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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Book Four: Dark Days

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

Book Five: Mortal Coil

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

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-03-03 10:29 pm (UTC)(link)
"Might be?" Solomon asked with a bit of an edge. Usually a petty comment like that wouldn't faze him all that much. This time, it was the pettiness that annoyed him, just because of how childish it was. Ravel was whining about robes, and had the gall to snap about Solomon's state? Really?

Probably wisely, Corrival steered him away so he couldn't actively look into Ravel's soul. "Your coat's just there," he said, and Solomon put out a hand to find the stand, fumbling a bit until he found his waistcoat. "I did, Erskine. Unlike some people, I didn't get to go straight to bed or revel at a bar last night. It wasn't worth arguing with him at the time and since he didn't forget it, it's not worth arguing with him now. I'd rather have them and not need them than need them, for whatever reason that might be, and not have them."

Corrival's presence drew away; Solomon found a spare place to hang the robes, and then, of course, had to go about figuring out how to take them off. He heard a faint slap and took a moment to figure it out as Corrival clapping a hand to Ravel's shoulder. "Sometimes you care just a little too much about what people think of you, Erskine. That's why I need you, but right now it's working against you. Wreath's right. You could argue with Tipstaff 'til the cows come home and get nowhere. If you don't want to wear them, just don't wear them."
skeletonenigma: (smug)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-03-03 11:32 pm (UTC)(link)
Now here was something new. Not Corrival being the voice of reason, because he'd always been that, but Corrival being the mediator. Ending a potential argument before it began, and not with orders or a stern ultimatum as was his usual way. The way of a general. Not this time; he was actually being diplomatic about it.

Despite the atmosphere, Erskine chuckled. Maybe Corrival was even more suited to this than any of them originally thought. "Can it really be as simple as that? I'll have to give not wearing them a try, then."

Corrival's unexpected demeanor also had the unique effect of making Erskine aware of how childish he was being. Not just unfair, but childish. Solomon's reaction was more than enough testament to that. Erskine steadied his mind as best he could, rose above that childishness as much as he was able, and solidified it by chasing from his mind all thoughts of Vile, Gabe, or God. It wasn't perfect, but it worked well enough. "Or I could be the only one of us to wear them. It would make me look like the leader, even against your longer title."

There was a noise of amusement from the doorway. Erskine didn't need to turn to know who it was, and so he didn't. He simply pointed towards them without taking his eyes off Corrival. "And you need to be careful what you say next. We are the people with the power to fire you now."

Out of the corner of his eye, Erskine saw two skeletal hands risen in surrender. "I wasn't going to say anything. However, I now feel compelled to point out that one of my replacements was a traitor, and the other went insane before dying. You can't fire me. It's bad luck."

"Dock your pay, then." Erskine turned and smiled grimly at Skulduggery, who was apparently hiding a rather large group of people behind him. "Or suspend you. Look, this really isn't all that humiliating. You didn't need to bring all of Ireland to see it."

"Am I allowed to say something?" Ghastly asked. He was the first person to become visible around the skeleton detective in the doorway, and he was now surveying the robes Wreath wore with a critical eye. If such a withered glare could be called a 'critical eye.' "Or several somethings?"

Erskine sighed. "I already asked Tipstaff if you could design them. He said no."

"This is a crime."

"Make a complaint." Erskine brightened slightly. "Maybe we can use that as evidence to make it one. Then we could arrest Tipstaff if he didn't back down."
peacefullywreathed: (of life so incomplete)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-03-03 11:49 pm (UTC)(link)
"I second that motion," Solomon said, staunchly ignoring the ripples of high amusement he could sense behind him. Someone was laughing and hadn't stopped. It sounded like Saint Raphael, actually. At least Ghastly's professional indignation was worth paying attention to. "I can't even take the bloody thing off." There was exasperation in his tone, no longer at Ravel but just at the situation in general. These robes were made to look good, supposedly, and while they at least also felt good, they were not made for battle or for a blind man.

He shook his head. "I give in. Someone hand me a knife, or I'll be in these forever."

"They're awful," Saint Gabriel said, and he made no attempt to hide his amusement. Solomon turned to give the Archangel an exasperated look, but the sight of the angel's grin made his lips twitch.

"You don't have to sound so happy about it."

"Who designed these?" Merlin wondered. "It wasn't you, I hope, my good man?"

"No sir," said the longsuffering tailor through slightly gritted teeth. "But my predecessor was a man of good taste and--"

"Sir," Merlin cut in, "while usually I pride myself on being a man of excellent courtesy, speaking as someone who's worn some truly awful robes in my past, those are among the worst I've ever seen."

"Let me help," Saint Gabriel said, and Solomon willingly held out his arms.

"Please do. I take back all the thoughts I had of carrying it off well."

"Oh, you do," the Archangel assured him, his fingers light but grin still broad as he found the buttons. "But there's only so much of that which can help offset the, well, robes."
skeletonenigma: (jawfallingoff)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-03-04 03:57 am (UTC)(link)
Erskine suppressed a groan. It really was everyone. Skulduggery, Ghastly, Valkyrie, Fletcher, Tanith, the two Archangels, and Merlin. And not a single one of them seemed concerned about being amused, or about appearing amused, and - in the case of a couple of them - outright laughing.

He'd just been trying to forget about most of this. Seriously? Erskine could really have done without the little tailoring appointment becoming common knowledge, and particularly among the people he most wanted not to know.

Ghastly had turned his attention to Merlin, looking for all the world like he just needed a simple distraction from the crime of the Elder Robes he was being faced with. Erskine knew better. He'd been privy to some of Ghastly's rants about ill-fitting clothes before, and knew how badly the tailor usually needed to get it out of his system. (He made some allowances for the inability to use magic, but he would not accept clothes sloppily thrown together with no rhyme or reason solely to make something that covered all the important areas. Apparently. Erskine usually tuned out halfway through those rants, but he was pretty sure that was the general gist of it.) "Would you consider wearing robes again?"

In the aftermath of his terribly tangential line of thought, Erskine had to mentally backtrack to realise what Ghastly was talking about. When he did, an expression halfway between shock and amusement crossed over his own face. Oh, Bespoke Tailors would have something to brag about if this went through. 'Bespoke Tailors - tailoring custom-made robes since the time of Merlin.' It wouldn't even be a lie, really. Just a mislead. Honestly, not even a mislead.

Erskine's head was beginning to pound again.
peacefullywreathed: (just take one step at a time)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-03-04 10:57 am (UTC)(link)
Having Saint Gabriel this close was making Solomon aware of some things of which Erskine had made him aware not all that long ago. (He seemed to remember China laughing about it forever ago too.) Namely, the way that Archangel's brightness stretched backward toward Skulduggery, and the way the detective's stained-glass beamed sunlight toward Saint Gabriel. Solomon would have averted his eyes, except Saint Gabriel's proximity made that rather useless.

He did so anyway.

"They do have their merits," Merlin said thoughtfully. "Why not? It's been a while, and I miss them sometimes. They were so much more dramatic than most of the clothes nowadays."

"Speaking of," Corrival said, "is Tipstaff stuck behind that roadblock in the doorway, or did he leave you to go do something else?"

"He's here," Saint Raphael guffawed, and although Solomon couldn't see it, he got the faint impression from the ripples that the Archangel had all but picked the man up to shove him through the crowd. Tipstaff's soul was certainly startled. "Corr wants ya, Stewy."

"Yes, Grand Mage?" Tipstaff managed to ask with admirable dignity given how frazzled his edges were. Like frayed parchment.

"Ghastly's accusing these robes of the crime of living," Corrival informed him. "He's not wrong. Wreath can't even get out of them on his own. They weren't designed with blind men in mind, apparently." Just what Solomon needed; to be used as a model. He sighed just as Saint Gabriel's fingers found the last catch and the ex-Necromancer was finally able to pull the robes off.

"Grand Mage--" Tipstaff began stiffly, but then cut off for reasons Solomon couldn't see through soul alone.

"They're traditional, I know. The thing is, we're soldiers. We like clothes we can move around in. In Wreath's case, they're practically a health hazard. Sure, we can have them made, but then we just won't wear them. So here's how it is: either you let Ghastly design something we'd like to wear, and might actually do so on special occasions, or we'll just come to work wearing whatever we're most comfortable in. Which for me happens to be my patchwork old coat."

The last was said ever so blandly, but Solomon smirked at the way Tipstaff's parchment fluttered and etched with a horrified image of a colourful old coat.

"But, Grand Mage--"

"That's how it is, Tipstaff. None of us are going to be caught dead wearing anything we can't move in, or else we might actually be caught dead. Given what happened to our predecessors, apparently it's something to be worried about. So we're worried about it."

"I--but--" Tipstaff's papers came to rest in a cascading pile, the metaphysical equivalent of a slump. "I suppose Mr Bespoke could draft a new design. But we still won't be able to pay him."

"I'm sure that will be fine." Corrival turned to Ravel. "What do you know? You were right."
skeletonenigma: (closeup)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-03-04 01:09 pm (UTC)(link)
"Of course I was." Erskine glanced back towards Corrival. "What about, this time?"

Ghastly made a noise that sounded an awful lot like a disbelieving scoff. "I don't need to be paid. I'm not asking for money. I have plenty of that. Just give me a chance to burn those, and I'll be happy."

He suspected that might be asking a bit too much, particularly given the spluttering response of the Sanctuary Administrator, but Ghastly could live with that. Retiring those robes would be enough. If 'retire' was truly the right word; 'retire' put him in mind of something that produced exceptional service before finally getting too old to carry on. Those robes didn't belong anywhere but at the back of a dark and unused closet. "That's a commission for an identical set of four robes, then?" he asked. "I'll get started right away."

They'd easily be regal enough, if they were all technically designed for Merlin. But that... wasn't quite what Ghastly had in mind. What he had in mind was a perfectly respectable and elegant set of Elder robes, of course, but presented along with one blue star-spangled robe that came complete with a pointy hat.

Archangels might be able to glean that image from him, but Ghastly was banking on neither of them saying a word. And, coming to think of it, Merlin not being able to constantly scan for surface thoughts. But it would be worth it. Ghastly couldn't quite contain his own grin at the thought, but it would probably be mistaken for professional relief at getting to redesign the robes, so he didn't mind too much.
peacefullywreathed: (like weights strapped around my feet)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-03-04 01:37 pm (UTC)(link)
"If you can't remember, I'm not going to tell you," Corrival said. "In the meantime, now that that's all sorted: Tipstaff, you can take your man here and find somewhere else to be. I need to talk to Skulduggery's detectives."

The tailor's soul hummed indignation, the sort of upright indignation of someone who decided that obviously they had better things to do with their time than cater to such low-minded individuals. Which was why he had no compunctions about leaving. Tipstaff lingered for a moment, as if unsure whether he should really leave all these people alone without a chaperone or not. Solomon grinned to himself, turned away to take down his waistcoat and shrug it on, but the moment he felt Tipstaff leave he took back the robes and turned back to toss them at Ghastly.

"Here, burn this before your soil turns to stone." Not nearly as funny as Ravel's pinecones, or Deuce's eels, perhaps, but Ghastly's indignation came in the form of leaving brittle clay everywhere.

"Someone close the door." Someone did so with a thud, and Corrival went on. "We need to talk about the Cleavers. Skulduggery, you've probably already figured this out, but for everyone else, they're reflections of Mr Bliss."

"Oh." Saint Gabriel's word was quiet but long, and he turned toward Solomon, the amusement dimming toward chagrin. "I probably should have warned you about them--I'm sorry. They're unnerving, aren't they?"

"To say the least," Solomon murmured, pulling his tie on over his head and thankful he'd had the foresight not to pull it out of the knot.

"What about 'em?" Saint Raphael asked Corrival with a shrug. "I can understand why Sol'd not wanna look to closely. I don't wanna look at 'em too closely. But they're not inherently evil or anythin'."

"No," Corrival said, "but Mr Bliss was murdered by Faceless Ones a year ago, and according to Solomon, his soul may be trapped in the maze of his reflections."

Archangels could pale, Solomon found in that moment. Though it wasn't paling, exactly. It was like a fast-receding tide pulling in on itself, and Saint Raphael cursed. More interesting, though, was Merlin's reaction--the way his soul flurried with a snowstorm, so sudden that Solomon almost felt the driving ice against his face and flinched. In that swirl he caught fragments, sensations of being trapped and helpless in a never-ending maze of glass.
skeletonenigma: (skulblue)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-03-05 01:08 pm (UTC)(link)
Skulduggery's detectives. Valkyrie's immediate reaction was offense that she - or any of them - were considered below Skulduggery. But on reflection, that was probably accurate. And with that reflection came a small thrill of pride.

She wondered what she'd be seeing if Skulduggery was still wearing his new/old face. Would he also be proud? Smug, perhaps? Or would there simply be acceptance, transitioning smoothly into professional curiosity?

Ghastly's brow was furrowed as he took the robe from Solomon. "Before my soil... turns to stone?" he repeated slowly. He paused for a moment, glancing down at the robe, which he was holding out and away from himself like it carried some kind of poison. "Is that a legitimate danger? Or is it more like Corrival's eels?"

Valkyrie could kind of see it, if she squinted. Not like Solomon could, obviously, but she could understand it. Ghastly was an immovable center. Not stone, exactly, but something close to it. And if something - like those ridiculously pretentious robes - affronted him, she could imagine his soul becoming more solid. Of course, that wouldn't be what Ghastly was thinking of; Ghastly would be thinking of the two years he spent stuck as a statue. And with the way Tanith involuntarily stiffened, Valkyrie knew those two years were on her mind as well.

Ghastly had de-statued in time to help stop the Faceless Ones from coming through, though. Mr. Bliss and China were also there, but Mr. Bliss didn't survive the encounter. Valkyrie didn't have enough emotion left in her at the time to feel anything for his death other than regret. It wasn't until Corrival brought it up now that she realised, with no small hint of guilt, that she'd never even considered where Bliss might actually have gone.

The Cleavers. Valkyrie shuddered. They'd always given her the creeps, ever since she first saw them. Finding out they were all versions of Mr. Bliss was surprising in the way learning things in school was surprising - you didn't know it before, but you did now and it made sense. They were creepy in the same way Bliss was creepy. You didn't want to look at them for too long.

"The maze of...?" Fletcher's voice trailed off before he could finish the question. Valkyrie didn't really understand the details either, but she didn't really need to. She knew what it meant; and what it meant was that Bliss, like Skulduggery, hadn't moved on.

And it was pretty clear now what the consequences of that were. How long, Valkyrie wondered, until the Cleavers went insane and started killing people?

No. Bliss deserved better than this. "How do we get him out?" she asked. "We can get him out, right?"
Edited 2013-03-05 13:10 (UTC)
peacefullywreathed: (says the man with some)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-03-05 02:03 pm (UTC)(link)
Solomon felt Saint Gabriel's hand on his elbow, steadying him against the razor cold emanating from Merlin's soul. The jagged shards of that memory. Solomon had to turn away from it, and automatically wrapped his coat closer around him.

"If he's in there," Corrival pointed out. "If he is, why didn't you angels notice?"

"It isn't that simple, Corrival," said Saint Raphael, and there was no accent, no joke in his tone. His wings, like his brother's, were held tight to him, as if in comfort--almost the same motion Solomon had just made with his coat, the ex-Necromancer realised. "Reflections may not be evil in the traditional sense, but they're Order taken to the nth degree. Absolute apathy and soullessness. We understand why you have them, but that doesn't mean we want to look too deeply into them."

"We didn't see him," Saint Gabriel said, "because we weren't looking. Frankly, I wasn't in any condition to handle the depths of that void, the last two times I visited the Sanctuary. This time, I just didn't want to. If I'd warned Solomon, maybe he wouldn't have either."

Which meant they wouldn't have known that Bliss might still be in there, Solomon heard the Archangel's unspoken words. It didn't make him feel any better about what he'd had to see. About what he was seeing in Merlin's soul, what the man was leashing hard but which still left Solomon feeling cold.

"Either way," Saint Raphael continued, "there's only one way to find out, and that's to examine one of them."

"Neither of you may be in the condition to do that either," Merlin finally spoke, his voice quiet in the manner of someone still taking command of an unwelcome memory. "The Cacophony is chaos personified. A reflection is the very opposite. Looking into them may only make your internal injuries worse as it reflects back what you've already strained."

There was a pause while the Archangels exchanged glances. Saint Gabriel's wings closed around himself and Skulduggery both. Saint Raphael's feathers rustled with frustration, and sent rainbows rippling through the lifstream. Neither of them answered. Neither of them wanted to admit it was true, even though it was, because the alternative was that--

The alternatives, Solomon realised abruptly, were to potentially leave Bliss to his fate or for Solomon himself to look into the reflection. And the Archangels couldn't suggest either of them. Before the first was unconscionable, and the second may well be demanding more of Solomon than he could handle. Because he'd only gotten a glimpse, and the idea of looking into that mirror made his heart pound. He had no idea how badly it could go wrong. They did, and their silence said how bad it could be.

Which was why he was astonished to find himself saying, "I'll do it." Then he stopped and tilted his head at Saint Gabriel. "Did I really just say that?"

The Archangel smiled at him, and the concern wasn't in the least bit hidden. "Yes, you did."

"I think I might be drunk. Or possibly insane." His hands were already tingling with adrenaline. What on Earth was he thinking? This wasn't like him. He wasn't self-sacrificing. Why he had he even said that at all? Except--

Another realisation, and Solomon found himself turning fully into the crispness of Merlin's soul, his voice sharp. "What did you do?"

The snow rippled, curled in, crusted over with the grime of dirt like an iced-over riverbank. "I didn't do anything."

"You did something," Solomon said, and this time managed to keep his voice even, if tense. "I felt it." It wasn't helping the way his heart was pounding. Saint Gabriel took his hand, and the warmth wasn't quite enough to wash the anxiety away. Just enough to settle it a little.

"It wasn't deliberate, Solomon. For nearly four hundred years, your magic has revolved around death and the lifestream. Now that the door is open, you're standing with one foot in it. There are things you can see and things you can feel which are going to affect you more than they would have when you were blind to them. Merlin was trapped in an endless maze of reflections for nearly a decade, and escaped barely two years ago. That's what you felt: the weight of that memory."

Solomon said nothing. 'Weight' seemed like too tame a word. He'd felt the fear. The utter helplessness. The knowledge that Merlin himself couldn't stand by and watch. He hadn't just seen the memory, he had felt those things, and they had been influencing his mental state. Yet even the knowledge that they had been, when he remembered simply passing by the Cleavers on his way down this morning--being in a tiny room with them, a tiny hallway--those recollections made a cold chill run down his spine.

And he knew he couldn't take back what he'd already said. 'Why' was too complicated for him to try and sort out right now--he just knew he couldn't, and not all of it had to do with what he'd felt from Merlin.

"When we have a chance," he said to the Ancient, "I want you to teach me how to ward my soul so this doesn't happen again. Provided--" Here his tone was resigned. "--provided I'm not driven insane from looking into a soulless reflection, at least."

To Solomon's surprise, something in the Ancient's soul grew dirtier. Not a stain, precisely, but a skud of snow uplifted from the snow-muddy riverbank. "I think you'll find," Merlin said, "your soul is stronger than you give yourself credit for."

For a moment Solomon stared at him, mildly stunned. The dirtiness he'd just seen was shame.
skeletonenigma: (skeletondetective)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-03-05 11:50 pm (UTC)(link)
There was nothing quite like an established jester Archangel losing their accent and lighthearted tone to stiffen the atmosphere so far, so completely, that everyone would very likely feel as if they were suffocating. Skulduggery couldn't, of course, but he felt the weight as well. Particularly since none of them knew Raphael as well as they'd gotten to know Gabe over the last few days, that weighty atmosphere was suddenly much heavier.

Maybe it was because Skulduggery had some of the angel's memories forcibly injected into his head, or - more likely - because it was how he was used to handling himself, but the weight didn't adversely affect him. He'd have been taking all of this seriously enough either way.

"I'll do it."

It surprised Skulduggery just as much as it surprised most everyone else, give or take a few - including Solomon himself, it seemed. And while an explanation eventually presented itself, Skulduggery didn't quite buy it. Not completely. If Merlin's apparent memory had been all that spurred Solomon into volunteering, the ex-Necromancer would have taken his words back the instant he realised it.

Solomon was becoming everything Skulduggery saw in him back before his Surge. Before he made his choice and unknowingly suffered for it. Of course, that was nearly four hundred years ago now; even for sorcerers, that much time couldn't be ignored. Especially for sorcerers. If anyone knew how much a man could change within the space of a day, it was Skulduggery, and he was no hypocrite; he'd give Solomon the benefit of the doubt. And he'd fight like hell to keep people like Tenebrae from snatching this second chance away from Solomon before he could use it for himself however he saw fit. That didn't mean Skulduggery had to like it.

"I agree," he murmured, because he did. If nothing else, Solomon had always been mentally capable. "Do you feel up to making the attempt now? If it's been a year, I doubt Mr. Bliss would mind waiting a few more days if it meant you were more prepared."
peacefullywreathed: (won't have my life turn upside-down)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-03-06 12:40 pm (UTC)(link)
"To be perfectly honest," Solomon said with a grim smile, "if I leave it for any longer I'll probably back out. So let's just get this over with." Because he would. He knew it. He wasn't an inherently self-sacrificing man. The fact he'd said anything at all was due to Merlin's memory. The fact that he stood behind what he said was due to those complicated whys.

If he gave himself time, he could sort out those whys and rationalise them away. Part of him didn't want to do that. Which was why he said nothing as Corrival opened the door and called for one of the Cleavers.

He did curl his fingers up, though. Curled them up so no one saw the fact they were already trembling. He was fairly sure it was just with adrenaline.

When the Cleaver entered, the lifestream parted before it as though it was a diamond vessel. Crystalline and cold, inexorable; it sent rainbows scattering this way and that, its clear shape so deep that it looked like empty space in the middle of a melodious current. Solomon averted his eyes without meaning to until it came to a coasting stop in the centre of the room.

Saint Gabriel squeezed his hand; Solomon could tell it was meant to be reassuring, but it didn't work. Solomon slid out of the Archangel's grasp and stepped forward, his heart pounding. It took more effort than he cared to admit to face forward, to look at the Cleaver fully and not just let it be a presence at the corners of his awareness. He didn't bother to brace himself. There was no way to know what to expect, so he didn't dare try to expect anything.

At first, it wasn't all that bad. Like looking into a mirror. A fractured mirror, to be sure, one that rang faintly resonant, but discordant. Except that 'at first' only lasted a fraction of a second--the space of a heartbeat.

Then Solomon saw the currents of the lifestream stretching out all the way around him, unbound by walls or presences because it was reflecting, over and over, in the crystal lines of the Cleaver's presence. It was like a whirlpool, a deep rainbow well into which everything was being sucked; Solomon saw the golden light of his own soul, a flash of it washed in with the rest like a sunrise. Only a flash because it was drowning, because he was drowning, buffeted this way and that by the force of a current he suddenly couldn't ride. He reached out for something, anything, and--

Something responded, surging at him. A blue presence within the whirlpool, part of it and apart from it at once. It was simply too big to be contained by the gravity of that current. It slammed into Solomon, filling his Sight, and for a moment Solomon thought it was going to swallow him whole. He felt himself stumble instead, felt some dizzy awareness of his physical body which he'd lost. Even then, he didn't look away.

The Cleaver's form radiated blue light, the brightness of desperation. It was already fracturing, but the presence was such, the Cleaver's form was such, that even without physical sight Solomon saw the shape of a man. A familiar man who spoke, his words grinding like the stone at the base of a mountain over aeons. Those words were physical and metaphysical at once, deafening.

"Help. Me."

The Cleaver exploded into jagged shards; the lifestream swamped in where it had been. Solomon's arms flew up to protect himself from those massive cutting fragments, and for a moment his existence wavered between now and a then, a then when killing intent and fragments of a metaphysical Scream rushed inexorably at him. The sight-sound-touch-awareness of it sent a bolt of pure terror all through him and he flung a hand out instead, reaching for anything within reach that might protect him--for the bubbles of power he could sense on the edges of his crumbling mind. They'd power him, they'd give him a shield, something to defend himself.

"Solomon, no!"

Something came in-between them, something hugely powerful, bigger even than that blue presence; too big to be contained at all, even for a moment. It caught him up, shook him almost, turned the lifestream's currents rolling under his scrabbling fingers so he couldn't gain any purchase even while it protected him from those glass shards.

Too big. Too powerful. He needed to escape, escape from all these massive presences that were swamping in and drowning him. Another one swept toward him now, blizzarding and cold; he shoved at it, panicking and unable to keep from doing so. It felt as if he'd tried to move a two-ton granite block, and yet it stopped.

Solomon hit something. He couldn't tell what, or who, just that it was quiet, softer. No bigger than him. Not frightening. Just solid, and steady, and enough of a discordant note that the now fractured from the then, when there hadn't been anything steadying at all. The memory washed past him like a buffeting rip-tide and Solomon drew in a deep ragged breath, the first it felt as if he'd drawn at all in forever.

His whole body was trembling violently; his knees buckled and he crumbled to the floor, still unaware of who was beside him. He gasped for air like a near-drowning man, his breathing hitched with the tears he couldn't stop. Everything he'd been holding back, that dam of emotions and dizzying changes, had broken without even giving him the option of trying to shore it up again.

Solomon's head sank into his hands, fingers gripping his hair. He sat there and wept, not sobbing but shaking unstoppably, and couldn't do anything but be overwhelmed by so many things he couldn't even divine them from each other.
Edited 2013-03-06 12:47 (UTC)
skeletonenigma: (welltailoredsuit)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-03-06 10:31 pm (UTC)(link)
Back when Skulduggery had been Lord Vile, he'd had a weapon. A Necromancy technique that, as far as he knew, no one else ever even came close to touching, let alone learning. It was, he'd recently worked out, probably how the Temple expected their Death Bringer to kill three billion people at once. A field, a... bubble, of sorts. Not quite of death, but of awareness. Vile extended that awareness out, further and further each time his power grew, and then retracted it - along with the life of every person that field had touched. It was powerful, it was deadly, and it was how Vile could kill hundreds in the same second.

It was also exactly what Solomon had just tried to do.

Probably not knowingly. Probably not deliberately. The very first time Vile used it, it hadn't been deliberate then either. Solomon's attempt might not even have worked, since he'd given up the magic of Necromancy completely. But that didn't much matter in the split second Skulduggery could feel, all too well, Solomon reaching out for the lives around him. The same way Vile had so many times.

All those years, and of course Vile never tried to find a way to defend against it. He didn't need to. Why learn how to stop an ability when you were the only one to possess it? There was no need. If Gabe hadn't been there to bar Solomon from it... what then? Would everyone in the room be dead? Or would something even worse have happened to Solomon?

Somewhere deep in a hidden part of his mind, a part which Skulduggery didn't like to visit very often, something leaped at the feeling. They wouldn't all be dead, Skulduggery corrected himself. He would have given in to the temptation and turned the power back on Solomon. And thanks to whatever Landel had done, he wouldn't think twice about doing so. Or about failing to rescue any of the others.

Jaw clenched tight and one hand gripping the handle of his gun, Skulduggery fought it - hard. And in the swirl of darkness that had grown so familiar since that night in the Institute, Skulduggery barely had time to wonder how on Earth Solomon was able to do this before it all abruptly stopped.

With the Cleaver disintegrated, and Solomon reeling away from the presence of the angels and Merlin, Erskine had stepped forward to catch the ex-Necromancer before he crashed into something. The contact did something, somehow; Solomon snapped out of it, sank to the floor, and Skulduggery was overwhelmingly grateful that everyone's attention would be focused on him.

Of course, in Gabe's case, it wouldn't matter. Focusing, for angels, was different. It wouldn't stop him from knowing what Skulduggery had just gone through.

Deep breath. Hold it. Exhale. Skulduggery looked down at the remains of the unsuspecting Cleaver, and pulled his usual cloak back over himself. "Well, I think it's safe to say Bliss is definitely in there."

How exactly that caused the Cleaver's immediate and total destruction, Skulduggery was still trying to work out.

"What happened?" Valkyrie asked. Her voice was shaking. "Why did he...? I thought he was just supposed to look."
peacefullywreathed: (with the colour of the past)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-03-06 11:42 pm (UTC)(link)
"It's all he needed to do," Merlin answered, his eyes still on Solomon and face pale. Rafe had settled on his haunches a few feet away from the ex-Necromancer, eyes on the man, making his patient presence small like someone trying to woo out a frightened animal. Gabe had stepped close to Skulduggery to lay a steadying hand on the detective's arm.

Merlin dragged his gaze away to look at the girl, and didn't hide the self-recrimination on his face. "It's a reflection's purpose to be looked into, Valkyrie, and this one was but one in a maze of many. Reflections have gravity all on their own." He managed to summon a grim smile. "Nietzsche said, 'When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you'. He was speaking metaphorically about good and evil, but he may as well have been talking about reflections. There's a reason people used to believe mirrors stole one's soul."

Corrival was standing with a frown where the Cleaver had been, hands out as if to catch its remnants, but there was nothing left. "Why did it do that?"

"It's a copy," Rafe said without shifting his gaze from Solomon. "A single reflection might have been strong enough to hold a soul like Bliss's, but the Cleavers' power is spread too thin among them. A vessel like that is too small to contain him."

For a moment the new Grand Mage absorbed that silently, decided he had no objections and didn't particularly want to think too deeply on it, and then nodded. He moved to Solomon's side, crouching and laying a hand on his shoulder. It wasn't fatherly, exactly. More like something he would have done during the war. A genuine concern for someone under his direct command, which Solomon, technically, now was.

"Still with us, Solomon?"

Solomon was somewhere between there and not. His eyes were closed but he was vaguely aware of the presences around him. He couldn't focus on them enough to actually pay attention to their actions at all. His head and mind were pounding with a swirl of facts and emotions; about all he could do was breathe, and that was barely keeping him upright.

He'd given up his magic. He'd tried to use it just then. He knew he had, but only reached the awareness of that fact and then had to let it go spinning away.

He'd given up his magic.

He had no sight.

He could see the lifestream, not just now but for always. Always he would be aware of this pounding, rainbow current around him. He'd be able to see things like the Cleavers. Like the Scream. The beautiful and frightening largeness of the angels. He wouldn't be able to stop. Never again.

He had no magic and he was blind and he was on the cusp of insane thanks to the lifestream, and he had been elected a leader of Ireland.

And Skulduggery Pleasant was Lord Vile. Don't forget that. No, don't forget the fact that he had been the most powerful, most terrible Necromancer in history, and Solomon could remember with keen awareness when that Necromancer had tried to kill him.

So he had no magic, he was blind, on the cusp of insanity, been elected a leader of Ireland and one of his employees was the most powerful Necromancer in history, and also happened to be courting an Archangel, because God was real.

For some moments Solomon let these collective facts sit in his mind. Each one enough to break a man on their own. Each one almost too large to contain. Solomon gathered them up, and held them, and let them overwhelm him completely.

He heard Corrival's voice, but at first didn't answer. The facts were too great. The facts were too great, and yet someone--Ravel--was next to him. Awkward, withdrawn, but still there and steady. Corrival's hand was grounding on his shoulder. Beyond them, Ghastly and Valkyrie and Tanith and Fletcher.

People there. There were people there, people who weren't Vile or Merlin or angels. Just ordinary people, relatively speaking, like him.

Could he handle Merlin? Yes, he thought so. Merlin was surprisingly ordinary in manner, if not soul. He could handle Merlin.

Could he handle the Archangels? He could handle Saint Raphael ... Rafe. Rafe was amusing and personable. He was also powerful beyond imagination. Could Solomon handle him being powerful beyond imagination? The ex-Necromancer turned that concept over in his mind. Skulduggery was more powerful than him just as was. Most people were more powerful than him right now, actually. Solomon thought he could accept that. He could accept that part of Saint--of Gabe, too.

Most people were more powerful than him right now, because he had no magic and no sight. Could he handle that? Well, even if he couldn't, he'd figure out how to. He'd be damned if he'd let Tenebrae win that one.

Could he handle the lifestream? No. Not alone. But he wasn't alone. He laid that puzzle-piece of himself over the top of the others, not quite fitting, yet, but with potential to.

Could he handle Skulduggery being Lord Vile? He could do that.

Could he handle Skulduggery being Lord Vile, and remembering fighting him, and that sheer overwhelming terror, and how he had survived? That part, he was less sure about.

There were some other facts there. Facts like Skulduggery courting an Archangel. It was a strange, warped thought Solomon felt would become more palatable with time, so he left it alone. Facts like God being real. Strangely enough, that fact didn't feel terrifying at all. Not the knowledge of His existence. What Solomon should do about it was somewhat more so, but not Him being there.

He couldn't fix what he should do about it right now, though, so he let it go. Let go everything he couldn't change.

Solomon exhaled shakily, didn't inhale for ten heartbeats, and then did. And then exhaled again. With each breath he looked at those facts fully, accepted the ones that didn't quite fit, and finally felt stable enough to answer. His voice came out hoarse and unsteady. "Undetermined as yet."
skeletonenigma: (thinking)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-03-07 12:24 am (UTC)(link)
So the answer was yes, then.

Skulduggery released an internal breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. Solomon would be alright. Everyone else would, too. Even Bliss, eventually, because they couldn't just sit back and do nothing now that they knew his ultimate fate. Skulduggery, in particular, wasn't going to let that happen. About the only person who wouldn't be alright, in fact, was the Cleaver. As far as stupid risks went, this one had gone rather well.

Because of that, Skulduggery wasn't going to ask Solomon about his magic. Not just yet. Quite apart from Solomon not being able to handle anything more than basic questions at the moment, it was entirely possible he'd have no idea what Skulduggery was talking about. Better to bring it up when they were alone, and Solomon had recovered enough to handle possibly discovering for the first time how deep his power went.

Valkyrie was hovering, unsure whether to go closer or not. In contrast, Skulduggery was perfectly happy with his distance, and he was pretty sure Solomon would be, too. Even Raphael crouched a few feet away, giving the man his space. Skulduggery didn't pretend to know anything about the lifestream, but it struck him as odd that the Archangels were driving Solomon away like that. Perhaps this had more to do with Solomon's current state of mind than it did with what he saw in the Cleaver.

"What do we do, then?" asked Ghastly. "Bliss is in the Cleavers, and no single Cleaver is strong enough to hold him. How do we get him out?"

"And more importantly," Erskine muttered, "is there a way of doing it without getting rid of all the Cleavers entirely?"

Valkyrie stared. "That could happen?" She glanced towards Skulduggery, understandably nervous. She knew she shouldn't be feeling even the slightest bit pleased about an outcome like that, and yet she did. No one would blame her, but Valkyrie was a lot like Skulduggery in the respect that she wouldn't care. "That would be bad, wouldn't it? Explaining why would be a nightmare, not to mention how useful they are. What do we do?"

Skulduggery considered for a moment, realised something, and then tilted his head back towards her. "Why are you asking me?"

"Um..."

"I'm not the Grand Mage. I'm not even an Elder. I don't make the decisions; I just solve the mysteries. There's no mystery here. Crossword Puzzler Extraordinaire Deuce, what should we do?"
skeletonenigma: (headtilt)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-03-07 03:08 am (UTC)(link)
"I think it's a fitting title," Skulduggery agreed with a nod. "A little pretentious. Easily challenged, maybe. But very fitting. The other Sanctuaries don't have a hope of taking you seriously anymore."

"You mean they ever did?" An easy smile had fallen back into place on Erskine's lips. "We've been doing something wrong, then. Wreath, were you the one who told Lynott about that title?"

"Can we focus, please?" Ghastly almost snapped, drawing Skulduggery's eyeless gaze to him. Something in the tailor was stretched near to a breaking point. Skulduggery was at first surprised by the tone, but he couldn't discount that Ghastly had been through a lot, too. Only natural for his own patience to be wearing thin. "Rescuing Bliss wouldn't bring him back, would it? We either sit back and do nothing, and let our consciences rot, or destroy all the Cleavers for no reason discernible to the rest of the Sanctuary?"

"Gabe said there might be another way," Tanith pointed out. "He said we don't have to destroy all the Cleavers."

He did. Right before Merlin had whisked him away. Skulduggery thought about that, and about what Raphael had said even before that. Something about the reflections being stretched too thin for Bliss's soul to be able to inhabit one. Implying that if they were all combined into just the one reflection, he could. It wouldn't be life, and it wouldn't be a real body. But it would be Bliss's soul, able to interact with the world at large. A lot like Skulduggery's current situation, in a way.

The realisation brought with it an inordinate amount of shock.

Too much shock. It didn't make sense. Nothing overwhelming, or even very noticeable. Skulduggery wouldn't have noticed it at all, in fact, if he weren't being so very careful with his own feelings at the moment - and if he wasn't fairly sure the shock didn't originate from him.

It wasn't really shock, either. Bewilderment? Something close to it? A flash of indignation ran through it all, and that, Skulduggery knew for a fact wasn't his. It burned away the shock, or whatever that shock actually was, and left absolutely nothing in its wake. As if Skulduggery had just imagined the oddity. As if he wasn't being very careful with his own feelings at the moment.

Skulduggery tried to ignore the thread of unease it caused. "Bliss might be able to inhabit one," he told Tanith, "if they weren't all stretched so thin. Creating multiple reflections is the sort of magic that even with creative ingenuity requires the utmost precision. China was most likely the one to engineer that. And even if she wasn't, she'd be the one most likely to be able to undo it now."

Valkyrie shook her head. "China isn't going to help. We had to practically drag her to help with Gabe at the safehouse the other day. Why couldn't Merlin or one of the others do it?"

"Because," Skulduggery started to answer, pausing only for the amount of time it took to realise he didn't know, and yet he did, because a part of him knew with sinking certainty what the earlier shock was, and it wasn't too difficult to put two and two together. "Because they're not going to help, either."

They all stared at him, with varying levels of shock on their own faces. Again, Skulduggery couldn't blame them. But it made sense. Skulduggery himself had argued, towards the beginning, that Gabe shouldn't have to interfere the whole time; that they were perfectly capable of fixing their own mistakes. And now that it seemed more and more likely Gabe wouldn't be going home anytime soon, Skulduggery had been debating when and where to draw the line. Now, it didn't look like he'd have to. A part of him was glad for that. Another part of him, very much like the people still staring at him, was filled with bewildered disbelief.
peacefullywreathed: (like weights strapped around my feet)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-03-07 11:44 am (UTC)(link)
"I could hardly have him continue to misuse the Crossword Puzzler Extraordinaire's proper title," Solomon said with deadpan innocence, turning his head to the side. "What sort of impression would that have given to visiting dignitaries?" He felt calmer now. Oddly enough, even calmer with Ghastly's obvious edge. It was that strange knowledge that he wasn't alone, that others were having trouble as well.

He didn't mind letting the others talk over him, though. All this was a bit too serious for his mental state. The ex-Necromancer was shoring himself up, bit by bit, steadily turning over all those facts in his head until even the ones that didn't fit had lost some of their sharpness.

Solomon lifted his head wordlessly at Skulduggery's assertion, not precisely looking the detective in the soul but enough that he could see ... something. He wasn't sure what. A cloud. Or dust. Maybe just a spiderweb.

It was overtaken by Gabe's brightness, and yet somehow the Archangel was subdued as well.

"Corrival--"

"I know," said Corrival, cutting the Archangel off. His tone was oddly agreeable. In fact, Solomon saw, he wasn't even angry at this sudden revelation. Not angry because ... he'd expected it. "You're not going to help us. That's fine."

This reaction wasn't anything like Gabe expected, if the confusion on his face was anything to go by. "You don't mind?"

One of Corrival's snapped in a lazy sort of way that indicated exasperation, but no real affront, particularly the warmth in his centre. "The first time I met Eachan Meritorious, it was at a clan meeting my mother dragged me to in the hopes of throwing me in my father's path. Actually, it was just after, in a tavern not far from where the meeting was being held. We struck up a conversation. He had been trying to convince the magical clans that there was reason for us to get more involved in mortal lives, see.

"I heard some of it. It all sounded very pretty, but my mother was mortal. Hell, I was raised mortal. She always objected to me using magic to speed things along. Said it was cheating. Said mortals lived perfectly well without needing magic tricks to make them forget how to earn. So I told Meritorious that we shouldn't be getting involved at all, at least not in the ways he said we should. I didn't find out until a couple of centuries later, but apparently his arguing with a nineteen-year-old in a tavern had been the highlight of his evening. Everyone else ..." Solomon heard a rustle that was probably a shrug. "Everyone else didn't want to listen because they were entitled, lazy, or bigoted. His words."

"You have a very good point in there," Merlin said, and there was a smile in his voice. Corrival went on blandly, neither humble nor arrogant; simply matter of fact.

"Yes, I do. That point being that if mortals can create a society that has gone to the moon without magical influence, I think the bunch of us can handle running a country without needing to have our hands held by angels the whole way."

Gabe's light was doing strange things. His wings were pulled in close, but at the same time cupped loosely, as if he was slowly relaxing. There was relief on his face. Relief and gratification and humility. "Corrival, thank you."

"Don't thank me. It was either that or draw a comparison. Glad I didn't have to do that; I don't want to witness a smiting."

"What comparison would that be?" Rafe asked with a grin.

"The one where I pointed out that if Gabriel had kept doing what he was doing, there wouldn't have been much of a difference between him and the Faceless Ones except that his cage would be gilded." It was a very simple pronouncement that made Solomon's head jerk up. Corrival's eels were twisting around each other wryly, in a manner that made Solomon know the man knew what the Faceless Ones had been.

There was a moment of silence. The look on Gabe's face was tragic and yet somehow not. Like a dawning. "You're right. I--you're right. There's only so far I can advise you as a friend before I start becoming an overlord. I don't want that."

"Good, because neither do I," Corrival said. "By the way, you're fired. I can't have a Sanctuary detective who's literally above the law. It puts both of us in bad positions."

Gabe laughed, startled but bright with relief. "That's fair."

"Good." Corrival's attention shifted to the rest of them at large, to the gathering. A leader giving orders, asking advice. "Which means that we need China Sorrows to be in on this. She's the one made the maze, so she's the one whose expertise we need."

"I'll talk to her," Solomon said as he tilted his head in Corrival's direction, surprising himself again that day, but only vaguely. He didn't know it, but his face was haggard and lined from the tears, his eyes slightly bloodshot. Yet for all that, his expression was calmer almost than ever before, save in the immediate aftermath of his rescue from the Temple, when he had been riding high. His mouth quirked. "We have something in common. I think I'll be able to convince her to help."

"Fine," Corrival said briskly, "and in the meantime we should start looking into ways to replace the Cleavers. A golem might have some merit, if they have reflections. Can someone talk to Kenspeckle Grouse for suggestions?"
skeletonenigma: (adjustingthehat)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-03-07 02:10 pm (UTC)(link)
"I'll do that," Valkyrie offered. "I think I'm the only one of us he actually likes."

When Corrival put it that way, she could understand it, as opposed to Skulduggery's bomb that left her unable to do anything but stare. Maybe they had all grown a little too reliant on Gabe. Part of her wanted to ask why now, with Bliss in trouble, when just a simple step in from even one of the angels could save not only his life, but his soul. She didn't ask, though. Because she already knew the answer. If they could justify every single time they asked the angels for help like that, where would the help end? There'd always be lives to save. There would always be someone worse off. And there always had been, long before any Archangels started showing up. They'd done pretty well on their own so far.

"Does that mean I'm taking you to the Hibernian?" Fletcher asked. There was a note of relief in his voice. He'd tried to hide it, but with three soul-readers in the room, that was kind of pointless. Not to mention Valkyrie knew him well enough by now to know this was the last place in the world he'd wanted to be, because he had no idea what to do with himself. And now he had a way to be helpful, to boot. Of course he was going to be relieved. Valkyrie was relieved.

"And Solomon to China's library," Skulduggery added. "As soon as he feels up to it."

"We could round up the Cleavers in the meantime," Erskine offered. "Believe me, if we're going to be changing the Sanctuary that drastically on our first day, we want to do it as quickly as possible. Before people like Tipstaff can wonder where the Cleavers are slowly disappearing to. Confusion fallout is much easier to deal with than angry fallout."

Skulduggery made a noise that could have been a laugh. It was hard to tell. "You'll be dealing with angry fallout either way, Erskine. You'd better start coming up with a plausible story. One that also neatly explains Bliss's return, if it comes to that."

Erskine groaned and his shoulders slumped. "Of course. And that would be a whole lot easier if every sorcerer in the world wasn't currently on the lookout for 'divine figures in white,' wouldn't it?"

"No one ever said being an Elder would be easy."

"Stop enjoying this."

Skulduggery shrugged. "I'm rather looking forward to the outcome, I'll admit. It's not often we have a Council of Elders so eager to leap into action. I might even enjoy my work again."
peacefullywreathed: (some gold-forged plan)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-03-07 10:22 pm (UTC)(link)
Solomon frowned as he searched in his pocket for the handkerchief he knew Ghastly had tailored along with the suit. "That may be getting ahead of ourselves," he said, finding it and using it to clean himself up a bit. "We can't simply destroy the Cleavers without having a backup system in place, and that could take days to develop. If Bliss can wait a few days for me to prepare, he can wait a few days for the rest of us."

Strange, how the words simply came out. It was almost natural, just because it was something Solomon was used to doing. Of course, in the Temple's case Tenebrae's word was usually the be-all, end-all; Solomon could tell just from a morning's work with the man that Corrival wasn't like that. Either way, the words came out, Solomon involved himself in the discussion, and it didn't feel like too much of a burden.

The extra time would also give them time to come up with a plausible reason for destroying the Cleavers, though after a few moments' thought there was really no reason not to use the truth. "As for excuses, why do we have to come up with anything other than the truth?" He laughed suddenly, amused and ironic. "It's not often I say that, either, but why not? There aren't any angels involved. We just won't give details as to how I saw Bliss inside the Cleavers, and we've already got precedence as to a dead man returning to a semblance of life. People know it's possible."

"Then we're going to have Sanctuaries all over the world wanting our secret to immortality," Corrival said dryly. "Yippee. But he's right, Erskine. I'd rather we have a second force ready to be enacted before we actively destroy anything. Keep the Cleavers close and easily found, but don't herd them into camps just yet. First we need Sorrows and Grouse here to figure out what that second force might be. Renn, go ahead with Cain. Wreath, how do you feel?"

"On a surprisingly even keel." He managed to get to his feet without needing the help, but then stopped once he was up, head half-tilted in everyone's general direction. "Who's coming with me? Neither China or I have any magic to speak of."

"Take Low," Corrival ordered. "She's being very quiet back there, and this was her job back before Skulduggery swiped her for his little detective's unit. Tanith, we'll probably be needing you more in the near future, until we get our secondary system worked out."

Solomon had never really paid much attention to Tanith Low before. She didn't like him, but most people didn't. And now that he was blind, her soul was one of the most understated of the lot. It was easy to miss her in the shuffle, because she wasn't exactly a thing. She wasn't an animal, or a plant, and obviously not stone. She wasn't an element either, or a smell. She was more ... movement. A sensation of quiet presence. Not hope or comfort, or or even faith. She was just ... duty. Duty and assurance.

It was pleasant, so he curbed the urge to point out that the last time she had guarded someone it had been a Teleporter she'd utterly failed to save. "Very well. But I'm demanding the afternoon off, whatever happens."

"You won't have to demand, man," Rafe said with a wicked grin, waggling his fingers. "We've got plans for y'all this afternoon."

"That may just drive me to claim prior engagements."

Gabriel laughed. "The carnival's still on, and I promised Fletcher and Skul that we'd all go after Scarab was taken care of."

"The last time I went to a carnival was--" when Skulduggery dressed me in a fortune teller's smock and told me to go make a distraction, he'd meant to say, but before the detective's name came out it segued easily into Lord Vile's. Solomon felt a flash of that old overwhelming panic. "--a long time ago," he finished quietly, managing not to overtly turn from Skulduggery, and instead glanced at Fletcher Renn as the Teleporter reappeared. "Shall we go?"
skeletonenigma: (smug)

[personal profile] skeletonenigma 2013-03-07 11:10 pm (UTC)(link)
Immortality. Tanith nearly laughed. Yeah, immortality if you were willing to die really painfully first, spend at least a year stuck, and then come back by possessing either a soulless reflection or skeletal remains. Yeah, she'd pass that offer by, thanks. She liked to think most people would, but... sorcerers were always looking for ways to live as long as possible.

She nodded once in response to Corrival, choosing not to correct him about her previous job. Yes, being a type of bodyguard paid the bills - or rather, paid for her motorbike - but it wasn't by any means all she did. And Tanith hadn't been very good at it lately, either, but she refrained from pointing that out.

There was something faintly ironic about having to protect China from potential attackers. China Sorrows, information broker and self-proclaimed neutral entity, master of the magical language and one of the most dangerous women to confront in battle, and she was reduced to nothing more than a librarian. Maybe her magic would come back, maybe it wouldn't. She would still be relying on Tanith for this little excursion. She and Solomon both.

This ought to be interesting.

Does this make me an official detective? Tanith wanted to ask. Does this mean I finally get paid? Honestly, probably not. It was enough of a certainty that Tanith didn't even bother asking the question out loud.

A carnival sounded like fun, though.

"As soon as you're ready," Fletcher replied, looking for all the world like he'd simply strolled into the room. Any of the awkwardness from just a few minutes ago was gone, as often happened whenever he got the chance to show off just how useful he really was. Tanith stepped over to Wreath at the same time as he did, and Fletcher blinked at her in surprise. "You're coming too?"

"Someone's got to make sure Wreath doesn't fall in love with China right there," she told him with a wry smile.
peacefullywreathed: (just take one step at a time)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-03-07 11:18 pm (UTC)(link)
Actually, that raised an interesting question of what China's soul looked like when her magic was active. And what it looked like when it didn't. Solomon actually felt faintly apprehensive about that; she'd lost her magic looking upon the Almighty, after all.

"It will be a difficult task, I'm sure," he said dryly as he held out his hands and waited for Tanith to put her arm under one and Fletcher to take the other, "but fairly mundane, all things considered." Given everything else? Making sure he didn't fall in love with China Sorrows was impossibly mundane. He smirked to himself, imagining her reaction to that.

"Oh, by the way, better close your eyes, Sol," Rafe called out, and Solomon barely had time to do so before Fletcher Renn whisked them away. He was glad the Archangel did, and exasperated there wasn't more forewarning, because even with his eyes closed the medley of colour and sensations rushing past them was beyond disorienting. His feet hit ground and he stumbled, his sense of direction--and gravity--for a moment lost. He remained still for a moment to recollect his balance.

Nothing like shadowwalking. Nothing like angel-flight, either. "A bit of warning next time, perhaps," he said, his tone a little strained, and cautiously opened his eyes with a blink. The difference in surroundings was jarring, if only because there were fewer souls nearby. "Whereabouts are we?"
neutralcollector: (blue eyes)

[personal profile] neutralcollector 2013-03-08 12:53 pm (UTC)(link)
"The library," China answered from behind them. Her tone was clipped, and when they turned around to see her, they would most likely notice her eyes were just as sharp as that tone of voice. "I can't get a moment's peace, it seems."

Although, to be fair, they'd given her almost a day this time. How very generous. China surveyed the three of them without any of her usual curiosity, and the only thing she found even remotely suspect was that Wreath's eyes didn't seem quite... focused. There could be any number of reasons for that - chief among them Wreath's new occupation, causing him a severe lack of sleep. China didn't particularly care enough to find out. She nodded towards him. "I see they succeeded in rescuing you."

It was actually faintly annoying she didn't already know for a fact why Wreath might not be feeling on top of his game. Yes, many of the Temple's secrets were secrets even from her, but China had never learned about Skulduggery's exploits more than a few hours after they occurred. China wasn't the type of person to mentally kick herself; otherwise, she might have. Was she so resigned to the loss of her magic that she was starting to lose everything else that made her who she was? Her abilities, her intelligence, her contacts? Her very influence?

No. China wasn't going to let that happen.

"If you're here," she informed them coolly, "for anything beyond mere information, or perhaps even a request for information, I recommend you Teleport back right now. The answer is no."
Edited 2013-03-08 19:03 (UTC)
peacefullywreathed: (don't taint this ground)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-03-08 01:13 pm (UTC)(link)
"Sharp as always, Ms Sorrows," Solomon said dryly before he turned. He was just a little apprehensive about doing so, but now he had adjusted to the sudden shift it was impossible to see the ripples in the lifestream around him, emanating from behind. When he had turned and laid eyes on the woman, he wasn't sure why he was surprised.

China Sorrows was a weaving. A spider-web, silken and reaching to all corners of her own domain; intricate, delicate and strong at once. A hole had been ripped out of the centre. The web maintained, intact, through the integrity of its edges, but nevertheless, the centre--where the spider would have sat--was simply gone. Its trailing edges drifted gently in the lifestream.

For a moment he remained silent, head slightly tilted to hear the quiet noise of their surroundings, and regarded her soul. Just like when he'd first gone to her, Solomon thought ruefully. He'd cut to the chase, just as China was, and she'd refused him. Fortunately for her, he wasn't inclined to do the same.

"It's about Bliss," he said directly. "His soul is trapped in the maze of his reflections and we need the person who built the mirrors to begin with to figure out how to rescue him."
neutralcollector: (librarian)

[personal profile] neutralcollector 2013-03-08 01:36 pm (UTC)(link)
China's surprise registered on her face. She knew it had. And yet, she made no move to stop it. There wasn't a point. She'd never expected anyone to discover where the Cleavers came from, even as she'd prepared for that eventual outcome, and Wreath knew it. Judging by the fact that she was the only one surprised, Low and Renn knew as well.

Corrival Deuce, of course. One of the angels saw Bliss's soul in the Cleavers, Deuce explained where they came from, and China would be the next logical step to make.

It took her far longer than it should have to slowly shake her head. "Rescue him? Rescue him into what, exactly? Bliss is dead."

"He's your brother," snapped Low, her voice ringing with indignant disbelief. "And you're not going to help?"

"Brother by blood only." China gave Low one of her soft smiles. There was no more magic behind them, but they were certainly still disarming in their own right. Most of the time, anyway; this one didn't make a mark on Low. "We weren't what you might call a close-knit family. Bliss knew the risks when he agreed to making those reflections. He knew the risks when he fought the Faceless Ones at Aranmore Farm. I made it a point long ago not to interfere, and I'm certainly not going to break that vow now for a man who's tried to kill me twice."

China had tried to kill him more times than that, of course. Fortunately, she wasn't being hypocritical. Were their positions switched, she'd hardly expect Bliss to come rushing to the rescue, either.
peacefullywreathed: (just take one step at a time)

[personal profile] peacefullywreathed 2013-03-08 02:07 pm (UTC)(link)
The objection wasn't unexpected. Actually, it was very expected, given the kind of relationship Bliss and China had had. The thing was that Solomon quite clearly remembered Bliss charging into battle in a rage at Murder Rose trying to kill his sister. The thing was that Solomon could see China's soul.

A hole in the centre, still unknit. Waiting for something replace it, without knowing what. Without shifting his gaze from China, he lifted his hands off Fletcher and Tanith's shoulders. "Tanith, Fletcher, if you'll give us a moment, please?"

Solomon waited patiently until they were gone, not looking at either of them as they left. Then he smiled and held out his hand toward China, his unfocussed eyes staring ahead, past and through the woman at once. "If you'd be so kind as to show me to a chair, China? I'm rather blind at the moment. And likely to remain so, frankly."