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

[impudentsongbird]

Part of the reason Gabe had reacted so badly the first time was being dumped in the middle of the Temple's territory without any warning. Now he had warning and wards, and although the graveyard felt like an open wound, the pain was something the Archangel could stand. It made his jaw tighten and his eyes smoulder with restrained distaste and righteousness, but it was bearable.

Without a word, his chin lifted high and back straight, the Archangel stepped forward beneath the graveyard's arch. The whisper of all those damned souls flowed around him; he let his being absorb them, but didn't capture them either. In silent witness he passed through them, his steps sure and light and leaving no trace of his presence at all as he made his way to the Temple door, expecting the others to follow.

Almost no presence. With his entrance, a small ripple ran through the souls, a whisper that no Necromancer would be able to hear.

But Solomon would.

They were coming.

[peacefullywreathed]

Many recent things were a blur. If Solomon thought on them deeply enough, he could remember details. He could remember just how much his body had hurt. Just how much his head had rung with the Scream. Just how Tenebrae's soul had chipped, truly chipped, with surprise and self-doubt. Solomon's words hadn't done it, but his laughter had. It wasn't doubt, exactly, but Tenebrae had been unnerved, significantly enough to leave a mark on him. Solomon wasn't surprised, really. He had always viewed heroes with a faint disdain himself. Couldn't understand what could be so important to throw away one's life.

Fight, certainly. Solomon had considered fighting the Faceless Ones important--yet even that was to perpetuate his ultimate goal to begin with. No Necromancer could understand what glory there was in the simple measure of integrity. Just as Solomon hadn't. Until now.

And seeing it, seeing him turn so completely, had chipped Tenebrae's obsidian soul.

Solomon couldn't help but find some measure of satisfaction in that, although it certainly wasn't his predominant feeling in the aftermath of what Cirurgie generously called 'surgery'. No, most of what he felt was some cross between absolute exhaustion and peace. He'd never felt that before. Not like this. He'd had a taste of it, before the barrel, just after he'd cast aside his cane. But this? This was ... not overwhelming. Not overwhelming because that implied something Solomon might object to.

It was all-encompassing. He wasn't afraid. At all. Not of what might come next. Not of the Scream-lit darkness. Not of the hands on him that released the restraints, or the hard soul before him, or the knowledge that he was even more helpless than he had been before he'd been captured. None of it mattered.

If he died in the next hour, it wouldn't matter. What Solomon existed in now was a quiet, tranquil knowledge. Where he'd been. Where he'd come. Where he was now. That what was in a soul was so, so much more important than anything else could possibly be. Tenebrae could do nothing to him now. It was strange, how the loss of his eyes had made Solomon's metaphysical vision at once so blurry and so liberating. If he focussed on it, it would make him feel sick, but when he didn't, he felt ... vindicated. His physical body didn't seem to matter much at all.

He just observed it quietly, resting in the dull pain of his own soul that told him of his well-earned exertion.

The hands on him, the ones sponging off the blood that hadn't quite congealed, faltered. He heard a distant footstep, a familiar voice he didn't care to identify. "What is it?"

"He's ... smiling."

A pause, and the first voice came shaken and wondering. "He has no eyes. The High Priest is furious. Why is he smiling?"

"Maybe he's insane." The second voice again, hushed, unsure. "I heard the High Priest had him tortured all night."

"I heard the same thing, but it can't be true. This is Solomon Wreath. He's one of the High Priest's closest advisers. Why would he be tortured?"

"Maybe it has something to do with the mission they said he was on. Maybe that's why he's smiling. I mean, this has to be something they planned, right?"

Despite himself, Solomon laughed, soft but with ringing amusement. "No, not really."

His voice was scratchy. He marvelled at the sensation. Everything seemed so new, almost delightful. Even the pain. Strange, how that would be. He was alive. He was alive, and he didn't fear death or pain.

Glorious.

He sensed more than heard the pair of nurses jump. One of them squeaked. Solomon turned his head toward the glow in the lifestream that made them. Not lost yet, either of them. "You're healers, aren't you? True healers, not like that idiot Cirurgie."

"Er--"

"Ask yourself, next time you have to examine a body brought into the Temple, where its soul has gone. And where yours might go if you die in the Temple's service."

They were unnerved. Very unnerved, too much so to really pay his words any mind, but they would settle. Maybe they'd remember. Maybe they'd think on them. It was enough. Solomon didn't speak again, but neither did the nurses; he let himself lose track of time as they cleaned him up and changed his bandages, then his clothes. Loose pants, a loose button-up shirt. Undignified, in any other circumstance. Comfortable on his wounds, in this one. He was distantly aware of it all, more aware than he had been when they'd brought him in, but content with this quiet contemplation of his surroundings.

The nurses helped him into a wheelchair--moved him almost bodily, really--and took him through the passages to a room. They used hallways little-walked by most others. Avoiding more rumours, probably. Solomon wasn't sure whether to expect another cell or not, but he wasn't entirely surprised, when they came to a room, to take in a deep breath and smell the pine of his own quarters.

It sounded empty. Felt empty. Smelled empty, actually. Usually he had some pinewood in the fire. The smoke was there enough for him to scent, but he doubted he would have been able to if he'd still had all his senses. The wood itself was gone, the smoke just a residue.

Of course. They'd probably taken all his belongings, had them neatly catalogued while tutting over how many he'd had. A brief smirk crossed his lips. He never had quite let go of his creature comforts. Faith didn't demand that, after all.

The nurses helped him out to sit on his bed. He was so rubbery-limbed it was almost impossible, and he moved like a very old man to avoid exacerbating his injuries. His bed felt divinely comfortable even without the soft blanket he'd always used. The nurses left. Almost laughing at their haste, Solomon slid a stinging hand up the covers to feel for his pillow.

His grazed fingers fell on fur. Soft fur, still hot from the dryer. (This deep underground, there was no other way to clean clothes. Who was going to put things out on a line in a graveyard? Ruin the look of their backyard, it would.)

Quiver had kept his promise. With another laugh that was mixed with tears of something Solomon couldn't define--something that could have been hope or joy or gratitude or simple relief--the sorcerer pulled Kian closer. He almost fancied the bear took the edge of pain away. Or helped clear his mind, perhaps. He wasn't sure whether the thought came from. Whether it was a vestige of his subconscious providing him with something he really should have done much, much earlier, now with the chance to break through to his conscious mind.

Or maybe it came from the bear himself. It didn't really matter, at this point. His breath catching with emotion, not even caring at the fact there was probably a camera in the room, Solomon Wreath lowered himself properly onto his bed, pulling up his feet and curling loosely around the bear in his arms.

And he prayed.

'Gabriel, I'm at the Temple. I'd like to come home now, if you don't mind.'

[skeletonenigma]

Dammit, but getting shot in the shoulder hurt.

It had been four days since then, so the wound was mostly healed. Mostly, because Necromancers weren't trained as healers. The wound itself was gone, but there would always be a scar. An ugly scar. An ugly scar that hurt when Craven pulled at it, marking the location of a gunshot injury that still - still - hummed with pain far too often for his liking.

Craven would always have to be careful with that shoulder now. It wasn't as if he needed to give up any real strenuous activity, but still. He held a grudge.

Which was why, when he heard about Solomon Wreath's reaction to what should have been a traumatising event, Craven saw red. The High Priest was furious, as well, but where Tenebrae seemed to have given up trying to drag anything out of Wreath, Craven wanted nothing more than to see the broken, crumpled, and bleeding form of the former Necromancer for himself. Wreath shouldn't just be hurting right now; he should be close to death and psychologically scarred. He should not be finding anything amusing.

And yet, somehow, he was.

Ironic, given that he was currently curled around a teddy bear.

Craven stood in the doorway, an immovable object regarding Wreath with a critical eye. Wreath's own eyes were bandaged, unfortunately. Craven stepped forward to try and better see, but there was nothing more noteworthy to see. More bandaged injuries. Otherwise, Wreath may well have been sleeping.

There was nothing else for it. "Why on earth were you smiling?"

[peacefullywreathed]

Truthfully, Solomon had been very close to sleep. He'd spared enough energy to drag up one of the sheets, but apparently someone--he suspected Quiver--had had the forethought to leave the room somewhat heated. Tenebrae might be furious, but that didn't mean he wanted his newest precious tool to succumb to pneumonia on top of his injuries.

The ripple in the lifestream had prevented that sleep, but Solomon hadn't made any indication he knew anyone was there at all. At least now he knew how animals had that sixth sense about being watched; it was a gentle but irritating buffet in the lifestream. Solomon still didn't dare to focus on it too much, but the presence was enough that he didn't need to. It seethed, pulsed, like a flurry of angered ants swelling out of an anthill. Almost amusing, from a perspective of safety.

He just wasn't sure who it was. It wasn't Tenebrae, it wasn't Quiver. It could have been a guard, either taking his duty overly seriously or curious about Solomon's 'fall' from grace. Or it could have been--ah. Yes. Craven. Craven sounding like a petulant child whose anticipated entertainment turned out to be rather less than he'd expected.

Solomon rolled carefully onto a part of his back that didn't hurt quite so much as the others and laughed. "Ah, Craven. Well, if I told you, it wouldn't be my secret, would it?"

He grinned sightlessly in Craven's direction.

[skeletonenigma]

"You don't get to keep secrets," Craven snapped. "No matter what anyone else has been telling you, Wreath, you're a prisoner. Why were you smiling?"

Something they didn't know, maybe. Or maybe Wreath was just insane. Torture could do that to you. Losing your eyes without even minor painkillers could probably also do that to you. If that was the case, insanity was another perfect reason for Craven to gloat, but he suspected it wasn't. That would be too simple.

He still couldn't help a returning grin, even if it should have been the last thing Craven felt like doing. "Look at you. You look terrible. Can you see yourself, Wreath?"

[peacefullywreathed]

That was ... awful. Horrible. The worst pun a person could come up with under the circumstances. It was so lame that Solomon found himself laughing again, so hard that he actually curled in on himself with the pain.

"Ow," he gasped, trying to sort through the throb in his side, one hand resting on the spear-jab but not putting any pressure on it at all to avoid hurting his palm as well. "Vandameer, if you're trying to torture me with horrible puns, you're off to a good start. Otherwise, is that really the best you can come up with? I'm disappointed. I truly had a better expectation of your abilities."

Solomon rolled onto his back again, still laughing quietly. It wasn't just at Craven. It was at ... everything, really. The sheer relief he felt, knowing that after all this time, God hadn't abandoned him. He been there for him. Why else did He give Solomon the teddy-bear? The same relief of knowing that he was free, entirely his own person, no matter what the Temple did to him now. He wasn't bound by anything.

The marvelling of the same fact.

He couldn't help but laugh. With amusement, with joy, with relief. He knew how insane it sounded; suspected that he was, in fact, well on the way to being able to be diagnosed as such.

He couldn't care.

He was free.

He sent an encouraging smile toward Craven, the same kind he might give to a young acolyte except this was edged with a smirk. "Go on, Cleric Craven. Give it another try."

[skeletonenigma]

There was definitely a sense of satisfaction in watching Wreath laugh himself into pain. Less satisfying was that it didn't seem to do anything. He barely even seemed to notice he was hurt. In fact, he actually kept on laughing.

Craven was used to being dismissed. He handled that every day. He was rather less used to being laughed at, as one of High Priest Tenebrae's right-hand men. People didn't laugh at him. People didn't laugh at him and expect to get away with it. Wreath was laughing at him.

But Craven handled it, he was pretty sure, with the level of dignity expected of such an important Necromancer. That was, he said nothing, even though his smile grew fixed. If Wreath was truly insane, then he was a very organised and coherent crazy person. Perfectly possible, except that the man had just lost his eyes. No one was coherent after something like that.

Craven was actually also used to being patronised, but he was far less willing to put up with that. "You look," he continued, "dreadful. And it's not all our doing, either. Well, not directly." He stepped closer. "You know you have grey hairs? Where do those come from? Running away?"

[peacefullywreathed]

"Do I?" Solomon tilted his head slightly, still catching his breath, still with amusement on his face--hard though it was to tell. At least, harder than it would have been if he'd had unbandaged eyes. "I can't say I'm surprised, really. I was writhing in pain in a cell for the whole night. That sort of thing tends to have its effects."

Except ... was it? He didn't frown, but his features took an edge of contemplation. Was it because of the pain, or because of the reversed Surge? He had well and truly given up his magic; even if it became his eyesight, did that count as being used often enough to retain his normal lifespan? Or was the greyness a harbinger of a shortened time?

Did it really matter? Right now, his lifespan could very well be reduced to hours. And that was just after the fact he could well have lost it overnight. Most likely it was a combination of both, and there really wasn't anything he could do about it.

"I do hope it at least gives me a distinguished look. I'd ask for your opinion, except given your dress-sense I don't think I'd be able to trust it."

[skeletonenigma]

The cavalier way Wreath talked about his own torture was annoying Craven to no end. He'd had fantasies for years of Wreath finally getting his comeuppance, and now that some of those fantasies had actually come to fruition, the level of glee was far below the threshold he'd been expecting. Just because Wreath didn't seem to care. Or if he did, it was in the entirely wrong direction.

Craven's shoulder was still hurting. It gave a very specific hum of pain right at that moment, and Craven grimaced past it, instinctively reaching over to rub where the injury used to be. Where the ugly scar now was.

"My dress-sense is no more or less than what the Temple decrees," Craven responded with a thread of barely-concealed hate. Then he remembered he didn't have to conceal it anymore, and his next words were a lot more openly full of spite. "Unlike some people I could mention, I adhere to every tenet of the faith, instead of just what I feel suits me."

He wore thermals under his robes, but Craven knew for a fact that Tenebrae did too. He'd always been quietly jealous of Wreath, with his heated apartment outside the Temple and his nice warm suits. Wreath wasn't wearing a suit now, and self-righteousness was easily the best way to ignore irrational jealousy. "Why aren't you dead?" he demanded through clenched teeth. "Or comatose? Or at least catatonic? You're blind."

[peacefullywreathed]

"Thermal underwear comes under the Temple's standard dress-code, does it?" Solomon wondered out loud. "Fancy that. Maybe I should have paid more attention to the uniform rules after all." His tone was bantering, sardonic. Some rules, like that, were ridiculous. People in comfort worked better. There was no point to meaningless self-flagellation, and after his upbringing, Solomon had never had any intention of giving in to such an idea.

Even now, after a return to his upbringing, he wouldn't. God, he knew now, was much more intelligent than to go around worrying over someone wearing the wrong clothes to dinner. Really. Who seriously thought He would care about that when He had a whole universe to run? Or enjoy watching teeter on the rails, as the case may be?

"I suppose I'm not dead because I'm not," he said, and his lips quirked whimsically. The relief hadn't left, but the tiredness was beginning to sink in again and it showed in his voice--though it didn't take away the amused edge. "Funnily enough, Vandameer, blindness is not mutually inclusive with death, comas or catatonia. Where have you been getting your medical knowledge from?"

[skeletonenigma]

Craven chose to ignore the comment about thermal underwear. He chose to ignore it because he was the bigger person, and he wasn't going to give in to taunts or baiting. No, he would not give Wreath the satisfaction.

But his hands were clenched and his teeth were beginning to grind together. Prisoners should not be talking back. Prisoners should not be amused, unless they were using the humour to cover up fear, which Wreath just... wasn't. It would be downright creepy if it wasn't so infuriating.

"Maybe not blindness on its own," he agreed, managing a much more level tone this time. "But losing one's eyes while conscious and aware does tend to hurt, Cleric Wreath."

He couldn't quite avoid a bite of sarcasm around the word 'Cleric.' It didn't matter. "You were, as you said, wriggling around in pain in a cell the whole night. This morning, you were painfully blinded. And an hour ago, you were smiling. What do you know that we don't?"

[peacefullywreathed]

"Yes, I noticed that," Solomon murmured a little drowsily. Craven didn't like the mere thought of him smiling an hour ago. He must have been wild right now, then. "I knew you were biased against smiles, Vandameer, but I didn't realise your issues went so deep. Were you not hugged enough as a child? Probably not. Pity."

And yet he smiled again, but not with sarcasm or amusement for Craven's stupidity. Not exactly. This smile was soft but broad, happy, wondering. "I smiled because unlike the rest of you poor pitiable sacrifices, I'm free. Free in ways you couldn't imagine, comprehend, or even come close to touching regardless of what you do to me. I smiled, Vandameer, because I'm no longer afraid. For the first time in four hundred years." There was quiet awe in his tone. "I'm not afraid."

[skeletonenigma]

What sort of an answer was that?

"Why not?" Craven blurted before he could really stop himself. "Don't tell me you've actually chosen to stay here, like the High Priest ordered. You didn't want to stay here when you were still loyal. Why the sudden change of heart? Why any of this?"

He couldn't help his words slowly rising in volume, either. Slowly sounding more desperate. This just wasn't right. It wasn't how things worked. Wreath shot Craven in the shoulder, and he was going to get off scot-free? Even with torture, with pain, with his bloody eyes being removed - would nothing faze him? Would nothing scare him? If Craven raised his hand and killed Wreath right here and now, would Wreath actually welcome it, even if it wasn't what he actually wanted?

Craven didn't even have the presence of mind to muster up a glare. "Sacrifices? Is that how you see us now? Sacrifices to what?"

[peacefullywreathed]

... This was interesting. Interesting enough that Solomon actually rolled toward Craven, looked at him, focussed on him. The ants were running wild, but where before it had been in fury now they acted more like fear. Like a child had flooded their nest.

"To magic," he said simply, but more seriously than he had said anything before now. If there was no light in Craven's soul, did that mean he was truly finished? Or just that Solomon's sight wasn't clear enough to see it? "Necromancy is powered by death, Vandameer. Death takes souls. Our own magic uses souls as a power-source. Whose souls do you think are nearest? Ours."

He lifted a bandaged hand, felt it tremble, held it there in half-sleepy fascination. "The Temple fears the lifestream to such a degree that it seeks to cut itself off from it. But we don't go into it to begin with, Vandameer. When a Necromancer dies he is consumed by himself, and spends the rest of eternity in utter agony."

There was a camera in the room. Solomon knew it not because he'd seen it, but because it was logical. Apparently he couldn't see it on the lifestream, though, so he turned to look at Craven again instead. "That's what I've seen. The walls of this place are an unending scream of pain, sounded by the Necromancers who came before."

Melodramatic, perhaps, but Craven reacted well to melodrama. And it wasn't inaccurate, either. The significance, the danger, of this, was not something that could be understated.

[skeletonenigma]

Craven stared.

For a long moment, that was all he could do. He'd been all set to laugh at Wreath for the initial answer, assume that the man really was just batshit insane, but then Wreath actually went on to explain. Logically. Fact after indisputable fact, all leading to a conclusion that chilled Craven from the inside out. Thermal underwear and all.

It was a while before he'd swallowed enough to be able to speak. "If that's true... if that's what you believe, if that's what you've seen, why have you stopped trying to usher in the Passage? A world where no one dies, Wreath, would solve all of the world's problems. You know that as well as any Necromancer."

No, Craven didn't believe it. He couldn't. But even if it was true, even if... even if Wreath matched his tone and actually was serious, all it meant was that Craven would have to hurry along his own personal plans for finding a capable Death Bringer. The Death Bringer would initiate the Passage, and the world would be saved. In the grand scheme of things, how did the idea that Necromancers didn't actually enter the lifestream change anything? Necromancers already feared death.

His eyes narrowed. "And why are you telling me?"

[peacefullywreathed]

"You're misunderstanding." The silence said a lot and nothing at once. Craven's anthill had stilled, briefly, with abject terror at the thought, but then naturally he latched onto the wrong thing. Then again, Craven didn't have the context of knowing there was a higher power, and unless Solomon chose to break Saint Gabriel's cover, he wouldn't.

Maybe for Quiver. But for Craven, given Solomon couldn't see any light at all? No.

"I stopped because even if we had succeeded, I would have known for the rest of eternity that I stood upon the same unending agony of others which I feared myself. Necromancy destroys the link between soul and lifestream, Vandameer. It is a torment that would have never ended. At least now there's a hope for release."

A faint smile touched Solomon's lips, this one faintly sardonic. "I'm telling you this because you asked."

[skeletonenigma]

"No." Craven shook his head slowly. "I think I'm understanding perfectly. A month ago, you were claiming some teenage girl who knows nothing about the Temple would be our new Death Bringer. You're painting yourself as some big noble hero because you abandoned the vehicle by which we're going to save the world. Maybe you need to do that to get through this, I don't know, and frankly I don't care. Here's what I do care about. We despise each other. I despise you, you despise me." It wasn't as if that was some big secret. "If you told me things just because I asked you, we would have known about this betrayal right from the start."

He'd been perfectly willing to talk in Wreath's apartment, after all. Just talk. Wreath was the one to attack first, drawing on Necromancy that Craven now understood hadn't been there, then reaching for a gun. A gun. That terrible, infernal gun.

"Are you simply telling anyone who asks, or are you taking particular pleasure in fooling me?"

[peacefullywreathed]

"You can't save a world by building on the torture of others," Solomon murmured, but he knew it was already too late. Craven's anthill had begun to settle. Certainty. The belief in understanding. He thought he knew it, and he was so very wrong.

"I'd tell anyone who asks," he said simply, tiredly, and shifted back to his side to relax into his bed with a sigh. "Tenebrae wasn't asking the right questions. You can tell him, if you like. Of course, he'll hear it anyway, I imagine, just as soon as he watches the footage from the camera someone no doubt installed."

He was prepared to ignore Craven and get some sleep until Saint Gabriel arrived when he felt a ... a whisper. Not a pulse, not anything dramatic--more like a quiet wash of surf. A sigh, as if every soul in the graveyard, for just an instant, had felt genuine relief. Not enough for any Necromancer to notice the difference--but an eternity in the lifestream.

Solomon's breath caught and even though he couldn't see it, he felt the relieved smile the spread across his face. "Have you any more questions for me, Vandameer? I won't be here much longer."

[skeletonenigma]

Craven had no idea if a camera was installed or not. He couldn't see one, but then again, he wasn't doing much more than scanning the ceiling. There probably was. He hoped there was, because he didn't particularly want to repeat any of Wreath's answers to Tenebrae.

And there Wreath went, smiling again, like there some private joke Craven wasn't privy to. No... no, not just a joke. It was a broader smile than that. There was relief in it. No wonder the two young acolytes had been so unnerved.

Craven nearly smiled himself. "Oh? Going somewhere? Night out on the town, perhaps? You're blind, you fool. Look at you. You need a teddy bear just to stay awake."

If there was a chance of him being rescued, if Skulduggery Pleasant came knocking, then yes, Craven would be worried. But if that were the case, all three High Clerics of the Temple would be called, Craven included. And he hadn't been called. Besides, how would Wreath know about it before him?

He shook his head, finding it within himself to pity this new life Wreath would have to lead. One of Tenebrae's tools, no allowance for independent thought, but untrusted to so much as leave the Temple. Oh, it would be glorious. "You'd better make yourself comfortable, Cleric Wreath. You'll be here for a long time."

[peacefullywreathed]

That smile only broadened as Solomon held the bear tighter to him and brushed its fur with his knuckles, not in a possessive way but an acknowledging way. A way that spoke of the comfort it brought him. "Only physically. In the reality which matters, my eyes have been opened wide for the first time in my life."

He laughed then, a quiet humming chuckle. "I am comfortable, thank you. Good day, Cleric Craven."

Solomon caught his breath and turned his face closer into the pillow, letting his breathing ease and his peace to suffuse him.

Far upstairs, a gate-warden found himself bewildered, watching as people who were most definitely not Necromancers filed into the Temple and not sure at all just how or why or who that curly-headed man is, or why he couldn't seem to have mustered the courage to stop him from just walking straight in like he owned the place.

[skeletonenigma]

Erskine had never been inside the Temple before. He knew where it was, usually tried not to need that knowledge on a regular basis, and was perfectly happy with the outcome. Now, he was being led inside it.

He could think of far better ways to spend an afternoon. But, if he wasn't doing this, Corrival would probably have roped him into helping clean up the red paint somehow. Adventurous as Erskine was, he really didn't want to add washing the entire city of Dublin to his repertoire.

Valkyrie had explained quietly on their way through the graveyard that the last time they were here, Gabe nearly collapsed and ran - or flew, as the case may be - away. Bearing that in mind, Erskine kept his eyes peeled for any sign of a stumble, but there was nothing this time. In fact, Gabriel unsurprisingly radiated... not power, exactly. He wasn't quite intimidating. But it was something very like power. It was confidence, milleniums' worth of it, a knowledge of what he was stepping into that went deeper than any Necromancer's. Even the guards at the door didn't try to stop them, and that was surprising. Erskine was about to ask one of them where they might find either Wreath or Tenebrae, but stopped himself just in time. Gabe would do the talking, he said. Skulduggery hadn't argued. Erskine wasn't sure yet how far trust of divine beings could go - his only point of comparison was the Faceless Ones, after all - but he knew he trusted Skulduggery's judgment at the very least.

He trusted the judgment of Vile. Erskine couldn't help smiling. Here he was, keeping an eye on an Archangel's safety for Vile. Keeping the Gabriel safe and unharmed for a skeletal boyfriend who used to murder people. The world really was a strange place.

[impudentsongbird]

There was a halo around Gabe. It wasn't a visible thing; it was where the wards and the necromancy met, where they rippled and the agony eased into relief. It was that ripple he couldn't erase, too faint for any necromancer to feel in their magic--but enough for Solomon to recognise.

The Archangel put enough confidence and intent into his step that the door wardens stammered an objection and then did nothing as he swept past them without anything more than a pleasant smile. He didn't dare stop and take a breath, or brace himself; he couldn't afford to let that confidence lapse. He was as prepared as he could be.

The corona hummed on a metaphysical level as he was plunged into the depths of the Temple, encased in the Scream all around. He let it all slide off him, around him, a boat moving smoothly through the water. The others trailed in his wake, bright in contrast to the Scream. Their presences helped. Reminded him that something existed other than this place.

"What--hey! Who are you?"

Gabriel didn't even pause as he swept past the intersecting hallway and the necromancer in it. "No one in particular," he drawled. "Just here t'see Auron."

"The--what?" The necromancer's baffled voice was muffled by stone as Gabe left him behind.

Gabe's steps were intent. Quick, but unhurried. They never faltered no matter how many turns he took, following the current that existed even in the stagnation of this place. The Screams were greater where the High Priest lived. Twice more he crossed necromancers' paths. Twice more he moved forward without stopping. Non-violent--but inexorable.

Then he rounded a corner, and down the corridor a man turned, his face lifting. A man shrouded in darkness, but with a burning ember at his heart. Its flame was blue. Small, but hot enough to hurt with its brightness against the shadow. It was burning away at him, the things he had always accepted. The soul of a man on a precipice, torn between two parts, and already feeling the pain of it.

Nathanial Quiver's gaze raked across the little party, no surprise in his face. "You're here for Solomon."

Solomon. Not Wreath. Gabriel smiled. "Sure am, pardner. Mind showin' us to Auron?"

For a long moment Nathanial regarded them, his face impassive and soul searing. Then, slowly, he inclined his head and turned. "This way."

[skeletonenigma]

Gabe seemed to know exactly where he was going, so Erskine didn't try to figure it out. He did commit to memory the path they were taking, though. It was a leftover habit from the war, whenever the mission included entering caves, structures designed like mazes, or enemy strongholds. You never relied on someone else to remember the way back. You never knew if you'd be finding the way back by yourself.

The Temple, though, seemed to go on forever underground. On further consideration, it made sense, given that there were people who never left the place. All the storage, bedrooms, training areas, living quarters, presumably and hopefully indoor gardens - of course the place would have to be huge. But they had to be well out from under the graveyard by now.

"You get used to it," he heard Valkyrie mutter while he smiled at a passing confused Necromancer. "Well, about as much as you can get used to cold and damp places, anyway."

"You have no idea how hard I'm trying not to Teleport," Fletcher muttered back, his teeth clenched hard and knuckles white. Erskine couldn't really blame him. If he could get the hell out of Dodge like that, he'd be seriously considering it too.

"Just breathe," he told the boy. "But if you have to, try not to take any of us with you."

Gabe's accent startled Erskine into silence. It fit the Archangel like a glove, and it was weird. Weird because it shouldn't have fit him at all. Gabe looked, if anything, vaguely middle-Eastern, which was about as far away from the Southern United States as you could possibly get, and yet it sounded like he'd lived his entire life there. Quite apart from the whole weirdness factor, didn't Skulduggery insist on a more believable disguise at some point?

For a given definition of 'believable.'

Nathaniel Quiver was the first Necromancer Erskine recognised. He immediately tensed, ready for a fight, no matter how much Gabe had implied there wouldn't be one. Necromancers were untrustworthy by nature, and Erskine was not going to take any chances with one who stood right beside the man who would have given the order for Wreath to be captured.

So when Quiver didn't put up even a verbal objection and turned to lead them straight to Tenebrae, Erskine was left to try and work off the additional adrenaline that had built up with a frown on his face. Not Gabe's influence, surely. Was it?

[impudentsongbird]

Gabe wasn't unaware of Erskine's confusion, but he didn't dare turn to address it. They were in an enemy stronghold. They couldn't afford to stop. Erskine trusted Skulduggery, though--even now--and he was a soldier. He knew it was important to follow when someone else was leading.

So Gabe fell into step beside Nathanial, watching him sidelong, fascinated by that burning light within. He was so dark, still. So very dark, and yet possessed of a struck pilot light. "How is he?"

Nathanial's head turned just slightly as if in confused startle. Well, it was. Gabriel could see it in his soul, in the slow turn of the shadows, like they were pulled away from that painful flame and yet crowded it at once. Cradled it, almost protective. That was interesting. "Better than anyone expected," Nathanial answered after a moment. "Alive. He has successfully endured his withdrawal--the first in history."

Bar one, Gabe added mentally.

There was something else. The flame wavered, not as if it was about to go out but as if there was something there to stifle it. Uncertainty. Nathanial's expression flickered and he looked ahead. "The High Priest will explain more."

This man knew. He had stood there and witnessed as Solomon suffered. He had witnessed, and it had changed him. Gabe looked ahead again, a tiny smile on the corner of the mouth Nathanial couldn't see, and said nothing else until they came to Tenebrae's door. Without a word Nathanial knocked, waited for the leave to enter, and then opened the door to move inside first.

"High Priest," he said with a bow. "You have guests."

Gabe was right behind him, passed by him with a cheerful, "Thanks, pardner," and strolled right up to Tenebrae's desk, raising a couple of fingers to his forehead in a casual salute. "Howdy, Auron. I'd ask what's up, but I've already got an inklin'."

[skeletonenigma]

Much like Craven earlier, all Tenebrae could do at first was stare.

Guests, Quiver had said. How innocent-sounding. But Tenebrae was never unaware of the arrival of guests from outside the Temple, so he wasn't quite sure what to make of this. Someone let them in without informing the High Priest? No one tried to stop them? Quiver had shown them to the High Priest's office?

Without thinking about it, Tenebrae steeled himself against any form of mental attack, or psychic influence.

It was... odd. The man who'd spoken was unlike any sorcerer Tenebrae had ever met before. Shorts and a t-shirt, like he was living on a beach. Sandals, showing bare feet that didn't have even the blue tinge of cold in them, despite being far underground. Upright, tall, and confident. American. Inexplicably laid-back, if his initial behaviour was anything to go by. It threw Tenebrae off-guard. Black curly hair, cheerful, someone Tenebrae could tell instantly he wouldn't like.

Behind him, Valkyrie Cain. The young girl was regarding him with the same wariness she'd had when Solomon first took her to the Temple. The wariness had worn off, in time. Now it was back. She was next to a teenage boy who Tenebrae had to guess was Fletcher Renn, still hanging around even though Skulduggery Pleasant had long since been rescued. That surprised him. Behind them, Erskine Ravel, who met his gaze levelly and with a faint smile on his own face.

A faint smile of amusement. Tenebrae frowned. "I'm sure you're not here simply to have fun at my own expense. Who are you?"

He directed the last words at the stranger, and didn't follow them up with 'and what are you doing here?' He knew exactly why they were here. The only thing that confused him was why they were taking such a direct approach.