Ghastly was somehow back on his feet. He didn't remember doing it. He didn't remember a whole lot right then. The events of the past few minutes skipped like an old and scratched record, blurred together in his mind until all he saw, all he cared about, was the Necromancy.
Ghastly had watched the two conflicting shadows rise up on the wall behind the altar, his attention caught and held by the unmistakable image of Vile - a haunting reminder of those five years during the war and... and how many people, how many friends and loved ones, had been killed by that man. Killed, their broken bodies used as shields, and then tossed aside like so many swatted flies. Some of them reanimated, some of them turned into shadow-puppets, made to fight for him.
Ghastly remembered how the Dead Men had believed, for those five years, that if anyone could find a way to kill a skeleton, it was Lord Vile. The most powerful Necromancer to ever walk the earth. And the living skeleton's permanent death was the only reason Skulduggery would have disappeared, wouldn't have stayed to help them fight.
Unless.
Unless he -
No.
But it made sense. It made... Ghastly tried to rebel against the thought, but it wouldn't be denied, and the fact was... it was the truth. That anger. That almost desperate need, once Skulduggery had come back, to help people. It was after that he gave up his family crest. Said he wasn't worthy of it. Continued to think he wasn't worthy of anything, even if he never said that out loud. The amount of arguing it took just to convince him to buy a damn car, or practically anything that wasn't specifically necessary...
Gabriel was hugging Skulduggery. Hugging him as the radiant light of an Archangel purified the church, and still, all Ghastly could see was the darkness. The gouges on the backs of his wings. The lie.
It couldn't. No. Ghastly couldn't believe it, wouldn't believe it, not until Skulduggery himself confirmed it.
Ghastly was the first person Skulduggery looked at when he eventually pulled away from the angelic embrace. Ghastly had no idea what the detective would see in his face, but he doubted it was perfectly blank. No one could be capable of that, not after all this. Ghastly returned Skulduggery's inscrutable look as steadily as he could, but the longer the detective went without saying anything - without explaining - the deeper Ghastly's heart sank.
All those years of anxiously waiting, hoping, wanting to believe that Vile was gone for good - that someone had miraculously managed to kill him. And all the while, Vile was sitting right next to them. Arresting Vengeous for them. Winning the war for them. Never more than a minor loss of control away. Just as abruptly as Ghastly's memories of Skulduggery switched to Vile, all his memories of Vile switched to Skulduggery. That skeleton form surrounded by shadows and decimating armies. That skeleton form killing his mother and almost killing him.
Without thinking, without conscious effort, Ghastly found himself moving quickly toward Skulduggery, toward Vile. He pulled his arm back and curled his fist and, as soon as he was close enough, let his fist crunch into the jaw of that skull with all of the vicious strength that he could muster.
Skulduggery flew back several feet and slammed against the wall that spanned the back of the church. He stumbled back onto his feet, carefully kept his balance. Slowly, his hands rose to inspect the damage to the skull. Part of his jaw had cracked, and the lower half of it was almost folded back in on itself, dislocated at both points where it connected onto the upper half.
And... that was it. Skulduggery didn't immediately try to hit Ghastly back. Didn't grow angry, didn't try to defend himself - even despite the cracked jawline and difficulty speaking he would undoubtedly have. He just stood there, cradling his jaw, staring blankly down at the ground.
Something inside Ghastly broke.
What truly terrified him, he realised later, wasn't how much more damage he wanted to inflict, wasn't that he would have gladly ripped a bone off entirely if he was given the chance. It was that he really and honestly would have, were it not for the Archangel standing nearby.
Space. Space to breathe. That was what Ghastly needed. That was what he suddenly and desperately needed, so badly that he felt like he would fly apart if he had to stay in this suffocating and twisted church even a moment longer. And so Ghastly followed the only path that was left available to him - slowly, calmly, and quietly, without meeting anyone else's eyes, he turned and left the church.
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Ghastly had watched the two conflicting shadows rise up on the wall behind the altar, his attention caught and held by the unmistakable image of Vile - a haunting reminder of those five years during the war and... and how many people, how many friends and loved ones, had been killed by that man. Killed, their broken bodies used as shields, and then tossed aside like so many swatted flies. Some of them reanimated, some of them turned into shadow-puppets, made to fight for him.
Ghastly remembered how the Dead Men had believed, for those five years, that if anyone could find a way to kill a skeleton, it was Lord Vile. The most powerful Necromancer to ever walk the earth. And the living skeleton's permanent death was the only reason Skulduggery would have disappeared, wouldn't have stayed to help them fight.
Unless.
Unless he -
No.
But it made sense. It made... Ghastly tried to rebel against the thought, but it wouldn't be denied, and the fact was... it was the truth. That anger. That almost desperate need, once Skulduggery had come back, to help people. It was after that he gave up his family crest. Said he wasn't worthy of it. Continued to think he wasn't worthy of anything, even if he never said that out loud. The amount of arguing it took just to convince him to buy a damn car, or practically anything that wasn't specifically necessary...
Gabriel was hugging Skulduggery. Hugging him as the radiant light of an Archangel purified the church, and still, all Ghastly could see was the darkness. The gouges on the backs of his wings. The lie.
It couldn't. No. Ghastly couldn't believe it, wouldn't believe it, not until Skulduggery himself confirmed it.
Ghastly was the first person Skulduggery looked at when he eventually pulled away from the angelic embrace. Ghastly had no idea what the detective would see in his face, but he doubted it was perfectly blank. No one could be capable of that, not after all this. Ghastly returned Skulduggery's inscrutable look as steadily as he could, but the longer the detective went without saying anything - without explaining - the deeper Ghastly's heart sank.
All those years of anxiously waiting, hoping, wanting to believe that Vile was gone for good - that someone had miraculously managed to kill him. And all the while, Vile was sitting right next to them. Arresting Vengeous for them. Winning the war for them. Never more than a minor loss of control away. Just as abruptly as Ghastly's memories of Skulduggery switched to Vile, all his memories of Vile switched to Skulduggery. That skeleton form surrounded by shadows and decimating armies. That skeleton form killing his mother and almost killing him.
Without thinking, without conscious effort, Ghastly found himself moving quickly toward Skulduggery, toward Vile. He pulled his arm back and curled his fist and, as soon as he was close enough, let his fist crunch into the jaw of that skull with all of the vicious strength that he could muster.
Skulduggery flew back several feet and slammed against the wall that spanned the back of the church. He stumbled back onto his feet, carefully kept his balance. Slowly, his hands rose to inspect the damage to the skull. Part of his jaw had cracked, and the lower half of it was almost folded back in on itself, dislocated at both points where it connected onto the upper half.
And... that was it. Skulduggery didn't immediately try to hit Ghastly back. Didn't grow angry, didn't try to defend himself - even despite the cracked jawline and difficulty speaking he would undoubtedly have. He just stood there, cradling his jaw, staring blankly down at the ground.
Something inside Ghastly broke.
What truly terrified him, he realised later, wasn't how much more damage he wanted to inflict, wasn't that he would have gladly ripped a bone off entirely if he was given the chance. It was that he really and honestly would have, were it not for the Archangel standing nearby.
Space. Space to breathe. That was what Ghastly needed. That was what he suddenly and desperately needed, so badly that he felt like he would fly apart if he had to stay in this suffocating and twisted church even a moment longer. And so Ghastly followed the only path that was left available to him - slowly, calmly, and quietly, without meeting anyone else's eyes, he turned and left the church.