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

[impudentsongbird]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Comments

[peacefullywreathed]

Even without looking directly at Ghastly, Solomon had some sense of what was reaching out to him. Enough of one to make his face heat, though he couldn't imagine how he'd have enough shame to even bother. He stopped, his fists clenched, leaning against the wall with his forearms and not exactly hiding his face but not stopping the fact it was hidden.

What he remembered from Ghastly when he was a boy, the tailor had always been oddly peaceful. Always seemed to be able to see some things, even when he didn't try to do anything about them, or didn't quite understand them fully. Sometimes he'd noticed things about Solomon that, as a child, Solomon's pride wouldn't let him admit.

He didn't have a whole lot of that left. Talking about it when Ravel was there--bad enough Solomon didn't know himself. Worse to be taunted for it. But when it was just Ghastly ... the words came before Solomon could stop them.

"Why?" he asked bleakly into the wall. Bleakly and bitterly, against the tailor's humour. "What's the point? You--all of you--you have things to offer one another I can't even begin to understand. Things that include Skulduggery, even after everything he's done. Things that he just throws away, as if they're usable, as if he has no idea what he has. I didn't know what he had."

Now he did. God help him, now he did, and he had no reason to expect anything like that from anyone.

[skeletonenigma]

That was part of what Ghastly disliked about Necromancers. Not that their magic fed off death. Not that they tended to be an antisocial bunch, each out for their own reward and nothing else. It was how they treated their younger sorcerers. And that, he suspected, was the reason Skulduggery never tried to pull Solomon out of the Temple after that first time, after Solomon firmly made his final decision. No Necromancer ever admitted it, but they were a cult. A religious cult, and a certain amount of brainwashing always went hand-in-hand with that. The childhood of a Temple-born Necromancer was stunted, ingrown, lonely, barely even a childhood. Skulduggery thought he could rescue Solomon from that, since Solomon wasn't Temple-born. Even then, the idea ultimately failed.

But this was part of that brainwashing. Anyone else saying the things Solomon was trying to say now, and Ghastly might have thought they were being melodramatic. Solomon... wasn't. He well and truly did not see a point to anything beyond Necromancy. He couldn't. He'd spent his entire life believing there was nothing else worthwhile. Now he was faced with it, and he felt like an outsider looking in to something unattainable, and Ghastly was kicking himself for not seeing this sooner. Sorcerers were very good at hiding things; Necromancers, obviously, were no exception.

Ghastly drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "He doesn't have any idea what he has. He doesn't take anything for granted, which... well, is just as unhealthy. It means he doesn't even see the important things anymore. He's been like that, ever since the war." Less so recently with young Valkyrie as his partner, admittedly, which was why Ghastly hadn't continued objecting to the partnership. Skulduggery may not be the best influence on a teenage girl, but Valkyrie was doing worlds of good for him.

"He knows what he has, but he doesn't see it. You see it, but you don't know it." Honestly, Ghastly didn't know which was worse. "That means you have to earn it, where Skulduggery just has to accept it. It doesn't mean it's not possible. For one thing, the pair of you - you have each other."

[peacefullywreathed]

Something shifted in the presence behind him. Something in a way Solomon didn't expect. It was warm, and it was softer than before. Gentle. Like tilled earth, things turned up to the light. Realisations.

Solomon rested his forehead against the wall as Ghastly spoke, closed his eyes, and almost felt as if the forces building inside him had to seep out through his skin. He wasn't prepared for emotions like this. They locked up in his throat and his breathing turned ragged, but he still couldn't keep them in. Couldn't keep the tears from sliding down his cheeks.

He'd never have imagined how a simple acknowledgement of how he felt would take him. Skulduggery wasn't the type to do that. He left peoples' feelings to them. He didn't talk to them about it. He dealt in facts. And angels hardly counted. It was their job.

It was different when it was a person. A human. Someone like him. Solomon had never expected it. Could never have expected it.

You have each other.

Did they? he wondered, and was almost startled when the question came out loud. Half a plea. Half disbelief. Very small. "Do we?"

He rolled over to set his back against the wall and slid down to the floor, resting his elbows on his knees and his head against his clasped hands. He breathed, deep and slow and shaken, and still couldn't keep the tears in check. "I can't handle this alone. If he's all I've got, then--" He laughed, a broken, scattered laugh. "I can't trust him with me."

If Skulduggery was all Solomon had, then he was going to fail. Because one man, one broken man of whose darkness Solomon was afraid, would never be enough.

[skeletonenigma]

Ghastly resisted the urge to laugh. "Do you? Solomon, I've never seen Skulduggery treat any child the way he treated you, except perhaps for Valkyrie. I told him trying to take you out of the Temple was a bad idea, and it was one of the first times he didn't listen to me." Just as he didn't listen about Valkyrie. "I warned him that it wouldn't work. He insisted it would. Turns out, we were both wrong."

That was the thing about Skulduggery, Ghastly had to admit. Even when he was wrong, he was right. He changed people, yes; manipulated them, betrayed their trust. But there was a reason those who became loyal to him never truly stopped. Skulduggery cared, in his own way. He simply expected more from the people around him. Too much, sometimes. It made you want his approval, because if he was impressed by something you'd done, you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it was something to be proud of. That was why the people who became Skulduggery's friend were the sort of people able to make their own decisions, regardless of what the skeleton detective thought. That was why the Dead Men unit during the war became so successful.

"For now," Ghastly answered softly. "Just for now. It takes time to change peoples' minds. For now, you two are the only ones in history to ever successfully give up Necromancy. Use that, when it feels like you don't have anything else. I can guarantee you that Skulduggery is."

[peacefullywreathed]

Ghastly's words rang in Solomon's head. Or maybe that was just his heartbeat. He wasn't sure, and his memories of his childhood--they were slanted. Old. He knew what he remembered in retrospect: he remembered trying hard to please someone whom he respected, and that person humiliating him at every turn. And the worst part was that Solomon walked into it, knowingly.

Why couldn't he have just said no? Solomon didn't know. He just couldn't. The first time he'd really, truly said no was when it came to leaving the Temple. The only thing Skulduggery had been definite about, the only thing he hadn't treated flippantly, and thus the only thing which Solomon clung to as his means of independence.

Stupid. It was all so stupid.

Part of him wanted to reject the idea that Skulduggery might have genuinely cared about him, but he couldn't. Ghastly had been occasionally longsuffering about his best friend's tagalong, but he wasn't a liar. And he was an objective observer.

Solomon heard it all, but he didn't move until he felt like he had some control over his emotions. So that when he spoke, thick though it was, his voice was even.

"It isn't enough. Having a life isn't worth anything when I don't know how to live it. And I don't, Ghastly." The admission almost made him choke. "I don't. I gave up a lot more than just my magic that night." He gave up the reason for his whole existence. What did he have left?

[skeletonenigma]

Ghastly spread his arms wide. "Welcome back to the real world," he said, only half-jokingly. "No one knows how to live life. You think Skulduggery had any idea how to handle coming back to it? He drowned in his own anger. Or that the rest of us had any clue how to handle that he used to be Vile? Look at us right now."

Necromancers only thought they had the answer. So did a lot of religions. So they tried to force their way of thinking on others, because no one wanted to live in a world where their purpose wasn't clear to each and every person in it.

"What you gave up, Solomon," Ghastly continued after a moment, "isn't anything more or less than misplaced knowledge that you knew what your life was worth, and what it all meant. No one knows how to live their own life. We don't get given road maps. You and I have come the closest to knowing anything real, and even then, I suspect God doesn't any more of a clue than the rest of us."

That wasn't blasphemy, was it? Ghastly hoped not. He really, truly believed that at a fundamental level, God was no different. He had a whole universe to run, and run it He did - surprisingly well - but in the end, even He could only be guessing at what life was about. He was just old enough to have tried everything else, decided this was the best way, and had enough authority to make it happen.

"And since He seems to enjoy riding roller coasters," Ghastly added, "and winning piles of teddy bears to donate to hospitals, I'd say those are good places to start."

[peacefullywreathed]

In one fashion, none of that helped at all. It felt almost dismissive. Belittling. But at the same time Ghastly wasn't saying that he had no right to his feelings, or even anything other than Solomon wasn't any different to anyone else. And that was oddly calming, because at least that made one thing in which he wasn't alone. Not that it helped, because there wasn't exactly an answer in it except that everyone was stumbling around in the dark.

Ghastly was wrong about God, though. Solomon had seen God on a level he wasn't sure even China had touched, and God had never faltered or shown evidence that He didn't know His paths. He just ... knew things. And didn't expect people to follow Him blindly.

At the tailor's final words, though, Solomon managed another scattered laugh, quiet though it was, as he lifted his head and rested it back against the wall. "Can you really imagine me doing any of those things? I'm not exactly a people-person, and I'm more than a little limited."

If life really was about other people, he'd screwed up that part. He didn't exactly have much to offer others, especially with his eyesight gone. It didn't matter how much he managed to get done in the office; he still needed someone hanging over his shoulder every moment of the day just to get it done.

"Skulduggery may have managed to draw people to him to be his," he said quietly. "I have no such qualities to offer in return. To anyone."

[skeletonenigma]

Ghastly inclined his head in assent. "Donating teddy bears, probably not. But what's wrong with riding roller coasters? You don't have to be able to see."

Yes, he could imagine Solomon on one. And the mental image was bringing him no end of amusement.

But at the ex-Necromancer's lament, Ghastly sobered quickly. "Skulduggery didn't ask for help when he most needed it. From anyone. You did. And from a mortal priest you barely knew. Did he have an ulterior motive in helping you? Was he expecting anything in return?"

Ghastly hadn't known Paddy long, but the tailor was a good judge of character. And Paddy was a good man. Not because he thought he had to be, or because an inaccurate and inefficient historical document told him to be. He just was. There weren't many people in Dublin who would have helped Solomon unconditionally the way Paddy had, even after learning the truth. Ghastly thanked God it was Paddy Solomon went to for help - and again, quite literally. The happy coincidence was a little too neat for a divine hand not to have been involved.

"I'm not saying you have to go out and make friends," Ghastly clarified after the brief pause. "Friendship is about more than give and take. You don't start caring about someone because you think they can offer you anything. Give it time. You and Erskine, for example." Ghastly smiled; up until a few days ago, he would never have thought it possible. "It doesn't seem like it now, but there's potential there. Dexter, too. Valkyrie's always cared about you, even when she probably shouldn't have."

[peacefullywreathed]

Riding a roller-coaster, blind? Solomon could imagine few things as terrifying, to be honest. Of course, metaphorically speaking he was practically doing the same thing now. He had no idea what was going to come next, and he kept on being blindsided--literally.

He breathed slowly, and although it was still slightly shaky it evened out the more he held control. "No," he admitted. "I wasn't expecting it, either."

He'd almost done his best just to scare the priest off, and it hadn't worked. Paddy had still been there, and at the time Solomon hadn't understood why. He still didn't. He could barely accept it. The only reason he did was because he didn't have any choice. Paddy was who he was, and Solomon couldn't wilfully deny that.

Part of him wanted to keep objecting, but Solomon could take only so much pity even from himself. So, after one more deep breath he let out slowly, he found the handkerchief in his pocket and wiped off his face. Now he felt wrung out in ways that he seemed to be re-experiencing over and over. Wrung out, but a little better. Less hopeless, anyway. He had Paddy, even though he had no idea why. And according to Ghastly he had Skulduggery, even though Solomon didn't know what he was meant to do with that.

"How can you do this?" he asked, his voice a little raw. "How can you know what he did and simply accept it like you do? Accept him? Doesn't he frighten you?"

[skeletonenigma]

Ghastly stiffened at the question. No, not so much the question as the fact that he couldn't pretend he hadn't heard it, didn't have anything else to focus on, and had no choice but to answer it.

To think about an answer.

"Yes." That part, at least, was easy. Ghastly let the word hang in the air for a moment, and then went to go stand next to Solomon by the wall. The door into the staff room Anton used was closed; Ghastly imagined either Erskine or Dexter had closed it when they realised the 'walk-and-blow-off-steam' was really turning into more of a 'sit-and-fume.'

"You never fought him during the war, did you?" Ghastly asked. "He reanimated the people he killed. Most people know that, but not many actually saw it. His reanimations weren't shuffling zombies. They were people. He reanimated my mother, and fighting her wasn't any different from the duels she used to challenge me to. Except that she was trying to kill me."

The memory was blurred by enough time that Ghastly could tell the story now without the slightest tremor in his voice. His anger at Vile for the murder had long since grown cold. It was easy to hate someone who was pure evil, and hatred sprouted far more easily and solidly from cold anger than from hot. Still, force of habit made the story easy to relate.

It was after that. The rest of Solomon's question. Ghastly sank down the wall to a sitting position on the floor and stared off into space.

"I don't," he finally decided. "I don't accept it, and I don't accept him. Most days, I can't even think about it. Seeing him almost change in the church like that..." Ghastly smiled grimly. "It left its mark. That's not ever going to go away."

[peacefullywreathed]

So not even Skulduggery's best friend could accept it. Yet, at the same time, Ghastly persevered. Part of Solomon hated Skulduggery for the way he drew in people, even while he couldn't help being one of them. Ghastly simply accepted that part, and kept going on. He was still Skulduggery's friend, in spite of all that he'd done.

Solomon shook his head but said nothing. Even if he asked Ghastly again, he wasn't sure the tailor would know how to answer the question. Would understand how he could still be Skulduggery's best friend even after that. And, Solomon thought, did it really matter? However Ghastly was dealing with it probably wouldn't help Solomon. What mattered was that he was.

Now Solomon had to figure out for himself how he could do the same. Or if he wanted to.

"I did," he said after some moments. "Fight him. In the Temple, when Vile was new, Tenebrae used to stage duels. I don't know whether they were to train him or to prove he was powerful enough to be called a Death Bringer, but they always, always ended in him killing his opponent. Except once."

With his eyes closed the lifestream around him felt similar to that death-bubble he'd summoned, enough that he could almost summon the memory. He opened them, and something sardonic twisted his mouth. "He didn't even remember it until I mentioned it a few days ago. I spent the rest of the war terrified Vile would come find me for not dying and I was just a footnote to him."

He still didn't know how to feel about that. Part of him still felt a bit relieved. Another part insisted that if Skulduggery cared as much as Ghastly said he did, Skulduggery would have remembered.

[skeletonenigma]

"I'd be grateful for that." Ghastly wished he could consider himself simply a footnote in the story of Vile. He'd have been perfectly happy with that. He was perfectly happy with that, right up until that fateful morning in the Church of the Faceless. Until then, the only reason he'd believed existed for taking up more than a page in that story was being involved in Vile's death.

He shifted slightly with the thought. "And in more ways than one. Being the footnote to a sorcerer like Vile, even after being the only one to survive? You're as different from him as they come."

Being disregarded and overlooked was never pleasant. Even Skulduggery knew what that was like, which was why he'd been so detrimentally eager to become a sorcerer himself. But there wasn't much more Ghastly could say here without repeating himself or stating the obvious, so he stayed quiet - at least, until a new thought occurred to him. "Here's an idea. Why don't you ask him yourself? Ask him what you mean to him. He doesn't have a reason to lie to you, and he won't ignore a direct question."

[peacefullywreathed]

"Trying to be." It was silly, and childish, to be so hurt by the fact that he wasn't remembered in amidst of all the people Skulduggery, as Lord Vile, had killed. Solomon couldn't help it. Children in the Temple didn't really get childhoods. That probably explained Craven, actually.

Ghastly had always been Skulduggery's best friend. Not that Solomon had ever resented him--well, maybe once or twice--but he'd always been nice and helpful. Solomon had liked him, back then, but he had still always been Skulduggery's friend, not Solomon's.

Except for now. Solomon's respect had gone up by whole notches just before, with how Ghastly kept going and didn't stop being Skulduggery's friend. Now Solomon felt an unexpected rush of relief and warmth for the man, at the firm assertion that Solomon was nothing like Vile. It was one of those things he had avoided thinking about, that wondering of just how like Vile he was. He doubted he'd stop wondering for a while, but--it helped. To have it stated like that, without needing to ask.

For long moments he didn't answer, because he wasn't sure what to say. Asking Skulduggery had never occurred. The man might not ignore a direct question, but that didn't mean he'd give a straight answer. And Solomon had spent so long trying to pretend he didn't care, he'd even almost managed to convince himself.

Did he want to ask? Did he want to know? Maybe. Maybe not. Something he'd have to think about. For now, he felt calmer, more stable, and a little embarrassed. But not enough to not say quietly, "Ghastly? Thank you."

The Dead Men had each other, but maybe he had Ghastly too.

[skeletonenigma]

Ghastly smiled sadly. He wasn't sure if this was a situation in which he should be thanked, but he'd take it nonetheless. "Any time, Solomon."

Not for the first time, he wondered what life might have been like if Rover and Descry were both still alive. Vile, obviously, would still have happened, but... would the Dead Men have drifted apart, the way they had? Dexter almost certainly wouldn't have gone traveling. Larrikin would have made the effort to keep them all in contact. Hopeless would only need to meet Tenebrae to learn the truth about Skulduggery's resurrection, and... would that have been enough for the truth about Vile to come out? Perhaps. It was possible they'd already know. Skulduggery would never have gone through that portal, so the dangers of insanity and Necromancy would never have reared their ugly heads.

He would never have met Gabe. Solomon would have remained a Necromancer. Lucifer would never have been even a footnote.

Ghastly shook his head. No. That was far too optimistic. Chances were, Skulduggery would have been dragged into that prison dimension he talked about anyway, met Gabe, brought the Archangel back with him, and things would have continued exactly the way they were. The only difference would be that Rover, upon meeting Lucifer face-to-face, would probably make fun of his clothes.

And Skulduggery's relationship with Gabe would have been the butt of an endless series of jokes.

Ghastly missed them. There was a raw ache in his chest that had never truly gone away, and was only being ripped further open with the reveal of Vile. He understood Descry's reasons for not saying anything, but it felt almost like another betrayal. Like Hopeless's death was a deliberate attempt to avoid having to say anything. Which was, of course, ridiculous, and Ghastly snapped himself out of it before the pain became a physical thing. "We can still take that walk, if you want."

[peacefullywreathed]

Whatever Ghastly was thinking about in those moments was almost an open wound. Not the kind of flesh and not something polluting the earth that made Ghastly's soul. More like a ... a fire, perhaps. A fire which left no chance of renewal, which left a barren scar across the landscape of Ghastly's soul that Solomon could only now see.

Given how near they were sitting, Solomon felt the heat of it on his wards. He tilted his head at Ghastly.

"That depends," he said, "on whether you want to exchange roles so you can talk about whatever put that scar on your soul. Not that I could promise to be nearly as helpful, mind. I disclaimed being a people-person, remember."

He wasn't even sure why he was asking except that the scar was hot, and Ghastly had just let Solomon spout all over him. It was the least Solomon could do to return the favour, bad at it or not. He lifted a hand to feel the heat, half as if to ward it off and half as if in curiosity.

It was only once he'd done so, and felt the ripple against his palm, that he realised he could probably do more than just feel it out, and his fingers curled in. That ... would probably be taking things too far.

[skeletonenigma]

It shouldn't have been surprising. But it was. And Ghastly wasn't even sure which part did it - the part where his soul was physically scarred, the part where Solomon could see it, or the part where Ghastly should actually talk about it.

Or was it metaphysically scarred?

"It's... old." Ghastly shifted his legs under him and made to stand up. "Well-healed. Come on, you need some fresh air."

He hesitated when he saw Solomon lift his hand, immediately wary. His calf muscles tensed underneath him, but he forced himself to remain seated, at least for the moment. "What are you doing?"

He'd heard about the golden light that flooded the room Solomon was attacked in. Unlike most of the Sanctuary employees, he'd also been told what caused it. There wasn't a hint of that light now, nor did Ghastly really expect there to be, but he still couldn't take his eyes off Solomon's hand. There was so much about this new form of magic that even the ex-Necromancer didn't understand.

[peacefullywreathed]

Solomon drew his hand back. "Sorry. I can feel it, is all." He hesitated a moment as if he was about to say something more, and then pressed his palms against the wall to help himself up to his feet.

He wasn't going to say anything. Then, somewhere between the floor and the stand, his mind reversed. "When I went to talk to China," he said, "I touched her soul. Literally. She's woven, like a spider-web, and I touched one of the threads. I moved it. I've no idea what I was moving it to, but I did."

He looked down at Ghastly, studying that raw wound and lifting his near hand off the wall, just slightly. Enough to touch the brand cautiously with his fingers. "I don't know if it's something I can just do to anything, but some things ... reach out. They're open. Accessible. And this one is not nearly as well-healed as you think it is, by the way, if I can feel its heat."

It wasn't something crippling, but it was certainly something persistent. Solomon wasn't even sure if there was a thought involved, or if the raw sting of that wound just got under his metaphorical skin that much without him realising it. Or maybe it was just a matter of simple, pure intent that such a wound should be addressed and not simply left open and untended. Either way, light wisped around his fingers and he felt startled at the sensation that ran through him and toward Ghastly's pain.

It felt like a cooling hand on his forehead. Not just any, but his father's right before he vanished into the lifestream. That peace, that certainty, that he was where he ought to be, and no longer pained.

[skeletonenigma]

That... was frankly terrifying. The way Solomon described it, it sounded like he could manipulate souls. Manipulate people. Like controlling someone's true name, changing the basics of what made them who they were. Ghastly rose slowly to his feet while he listened, even though a part of him had gone numb, and most of him was still tense.

Manipulating souls. Like Gabe. Like what Gabe had done to Skulduggery, in the church. It was all a little too confusing in the heat of the moment for Ghastly to realise what was going on, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense - Gabe intervened, touched Skulduggery's soul, and drove them both into the back of the church to jolt Skulduggery back to his senses. Would Solomon eventually be capable of that?

He couldn't imagine China was too happy with the prospect. But at the same time, Solomon hadn't meant any harm then, and he certainly didn't mean any now.

It wasn't quite enough to stop Ghastly from jerking away when he saw the light.

That jerk wasn't quite enough to stop... well, whatever it was that the light caused.

It felt like a rush of cool water. A liquid balm. As if the raw ache really was just a heated scar on the surface of Ghastly's soul, and while it had never healed - and probably never would - the pain of it was eased slightly, for a moment. Ghastly's breath caught in his throat, and he nearly sank right back down to the floor, but was stopped by a feeling. A feeling he... couldn't even remember the last time he experienced. Sometime before the war. A thorough, certain, and solid knowledge that everything was going to be alright - and more than that, that everything already was.

Ghastly's hands were practically gripping the wall behind him to keep him upright. He forced the caught lungful of air down his throat, closed his eyes, and breathed. Just breathed, until he had a handle on himself again.

"That," he managed, "is quite a trick."

[peacefullywreathed]

The moment Solomon realised he was doing he stopped, curling his fingers in again in what was fast becoming another unrealised tell. It seemed to be the only way he could be sure he wouldn't influence things without intending it, and even then, sometimes it only directed power into his fist.

"It would be if I meant to do it," Solomon said, sounded a little frazzled himself. "I think I could use that breath of fresh air, now, by the way."

Just how far did this touch go? It wasn't that he was surprised by it, because the lifestream wasn't just a sight and he couldn't deny it. But it was, constantly, startling. His senses blurred in it; it was sight and sound and touch all at once, and he wasn't sure yet how he was meant to divine the differences between them when there didn't seem to be any half the time.

Blindly Solomon put out his hand, and then checked himself, half withdrawing again when he felt that heat. Dimmed now, but still present, and he wasn't sure whether he could reach out for Ghastly himself without touching something he shouldn't. So instead he waited for Ghastly to reach for him.

[skeletonenigma]

Ghastly could really use a breath of fresh air as well. This touching of souls felt almost inappropriate. Maybe that was just because Solomon was treating it as such, withdrawing immediately with his hand curled. Maybe it was because souls should be invisible and intangible to anyone other than an angel. Maybe it was because when Solomon reached out for Ghastly's arm he withdrew again, as if afraid to touch something hot.

It shouldn't feel like that. Yes, Ghastly would appreciate not having to deal with this at all, but it was Solomon's magic now. The ex-Necromancer was fumbling, as all sorcerers did at first, and those same fumbles would likely lead to trips and mistakes and things he should not be able to do. It was all part of the learning process. Solomon just had a greater learning curve than most.

And the so-called 'lifestream' magic was a damn sight better than Necromancy.

Without a word, Ghastly took Solomon's arm and led him towards the door. The breath of fresh air, when it came, was every bit as soothing as it should have been; and the woods the Hotel had parked itself inside were just large enough to make a walk all the way through them in the midst of a spring awakening enjoyable.

Ghastly didn't say anything again until they were properly outside, and then he turned. "Do you remember the day we met, when you and Skulduggery crashed my mother's sailboat into the docks? What was his excuse for that, again?"

[peacefullywreathed]

When they exited the Hotel Solomon lifted his head and took a deep, steadying breath. He could smells flowers and timber, and it had rained this morning because he could also smell the dampness of the mulch. Having to watch his step among the roots took up enough of Solomon's attention that he felt no inclination to speak until Ghastly did first.

"Do I?" Solomon laughed, the sort of laugh of someone relieved at the change in subject. "He claimed that the boat was obviously faulty because it did badly in an emergency. The emergency being that awful tricorn he liked wearing back then being blown off, and us needing to turn around in a hurry."

That had simultaneously been one of the most exhilarating days of his life and the first in a long series of humiliations. The only part that tilted it in favour of the first was that Skulduggery had looked equally bedraggled when he climbed onto the dock, still clutching his hat, and glaring at the water as if it had conspired against him personally.

"And," Solomon added, "he crashed the boat, not me. He was the one at the tiller. I was the poor bilgerat running all over the deck and trying to obey his commands while he was cursing out the tide."

[skeletonenigma]

Ghastly remembered that. He'd arrived at the docks after the pair cast off, and they were little more than tiny figures in the distance by that point. But he could see the hat being blown off, remembered wincing at the loss of that pirate memorabilia Skulduggery had been so fond of, and then watching with increased shock as the boat actually started turning around to follow it.

Skulduggery hadn't exactly been a capable sorcerer back then. Oh, he was good, and always had been. Natural talent, that man. But he hadn't been able to manipulate the water around a large sailboat, and he hadn't been able to stop the wind from taking his hat. Nowadays, neither disastrous event - the hat loss or the crash - would even have happened in the first place.

But it did back then, and the memory still made Ghastly laugh. "He refused to step onto a boat again until he was able to steer it without using the tiller." Within a few years, of course, Skulduggery was surpassing even Ghastly with his control over water, but that wasn't the point. "Did he ever tell you where he got that tricorn? He stole it right off a pirate's head. That was the day we met. He asked me how it looked, and I said it made him look even gaudier than the pirate who wore it. He treasured it ever since. I'm fairly sure he still has it somewhere."

[peacefullywreathed]

"He may have mentioned it once or twice," Solomon said, "or three, or four, or a dozen. He was very proud of that hat." He went on about that hat the very same way he talked about his Bentley today, except that the hat retired soon after that debacle.

Talking about that hat, and that crash, brought back more details of memories which had been hazy for years. Memories Solomon hadn't thought about in literally centuries, because they had hurt too much. Memories he'd shut away to convince himself they didn't hurt, that he didn't care. Dusty, cramped, now with the dust being properly wiped off.

They hadn't gone to the docks intending to sail a boat. They'd gone to the docks to meet Ghastly. Because Skulduggery wanted to introduce Solomon to his best friend. Solomon closed his eyes for a moment and mentally rearranged the memories, comparing the now and the then and was startled by the rush of warmth and regret at the contrast.

The Skulduggery back then had been practically glowing with pride and eagerness at the meeting. Solomon had been too young, too used to his father's restraint, to quite recognise it. Later, he'd been too hurt and embittered to see it.

Regret, Solomon was finding, was a very constricting emotion. It tightened his chest, left a lump in his throat and a burn in his eyes which he'd rathered not experience and couldn't deny either. "He was so excited about that meeting," he murmured, his tone edged with that nostalgic, regretful awe of something unremembered for so long that it was a revelation on its own. "He kept on teasing me about a 'surprise'. I think he was more excited than I was."

How different would things have been, if he'd only held on a little while longer? If he'd only trusted Skulduggery a little while longer? What sort of magic would he be using now, if he'd never been a Necromancer?

[skeletonenigma]

It wouldn't have surprised Ghastly. When he first met Skulduggery, the man was still in the midst of trying to keep two very different lives separate - his life with his family, strained and breaking though it already was, and his life with magic. He hadn't needed anything like a reflection, except maybe once or twice, because he didn't start meeting other sorcerers and learning how much there was to magic until he was already old enough to leave the house. Which, back then, was a lot earlier than it was nowadays.

It wasn't long after the debacle with the pirates that Skulduggery had to cut ties with one completely. And he chose magic over his family. While he probably didn't regret the decision, exactly, Ghastly knew he regretted having to make it. And he missed many of his younger brothers. Solomon was a transparent attempt at filling that hole, but Ghastly had refrained from saying so, and - like so many transparent attempts at dealing with feelings - it did, eventually, work. Work, and grow into its own feeling. Solomon became less of a replacement, and more his own person. Someone Skulduggery could be genuinely proud of.

So he could imagine his friend being more excited about the meeting than Solomon was. He could also imagine Skulduggery growing bored while he waited, and deciding to take out a sailboat he'd been on before. It might not have ended in disaster. Unfortunately, it did, and Ghastly was robbed of a sailboat he'd very much been looking forward to one day receiving.

"He probably was," Ghastly agreed. Skulduggery might have talked about his hat, but he'd probably never told Solomon about his family. He barely spoke about that with Ghastly. "You were like a little brother to him. And, like most older brothers, he was jumping at the chance to show you off." Ghastly hesitated, then shrugged. "I was impressed, by the way. Not many Necromancers disobey the Temple so openly, whether Temple-born or not. I still didn't think it was a good idea, but there's a reason I didn't object."

[peacefullywreathed]

"You were like a little brother to him. And, like most older brothers, he was jumping at the chance to show you off."

Those words were so much like a punch to the gut that Solomon had to stop short in his tracks, or risk tripping over. Or worse. He glanced away from Ghastly so he could swallow through the lump, and his hand trembled with the effort to not grip Ghastly's arm too hard.

"You were like a little brother to him. And, like most older brothers, he was jumping at the chance to show you off."

It wasn't just the words. It was the feeling behind them. The quiet acceptance, the expectation--that's just how it was. Ghastly wasn't even surprised by it. He'd always known. Solomon hadn't. He'd been an only child. He'd never known. He'd never been able to see Skulduggery's eagerness as pride in Solomon himself.

"I was impressed by you too," he heard himself saying, his voice low to keep the huskiness out of it. He still couldn't quite muster the ability to resume walking. "Skulduggery liked to pretend he knew everything. At the time, you seemed like you actually did. Even more than Skulduggery. Even more than my mentors at the Temple."

Because Ghastly was magic-born, of course. He'd been a giant to a slender sixteen-year-old, a giant who would have looked like an ogre to anyone in Solomon's home village, who had taken one look at Skulduggery and bent on himself with laughing so hard. And then he'd gone to help his friend out of the water, still laughing, teasing almost at once. Solomon remembered standing there, shivering and hugging himself against the brisk wind, his hair flattened to his skull, and utterly at a loss as to what he was meant to do or say. He remembered feeling small, and unsure, and in retrospect--something he hadn't been able to recognise at the time--jealous of their camaraderie.

It had never occurred to him why Skulduggery might want to share him with his best friend.

"I was wrong." He didn't mean to say it. He wasn't even thinking well enough to plan on saying anything. "I thought he--I was wrong. If I'd been able to see it ..."

His voice threatened to break and he had to stop. If he'd been able to see what he apparently meant to Skulduggery, and not just what Skulduggery meant to him, things would have been very different. Except they weren't, he reminded himself. They weren't different. They were what they were and now he was seeing just what a mistake it had been, what could have been, and that burden felt almost too much to bear.

The steadiness of Ghastly's soul right then was more more helpful than Solomon had words to express.