A/N: Here's the reason why I like Dark Ace/Piper so much – it's the Florence Nightingale Effect. Really, it is. My trite fanfic would like to pay tribute to two major influences: first is writer Michael Ondaatje - especially his book The English Patient, and secondly is composer Michael Nyman – specifically his work on The Piano. You might find occasional references to both individuals.

Lastly, a big thank you to Madame Lady for beta-ing this on such short notice!

Lady with the Lamp

( chapter one: I clipped your wing )

Lo! in that house of misery
A lady with a lamp I see
Pass through the glimmering gloom,
And flit from room to room.

(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Santa Filomena, 1857)

xxx

He is used to living in shadows; Cyclonia is full of them, large, looming monsters with red-coal eyes and bodies devoid of the sun. His name, after all, is the Dark Ace.

Everyone knows who is. No one remembers who he used to be.

"Okay," she says, "we're taking the bandages off now."

Dark Ace sits silently on the edge of the bed; his hands fisting the cotton sheets beside his thighs, and impatiently waits for the process of removal. His Talon uniform of dark green and red is discarded in favour of simple black pants and a white shirt. It has been months since he last wore the colours of betrayal.

Much has happened over the course of several months, and he has been asleep for almost all of it. He remembers the battle at Cyclonia, specifically the throne room, where he waited silently. The Storm Hawks entered, busting their way through the metal doors for a dramatic entrance, pumped full with self-assured righteousness.

He had expected some sort of appeal, perhaps a witty remark from the squadron leader about how Cyclonia would never take over the free Atmos, and how good will always triumph over evil.

Three months ago, that's exactly what would have happened.

But things were different now. The empire had existed on borrowed time and it was only through his mistress's orders that he still served her where others have defected. They knew the empress was losing her grip on the throne, her slender fingers slipping in their grasp as something more sinister and manic seized her heart and commanded her to obey.

The female Storm Hawk spoke to him. Please, she implored, touching the glowing crystal around her neck, please let us save her. His red eyes flickered over her, he lowered his blade, and she knew she was not to be harmed.

Her words were soon taken up by the rest of her teammates, and they added their own cries of peace and amnesty – if only he handed over his mistress.

No, not yet. She still has some life within her. She could still fight her inner demon and win, and then he could take her away and rebuild Cyclonia once more, this time with more power than before. Energized with an enhanced striking crystal, his blade crackled menacingly as he prepared for their attack. He wouldn't give her up - he'd never give her up. He was Master Cyclonis's champion, and he'd give his life for her.

He stubbornly refused, and laughed to cover up his insecurity. The blonde one swore.

Behind him, howls of chilling laughter curdled the blood in his veins, and taking a look over his shoulder, he chanced a glimpse at the phantoms that tormented his master's eyes. Dark Ace had never seen the apparitions that haunted his mistress's eyes since he had only heard of them, heard her muttering words to herself as she worked on her crystal mastery for days on end. She forgot to eat, she forgot to drink - the level of obsession she attained in relation to the glowing rocks frightened him.

Perhaps he should have told her.

A piercing wail rent the air. It echoed off the walls of the chamber and spiraled up into the ceiling before blasting itself into miniscule splinters that made the hair on their necks rise. His heart, full of blood and brimming with life, quailed at the sight of the wailing girl – Master Cyclonis

They were pleading with him now, begging him to safe the life of the master he served. They could take her away from this hellish place, get her help, and she would be fine. He would be fine. All he had to do was hand her over.

There are many things that people don't understand about the Dark Ace.

They said he was evil. Sadistic. Simple-minded. They said he was born evil, and his wickedness was a means to fulfill his own narcissistic needs.

They were right. It was true.

Dark Ace lived to fight, he enjoyed the thrill of the hunt, and there was no sweeter sound in the world when the Sky Knight he had defeated realized the futility of begging for their life and merely accepted death as payment for their failure. He had killed without mercy and he had slain more Sky Knights than anyone in the history of Atmos. He had a black heart. Fear of a person was a wonderful thing.

But he was capable of love as well.

And so, when it became clear that the end was nigh, he chose to remain with her. If his failure of the past lessened his worth, then his sacrifice would mean greater to her. He could do this, he had to. The citadel shook with the rumblings of an aged Titan rising from his sleep, and the floor beneath them split open, dividing the chamber in half to reveal the layers of the abyss underneath.

Master Cyclonis was crying now. She was fighting against the being that sought to control her body, the thing that hatched from the crystal borne around her neck. Her fingernails, painted with purple and encrusted in red, scratched at her skin and tore etched long, scarlet marks where she tried to tear the pendant from her being. It wouldn't give. She couldn't breathe.

Her red-crazed eyes flickered his way as she bowed her head, gasping for breath, and he knew she would rather die than become a servant to limitless, mindless desire.

He dropped his weapon and ran towards her. Ignoring the shouts of the Storm Hawks as they raced after him, he leaped over the jutting rocks and protectively wrapped his hands around her body and permeated the hazy shroud that hung about her. A fierce chill seized his lungs when he touched her, and his vision exploded with stars. His gloved fingers dug into her arm forcefully while his nostrils caught the sharp scent of blood on her neck.

Piper screamed for him to stop.

So, this was what it was like to anger a spirit.

This is what crystals really do.

He let go of her.

Dark Ace backtracked. He stumbled and scraped his knees when he tripped over a hidden crack in the floor, and gritted his teeth in pain when his clothing gave way and small pebbles, sand, and grit entered his open wound. Gripping his blade with both hands, he returned to his mistress and glared at the specter feeding upon her spirit.

She would forgive him in time.

It was his sole duty to release her.

He swung his blade upwards; the striker crystal bathing his entire body in red, and Dark Ace did the only thing he knew how to do.

He severed the crystal from his master's neck.

And his world exploded in pain.

"Okay," she says, "we're putting the bandages back on."

Dark Ace sits stiffly on the bed; his fingers relaxed against the clean sheets as the familiar fingers of Abigail wind the cotton gauze around his face. Her hands are still rough - they still scratch his skin with the tiniest of pinpricks, but he doesn't mind.

"I've brought some clothes with me," a girl says, "Don't worry. They're clean. We managed to find these in the ruins and I thought that it would be nice if he could wear something familiar to him."

The nurse chuckles, clicking the roof of her mouth with her tongue, and Dark Ace imagines the woman placing a hand on her hips at the gesture.

"That's really sweet, now. Okay then, just place them over here – just like that – and you can come back in once he's dressed."

"Oh, okay, I guess." The girl must be speaking to him now, "I'll see you in a couple of minutes." He grunts in reply and hears her exit the room, the click of her boots a sharp contrast to the muted footfalls of the nurses here.

Abigail turns towards him, wagging her finger in the process.

"You know, you should be more kind to that girl."

Huh.

"She has done nothing but look after you since you arrived."

Really.

"And you should do more than just grunt at me."

He says nothing. She is always like this, trying to make him more sociable by opening up with useless conversation.

Releasing an exasperated sigh, Abigail cuts off the last bit of dressing. The rip of medical tape echoes in his ears before the woman's fingers press against his skull with more force. He tilts his head in the opposite direction. She chuckles to herself. Another job well done. The metallic clink of scissors in the metal tray. The squeak of the wheels as Nurse Abigail pushes the cart away.

Running a hand through his overgrown mane of hair, Dark Ace sighs. There are multiple voices in the hallway. The girl hasn't come alone.

"Not yet, Piper. I've just finished dressing his head. Why don't you wait over there?"

"How does it look?"

"Better. And before you jump to conclusions, I don't think it's safe for you to ask him about that yet. The wound is still fresh in his mind, and it's not helping him one bit to stay stationary on that bed."

"Is he that troublesome?"

Abigail laughs. "One of the worst." A young man interjects. It sounds like the blonde. The sharpshooter.

"Oh come on! He can't be that bad." Dark Ace raises an eyebrow at the remark. Oh really? Since when did the kid become an expert on his personality? Since when did they have heart-to-heart chats outside of their dogfights?

"Trust me. He is."

Dark Ace lies back down on the bed, and places his hands behind his head. There is nothing for him to do, not while he stays at the hospital. He hates taking medicine they give him, the way the coated capsules slide down his throat and take away the pain from his eyes. He waits for someone to assist him in dressing, lest he put his shirt on backwards or forgot a tricky clasp. He doesn't know what colours he is wearing right now – he hasn't looked in a mirror for several weeks. He hasn't even breathed in the clean air of a world that is no longer polluted by war.

He just sleeps.

And waits.

All he knows is that the bed is comfortable, the food is mediocre, and the woman who cleans his bandages is a familiar voice. Abigail. She speaks with stern confidence, and although he has never seen her, he knows that she is a middle-aged woman, with a pudgy silhouette and achingly dry hands.

The bandages are itchy again.

She catches him scratching the skin underneath the dressing and immediately scolds him about it. It does no good to do that, she says, the wounds have to mend on their own and if he keeps picking at the scabs, they'll never heal properly.

Irritable woman.

"Come on now," she insists, and he hears the screech of metal rungs as the woman pulls the curtains closed, a measure of privacy in a public ward. She pats his back to get him to sit up. He grumbles. "Time to get dressed. Your friends brought you some of your old clothes, and while I don't approve of the colour scheme, I guess these will have to do." One of her hands lifts the hem of his shirt and Dark Ace's head whips in the direction of her voice.

"They're my clothes. I can dress myself. And they're not my friends."

Another exasperated sigh. "Very well then."

She watches uninterested as her patient grumbles and positions himself, his bare feet hanging off the edge of the bed, and turns in the opposite direction so she doesn't see the full extent of his body, specifically his torso. He can't see it, but he can feel her self-assured smirk at his attempt for privacy – and his face burns. How humiliating.

Handing him a shirt, he rips it out of her palm and pulls the sweater over his head; the cotton fabric stretches around his neck and settles onto his chest. It fits better than the clothing the hospital staff gives him, and it's much warmer. Absentmindedly, he fingers the cloth between his fingers, and feels a little more at home.

"I take it back. You look good in that colour."

He snorts.

"No need to get huffy. Here, these are your pants and the rest of your clothing. I assume one of the other nurses has already bathed you this morning, so you have no need for this washcloth. Nevertheless, I'm going to leave it right here, it's in the basin, and it's full with warm water." He hears the splash as she drops it into the basin. It would be nice to clean his face once more – hot steam on his skin comforts him.

"I'm going now."

"Good."

When she is out of sight, Dark Ace places a hand on the bundle of clothes and stands up. Mechanically, he strips from the waist down and dresses himself. He folds his clothes in the same manner. Once that is done, he reaches for the basin beside his bed, dips his fingers into the hot water, and squeezes the excess from the washcloth. Bringing it to his face but careful not to wet the bandage around his eyes, he relishes in the sensation of hot steam and washes his face – carefully, deftly.

He has just finished patting his face dry with a towel when the curtains are drawn open and Abigail re-enters with his guests.

"Nice to see you all cleaned up. Although you could use a haircut." If he could, he'd roll his eyes.

"You're not touching my head."

"Good. Because I don't want to."

Abigail leaves, her padded footfalls a little louder than usual, and Dark Ace turns his face in the direction of his visitors, tilting his head to the side.

Make that one visitor.

"They didn't want to come," she admits. "They thought it would be better if I came alone instead of overwhelming you with everyone."

"Good," he replies, "because I don't like to be crowded." Piper hmpfs and crosses her arms. "Well, sorry for wanting to be civil to you."

"Are you the one who brought me these clothes?" To make his point, he plucks at the fabric of his shirt and raises his head a little higher.

"Yes."

"Thank you." He senses her hesitation.

"You're welcome."

The silence stretches between them and he says nothing – stares at nothing. The clock on the wall that hangs above his head, it ticks one second away and tocks it all back. Piper is fumbling with her hands, searching for something to do as she rummages her inner vocabulary for the right words that will convey what she needs to ask of him. He can hear her take small steps closer, hoping that he wouldn't notice. He imagines her biting her lower lip. When she is within a hand's breadth of his knee, he smiles to himself, raises his bandaged head, and unsettles her with a single phrase.

"What do you want?"

The girl inhales, and inspects her pockets for something. There is the sound of metal clinking again. "The Storm Hawks need your help."

Quickly, and albeit too eager, she presses a weighty object into the palms of his hands. Piper releases the breath she had been holding. It is cold – definitely metal, with layers of built upon it. It is also round and as large as his palm. Cradling the small thing within his fingers, he traces the edges of the crest with a forefinger and recognizes the shape of the bird on the badge. It is the same one Master Cyclonis used to wear on the front of her cloak.

"Why are you giving me this?" Swift anger bubbles forth in his chest and if he could, he'd take a swipe at the girl. The Cyclonian medallion doesn't belong to her, what is she doing with it?

"I didn't steal it," she confesses. "We went back to the base after it had collapsed. Junko found it the same time I went to find you some new clothes." He's glad when she takes a step backwards. He is still bound by his mistress's orders not to harm the girl.

"I'm not a good guy, Piper. I'm not someone you can trust. If you think you can buy my loyalty by handing me something that belonged to her, you're wrong."

"I wasn't trying to buy you off." He winces when her voice raises a pitch higher in agitation. "I just thought it would be nice to have something that reminded you of Lark."

"She's gone, Piper." That was it - that was the truth. He paid for it with the loss of his eyes.

"But what if she isn't?"