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

Entry tags:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Tenebrae had known, right away, right when he first heard about Cleric Wreath's betrayal, that something was wrong.

Not with the way Solomon currently felt, or why he'd reacted in certain ways. That was all perfectly understandable, if disappointing. No, what Tenebrae couldn't figure out was why Solomon had decided to do any of this in the first place. The only reason Tenebrae could think of that might possibly work was simply... impossible. No other word for it. The relationship between Solomon and Skulduggery Pleasant was much too fractured over the years for the Skeleton Detective to confide in him.

It was intriguing.

Before Solomon, Tenebrae had never trusted Necromancers who spent most of their time outside the Temple. He himself was Temple-born, as were most of those currently living here. He'd been worried, in particular, about a Cleric in the position of outside liaison, someone who knew all of the Temple's deepest secrets. But while he still didn't trust Solomon as such, Tenebrae had long since accepted that he could trust Solomon's faith. Necromancy, after all, was all-consuming, regardless of where you were. And fear, fear of death, fear of punishment, could almost always be replied upon.

Until now, apparently.

Any other low-level Necromancer, and Tenebrae might have let them go. It happened occasionally; someone young and eager wanting to explore the outside world. Tenebrae didn't begrudge them that. Sometimes they succeeded, sometimes they came crawling back. It was the way of the world. Solomon Wreath, however... no more allegiance to the Temple meant no more reason to keep its secrets. And Tenebrae couldn't have that.

It took the man a few hours to wake up, and Tenebrae was alerted when he had. The High Priest took a few extra minutes to finish up in his office, then went down to the dungeons by himself. Solomon would come back to them, and he would come back to them properly. That meant, first and foremost, Tenebrae knowing what had caused Solomon to stray in the first place. After that, it meant Solomon choosing to come back. Tenebrae had confidence in that part; that part would be simple.

They didn't even need to chain him up. Tenebrae had ordered them not to. Waste of materials. There was no way Solomon would even have the strength to stand, he knew - let alone try to escape. One locked door when Wreath was alone would be more than enough.

Tenebrae stood silently in the room for a moment, arms folded, observing.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" he asked eventually, with a kind of detached curiosity. Genuine though the curiosity was, the question was really only a bit of small talk. "Or, well. Not pain, precisely. More like an overbearing weight, or so I've been told. Like something's trying to claw its way out of you."

He didn't smile. It wasn't a sensation he wanted anyone to go through, least of all someone he should be able to trust. "You know what that something is. It's easily repairable. We could repair it in the next hour, if that's what you want."

Tenebrae's voice made Solomon's eyes snap open and his breath catch with surprise. He hadn't even known the man was with him; hadn't even heard a door open, or felt a shift in the magic. Why would he? Here, the Temple overtook everything else.

Solomon closed his eyes and took as deep a breath as he could manage. He forced his fingers to open, pressed his palms to his sides. The action made his palms sting wildly, but he welcomed the entirely physical pain. It was different to his magic. Different to the feel of his own soul tearing itself apart, his magic and his self at war.

Another breath. He examined himself in the dark, the confines of his body. The greatest tremble was in his hands, but he could feel it impending in his limbs as well--not precisely a shiver, not precisely an illness. His jacket wasn't the only thing that was gone; his shoes were as well, his feet bare against the stone floor. Another breath.

It was strangled in his chest as his magic whiplashed in him once more in response to some tiny change in current in the Necromancy around him, some ripple-effect of a Necromancer anywhere in the rooms above. Solomon's back arched, his fingers digging into his thighs, and because he had been taking the breath he couldn't keep from crying out. A moment later he clamped his lips shut and managed to keep them like that until finally his magic had loosened its grip on him once more and he was left gasping on the floor, dizzy and short-breathed.

This was only the beginning, he knew. How long would it be before there was no respite? And what would happen after that? He should have asked Skulduggery when he had the chance.

Solomon swallowed, tried to summon some moisture to his mouth and failed. Still his voice was impressively even, if soft and hoarse, when he spoke. "No, thank you. It's not particularly what I want, I have to admit."

Not that he wanted this, either, but of the two, it was still the lesser evil. For the moment.

Edited 2013-03-27 12:07 (UTC)

"Yes it is." Tenebrae walked over to lean against the wall. He would have sat down, if a chair had been available, but it was less about comfort and more about making it absolutely clear he didn't intend to go anywhere anytime soon. "You're, what? Two days gone? Three? It's only going to get worse from here, Cleric Wreath. You're putting yourself through pain you definitely don't want, for an eventual result somewhere off on the horizon you're not sure you want and aren't even sure will be there. Tell me, what about that makes any sort of sense?"

He was practically convulsing on the floor. Tenebrae's intrigue only grew. Save one, he'd never known anyone to succeed in giving up their Necromancy powers, and that one case had a reason - a driving force - strong enough to pull the sorcerer through. The simple fact of the matter was that Necromancers tended to be incredibly selfish. Overriding that tendency... what had pulled Solomon even this far?

Without waiting for an answer to his previous question, Tenebrae leaned forward. "Why are you doing this, Solomon? What possible reason could you have? Is it fear?" He paused, and for the first time, he smiled. "Are you scared of something?"

Solomon almost laughed. It was just like Tenebrae, to assume he knew best. It was something about the man Solomon had always disliked, but because he was a faithful man, a powerful sorcerer and an adequate leader of the Temple, Solomon had been willing to put up with it. Now, though, he huffed something that could have been either that laugh or a groan.

Tenebrae had no idea. It wasn't even a matter of Tenebrae pretending, as leaders did, and Solomon letting him pretend. It was a matter of Tenebrae being so completely wrong, in ways he couldn't imagine, and Solomon knowing it with a stark clarity that almost made it funnier for the fact Tenebrae would never accept it.

He waited for the latest pain gripping him to pass, then opened his eyes to look up at Tenebrae, not even able to care at the way the High Priest loomed over him. His face was lined with pain, his eyes glittering with something approaching feverishness. Not quite, but enough to indicate an impending illness.

"Yes," he said hoarsely, because it was true. What would be the point in denying it? "As are you, T- Tenebrae--"

His magic seethed and Solomon's back arched again, his last word strangled with it. Soon. So soon. They were getting quicker. His head swimming, Solomon rolled over to grip the floor and press his face to the stone, hoping its solidity might help keep him grounded even while his body twitched and jolted with little spasms.

This was bad. Or it was good. He didn't know yet. Being at the Temple had made things so much worse, so much more quickly, but he didn't know whether that meant it would all be over sooner--or if it would just kill him quicker. He suspected it would probably be the latter. Out of the Temple, it would have been easier to handle--he would have had Professor Grouse's help, and the pain would have come in longer tides. Given him the chance to adjust.

Not here. He had been wrong. There was no respite, while he was here.

"Th- there's--worse things than death--Tenebrae," he managed to say, his voice as hitched as his breathing, his body. "Necromancers ... have always been afraid." He rolled again, this time onto his side, his hair plastered over his face. "I've merely--found something--of which I should be af- afraid."

His tone trailed upright, his voice clenched in a moan, and he arched on the floor, fingernails scraping themselves raw on the stone.

Edited 2013-03-27 12:10 (UTC)

Things worse than death. Tenebrae's smile grew fixed. If he didn't know any better, he'd think Solomon Wreath was lecturing him. Lecturing him. As if he'd gained some higher level of understanding over the last few days. His tone would no doubt be condescending if Tenebrae bothered to try and listen past the pathetic wheezing.

He didn't like that. He really didn't like that.

"I'm not going to stand here and debate philosophy with you," he informed Wreath coolly. "You know the arguments as well as I do. The only thing I don't know is what changed for you this past week, which puts me at a disadvantage in a debate, as you well know. I have no intention of playing that game with you."

He pushed himself off the wall and knelt all the way down, putting himself on a closer level with Solomon, looking the suffering Necromancer straight in the eye. "Here's what I do know. You're dying. It doesn't take a genius to see that being here, right in the Temple, is making it worse. Look at yourself, Solomon. It's only been a few hours, and you can barely lift your head. Furthermore, you're about as far away from any practicing Necromancy as it's possible to be while remaining within the bounds of the Temple. I wonder..."

He reached out and gripped a flickering shadow in the corner. Slowly, pointedly, Tenebrae dragged it slowly across the rough stone floor, drawing it into his hand. "How does this feel?"

That was the problem with Tenebrae's always believing he knew best, of course. Perhaps if he'd been willing to listen, Solomon might have explained. Might have said what he'd seen--not Saint Gabriel, but the lifestream and Necromancy as its direct opposite.

Except he wouldn't. Solomon hadn't expected he would. Talking about all that now would only result on Tenebrae's never letting him go until he knew all Solomon did about what he'd seen, about what he could see. At least this way Solomon could, hopefully, expunge himself of that taint and die free quickly. Hell likely wouldn't be much better, but he wouldn't be used by his own magic.

He should have known better than to believe Tenebrae would take even the remotest lecture well.

Everything sharpened to a point so suddenly that all Solomon could hear was the Scream, shrieking in his mind and his soul, a pounding un-noise that felt like fingernails on a chalkboard taken to the nth degree. And he was the chalkboard. His head snapped back and he cried out, his magic pushing at his skin like water against a dam, reaching greedily for those shadows and failing. He felt something in his eyes and nose give, something too thick to be water.

His stomach heaved. Solomon barely managed to roll again before he retched, tasting bile, tasting blood, his ears ringing with the shriek of that shadow's soul raked across the floor and his own being.

Edited 2013-03-27 12:13 (UTC)

Tenebrae straightened up and stepped backwards as quickly and sharply as if he'd been slapped, the shadow dissipating just as suddenly. He moved back against the wall, lip curling in distaste even as he felt a thrum of satisfaction course through him.

This was... vitriolic. This was, by far, the strongest adverse reaction Tenebrae had ever heard of. Solomon was also the oldest Necromancer to ever try this, with the most Necromantic experience under his belt. From a purely objective viewpoint, everything he was suffering through remained fascinating. Standing right next to it, Tenebrae couldn't help shivering in revulsion, and wondering what on earth was strong enough to keep Solomon saying no.

He waited until the shaking had dwindled slightly before speaking again. "Whatever your reason is, every fiber of your being thinks you're wrong. We're a five-minute walk from the forge. You can end all of this right now."

End the suffering, anyway. Solomon wouldn't be allowed to leave the Temple again for a very long time. Definitely not before he revealed his reasoning, and probably not for a good few decades after that. But Tenebrae didn't find it prudent to mention that just yet.

Head still ringing, Solomon coughed, spat, coughed again. His whole body pounded, and all of a sudden the dim simmer of the Temple around him felt like an oasis compared to Necromancy used actively beside him. His breathing ragged, arms shaking violently, Solomon nevertheless managed to push himself up and drag himself away from that corner.

There was no way he'd be able to get a handkerchief out of his pocket, if they'd even left him one, so he wiped the bloody tears off his face with his sleeve instead. He rested his forehead on his arm and just tried to breathe. Something close to a chuckle came out, a breathless bark of sardonic laughter.

"I'm hardly--capable of walking--even that far, Tenebrae. Even if ... I wanted to."

Because he didn't want to, he reminded himself, gritting his teeth at the slow way another wrack overtook him and made him bow into the floor. Reforging his cane was a simple answer. An easy answer that would enslave him forever to the Scream. He could hear it, even now, a dim never-ending buzz in his ears, too high and too discordant to get used to. It was a good reminder.

A good reminder he wasn't certain he would be able to endure for as long as he had to.

No. He didn't have to endure a day, or an hour, or even a minute. He just needed to endure this moment now, and this moment, and this moment, and every moment until there were none left. There was no point in looking ahead, when he had no idea what the future would hold. There was just now. Now was all he could handle.

Solomon took as deep and slow a breath as he could manage, a shuddering one that was echoed by the tremble in his limbs, and let it out equally slowly. His voice shook slightly from exhaustion, but his tone was even, if hoarse. "I won't."

Edited 2013-03-27 12:16 (UTC)

Any trace of the smile Tenebrae had managed to keep on his face until now faded completely.

Part of him wanted to try and reason with Solomon, verbally prod, drag answers out of him. It was the part that made Tenebrae High Priest of this Temple, the part of him that acted logically and kept a lid on his emotions. But a different part of him suddenly and angrily wanted Solomon to see that there was no way he would survive this... withdrawal, and the sooner he gave up trying, the quicker the pain would end without killing him.

Unfortunately, there wasn't particularly a way to combine those two parts of him, so he would have to choose. And Tenebrae chose. He forced a short chuckle, reached for the knife in his belt, and whipped it back towards the same corner of the room as before.

Shadows gathered at the tip, trailing along the sharp edge, and flickering towards the sleeve of Tenebrae's robe. He held them there for two seconds, savouring the reaction, and then snaked one of those tendrils towards the bare skin of Solomon's ankle.

Silence. Physical silence, at least, which was different to metaphysical silence, and Solomon idly noted that he was beginning to tell the difference between the two before realising that silence was not a good thing. It wasn't a good thing because if Tenebrae was silent, and not speaking, not trying to appeal to him, then it meant that he was too angry to.

And when Tenebrae got angry, people suffered.

Solomon barely had a chance to brace himself. It wouldn't have made a difference if he hadn't.

Necromancy surged around him and his magic tried to rise to meet it; his body arched, his stifled groan coming out a rising whimper. Solomon tried to breathe and managed it for a moment--short, gasping breaths locked into his throat by the whimper. For those two seconds, he managed a balance of control and trembling pain.

Something lashed around his ankle, something so cold it would have made his whole leg go numb if the sensation had been physical at all. It wasn't. It pierced the very soul of him, a cold that rushed his being until the cold and the writhe of his magic was all he could feel. He screamed, bucking, his body held suspended and hands clawing the air as he tried to escape that agony.

Magic thrummed around him, a rising wave of Necromancy which surged around him like a blanket. The magic in him answered, sucking in the Necromancy and spinning it around in his soul like a dehydrated man given a few measly drops of water. There wasn't enough for it to be a wash; he couldn't access it. But his magic craved. It craved and screamed and lashed at him, driving him with such overwhelming need he couldn't think on anything except that he was in agony and time didn't exist at all.

"STOP!"

His back arched over and over, the pain made worse by the fact there was nothing against which to brace himself; no wall, no floor. Nothing but air.

"Stop! Stop! St--"

Something in him shifted. A rush of something breaking, imploding, everything sucking inward instead of outward as was his magic's instinct. It robbed all the breath from him, making him convulse as--

church he's in a church, a church he knows with a man he's only known for a few days, a good man whose soul shines broad. The church gleams light and it makes the darkness in his hand even deeper, and he lifts it to summon magic but it shrieks, the glow recoiling until--

Alleyway. Alleyway and he's standing before a being which shines, a rock in a current of the lifestream, a soul like stained-glass and one of clinging darkness; he's standing there and afraid and he draws on his screaming power to attack the shining being, the angel. His power shatters and everything in him tumbles, spinning with shock and pain at the backlash and--

Solomon hit the floor on his shoulder with a jarring blow that made him cry out, pain sparking down his back. It felt distant, an afterimage in the haze of the never-ending wracks which gripped his body.

want more give more give it to me

Solomon let his head sink to the floor, gasping for breath amidst sobs, his face slick with bloody tears and body clenching with the unending tremors of his magic's call.

Edited 2013-03-27 12:18 (UTC)

Tenebrae orchestrated the shadows with his knife, curling them in and around Solomon as he screamed. Begged for mercy, technically. Tenebrae didn't give him any. There was something hypnotic about watching a Necromancer getting tortured by nothing but pure Necromancy. Nothing but shadows, coiling through him, keeping him elevated off the floor, jerking and convulsing and screaming.

This went far beyond what Tenebrae was expecting. Part of it may have been withdrawal, and probably was, but there was more to the story than that. There had to be. Something in the Necromancy was slowly tearing Solomon apart.

Tearing his mind apart, perhaps? Tenebrae had to wonder, if he kept this up, whether Solomon would eventually answer everything with the full truth, simply because he was in no state to even remember lying was an option. Maybe. Tenebrae preferred reaching that point without brute torture, but since this didn't officially qualify as 'torture'...

He gave the shadows a minute more, and then whipped them back, leaving Solomon to crash painfully into the floor. This was about more than just a rogue Necromancer now. Tenebrae wasn't quite sure how, but it was. Something more was going on here, and the High Priest was determined to find out what. He was equally determined that Solomon would tell him of his own free will, rather than because he was tortured to the brink.

That wasn't to say pain couldn't be a very good motivator.

"You won't survive this," Tenebrae told him. Which was true; he might not. It certainly wouldn't feel like he would. "Are you going to die a martyr, Cleric Wreath? You? Don't make me laugh." He couldn't be certain Solomon would even hear the words, and so Tenebrae stepped closer. "You're a Necromancer. That's all you've ever known. Stop this foolishness."

A thought struck. Tenebrae leaned back down into a crouching position, held the sharp end of his knife loosely in his hand, and offered the handle to Solomon. "I give you full permission, of course. Take it. Take revenge. Put me in pain."

Tenebrae's words rang in Solomon's ears. He didn't exactly roll over so much as sag, and sagging made his weight shift so he fell onto his back, panting and breaths still hitched. His body hurt. His head. His chest. His soul. He hadn't known it was possible to feel pain in his soul as anything remotely close to a physical sensation, but he felt it now.

As if he was being torn in two. As if he had been torn in two, magic and something else, and its rough edges were rubbing up against each other just with his being alive.

"I--" It wasn't much of a response, but he didn't know what he'd meant to say in response anyway. He didn't have any prepared. He'd hardly managed to understand what Tenebrae had said.

Something in him surged, making those rough edges grind, and Solomon arched with a breathless, ragged cry. For a moment all he could see and hear and smell was the Temple, another room in the Temple, with the Scream all around him and a dozen young, slowly staining souls before him, practising their magic while he kept an eye on them.

The vision, the memory, passed and when Solomon looked up, blinking away blood from his eyes, it was to find Tenebrae extending the knife toward him.

YES yes yesyesyesyesyesyesyes--

One of his hands was resting on his chest, near to the knife-handle. Solomon didn't consciously think it or want it, but there was no hesitation before he reached out to take it and slashed the air. His magic sang, cold and shadows rolling around him, a rush of control and power so deep he breathed it as he used those shadows to fling Tenebrae hard against the far wall.

The agony struck a moment later. It wasn't like the last.

Something stabbed into his hand, a nail through his palm; it was on fire, a fire so hot it must already have been ashes. He felt something in him crack, as if his magic had surged through a broken window and raked his soul all over; he couldn't breathe, his lungs locking up and squeezing until he was suffocating. He felt lines, like whiplashes, burn across his back. Worst of all was the weight, crushing him from inside out, half physical and half knowledge that no one was coming to save him.

The dagger clattered to the floor. Solomon Wreath convulsed, curling inward around his completely uninjured hand as he clutched it to his chest and choked on the air he couldn't find.

Edited 2013-03-27 23:28 (UTC)

Tenebrae had been bracing himself for a sudden attack. It didn't lessen the pain any; being thrown into a wall couldn't really be lessened by anything but not getting thrown into a wall. The pain was immediate and lancing, paralyzing his muscles just long enough for Tenebrae to crumple to the ground like a rag doll, where his limbs jerked with the radiating hot fire.

He waited, teeth clenched against an audible cry, until that fire was bearable. A quick examination of himself by testing each limb on his way back up to his feet revealed nothing broken or sprained; his back hurt, but that would likely resolve into bad bruises and nothing more. Tenebrae found himself laughing, partly out of relief and partly out of triumph.

It didn't last very long. The momentary relapse almost seemed to cause Solomon more pain than before. He dropped the knife and curled in on himself with a strangled noise, and Tenebrae balanced himself on the wall behind him with a raised eyebrow.

Either the Cleric was too far gone for help - which Tenebrae refused to believe - or there really was something beyond just the lack of Necromancy that was hurting him.

And if that was the case, the chances of Solomon Wreath agreeing to wield his reforged cane once more were next to nothing. Tenebrae couldn't say he blamed the man. But it did put the rest of the Temple in a bit of a bind, never mind that Tenebrae still wanted to know what had changed Solomon's mind so completely. Because whatever it was, it was a threat. To the Temple, and to the Passage.

Tenebrae balanced himself back on shaky legs, walked slowly over, and reclaimed his knife. "What did this to you, Solomon?" His voice had grown deceptively gentle. "What could?"

Solomon's vision was hazing over by the time he managed to draw in a thin, raw breath, too small to actually help him at all except open his lungs just enough to make them loosen. The next breath was a little bit deeper and easier, even though it made him cough afterward.

He never got the chance to work his way slowly up to breathing properly, let alone answering. Solomon's soul cringed in the presence of the Temple around them, his magic craving, his soul recoiling.

Solomon cried out and bowed into the floor, and another memory washed over him, a memory of the Temple that made his head pound, of sparring, of magic and the Scream. More memories. Memories working backward in time, all those memories of when he used his magic. It was raw, painful, the sound of it inescapable, and even then there was something on the edge that he couldn't quite see.

The ex-Necromancer's body loosened and he slumped, coughing, his breath rasping as he tried to draw in air.

"You--wouldn't--believe--" he choked out, all he could manage before his soul rebelled once again. Another memory. Another slide of exactly what he'd been using for his power.

With a whimper as he sagged against the stones again, Solomon closed his eyes, felt the mask of drying blood on his face, and knew he had three-hundred-and-eighty-four years' worth of those memories to endure. They were rushing at him like a freight-train, now, eager to be heard again--and again--and again--

Solomon Wreath convulsed on the floor, his head thrown back against the stones and eyes rolling feverishly in his head, seeing and witnessing all the things he hadn't the first time he'd lived it.

Edited 2013-03-27 23:34 (UTC)

Tenebrae didn't say anything. Solomon had always displayed a holier-than-thou attitude, but so did most Necromancers. And most Necromancers dropped that attitude when dealing with the High Priest, a trait Solomon always used to share. It could only mean that he was being very literal, very serious, rather than using the first words that came to mind.

What on earth did he think Tenebrae would never believe?

It was almost as if Solomon was having a seizure, and Tenebrae briefly wondered if he was meant to stop the man from swallowing his own tongue. Maybe. Maybe not. He couldn't quite remember if that part was a myth, and didn't much care. Solomon was currently in an agony all his own, and Tenebrae wasn't going to be cruel without due reason. So he calmly walked back over to the wall he'd been thrown against with his own knife, folded his arms, and leaned back. Content, for the moment, just to observe.

There was no way to tell time, for Solomon. No way to tell time beyond the moment in which he existed, in which his body reacted against his will to things only his soul could feel. Over and over and over, Solomon was wracked with pain and memories, until he wasn't aware of anything else; wasn't aware of the stone floor which bruised him in his convulsions, or the flickering light, or the man watching him silently.

He writhed on that floor, his eyes feverish, his face a mask of congealing blood, his clothes sticking to him sweatily. Sometimes he muttered, mumbling things about--or to--Valkyrie, to the Tenebrae in his memory, to other Necromancers.

Sometimes he cried out for pain. Usually those were memories in which he was at the Temple, with its Scream all around, or using magic greatly.

Sometimes it wasn't. "Valkyrie, don't!"

Nathanial Quiver paused in the hallways as Solomon Wreath's scream echoed through the stone. Tenebrae had been down here a long time, which wasn't unexpected, but at that sound Nathanial abruptly wondered what the High Priest was doing. True, screams from withdrawal were to be expected, but that wasn't the sort of scream those in withdrawal made. Still, after that moment of wondering he cast it from his mind and kept walking. It had been hours, and Tenebrae had requested to know what Solomon had kept and what he'd abandoned, and anything that might be useful in bringing him back to the fold.

Most of things Solomon had in his office had already been catalogued. Most of the things in his coat and pockets had been standard. Except for one thing, one thing Nathanial had been examining with bemused confusion since he found it. Now, without having made any conclusions, he could only show it to the High Priest.

Nathanial found the dungeon where Solomon--no, Wreath--had been taken. The guard at the end of the corridor, looking rather pale, had told him Tenebrae hadn't left, so Nathanial thought nothing of stepping inside without double-checking.

The High Priest was the first thing he saw, leaning against the wall, eyes on something in the room's centre. Nathanial closed the door behind him and followed Tenebrae's gaze, and almost faltered. Solomon Wreath was writhing in agony, his face bloodied from a wound Nathanial couldn't see, his hands bruised from clutching the floor and eyes rolling feverishly.

Nathanial had seen Necromancers in withdrawal before. It had never been like this. It took a shaken moment before Nathanial could take his eyes away and move to Tenebrae, trying to ignore the movement at the corner of his vision.

"We've catalogued everything he owns," he said, "but there is one thing he was carrying in his pocket which is rather incongruous."

There was something building in him, Solomon knew. Or didn't know. It wasn't a knowledge, exactly, but an awareness. A distant acceptance of the timeline of scrolling memories, and how far along it he was, and where he was up to. He could go long periods with only using the barest of Necromancy, one of the few subtle and controlled Necromancers willing to do so. A lot of his retroactive memories were simply being in the Temple and watching others, horrified and sickened and pained by the Scream in them.

But there was something coming. A monster in the darkness.

"They're opening the portal!"

Pandemona, her soul alight with darkness and greyness and a strange duality of flickering shrieks. Solomon swept shadows across the Hollow Men, his magic singing--screaming--in him, an agony and a pleasure at once he could never reconcile.

"Adrian, to the left!" he shouted, and let himself be protected by the other Necromancer's magic as he pushed forward, trying to reach that yellow glow and the kneeling teen before it. The yellow glow that was gold and purple and pink and blue and orange and red and--

Rainbows. An oily rainbow, a shriek not from the Scream but adding to it, a Cacophony that exploded from space and shunted them all aside as if they were flies. Abruptly Solomon was on the ground, his ears and soul ringing, and out of the corner of his eyes he caught--

Feathers. Drifting feathers, footsteps, a being of glittering shattered light which moved like a puppet lifted off the grounds, dragging after it broken wings bowed and dripping feathers. An angel. An angel with--

"Broken wings, s'fallen, it's--"

Nathanial glanced toward Solomon at the sound of his voice, strangled with pain and terror at some kind of understanding, and then pulled his attention back to Tenebrae as he removed the grey-furred teddy-bear from his pocket. "He was carrying this."

--fallen angels stalking the farmland, broken wings making them larger, fractured crystal shifting and grinding with each step. He reeled with it, with that knowledge that these were angels, fallen angels, Saint Gabriel's brothers and the children of God.

His body moved, the memory yanking him along in its wake. In the memory, he never looked directly at them.

In the memory, he didn't need to.

He summoned shadow and the Scream met with the discordant shriek of grinding shards that made the Faceless Ones. Terror met pain, and his being exploded.

Solomon arched hard against the floor, his eyes wide and sightless, his hands bloodied from raking the stone, stark agony radiating from every part of him as he screamed.

"LORD GOD HELP ME!"

Nathanial whipped around and stared in disbelief.

Edited 2013-03-28 10:12 (UTC)

Tenebrae didn't look up as Quiver opened the door. He knew who it was, and it was really about time all of Cleric Wreath's possessions were catalogued. As a Necromancer, he shouldn't even have that much.

"Incongruous," the High Priest echoed, without taking his eyes off Solomon. That really depended on what one considered incongruous. A simple bread knife was hardly a weapon, let alone a weapon worthy of a Necromancer, let alone a weapon Cleric Wreath would ever stoop to considering. To Tenebrae, a bread knife among Solomon's possessions was already strange. Quiver had barely blinked at it, but then again, Quiver barely blinked at a lot of things.

He'd probably blinked at the teddy bear. He'd probably had a whole host of reactions at the teddy bear. Tenebrae could only stare at it, because picturing Quiver's earlier reaction made more sense than anything about this current situation.

Why was Solomon walking around with a little grey teddy bear in his coat?

Without a word, Tenebrae tore his eyes away from the furry creature and looked back over at Wreath. The Necromancer hadn't stopped muttering yet, completely unaware of anything else going on around him, shaking and delirious and looking for all the world like he was an inch away from death. He'd been at the Hibernian. It suggested Skulduggery Pleasant was somehow involved, a fact all the high-level Necromancers had already been warned of. But that part did make sense; Pleasant would inevitably become involved in an old friend giving up Necromancy. He probably didn't have anything to do with what spurred Wreath to do so. And he certainly didn't have anything to do with the bear.

"He's delusional," said Tenebrae, just because it was something to remark on other than the stuffed animal. "Trapped in memories, I think. He keeps talking to young Valkyrie Cain, among others, and that's just from what I can understand. This isn't like - "

And Solomon screamed. The scream cut Tenebrae off, immediate and jarring, but it wasn't the scream that silenced him completely. It was the words. The words he had to replay over and over in his mind just to make sure he'd heard correctly, and each time sank him into a further state of confusion.

"He hasn't done that before," Tenebrae murmured. "Interesting."

He wasn't sure what it meant, but it was interesting nonetheless. Solomon Wreath was giving up a fervent faith in Necromancy and the Passage because... he'd found a higher one?

He'd gone completely insane.

Tenebrae unfolded his arms with the vague intention of taking a step forward, but the simple act of moving his arms down to his sides caused a spasm of pain to jolt through his back. So, with a sharp intake of breath, Tenebrae didn't move off the wall. "How long was the longest withdrawal you've ever seen?"

It was a loaded question. Quiver would never have seen a successful one. Normally, Tenebrae wouldn't be worried about this one following the same fate, but then - of all the cursed luck - Pleasant got his gloved hands embroiled in the situation. If anyone could turn anything he touched unpredictable, it was the skeleton. And that wasn't even taking into account his previous experience.

"Four days, fifteen hours and twenty-three minutes," Nathanial replied almost absently. "One day, nineteen hours and six minutes while in our care." The Necromancer in question had lasted for quite a while before begging to return to the fold. He had been killed at the end of the war with Mevolent. Killed, or committed suicide by battle; Nathanial had always wondered.

But that man had never reached a point like this. He had been in pain, yes, semi-delirious with it, but he hadn't been lost inside his own head or bleeding. And that had been after three days away from the Temple himself. Solomon had been gone two, but he had been ambulatory when they caught him and he had been at the Temple all of six hours. Once again Nathanial wondered just what the High Priest had done to cause such a dramatic change.

Without really meaning to, or knowing why, Nathanial moved toward the trembling man. Wreath's body was arching with little spasms over and over, bloody tears making tracks down his cheeks, his breathing quick and hoarse with uncontrollable whimpers of pain. Nathanial knelt and, after the briefest of hesitations, lifted the man's hand to put the bear in it.

The world spun around him, a medley of Screams and discordance and the ripple of angels caught halfway between physical and metaphysical striding through both planes at once. He was being torn apart; his body moved on the clockwork of the memory as he fled and fought and tried not to look at the waves the fallen angels left in their wake.

His mind was ripped between his magic and the fractured glitter, and with abrupt, keen awareness he looked into the yawning crevasse of of insanity.

Then he touched something, something soft and warm that threw his chill into stark contrast, and all at once he felt wrenched from the maelstrom that was the angels and the Necromancy and--

Solomon opened his glazed eyes and looked up at Quiver, and in that moment hung suspended between what he'd been seeing then and what he saw now. Not torn in two--just held there, on the fulcrum of his soul. Then he reached for that warmth and the peace in it; his hand spasmed and gripped the bear hard to his chest.

It washed over him, not hiding him from the pain but filling him with a quiet rush of acknowledgement, the sensation of something like being held by his Da when he'd been a boy. The memory took him and his body bucked, but the cry of pain came with a soft, strangled laugh of relief and amazement.

"My Father in Heaven ..."

The fallen angels ripped through the trees, towering and impossible, scattering shards of reality in all directions. Averting his eyes, Solomon ducked behind a tree; the plane around him sang, and he dropped to the ground before it was ripped out from behind him.

"Hallowed be your name."

Oily rainbows shone in all directions, nauseating and slick. A Scream lashed across one of the angel's broken wings, and a cascade of feathers drifted to the ground as it turned.

"Adrian, move!" Pandemona screamed just before she was swallowed by her shadows. Too late. Adrian's body went rigid, his eyes wide, and he dropped his gun with a strangled, rising cry that ended on something between a whimper and a giggle.

"Your kingdom come. Your will be done on Earth--" Solomon's voice rose and strangled with agony.

Adrian's soul shattered as the feathers struck him, fragments spinning everywhere--a fragile glass figurine smashed by falling metaphysical stone.

"Don't!" Solomon shouted, too late--with a cry Pandemona whipped her cloak around her and dissolved again into shadow hardly before she'd landed. She reappeared by where the Faceless One's head should be, an orb of shadows spinning all around her in midair.

The fallen angel reached up and took her in its fist, its fist which was half-non-existent, a wave of impossibility and rainbow snaps. It squeezed.

"--as it is in Heaven. Give us today our daily--"

The fallen angel dropped her and moved off, and Solomon moved in with his gaze averted, the physical horror and terror in his body at a remove. The backlash of the angel's presence buffeted him, made the Scream wheel around him as he raised his cane and cocooned himself in shadow to make for the portal, leaving what was left of his brethren behind.

Something caught hold of him and dragged him through space, wheeling space filled with a fragmented blast of not-sound.

The prayer cut off with a ragged, ear-splitting scream.

That medley rang in Solomon's being; from here, writhing on the stone floor of a dungeon, and from there, yanked out of shadowspace into real-time and barely avoiding the fist of what had once been Murder Rose. They met in the middle; his self from now drowned in that sound for aeons before finally blending again with the memory in a blur of action as he--

"Lead us not into temptation ..."

--he struck ground and rolled with his leg afire in pain--

--he threw his cane toward Valkyrie, shouting--

"... but deliver us from evil."

--shadows dancing everywhere on a Scream which met with the fragmented crystal that was the fallen angel, an explosion of magic and metaphysics that seared Solomon's Sight until it rang in him and all he could hear was a voice.

"The Grotesquery! Now!"

"For yours is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever ..."

He, him now, looked into the arch of light and sound, into the fallen angel's maddened eyes as it was yanked back into the portal, and for an instant he looked into that abyss and saw--

Grey eyes, shifting as if with their own light, grey eyes in a lined face and under the shadow of a hat.

"Rest now."

"Amen," Solomon whispered soundlessly, his body wracked with remaining shudders and curled in on itself, in on the teddy-bear clutched to his chest.

Edited 2013-03-28 10:33 (UTC)

Tenebrae didn't try to stop Quiver from giving Solomon the bear back, if only because he didn't know what else to do with it. He also hadn't quite expected Solomon to become coherent enough to accept it, much less start cuddling it.

And the strange thing was, it helped. Not much, not by any meaningful amount; it didn't stop the screaming, the pain, or the convulsions. What it did do was trigger something Tenebrae understood even less than the earlier outburst.

"Is that..." He hesitated, and frowned. "Is that the Lord's Prayer?"

Solomon had gone a very structured kind of insane. That could either be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on how far buried in it he was. Tenebrae pondered for a moment, watching Solomon Wreath curl in on the bear like it was some sort of lifeline, and decided that it was impossible to figure out what was going on without Solomon himself explaining it.

And since Solomon was in no condition to tell them anything...

"Cleric Quiver, get a Sensitive down here. Preferably one of our more powerful ones. Whatever Cleric Wreath learned or saw, it's broken him. Let's hope this is just a delayed effect of seeing the Faceless Ones last year."

"Yes, High Priest," Nathanial said, unable to quite deny that his face was pale or that his gaze was still fixed on Solomon. Necromancers didn't have friends. Not really. Their only real ties of connection were their faith and their common goals. Yet Solomon Wreath was one of the very few of his brethren whom Nathanial might actually like--whose company he at least found enjoyable on occasion. He was an intelligent man, a faithful one, a practical one all at once. It wasn't a common combination.

Seeing him now, like this, shook Nathanial more than he cared to admit or dared to reveal to Tenebrae. This wasn't just about withdrawal. This was about something else. What could drive Solomon Wreath, one of the most faithful men Nathanial had ever known, to this? To praying to a Christian god in the midst of his agony?

He made to rise, but his voice broke through something in Solomon's consciousness and the suffering Necromancer opened his eyes, looking up once more at Nathanial. Before, his vision had been semi-lucid, enough to show faint recognition but no true acknowledgement.

Now, though, Solomon's feverish eyes seemed to look right through him, into him, in a way that made a chill run down Nathanial's back. He looked almost ... surprised. A weary sort of surprise. His lips moved, his ragged voice coming out as if he wasn't even aware he spoke. "From where does the light in your soul come, Quiver?"

Skin crawling, Nathanial Quiver rose in a cloud of exceptional calm, given the circumstances, and turned to exit with a respectful nod toward the High Priest.

He needed the whole length of the dungeon just to find his voice again. By the time he reached the main part of the Temple, he had his composure secure, his shakenness buried deep where he could ignore it now and hopefully forever.

Mind-readers weren't common. In fact, Nathanial had only ever heard rumours of them, and most of them had been proved frauds. He himself kept an open mind about their existence, but assumed they were but a myth. Fortunately, they had Sensitives in the Temple who could read auras. It was something they looked for, in fact; a skill like that was extremely useful in divining power-levels in Necromantic magic.

Very few people were willing to say no to Nathanial, even if they were busy. So it was barely ten minutes, the length of time it took to walk to the Temple commons and back, before Nathanial had returned with a man a couple of centuries his lesser. Born and raised in the Temple, like most others, with a vibrant eyes who had looked on many people to judge potential in Necromantic magic, Siren Mystique was their best bet for discovering just what was wrong with Wreath.

Nathanial refused the lingering unease, the feeling that something was going to go wrong.

"High Priest," he said softly, with a nod at Tenebrae, and again looked down at Solomon. This time he was prepared; this time, the sight of a man he may have once gone so far as to call a friend left no trace of unease on his face or bearing. He stepped aside to let Siren in and then closed the door behind them, standing in front of it with his hands folded before him.

Siren didn't speak. Nathanial had already explained what they wanted and Siren, young and eager in his calling, had been intrigued. He moved toward Solomon like a man only half in this world, eyes already trained on Solomon.

Nathanial wasn't sure what he expected. He did not expect Solomon, panting, to suddenly freeze and roll his eyes toward Siren with a sudden terrified catch in his breath. "Don't," he whispered hoarsely, gazed trained, unblinking, at the Sensitive. "Don't. Don't."

The last came out a rising cry of pain as his body lifted under the force of another convulsion. Nathanial frowned and stepped forward, reaching out to Siren's shoulder.

Which was when Siren screamed.

Which was when Siren screamed, over and over, standing rigid where he was except where his body trembled violently. With an abrupt lurch in his stomach Nathanial snatched his shoulder and wrenched him away; Siren spun, knees collapsing, and fell to the floor with a sickening thud. He lay there, breathing fast and whimpering, his eyes wide and sightless. Shaken, Nathanial kneeled to run his hand before the man's eyes; they didn't track the motion at all.

Solomon moaned and rolled over, pressing his forehead to the cold stone and clutching the bear to his chest.

"What did he see?" Nathanial asked without thinking, distantly shocked to find a minor tremble in his own body.

"Scream," Solomon mumbled. He bowed into the floor again with another choked groan, a raspy one half-unheard because his voice was all but lost; one marked by exhaustion. How much longer until Solomon Wreath, too, broke beyond the means of return?

"L- lifestream. Aura. Screaming, Scream--life screaming. K- Kian, don't."

... If he wasn't already there?

Edited 2013-03-28 10:43 (UTC)

"From where does the light in your soul come, Quiver?"

It might have been a mislead. It might have been a deliberate mislead on Solomon's part, if he wasn't so completely delirious. Tenebrae doubted he was even aware of what he was saying. Which made it a legitimate question, which meant...

Solomon was seeing Quiver's soul.

Tenebrae blinked, once again at a loss for what to do or think as Quiver silently left. It explained some things, but not enough. Not nearly enough. Even if something had happened, and Solomon had suddenly found access to a new form of Adept magic Tenebrae had never heard of, he'd have reported it. He would have reported it right away, not decided to give up Necromancy completely.

... Unless one of the first souls he saw was that of Skulduggery Pleasant.

It didn't explain enough, but it was the beginning of an explanation, and that was better than nothing. Tenebrae considered Solomon's prone form on the floor, decided to assume Solomon still didn't know the truth, and nearly stepped forward before he remembered it would aggravate his back. "What are you seeing right now?"

There wasn't an answer. Tenebrae didn't expect one. With Quiver gone, any kind of coherency Solomon managed to achieve was gone again. He was lost, back in whatever inner world he was lost in, muttering things Tenebrae couldn't understand, his voice occasionally lengthening into a strangled noise or a scream.

Tenebrae was beginning to regret torturing him with Necromancy earlier. There wasn't any point to it if Solomon was in too much pain to answer simple questions.

Tenebrae kept asking anyway, every few minutes, just in case he could accidentally catch Solomon in a lucid moment. He never got an answer, and then Quiver was back with Siren Mystique.

Siren Mystique was a good choice. Old enough to be experienced, powerful enough to pull this off, and yet young enough not to have developed the caution so many Sensitives in the Temple did after so long. He didn't hesitate, walking into the room with his eyes already glazed over, and Tenebrae didn't try to interrupt. One of his eyebrows raised as Solomon's suddenly cognizant and terrified reaction dwindled back into another agonised spasm, and then that same spasm seemed to echo in Siren.

It wasn't unexpected. Tenebrae could only hope Siren would be removed enough not to break under whatever strain gripped Solomon. Apparently, that hope was entirely baseless.

"If he survives this," Tenebrae mused without a second glance at Siren Mystique motionless against the stone floor, "we may well have found a new form of magic even the Sanctuary isn't aware of." Because if Solomon survived this, he was never leaving the Temple again - that much was a given. "Imagine what that could mean, Cleric Quiver."

"I am ... imagining, High Priest." Nathanial was. He was imagining, his gaze trained on Solomon. Against his will, his mind was turning over what had happened, everything that was happening. Solomon had asked from where the light in his soul had come, and then barely ten minutes later spoke of the lifestream. As if Siren had seen it.

As if Solomon, himself, was seeing it. Right now. The stream of existence into which souls went.

With a brief hesitation, Nathanial took a moment to close Siren's eyes before rising and moving toward Solomon. He knelt by the sorcerer's side just as Solomon was taken by another seizure, and automatically reached forward to catch the man's head before it hit the floor. It was hard to tell if his hair was matted because of sweat or blood; at the least, he may well have a concussion on top of the withdrawal.

"Solomon," he said patiently, evenly, once the attack was over. Panting, still clutching his now-bloodied bear to his chest, Solomon opened his eyes, looking deliriously up at Nathanial. "What are you seeing, Solomon?"

For some moments Solomon didn't answer; he only stared, shaking, breathing hard and fast, raspy. His eyes closed and his back arched again, but now, to Nathanial's surprise, he spoke through the pain strangling his words. "T- Temple."

Nathanial's brow furrowed. "Yes. And?"

Another pause for Solomon to gather his thoughts, or simply lose them enough to speak. Nathanial wasn't sure. "Hurts."

"You're enduring withdrawal, Solomon," Nathanial informed him evenly, as if he didn't already know. "This is a stage none of the others who tried ever reached. Why have you? What are you seeing?"

For a moment it seemed as if Solomon was going to answer, but whatever memories he saw next surged in him and he cried out instead. It took some minutes and eleven more attacks, one after another, before he sagged back against the floor with a whimpering sob. Nathanial's hands and wrists were beginning to ache. He didn't let it show. He wasn't sure why, but it was imperative--vital--that they know what was happening.

"Solomon. What happened? What have you seen?"

Breathing. Ragged breathing from a man sprawled limply on the floor, exhaustion and pain radiating from every pore. His voice was cracked, nearly gone. "Lifestream."

Second time he'd said that. A third would confirm it. "You're seeing the lifestream?"

Solomon opened his eyes and looked up into Nathanial's face, and the look in those eyes made the Necromancer's skin crawl. Utter exhaustion. Resignation. And no fear. No fear at all. Just ... acceptance. Solomon looked into him, and breathed, and the chills turned into a prickling wash of adrenaline as Nathanial abruptly wondered just what Solomon was seeing in him.

A breath. "Memories."

"You're delirious."

Solomon's eyes closed and, incredibly, a smile flickered over his lips. "I know."

He remained like that for a long time, the silence only broken by his inability to control his body, by the hoarse groans of pain which were all he could manage now. Nathanial sat quietly, the ex-Necromancer's head not quite on his lap, but in his hands, waiting patiently for more to come. Either Solomon was just too weary not to talk, or he wanted to. Nathanial wasn't sure why that would be, but he wasn't going to question it. They needed to find out what was going on.

"Going back in time," Solomon whispered, his eyelids blinking open to half-mast and sliding shut just as quickly. Nathanial's brow furrowed.

"How so?"

But Solomon didn't answer, except with a stifled moan, his head lolling in Nathanial's palms as he was gripped again by the force of his magic abandoning him.

Edited 2013-03-28 10:52 (UTC)

Memories, going back in time. Solomon Wreath, reliving memories backwards along his lifespan. That was the only thing that could make sense there. Ironic, considering it still didn't make much sense at all.

Tenebrae had kept quiet up until that point, because Wreath seemed to want to talk to Quiver, for whatever reason. Maybe because the man hadn't caused him any pain. Maybe because of whatever this 'light' was. Maybe because he was too exhausted to care. In the end, it didn't particularly matter. Quiver was doing the right thing and feigning sympathy to get information from him, which Tenebrae would only ruin if he interrupted now.

Fascinating, though. Solomon Wreath could see souls. He could see the lifestream, the souls in its depths, the souls drifting into it, the souls still attached to their living bodies. Enough to drive any lesser man insane, although it still didn't quite explain why Solomon was currently in so much pain. It explained the Lord's Prayer, though. And possibly the teddy bear.

Seeing someone's soul, however, could be immensely useful, particularly when no one even considered it as a possibility. Convincing Solomon to rejoin them out of his own free will was quickly becoming top priority. The problem was - and Tenebrae's eyes narrowed in thought - the problem was, an ability so obviously draining, so obviously a painful burden, even without the overlapping withdrawal... there was no way Solomon could handle it. Either he would die, which they couldn't do anything about, or he'd lose this ability completely.

There wasn't quite enough information to make a decision yet, so Tenebrae - still leaning against the wall, still gingerly keeping strain off his back - didn't say anything. He wanted to see how much Quiver could learn before anything worse happened.

Nathanial was aware of the High Priest's interest. It wasn't that the man said anything, or even really moved, but there was a keen interest in his bearing, an intensity. Nathanial ignored him as best as he could.

"Who is screaming, Solomon?" he asked, because that was the part Solomon had repeated, more than once, but hadn't explained. It took a minute or two for an answer to come.

"Souls," Solomon breathed, and then something seemed to turn in him. A realisation, almost, an intent. He opened his eyes again and looked at Nathanial, really looked at him and saw him, instead of just seeing through him as he had before. It was at once better and worse, especially since his hand lifted to grip Nathanial's robes. It was weak, or should have been, but there was an odd, trembling urgency to it. Nathanial couldn't even fight it; he was too hypnotised by Solomon's eyes.

"Souls screaming in our magic, Quiver," Solomon whispered in a voice so cracked that Nathanial wasn't sure even Tenebrae would be able to hear. "Our magic makes them scream. The lifestream--"

He arched and his grip tightened, dragging on Nathanial's clothes; he drew in a sharp breath, but his gaze didn't waver. "--it hurts--"

He wasn't talking about himself, Nathanial realised abruptly with a chill so intense that he broke out in a cold sweat. Or maybe he was, but only in a reflection. In terms of what he felt from something else. From the lifestream.

"I see," he said after a moment to gather himself, but evenly. Solomon laughed, a short, broken laugh as he turned his head away.

"N- no, you can't. I- if you could, you--would prefer--anything else--to what we have." He shook under Nathanial's hands, the silence punctuated with short gasps. Nathanial let him recover marginally, remained leaned over to hide the drum of urgency in the pound of his heart, the one he wasn't sure he had hidden in his eyes. Just a moment or two, to make sure it was.

"Is that why you're doing this to yourself?" he asked when the time seemed right. "You feel the pain, Solomon. Would it not be easier to return to the Temple?"

It was reasonable. What Solomon was enduring now seemed to be a reflection of what he was seeing, on top of the withdrawal itself. Nathanial had to wonder--would the others, if they'd come this far, have seen the things Solomon was seeing, or was there another catalyst which had spurred this Sight on?

"No." The certainty, the firmness, in Solomon's voice surprised him. The lucid clarity in his eyes, when he opened them a moment later, was flooring. His words, soft and clear and slow, as if Solomon was putting effort into making them so. "I would rather endure this and die free than die in the service of my magic and be consumed by it forever."

For some moments Nathanial couldn't say anything at all. Something in Solomon's face and eyes, before he was taken yet again, shook Nathanial to the core, made his heart pound with adrenaline and sudden awareness of some looming terror. Necromancers didn't use words like 'forever' lightly, given their goals. Yet Solomon Wreath would rather die than use his magic any longer.

Solomon Wreath would rather die. He considered the use of his magic to be an enslavement.

"What happens when a Necromancer dies 'in the service of his magic', Solomon?" he asked, managed to keep his voice steady aside from an undercurrent of tension which could have meant anything. The quote was audible. He was aware of Tenebrae's presence by the wall, aware that he was encroaching on a genuine sympathy which would be dangerous for him if Tenebrae suspected it. He needed now, more than ever, to pretend that he was simply playing to Solomon's delusions.

For a long moment Solomon just breathed. Then: "Whose souls do you think power our magic, Nathanial?"

Nathanial froze. His mind, his body; he couldn't move at all as Solomon was gripped by more seizures, his agony pinpointed with exhausted resignation, over and over and again. Nathanial wasn't sure for how long. Occasionally Solomon mumbled, his head jerking, this way and that, his eyes flickering under their lids. Other times he arched in abject agony, releasing a hoarse cry that would have been a scream if he'd had the breath for it.

At once point he huffed something close to an incredulous laugh. "M'not--sparring Vile--" The bout ended and then he was taken by another just as quickly, more powerful than the last, his voice pleading and terrified. "Skulduggery, don't--"

Nathanial watched, waited, his body aching from his stillness and the cold. Every now and then he spoke Solomon's name. The man never answered. Eventually, Nathanial looked up, his dark eyes cool with absolute composure.

"I don't believe we'll get more out of him until his memories have run their course, High Priest."

Inside, he shivered, and didn't stop.

Edited 2013-03-28 11:21 (UTC)

It didn't take long for Tenebrae to give up trying to plan anything, because it didn't take long for it to suddenly become clear how little he actually understood about what Solomon was going through. And until he knew more...

Until he knew more, there wasn't anything he could do. Or, quite frankly, wanted to do.

It was easy to accept that everyone had a soul. Easier to accept the lifestream, and how each soul eventually joined it upon their death. Looped all the way around through dimensions and realities until the essence of life was born again in something - someone - new.

There was no reason for that process to be painful. It was perfectly natural. It would become painful, when the Passage came to pass, but they didn't even have a Death Bringer yet. Necromancy, as well, was a perfectly natural process - another form of magic. A unique and powerful form of Adept magic. Unless every other magical discipline caused... souls the same amount of pain as Solomon was claiming Necromancy did, then Solomon's delusions were contradicting themselves.

Either way, Tenebrae didn't believe a word of it. Solomon was seeing something, definitely, and that something was putting him in agony. Tenebrae just wasn't convinced it was the lifestream, or the souls of Dead Necromancers before them. He couldn't -

Ah. Skulduggery and Vile. So Solomon did know. Or at least, some part of him did. Tenebrae had to wonder - was Skulduggery aware of that? Would Skulduggery care? Had Skulduggery seen enough of himself in Solomon that he'd come blasting their door down as soon as he knew what had happened?

Tenebrae took a deep, careful breath, and wondered whether it might be better to just let Solomon go now. Delusional or not, the Temple really was making his withdrawal worse, and Tenebrae wasn't a fan of forming weapons out of what he didn't understand.

But, on the other hand, because Wreath was delusionally terrified of the Temple now, he certainly wouldn't feel any pressing need to keep its secrets. The last thing Tenebrae needed was for the truth of the Passage to get out. Solomon would have to stay here, and if they couldn't get him to take up Necromancy again, Tenebrae might as well find another way to keep Solomon Wreath useful. It wasn't fashioning a weapon, per se; it was more taking life's lemons and squeezing them into lemonade.

"No," he agreed with Quiver. "I don't suppose we will." Tenebrae hesitated, and tentatively pushed himself off the wall. This time, every muscle braced for the pain and it wasn't nearly as bad - stinging, sore, but not unbearable. Tenebrae straightened up and balanced himself carefully off his hands behind him. "Tell me, when he saw your soul, was he focusing on you? Or was he looking somewhere past you?"

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 49 of 98

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject