The fragile calm was melting. Anton could feel a pound in his head that was fury, but of more concern was the seethe in his chest that was the same. He broke his gaze from Skulduggery--Pleasant--Vile--and took a deep breath, seeking control.
The sorcerer's gaze landed on Gabriel, and with a detached sort of awareness noted the supposed angel had his face in his hands. A moment later Gabriel raised his head, and his face was pale. There was something ... something about what Skulduggery had said that had surprised him, and in a bad way.
"What is it?" Anton asked sharply without even pausing to think. He didn't dare to pause to think. If he did, he might lose all control, and he could not, would not, do that. He would not be Lord Vile. "What could he--" He jerked his head at the skeleton on the sofa. "--have said that would surprise you?"
Something in Gabriel tensed. Not visibly, but something in his demeanour put up walls he didn't usually seem to need. Anton found he didn't care. "Given," Gabriel said quietly but steadily, "that you overheard an extremely personal conversation last night, I don't believe you have the right to demand anything from me which is unrelated to the topic at hand."
Anton was aware of those few moments in which he rose, in which he trembled, in which the anger rode almost everything and only his fixation on Gabriel kept it leashed. Angel, Archangel, demi-god--whatever he was, there he sat, next to his beau, and knew what Lord Vile had done, and pretended there was nothing wrong.
"It was something he said that made you flinch," Anton said, and his tone was rising. "Given how badly your judgement is compromised, I think we have the right to demand anything you know."
"Not this." Gabriel was unmoved, and the sight of him, so still, made a fission of hatred run through the Adept.
"Don't." Anton's hands were clenched now, his face pale with rage as he pointed a shaking, accusing hand at Skulduggery. "You're in love with him! You're in love with Lord Vile!" He laughed, and the sound was bitter and scornful and with an edge of something not hysteria, but close to a blind rage. "So much for the vaunted divinity of the angels. Or is it your God who approves of the wanton murder and defilement of--"
"Enough." Gabriel's voice came like a whipcrack, and even in spite of Anton pulsing wrath, he stopped. The, whatever he was, the man, the cowboy, was looking at him still, but something was different. There was no anger, but his face was stern, and quite suddenly Anton did not want to hear whatever he was about to say. The sorcerer wheeled around and strode for the door, not quite running but hurrying to escape before that roil of his Gist in his chest broke loose. He'd never felt so close to the edge before. Not on mere anger.
It wasn't just mere anger in him now. The anger was just a symptom of something deeper, something cold and yawning.
Nothing moved. Not exactly. It wasn't quite movement. Anton had almost reached the door and quite abruptly ran into something which felt like velveted steel. There was coiled tension and power in it, though a faint tremble as well, but the outside was soft. Anton stumbled back.
It was only after he caught his balance that he saw that he had run into a wing. A wing with opalescent feathers, ones that cast their own rainbow light. For a moment Anton was numb enough that he felt empty, and in that numbness he turned to follow the feathers back. They had to be over ten feet, outstretched toward him like long, reaching fingers, attached to a joint and limb and Gabriel.
Saint Gabriel.
He was still sitting on the sofa, his feet tucked up under him and hands cross on his lap. Calm. Gracious. His clothes blinding white, his skin dusky gold, his tumbling curls surrounded by a halo of light. Anton saw his other wing still folded, but oddly, curled protectively around something. Around Skulduggery.
"Anton Shudder," the Archangel said, and though his voice was quiet it carried, resonating in the air in ways that made chills prickle all over Anton's skin. He swallowed convulsively at the sight of those molten gold eyes looking at him. "Please sit."
Even in the midst of his trembling, Anton shook his head. He couldn't sit. He could barely even stand.
The Archangel nodded and didn't ask again. "Firstly," he said, and the stern note was back in his voice. Only now it had actual, tangible weight. "Although I realise you're betrayed, and lashing out, I do not appreciate the implication that my Lord and Master would approve of the murder of others. Secondly, regardless of my feelings for Skulduggery--and I won't deny that there are feelings--neither do I appreciate the accusation that I would demean everything for which my Lord stands for the sake of a damned soul."
Part of Anton wanted to look away and couldn't. Part of him was acutely aware of the restless seethe of his Gist in his chest. Part of him was remembering the night before, when he came near to the Archangel. When the Archangel flinched.
But mostly Anton was simply drowning in those words. For the sake of a damned soul. As if Skulduggery weren't one. As if Lord Vile weren't one.
"He's a murderer," Anton said, and his voice cracked.
"Yes." The Archangel's voice and gaze never wavered, and the calm acknowledgement in his tone made something panicky rise in Anton's chest.
"He murdered millions."
"Yes."
"Why?!"
Not 'why did Skulduggery do those things'. Not 'why would you let it happen'. The most important why, the only why which really mattered. When the Archangel answered his voice was excruciatingly gentle and final. So gentle it made a hole open up inside of Anton, and that panic reach for him.
"Because I know my Lord, and I know the nature of a soul in which He sees something worth forgiving."
Those golden eyes were piercing him. Burning him. Drowning him. Anton's mouth was dry.
Is there such a thing in me?
He opened his mouth. "Let me out."
For a moment, just a moment which seemed like an eternity, the Archangel made no movement, didn't even blink to assuage the weight of his gaze. Then, finally, he nodded and lifted his wing. The movement was slow, ponderous in a way that felt wrong for the nature of its appearance, but Anton didn't have room in his head to stop and think it over. The moment the door was unblocked, he had yanked it open and was gone.
Back on the sofa, Gabriel brought his wing very carefully back toward him, his face creasing with the pain of it, but composure fully intact. "I apologise," he said quietly, "for raising my voice."
no subject
The sorcerer's gaze landed on Gabriel, and with a detached sort of awareness noted the supposed angel had his face in his hands. A moment later Gabriel raised his head, and his face was pale. There was something ... something about what Skulduggery had said that had surprised him, and in a bad way.
"What is it?" Anton asked sharply without even pausing to think. He didn't dare to pause to think. If he did, he might lose all control, and he could not, would not, do that. He would not be Lord Vile. "What could he--" He jerked his head at the skeleton on the sofa. "--have said that would surprise you?"
Something in Gabriel tensed. Not visibly, but something in his demeanour put up walls he didn't usually seem to need. Anton found he didn't care. "Given," Gabriel said quietly but steadily, "that you overheard an extremely personal conversation last night, I don't believe you have the right to demand anything from me which is unrelated to the topic at hand."
Anton was aware of those few moments in which he rose, in which he trembled, in which the anger rode almost everything and only his fixation on Gabriel kept it leashed. Angel, Archangel, demi-god--whatever he was, there he sat, next to his beau, and knew what Lord Vile had done, and pretended there was nothing wrong.
"It was something he said that made you flinch," Anton said, and his tone was rising. "Given how badly your judgement is compromised, I think we have the right to demand anything you know."
"Not this." Gabriel was unmoved, and the sight of him, so still, made a fission of hatred run through the Adept.
"Don't." Anton's hands were clenched now, his face pale with rage as he pointed a shaking, accusing hand at Skulduggery. "You're in love with him! You're in love with Lord Vile!" He laughed, and the sound was bitter and scornful and with an edge of something not hysteria, but close to a blind rage. "So much for the vaunted divinity of the angels. Or is it your God who approves of the wanton murder and defilement of--"
"Enough." Gabriel's voice came like a whipcrack, and even in spite of Anton pulsing wrath, he stopped. The, whatever he was, the man, the cowboy, was looking at him still, but something was different. There was no anger, but his face was stern, and quite suddenly Anton did not want to hear whatever he was about to say. The sorcerer wheeled around and strode for the door, not quite running but hurrying to escape before that roil of his Gist in his chest broke loose. He'd never felt so close to the edge before. Not on mere anger.
It wasn't just mere anger in him now. The anger was just a symptom of something deeper, something cold and yawning.
Nothing moved. Not exactly. It wasn't quite movement. Anton had almost reached the door and quite abruptly ran into something which felt like velveted steel. There was coiled tension and power in it, though a faint tremble as well, but the outside was soft. Anton stumbled back.
It was only after he caught his balance that he saw that he had run into a wing. A wing with opalescent feathers, ones that cast their own rainbow light. For a moment Anton was numb enough that he felt empty, and in that numbness he turned to follow the feathers back. They had to be over ten feet, outstretched toward him like long, reaching fingers, attached to a joint and limb and Gabriel.
Saint Gabriel.
He was still sitting on the sofa, his feet tucked up under him and hands cross on his lap. Calm. Gracious. His clothes blinding white, his skin dusky gold, his tumbling curls surrounded by a halo of light. Anton saw his other wing still folded, but oddly, curled protectively around something. Around Skulduggery.
"Anton Shudder," the Archangel said, and though his voice was quiet it carried, resonating in the air in ways that made chills prickle all over Anton's skin. He swallowed convulsively at the sight of those molten gold eyes looking at him. "Please sit."
Even in the midst of his trembling, Anton shook his head. He couldn't sit. He could barely even stand.
The Archangel nodded and didn't ask again. "Firstly," he said, and the stern note was back in his voice. Only now it had actual, tangible weight. "Although I realise you're betrayed, and lashing out, I do not appreciate the implication that my Lord and Master would approve of the murder of others. Secondly, regardless of my feelings for Skulduggery--and I won't deny that there are feelings--neither do I appreciate the accusation that I would demean everything for which my Lord stands for the sake of a damned soul."
Part of Anton wanted to look away and couldn't. Part of him was acutely aware of the restless seethe of his Gist in his chest. Part of him was remembering the night before, when he came near to the Archangel. When the Archangel flinched.
But mostly Anton was simply drowning in those words. For the sake of a damned soul. As if Skulduggery weren't one. As if Lord Vile weren't one.
"He's a murderer," Anton said, and his voice cracked.
"Yes." The Archangel's voice and gaze never wavered, and the calm acknowledgement in his tone made something panicky rise in Anton's chest.
"He murdered millions."
"Yes."
"Why?!"
Not 'why did Skulduggery do those things'. Not 'why would you let it happen'. The most important why, the only why which really mattered. When the Archangel answered his voice was excruciatingly gentle and final. So gentle it made a hole open up inside of Anton, and that panic reach for him.
"Because I know my Lord, and I know the nature of a soul in which He sees something worth forgiving."
Those golden eyes were piercing him. Burning him. Drowning him. Anton's mouth was dry.
Is there such a thing in me?
He opened his mouth. "Let me out."
For a moment, just a moment which seemed like an eternity, the Archangel made no movement, didn't even blink to assuage the weight of his gaze. Then, finally, he nodded and lifted his wing. The movement was slow, ponderous in a way that felt wrong for the nature of its appearance, but Anton didn't have room in his head to stop and think it over. The moment the door was unblocked, he had yanked it open and was gone.
Back on the sofa, Gabriel brought his wing very carefully back toward him, his face creasing with the pain of it, but composure fully intact. "I apologise," he said quietly, "for raising my voice."