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

[impudentsongbird]

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

Comments

[peacefullywreathed]

Carefully, trying to avoid scraping his knuckles on the ground, Nathanial withdrew his hands, set Solomon's head down, and rose. His whole body ached from remaining in one position for so long; he moved slowly, lips compressing to withhold the sparks of pain. It seemed somehow cowardly now to show such trivial pain, with one of his former brothers still in agony on the floor.

He seized the thought and gave it due attention even as he moved away from Solomon and Siren both. And yet his gaze returned.

Solomon had seen his soul. A light, he said. A light in the middle of a place which, according to Solomon's own words, shrieked with the agony of the Necromancers who had come before. Quite suddenly Nathanial wondered--where did that light he'd seen come from?

"Both," he said at last. "He looked at me, and yet his eyes seemed to track something around me as well. As a man would track debris in the water and the swell of the waves around it."

It was like that. The comparison only came because they thought of the lifestream as a current to begin with, but it was accurate. Nathanial folded his hands in front of him, hiding their tremble in his robes, and turned toward his superior, trying to pretend that things hadn't just changed in a way he never could have imagined. Instead he clung to the one authority he had left.

"What are your orders, High Priest?"

[skeletonenigma]

It wasn't quite enough to confirm Tenebrae's theory. But that was alright. As Quiver himself pointed out, Solomon would be far more coherent once he was done seizing all over the floor. They could question him more then.

"Get someone to take care of Mystique." Tenebrae pulled open the door to the room and stepped out. "We'll leave Cleric Wreath to his own devices for the time being."

~~

Erskine changed his mind the instant Valkyrie was settled in her own bed in her own room, her reflection tucked neatly away in her mirror where it belonged - after startling the hell out of Erskine, of course. Yes, he was exhausted, and yes, he wanted nothing more in the world than to crawl into his own bed and forget the world existed for a few hours.

But he couldn't. Probably wouldn't be able to sleep, even if he wanted to. Erskine's mind was spinning far too much.

So he asked Fletcher Renn to take him to the Sanctuary instead, after confirming that was Corrival's most likely location. It brought a smile to Erskine's lips. Retired, grumpy, assuring everyone who asked that he was never going to get involved in sorcerers' affairs again... Erskine should have known that act wouldn't last long. At this rate, Corrival should just become their new Grand Mage and leave it at that.

He was even sitting in the Grand Mage's office, for God's sake, when Erskine finally found someone who knew where the man was. A half-eaten plate of food sat on the desk in front of the former general, and Corrival was staring darkly down at it. He looked tired and harassed, spinning a fork endlessly into what food there was left.

Erskine didn't comment on that. He probably looked worse. What he did do was fold his arms and lean against the doorjamb with a little smirk. "Robbing people of their traditional ceremonies now, Grand Mage? Tsk, tsk. Then again, there was absolutely no chance of you making this official, was there?"

[impudentsongbird]

With a groan Corrival pushed the plate aside and put his head down on the desk with a thunk. "Some idiot made an assumption and I'm too tired to find the office I was using before," he said, his voice muffled. "And I left my crossword puzzle in there too."

He honestly wasn't sure he'd be able to find his way there. He'd stepped foot in the Sanctuary all of half-a-dozen times since its creation at the end of the war over a century ago. Probably not even that. He'd doubled that in the last two days, and he still didn't know his way around the place.

After a moment Corrival sighed and raised his head again, quick enough to make his head spin a little. He rubbed his eyes and, finally, looked properly at Erskine. And immediately felt stupid that he hadn't noticed the man's exhaustion, the way he leaned against the door.

"Come in and sit down before you fall down, you fool," he grumbled, rising and pulling the chair around to the other side of the desk so it was closer to Erskine. There weren't any others; it was like Guild to make everyone else stand. Corrival himself opted to lean back against the desk, his brow furrowed. "How's Shudder?"

He had to be okay, or Erskine wouldn't have left him, and yet ... there was something serious in Erskine's eyes, something in his bearing, which spoke of more than unease. It was tension, a frustrated sort.

[skeletonenigma]

Erskine opened his mouth to argue the point. Corrival would have been working at this nonstop all night - there was no way he should even think of giving up the only chair in the room. But Erskine pushed himself off the doorjamb to accompany his words with physical proof that he was fine, and his legs nearly buckled underneath him.

Okay, then. Not quite perfectly fine.

It was interesting, actually, from an objective viewpoint. Erskine had folded into the frame of the doorway just in the few seconds of leaning against it. Giving up his magic to help heal an Archangel, as it turned out, had its consequences. Who knew? Erskine took a moment to collect himself, then nodded wordlessly and sank gratefully into the chair.

"At the Hibernian," he replied after another few moments, gently rubbing the bridge of his nose. The earlier headache was starting to creep its way back in. "With his insides turned to mush. Otherwise, he's fine." The words were a little more biting than Erskine originally intended, but he decided not to apologise for that. "He doesn't particularly want to see any of us ever again, but he's going to be okay."

[impudentsongbird]

When Erskine's knees buckled Corrival automatically moved to step forward and catch him, but then Erskine stumbled, caught himself, and eased into the chair. Corrival watched him, that furrow a frown now. A frown that turned into a blink at the unexpected cutting tone.

Insides turned to mush ... didn't want to see any of them again ... well then. "He told you about Skulduggery," Corrival said with tired resignation, and wished there was another chair. He rather thought he should be included in the walking wounded here. "Wondered how long it'd take him."

Of course, even if he was fine, the fact he was hurt was a bad thing. Corrival gave Erskine another once-over. "What happened?" he asked. "You can't have gotten into a fight. You'd look like mush yourself, instead of like a puppet with your strings pulled."

[skeletonenigma]

"I feel like a puppet," Erskine agreed. "And not just because my strings are cut. Look, I'm willing to believe you guys haven't known about this forever. You can't have. So I don't mind not being told right away. But sending me to clean up your mistakes without any information whatsoever?" He shook his head. "Anton nearly lost control when he finally admitted what was bothering him. And that's not even touching Skulduggery's new boyfriend, by the way, which Anton also has a problem with."

... Skulduggery's new boyfriend.

Erskine groaned, let his eyes slide shut, and sank deeper into the chair. "Ghastly's met God, we have two Archangels running around, one of them knows Skulduggery's true name..."

He didn't quite know why he'd said all of that, other than wanting confirmation that he wasn't imagining things. That, or possibly wanting a weird kind of revenge where Corrival was left reeling with as much new information as Erskine was forced to handle over the last few hours.

[impudentsongbird]

Wait. 'Clean up his mistakes'? Corrival's frown deepened and he opened his mouth, shut it again when Erskine continued, and then paled. Because one did not say Anton Shudder 'nearly' lost control of his Gist unless he'd been drinking--which had happened once--or he'd slipped in the restrictions set by his Geas--which had not happened ever.

He just barely managed to keep from asking if Erskine was okay. Of course he was--from that, at least. If any part of the Gist had gotten out, Erskine would be dead. There wasn't really any in-between between 'fine' and 'dead' in this case.

"I didn't realise he was that close," he said, and actually sounded shaken. Enough to explain, as best as he could. "I knew he wouldn't take it well, and figured he wouldn't want to see any of us who already knew." It wasn't that Anton was a killjoy, exactly, except that he frequently seemed to be. If he thought someone he trusted already knew something, he just wouldn't bother to say anything about it, because what was the point in rehashing old ground? Corrival had hoped that Erskine not knowing anything at all might encourage the man to talk.

He hadn't heard about the thing with Skulduggery's true name, either. He just wasn't sure which part should take up more of his attention. Gabe having Skulduggery's name just made sense, and explained why Skulduggery trusted the angel to such a degree. That was the logic talking. Emotionally? He was a bit more ambivalent about the idea.

None of that explained why Erskine was so dog tired right now, if he'd met the Archangel of healing.

Corrival pressed his hands to his face, took a deep breath, and held it for a moment or two before exhaling slowly. "This is why I shouldn't be Grand Mage."

It wasn't a whine so much as a plaintive statement. There were a lot of reasons why Corrival shouldn't be Grand Mage. A lot of reasons bound up in that mistake. When he lifted his hands away he took one look at Erskine and then quietly pushed himself upright. He went to the drinks cabinet Guild had kept and no one had yet touched, pouring a whiskey and setting the glass down on the desk in front of Erskine. And then he poured one for himself. It may not have been political, or even wise, but screw it. Corrival wasn't known for being either.

[skeletonenigma]

Corrival's simple statement made Erskine glance up sharply - and immediately regret the action, since his head swam dangerously empty of energy, and tinged itself with pain. "Are you being considered? I thought there really was some traditional ceremony for that. Formal wear, speeches, the whole nine yards."

He'd meant to claim that Corrival was perfect for Grand Mage, but the words had somehow scrambled themselves on the way up - partly in fear of how Corrival would react. The guy looked exhausted enough to snap at anyone for anything, and who could really blame him? In all seriousness, though, he was. Provided his Elders were a little better with the politics side of it than he would inevitably be, Corrival may well end up on the same level as Eachan Meritorious.

... Oh, whiskey. Whiskey was a bad idea. Whiskey was a terrible idea. Whiskey was so bad of an idea that Erskine actually managed to stare at it with his hands in his lap for a full five seconds before he reached out and took it. "We're not going to get in trouble for this, are we?"

[impudentsongbird]

"I was just trying to keep things together, seeing as Bespoke had already interrupted my retirement," Corrival muttered, taking a swig from his glass. "Less for Skulduggery to have to focus on, until things ... settle." Until Corrival can adjust, until he can be sure Skulduggery was well in hand, until he knew no one else knew--or should. There was too much at stake, for Ireland and for the Dead Men, for Corrival to have just gone back to his armchair.

He motioned with a hand toward the closed door. "Next thing I know Geoffrey Scrutinous comes to me on behalf of himself and 'a few others' to let me know that when the issue comes up, I've got their nomination. Which is exactly what I didn't want."

His tone would have been irritable, if it weren't just tired. It wasn't even all a physical tiredness; a good part of it was mental too. It was something he wouldn't have shown to anyone but a Dead Man.

Corrival snorted and took another mouthful. "I'll send a receipt to Guild in prison."

[skeletonenigma]

Of course. Guild was in prison for orchestrating the assassination of Esryn Vanguard, and the very last thing on his mind would be his liquor cabinet. Not to mention Erskine could really, really use the drink.

So he finally relented, and didn't hesitate in gulping some of it down, although Erskine did tilt his head back more gingerly this time. It was good whiskey. Expensive, probably. Only the best for a man who had the fate of the world on his shoulders.

"You've got mine, too," he muttered when he was done. "You've probably got a good deal of them, actually. Who else would be nearly so humourously grumpy all the time?"

Something Corrival had mentioned earlier caught in Erskine's mind then, and he quickly sat up, frowning. "Hang on. Until things settle. What do you mean by that? Is Skulduggery...?" He paused. "Are we in danger?"

That thought hadn't occurred to him before. Still hadn't, not properly. Very suddenly, Erskine was mentally kicking himself for slamming Skulduggery against the ground so hard before. He'd never even considered how it all came out, how Corrival and Ghastly discovered the truth. And if they knew because something had slipped, because Skulduggery had gotten angry enough about something to stop caring about hiding it...

... then it was a very good thing Gabriel - Gabe - was around, wasn't it?

[impudentsongbird]

"You didn't get a whole lot of details, did you, boy?" Corrival said gruffly, hiding the smile with his glass, but still with a twinkle of fond exasperation in his eyes. The amusement only lasted so long, and Corrival lowered the glass with a sigh.

"China Sorrows led Skulduggery into the trap with his family," he said bluntly. "Skulduggery found out. From what I heard he'd lost all control and it was a very good thing Gabe was there." He chuckled, but it was grim. "I didn't see it, but I saw the place afterward. It all happened at Prave's Church. The only one who suffered was Remus Crux, and given how insane he was death was probably a mercy."

Probably. The reminder that the man hadn't been killed by Skulduggery, but by an Archangel, made a chill run down Corrival's back, and he spent a moment contemplating his whiskey before realising he should probably say that. "It wasn't Skulduggery," he added. "It was Gabe. Apparently Crux was beyond help. And now I have his body in my freezer, because Bespoke dragged me out of retirement to help clean up after an Archangel."

His voice had that strange lilt of wry resignation, but combined with a kind of tense blankness which indicated how close Corrival had gotten to the edge Erskine was dancing on.

[skeletonenigma]

Erskine visibly winced. Yeah, if there was one thing that would set Skulduggery off... a part of him almost wished he'd seen it. Then another part of him realised he had seen it, technically, in any of the number of times he'd caught sight of Lord Vile during the war. That thought spurred another long drink, and Erskine tried very hard to do the alcohol's work of shutting his brain down. It didn't work.

What did work, surprisingly, was laughing. Which was Erskine's next move when Corrival finished speaking - abruptly and maybe a little too loudly. "A dead body in your freezer? For how long?"

He couldn't bring himself to feel upset over Crux's death. He'd never liked the man to begin with, and felt nothing but a small sliver of pity when he heard what happened at Aranmore Farm. Crux's apparent death was an afterthought. Tragic, but an afterthought. Honestly, Erskine was glad Gabe finally ended it. And he was far too amused at the prospect of a dead body hidden away in Corrival's kitchen.

[impudentsongbird]

"Two days," Corrival said, grumbling without heat at Erskine's amusement. "He's been lying in my deep-freeze in the basement for the last two days. By the way, Bespoke's now Grandma Carey's unnamed other son."

The last was added in afterthought as Corrival moved to the door and opened it, glancing out. Someone was almost always lurking by the corner, 'just in case'; Corrival signalled them down and asked-ordered for another chair before withdrawing into the office again. He left the door open, lingering in the doorway so he could keep an eye on the lackey but turning toward Erskine.

"How's Gabe? You saw him, I assume? And his brother?"

[skeletonenigma]

Erskine burst out laughing again, nearly falling off his chair in the process. He was close enough to the desk to catch himself on the edge of it, but exhaustion was quickly overtaking him and Erskine knew he wouldn't last much longer. Give him twenty minutes, and he'd drop off to sleep right here.

He wanted to ask what Ghastly thought of their little prank. Erskine dearly wanted to ask what it was like seeing the tailor voluntarily join in the charade - or not so voluntarily, knowing Corrival. But there were more important things to ask about, and Corrival asked them.

Erskine's eyes had slid shut again in his laughter, and even though he was quiet now, his eyes remained closed. "Gabe was a wreck, at first. Like he was falling apart at the seams. Last I saw, though, he was walking around and completely in focus. Giant white wings and everything. His brother..."

Erskine's voice trailed off, almost as if he'd already fallen asleep, but then he smiled weakly. "I don't know what to think of his brother. He's like a mixture between Dexter, Larrikin, and... someone just a tad more serious. I'm a little wary of him, actually. But then, he did take all my magic, so... I'm probably biased." He grew quiet again, watching the darkness of the insides of his eyelids, before opening his mouth once more. "Skulduggery was holding Gabe the entire time. God help me, it was kind of adorable."

[impudentsongbird]

Never in his life had Corrival wished so much that he had pictures to view than at that description. He laughed and it felt good. Amused and glad, something he could still do, something which wasn't bound by the terror of a mass murderer. "You should've taken pictures," he told the younger sorcerer with mock censure. "I'm not impressed, Ravel. I need proof of those kinds of shenanigans."

Skulduggery in love with an Archangel. Corrival had known, because it had been said and left undenied. But Erskine had seen it, and Corrival could only wish he had as well.

That information about Raphael was interesting, though. Corrival had helped break him out of the Gaol, but that was all he knew. Somehow, he wasn't entirely surprised to hear he took that tack, given what he'd seen of Gabe. Having a zest for life seemed to be an angelic trait, even though Gabe's was apparently quieter. Mentally Corrival filled Erskine's name into that unfilled 'someone just a tad more serious' line.

"He'd better have taken your magic for a good cause, then," he grumbled, but it was affectionately exasperated. If Raphael had just arrived, maybe he'd needed the extra boost to heal his brother. It was the most logical reason, and it was just like Erskine to offer his services to people he'd known existed for all of an hour.

The underling returned with a chair. Corrival accepted it with a nod, refused to let him in, and kicked the door shut as he took it back to the desk. When Erskine stirred, just a little, Corrival put his glass down long enough to give him a soft cuff over the head. "None of that now. Go ahead and sleep off the exertion the Archangel put you through, and work on your stamina later."

There wasn't even an answer. There may have been a faint smile on Erskine's lips, though, as Corrival took back his seat, his half-full glass to one side, and returned to the paperwork he didn't want.

[peacefullywreathed]

"That's so pretty! How did you do that? I didn't know shadows could look that pretty."

"There's beauty in the night, Miss Pleasant. Would you like to see something else?"

"May I?"

"Of course."

--

"Please! I'll walk away, I won't tell anyone!"

"Oh, I know you won't. Do remember this when they ask what you saw. What did you see, again?"

"Nothing! I saw nothing!"

"Good."

--

"You're covering up for them, Solomon."

"You wouldn't understand. You've never had faith, Skulduggery."

"I understand that you're hiding a remorseless killer."

"... You're wrinkling my suit."

Memories swirled, a slow-turning maelstrom of light and sound and nostalgia. There was no stopping them. He didn't try. Some leapt out, some didn't, and all the while Solomon was caught adrift.

He stood on a bluff, quietly watching the sun set, feeling the darkness draw and the way his magic thrummed in him. In the memory it felt like power. Soothing. In the now it felt like a scratch-scratch-scratch on the integrity of his soul.

Footsteps behind him. Quick, furious. He rose and turned, and Skulduggery stopped there, his fists clenching and unclenching, his jaw tight with the rage and disappointment unsuppressed in his eyes. "You've gone through your Surge."

There was no point in denying it. Solomon lifted his chin, his face calm as Skulduggery's wasn't, his cane planted firmly on the stony ground. "Yes."

Those hands lifted as if to do something and then fell in something like defeat. "Why, Solomon? Why would you do that? You promised me you would try something else!"

Promised him? Abrupt anger bubbled in Solomon's gut. "I did!" He stopped, took a breath, still found himself trembling with the jolt of adrenaline. His voice came more quietly. "I did. I tried it your way. I tried it your way and relied on you to protect me, and then when I needed you most you weren't there. So I had to rely on myself to not die. And there's only one magic I know which can keep that from happening."

"It's evil!" Equally furious, a broad gesture back toward the small Temple in the cliff beside a mass grave. "All those lies about controlling death are just that--"

"What would you know?!" Solomon shouted. "You've never had to see your family murdered and struggle for power to stop it, and only see it come after the fact! Look at this! Look at what I can do!" He flung his arms wide and drew all the shadows to him, and they wreathed around him as he breathed in magic. It sang in him, a melody. A scream which sent him spinning.

The end was drawing near. Distantly, on some level, Solomon knew it. Maybe it was illuminated by the warmth he could still feel in his hands, around him. Not enough to stop the chill, but enough so that he didn't forget the chill was there. So he didn't forget it wasn't something he had simply lived his whole life. That there could be an end.

He lay on the hard stone floor, eyes closed, and breathed. The end loomed.

His Surge.

"Are you prepared, Solomon?"

His body tingled with adrenaline and magic. Solomon exhaled slowly and nodded, just once, sharply. "I'm ready."

"Then let us proceed."

His mentor--a senior cleric whose name Solomon could not in this moment recall, a man he never truly saw as anything other than someone to occasionally give him ideas with which to train--helped him lie down on the pallet in the centre of the room.

"What do I do?"

"Open yourself to your magic, and direct it with that which you choose."

A deep breath. Long. Slow. Held. He closed his eyes and gripped the cane across his chest, feeling out for the death in the walls of the Temple without shaping it. It shrieked at him, screaming threats, pleas, warnings.

The rush of his power began with a quivering tendril down his back.

Solomon's breath caught and his body drew tight, tingling with the awareness of what was to come. Painful and a release at once. Almost erotic, in some cases.

Not in this one.

Not now.

That tingle swept down his limbs and made his breath catch, and Solomon gripped the pallet with a clench of his jaw, withholding the whimper. A harbinger.

Then something opened up inside him and his magic swallowed him whole, a darting rush of lightning blows within himself. Hot, hot in a way both painful and pleasurable at once, shaping itself to his fingers and toes, to his hands and limbs and--

The Scream exploded in his mind and ears, in his chest, so near that he no longer merely heard it but felt it, felt it rip from his throat and ring in his head. Terror and grief gripped him, so deep that on their own they felt like they could kill him. Pain pierced him, pain in his hands and feet and side, in his scalp as if it could release the sound of his own scream. It didn't.

Solomon's body jerked helplessly on the floor, his cries reduced to thin, voiceless keens. Blood splattered the floor; his fingers raked it, scraped raw, his palms impaled with open nail-wounds. His feet pushed the stone as his body arched, leaving bloody trails of their own. Blood trickled down his face from the thin thorn-pricks ringing his head; his shirt, once white, seeped red on his side and back.

Terror.

Solomon cried out on his pallet, a gasp of surprise. He dropped his cane and curled inward, his head ringing. This wasn't how it went. What was that sound he heard?

A memory. A memory of a sin he hadn't been able to see.

"My Lord, why have You forsaken me?!"

Warmth. A hand brushing his hair.

There were people around him. Presences. People. Souls, trapped and tortured, shrieking. His magic reached out for them and they shied away, but he had the power here, he could make them do whatever he wanted.

No!

Souls in the walls, in the air. He breathed them and felt their pain. All of them. Solomon's being spun in all directions until all he could feel was that agony that tore at the heart of him.

That agony, spreading through all parts of him until the whole of his being quivered on the edge of a precipice, and a hand in his hair.

"Father ... into Your hands I commit my spirit."

Something shifted. Released. Settled. With that long, sighing whisper of fast-retreating surf, the pain receded.

Solomon exhaled, a shaken sigh that left his body limp on the floor he couldn't, at first, feel at all. He was numb. Numb in that aftermath of sheer exertion, the sort that took the body far beyond its limits. As if he'd been taken apart and put back together again. He had. He could feel all the raw edges in his soul where he'd let his magic go. They were ... warm. Like he'd touched something hot, and now that he was no longer touching it, it still hurt but in a good way. A healing way.

He could still feel an afterwash of withdrawal. A faint twitch here and there. Memories of his use of Necromancy from before his Surge. They seemed faded, distant. Solomon opened his eyes.

And looked up into his father's face.

His father, traced by a gentle ripple of life, a golden hue around him which showed how he was a piece of debris caught, instead of a stone still rooted in that inexorable current.

"Da?" Solomon whispered, and nothing came out. Nothing physical. His father reached out and brushed back his sweaty hair, his palm warm and solid on his skin.

"Kian. My son."

There were tears in his eyes, Solomon realised dimly.

"I'm sorry."

"I know," Da whispered, and ran his hand through his hair again. "Live, Kian. Live now you have something worth living." Solomon closed his eyes and drew in a shallow, shaking breath, and when he opened his eyes again Da was dissolving before them, taken up by that rainbow current. The last thing to fade was the sensation of his palm against Solomon's forehead.

Then Solomon was alone on the floor, gazing up at a ceiling lit bruised red and purple by bound souls, his body limp and aching with the relief of a purge, and one hand clutching a stained grey teddy-bear to his chest.

[skeletonenigma]

High Priest Tenebrae didn't keep track of the monitor showing Solomon's cell all night. He couldn't have, even if he wanted to - duty and a few hours of sleep took up too much of his time - but he didn't particularly want to keep track of it to begin with. There was never anything new to see. And the sight of so much blood without a physical attack was... disturbing, to say the least.

Of course, he didn't have to. There were other people for that sort of thing. Tenebrae demanded to be told the instant anything changed, and was quite fortunately in his office when that call came.

"We thought he was dead, actually," said the Necromancer facing him. "He just... stopped. He's still now. He's been still for a good fifteen minutes. And he hasn't said anything else since... that."

Tenebrae nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you. You may leave."

The nameless man did, instantly, preceded only by a respectful bow. Tenebrae tapped his fingertips together on the desk while he considered.

The problem was, even if they didn't have to assume Solomon could now see souls, it was highly unlikely he'd explain anything to the man who set off this whirlwind of pain. Even if it was only halfway-intentional. The instant Solomon saw Tenebrae, he'd clam up. His mouth would probably go into that thin line it took when he was angry. If he had any strength left over, he might even try and take revenge. Tenebrae couldn't risk that.

But Solomon had talked to Quiver. For some unknown reason, he'd been talking to Quiver right before the worst of it hit. Quiver had been sympathetic to Solomon's plight, and maybe that was all Solomon had needed. Who knew? It didn't matter. The most effective way of getting anything out of him now would be to send Quiver in, alone, without any mention of Tenebrae.

Tenebrae nodded to himself as he made the decision, then asked for Cleric Quiver to be sent up to the office. They needed to tread carefully now. Solomon was dangerous when he could think straight, and they couldn't let him leave the Temple.

[peacefullywreathed]

For what seemed like eternity and not nearly long enough at all, Solomon drifted in half-aware sleep. Part of him insisted that he really needed to stay awake, that after what he'd been through it would probably be a bad idea to slip away. Yet the rest of him didn't care. It wasn't that he wanted to die. It was just that he was no longer afraid of what would happen if he did. And he was sure that he wouldn't, besides. He didn't know why. He just knew that he could sleep, and it would be okay.

Mostly, he was simply enjoying being able to breathe. Being able to feel his body, and know it was his. He could feel warmth in his extremities, his head and side, which indicated he was bleeding, but he had no idea what might have caused it and didn't have the strength to lift his hands to see. He ached, and badly. Even lying still, he ached.

It felt good. Strangely peaceful. His eyes half lidded, Solomon watched a close-by pocket of purple-red, at the way it seemed to vibrate. It took his still-gathering mind a little while to figure out that it was vibrating because he was near it. Because of an odd sort of tarnished gold which threw it into stark contrast.

A tarnished gold which belonged to him. Maybe, he thought idly, it would shine up a little. It must have been black, before.

The door opened. Solomon didn't move. Moving was far too much effort right now. He watched in fascination at the faint eddies in the room, a tinge rather than a rainbow, and the way they cast back in reaction to whomever had entered.

He thought he saw some of that tinge lighten, but didn't connect it with Quiver until the man's shoes came into view. He paused and moment later knelt into Solomon's view. It wasn't until Quiver was putting a hand under his head to tilt it up that Solomon realised he held a cup. Quiver offered it to him carefully, in case he tried to drink too fast, but to be frank, Solomon was too exhausted even for that. He all but let Quiver pour it down his throat, drinking eagerly while there was water but unable to complain when there wasn't. For a moment his throat flared wildly with pain, but then the dryness eased and it dulled, and there was only relief.

When the cup was empty Quiver set it beside him, lay down Solomon's head, and waited. Solomon blinked, slowly, and breathed.

There was a light in Quiver's soul, he marvelled. It was blackness, mostly, blackness like there had been in Valkyrie's, except worse. Suffocating tendrils of blackness and pockets of purple-red, and a thin glow of blue light at his heart, a glow like a persistent ember.

Inhale.

"Solomon."

Quiver's voice was soft, but it still seemed loud. Intrusive.

Exhale.

"Why are you sorry, Solomon?"

A slow blink. He had said that out loud, hadn't he? He wasn't surprised they'd heard, somehow. He couldn't be bothered to think over why he wasn't surprised, but he wasn't.

"Used Da's soul," he whispered. Quiver's brow furrowed.

"I thought you said Necromancers powered Necromancy."

Inhale. "Necromancy is powered by anything that's nearest."

"And Necromancers are usually what's nearest," Quiver observed with a nod, as if that made sense. Solomon watched the shift of a silhouette across that ember. A veil. What did it mean? He couldn't tell.

"So you were speaking to your father?"

"Mmhm." Solomon's assent came almost absently, his eyes tracking the movement of that silhouette. There were more of them, actually. It was odd. Like Quiver's soul should have been black on black, except where its crevasses were highlighted by Scream, but that tiny ember threw it all into starkness and left shadows moving on the floor.

"He was here? You saw him?"

"Mmm."

Inhale. Exhale.

"Solomon." Solomon tore his gaze from the movement of the shadows on the floor to look at Quiver's face.

"You look like you're crying tears of blood," he murmured without thinking, and every movement in Quiver's soul froze. For a moment. Then movement came again, but sluggish, as if Quiver was forcing it to and yet was still shaken.

"Not I." A moment of blissful silence. Then: "How are you able to do this, Solomon?"

"Saw the lifestream."

Quiver inclined his head. "You said. How?"

He wanted to know how. How meant talking about Saint Gabriel. Saint Gabriel was off-limits. For one, Skulduggery would kill him. For another, Tenebrae was stupid enough to try and control an Archangel. Like China. Solomon didn't mind that, but he did mind putting Saint Gabriel on the spot. Solomon found himself smiling, actually huffed something close to a silent chuckle, and turned his head a half-inch into the floor in a shake. "Not telling. Unbelievable."

"Try me."

"Don't know if I can trust you. Was an accident, anyway."

Another long moment of silence. Solomon watched Quiver, letting himself be mesmerised by that slow movement. Careful thinking. Quiver always did think carefully. He was probably here to get information. Of course he was. Solomon sort-of didn't mind. What was the point in minding? Except for Saint Gabriel. He wouldn't tell about Saint Gabriel.

Exhale.

"How does it work, Solomon?"

Inhale. "Not sure. See things." No answer. "We're in an ocean. A current. Carrying things. Rippling around the things that can't be moved yet. Reminds me of Monet."

"That's what it looks like. How does it work?"

Solomon sighed and let his eyes close. He felt tired. Comfortable, only because his previous moments have been so pained. Ready to sleep. "I don't know. Tell Tenebrae that. I don't know."

Except he did, a little. With his eyes closed, he couldn't see, exactly. But he could feel the current around him. It felt warm, soothing. Like the description of remembering the womb. Except with Quiver so close. Quiver felt like the sharp edges of rocks, and the only safe harbour was nearly impossible to divine unless you already knew it was there.

Like Solomon did.

"I can feel my soul," he mumbled, in the tone of a man figuring things out for himself. "I can feel my soul and feel everything else up against it. Like wind." He opened his eyes again, but only halfway. "Can see more like this, though." He squinted. If he squinted he could almost see Quiver without his soul at all. "Like an overlay. Or a veil. Or something."

Without quite meaning to, his eyes shut.

"Solomon."

Solomon sighed. A weary sigh. A resigned sigh. "I'm sleeping."

There was a pause, and a moment later he heard the scrape of shoes on stone, felt the sharp edges of Quiver's soul withdraw and the door close. Then he was left in the room with prickling walls and a low-level scratch-scratch-scratch of bound souls. It was irritating, but not much more. Not right now. Not after he'd been through.

Solomon rolled onto his side and hugged the bear up to him, enjoying the warmth in it which rolled over him. He didn't question how such a small bear could seem to cover him like a blanket. He just appreciated it and, for the moment, slept.


Nathanial strode down the hallways, his face carefully blank, until he reached the room where the camera's screen was. He let himself in quietly, closing the door behind him, and folded his arms as he faced Tenebrae. "Did you hear everything, High Priest, or do you require me to repeat the conversation?"

[skeletonenigma]

"I heard." Tenebrae's tone was a step removed at first, quietly lost in thought with his eyes on the screen. Ideas were beginning to form, and he didn't want them to scatter before he had a chance to solidify them. It wasn't long, however, before he turned to face Quiver with an eyebrow raised. "Crying tears of blood, hm?"

Combine that with Quiver's words as soon as he walked in - almost annoyed, almost the sort of anger that stemmed from an outward manifestation of an inner battle - and Tenebrae might have thought that Quiver felt genuinely sympathetic towards Solomon. Not that the High Priest minded; it was perfectly natural not to want to inflict pain on someone you once knew. It bore remembering, of course. Misplaced sympathy was something to keep an eye on. But for the moment, it mattered very little.

And that was why Tenebrae didn't comment further. His gaze lingered on Quiver for a moment, but then drifted back to the screen.

A part of him wondered if Solomon Wreath was gripping that teddy bear so tightly because it had something of a soul in it. A soothing one. The thought chilled Tenebrae, but once again, it didn't really matter. He didn't have any plans of taking away the teddy bear either way. It felt far too much like taking candy from a baby.

More interesting was that Wreath had indeed been thinking clearly, even if he couldn't speak quite well yet. He'd known Tenebrae would hear about this. Kept his mouth shut for the more important parts, and otherwise been perfectly coherent. And if his father was one of the souls powering his Necromancy, the earlier statement made sense. Releasing souls into the lifestream, presumably. Tenebrae almost laughed at the idea. Necromancers spent their entire lives trying to understand death, and here Solomon had achieved more than anyone else ever had simply by giving the magic up.

Giving the magic up, and... something else he wouldn't talk about.

Tenebrae took a deep breath. "He's the furthest along in his withdrawal than any Necromancer in history. It's possible being able to see souls is merely a side effect we haven't heard of yet. And if that's the case, it'll fade by the time he makes a full recovery."

Fade, and leave Solomon Wreath able to break out. The instant he did, he would disappear. Wreath knew far more about the outside world than even Tenebrae did.

Ideas were solidifying in the High Priest's mind, and he turned back to Quiver. "How much do you know about the human brain?"

[peacefullywreathed]

Tenebrae's pointed, mild comment made Nathanial's back tense. The cleric held a breath and then released it, carefully, reining in the emotions he wasn't quite able to parse. This wasn't like him. He was controlled. He had striven for it before he entered, but it hadn't worked, and now if he wasn't careful he could well end up on Tenebrae's list.

This shouldn't be happening at all, he wanted to remind himself, but the thought was a useless one. It was what it was, and something about Solomon's pain, his words and warnings, had struck at Nathanial's most basic self in a way he hadn't known was possible. He'd been born in the Temple. What did he care about the morals and religions of the world outside it?

And yet.

By the time the High Priest spoke again Nathanial had successfully schooled himself go proper blankness, his arms still clasped before him.

"Not so much as others," he said evenly, trying to ignore exactly why Tenebrae might be asking such a question. Solomon had been coherent enough, but perhaps the High Priest was still concerned about mental damage.

He isn't. You know he isn't. Nor should you care.

Solomon was seeing things no other Necromancer, or sorcerer, had ever seen. 'Seeing' being the key action. And if Tenebrae was concerned Solomon would lose that skill, he would try to prevent that from happening. By ... What? An operation of some kind? On his eyes?

Nathanial's skin prickled wildly with a hot flush of unease, but this time, he kept his voice emotionless. "What is your plan, High Priest?"

[skeletonenigma]

"The body," Tenebrae explained, "has a remarkable ability to adapt. To living conditions, to magic, to diets, to pain, to tolerance. The brain is no different. The brain is, if anything, even better at it."

The number one priority in any human being was survival. Any sorcerer could have told you that, but it worked on a subconscious physical level as well as a mental one. If something vital to survival was lost, even the brain could shift its strengths and abilities to compensate for it. Research into the phenomenon on the part of mortals was ongoing, but Tenebrae had witnessed it himself multiple times. Apparently, with certain forms of brain damage, it was even safer and more effective to simply remove the part of the brain that was damaged; after a learning curve, the parts that remained could slowly take on the functions of those that were lost. In time, it would be as if no damage had ever existed.

An interesting topic, but not one that Tenebrae had ever truly cared about. Until now.

"Magic," he continued, "works much the same way - at least up until the Surge. And occasionally, even after it. Look at Nefarian Serpine. The difference here is that our friend Serpine taught himself a whole host of new abilities. Cleric Wreath's happened 'by accident,' probably in reaction to refusing Necromancy. He lost his magic; he gained something new. That something new has failed in keeping him safe. If we want him to keep the ability, we have to make it vital to his survival. We have to remove, or damage, something else."

[peacefullywreathed]

The flush became an abrupt chill, and something heavy sank into the pit of Nathanial's stomach, his chest tightening. He'd always known Tenebrae was cold. It came with the territory, really. At its heart, the Temple was an institution of selfish people, people who feared death so much and believed so strongly that it could be overcome that they were able to work together.

But they were selfish. They were practical. They were arrogant. Nathanial was one of the few who recognised that last trait.

Tenebrae was cold. It was a fact Nathanial accepted and kept in mind. The High Priest was not a man to be crossed. That was how he had to be, to have made it to his position.

But this ... this went beyond the pale. Solomon Wreath had been in the service to the Temple for nearly four hundred years. He was eccentric in his dealings, it was true, but he had done a great deal more for the Temple's relationship with the outside world, and in some ways its research and artefacts, than most other clerics were even aware. Tenebrae was aware.

And for the sake of research, he would simply throw this man to the wolves. Never mind his years of service. Never mind his faithfulness. Never mind the warnings he'd spoken. Solomon was seeing the lifestream. He had seen something bad in his own magic--something enough to cause him to refuse it--and Tenebrae was simply ignoring it.

Nathanial was willing to follow Tenebrae because he was powerful, political, and authoritative. But Nathanial had rejected the previous High Priest when the man proved he was no longer fit to lead. He had proven it by displaying the traits of close-mindedness, traits which indicated he had become to secure in his thinking and his power. That was dangerous in a leader. A leader had to accept all counts--even those which proved him wrong.

In that moment, Nathanial saw Tenebrae not as his superior, but as a threat.

"Logical," he said steadily, without any hint that he had thought anything odd at all. Because he was currently standing before the leader of the Irish Temple, because that leader had already proven how cruelly he could turn on someone he perceived as traitor, Nathanial had no choice but to follow the man's train of thought. "The conduit appears to be in his eyes. Not reliant upon it, but where it is strongest. The question, then, is what manner of damage would retain the ability."

[skeletonenigma]

What manner of damage, indeed. Tenebrae had observed the same thing; Solomon himself admitted that seeing souls was easier with his eyes open. Yet it didn't seem to stop with his eyes closed.

The course of action was obvious, but given the gravity of it, even Tenebrae paused to consider.

It was a little like killing several birds with one stone. Or, in this case, killing one bird with several stones. Blinding Solomon, if it worked, would make it that much harder for the former Necromancer to leave the Temple under his own power. Wreath would be well and truly under the control of the Temple, dependent upon it even. It would rob him of a skill vital to survival, thus forcing the brain to adapt. And - time being of the essence, of course - if Tenebrae's theory was correct, it should replace his physical sight with the nearest effective thing. Which, in this case, would be magic. Powerful magic. Magic that, once needed, would never fade, even while Solomon healed from his violent withdrawal. And, if they didn't try to lessen any of the pain the procedure would normally eliminate, it even worked as another form of punishment. Even torture. Who knew, maybe the mere threat of that pain would be enough to convince Solomon to tell all he knew.

Tenebrae doubted it. But the punishment aspect was worth a look.

The only question, then, was how to go about it. Keeping the eyes intact was an obvious precaution to take, for multiple reasons, but only two that mattered. Firstly, there was always a chance Tenebrae was wrong, and they needed to be able to reverse the procedure. Secondly, if they just destroyed the eyes to take away Solomon's sight, then anyone else might be able to fix it should the worst come to pass. Kenspeckle leaped readily to mind. Professor Kenspeckle Grouse. Tenebrae couldn't risk that happening.

There was a lot he couldn't risk, and yet in a way, he was risking everything. The thought made him momentarily shiver - not with dread, but with anticipation.

"Not damage," he murmured. "Damage can be fixed by anyone with the right tools and knowledge. We would need removal, pure and simple."

Apart from anything else, damaged eyeballs could be healed by the body itself. It might not be enough to make Solomon's magic move over. Removing his eyes completely certainly would.

"We'd need to move quickly," Tenebrae informed Quiver, his voice taking on a more businesslike tone. "We'd need to start now. What do you think?"

[peacefullywreathed]

What did Nathanial think? He thought Tenebrae was insane. He thought the High Priest had crossed a line. Whether or not Solomon planned to reveal things about the Temple, submitting the man to additional torture was unnecessary.

And if he said any of that, Nathanial's own life would be forfeit.

He still couldn't explain why the words felt like ashes in his dry mouth as he answered. "I think speed is of importance, but stability also. He is weakened and he has been bleeding greatly. Transfusions and proper medical care would be wise, or such a procedure may kill him in turn."

[skeletonenigma]

Tenebrae nodded. "Which is why we need to start now, and move quickly. If you summon the doctors right away, it'll be at least an hour before we can start. Who knows what might happen in that time?"

Solomon likely wouldn't wake up. But he'd be healing the entire time. Not to mention every moment wasted here was a moment Skulduggery had to figure out what must have happened, and there was no telling what he would do. A week ago, probably nothing. Now? After Solomon had so clearly renounced Necromancy? Tenebrae shuddered to think.

And that, he knew, was another reason for never letting Solomon leave the Temple again. The instant Skulduggery knew what they'd done, he wouldn't rest until the Temple was destroyed - and revealing the truth of the Passage was the perfect opportunity to do so legally. Every sorcerer in the country, in the world, would try to wipe out Necromancy for good. And Tenebrae had no plans of being murdered just yet. Not now that they had a potential Death Bringer once again.

This was their only option, then. Tenebrae nodded to Quiver. "Do it. Make the preparations. Let me know when you're ready."

And he swept out of the room.