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]

Rafe had done something, that much was plain. Solomon had seen it, sort-of, as a ripple in the lifestream. But he couldn't see it; to his eyes, Raphael looked no different. He could hear it, though, and was shaking his head even as he closed his eyes in preparation for being Teleported.

It still wasn't pleasant. At all. Even bracing himself. "I think I prefer cars too," he mumbled, leaning on Skulduggery's arm as he waited for his senses to reorient themselves to the new part of the lifestream they were in now. Very much preferred cars. They were softer. They didn't make his head spin. Even though Skulduggery's Bentley had a faint glow.

Solomon patted her roof before he got in. "I could get used to you, Madam. Good evening, Valkryie, Fletcher."

They were going to get to the church long before the others did, but it was possibly just as well. Paddy would have questions, and there would hopefully be time to explain where this cab-driver had come from. Even still, in spite of the short drive, he very nearly dozed off himself. Carnivals were exhausting. So were half-days at the office. And this was while he probably should still be on bed-rest.

Either way, he jolted to proper wakefulness when the car pulled smoothly to a halt and Skulduggery turned off the engine. It wasn't really the motion; it was much too smooth for that. But there was something in the tenor of the glow that changed.

[skeletonenigma]

"We're here," Skulduggery announced, a little unnecessarily given that people were already getting out of the car. He hadn't undone his disguise yet, which he'd momentarily forgotten about as he reached for a scarf, wig, and sunglasses he didn't actually have, because there'd been no need for them. His hand hovered on the latch of the glove compartment for a second as the detective absorbed that unfamiliar fact. That same hand then went to touch his face, as if making sure the skin on it hadn't burned away during the short drive.

It hadn't. So Skulduggery deemed it safe to exit the vehicle, which was parked safely out of the way of other cars if not exactly legally, and step into public.

"Parking lot's full," Ghastly noted. "Evening Mass?"

"That's just what we need," grumbled Tanith. "The five of us to walk into a church right in the middle of a sermon."

Skulduggery had to keep looking down at his hands to make sure he wasn't suddenly a skeleton again. Completely irrational behaviour, and he was very much aware of that, but the manic need for constant confirmation was also helping to make him feel a bit better. "What's wrong with the five of us?"

"One of us is a skeleton, one of us is an Archangel, we're all sorcerers, and we're about to walk in and ask their priest for a pair of sunglasses back."

"The skeleton's disguised," Skulduggery replied. "The Archangel's surprisingly good at talking himself out of situations. We're not going to barge in with fire in our hands and someone walking on the ceiling. Besides which, don't be ridiculous; we'll wait to ask until the sermon is over."

[peacefullywreathed]

"I think I should take umbrage at that," Gabe grumbled good-naturedly as he rounded to join the others on the pavement.

Solomon was the last out of the car. Not because he had to be careful, although that was part of it; he still felt a little groggy and even with the Bentley's low-level glow it took a moment to find his way out of the door. Even then, he had to pause, tilting his head down as he laid a hand on the car's side and the way the glow wisped around his fingers like a luminescent mist. As if he could manipulate it if he wanted to.

He didn't.

"You need to name this car, Skulduggery," he said absently, feeling for the roof before moving carefully out from it. Once upright, his gaze was drawn to the same thing it had while still in the car: the church. The Bentley wasn't the only thing glowing.

The church's light was different, though. The Bentley's was like a small shaft of sunlight, like a reflection off Skulduggery's own soul which occasionally oscillated by the light of those others in it. Such as his own. The church ... reminded him of Kian. Soft white light--truly white, the most pure it could be--so pure rainbows were both there and not. Like Kian, because Kian wasn't really his. A reflection of the giver.

A reflection of God.

He had to stare. He couldn't help it. But, like before--that distant-seeming memory when he'd used magic in this church--the light didn't seem quite as bright as it could be. A bit grimy, like a light with its casing fixture dusty and not cleaned in a decade.

"Alright there, Sol?" Solomon felt Gabe's hand on his arm.

"Mmm." He tilted his head as if that would change the view, tracking the way the Archangel's own light and that of the church were drawn together, crested as merging waves and became all the stronger and brighter for it. His head throbbed, and all of a sudden he wished they weren't here while the service was in session, that he were there alone, that he didn't have to see all these blinding and frankly mystifying sides of people and objects he hadn't even known existed. The carnival wasn't as much of a holiday when he couldn't escape the things that made his life so different.

"My brother's offer still stands," Gabe said quietly in his ear, so no one else could hear it, and Solomon stiffened. That was all the Archangel said, however; he squeezed Solomon's arm and then pointed toward the doors. "Aw, we'll be all right. See? There's Paddy comin' to see 'em all at the door. The service is over. Won't even have to wait."

Truth enough, even though Solomon couldn't see the doors open he did see a little swirl of currents that allowed something to wash up out of the church, like a tide leaving a brilliant pebble behind.

Paddy's soul was an odd combination of Ghastly's and Skulduggery's. It was bright, that was the first thing; bright like sunlight never ended. But it was earthen, too, like an oasis in the desert. Which made sense, really. Which was what ministers were supposed to be to begin with. Solomon wondered how many of them actually were.

Then he felt the gentle, encouraging pressure on his arm and stepped forward, following Gabe's direction up onto the pavement and toward the church.

[skeletonenigma]

It was strange, how many little adjustments Paddy had to make. Some of them conscious, some of them not. His name was one of the first ones he noticed. 'Paddy' came so naturally right from the beginning that he turned around whenever he even thought he heard someone saying it, whether they were someone who would know the name or not. In contrast, Patrick O'Reilly - or even Father O'Reilly - sounded... not wrong, exactly. Just hollow. Not quite the whole truth. It was a name he'd been going by for most of his life, and Paddy suspected that was the only reason he still felt any connection to it at all.

Patrick O'Reilly was more of an assumed identity, now. A cover. It shouldn't feel like that, but it did. The name wasn't really his anymore.

A problem easily dealt with, though. Paddy was a natural enough nickname for 'Patrick' that most of his congregation was happy to call him that, despite the stubborn few still stuck in rigid formalities. Unfortunately, many of his colleagues simply refused to call him anything other than his 'proper' name.

It was also a little bit more of a stretch to ask anyone to call him Father Steadfast, so Paddy didn't ask anyone to. Still, ever since visiting Solomon in the hospital, it was relieving to meet one of those sorcerers and hear them call him Paddy without being reminded to.

"Paddy?"

Children, of course, only ever needed to be asked once. It was with a bright smile that Paddy turned to one of the children who'd been sitting in the front row, a girl of about six or seven whose birthday, if he remembered correctly, was coming up soon. Jen, that was her name. Short for Jennifer. "Yes, Jen?"

"Why were you wearing sunglasses the whole time?"

He'd been waiting for someone to ask. "Well, Jen, a good friend of mine came by a few days ago and asked me to hold onto them for him."

"But, but why were you wearing them?"

"Because the friend who gave them to me was trying to find an angel who got lost. An angel who was probably badly hurt. This was the only way I had of helping."

Jen's brow creased as she tried to work her mind around that. "Like prayer?"

"Yes," said Paddy. "Exactly like prayer. I've been doing a lot of that, too."

That seemed to satisfy Jen - if not quite her mother, who stepped closer to Paddy as Jen moved off out of earshot. "Why are you wearing them?" she asked. "A few of the mothers and I were wondering when you started."

He couldn't quite blame her for not even considering he was telling Jen the truth, but it was still with a hint of frustration that Paddy turned and smiled sadly at her. "I've made it a point never to lie to children. Hiding the truth is sometimes necessary, but outright lying never is."

Such confusion crossed her face that Paddy took pity on her and tapped the edge of his sunglasses. "Eye infection. Doctor's orders."

It wasn't an outright lie. Not really. He hadn't told her when wearing a pair of sunglasses was doctor's orders, which was a few years ago, or that this pair wasn't the pair he'd been prescribed. And, of course, that the infection was long since healed. But that was the main trouble with the world, he'd found. Children could accept the truth in its entirety. It was adults you needed to be careful with.

"Does that make me a doctor?" asked a familiar voice from behind Jen's mother. "Did you hear that, Gabe? You really should be listening to me when I tell you not to strain yourself."

Jen's mother whirled in surprise, and Paddy couldn't quite help the smile that broke out across his face, even as he tried not to imagine the skeleton he now knew lurked somewhere under that perfect disguise. "Skulduggery," he greeted the detective warmly. And Ghastly and Tanith, whom he'd met a couple of times, and Solomon, whom he hadn't seen since Skulduggery left the sunglasses with him, and -

Gabe. Something that had tightened in Paddy at the news of his disappearance finally loosened and hung placidly where it should have. "Mission accomplished, I take it? Glad to see you're doing better."

Jen's mother was gone. Yep. It was adults you needed to be careful with.

[impudentsongbird]

"Don't go gettin' a big head," Gabe retorted. "We won't have room in the world for yours and Rafe's."

The Archangel helped Solomon up the final step to the church proper, giving him another light squeeze and then putting the sorcerer's hand on Ghastly's arm so Gabe could turn to Paddy. He--Gabe, that is--was still grinning. Grinning because of the sunglasses, because of the collapsing relief in Paddy's soul, because of the gentle concern.

Before he did anything though, just because Paddy had been so genuinely concerned and Gabe could tell it, the Archangel stepped forward to give the priest a hug. When he pulled away his eyes were twinkling.

"Yep," he said with a nod. "Better than before then, even. Always helps when family's nearby." His grin broadened. "Hope you're ready, Pad, 'cos my brother's head's fit to take off the roof of your whole church."

"Does your family have any concept of subtlety at all?" Solomon asked rhetorically, head tilted and face rather careworn, but with a faintly amused-exasperated cast around his mouth and blank eyes. Those eyes stared past Paddy's head, even as he nodded to the man. "Paddy."

[skeletonenigma]

The hug was returned willingly, if a little hesitantly, because Paddy managed not to put too much thought into it. The subsequent good news helped. It wasn't hard to know which brother Saint Gabriel was talking about; 'Rafe' was a bit of a giveaway, even if the Bible wasn't. Far from needing a moment to adjust, though - and Paddy was pleased to see that he was correct in thinking he was past all that - he laughed. "I haven't truly been ready for anything this past week. In keeping with that tradition, no." Then he added, as an afterthought: "As long as he pays for the damages to my roof."

He really was past all that. Joking about the knowledge that he was going to meet another Archangel. Joking about the knowledge that he was going to meet another Archangel with sorcerers, to boot. One of whom was dead, one of whom was cursed at birth, and one of whom...

Paddy frowned. Solomon wasn't looking directly at him. Now that the priest's attention wasn't completely taken up by the angel he'd been worried sick over, Paddy suddenly noticed that the ex-Necromancer had grey hair. Not much, and certainly not enough to be obvious, but enough that Solomon looked vaguely dignified with it. Like he'd aged slightly overnight, emotionally as well as physically. Come to think of it, Solomon did say sorcerers tended to live longer lives, didn't he? With Solomon no longer a sorcerer, did that mean he'd age more quickly again?

No wonder he was so reluctant to give Necromancy up.

But there was something else, too. Paddy's frown deepened as he watched Solomon nodding to him, trying to pinpoint exactly what that something else was. The man looked otherwise normal. Nothing physical, then, which made sense, because it was more in Solomon's behaviour. In his dependency. He'd needed Saint Gabriel to help him up the steps, which Paddy could have believed was due to exhaustion, but then the angel made sure Solomon's hand was on another's arm before letting go. And the way Solomon wasn't looking directly at him, but rather past him, through him...

Paddy could feel ice trickling down his spine. "Solomon? What happened?"

[peacefullywreathed]

"You'll be lucky if he don't paint your ceiling red," Gabe said with a roll of his eyes. His smile didn't really ease. Nor did the glowing amusement in his eyes. At least, not at that; it dimmed somewhat at the shift in Paddy's regard.

Solomon barely paid attention, aware of the Archangel's changes if only because it was impossible, on some level, to not be aware of him. No, it was Paddy Solomon was looking into, and to his surprise he actually felt something close to dread as some of the oasis' moisture dried up. Not withdrawn, not in refusal, but with the radiating, sand-baking heat of the sun. Shock.

"Ah." Solomon's mouth twisted, and he was keenly aware of the congregation nearby, those who had already left the church and were chatting nearby, and those who were waiting to greet their minister (or were sidling past the rest, opting not to wait at all). "My former colleagues caught up with me. They ... decided that a little extra dependence might keep me from trying to leave again."

Some people understood enough of the context that their souls radiated shocked suspicion as well as curiosity. And something similar enough, from each to each, that he knew it was pity. He'd known it would be before he even said anything, which was why the words came out self-conscious.

Somehow it was different, to be telling Paddy this. He was a mortal, and one which didn't tend to simply accept hardship as a part of life, even while trying to change it. He was the sort to be genuinely shocked and saddened by it. Part of Solomon didn't want to see that. Another part of him felt oddly ... ashamed. Because Paddy had given of his time and his care even though he didn't have to, was initially frightened of Solomon's own magic, and Solomon's foolishness had led him into being injured. As if Solomon hadn't been careful enough with himself.

"Why don't we wait inside for you?" he suggested lightly, feeling almost itchy with the intense curiosity surrounding him. Once again, he was under a spotlight, and he didn't want to be there. Without realising it, he fisted the hand not on Ghastly's arm and stowed it inside his pocket before anyone could see the nail-scar on it.

[skeletonenigma]

The unspoken and unforced admittance that Saint Raphael was, apparently, responsible for most of Dublin's skyscrapers being painted red was not nearly as much of a surprise as it should have been. And it certainly didn't receive the amount of attention it was due, from Paddy or from anyone else. Paddy, for his part, found the whole thing amusing long before now. Discovering who the culprit was only made it more so, particularly in light of the politicians arguing among themselves about this grievous and flauntingly so-called 'evil' act. None of them had a clue how it was done, making most newspapers and news stations pockets of drama the last two mornings.

But there were more important things to pay attention to now.

Former colleagues - Necromancers. Current Necromancers. The bread knife that Solomon took wasn't any help, apparently. Nor should it have been, but...

But, a small part of Paddy wanted to think, anything would have been better than this.

That wasn't true, of course. At least Solomon was alive. He'd been convinced that if his 'former colleagues' ever caught up with him, they would kill him. Paddy was thankful that didn't happen. Thankful they didn't seem to have a grip on Solomon now. Thankful that despite everything Solomon had said before, he very clearly had friends to help him. Friends, and even Saint Gabriel. He didn't have to suffer through any of this on his own, as he'd expected to.

He shouldn't have had to suffer through any of this, period.

Paddy wanted to step forward and help Ghastly maneuver Solomon inside, but he was all too aware of the amount of eyes on them. He couldn't just abandon his congregation quite yet, and so all he did was nod. "Yes, good idea. I'll be right with you."

He moved back a little to give them room, and anyone else in the way followed suit after only a moment's delay.

[peacefullywreathed]

It took a moment for Solomon to take the step forward, following Ghastly's movement, but he couldn't help the relief that flickered over his face that he wouldn't need to go into details here and now. Not that he would have anyway, but more than that, he was going to get out from under the eyes of several dozen people. "Don't rush on my account."

Intense curiosity didn't leave a very comfortable ripple in the lifestream. Not a very comfortable one at all. It felt like being under a glass, heated glass through which the light was focussed. As if he was an ant, and they were the sunlight.

He wasn't expecting, upon entering the church, to feel as if he had waded into a pool of clearest water. It was so pure that it sang faintly in the air; so pure that he felt indescribably grimy just for being in it, and his step faltered.

Ghastly didn't stop, though, and Solomon managed to pick up his pace before the tailor paused belatedly. He was dazed enough that they were past the line of congregation members before he was hardly aware, his footsteps seeming to echo loudly in his ears and his soul both. The altar shone. The carving of Jesus on the cross was utterly visible, blood dripping, breathing, and with a gentle smile of benediction.

"There's a kitchen off to the right," he murmured to Ghastly, suddenly not wanting to be anywhere within the main hall.

[skeletonenigma]

It didn't occur to Ghastly what sort of effect the church might have on Solomon's new sight until the ex-Necromancer hesitated just inside the entrance. The relief that originally crossed his face at getting to move inside the church, away from the crowd, was completely vanished now, to be replaced by a sort of wary apprehension.

Ghastly wouldn't have thought that the church held anything bad, exactly, but perhaps Solomon just wasn't used to it. Maybe it was a little too overwhelming. Maybe it was a similar effect to when China saw God, only several times removed. Ghastly himself didn't feel any different when he passed over the threshold, but he'd never been religious. Skulduggery used to be, before he discovered magic. Maybe he, like so many others, could feel some of the peace that was supposed to radiate from places like this.

Then again, maybe he couldn't. He certainly didn't act like anything was different when he walked into this church. It was just another building to him.

Solomon's words were a very transparent request to get out of the chapel. Ghastly couldn't pretend to understand why, but he felt sympathetic nonetheless. "Sure," he nodded, steering Solomon gently over in that direction. "I was hoping for something to drink, myself."

"Ah, yes." Skulduggery followed them out into the smaller hallway. "A cup of tea would be splendid."

"I'm sure it would." There was a note of something in Skulduggery's voice Ghastly didn't dare give a name to. Something close to wistfulness? Maybe a mixture of that and some gratitude. Either way, it made the tailor grin.

True to his word, Paddy didn't take too much longer. Five minutes later, he'd walked into the kitchen to find six mugs of piping hot tea on the table - all brewed by Skulduggery, who insisted they each get one whether they wanted it or not. Paddy stopped in the doorway and blinked.

"I hope you don't mind my using your kettle," Skulduggery said by way of a belated request.

"No." Paddy, to his credit, recovered quickly and smiled. "Not at all."

"Oh, good. Your tea is right there."

[peacefullywreathed]

It made Gabe grin too. He was still grinning by the time Paddy came, curled up in a chair and happily sipping at his piping-hot tea (because he, unlike most of the others, didn't need to wait for it to cool). It was a rather cat-like position which Solomon chose not to focus too hard upon, especially since the Archangel's whole demeanour was something like a contented kitten. (The fact that he was seated right next to Skulduggery didn't help with that notion.)

Solomon ignored them both, cupping his tea in his palms and breathing in the steam, and using it to centre himself. He felt at once glad and chilled now that he was here. Glad because he couldn't see the kitchen, and it had changed beyond measure as far as his experience was concerned.

Chilled, because he still knew where he was. Because beneath his feet, in the cellar, there was probably still a tainted barrel of holy water holding the remains of his Necromantic cane. Because there was a knife missing from these drawers, a knife he'd meant to use to shed blood.

The vision of the man on the cross still seemed to dance before his eyes.

"I lost the bread-knife," he said abruptly, without quite meaning to except that he felt as if some kind of explanation was needed. Something, anything, to break the not-silence in which he was bound. Something to acknowledge the then and get to the now and maybe in some way make it all stop being so much of a weight. "Sorry. I can--replace it."

He'd just need to ask someone to buy one for him.

[skeletonenigma]

Tanith wasn't quite sure what a bread knife had to do with any of this, or why Solomon was deeming it the most important thing to discuss right then. Actually, no; she had some idea of the reason for the second part. It was always easier to talk about stupidly mundane things when you'd been through a trauma. She still didn't get where the subject of the bread knife came from, though.

Paddy did. Paddy's eyes widened in considerable surprise. He hovered like that in the doorway for a minute longer, faced with absolute silence from the kitchen, and then took the last chair at the table without touching the tea that Skulduggery placed there earlier. He steepled his fingers together under his chin and fixed Solomon with a look of such intensity that even Tanith, situated out of his direct line of sight, had to look away after a bit.

"No need," Paddy said softly. "I replaced it the day after you left. Solomon, I don't care about the bread knife. What happened?"

Solomon wouldn't see Paddy's expression, but maybe something of it would reflect in the priest's soul. A consciously decided, strong determination to get to the bottom of whatever was going on, and to help. Tanith half expected Skulduggery or Ghastly to jump in and explain the situation, but neither of them did. Either because they both expected Gabe to, or they - like her - decided Solomon needed to be the one who explained. It was Solomon Paddy asked, after all, and it was Solomon who needed to work through the trauma.

Tanith hadn't touched her own tea. It made her and Paddy the only ones who hadn't, although in her case it was just because she didn't really like tea. Tea was soothing. Tanith had too much adrenaline charging through her at any given moment to be soothed through situations like this.

[peacefullywreathed]

The oasis of Paddy's soul burst around him, filling the room with lushness. For a long moment Solomon didn't, couldn't, say anything at all. Then, not-quite-abruptly, Gabe stood up and turned to the others, still with his tea in his hand. "Y'all ain't been to a proper church for a while, have you? C'mon and I'll show you around."

It was a blatant excuse to leave Solomon and Paddy alone, even with the genuine enthusiasm in Gabe's being to share a 'proper church', and in that moment Solomon felt a fierce gratitude toward the Archangel. He said nothing, head not precisely bowed, as the others left the room, and even for several moments after that. It wasn't that he had to gear up his nerve, exactly. It was just that ... the others knew. They'd seen the damage. There'd been no need to explain. It was different making jokes and pretending the edges weren't there.

When he did speak, it was sudden. "I was stupid. When I heard about Gabe I needed to do something--anything. I left the Hibernian, and they were waiting for me. They took me back to the Temple."

Solomon couldn't exactly look into his tea, but he did anyway, if only to feel the steam on his face and its warmth, its scent. At least now he'd begun, it was surprisingly easy to close his eyes and pretend he was alone in the room, and just talk. "It turns out that Necromancy is literally addictive. I didn't know. The High Priest and one of my peers did. Being in the Temple made my withdrawal worse. Intensified it. Made it faster, I imagine, but worse than it should have been."

He paused for a moment to gather the words he needed, but not long enough for his mind and nerves to catch up and get in the way. This wasn't an explanation. It was almost a confession. Odd, that he felt comfortable doing so to Paddy and not Skulduggery or Gabe. "I saw things." Simply, quietly. "At first it was just painful, but then I ... saw things. My memories of Necromancy, working backwards from that day, but they were overlaid by the Scream."

Had he mentioned the Scream to Paddy? He couldn't remember; he looked up, not opening his eyes, but at the warmth of green foliage that made Paddy's soul. "Ever since I saw Saint Gabriel, I've been having flashes of his plane of existence. The one which contains the current of life, the souls. Necromancy registers on it as a never-ending Scream. My memories were overlaid with that, right back to the day that my magic settled--the Surge." Something ironic twisted his mouth. "I had to undergo my Surge all over again."

Solomon set his mug down carefully, because he was aware now of how his fingers trembled with adrenaline, and spread his hands palm up on the tabletop. Almost like a beggar. He watched them because he had to, because of how he'd avoided looking at them all this time--because of the open wounds he could see.

"I heard Him," he said softly, and something in his voice was hoarse with this thing he'd been trying hard not to think about, but which he could no longer avoid. "Begging. Giving in. I felt Him die." He laughed softly, a bit wonderingly, a bit apprehensively. "I should have died that day. I would have died that day, but--He was there. Not just ..." His fingers twitched, as if to indicate the scars on his palms. "Himself. The Man who gave me the bear. I could feel His hand on me, when it got too much. He was there."

The part the others didn't know. The part he didn't know how to begin to explain or describe to anyone but this kind mortal priest.

[skeletonenigma]

When one simply accepted the world of magic as fact - which Paddy was actually fairly close to doing now - the rest was only a natural progression of logic. Necromancy being addictive made sense. Magic in general was probably incredibly addictive. That kind of power right at your fingertips, prolonging your lifespan and letting you do the most fantastic things... who wouldn't be seduced by that idea? Magic was most definitely emotionally addictive, if not quite physically. Paddy wouldn't blame anyone for that.

From the sounds of things, Necromancy took that addiction one step further into physical withdrawal when one tried to end it. Paddy certainly wouldn't blame Solomon for that, either. His pride in Solomon's initial rejection of that magic, in fact, only grew stronger.

But the so-called Temple... they'd blinded him. Willingly blinded Solomon Wreath. For what? Even if they believed they were doing it for the right reasons, what reasons were they? Just to cause him pain? Just to cripple him? Bringing him back into the Temple even when they most likely knew the effect that would have - was that also deliberate? Or was that, in their eyes, like ripping off a band-aid and shortening the withdrawal period?

Paddy didn't know. He didn't particularly want to know, either. He was slightly ashamed to realise that if he ever came across the people who willingly did this to Solomon, he wouldn't even be able to feel pity for them. Paddy apologised silently for that, but moved on before he could dwell too far.

The next bit he didn't really understand, or at least not enough to be able to offer any advice on it. It turned out not to matter, though. Because Solomon placed his hands palm-up on the table in front of him, and for the first time that evening, Paddy saw the scars.

His breath caught. Stigmata. The wounds Jesus Christ suffered during his crucifixion. Nail-wounds in the hands, and the feet. A wound in the side from a lance. On the forehead, from a crown of thorns; sometimes on the back, from a whip. Before now, Paddy had only ever read about them. Seeing such an obvious example in person rendered him completely speechless for a lot longer than he would have preferred to be.

Because of that, it was a good thing he didn't need to ask about the Man who gave Solomon the bear - Paddy remembered that bear from back at the hospital, and the story surrounding it. He did need to take a moment before replying, however, shifting back in the chair and picking apart the multitude of feelings that had swamped him all at once.

The most important one, he decided, was pride. And that was what Paddy used as a springboard. "How many others have successfully given up Necromancy before you?" he asked. The priest was willing to bet on what the answer would be, if there were even any others at all. "And how many have so much as tried? I seem to recall you, yourself, telling me it was impossible. Congratulations, Solomon, you've just achieved it."

And Paddy was so very proud of him for that. It may have been Saint Gabriel who planted the idea, Paddy's urging that tipped Solomon over the edge, or Skulduggery and his friends who rescued him, but every moment in between was Solomon's own doing. This was Solomon's achievement. The stigmata alone were more than enough evidence of that. And now... now, blind and very likely emotionally crippled by that fact, the ex-Necromancer was still here. Still walking around. Still trying.

"It's no surprise to me," Paddy continued, "that He was there. Our Lord doesn't abandon those who don't wish to be." He hesitated, and then smiled. "Besides, what father doesn't keep an eye on his closest children? It may not feel like it now, but I think meeting Saint Gabriel was the best thing to ever happen to you."

[peacefullywreathed]

"No," Solomon said with a bitter laugh, "it doesn't feel like it now." He'd felt the movement, but it was only when he opened his eyes that he truly felt and saw the way in which Paddy's soul had all but engulfed the entire room. Even if Solomon had still been able to see physical objects, he doubted he would have been able to tell the lush green foliage didn't go on forever.

It even had its own wildlife.

So this was pride. Far from making Solomon feel secure, it only made him feel worse. He curled his fingers in and pulled his hands back, but left them resting on the table. He didn't look directly at Paddy, at the still, everlasting pool of water that made his centre. Instead he watched the colourful birds, or what passed for them. "I could see things afterward, still," he said. "That's why Tenebrae--blinded me."

He stopped just short of saying 'plucked out his eyes'. It wasn't relevant, and he couldn't bring himself to horrify Paddy any more than he already had. "A Necromancer who could see the lifestream, see souls in transit? Invaluable. He was afraid the Sight would wear off. He hoped that blinding me would force my magic to compensate by maintaining the Sight anyway. He was right."

Mostly. He'd been a bit off in execution. Solomon tracked the buzz of a dragonfly across the table.

"It's like a never-ending ocean of colour and sensations. I can see souls interacting. I can see you. You're an oasis, by the way. Skulduggery is a strained-glass window. Ghastly is good tilled earth. Tanith is dutiful assurance." He hesitated a moment. "Rafe said once he'd recovered he'd be able to heal me, if I wanted him to. I told him no."

Now Solomon looked at Paddy, though he wasn't aware of the way his face was tight with frustration and ... something else. Not quite despair. Not exactly aversion. Desperation.

"But I don't want it." There. There, it was said, the thing he hadn't wanted to admit and couldn't help but feel. "I can see things no one else can imagine, it's the only way I'll be able to use magic at all anymore, and I don't want it. And the worst thing--" He laughed and it was strained. "--the very worst thing is that if I change my mind, they wouldn't think less of me at all."

But he would. He'd feel like a coward. He hadn't even known he'd felt like a coward until he met Gabriel, until he'd spoken to Paddy, until he'd remembered the fight with Vile and those he'd thrown to the lion. He knew what cowardice felt like now and part of him wanted to go back to that blissful, arrogant ignorance.

How was he meant to handle this? He had no idea. Suddenly what he thought of himself, what others thought of him, mattered. It mattered and he didn't know how to accept the fact that it did, when so much of him wanted to do what China had done--shove it all away and pretend it wasn't there. Only he knew it was there. And he wouldn't stop knowing it was there, even if he asked Raphael to heal him. Just like he wouldn't have stopped knowing the Scream was there even if he'd stayed a Necromancer and gone on with the Passage.

"I don't want it," he said again, but the tension had all evaporated and he said it with the exhausted vulnerability of a half-grown child who didn't know what to do except that everything hurt and they were half-hoping a grown-up could still fix it ... even though in their heart of hearts they knew it couldn't be fixed.

[skeletonenigma]

So the Necromancers did have reasons. Purely selfish ones. It didn't in any way justify what they'd done, nor did it make Paddy any more sympathetic to them. And on his own purely selfish note, he was glad he'd taken Solomon's advice and chosen a new name for himself. Men who had no problem with blinding one of their own would have felt no guilt over manipulating a priest, were they ever to discover Paddy existed.

He felt rather less shock at being told he was an oasis than he otherwise might have. Unlike the others, Paddy didn't need that context to have an idea of what Solomon was talking about. He'd helped enough people to know that souls were as varied as life was. As circumstances were. He hadn't been picturing such literal interpretations of souls, but in a way, that made sense too.

"Of course you don't want it."

It wasn't a humouring agreement, or a command, or accompanied by pity. It was simple and genuine acknowledgment, perhaps mixed with a hint of confusion as to why Solomon's reaction should have been anything different. "That's nothing to be ashamed of. You've been unspeakably powerful and self-reliant for... well, centuries. And now, not only is your magic gone - or passive - but you're blind. Lifestream and souls aside, no one expects you to want that, least of all me."

Paddy had seen this during certain confessions before. There were people who had a tendency to believe that any sort of fear was a weakness of character. Paddy usually knew what to say: it wasn't. Fear was human. Giving into fear lamentable, but natural and understandable. It was the overcoming of fear that was extraordinary.

He didn't try to say that here. Solomon either already knew it, or wouldn't accept it.

"Why don't you want it healed?" Paddy asked. "Why did you say no? It wasn't because of what others would think of you, or you wouldn't be worried about that now. It's not anyone else's opinions of you that concern you, is it? It's yours."

The ex-Necromancer didn't want to admit the truth, even to himself. Because in Solomon's eyes, that would be acknowledging a weakness.

[peacefullywreathed]

That was the thing about Paddy Steadfast. It wasn't that he was mortal, although perhaps his mortal perspective was part of it. He didn't have the time to rest on his laurels; he cut through to the heart of the matter. It was unnerving and relieving at once, and either way, Solomon had to resist the urge to fidget. He hadn't fidgetted in centuries.

He still clasped his hands to keep his nerves from showing as much, gazing sightlessly down at them. How was it that a mortal priest could see through him so clearly, when Solomon was the one who could see souls? There was almost no point in obfuscation, even if Solomon had felt that urge. For the first time in a long time, with this man alone, he felt no such urge. For whatever reason, he trusted Paddy in a manner that was almost completely alien.

"I wanted a reminder of what it felt like to stand unafraid," he confessed. "You have to understand--Necromancers are Necromancers because they fear death just that much. I was no different. And then when Tenebrae ..." his voice failed on him for a moment before he summoned the words. "He offered me a choice. He was always going to take my eyesight, but he offered me painkillers in exchange for information as to how and why I'd chosen to leave Necromancy. I refused it to protect Gabe, and for the first time I ... felt brave. I didn't want to lose that feeling."

Not by giving up what he'd endured to feel that way. Except that that feeling hadn't lasted. He looked up, his face ragged, expression all the rawer for the blankness in his eyes. "For the first time I knew myself for all those centuries as a coward. I don't want to be that again."

He was just tired of the endless maelstrom of colour. The reminder of the danger he was in. Of everything he'd lost. Proper sight. Proper colour. Proper views. Writing. Reading. Autonomy. He was practically helpless. It was unbearable.

[skeletonenigma]

"You wouldn't be a coward." Paddy felt a smile breaking through, and didn't try to hide it - although he did try to turn it gentle, for Solomon's sake, before remembering Solomon wouldn't even see it. Even then, the smile didn't fade, because Solomon would be able to hear it, and that was important enough. "There are no hard and fast rules for bravery. Only individual perception. Solomon, asking for your eyesight to be healed does not erase what you did. It doesn't erase that the Temple could know about Gabe, but don't, because of you. It doesn't change that you were brave, that you felt brave, and that you don't anymore. And it certainly isn't going to make you a coward. All it changes is your ability to see, and your opinion of yourself. That's really all that matters in the end."

It was actually part of Paddy's feelings about sentimentality, too - a topic he'd preached about only a few weeks ago. You didn't need objects to confirm who you were. Sometimes people needed or wanted the reminder, and that was perfectly okay. But if you began relying on those objects to tell you what you already knew, something was wrong. Like people who bought fancy cars for no reason other than their expense - telling the world how successful they were. Or people who hoarded, believing that if they ever got rid of anything they owned they'd be lost - or worse.

Solomon didn't need to be blind to confirm what he'd done for himself. Asking to be healed wouldn't demean his achievement in any way. If he wanted to be blind, if he wanted the reminder, Paddy would support him the entire way. And, from the looks of thing, he'd be far from the only one.

"I suspect," he continued after a moment, "that part of the reason you're still struggling is because you believe you've already made your decision, and you have to stand strong. But you haven't made it yet. There's nothing to stand strong against. So tell me now, Solomon - you don't have to be unable to see to know your worth. The question is, how do you want to see yourself?"

[peacefullywreathed]

It all make sense. It all made sense and it didn't change one thing about what Solomon was feeling. He didn't dare look up and around him, but after a moment, something occurred and he glanced up with an ironically amused tilt to his mouth. "How do I want to see myself? That was awful, even for a priest."

That wasn't what Paddy meant, he knew, but he needed that little bit of distance. A bit of humour, to offset everything else. Otherwise he'd drown in the questions for which he didn't have answers. Which was why, after a moment, he looked away.

"I don't know." Even that much was an admittance. This was something for which logic wasn't any help at all. "If Raphael heals me, then my magic will have no outlet. I don't think I can give it up." It was too much a part of him, not in its nature but in its presence and nearness. "What if I fall back into Necromancy again, just for the sake of having it?" He wasn't sure he could be strong enough to resist. Maybe now, but after days, weeks, years knowing there was magic there and only one way to access it? He'd rationalise. He knew he would, because even Skulduggery had.

At least this way he could still use it, in a way that barred him from traditional Necromancy altogether.

And still he wanted it all to be gone. That was the problem. Things he wanted, and things he now knew he shouldn't want. Things he wasn't sure he was strong enough to ignore.

That didn't stop Skulduggery, did it?

He found himself gazing out the door of the kitchen, and only knew it because he could see the coloured mist seeping across the floor--souls in interaction, whose attention was turned away but were still too near to fully ignore. Skulduggery was, undoubtedly, a 'good' person. But even he'd fallen. Of course, his circumstance had been different. Never-ending in its own way. It wasn't like he could just give back being a skeleton.

Solomon's thoughts ran round and round, relevant but never quite linking well enough for him to see the point. Dimly he realised how tightly his hands were clasped together, that he could feel the roughness of the scars under his palms. He shifted in the chair and felt the bulge of the teddy-bear in his pocket.

"Father, why have You forsaken me?!"

The memory felt something like a shaft of light. It may not have, if he'd just heard the words, just knew the story, but he didn't. He'd felt those final moments. Felt that despair, knowing he was abandoned, and then in equal moments felt the warmth of a hand and known he wasn't. But even Jesus had doubted.

It was enough of one to send his thoughts on a somewhat linear track.

"Live, Kian. Live now you have something worth living."

How? he wanted to demand, and he knew equally that no answer would be forthcoming. Not from his father. Not from Skulduggery, not from Jesus, not even from God.

He shifted his elbow against the teddy-bear again. Maybe a little from God.

"I don't know," Solomon repeated, but calmer than before. He still felt like a bundle of tension, but more like it was shifting away, moving by him, than holding him captive. Not a certainty, but still a collection of choices coming together. Settling. Resignation. Resolve. Awareness. "I've changed."

"Your magic is different. You're blind. You're an Elder. I'm not the one who's changed, and certainly not of my own free will."

Solomon smiled wryly. China wasn't wrong. Oh, she'd walked into that situation of her own free will, but blindly. Solomon had known quite well the consequences and walked into it anyway. A man who'd thrown twenty-three people to Vile. A man who'd suffered pain to protect an Archangel's identity. People didn't make sense at the best of times, and Solomon was finding he was making even less sense to himself than he thought he ever would.

"I can't really go back." Even if he was healed, he'd know what lay just beneath. Maybe it would be enough to keep him from taking up Necromancy again. But he'd always know it was there. He'd always wonder. Would he ever stop trying to see it? Would having eyesight ever be more than a pretence that it wasn't there?

The dragonfly buzzed across the table again, going the other way. Solomon stared down at it, shifted his hand so he felt the vibration against his knuckles. The construct wavered and for a moment, was nothing more than a coloured vein in a greater current.

Would knowing it was there be enough to use it anyway, the way he could now? And if it was, did it matter to what manner of Sight he'd want?

"You know, I just got elected as a leader of Ireland's magical population," he found himself saying. He seemed to recall someone, at the Hibernian, explaining the politics to Paddy. "I'm still not exactly sure how it happened, except that our new Grand Mage is probably senile."

Not having magic would be a rather bad thing. Being able to see peoples' inner motivations had already proven to be a very good one. And he actually had something to do with himself in the meantime, even if it was something he'd never imagined. Could he do it without magic? Probably. Tome had been a Teleporter. You didn't need magic to be a bureaucrat. Having eyes would be more of a benefit there.

One moment he felt as if he'd made a decision one way, and then the next the other. Yet at the same time it didn't feel like a struggle, because he already knew what it would be and shied from it--for just a little longer. Solomon moved his hand and the dragonfly coalesced into view a couple of feet away. For a moment, at the same time, it was still just by his fingers.

"It keeps giving me headaches," he said plaintively.

It was childish. He knew it was. An objection to something to which he was already resigned, but to which he still on some level objected, for no reason other than the desire to hear someone say it would be all right in the end. It had been a long time since he'd settled for meaningless comfort. He just wasn't sure, anymore, whether all of it was necessarily meaningless.

[skeletonenigma]

Paddy laughed, if only because Solomon didn't quite manage the feat. "I'll admit, it might not have been the right time. I just couldn't resist."

He wouldn't have drawn attention to it at all if Solomon hadn't. Humour as a coping mechanism. A trait he suspected many sorcerers shared - or at least the ones he'd met. Paddy was occasionally guilty of it as well.

He let Solomon talk after that, smile fading quickly, but leaving understanding in its wake. At its most basic, Solomon was just talking about giving in to temptation. It was a struggle everyone went through to some degree; Solomon was just having a much more difficult time of it. Because the consequences were more severe, the potential repercussions catastrophic, and the amount of good Solomon could do otherwise simply mind-boggling.

He certainly had changed. In the space of a week, Solomon Wreath was already different from the man who'd first walked into Paddy's church questioning the existence of God. And that was after the initial trauma of meeting Saint Gabriel. To say he'd changed could probably be considered the understatement of the century.

And now, even more so. Paddy's eyes widened. "An Elder?" Yes, that had been explained to him; usually by Tanith or Valkyrie, a few times by Ghastly, and once by Skulduggery. He'd been worried about the possibility of the Sanctuary deciding it was too dangerous to let a 'mortal' priest go free with intimate knowledge of their world. Fortunately, that didn't sound like it would be the case. And certainly not now, with Solomon serving on it. Solomon serving on the Council of Elders.

"How did..." Paddy paused, frowned, tried to smile. "You accepted it, though?"

That was a mark of just how strong Solomon really was. Put through the wringer in every way, shape, and form, yet willing to take on the leadership of a whole country. He may not have volunteered for it, but surely it was a position you could turn down? Solomon definitely wasn't lacking for excuses to turn that down. It likely wouldn't have taken much convincing for him to be left alone, either.

"Ah." Paddy glanced up at a corner kitchen cupboard. "That, I think I can help with. Would headache pills work? We have Advil."

It was half a joke, half seriously offered. Paddy still didn't know everything about the world of magic, after all. Maybe sorcerers could still benefit from Advil.

[peacefullywreathed]

"It seemed prudent," Solomon said. "As an Elder I'll be too much in the public eye for Tenebrae to try and have me killed very often." Or anyone else who might be holding a grudge, for that matter. He smiled again, lopsidedly, at Paddy's disconcerted tone of voice.

"The nomination was a matter of politics, of course. Corrival Deuce is well-known for having a less-than-political agenda. He's a good man, but he has no time for bureaucrats, and he nominated his right-hand man for the other position. Had he tried to nominate someone else with whom he was associated, people would have accused him of favouritism. I was a 'balancing entity'."

It made sense. It all made perfect sense and it gave Solomon an added layer of protection, as well as something to do. He'd had no reason to say no.

At that Solomon could only laugh. It was quiet and ironic, but even so. It hadn't been the response he'd wanted, but he wasn't sure what response he wanted. He shouldn't have been surprised. One made one's own comfort, after all. "Maybe it would, between it and Kenspeckle's holy-water concoction."

Solomon felt for his mug of tea and found it, but it had gone cold; he was just debating finishing it or not when he caught the sound of slamming doors outside the church. He lifted his head, tilting it toward the door. "That's Rafe and the others, I imagine."

It felt at once as if nothing had been resolved and yet everything had been. Solomon's feelings hadn't really been assuaged, but he felt better anyway. Maybe it was just having someone to talk to. Maybe it was because something had settled, even though his feelings hadn't actually changed. Either way, he was more stable. Not completely so, but better; enough to leave the kitchen. The sorcerer set down the mug again and rose, feeling out the edges of the table. It didn't really help, even though he knew where the exit was; he didn't know where the chairs were. Paddy was almost immediately by his side, however, and Solomon let the priest guide him toward the door. (Solomon kept himself turned stoically away from the altar.)

They'd barely reached the aisle, interrupting the others' conversation, when the doors burst open. Solomon blinked, startled, at the sight of Rafe sprinting between the pews, and it wasn't until he heard the click of claws and panting breaths, and then a joyful bark, that he realised why. Instinctively he pulled back, stumbling over one of the pews, but the Archangel wasn't aiming for him.

Paddy's oasis rustled wildly and half-vanished beneath the radiance of metaphysical sunlight as Raphael tackled the priest and sent him toppling to the floor. Catching his balance by gripping the back of a pew, Solomon looked up. "What's happening?" It sounded ... slobbery. He wasn't. Was he? Solomon's voice was filled with amused incredulity. "Is the Archangel licking the priest's face?"

[skeletonenigma]

"Yes," Skulduggery agreed, sounding just as incredulous about it as Solomon did, if a little more unsure. That would have been proof enough of the skeleton's reaction, if he wasn't also currently wearing a face that mirrored his voice's bafflement. "Yes, he is."

Tanith was laughing. So were Erskine and, to an extent, Barney, both having just entered the chapel behind the bounding dog. Ghastly leaped forward to try and save Paddy from his slobbery fate, whereas Paddy was far too stunned to do much of anything other than uselessly try to push the chocolate lab off of him. It was a surreal scene. It was also one of the few times Skulduggery felt genuine sympathy towards a Catholic priest. It probably wouldn't be the only time he ever felt sympathy for someone meeting Raphael.

Barney, for his part, still looked slightly shell-shocked. He was managing laughter, and managing it admirably, but there weren't many mortals who could take watching someone transform into a small boy, and then a large dog, all in one afternoon. He was a brave man. Not foolishly brave, either, as was usually the case whenever Skulduggery admitted the trait in someone.

The detective looked back in time to see Paddy still sprawled out on the floor, despite Ghastly finally managing to haul Rafe backwards. It was a moment before the priest sat up slowly, eyes clamped shut and shaken, but still inexplicably smiling. He shook his head, wiping at his face with the sleeve of his robe. "It's an honour to meet you too, Raphael."

Skulduggery blinked. This was not how priests were supposed to take things, let alone... divine things. It went against every single experience he'd ever had. If someone like Paddy existed back when Skulduggery was a child, he might never have tried to break away from the illogical faith. He might even have gone on to become a priest himself, given the right circumstances.

[impudentsongbird]

Gabe was laughing madly, sprawled in one of the pews. He'd known as the car pulled up just what the other Archangel had planned--it would've been difficult to miss that tenor of mischief and the skin Rafe had been wearing. The part that really, truly made it worthwhile was the look on Skulduggery's face.

"I need to get a leash and a muzzle," Merlin said as he approached behind the others, but his grin belied his words. Rafe panted happily, tongue lolling, still on two paws and leaned into Ghastly's grip, but without straining against it. His tail whapwhapwhapped madly against the tailor's legs.

"Rawf!" he barked happily in response to Paddy's greeting.

"Shouldn't you be controlling him?" Solomon asked Gabe without much hope, torn between laughing and bemusement. "I'd hate to be an accessory to a priest being ravaged by a dog."

"Where'd be the fun in that?" Gabe asked innocently, eyes wide as he sat up even with a grin that fair split his face. He made to rise but in the heartbeat necessary for the motion the man was gone and a black lab was in its place, shooting out from between the pews to tackle Rafe.

The older Archangel went wrenching from Ghastly's hands with a yelp, rolling to his feet and growling. Gabe danced on his paws, ears flicking in a very smug sort of manner, tail held high. With a bark Rafe lunged at him, and then all at once there was a not-very-vicious-at-all pair of dogs rolling on the floor as if they were still half-grown puppies and the church a playground.

[skeletonenigma]

Skulduggery was forced to wonder if any of the amusement he was feeling actually came from him. Not that it mattered, of course; the feeling was genuine either way, just different in its inception. That was something Skulduggery figured out for himself recently. Yes, he and Gabe had some sort of soul connection that allowed them to subconsciously share feelings back and forth, but that didn't mean Skulduggery was magically capable of feeling anything he couldn't have or wouldn't have before. An Archangel disguised as a dog knocking a priest over was amusing in any circumstance.

It made it easier to realise that Skulduggery was relying on Gabe, partway, for some of the stability from Necromancy and from what Landel had done. Because it meant Skulduggery was perfectly capable of achieving that stability on his own.

Not that he was going to get used to Gabe being there. The Archangel wouldn't stay forever, much as Gabe tried to argue to the contrary.

It also meant that their connection was deep enough - or perhaps Skulduggery just knew Gabe well enough - that when the innocent reply was delivered to Solomon, Skulduggery could almost predict what he'd see when he turned around. And, sure enough, there Gabe was, a large black Labrador. Barely in one place long enough to let that fact sink in to anyone's minds before leaping off to go and tackle Rafe.

"Well, that's one form of control, I suppose." Skulduggery shook his head bemusedly. "Hardly the sheepdog approach, but..."

Ghastly, his back very firmly towards the two romping dogs for the moment, helped Paddy back to his feet. "Sorry about that," he apologised on behalf of... maybe the Archangels, more likely everyone there. "You think you can handle anything at a certain point, and then..." He sighed. "And then there's that."

Paddy nodded as he dusted himself off. "It's quite alright. I'm fine. I could use a shower, but otherwise, I'm fine."

Ghastly glanced at Skulduggery. There was a moment, as their eyes met, where a thousand unsaid words passed between them. They twitched the corner of Ghastly's mouth up, and, preferring not to see the inevitable smirk on the tailor's face, Skulduggery was the one who looked away first.

Tussling dogs. It was - dare he say it - adorable. There was something fundamentally wrong with Skulduggery's feelings towards the romp at the moment, but he chose to ignore that.

[impudentsongbird]

"I'd say they're being gentle," Merlin said, "but with them, it's hard to say. Paddy Steadfast, I presume?" The older sorcerer held out his hand toward the priest, smiling warmly. "Merlin. I came with this reprobate to rescue Gabe from a situation in which he apparently didn't need rescuing."

Solomon cocked his head, easing himself down into the pew without actively looking at Merlin and smirking tolerantly. "What was it you were saying about being gentle?"

"I said they were being gentle," Merlin pointed out with great dignity. "I didn't say anything about me."

In a whirlwind of fur and dust Gabe managed to detach himself from the tussle and trotted toward Skulduggery to flop down onto the detective's feet with a huge and contented sigh. Fur still drifting in the air, Rafe bounded toward Barney and Erskine, tail wagging nineteen to a dozen and yipping excitedly. He didn't really need words to speak. Play with me! Play! Play! Play!