impudentsongbird: (i can fly)
Gabriel ([personal profile] impudentsongbird) wrote2012-08-20 08:38 pm

let me be the one you call / if you jump I'll break your fall

Book Four: Dark Days
1 | into the breach
2 | finding skulduggery
3 | retreat to the tunnels
4 | into the cacophony
5 | sanctuary in the cathedral
6 | reuniting old friends
7 | kenspeckle's new patient
8 | holy water and disinfectant
9 | objecting to china sorrows
10 | the roadtrip
11 | baffling guild
12 | shenanigans at the safehouse
13 | reassuring fletcher
14 | valkyrie's intervention
15 | solomon's revelation
16 | visiting the edgleys
17 | recalled to the sanctuary
18 | guild's confusion
19 | gabe is busted
20 | the psychic tattoist
21 | envisioning the cacophony
22 | angel's first migraine
23 | the morning after
24 | china and solomon
25 | detectives' council of war
26 | china's foolishness
27 | the collector dethroned
28 | finding crux
29 | skulduggery's vileness revealed
30 | sorrows in aftermath
31 | finding equilibrium
32 | the devil's number
33 | at the carnival
34 | meeting authorities
35 | solomon's confession
36 | the stray soul
37 | sanguine unsettled
38 | solomon's choice
39 | a cowboy underground
40 | in scarab's basement
41 | striking midnight
42 | craven contested
43 | emergency services
44 | on your feet
45 | and don't stop moving
46 | easy recognition
47 | a deuce of an evening
48 | engines roaring
49 | compromising judgements
50 | solomon's conflict
51 | axis turning
52 | thinking circular
53 | blasting the past
54 | reviling vile

Book Five: Mortal Coil
55 | sanctuary unsanctified
56 | shudder unravelling
57 | catching an angel
58 | layering dimensions
59 | dead men meeting
60 | when it rains
61 | power plays
62 | sing on gold
63 | the valley of death
64 | grand aspersions
65 | no evil feared
66 | new days rising
67 | angelic neuroses
68 | step-brothers working
69 | the many sorrows of china
70 | peacefully wreathed
71 | tarnished gold
72 | the secret in darkness
73 | magical intent
74 | scars worth keeping
75 | benefits of a beau
76 | grand magery
77 | lighting the darkness
78 | old dogs and new tricks
79 | flouting traditions
80 | drawing lines
81 | brothers and sisters in arms
82 | channelling angels
83 | return of the carnies
84 | the death bringers
85 | meriting agelessness
86 | knick knack, paddy
87 | give a dog a bone
88 | americans propheteering
89 | the right side of honour
90 | tailored shocks
91 | hosting angels
92 | elders anonymous
93 | rediscovered strays
94 | changings and changelings
95 | a state of reflection
96 | adding hope
97 | the devil's truth
98 | dead mens' hospitality
99 | lives half lived
100 | next to godliness
101 | devilish plans
102 | beached angels
103 | lights of revelation
104 | heroes worshipped
105 | new devilries
106 | angels under the yoke
107 | brains frozen
108 | father, mother, daughter
109 | parental guidance recommended
110 | driven round the bend
111 | ongoing training
112 | privileged information
113 | reasonable men
114 | passing the buck
115 | gifting magicks
116 | strengths and weaknesses
117 | immaturity's perks
118 | priests and prophets
119 | scaling evil
120 | blowing covers
121 | marring an afternoon
122 | lie detection
123 | five-dimensional pain
124 | reliving nightmares
125 | taking stock
126 | sampling spices
127 | sleeping prophets lying
128 | rueful returns
129 | dead men reunion
130 | medically-approved hugs


The life of an angel was a contradiction in changes and stability. On one hand, they understood very well the way the cosmos was shaped by events within it. On the other, they stood at one step apart from it—or at least had, for a very long time, up until their Master's recent wager with Lucifer. Changes in the recent past had, even for angels, been fast and turbulent, but there were none that concerned Raphael more than Gabriel's abrupt reserve.

In the aftermath of the wager Gabriel had been almost the only one to know where their Lord was at any given time, a fact which had put the Archangel very firmly under Lucifer's radar. Raphael had joked that Gabriel ought to arm himself with more jokes or worse clothes to drive the fallen angel away; Michael had offered the peace of the Garden Coast. (Rafe thought his idea was better.)

Either way, even though their Master was fair hidden, every angel knew that they had only to ask Gabriel and the Archangel would pass on a message.

Then Gabriel had simply blipped off the radar himself. Poof! Gone! No one had noticed at first, because, well, they weren't exactly in constant connection. It was just when Raphael had taken a whim to seek out his younger brother that he'd noticed it, and let it be, because there was absolutely a reason for it. Gabe did not just off and vanish, except that once with his self-exile, and that didn’t count.

But when Gabriel had come back, he had been strangely agitated and yet close-mouthed. The younger Archangel had vanished off to wherever their Master was hidden for a long chat Raphael was dying to have listened into, and yet couldn't (but only partly because it would have been rude). Now he was here, floating among the stars and examining a black hole with unnerving intensity.

For a time Raphael watched without letting on that he was there, but eventually Gabriel spoke. “I’d rather you came to join me instead of lurking, brother.”

Absolutely refusing to feel chagrined, Raphael let himself manifest with an arm around Gabriel’s shoulders and ruffled the younger angel’s hair. Gabriel threw a fond, longsuffering glance up at him, but there was something in his eyes, something distracted and sharp, which indicated that Gabriel still wasn’t truly present. Raphael only wished he knew where the other Archangel was.

“Just wondering what you’re doin’ all the way out here,” he said teasingly. “There’s a party going on down there on Earth, Gabe.” There was always a party going on down on Earth. “You oughta be down there bobbin’ for apples and switching up party-hats!”

“I can’t,” Gabriel said quietly, with a sort of seriousness Raphael had, for all Gabriel’s literalness, rarely heard from him. So Raphael fell into the same seriousness, lost his playful accent, and spoke directly.

“Why not, brother? You’ve been reserved of late. I conf—I’m worried for you.”

For a very long time Gabriel said nothing and stared into the slow-turning swirl of the black hole. Raphael waited patiently, his arm still companionably across the other Archangel’s shoulders. Eventually Gabriel spoke. “Did you know, Raphael,” he said, “that the universe you see around you here isn’t the only one our Master has created?”

Raphael was so startled that he couldn’t answer. That wasn’t what he was imagining. He hadn’t been sure what he’d been imagining, but that wasn’t it. “I’m not sure what you mean, Gabriel,” he said after a moment. “Our Lord told me the story of Creation not all that long ago, and he never mentioned anything of the kind.”

Gabriel nodded. “He told me that story as well. And then He asked if I really wanted to know details.” He hesitated. “I … admit, I declined. It’s something He said—about faith. I decided I didn’t need to know details. But it’s true, nevertheless. Just beyond this …” The Archangel reached out his hand and touched that gossamer and unbreakable fabric that supported reality. “There are other universes, even with different versions of us.”

“Different versions of us?” Raphael repeated, appalled and uncertain and entirely confused. How could that be possible? What could their Master want with more than one of any of them? What was going on? Where had Gabriel gone in that time he’d vanished? Then something occurred to him and he smiled with relief. “This is a joke, right?”

Gabriel looked up at him and smiled back with such a gentle understanding that for a moment Raphael felt very small indeed. “No, Rafe. I’m not joking. It was a shock to me too. That isn’t the point, though.”

“Isn’t it?” Raphael asked, feeling as dazed as an angel possibly could, especially when he wasn’t even inhabiting an actual physical body.

“No.” Gabriel returned to watching the black hole intently. “I met some people from other realities. One of them is in a kind of Hell, and he very much does not deserve it. I promised him that, if I could, I would save him from it.”

Which did not in the least explain why Gabe was staring at a black hole, let alone a million other questions Raphael would have liked to ask and for which he couldn’t find the words. Finally he found one. “How?”

“First,” Gabriel said with a sort of tranquillity Raphael had heard in his brother’s voice a million times but never after delivering so turbulent a piece of news, “I’m going to jimmy open a crack in the door through this hole.”

Raphael stared at Gabe, and then at the black hole, and then back at Gabe. He opened his mouth to ask whether their Master knew he was planning this and then closed it, because that was a stupid question. He opened it again to query if Gabriel had asked whether he could go around lifting the sheets and then realised that was also a stupid question, because whether he had or not, their Master probably would have told him to do what he felt was best.

It was equally clear that Gabriel very much planned to go through with this, no matter what Raphael said, and really, did Raphael have the right to object? Surely if this carried a risk, their Master would have already forbidden Gabriel from making the attempt?

“I’ll come with,” Raphael said at last, and this time when Gabriel glanced back the younger Archangel’s expression was startled. A moment later that expression shifted into grateful apology.

“I’m sorry, Rafe, but I’m not entirely certain I’ll make it through, and we can hardly leave Michael here alone.” He grinned. “Did you see what he was wearing last festival day on the Garden Coast? He hasn’t moved out of the eighteenth century yet. How would he possibly handle the rest of the world?”

Raphael laughed out loud, warm but startled, and the sound of it rang through space. Gabriel chuckled quietly beside him, and for a few minutes there was just companionable humour that faded into an equally comfortable silence.

Still, Raphael had a lot of questions. How did Gabriel plan to find his friend, let alone the universe he was in? How was he going to get back? What would he do if he met another version of himself? Or, worse, Lucifer? Finally the Archangel just asked, “Have you figured out how to crack open the door?”

“I think so,” Gabriel said, considering the black hole. “Once I figured out what to look for. I wouldn’t have gotten even that far if it weren’t for some things our Master said.”

Which meant that, in some fashion, this expedition was sanctioned by their Master, Raphael translated, and something tense in him relaxed. “Something do to with this drain here, I’ll bet,” he said, falling into his casual accent once more. “Gonna rip out the kitchen sink, li’l brother?”

“Just to see what’s hiding underneath,” Gabriel said with a grin.

“I’ll try’n keep it open for ya,” Raphael promised, and Gabriel sent him a smile which lit up the very space around them with its brilliance.

“Thank you, Rafe,” he said, and straightened. Raphael took his arm away as Gabriel lifted his hands, not exactly stepping back so much as giving Gabriel space. The youngest Archangel didn’t often reveal his power, but it was always a sight to see, a song to hear, when he did.

As it was now. Gabriel’s voice started deep, lifted high, split and wove and became more melodies than one would think a single being could possibly sing at once. The sound of it made Raphael’s heart soar, made him want to fly and laugh. It was so deep, so light, so resonating that it was physical; it touched the slow turn of the black hole and made it, for just the briefest of moments, still. In that moment Gabriel sent a carefully-aimed bolt of energy into the heart of it.

It was the kind of sight Raphael hadn’t seen in thousands of years, a play of physics and metaphysics which he hadn’t thought possible, let alone imagined. There was an eruption in the centre of the black hole, where gravity was condensed; the cascade of energy plumed upward and was dragged back down as quick, a tear in the fabric of the reality not allowed the time to widen or become a danger.

Raphael didn’t even know Gabe had moved until the younger Archangel was gone, he was so busy staring in awe. With a start the Archangel stretched out his senses and just barely managed to catch a glimpse of his brother shooting toward the hole at speeds few angels could have achieved through such a gravity well. Raphael certainly couldn’t have.

How, he suddenly wondered, was he meant to keep that open if he didn’t even have the speed of thought to track Gabriel’s movements through it?

Desperately the Archangel cast about for something to jam in the door, as it were. There was some dark matter nearby and with a thought he fashioned it into a spear and pitched it toward the centre of the black hole. It struck just as Gabriel flitted through the crack nearly wholly collapsed in on itself; the star’s gravity caught it, pulled it in, and plugged the opening like a metaphysical sink.

Slowly Raphael made every part of himself relax. For good or ill, Gabe was gone on this quest of his, and now Raphael should probably go and round up some of their younger siblings to guard the area. Just in case.


Book Four: Dark Days

into the breach | finding skulduggery | retreat to the tunnels | into the cacophony | sanctuary in the cathedral | reuniting old friends | kenspeckle's new patient | holy water and disinfectant | objecting to china sorrows | the roadtrip | baffling guild | shenanigans at the safehouse | reassuring fletcher | valkyrie's intervention | solomon's revelation | visiting the edgleys | recalled to the sanctuary | guild's confusion | gabe is busted | the psychic tattoist | envisioning the cacophony | angel's first migraine | the morning after | china and solomon | detectives' council of war | china's foolishness | the collector dethroned | finding crux | skulduggery's vileness revealed | sorrows in aftermath | finding equilibrium | the devil's number | at the carnival | meeting authorities | solomon's confession | the stray soul | sanguine unsettled | solomon's choice | a cowboy underground | in scarab's basement | striking midnight | craven contested | emergency services | on your feet | and don't stop moving | easy recognition | a deuce of an evening | engines roaring | compromising judgements | solomon's conflict | axis turning | thinking circular | blasting the past | reviling vile

Book Five: Mortal Coil

sanctuary unsanctified | shudder unravelling | catching an angel | layering dimensions | dead men meeting | when it rains | power plays | sing on gold | the valley of death | grand aspersions | no evil feared | new days rising | angelic neuroses | step-brothers working | the many sorrows of china | peacefully wreathed | tarnished gold | the secret in darkness | magical intent | scars worth keeping | benefits of a beau | grand magery | lighting the darkness | old dogs and new tricks | flouting traditions | drawing lines | brothers and sisters in arms | channelling angels | return of the carnies | the death bringers | meriting agelessness | knick knack, paddy | give a dog a bone | americans propheteering | the right side of honour | tailored shocks | hosting angels | elders anonymous | rediscovered strays | changings and changelings | a state of reflection | adding hope | the devil's truth | dead mens' hospitality | lives half lived | next to godliness | devilish plans | beached angels | lights of revelation | heroes worshipped | new devilries | angels under the yoke | brains frozen | father, mother, daughter | parental guidance recommended | driven round the bend | ongoing training | privileged information | reasonable men | passing the buck | gifting magicks | strengths and weaknesses | immaturity's perks | priests and prophets | scaling evil | blowing covers | marring an afternoon | lie detection | five-dimensional pain | reliving nightmares | taking stock | sampling spices | sleeping prophets lying | rueful returns | dead men reunion | medically-approved hugs
skeletonenigma: (skulnoname)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2012-11-12 02:02 am (UTC)(link)
"'Their kinda thing?'" Myron shook his head impatiently. "No idea what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" Skulduggery folded his arms over his chest. "You haven't heard about the attack on the Sanctuary yesterday? Or about what was stolen?"

Myron had, of course. News like that traveled quickly, even at the bottom of the barrel. But there wasn't much Myron could do about it, except hope he was within the minimum safe distance from wherever Dreylan Scarab was planning to set off the Desolation Engine. Myron hadn't expected to need the information beyond that, or sell it to anyone, or meet anyone who would actually consider using him for their information gathering at all. Unfortunately, that was one thing Skulduggery was annoyingly good at. Being unpredictable.

"I don't know what he's planning to use it for," Myron said. "I just can't help you. I don't know where Scarab or any of his band of psychos are, and I don't know anyone who would. Guys like that, they don't have friends they confide in."

"You haven't heard anything?" insisted Skulduggery. "It might not even be connected to them, specifically. Anything odd or unusual that might point to a base of operations."

"How many times do I need to say that I don't know before it gets through your thick skull? Putting it in another language isn't going to help, either."

"Vous n'avez pas entendu quoi que ce soit?"

"Skulduggery-!" Myron began angrily, slamming the empty beer can down onto the cluttered table.

"Any traditionally empty buildings or warehouses that suddenly seem to be full of activity?"

Myron gave Skulduggery a long, hard glare. "If I knew anything, I'd have told you by now. I don't want a bomb going off any more than you do. And I really don't enjoy having any of you here, you know."

~~

The shadows rushed over the pew and gathered around the cane quickly bleaching itself white in their presence, but Father O'Reilly was no longer on the pew. Or anywhere near the cane, for that matter. The moment the gloomy darkness in the corners of the church began surging forward with a rush of cold air, Father O'Reilly had leaped up in surprise. And as the truth of what he was seeing slowly sank in, the priest had backed away towards the altar with a strangled gasp - one hand making the sign of the cross over his heart, and the other held up in some sort of all-advised self defence Father O'Reilly had never learned and would probably never have been able to properly use even if he had.

Until the living and unnatural shadows subsided completely, Father O'Reilly didn't stop muttering under his breath. "Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil..." he murmured, watching in panic as blood began to drip from Solomon's eyes.

Never before had Father O'Reilly seen such a blatant display of evil. And in his own church. This wasn't magic. This wasn't a man an angel would have visited. This was pure and unadulterated Necromancy, the likes of which Father O'Reilly had never expected to see in his lifetime.

And yet - Father O'Reilly's mind raced as his heartbeat refused to slow down - and yet, this was also a man in the throes of panic himself. Solomon had been shown, possibly quite forcefully, how wrong the path he followed was. He'd come to Father O'Reilly seeking answers, clarification, possibly confirming his own condemnation. A confirmation Father O'Reilly didn't have the authority to give, nor should he have the inclination. And it wasn't Father O'Reilly's place to judge.

He was unfortunately finding it very, very hard not to judge as he forced himself to take a careful step forward in the quiet aftermath.

"I can see why you're having trouble," he finally admitted. Voice unsteady, hands shaking slightly, half of Father O'Reilly already contemplating the impossible task now stretched out before him. Because Solomon Wreath did need help, and there were few others who would have the knowledge - and now, the experience - to help.
Edited 2012-11-13 15:09 (UTC)
skeletonenigma: (pencilskul)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2012-11-12 03:43 am (UTC)(link)
That... was not a branch of magic Myron could identify at first glance. Sensitive was the obvious Adept possibility, but it wasn't the right one. Gabe couldn't be a Sensitive, because Myron had seen Sensitives having visions, and even the best ones didn't get them that suddenly or that clearly. Besides, Sensitives tended to announce themselves long before it became a point of contention. Any sort of mind reading discipline usually required contact, or at least proximity. And beyond that, Myron didn't have a clue.

Despite himself, Myron found that he was feeling something he hadn't felt in a while - curiosity.

He knew who Kenspeckle was, as well. Which made the way Skulduggery reacted all the more intriguing, because the two of them certainly didn't get along either. And yet Skulduggery wasted no time. With a silent nod at Myron, he put a hand each on Gabe's and the boy's shoulders. "Fletcher, if you don't mind?"

"We're in the middle of an emergency again," Fletcher snapped. "Seriously, stop asking me if I mind."

The last word was cut off as the trio disappeared into thin air. Myron caught himself staring at the empty space they'd left behind with a modicum of what felt an awful lot like regret. He shook it off with a grunt, and turned away to grab another can of beer.

~~

"Condemned?" Father O'Reilly's mouth and throat were dry, but he pressed on regardless. "That doesn't sound like what Saint Gabriel was trying to say."

And that was the lifeline, really. That was what slowly reminded Father O'Reilly no one was past the point of help, particularly when they asked for it. Or got as close to asking for it as Solomon had been able to get, which was still impressive for a man of such obvious pride. Admitting you were wrong took a kind of strength not many people had, and it was the first step on the road to righting that wrong. The most important step.

Of course, while Father O'Reilly had firmly believed that for many years now, he'd also never really expected... any of this. Not a single damn moment of it. And he found himself in the unique position of being unable to help because of a lack of knowledge, rather than a lack of charity. Although, if Father O'Reilly was being perfectly honest, the latter was also a bit of an issue at the moment.

It was when it was hardest to stop and help, however, that it had to be done. And so Father O'Reilly took the journey back to the pew step by step, and carefully took his seat again next to Solomon, unconsciously avoiding the Necromancer's gaze.

"You chose this?" he asked after taking a moment to pull himself back together, driven on by a sort of morbid curiosity. "You implied you used to believe in angels. What changed?"
Edited 2012-11-13 15:12 (UTC)
peacefullywreathed: (like weights strapped around my feet)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2012-11-12 12:35 pm (UTC)(link)
This wasn't how Kenspeckle's day had been meant to go. Not even remotely how it was meant to go. He had a date, for God's sake! (And no, he decided almost instantly, he did not regret the phrasing.) Fuming and terrified in equal turns, the professor allowed himself to be chivvied through the halls of his own lab, bound, blinded and gagged and hoping that Clarabelle had had the wits to hide. Or at least walk away calmly.

The only saving grace was that Billy-Ray Sanguine, having breached the lab's defences using his magic, had been unable to use it to escape again. Otherwise Kenspeckle might have been lost before he could stop to think. Instead, as Sanguine tried to use his power, the American cowboy had keeled over with a gasp while Springheeled Jack watched in impatient amusement.

It had taken Kenspeckle understandably long to remember Gabriel's directive. Then his gaze fell on the feathers he'd gathered and left on his desk--the ones Pleasant had left behind which the Archangel had shed--and the barrel of holy water as he was hustled from the room. Maybe the time they had to reach the road would be long enough. Just maybe ...

He heard the sound of a car-door crack open and felt a surge of helpless rage and despair. And then he heard a voice, an accented and urgent and somehow weighty voice, cry out from behind them.

"Professor!"

As he was shoved into the car Kenspeckle found himself torn between pre-emptively reprimanding the Archangel for straining himself, as he inevitably would, and hoping Gabriel would, just this once, ignore the professor's instructions to take it easy.

~~~

Even though Solomon was watching the priest move, step by reluctant step, the Necromancer was still surprised when Father O'Reilly actually sat down. True, the man wasn't looking directly at him. True, the way he sat, a good two feet away, indicated that he didn't really want to be there. But given that Solomon was expecting O'Reilly to keep walking down the aisle and out the door, it was a surprise.

It took a beat for Solomon to answer, a beat in which he, also, gathered himself and looked up. He'd been mistaken; the church had two stained-glass windows. This one was over the crucifix, too small for an image, but casting a rainbow mosaic on the floor before the altar. The Necromancer watched it and decided not to think too much. Thinking, apparently, was a drawback in this instance.

"I did," he acknowledged. It wasn't an admission, but a statement of fact and even though it was an ingrained instinct to be as concealing as possible, something in Solomon had broken. He was aware of it, aware because it was so easy to keep speaking even though, two days ago, he never would have. Maybe it was to aid his own thought process. Maybe it was because, for the first time, he had someone who had asked and actually wanted to listen.

"Christianity was my father's religion," Solomon said without looking over at the priest. "Sorcerers live much longer than mortals; I was born in sixteen-nineteen." His mouth quirked again. "In the middle of the Reformation. You may imagine it might have been difficult for him; a minor Irish nobleman, suddenly on the wrong side of the Church."

Idly the Necromancer's fingers ran over the head of his cane. A tell, a restlessness he couldn't be bothered to contain. "Up until I was eleven, the only religious conflict I knew was the obvious. Then I discovered I was ... unique. That I could do things no one else I knew could."

He hadn't begun with Necromancy. In fact it had been an Adept form of magic--an unintentional one, a talent. Solomon had always been a smooth talker, like China Sorrows. No one knew just how smooth, once. No one knew that he had once been able to force his will on others just by talking.

It was a talent he discovered by accident, when he was eleven. A much older boy, a Protestant Brit, had taunted him, telling him he may as well hang himself now because his father's faith would surely result in the same. Solomon, terrified and wrapped with an icy rage, had told him to leave him alone and do it himself.

And the boy had done so.

When he was twelve he and his father had been travelling from the village to the estate when they ran across a squad of British guards. His father was wealthy enough to be known by name, not wealthy enough to be seen as a good resource. For that, they had been considered fair game, and despite his father's gracious calm Solomon himself had been frightened. Frightened--but determined.

So he had told the men to fall on their swords.

And they had.

And the way his father had looked at him then ...

In the years after Solomon would wonder why he hadn't seen it coming, when two days later his own father had tried to have him exorcised.

That was when Solomon had stopped believing.

But as a child Solomon had loved his father. Loved him enough that even though he no longer believed, Solomon had stopped using magic---or tried. Not always succeeded; enough to know the magic hadn't gone away. But he tried.

Then, two years later, the King's guard came to the estate. They demanded the family and everyone attached leave, for the land no longer belonged to them. Not for any reason; just because they were natively Irish, and Catholic, and refused to submit. Solomon knew his father would fight. Da had always, always said he would fight, when--not if--they came to take what was his.

Somehow Solomon had never quite thought it would happen. Never thought that his land by birthright would become a war-zone--what he, as a fourteen-year-old, thought must have been a warzone. (What he later knew was but a minor skirmish.) That he would see his father struck down before him with the man's own cane. That he would see the guards come for him, only a frightened youth.

Many people say that when they lose control in the heat of battle, the memory becomes hazy. It hadn't been so for Solomon. Every image, even now, was sharp with clarity. Not like glass but like crystal, cold and sharp-edged. Unyielding.

Solomon had snatched up his father's cane, sticky with his blood. His magic had roared in him that day, drawing on the death in the ground, guards and family alike--until there were no more guards left. Until there was no one left.

Someone had sensed the magic--a Necromancer, a minor cleric. He'd taken Solomon to the nearest Temple. At fourteen, Solomon had known what he was. What he was meant to be. What he wanted.

He wouldn't die like his father, cut down on what was his. He wouldn't be murdered for the sake of a God who did not come. He would live--for always.

It was only when he fell silent that Solomon realised he had, in fact, been talking. He'd never mentioned his father before. Never--except once, to one person, a lifetime ago. "I loved him," he said, his gaze on the window and aware of the itch on his cheeks which may have been drying tears. He couldn't be sure. "But I believed him a fool. Perhaps not." The last was murmured. "Perhaps misinterpreting, but not a fool. Not a fool."

It didn't make the ache in his chest ease at all. An ache he hadn't felt since he was fourteen.
Edited 2013-03-08 10:22 (UTC)
skeletonenigma: (fightfire)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2012-11-12 03:25 pm (UTC)(link)
Oh, god damn it.

Billy-Ray had really, really been hoping not to run into any trouble. Not because he didn't enjoy trouble - which he did, probably more than was healthy - but because he didn't have his normal ability of sinking through the ground or wall and disappearing. His magic ebbed and flowed at the edges of his consciousness these days, held back by the pain in his abdomen and allowed through only in small agonising trickles. He didn't even have enough power to escape the lab again, for God's sake! The smug look on Dusk's face as Billy-Ray came out through the cinema door with the Professor was almost too much for the American to bear, and definitely more than he wanted to put up with from a vampire.

And then there was a voice just as they were getting into the car, coming out of nowhere, and Billy-Ray spun as he slammed the car door closed behind Grouse. He hissed under his breath at the sight of Skulduggery Pleasant. A sight not really made any better by the priest robes, although it did up the amusing factor a tad.

Wasn't the detective supposed to be burning in another dimension right about now? Endlessly tortured by huge dark gods? And even if he wasn't, how the hell did he know about this so soon? Ah, well. Billy-Ray forced a smile onto his face. Figured that Pleasant would find a way out of hell, probably because Valkyrie Cain was her wonderfully selfish self and opened a dangerous portal into another world.

Speaking of Cain, though, where was she? Billy-Ray still owed her a murdering.

"Get goin,' I'll handle this," he told Dusk. Somehow. Through the hazy pain, and attempt not to show that there was hazy pain. Come on, Billy-Ray told himself as he walked forward with a widening grin. This'll be fun! It always is!

"Skulduggery Pleasant!" he called out as Dusk revved the engine and made to drive off. "Thought you were a goner! What happened?"

Pleasant had drawn his gun and was making a break for the car, but Billy-Ray met him there with his own glinting razor. Easily worth a gun when you knew how to use it. Pleasant fired off what was undoubtedly meant to be a crippling punch, but Billy-Ray was ready for it; he ducked under and thrust the razor against the thick material of the black robes, hoping to tear through and strike bone.

It didn't. Well, so much for being worth a gun. The cloth was quite a bit more sturdy than skin, unfortunately, but it did draw Pleasant's attention to Billy-Ray, which was the whole point of this little escapade.

The gun went off just as Billy-Ray managed to sink halfway into the asphalt, and the bullet sailed harmlessly somewhere over his head. Towards one of the car's tyres, of course, because Pleasant had impeccable aim even when he missed, but it was too late. The car had screeched around the corner, practically on two wheels, and disappeared from sight.

"Sorry 'bout that," Billy-Ray chirped as he bounced out of reach, just barely managing to avoid a grimace. "We kinda needed him. Important business. Seriously, though, what happened? How ain't you dead? Or more dead. I dunno, whatever the term is."

"I really, really hoped you were dead," was Pleasant's dry reply. He had the gun leveled at Billy-Ray again, but Billy-Ray just laughed.

"Who, me? Nah. Can't get rid of me that easy." His eyes were sparkling as he looked from Pleasant, to the Teleporter - Fletcher something, wasn't it? - and finally stopped on the unfamiliar guy, the one who'd yelled earlier.

Now that Billy-Ray remembered it, how could he have forgotten the accent? The strangely familiar accent. A horrible, horrible thought occurred to him, and he looked back at Pleasant with an expression of the utmost horror. "Am I bein' replaced?"

~~

It was amazing, Father O'Reilly reflected in some small calm recess of his mind, that even in the midst of... of magic and sorcery, Necromancy and events that happened an impossibly long time ago, the basic reasons and motivations and desires that drove people were the same. Love. Hate. Revenge. Solomon and the priest came from worlds apart, and Father O'Reilly could still sympathise with the important things.

Having said that, the rest of Solomon's story was still weighing very heavily. Around about the time the Necromancer used the word 'mortal,' Father O'Reilly's mind had slowly been trying to remove itself from the situation until he felt like he was floating in some sort of surreal and frozen panic. It was hard to think through, and impossible to dispel - at least for the time being. What it did make disturbingly easy was listening and absorbing, believing every last word, and the priest remained silent for several minutes after Solomon had finished.

What kind of a world had he suddenly found himself in? Necromancy as a real and literal art, practiced by people hundreds of years old? Angels and Saint Gabriel, barrels of holy water needed for a mysterious purpose? Father O'Reilly felt a little like he'd suddenly woken up in the middle of a war he couldn't even begin to understand, and could only hope that he was on the right side. Helping the right side in his own small way.

At the very least, he knew what needed to be said here. And it didn't have anything to do with magic, or the priest's own burning questions, or even the act of Necromancy itself. In fact, it helped to imagine a different sinful act substituted into the equation, and the results were still the same.

"No one is beyond hope," he said quietly. "No matter how long they've lived, or what they've lived through, or what their reasons for straying were. Saint Gabriel warned you to be careful of the path you're on. It may not seem like it, but you're already heeding those words just by asking your questions." Father O'Reilly took a deep breath, and slowly drew it out. "You didn't come here to justify yourself to me. You came seeking answers. I'll admit, I've never thought about... this particular scenario before, but I'll do my best to answer. What is it you want to know?"

Father O'Reilly had a pretty good idea, but it was important that Solomon say it himself. A person couldn't even begin to change if they barely knew what they were changing from, or what they hoped to become.
Edited 2012-11-12 15:26 (UTC)
skeletonenigma: (snap)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2012-11-13 02:45 pm (UTC)(link)
Billy-Ray let out a long sigh of relief, mostly for show - although a piece of it was startlingly genuine. "Oh, well, if you're on the side of the angels, then I guess I must be safe." He tipped his cowboy hat to the stranger, then pushed it back with a satisfied smirk. No one could out-cowboy him. "Thanks for clearin' that up. Where'd you lose your hat, by the way? Could always do with a back-up."

"Where are you taking him?"

"D'you mind?" Billy-Ray snapped back at Pleasant. "I asked... him a question." This was said with a jab of the cowboy's thumb over at the barefoot man, who seemed entirely too grouchy for someone who walked around in cold weather wearing clothes like that. Or maybe because of that, actually. Guy had to be freezing his bits off. "Him whose name is what, by the way? Don't think I've ever seen you before."

~~

It wasn't an unfamiliar question. But it was the first time Father O'Reilly didn't have a ready answer.

Consequently, it was probably the first time he'd ever received the question from someone who really meant it. Not just because Solomon Wreath had done much more than simply sin in his extended lifetime, or was a lot more than simply misguided. Father O'Reilly had the distinct impression that if he answered 'yes,' Solomon would accept it without anger or disbelief. And in the grand scheme of things, why shouldn't he? As Solomon himself said, everything Necromancy stood for was opposite to everything Saint Gabriel represented.

But Solomon wasn't Necromancy. He wasn't an inherently evil force. He was a man who used the inherently evil force to achieve his own ends, like a tool. And now that his end goal had changed, why couldn't the tool? You couldn't hammer in a nail with the wrong end of the hammer.

The priest would have to pick his words carefully, though. The tiniest change in his tone could shut this conversation down, and that was the last Father O'Reilly wanted. "That depends, Solomon. Not on Necromancy - " he had to work strangely hard to make the word come out at all, let alone not sound choked or hesitant, " - but on you. And frankly, if you have to ask... if you're wondering at all, I believe you're already on the right path."
peacefullywreathed: (tread careful one step at a time)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2012-11-13 03:19 pm (UTC)(link)
"Or not bein' replaced, anyway," Gabe drawled. "I wouldn't go so far as safe." He eyed the man up and down, and although his grip on Fletcher's arm was tight, there was nothing of his reaction in his face. This man ... this man. Pure evil, again. One of Lucifer's. This wasn't a man who would ever stop to wonder if he was wrong.

Because he, quite simply, wouldn't care. He was out for his own indulgences, nothing more or less. In a way, that made things simple. Billy-Ray Sanguine wasn't someone on the cusp of a choice, like China. Gabriel wouldn't need to tread carefully around him. He was already lost.

"I lost it in a rodeo," he said deadpan. "Name's Gabe. I've heard of you, Billy-Ray." The Archangel tilted his head and looked the man, very obviously, up and down before pursing his lips. "Gotta say, I'm underwhelmed." Gabe turned to Skulduggery, jerking his own thumb at Billy-Ray. "You were comparin' me to him, Skul, really?"

There was, faintly, a glint of wry humour in his eyes, but mostly there was a suggestion. If they kept Sanguine talking, double-teamed him verbally, maybe he'd let something slip.

~~~

It couldn't possibly be that easy. By questioning alone, Solomon was on the right path? No, there had to be something else--some other shoe waiting to drop. "That's all, is it?" he murmured. "Wonder, and you're free? There's something more than that, surely."

Something more. It was clear by the priest's reaction that Necromancy was evil as something could possibly be. Solomon was a Necromancer. It wasn't simply something he used, but something he was. Really, he thought ruefully, he couldn't blame Father O'Reilly for giving such an answer with the lack of information he possessed. With all that Solomon had said, he had missed one of the most important things.

The Necromancer closed his eyes and shook his head, and then sighed, sitting back in the pew. This time his voice was wry, even as he hefted his cane in one hand to turn it in the air before him. "It depends upon me, you say, and yet not on Necromancy? And yet a Necromancer is all that I am. A sorcerer's magic settles on their majority, Father O'Reilly. I can't choose to be anything else, even if I wanted to."

Quite suddenly, he knew that part of him did want to. He didn't want to suffer. He didn't want to become part of the Scream. He didn't want to live a completely immortal life, just waiting for the time that God Himself would unblock the route to Heaven and send Solomon, and all those of his faith, to Hell proper.

That meant he had to change.

But he couldn't change. He was what he was. Therefore ... there wasn't any hope for him.

Logic. He had been hoping logic would be his saviour. Now it was his damnation.
Edited 2013-03-09 03:02 (UTC)
skeletonenigma: (darkfirewind)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2012-11-13 05:02 pm (UTC)(link)
"Really?" Billy-Ray frowned. "'Cause I feel pretty safe back here."

"I do have a gun pointed at you," Pleasant reminded him evenly.

Well, yes. There was that. Billy-Ray felt decidedly less safe as he risked a quick glance behind him at the corner the car had disappeared around. Right now, he didn't even have the confidence to get all the way into the ground at all, let alone in time to dodge a bullet. This was truly a sticky situation he'd found himself in, and yet - as with most every similar time Billy-Ray could remember - apart from a healthy amount of fear, he was having the time of his life.

All that fear left Billy-Ray's eyes a moment later when just how awesome he was got called violently into question. "Hey!" he snapped. "You don't even have a hat! Looked in a mirror lately? You ain't exactly anythin' to write home about, either." Only a beat after Gabe had complained to Pleasant, Billy-Ray was also giving the detective an incredulous look. "You were comparin' me to who?"

"I probably shouldn't try to point out how ironic this whole conversation is," Pleasant said to the Teleporter. Renn. Fletcher Renn. That was it.

Renn smiled weakly. "I think you just did."

"Did I? Oh well."

~~

"A person is never completely lost until they no longer wonder or care if what they're doing is right," Father O'Reilly said. "It takes a special sort of person to admit when they might be wrong. Most people never get that far." He hesitated, and watched Solomon's face. Grieved for the way religion had treated him as a child. For every person Christianity saved, there always seemed to be just one more who was forever burned by it. The religion, and the panicked practitioners doing what they thought was best when their actions were about as far away from 'best' as possible.

He nodded slowly. "That being said, it won't be easy." Not for you. "Because you're right. You can't undo... almost 400 years... with one moment of self-doubt." Lord, give him strength. 400 years. And the man didn't a look a day over 35. How long were the lives of sorcerers, exactly? Father O'Reilly probably didn't want to know. "It will take dedication, but you're not beyond hope, Solomon. And... I'd like to help, if I can."

And he did want to help. For all Solomon claimed to be - and was - Father O'Reilly couldn't help remembering the way he'd looked when he first came into the church. Not a powerful Necromancer, or sorcerer, with nothing but fear or contempt for the faith. Just a man. A man uncertain of whether he even belonged there. The way he held his cane, the source of his power, away from himself, and jumped slightly when Father O'Reilly came out to meet him.

It was that man, and the scared boy he used to be, that Father O'Reilly wanted to help. Not the Necromancer.

"Why can't you choose to be something else?" he asked. He could scarcely believe his next question, either, but if Father O'Reilly was going to help, then he needed to know at least the basics of Solomon's world - as much as he definitely didn't want to think about them. "Magic 'settling.' What does that mean?"
skeletonenigma: (pencilskul)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2012-11-13 09:49 pm (UTC)(link)
Billy-Ray blinked. Oh, a part of him was offended, sure, both by Pleasant's thinly veiled jab, and the insinuation that he was a fool. Who would go stepping off a cliff for no reason. But it also took him a long moment to figure out exactly what Gabe was talking about, let alone what the so-called Texan meant, and whether or not mirrors were something else Billy-Ray should be offended over.

Not to mention Gabe was calling Billy-Ray by his first name, and that would have been unsettling enough with the opportunity to do so in return. What kind of a taken name was 'Gabe,' anyway?

"You, my friend," he said, "are full of yourself. Worse than me. Worse than Pleasant, and that's sayin' something. You replacin' partners already, Skulduggery? Someone beat me to Val?"

"In a manner of speaking." The gun hadn't wavered, and so Billy-Ray didn't try to demand a proper answer, even though the thought of anyone other than him taking the girl's life made Billy-Ray sick to his stomach. "Why haven't you run by now?"

It was kind of creepy, how still Pleasant could keep that gun. "Sorry, is there somthin' to run from?"

"Ah." The gun lowered slightly. "You can't."

"What?" Billy-Ray's arms crossed over his chest. "'Course I can."

"You'd be showing off by now. Especially in front of someone new." There was a worrying note to the skeleton's voice that sounded a little like he was smiling, and not in a nice or congratulatory way. "What went wrong, Sanguine? Did something stop working properly?"

And just like that, Billy-Ray's mood went south. "No. No, that ain't fair. You're tag teamin' me. Tag teamin' me." Where the hell did Pleasant get his friends from? "Here I am, handicapped and mindin' my own business, and you all come along to taunt me with your Teleporter? Thought the angels were supposed to be above that kind of stuff," he added with an angry mutter under his breath.

~~

Okay.

No. Not okay. But... acceptable, for the moment, in pursuit of the greater purpose. There would be time enough later to sort through everything Father O'Reilly was discovering. Right now, he could only think of the new information in terms of how it would help Solomon. Because if he tried to think about it in any other way, his mind might slow to a stuttering halt.

Necromancy was but one form of magic, apparently. One that likely more people were involved with than Father O'Reilly had ever suspected - when he'd even given the matter any thought. In that context, it made sense. It was tragic, but it made sense. And Solomon believed himself evil because he didn't think it was possible to change. And maybe he was right, about not being able to use other forms of magic. Father O'Reilly didn't want to dwell too much on them, because he didn't know enough to judge - and it didn't sound like any of them drew their power from death, which meant it wasn't any of his business to begin with.

But it didn't mean Solomon couldn't change. One of the drawbacks of such a long life - habits formed. And Father O'Reilly imagined that given enough time, even detrimental habits could become such a part of someone that they were completely unable to see life beyond it.

"Your magic can't change, then?" Father O'Reilly asked. "What's to stop you from just... not using magic? Plenty of people get by without it, you know," he pointed out with a short and humourless chuckle.
skeletonenigma: (writtenname)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2012-11-14 12:36 pm (UTC)(link)
Gabe was way, way too similar to Cain for Billy-Ray's tastes. Of course, seeing as it was Pleasant, he should probably have expected that. He wouldn't even have gotten so angry, if it weren't for the damn stomach wound Cain had given him a year ago. It still hadn't healed properly, still hadn't stopped hurting, and it was sapping his magic so badly that Billy-Ray felt he had every right in the world to be angry. Particularly at pseudo-Texans who thought they were the best thing since sliced bread. Guy didn't even have a cowboy hat. What made him so fascinating?

"First of all," Billy-Ray retorted, tone and single finger held up in an equally mocking manner, "I'm a bad guy. That's what bad guys do. Secondly, you clearly don't know your friend there too well, but you guys ain't exactly angels. Never have been. Foolin' yourselves is some kind of job requirement, I guess." He grinned. "Least I'm honest. And thirdly, big words coming from someone who ain't got no weapon at all, standing behind the gun. Fourthly, your clothes are stupid."

His counterpoints finished, Billy-Ray folded his arms, one eye still on the gun. "No self-respectin' cowboy wears clothes like that. Saddle would chafe. And hey, while we're on the subject, how did you guys get here so quick? Professor didn't even touch a phone."

"Everyone always seems to miss the part where I'm a detective," Pleasant grumbled. "It isn't just a title."

"You don't even know where we're goin', though," Billy-Ray mused. "Or why. I think you're cheatin."

"I never cheat. Who said I don't know where you're going?"

"Well, for one thing," Billy Ray said, "you'd probably have shot me by now."

~~

Well, Father O'Reilly couldn't really comment on that. He didn't know the rules sorcerers laid down for each other, or what the supposed consequences were. He would simply have to take Solomon's word for it. So while he had no advice to give on that specific topic, the priest did know at least one thing that might help the man come to a decision on his own.

"If your right eye causes you to stumble," Father O'Reilly said after a long moment to think, with the sort of measured tone one takes when they are quoting something, "gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell. And if your right hand causes you to stumble, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to go into hell."

He smiled gently. "Matthew. 5:29. You have the advantage over your brethren here, Solomon. And on a more personal note, I've known you for all of a few minutes, and already I seriously doubt you are an easy man to kill. Even without your power. Please, don't sell yourself short."
peacefullywreathed: (i'll say it to be proud)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2012-11-14 01:49 pm (UTC)(link)
"I know my friend over there better than you'd think," Gabe replied with a slow and unworried grin back. "Know myself pretty well too. You think I'm gonna crumble just 'cos an admitted bad guy says I'm more like him than I reckon?" The Archangel shook his head with a tsk. "And here I thought you didn't want to be compared. You needa go watch some movies with more original villains, Billy-Ray."

With a shrug Gabe let go of Fletcher's arm, consciously hiding the cramps in his body, and ambled past Skulduggery. He didn't get in the way of the gun, but he certainly wasn't standing behind it anymore. Just making a point. Sanguine couldn't hurt him; he was still too far away for the sorcerer to attempt an attack. "Even bigger words comin' from a guy who can't even take a step without keelin' over," he said in response and with amusement.

With a glance down at his shirt he shrugged again, and looked up to say deadpan, "Lost my other outfit in the wash. And you do cheat, Skul. On occasion. Judiciously."

Like by using an angel as his lie-detector.

~~~

It wasn't a rule, precisely. It was simply that Solomon was too powerful, too cautious, too intelligent, too rooted in a religion most sorcerers disdained to not become a target should people have the opportunity. And that wasn't even considering the other Necromancers and how they would react. If Solomon did this, he would never be able to go back--not for anything. Nothing in his home, nothing in his quarters in the Temple. He'd have to abandon it all.

Only after Solomon had the thought did he realise that he had actually thought 'if'. As though it was a possibility. As though he could actually do so. As though he wanted to.

Did he want to?

"Amputation," Solomon murmured. His eyes flickered as something in his mind clicked. "Of course. Cut off a limb, so the person might live. I should have thought of that." He should have thought of that because those whose limbs were killing them were always a point of contention between Necromancers and other forces. Cut off the limb, and they were less likely to die. Leave the limb, and the Necromancers had more power from the slow death. Empathy versus logic. Those sorts of arguments had contributed to the Necromancers and the Sanctuary's forces eventually parting ways.

When put like that it was only logical. Cut off a limb, in this case Necromancy, to save the rest of him. Theoretically it ... should work, shouldn't it? If the--he didn't want to call it poison, but after a moment Solomon acknowledged grudgingly that it was an appropriate word. After what he'd seen, after the Scream, it was impossible to view Necromancy as anything but some sort of taint. If the poison would take his soul, better to get rid of it.

True, in a battlefield such an injury was liable to result in death--it made it difficult to protect one's self. And yet, when death was imminent, what else could be done? Better to take the risk.

Logic. Not emotion, but logic. Logically, the best thing for Solomon now was to abandon Necromancy for good. Forever. Not just for now, but always. Could he do that? Could he resist the urge to use his magic? Even if he destroyed his cane, it would still be there. But he wouldn't be able to use it. If he destroyed his cane, he would be cut off from it. The Temple was the only place it could be reforged, and walking back there would only mean certain death.

Of course, Solomon realised, the Temple would say it was logic in the other direction. Let himself be consumed, and the Temple was given more power.

But Solomon didn't want to give the Temple more power. The Temple's whole reason for existing was so the individuals within it could live. Each and every Necromancer was out for their own self--for their own survival. They could come together, work with others, in the interest of that goal; but that was the goal. It had always been Solomon's goal.

It wasn't a dawning, exactly. It was just an sudden awareness, an abrupt clarity. Solomon's hands were shaking with adrenaline once more, shaking because he had been terrified and driven too many times too quickly. Yet his mind, for the first time since last night, was clear. Clear and detached from the physiological reactions of his body.

Solomon wanted to survive. He wanted to live, and not just live, but remain intact--his soul as well. He did not want to suffer. That meant he had to get rid of what was poisoning him. Necromancy was a tool. Tools, when they ceased to become useful, ought to be discarded. Destroyed, so they couldn't be misused by another. Solomon had never imagined that Necromancy might become obsolete for him--but it had, and he couldn't deny it any longer, and now he could make the only logical choice left to him.

There weren't many things that could break a Necromancer's item of power. Solomon could think of one that may be right here in this church.

"I don't suppose," he said quietly, holding his cane in both hands and fascinated by the way they trembled, "you have a large container of holy water available?"
Edited 2013-03-09 03:34 (UTC)
skeletonenigma: (yes?)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2012-11-15 01:29 pm (UTC)(link)
A sort of confused anger lit the fuse beneath Billy-Ray's already-volatile emotional state. They hadn't even seen him stumble. How the hell did Gabe know how bad the pain really was? And worse, how dare he use that fact to poke fun at Billy-Ray? That was just... that was just playing dirty. And he didn't mind saying so.

"I can too take a step," Billy-Ray insisted, along with a demonstration. "If you're gonna fight, at least fight fair. Come on. You a Sensitive?" he asked, eyes narrowed. That would explain everything - knowing about the Professor so quickly, knowing exactly what would needle Billy-Ray into getting angry. Billy-Ray didn't usually put much stock in Sensitives. It was such a wishy-washy and pathetic and peaceful branch of magic, practiced by people who were, quite frankly, weird, in various shapes and forms. But this guy - Gabe - was getting under his skin in a bad way, and the longer Billy-Ray looked at the man standing there in his shorts and bare feet with that grin, the more Billy-Ray wanted to hurt him. Badly.

~~

Father O'Reilly blinked. "Holy water?"

Despite himself, he chuckled. This was turning into a very interesting couple of days. "That does seem to be in high demand recently," he murmured, his mind turning back to the angels from yesterday. Would he finally learn the reason for their need? He couldn't help but think of sorcerers as a step above the rest of the world - even though he knew everyone was equal in the eyes of God - and, therefore, believed it was possible Solomon needed a large container of holy water for the same reason the angels did. Or at least one very similar.

"Yes, I do," he answered. More than Solomon was imagining, clearly. "What do you need it for?"
peacefullywreathed: (don't taint this ground)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2012-11-15 02:35 pm (UTC)(link)
"Not a very big step," Gabe observed tranquilly. "Looked more like a shuffle to me. Look like a shuffle to you guys?" The Archangel turned slightly, just enough to see them both out of the corner of his eyes without allowing Sanguine to leave his sight.

Then he turned back and said airily, "Aw, I know a thing or two. How's Daddy, Billy-Ray?"

The strange thing was, he sounded genuinely and unironically interested--or at least leaning more toward genuinely and unironically interested than any person confronting a sociopath should.

~~~

"I need to cleanse a taint," Solomon said simply, and although the majority of his mind was too busy being suspended within that crystalline state of awareness-combined-action, part of the Necromancer took in those words. In high demand. Angels visiting. Likely one of Pleasant's group, for Saint Gabriel.

The Necromancer didn't get far enough to actively pursue the reasons why an angel would want human-blessed water, given the fact that said angel was an angel. Instead, when Father O'Reilly rose, so did Solomon.

Unlike before, he didn't rest his cane on the floor, didn't use it for the purpose it had been made. He held it in his hands, not against his body but not away from it either. Already, the sorcerer was detaching himself from it. What else could he do? He knew what lay beyond death, for him. If there was a chance, even the slightest chance, of avoiding that fate, he would take it; he would make that sacrifice, just as he would have murdered three billion people for the same.

It had to be done. And Solomon was a great believer in doing what had to be done.

The small room to which Father O'Reilly led him was at the back of the church, and seemed even smaller because of the solid stone from which the church had been built. The lights didn't reach right into its corners; Solomon glanced around and didn't shiver. It was cold, but not cold enough to burden him--not with what he held.

Ordinarily, the barrels would have drawn more of a reaction than they did. Instead Solomon merely stared wordlessly as Father O'Reilly opened one, wondering if all of them were filled with holy water, and why the priest possibly felt the need to stock them, and then realised that he probably had good reason to want to do so.

Then the priest stepped back.

And Solomon stepped forward. Did he tremble? Perhaps. He felt light-headed, heard his pulse roaring in his ears, but most of all he knew that this wasn't a thing from which he could turn back. It frightened him, oh yes; he was frightened. Terrified, even.

It was a strange feeling. Solomon had always done what he had to to ensure his fear was kept at bay. He'd had goals to overcome it, every time. The Passage. Submitting to his father's desire to have an 'unpossessed' son. But until this moment, Solomon had never quite realised that those things weren't overcoming the fear at all. They were a submission. This was ... what was this? This was the sort of fear which drove him to murder to save himself, and yet he walked forward. In spite of it, resisting it, he walked forward.

Solomon paused at the barrel, at the gentle ripple of the dim lights in the water's surface. For a moment he said nothing, did nothing, but stare down at the liquid, feeling his disconnect and the rage of his body and this strangely satisfying contrast between strength and fear.

He could do this. Standing there like that, at this very moment, he knew that he could do this. This, he realised, was what Pleasant, or Ghastly, or Low, or every other person who had claimed to be a hero, felt at any time they were called upon to do something they did not want to do.

This was control. He could do this. Because he chose to.

Solomon Wreath let the cane fall.

The moment it hit the surface something rocked the space in the room. It didn't touch the air; it went beyond merely touching the air. The holy water didn't fizz, or bubble, but it blackened abruptly--like paint hitting it, and then billowing all through the liquid. The shadows in the room writhed, sucked toward the barrel and then yanking back as if they were living things attempting to escape something they couldn't.

There was something in the room. Something that made Solomon's heart leap and race, something that made his skin prickle wildly with pain and terror. Not a sound, but a sensation; an endless Scream which surely anyone in the vicinity must have felt. He couldn't back away; instead the Necromancer was rooted to the spot, shuddering and breathless at the feel of that awful sound. It seemed to go on forever, and just when Solomon began to feel as if something had to give, something did.

There came a sigh from the barrel, a sigh and rush of pure unadulterated relief which chased away the Scream. The blackness evaporated as though it had diffused entirely in the liquid; the shadows settled.

Something turned over in the water, floated to the top--something bone-white and dead. His cane. It bobbed there for a moment and then splintered, like something hard left to soak and then turn half to mush. The pieces sank again and Solomon saw the last remnants of his cane settle on the bottom of the barrel, clearly visible in their paleness.

Then there was silence, the silence of a disaster met and matched and over. Solomon exhaled shakily, no longer disconnected from his body but very much in attendance. His limbs felt rubbery. His heart was like a jackhammer. His clothes and hair clung to him with sweat.

After a moment the sorcerer managed to make his feet move, taking a step away and turning toward Father O'Reilly. Too late, Solomon realised that the sleepless night coupled with far too much adrenaline had taken its toll; his vision burned white and his knees shook, and the man blindly reached out to lean on one of the barrels before the dizziness could overtake him completely.

He'd done it.

He'd destroyed his own source of power, his own source of magic. Now, for the first time, he had no idea what was going to happen, no faith even regarding what he was going to make happen. He could die tomorrow.

With a start Solomon realised that, for the first time in his long life, that thought didn't fill him with fear.
Edited 2013-03-09 03:45 (UTC)
skeletonenigma: (noimagination)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2012-11-16 01:39 pm (UTC)(link)
"I thought it looked like a shuffle," Fletcher volunteered, nodding. A lot braver than Billy-Ray ever remembered him being. Valkyrie Cain's influence, no doubt.

Billy-Ray was starting to get the distinct and worrying impression that Gabe just... wasn't even wary of him. Billy-Ray was used to getting ridiculed. Happened all the time, really. It just never lasted very long, for some reason or other - usually because the ridiculer was dead, sometimes because Billy-Ray had given them a sudden and lethal demonstration of his abilities, once because he'd ripped out the man's tongue. Oh, that was a fond memory.

This guy wasn't ridiculing for the sake of it, or to hide fear, or even to gain any perceived advantage. He really and truly just did not care, didn't see Billy-Ray as any kind of a threat, barely saw him as someone worth talking to. And that annoyed Billy-Ray far more than anyone ridiculing him on a greater scale ever had. "Daddy's just fine," he drawled. "Apart from, you know, bein' in prison two lifetimes for somethin' he didn't do."

"He did murder hundreds of people," Pleasant said. "And probably attempted to assassinate hundreds more."

"Well, yeah, but that ain't what he got sent to prison for, is it?" Billy-Ray crossed his arms and smirked. "Anyway, I reckon he's about to get a lot better."

"And why is that?"

"Revenge." The smirk grew. "Oh, if only you guys knew the kind of hellhole you're about to step into."

~~

Father O'Reilly's own heart pounded with terror as the silence in the small room lengthened. He hadn't known what to expect. He'd guessed it had something to do with purifying the cane, and so he'd stepped back to let Solomon do what needed to be done. Such a dark object being immersed in holy water... the results shouldn't have surprised Father O'Reilly. But they did. In fact, as the living shadows tumbled toward and then stretched away from the barrel, he had to fight the natural instinct to run.

He really hoped this wouldn't give him a childlike fear of the dark once again. Necromancy, from what Father O'Reilly had observed, dealt mainly with shadows. Shadows and, presumably, death. There was no reason to be wary of darkness. Still, he watched the darkened corners of the room with a fear he hadn't experienced in a long time, gaze automatically and helplessly drawn to wherever the priest thought he caught a slight movement.

He was able to focus again when Solomon attempted a step and almost fell. Father O'Reilly hurried over to his side and lent his support, all too aware of how little his understanding went. Four hundred years of relying on the dark magic, and to have it suddenly gone? There was no way Father O'Reilly could sympathise, but he imagined it was a lot like what Solomon had indicated - amputation. Losing a limb. No wonder the man looked like he was about to collapse.

Gently, slowly, Father O'Reilly began leading the man back up into the chapel. "Tell me," he said with a forced chuckle and an unforced smile, "when is the last time you prayed?"
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[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2012-11-16 03:56 pm (UTC)(link)
It wasn't a condescending tone, but it was almost worse. Like Billy-Ray was a small boy talking to someone much older and more experienced than he was, someone who was finding amusement in the assumptions he was making. It grated. Boy, did it grate. Billy-Ray's razor was just itching to cut open that copper skin.

But he to bite his tongue to keep from saying anything he would later regret, because suddenly there was a factor he hadn't considered before.

Y'mean a hellhole like the reality of the Faceless Ones Skul and I had to escape from, Billy-Ray?

Billy-Ray had no idea what discipline of magic Gabe had specialised in, but whatever it was... to escape from the Faceless Ones? To survive them, without going completely and utterly bonkers? Pleasant made sense, he was already dead. Gabe obviously wasn't, which made him a sorcerer of at least as much power as Pleasant, if not more. And that... was not a good thing.

So much for being a harmless Sensitive, then. Billy-Ray had the uncommon and not at all welcome feeling that he was in way over his head, and with no possible way out. Or at least not an easy way out.

But come to think of it... this 'Gabe' guy was something Scarab hadn't reckoned on. He'd want to know what Gabe was capable of, because a mysterious sorcerer coming from nowhere? That was just bound to be the one and only snag in their plan. Which meant presenting Scarab with the potential snag could paint Billy-Ray as the one who saved their dastardly scheme. Nothing at all to do with Billy-Ray wanting to get his own hands on the guy. Nope. Definitely not.

Problem was, Billy-Ray didn't have a way to get to him. Not right now. If he really gritted his teeth and focused, he might be able to get away by himself, but with someone else in tow? Someone who would, no doubt, be struggling? Not to mention Pleasant with the gun.

... Maybe. If Billy-Ray went about it the right way, and waited for an opening.

"Naw, a different kind of hell," he said eventually, pretending to stop and think about it. "Same lack of control, though, if things go right. Look, what if we promise to return the Professor when we're done with him? Safe, sound, and not on a scratch on him. Well," and here Billy-Ray allowed the smile through again, properly genuine for the first time in this conversation, "not on the outside of him, anyway. Can't guarantee he'll still be him, y'know? But we'd still return him. Can you let me go then?"

"Gee, let me think about it," Pleasant replied. His gun hand still hadn't moved.

"Better think quick," Billy-Ray advised him. "Street ain't gonna stay empty forever, and I don't think you get to keep the sunglasses on in a police station."

~~

"You're not in my hair, Solomon." Father O'Reilly sank onto the pew next to him. Honestly, apart from being able to provide a means of purifying the object, Father O'Reilly felt much more like he'd been the useless party here. The burden. Solomon would have reached this stage all on his own, either through research or concerted examining of himself. It might have taken him longer, but that was the only drawback. Now, Father O'Reilly had knowledge of a world he couldn't hope to join, knowledge he didn't know what to do with - not to mention the broken pieces of an evil cane. Yes, he felt rather helpless at the moment. Fortunately, the feeling wouldn't last.

It was easy, right then, to look at Solomon and see an old man. A man who had lived for centuries. Father O'Reilly didn't know if that was a comforting sensation or not, but he would take it.

"You look like you could do with more than just a moment," he observed, his eyes falling on the familiar crucifix at the front of the church. "Why not pray for strength, especially now?" He paused, and then smiled again. "I believe the phrase 'do you need an invitation' is a tad redundant."
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[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2012-11-17 02:19 am (UTC)(link)
This was just too perfect. Apart from the small fact of Billy-Ray's injury - which tugged and pained him even at the best of times, even now - it was perfect. If he lunged, channeled all of his energy into his magic, figured on not being able to burrow at all for the next month... and miraculously dodged a bullet, of course. There was still that. Pleasant needed to be distracted somehow.

"Well, there's us," Billy-Ray answered with an offhanded shrug. "No. Scratch that. There's you. I don't use guns. Too impersonal."

Talking wasn't enough, but it would have to do until Billy-Ray came up with something a bit more plausible. How did good guys do this? Seriously. Sometimes, it seemed like their timing was so ridiculously and coincidentally spot-on that they just wished for backup or a distraction or more bullets, and it happened. If Billy-Ray didn't know any better, he would say it was like magic. How come it didn't work like that for him?

~~

This was much more in Father O'Reilly's area of expertise, and despite his best efforts, it showed. The relief was especially evident in his eyes when he turned to smile at Solomon. "That," he said, "is the least of our concerns, I think. Let me help you remember." He reached out to take the former Necromancer's hand. "How much of the Lord's Prayer do you remember?"

Not much offhand, as it turned out, although Solomon did join in about halfway through. It made the priest smile as he spoke out loud, and even more grateful that when Solomon had arrived at the church in such a delicate state, Father O'Reilly had been there to meet him. If Solomon had found the church empty, or gone somewhere else... Father O'Reilly shuddered to think. He gave thanks to Saint Gabriel for that turn of events, first and foremost. The Lord worked in mysterious ways; it was a phrase Father O'Reilly tried to use often, rather than just in times of crisis and doubt. Because it really was true. And this was a perfect example.

Solomon didn't try to add anything, but that wasn't surprising. With how long it must have been since he was last in a church, let alone praying... Father O'Reilly wasn't going to try and force it. Instead, he spoke for both of them, skimming as briefly as possible around the topic of Necromancy and treating it as more of a state of being than a... form of magic. For his own sanity, really.

He prayed for strength, like he'd suggested. Strength for Solomon, obviously, but also for himself in equal measure. He suspected he would need it before too long, if this wasn't yet over.

"Anything I've missed?" he asked Solomon at last.
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[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2012-11-18 03:12 pm (UTC)(link)
Now that was just rude. Totally disrespectful. If you were gonna write somebody off, at least have the decency to do it to their face! Unless they really weren't worth anything, of course, but everyone knew that wasn't the case here. Everyone knew, because Billy-Ray was their only link to the Professor. They sorta had to deal with him no matter what, and that made Gabe's actions just now all the more intriguing.

Billy-Ray had to hide the grin as Gabe turned his back, because he wasn't completely sure it wouldn't give away what he was planning. That was the last thing he needed, getting shot right then and having the last of his magic drain away.

"Uh, sure," Renn was saying when he tuned back in. The kid looked anxiously from Gabe to Pleasant and back again, with just a short glance over at Billy-Ray in between. Billy-Ray gave him a little wave, but chose not to say anything. The tone of his voice might also give him away. Couldn't trust anything to get past Pleasant. Billy-Ray was taking a big risk here no matter what; if the detective didn't already suspect, then he would definitely stop at nothing to get Gabe back, never mind who was caught in the crossfire. Billy-Ray had heard enough stories of the skeleton's legendary anger to be wary, even though he had yet to see it in action. Not even after kidnapping Cain, for cryin' out loud. That was one of the things he'd been looking forward to.

Yep, it was a risk. But somehow, it was a risk Billy-Ray didn't mind taking. Optimistic, spontaneous, and successful, that was him. Spontaneously successful.

The instant the boy had Teleported, Billy-Ray cut off any other thought and threw himself forward. The ground already began to crack under his feet as his hand closed firmly around Gabe's shoulder, and the Texan couldn't help gasping out with the pain of even that small bit of effort before the pavement opened up and swallowed them both.

Every single agonisingly long moment of the lunge and the drop, he expected to feel the shattering impact of a bullet hitting its mark, but none came. And then there was nothing but the familiar darkness, with a loud noise overhead that may or may not have been a belated gunshot, unimportant now because Billy-Ray was already traveling down as quickly as he could. Down and lost to the sunlight and to Pleasant.

The darkness grew absolute, though Billy-Ray could still see perfectly. Even through his sunglasses. Especially through his sunglasses. He liked that he could still see, actually, because everything else seemed to be slowly rotting away. Burrowing used to be a relief for Billy-Ray, a safe haven, a place where he could be totally and completely safe from all the people who wanted him dead, and now... he'd lost more than just the ease of travel. He'd lost all the comforting little things his magic provided him without his knowledge. Dirt and mud and stones used to slide past him without a second thought; now he felt every last one, tumbling against his limbs and getting into his mouth, making him choke. The stuffiness, the downright damp and cold, all the things that never used to bother him... they now very much did. And all because of one little girl whose knife hand Billy-Ray hadn't been watching closely enough as it slashed across his stomach.

He could taste the bitter on his tongue, along with the damp and the dirt.

"Wouldn't recommend strugglin'," he warned Gabe, loudly enough to be heard over the roar in his ears while they moved. "Unless you think you can get back up by yourself. By all means, have a go. Be easier to do this without you."

The last was added with an audible grimace of pain. Could Billy-Ray make it all the way back to the castle? He seriously doubted it.

~~

Fletcher couldn't understand why Gabe wanted him to go back to the priest, aside from the obvious instantaneous travel. Maybe because the guy thought he was an angel? Obviously he'd prayed for something, but for what? Without a little more information, there was no way Fletcher would be able to bluff his way through this one. As a so-called 'angel,' shouldn't he know? Shouldn't he also be able to hear prayers? Even someone as religious as the priest was would start to realise something wasn't quite right, Fletcher was sure of it. There was only so far being able to appear out of thin air would get you.

Besides, Gabe made it sound a little like the priest was in the middle of a war zone. So in the split second before Fletcher Teleported, he decided to appear in that room with all the barrels of holy water he and Val were taken to last night, safe and out of the way. Just to be sure.

There weren't any loud sounds coming from the rest of the church, so Fletcher made his slow and careful way back up to the chapel. Still nothing. The chapel was about as empty as it had been the last time Fletcher and Valkyrie were here, judging from the limited view Fletcher had in the stairwell. Good. He'd be okay, then.

The priest - Father O'Reilly - came into view as Fletcher stepped into the room, and he almost gave what would have been an awkward little wave. Almost, but the memory of Sanguine's irritating wave at the cinema stopped him. So instead, Fletcher just cleared his throat in as authoritative a manner as he could manage and stepped closer. "Hey. Me again. Did you pray to Ga - uh, to Gabriel just now?"

Father O'Reilly shot to his feet as Fletcher finally became aware of Solomon Wreath sitting on the pew beside him.

Up until yesterday, Solomon had been a good guy. Val's teacher. Not exactly likeable, and none of them really trusted him, but at least someone on their side. Now, Fletcher had no idea what to think, let alone what to do. Skulduggery was obviously unhappy with the Necromancer, but... Gabe seemed to think he was alright. And what was he doing sitting in a church, anyway?

Fletcher voiced that last thought out loud before he could think it through. "What are you doing here?"
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[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2012-11-19 03:04 pm (UTC)(link)
Billy-Ray shrugged as they moved, teeth clenched and muscles taut while he tried to ignore the pain. "Yer an unknown quantity," he answered, pleased to find that the good humour hadn't completely left his voice yet. "I ain't tryin' to accomplish anythin'. Just tryin' to cross all the t's and dot all the i's. You could always save my Dad the trouble, though. Adept?"

The wound was beginning to twinge, on top of the pain radiating out through his limbs. Billy-Ray slowed to a stop, felt the earth shift back up above his head, and then trickle slowly down to his feet when he glanced up. Another annoying little thing; the dirt shouldn't be moving at all when Billy-Ray didn't want it to, but he couldn't hold it back. He couldn't stop the foul taste in his mouth, either, but the slow trickle of dirt was far more worrying just then. Billy-Ray idly wondered if staying in this one spot for long enough would slowly bury him alive.

For the first time in his life, Billy-Ray felt the effects of claustrophobia. The small space closed in on him, and the distinct lack of oxygen weighed onto his mind. Space like this, it probably had... what, fifteen minutes of air? Less, since Gabe would also need to be breathing. And if he was anything like Cain, he'd be breathing faster from panic. Better give the rest only five minutes, just to be safe.

Not for the first time, Billy-Ray cursed Cain, that day, and his uncharacteristic lack of attention. It really wasn't fair that he still had to pay for it, while Cain walked around and continued to not be in pain. Continued to be alive.

"How'd you and Skulduggery meet?" he asked. "Runnin' from Faceless Ones? Actually, how'd you end up over there?"

~~

Fletcher's eyes hardened. Gabe had said the same thing, but somehow, when the Archangel talked about how much the others took Fletcher for granted, it didn't sound nearly as bad, or as pointed. Gabe was trying to help, after all. Solomon meant it as a thinly veiled insult, which Fletcher did not appreciate, but he was able to keep his mouth shut.

A feat made easier when it occurred to him what must be running through the priest's mind right now. Father O'Reilly looked a little like he'd seen a ghost. Fletcher struggled with what to say as the priest turned back to Solomon, opened his mouth, closed it again, and slowly sat back down on the pew.

A sudden thought gripped Fletcher as he moved forward a little bit - was everything he and Val did considered blasphemy? - and he grimaced. "I'm sorry. It was Val's idea. The girl who was with me. It was just... easier, really, but we shouldn't have done it."

"The first time you were here." The priest's voice was weak, but surprisingly coherent. Fletcher wasn't used to people keeping themselves together so well when they discovered what he could do, and he imagined this - getting mistaken for an angel - was about ten times worse. The composure was really quite impressive. "The way you looked..."

"Oh." Fletcher managed a sheepish grin. "Yeah. That was Gabriel. Sorta happens just by standing near him." The expression on the priest's face grew, if it was possible, even more incredulous, and Fletcher hastily tried to backtrack. "Not all the time. Most of the time he just looks..." ... like an American cowboy. Yeah. Like that would go over well. "You know what? Never mind. Gabriel says he'll be over as soon as he can, he's just in the middle of something right now. But he really wants to. He says to hold down the fort until he can make it. Is... is that okay?"

Although Fletcher didn't know it, that wasn't quite the right thing to say. Father O'Reilly blinked, heard a short laugh barked out by someone, and took a moment to realise that it had been him. The ludicrousness of a question like that after a speech like that was suddenly the most humourous thing in the world. He almost didn't want to dignify it with a response, despite the angel's - the boy's - no, wait. The man's? How old did a sorcerer have to look before they weren't children anymore? Twelve? - good intentions. "Yes. It..." He took a deep, steadying breath. "It's fine."

Father O'Reilly had never found reason to crave alcohol before now. He suddenly found himself wondering if it would help.