julien knows and he doesn't, where something awful has happened and part of him is calm and unreal and pushing through the rest of him, which is anything but. "I - but - they split from a larger number when they saw me. There will be questions when they do not return. Can you fly? I can carry you."