With the three of them gone, Skulduggery vaguely expected himself to have a minor internal panic. He didn't; and, in retrospect, that made sense. Just because he couldn't control any of the physical events occurring, didn't mean that he couldn't control his own reactions to it. Skulduggery didn't want to panic, therefore he didn't. It would have been counterproductive to everything about the situation here.
Still, he found himself relieved to be sitting next to Gabriel. Like the Archangel's soul was some kind of anchor. That probably should have been worrying, but two things stopped Skulduggery from giving it any further thought - the gravity of Corrival's next words, and the knowledge that worrying about it would make some kind of imprint on Gabe.
The last thing any of them needed was for Gabe to be further strained - never mind that Skulduggery still wasn't comfortable with having his innermost feelings read like an open book.
Corrival, it turned out, was giving him back some measure of control. The man did know Skulduggery well. Funnily enough, Skulduggery almost didn't want it.
But he didn't take any time to think about it. Thinking about it was only going to make him second guess himself, and they would never get anywhere. Anton deserved to know, and he deserved to hear it from Skulduggery now; mentally clutching that one thought before any others could force their way in, Skulduggery removed the sunglasses and the scarf, laying both items neatly on the arm of the couch.
It wouldn't be proper eye contact, but it would be close enough. With one last look at Corrival, Skulduggery turned to Anton, and his eyeless gaze never wavered. "When I was killed, something stopped me from moving on. I don't know what that was, but I do know what brought me back. Rage. Hatred. I didn't have a concept of control, or a reason to learn any, so it grew unchecked and I was consumed by it."
The words were soft, but firm. Chosen carefully, but without hesitation. Every one was necessary, and every one was treated as such. Far from feeling removed from his own voice, each word reverberated fully around his mind, and Skulduggery was very aware of exactly what he was doing. It didn't make him stumble, and it didn't fill him with dread - or even resignation. Now, it was simply something that had to be done.
"I didn't see a way back. Part of me, I think, didn't want to see one. I turned to Necromancy because I needed something to fuel the rage into, but Necromancy doesn't just feed on the fuel it's given. It creates more of that fuel. That's its nature; it always has been. I stopped caring. I stopped wanting anything other than destruction. The thing about Necromancy is that the lowest cleric can destruct with it, but when the practitioner is already dead, it becomes something different. It takes on a life of its own."
He didn't need to say it. But he also didn't need to explain himself, and they were giving him the chance for that. Skulduggery couldn't leave this unfinished.
And so he said it, in the same measured, careful tones as all the rest. "I became Lord Vile. And I lived in that rage for all five years."
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Still, he found himself relieved to be sitting next to Gabriel. Like the Archangel's soul was some kind of anchor. That probably should have been worrying, but two things stopped Skulduggery from giving it any further thought - the gravity of Corrival's next words, and the knowledge that worrying about it would make some kind of imprint on Gabe.
The last thing any of them needed was for Gabe to be further strained - never mind that Skulduggery still wasn't comfortable with having his innermost feelings read like an open book.
Corrival, it turned out, was giving him back some measure of control. The man did know Skulduggery well. Funnily enough, Skulduggery almost didn't want it.
But he didn't take any time to think about it. Thinking about it was only going to make him second guess himself, and they would never get anywhere. Anton deserved to know, and he deserved to hear it from Skulduggery now; mentally clutching that one thought before any others could force their way in, Skulduggery removed the sunglasses and the scarf, laying both items neatly on the arm of the couch.
It wouldn't be proper eye contact, but it would be close enough. With one last look at Corrival, Skulduggery turned to Anton, and his eyeless gaze never wavered. "When I was killed, something stopped me from moving on. I don't know what that was, but I do know what brought me back. Rage. Hatred. I didn't have a concept of control, or a reason to learn any, so it grew unchecked and I was consumed by it."
The words were soft, but firm. Chosen carefully, but without hesitation. Every one was necessary, and every one was treated as such. Far from feeling removed from his own voice, each word reverberated fully around his mind, and Skulduggery was very aware of exactly what he was doing. It didn't make him stumble, and it didn't fill him with dread - or even resignation. Now, it was simply something that had to be done.
"I didn't see a way back. Part of me, I think, didn't want to see one. I turned to Necromancy because I needed something to fuel the rage into, but Necromancy doesn't just feed on the fuel it's given. It creates more of that fuel. That's its nature; it always has been. I stopped caring. I stopped wanting anything other than destruction. The thing about Necromancy is that the lowest cleric can destruct with it, but when the practitioner is already dead, it becomes something different. It takes on a life of its own."
He didn't need to say it. But he also didn't need to explain himself, and they were giving him the chance for that. Skulduggery couldn't leave this unfinished.
And so he said it, in the same measured, careful tones as all the rest. "I became Lord Vile. And I lived in that rage for all five years."