No. He couldn't do this. Erskine would kill them all, and for what--for the sake of a man from whom an Archangel recoiled? He may as well just leave--he should leave Anton to his own fate. The heat rushed through him, along with the pain, and this time he let out a strangled cry as it gripped him, bowing into the floor. He felt his teeth and fingernails itch, his eyes burning.
Erskine's arm was almost cold in comparison. A solid weight, a cool band to stave off the fire.
'Let me have him. Let me have all of them. Mine mine mine mine mine.'
"Erskine--"
Erskine wasn't going to leave, Anton suddenly knew. It wasn't an emotion, because it was a blinding shaft of clarity. Clarity wasn't an emotion. It was just illumination.
Erskine wasn't going to leave and Anton was going to murder him. And all the people under his care. As he promised he wouldn't. He was going to break his promise.
Like Skulduggery had.
Like Vile had.
The breeze felt like a gale to Anton's trembling body, but he braced his feet and stood up as tall as he could manage, forcing his eyes to open. He heard the crunch of dual footsteps but didn't look over as Corrival passed between him and Larrikin, as Erskine took his place in the circle.
That was better. All of them were there, now. All but one, at least.
He felt cold, but they were close enough together that Anton could feel Larrikin and Erskine's heat on either side of him. Sense the rest of them around Ghastly and their general. Protective. Dead Men, all. Family. In mourning.
"On your feet, Bespoke. The war's not over yet. You've made promises, and you're still under my command. You don't get to get out of keeping them just yet. And you damned well don't get to toss yourself to the dogs until I tell you to. So on your feet, Bespoke. On your feet, Ghastly, and don't stop moving 'til it's over.
"Until we make the son of a bitch pay."
No.
He was not Lord Vile.
He would not be Lord Vile. Lord Vile was a murderer. A man who killed because he could, because he wanted to. Just because he was Skulduggery as well did not mean Anton had the right to give in.
'The angel hates you,' growled the Gist. 'The angel fears you!'
No, Anton replied, the angel fears you.
The Gist. It was the Gist Gabriel had responded to. Maybe the fact Anton had chosen it meant he was damned. Maybe not. But Anton would not lose the control Skulduggery had. Not and kill someone who meant something to him. No. Never.
The sound that came from him was a groan of pain and a snarl of refusal at once, more than half a sound that came only from his Gist. It came up from deep inside him, so deep it made his whole body coil with it. Anton gripped the floor and felt the timbre splinter under his fingers.
'Kill him! Kill him kill him killhimkillhimkillhim--'
Anton breathed in and tasted blood and sweat and the warmth of a body nearby, and knew that he could kill it, knew that it was at his mercy because nothing could stop him--
Except for the name that rang through Anton's mind, the name that belonged to the man beside him.
Erskine.
"I'm just wanted to say I'm sorry."
Anton didn't look over toward Ravel. He didn't even look up, or react. He just dug his spade into the muddy earth, turned it, cast the debris into the pile to the side. Unlike most of the others in camp, he enjoyed the physical labour. He wasn't an Elemental to begin with, didn't feel he was entitled to that power over earth which they were denied.
And working meant not thinking. Working made it easier to keep that turn of heat in his chest down to a low simmer.
Working meant he didn't have to remember how close he'd gotten because two of his new squadmates were fools. He wasn't even sure if it was better or worse that he couldn't remember most of that night.
He wasn't sure if he was annoyed or relieved that Ravel didn't seem to require a response.
"It was stupid. I mean, it's not like we haven't heard a whole lot of stories about ... well, your. Um. Skillset. We just ... weren't taking them seriously. Or, well, not seriously enough. It's kind of obvious in retrospect."
Nothing. Dirt crunched. Pebbles tinkled against steel. Muscles strained.
Ravel said nothing, and Anton started to believe maybe he'd left. Right up until a pair of feet hit the dirt of the trench beside him and a new, washed spade dug into the ground. Startled, Anton's head jerked up to find Erskine Ravel in the hole, his sleeves rolled back, his Bespoke-tailored clothes already muddy at the hems.
The Elemental didn't look up at Anton's awaited acknowledgement, and a moment later Anton turned his own head back down. He didn't say anything, but his Gist subsided into nothing more than a curled-up warmth.
Anton shuddered. He breathed, deep and raw, and shuddered with the pound of his Gist in his limbs and body. But it wasn't advancing any further, either. He could feel it burning him, but he felt at once lifted from it by that cool weight across his shoulders.
It snarled and Anton bent inward under the force of it, the sound strangled in his throat. But it didn't get any further.
It didn't get any further because he was not Skulduggery, he would not lose control, and he had no reason to care about an angel's opinion. He had lived his whole life without it, and been content. He didn't need it now. Especially not when having it risked the destruction of what mattered most to him.
Still, this wasn't something he could simply force down. Instead he waited, trembling, panting, the coiled tension in his body occasionally wracking him as the Gist raged inside. He tasted blood in his mouth, but wasn't sure where it came from.
Finally the heat began to subside. Finally it burned itself out, leaving the emptiness of ashes in its wake. Anton could feel his own body again. The rubberyness of his limbs. The stab of splinters in his fingers. A sharp ache in his chest which, when he took in a deep breath, rose up and made him cough hard, leave thin splatters of blood on the floor.
His next breath after that was shallower, rawer, but his own. For several moments he was content with just having air at all, bent over the floor, his forehead resting on one arm. Finally he spoke, weakly, his tone a wealth of exhaustion and gratitude. "You're a fool, Erskine Ravel."
no subject
Erskine's arm was almost cold in comparison. A solid weight, a cool band to stave off the fire.
'Let me have him. Let me have all of them. Mine mine mine mine mine.'
"Erskine--"
Erskine wasn't going to leave, Anton suddenly knew. It wasn't an emotion, because it was a blinding shaft of clarity. Clarity wasn't an emotion. It was just illumination.
Erskine wasn't going to leave and Anton was going to murder him. And all the people under his care. As he promised he wouldn't. He was going to break his promise.
Like Skulduggery had.
Like Vile had.
The breeze felt like a gale to Anton's trembling body, but he braced his feet and stood up as tall as he could manage, forcing his eyes to open. He heard the crunch of dual footsteps but didn't look over as Corrival passed between him and Larrikin, as Erskine took his place in the circle.
That was better. All of them were there, now. All but one, at least.
He felt cold, but they were close enough together that Anton could feel Larrikin and Erskine's heat on either side of him. Sense the rest of them around Ghastly and their general. Protective. Dead Men, all. Family. In mourning.
"On your feet, Bespoke. The war's not over yet. You've made promises, and you're still under my command. You don't get to get out of keeping them just yet. And you damned well don't get to toss yourself to the dogs until I tell you to. So on your feet, Bespoke. On your feet, Ghastly, and don't stop moving 'til it's over.
"Until we make the son of a bitch pay."
No.
He was not Lord Vile.
He would not be Lord Vile. Lord Vile was a murderer. A man who killed because he could, because he wanted to. Just because he was Skulduggery as well did not mean Anton had the right to give in.
'The angel hates you,' growled the Gist. 'The angel fears you!'
No, Anton replied, the angel fears you.
The Gist. It was the Gist Gabriel had responded to. Maybe the fact Anton had chosen it meant he was damned. Maybe not. But Anton would not lose the control Skulduggery had. Not and kill someone who meant something to him. No. Never.
The sound that came from him was a groan of pain and a snarl of refusal at once, more than half a sound that came only from his Gist. It came up from deep inside him, so deep it made his whole body coil with it. Anton gripped the floor and felt the timbre splinter under his fingers.
'Kill him! Kill him kill him killhimkillhimkillhim--'
Anton breathed in and tasted blood and sweat and the warmth of a body nearby, and knew that he could kill it, knew that it was at his mercy because nothing could stop him--
Except for the name that rang through Anton's mind, the name that belonged to the man beside him.
Erskine.
"I'm just wanted to say I'm sorry."
Anton didn't look over toward Ravel. He didn't even look up, or react. He just dug his spade into the muddy earth, turned it, cast the debris into the pile to the side. Unlike most of the others in camp, he enjoyed the physical labour. He wasn't an Elemental to begin with, didn't feel he was entitled to that power over earth which they were denied.
And working meant not thinking. Working made it easier to keep that turn of heat in his chest down to a low simmer.
Working meant he didn't have to remember how close he'd gotten because two of his new squadmates were fools. He wasn't even sure if it was better or worse that he couldn't remember most of that night.
He wasn't sure if he was annoyed or relieved that Ravel didn't seem to require a response.
"It was stupid. I mean, it's not like we haven't heard a whole lot of stories about ... well, your. Um. Skillset. We just ... weren't taking them seriously. Or, well, not seriously enough. It's kind of obvious in retrospect."
Nothing. Dirt crunched. Pebbles tinkled against steel. Muscles strained.
Ravel said nothing, and Anton started to believe maybe he'd left. Right up until a pair of feet hit the dirt of the trench beside him and a new, washed spade dug into the ground. Startled, Anton's head jerked up to find Erskine Ravel in the hole, his sleeves rolled back, his Bespoke-tailored clothes already muddy at the hems.
The Elemental didn't look up at Anton's awaited acknowledgement, and a moment later Anton turned his own head back down. He didn't say anything, but his Gist subsided into nothing more than a curled-up warmth.
Anton shuddered. He breathed, deep and raw, and shuddered with the pound of his Gist in his limbs and body. But it wasn't advancing any further, either. He could feel it burning him, but he felt at once lifted from it by that cool weight across his shoulders.
It snarled and Anton bent inward under the force of it, the sound strangled in his throat. But it didn't get any further.
It didn't get any further because he was not Skulduggery, he would not lose control, and he had no reason to care about an angel's opinion. He had lived his whole life without it, and been content. He didn't need it now. Especially not when having it risked the destruction of what mattered most to him.
Still, this wasn't something he could simply force down. Instead he waited, trembling, panting, the coiled tension in his body occasionally wracking him as the Gist raged inside. He tasted blood in his mouth, but wasn't sure where it came from.
Finally the heat began to subside. Finally it burned itself out, leaving the emptiness of ashes in its wake. Anton could feel his own body again. The rubberyness of his limbs. The stab of splinters in his fingers. A sharp ache in his chest which, when he took in a deep breath, rose up and made him cough hard, leave thin splatters of blood on the floor.
His next breath after that was shallower, rawer, but his own. For several moments he was content with just having air at all, bent over the floor, his forehead resting on one arm. Finally he spoke, weakly, his tone a wealth of exhaustion and gratitude. "You're a fool, Erskine Ravel."