tushanshu_logs | Phantom faces at the window, phantom shadows on the floor

Entry tags:

Phantom faces at the window, phantom shadows on the floor

Characters: (CLOSED) Skulduggery Pleasant, Erskine Ravel, Anton Shudder, and the fourth-wall Dead Men.
Date: April 15-30.
Location: Throughout Keeliai, but mostly in Erskine's new Earth Sector shelter.
Situation: The Dead Men haven't created something lasting together in a very long time. It's led to some spectacularly stupid decisions. This? This is their chance to fix things.
Warnings/Rating: Intimacy / non-serious flirting between grown men, some jokes of a sexual nature, massive spoilers for the entire Skulduggery Pleasant series (but notably the last two books), mentions of murder and betrayal, gratuitous amounts of violence and punching in response to said mentions of murder and betrayal (the Dead Men actually communicate by punching each other in the face). Also, broship. Lots of broship.

With Erskine and Skulduggery's relationship somehow even more strained than it was before Skulduggery vanished for a month, and Erskine growing maybe a little too dependent on Anton while living at the Hotel, the Dreaming's been getting a lot of wishes -- subconscious or otherwise -- for the arrival of very specific people.

They arrive on the 15th, scattered around the turtle. Over the day, they find each other, two or three at a time. There are hugs. There are punches. And when they all come together, they spend most of the following two weeks helping Erskine build and prepare a shelter for the kedan -- in between needing subtle reminders that the point of the reunion is to forgive each other.

Or, if not forgive, at least accept each other, flaws and all.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Anton steps away, lingering just long enough to usher Ghastly to one of the chairs near the desk, a nice plush one not unlike the armchairs in Ghastly's shop. Understandably, Ghastly looks ashen; a glass of water will at least give him something to do with his hands, even if he doesn't drink it. Tea will take some time to make.

So Anton goes first to his office, intending to duck through into his private bathroom, where he keeps a spare glass he can fill from the sink there.

After Saracen and Erskine went back to the stable Saracen woke up in searching for the soul gem Saracen hopefully had -- which, as it turned out, he didn't -- they trudged back to the Hotel together, equal parts exhausted and disheartened and, oddly, light-hearted. In Saracen's case it was because for the first time in five years he hadn't been checking himself after every laugh, second-guessing whether he was allowed, reminded that there were once men he could banter with as easily as he drew breath. Yes, he was exhausted, and yes, he was sweaty and disheveled and had even more straw in his hair, but the shoulder he was leaning on -- it was a Dead Man's.

Somehow, after five years on his own, that nostalgia had become more important than almost anything else.

When they finally reached the Hotel, Saracen was the one to push the door open. He didn't hesitate; he'd been in here once already, after all, even if no one else remembered it. He spoke immediately in the general direction of the front desk without checking to make sure Anton was actually there. "Hello, we're back. I mean, I'm here. I don't have a soul gem, so you won't have to put up with me for -- Anton?"

And then he saw Ghastly, who perhaps should have been immediately obvious (except he wasn't supposed to be there, he was supposed to be dead), and Saracen froze.

"Uh," he managed eloquently.

It's incredibly disappointing to know that Saracen is one of the temporary Foreigners. It's good to see any of the Dead Men again (although admittedly some would be slightly more welcome than others) and particularly one that doesn't seem to have an interest in exacting revenge. Erskine is already sporting a bruise on his cheekbone from Saracen's punch, but since then the two of them have fallen into a somewhat amiable truce with each other and he likely won't even develop a black eye from the hit.

(In fact, the only reason he hasn't bothered to tell Saracen that he punches like a girl--meaning no offense to girls in general--is that he doesn't care to remind Saracen of why he'd punched him. It's hanging in the background anyway. No need to bring it to the forefront again.)

Erskine feels comfortable around Anton but there's always that debt lingering in the back of his mind. Skulduggery seems to be slowly thawing but that doesn't erase the fight from several months ago, or this new uneasiness that's come over them. With Saracen it's easier. It's almost friendly. Like maybe the last year has been worth something after all. He has straw in his hair and he's tired--it doesn't matter. They're leaning on each other and they're almost home.

The first thought through his mind at Saracen's query isn't what's wrong? What's happened to Anton? It's of course Saracen's been in here already and erased it. Always has to have the upper hand. Cheater. So when Erskine looks up toward the desk there's a half-smile on his face, before his gaze has a chance to settle on one of the Dead Men he's been vaguely dreading reuniting with for almost a year.

But what time is he from? Does he remember?

He stills, not quite frozen but visibly shaken. Anton is here, after all, and Anton is dead back home. It's possible. But Ghastly.... A quick glance at Saracen is equal parts accusing and pleading--did you know about this?--before Erskine looks back over at the tailor. He blinks as if to try to wake himself up, to dispel some illusion, and his mouth opens as if to say something but no sound emerges. There's a tightness in his chest he hasn't felt in weeks now, maybe months. Panic.

Ghastly lets Anton guide him to a chair. Sitting is good. He can handle sitting. Anton will come back in a moment, and then they can... discuss.

Coincidence -- and Saracen -- has other plans. Ghastly jerks his head up to focus on the familiar voice, eyes wide. "Saracen," he says, somewhere between relieved and shocked, and he stands to greet him.

Only then does he process who else has walked in the door. I am sorry, my friend echoes in his head like a distant bell, and Ghastly starts toward him without even a concrete plan, without anything in his mind but anger and the need to close the distance between them.

He discovers something on the way there: he doesn't want revenge. Not quite. Making Erskine hurt in exchange for the pain he's caused won't do anything. What he wants is to punch Erskine Ravel right in that very pretty, very stupid face, and possibly to beat some sense into him, because from Anton's half-there explanation Erskine could really use it, and frankly, so could Ghastly.

There's some vitally pressing reason why he shouldn't punch Erskine right now, but for the life of him Ghastly can't bring it to mind. Wounded fury wins out, and he pulls an arm back and swings.

Anton almost reached the bathroom when Saracen's voice came through the open office door. Almost. The surprise at hearing another Dead Man's voice made him stop, and then Saracen's words sank in.

We.

Oh, no.

Anton spun and ran for the door, and didn't pause at the sight of Ghastly back on his feet. Anton had longer legs, but Ghastly was already swinging; even still Anton managed to intercept the blow. Unfortunately, he missed Ghastly's wrist--bad angle--and intercepted it with his chest.

With a grunt which Anton staggered back into Erskine and Saracen, instinctively trying to suck in air and failing owing to having just been punched roughly in the lungs. He tried to talk, and resignedly coughed instead.

Just give him a moment, Ghastly. Then he'll punch you back. Hotel rules.

"No," Saracen said the moment he processed Erskine's accusing look. That was all he could really find the words for -- defending himself. How pathetic. But he hadn't known about this, and moreover he didn't want to know about this, because that would mean erasing some of the fragile amicable truce he and Erskine had. It would mean coming into the Hotel carefully and treating Ghastly like he was made of glass. It would mean --

Then Ghastly strode over and Saracen nearly jumped back out of habit. He physically jumped back out of arm's reach to stop himself from doing it, in fact. Anton was there, Anton was in the way. Erskine wasn't going to get hurt. Ghastly might, but somehow Saracen didn't see this unfolding any other way. He'd tried to change the Dead Men's path before, and it had always blown up in his face.

"Ghastly," he blurted, and then hesitated. Ghastly. The memory of the Sanctuary footage crossed his mind, and with a mental discipline borne of magic Saracen blocked it out. "I'm going to hug you," he informed the other man, "once I'm sure I'm not going to get punched for the trouble."

Of course Ghastly was coming toward them--toward him. Erskine wouldn't have expected anything less. And maybe Saracen didn't know anything about this after all. Remembering that look of hate in the younger mage's eyes, after he'd-- after the murders, Erskine felt quite certain that if Saracen had wanted to spring an ambush on him, he'd be gloating by now.

He had seconds before Ghastly reached them. Seconds to decide what to do about it. A coward would turn and run. A smart man with a healthy sense of self-preservation would try to block the punch, to duck out of the way, to use those hundreds of years of fighting skill he still possessed. The old Erskine would try to talk his way out of this. Much as he loved punching things, Erskine's forte had always been charm and a quick tongue. It was what had almost won him the entire world.

An idiot would stand still and take the punch. An idiot, or a traitor who knew he deserved it.

In that last moment, with Ghastly maybe five feet away, Erskine wondered idly if his life expectancy measured in years or seconds. Was he finally going to get to test out the resurrection that Valdis and Skulduggery had already taken advantage of?

It was too late, by the time he noticed Anton racing toward them, to stop the collision. Erskine was fast--sometimes unnaturally fast--but he wasn't that fast. Before he could get his hands more than waist-level, to try to push someone away with a burst of air, Saracen had jumped back and Anton was grunting and falling back against Erskine. He caught the taller man reflexively, arms wrapping around his midsection from behind to cushion him after taking that kind of punch.

"Anton!" That cough... good God, Shudder would be lucky if Ghastly hadn't broken his ribs. That punch had been meant for him, damn it.

Anton.

Ghastly realized what had happened too late, could make barely the beginnings of an effort to pull that punch, and it connected too solidly. "Anton," he said aloud, looking stricken, uncanny and unwelcome echo to Erskine. Why did Anton have to--

Well, no, he knew the answer to that one. Not only had Anton told him why, but the thing Ghastly should have remembered about thirty seconds ago came freely to mind now. The Midnight Hotel. Violence was strictly forbidden. All the tension seemed to go out of him in a rush, and his shoulders slumped and his hands fell to his sides.

His gaze settled on Erskine, briefly, over Anton's shoulder, and Ghastly discovered there was still some anger left in him regardless. How dare Erskine. How dare he hold the man he'd killed with fear and concern, like he had not made the conscious choice to order his life taken.

(Tears, brimming in golden eyes as he pushed the knife home.)

Ghastly clenched his jaw, and didn't look at any of them. "I'm not going to punch you, Saracen," he said, leaden. Pointedly, no mention was made of Erskine.

Someone's grip holding Anton up wasn't especially unusual. The look Ghastly directed toward them was, and that was what made Anton realise it was Erskine, more than the feel and shape of him at Anton's back.

Anton found Erskine's hand and squeezed it, and leveled himself properly onto his own feet. His own hand went to his chest to probe, and he hissed. Bruised, and deeply; but no bones moved under the touch. He took a deep, testing breath and it hurt, but he could do it, and nothing ground in his chest. It would hurt to breathe for a while, might hurt to move, but it was better than broken bones. Anton had always been sturdier than his frame pretended.

Then he stepped forward and, without a warning, punched Ghastly in the face--not quite as hard as Ghastly had punched him, because it was in the face.

"No violence in the Midnight Hotel," he reprimanded hoarsely.

"I didn't say you'd be the one doing the punching," Saracen murmured -- just loud enough to be heard, not quite loud enough to indicate he wanted to be heard.

The fact that Anton could punch Ghastly back was, all other moral questions aside, a good sign. It meant he'd be fine. It meant no bones were broken. It meant Saracen didn't need to jump back and erase this from happening, as long as no one else got the bright idea of trying something more. And Ghastly probably wouldn't; Anton's no-violence rule wasn't the kind of rule you forgot except in the heat of immediate fury.

So, once the dust had settled, Saracen stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Ghastly's thick, solid shoulders.

"I'm glad you're here," he said quietly. "The last five years have been hell."

Four Dead Men in a room together--five, as soon as someone thought to call Skulduggery--and still they were broken. Erskine supposed he couldn't have expected much more than this.

The squeeze of Anton's hand on his own was vaguely reassuring. There was a good chance he was safe from Ghastly in the Hotel, at least. But what then? Tip-toeing around each other for the rest of the time they were in Keeliai? Turning every interaction of the Dead Men into a confrontation? Would Ghastly even ask for an explanation, or did he care? Erskine didn't know what to say in either case. 'I was trying to help'? Your sacrifice would have helped make the world a better place'? 'It wouldn't have been a sacrifice at all if I didn't love you as a brother'?

Cold comfort, to the deceased.

While Saracen was embracing Ghastly, Erskine half-turned toward the entrance of the Hotel, looking down at the floor. "You deserve a better reunion than this," he said quietly. "If anyone needs me, for some unfathomable reason, I'll be in the Earth Sector. Ask around for me, I'm not hard to find."

He turned fully toward the door, then looked back over his shoulder without really focusing on anyone. "Ghastly, in case you want another shot, I'll walk slow. It's the least I can do for you."

He hadn't broken anything of Anton's. That was a relief. Ghastly had no warning from Anton's movements, per se, but he could guess what was coming, and he knew how to take a punch. He turned with the blow, appreciating Anton's restraint, and when he straightened again Ghastly put a hand to the spot, prodding it carefully.

It wasn't bad. He'd survive.

And then Saracen was there, arms wrapped around him, and Ghastly was dipping his head to press against his friend's shoulder. Five years. After everything else that day, the impact was minimal, but still enough to shake him. It had been five years for Saracen, since the two of them had died. There was nothing that could make that better, not really, but at least there was this.

But-- there was also Erskine. Ghastly might still be angry with him -- might hang on to that anger for a while -- but this, Erskine's quiet removal of himself, might somehow be worse. After everything was said and done, after Erskine had made what choices he'd made, he couldn't even stand and face Ghastly?

(He had probably not expected to encounter the people he'd killed. There was that, as a mitigating factor, though Ghastly wasn't taking it very much into account.)

"Ravel," Ghastly said over Saracen's shoulder. It wasn't as calm or enunciated as he'd like, came out more grindingly, but it worked. "Don't you dare walk out that door."

Absently Anton kneaded his hand. He'd forgotten how hard Ghastly's face was; the scars added an extra layer of protection most people didn't have. Not that the inevitable bruise would make Ghastly look any better, but at least nothing had broken on his side, either.

Then Erskine spoke and Anton's clinical assessment turned toward him, and so did the rest of him. The sharp movement made his chest throb and his breath catch, and Ghastly got in first, saying exactly what Anton would have said--thank you.

They'd let Skulduggery walk away and he'd become Vile. They'd let each other drift away, and Erskine had become a supervillain.

Not again.

"My office," he said, his voice a little rougher than usual, but not really noticeably given his usual tones. "We can talk in there--we can all talk in there." With both Ghastly and Anton making a demand, surely Erskine wouldn't disobey? Anton tried not to use Erskine's debt against him, but on this occasion ...

There wasn't really a chance to find out. The door opened before Erskine reached it, and Hopeless stood framed in the entrance, his red hair lit from behind in a way that Anton had been certain for years the mind-reader did on purpose. His face creased suddenly, the way it did when he was struck with strong emotions that had been blocked by wards--or interdimensionality--only moments before.

For a moment Hopeless paused, orienting himself. Was that the same outfit he'd been wearing the day he--

Anton took an automatic step toward him, and Erskine, prepared to do he wasn't sure what.

Then Hopeless took two quick steps and wrapped Erskine in a tight hug.

Good. Ghastly didn't want Erskine to leave. That was good. That was... better than Saracen had managed in the immediate aftermath, to be honest. Not that Saracen was surprised -- Ghastly was a good man, the best of them. Even angry, he never immediately thought abount punishment (physical violence notwithstanding, since that was practically communication by now). He would probably even, very soon, want to know why.

Saracen hadn't wanted to know why. If Skulduggery hadn't hinged his entire existence on why, the skeleton probably wouldn't have wanted to know either.

The door opened behind them, out of Saracen's view, and in the timeline he eventually erased, he didn't look around. He didn't want to. He'd had five years to learn just how terrible someone's luck could turn, and the door opening felt like the other shoe dropping. He'd gotten Ghastly and Anton back, for however short a time -- of course that wouldn't come without a price.

When, eventually, Saracen did turn around and saw who was actually standing in the doorway, he barely had time to think before some old buried instinct took over and sent his mind back to about the time Ghastly punched Anton.

He still went up and hugged Ghastly. He still told Ghastly the last five years had been hell. The only thing Saracen changed, in fact, just about the only thing he could bring himself to do differently, was to turn and watch the door for about two seconds before Hopeless opened it. And then stand and stare, one arm still around Ghastly's shoulders, totally unable to move.

In retrospect, Erskine probably should have anticipated how Ghastly would react to him trying to remove himself from the situation. It didn't matter that he'd been trying to do something helpful for the rest of them, that his intentions were more or less exactly what he'd stated. That he'd have been perfectly willing to yell it out with Ghastly later, away from the others, without ruining this for everyone.

Saracen wasn't going to be here long. Maybe Ghastly wasn't either. Their time in Keeliai--Ghastly's time alive--was precious. Why waste it?

At Ghastly's command Erskine stopped just short of the door, his eyes sliding shut and his eyebrows furrowing. Breathe. Calm. The middle fingers of his right hand absently tapped out a rhythm on his leg, the same rhythm Anton used to coach him through a panic attack. He could do this. Probably no one would listen or care (the only one who'd ever listened was Anton, and he hadn't even really understood) but he could do this. Surely he could at least--

And then he forgot to keep counting, keep tapping, and his breathing stopped altogether.

It's an interesting mix of sensations, when one simultaneously gets what one has been wishing for and dreading at the same time. Up until now he hadn't dared hope that Hopeless might be one of the new arrivals. He wanted to see Hopeless too badly--had been wanting to see him again for a hundred years--and hoping hurt too much. Now that he was faced with him, the same red hair from his memory, the same face from the Echo Stone, he couldn't help but wonder how long it would take before Hopeless knew everything. Before Hopeless hated him too.

His heart ached. He couldn't breathe. It felt as if Ghastly had punched him after all, square in the center of him, like he was sick and elated all at the same time. In lieu of all else he settled for staring at Hopeless in shock until the redhead stepped forward to hug him.

Hopeless even smelled the way he remembered, sandalwood and vanilla and paper. At first Erskine stood there rigidly, uncomprehending. Had Hopeless simply not read him yet? Not read from the others what had happened? Surely he wouldn't--

I've missed you so much.

If Hopeless was bound to hate him, then maybe he ought to make the most of this hug. Erskine's arms belatedly came up to wrap around the other man, his eyes closed, and he tucked his face against Hopeless's neck, clinging to him like a man lost at sea.

It was going to be a lot of people to fit in one office, Ghastly found himself thinking, inanely. Especially if more of them kept showing up. Five Dead Men already, three literal dead men--

He missed Skulduggery, abruptly. But-- Hopeless. If anyone could make sense from Erskine, it would be Hopeless. And at least they could be sure of Erskine not leaving any time soon, now.

It didn't erase the hurt. But nevertheless there was something lighter about it, standing there with Saracen's comforting realness and watching Hopeless wrap Erskine in his arms.

"Your office," he agreed with Anton, out loud, having lost the ability to muster much else. Sitting down would be excellent. Talking would be better than only sitting. In private would be even better. Ghastly felt dazed, unsteady. Entirely grateful for Saracen serving to keep him on his feet.

The next thing they knew Larrikin would be walking through the door, and Ghastly honestly wasn't sure he could stay standing if that happened.

"You silly goose," Hopeless murmured, his voice husky because of the tears damping his eyes. "Of course I don't hate you." That was the first, very important thing to establish. Even after having spoken to Raine, Hopeless didn't hate Erskine. He hurt for him, for all of them, but he didn't hate him.

He wasn't sure that was possible.

Anton's hand touched his elbow. They must have looked about to fall over--which wasn't an undue concern, frankly, with how Hopeless's head was pounding. He'd known something was happening inside the Hotel from the whispers of people who'd just left, but it wasn't until he stepped in that he could actually feel anything properly.

Even so, Hopeless opened his eyes and managed a wobbly smile at Anton and his subtly worried expression. "Call Skulduggery, please? I think we can make it through the office door."

Possibly. Maybe.

Anton snorted his doubt of that assertion, but he went to his desk to find his radio, and Hopeless gave Saracen and Ghastly a little wave with his fingers. "Hello, Ghastly. Saracen, you're getting lazy. You haven't done that since you were sixty years old."

By which he meant Saracen's automatic leap back--a tease accompanied by a faint smile in wet eyes.

It wasn't that Hopeless couldn't be real. He'd appeared in two different timelines now -- he was real. That was fact. That was immutable fact. He was as real and solid as both Anton and Ghastly. As real and solid as, apparently, Skulduggery. As real and solid as the Hotel, the desk, Anton's office -- the smile on Hopeless's face.

Everything was too real and solid. It was suffocating. It made it hard to think.

"I --" Saracen tried. "You're --"

Damn it. Damn it. The last time he'd seen Hopeless, two days before he died -- not on the day, of course, Saracen hadn't been there, he'd been too busy using up all his magic for something inane and stupid, because he'd been selfish and wanted to believe the war didn't exist -- but it had existed and Hopeless had needed him and he hadn't been there --

His vision became abruptly blurry, and still Saracen couldn't move. He couldn't summon the wherewithal to so much as beam a thought in Hopeless's direction -- half of him didn't even remember he could, much less that it wasn't necessary. Funny how you can think you've worked through your overwhelming guilt after decades of effort and in one fell swoop realise you were utterly wrong.

"Of course I don't hate you." They were the last words that Erskine properly registered, before a century of grief and guilt and hopelessness overwhelmed him.

He'd always made it a point, up until Keeliai (until Darquesse) not to break down in front of other people. Not to let on how bad things could be. He had to keep control of the situation, control of himself. It had been that way ever since Mevolent--coincidentally enough, which was also the reason he'd needed to break down at all. Hopeless had always been the only exception to that rule. Hopeless had been his anchor... and then Hopeless had died, and Erskine had walled himself off completely.

Things hadn't been that clear-cut since Darquesse. Panic attacks didn't wait to make sure he was by himself before taking over. It was the reason Valdis and Raine knew about what he'd done, had known almost from the start.

He wasn't going to have a panic attack now but he was breaking down regardless. Pressing his face against Hopeless's neck didn't stop the tears. Clinging to Hopeless didn't stop him from shivering. It was quiet, as far as meltdowns went, quiet and restrained, but it was going to take a minute or two to collect himself enough to be even halfway useful again.

Ghastly lifted his free hand in a return to Hopeless' greeting, too nonplussed to do anything else. "Hello," he said. That was a good first step when a brother returned from the dead. It sounded inane, it sounded too light, but he had nothing else.

Saracen didn't look like he had anything coherent either. Or Erskine. Anton-- where had Anton gone again? Right. Something about Skulduggery.

"Office. Right," Ghastly said more firmly, aloud, since he was apparently the only person who remembered that they were about two beats from airing all their worst dirty laundry in public. (He then caught himself at thinking of 'them' as a unit again, including Erskine, and he honestly didn't know what to make of it.)

At least Saracen, as much as he seemed like he wanted to stand and stare at Hopeless, responded to nudging. Ghastly started there, not casting his mind ahead to everything else yet. Step one: Anton's office. Behind him he heard Hopeless and Erskine, hopefully moving, hopefully moving in the right direction, but Hopeless had looked to have more of his wits about him than Erskine did. Coming? Ghastly thought tentatively, nonverbal at least in part just to see if he could, just to see if he remembered the combination of intent and focus that would grab Hopeless' attention like nothing else.

Ghastly had never been so glad to see someone's office, when they managed to get there, although it occurred to him that he did not, in fact, know what step two was.

It took Hopeless and Erskine a moment longer to get moving, due to the quiet meltdown. Hopeless's thumb stroked Erskine's temple soothingly, waiting until his mind showed enough awareness to respond to a nudge in the direction of Anton's office.

"Coming," he murmured absently in response to Ghastly. He nudged Erskine gently without disturbing his grip or where his face was pressed, shuffling them gently toward the door. Once inside he found one of the larger chairs, where he and Erskine could sit together, and directed a wry smile toward Ghastly and Saracen. "You both may need to come here to collect your hugs, though."

On the heels of his words, Anton came in while hanging up his call to Skulduggery, and announced: "Skulduggery's on his way."

Then, without a flicker in his customary expression, he went to Erskine and Hopeless and bent to hug them across the shoulders. It was a bit awkward, but on the whole, they managed.

Collect your hugs. Right.

Saracen didn't move. He could move before -- he'd followed Ghastly into the office, subtly moved things out of Erskine and Hopeless's -- out of his father's -- way. But he couldn't move now. Maybe it was because Erskine was already there, and despite their earlier friendship as they cleared out the horse-cow-bird-thing stable, there was still something painful between them. Maybe it was because while Hopeless would most certainly forgive Saracen and in fact probably already had, Saracen was still trying to figure out whether or not he deserved it.

Maybe it was because everything was happening at once. Saracen hung back, rubbing one hand over his face. "Skulduggery's here too?" he asked numbly. "I thought the Accelerator was supposed to -- anyone else? Dexter? Valkyrie?" Larrikin?

If Hopeless wasn't going to push him away, Erskine wasn't letting go. He thoughtlessly allowed himself to be led into Anton's office and into a chair, even that little bit of consciousness taking a back seat to the turmoil in the front. For a long while the turmoil won out--there weren't any specific lines of thought so much as vague images, death and war and overwhelming loss. He barely noticed when Anton hugged the two of them, although a moment later, as the tears slowed and he blinked against Hopeless, he became acutely aware that no one else had bothered.

Ghastly he could understand, to a degree. Hopeless was his brother, but Erskine was his murderer. Saracen... this was his father. Was staying away from Erskine more important than hugging his father? Hopeless didn't deserve that.

Eventually Erskine pulled away, just far enough to scrub his hands over his face without breaking contact with Hopeless completely, still curled against Hopeless's side. Hunched over, he sighed into his hands. When he lifted his head a moment later his eyes were red. It was still hard to breathe, hard to accept that they were all really here, that they were really doing this. Someone was going to bring it up. Almost a year in Keeliai and while he'd imagined Ghastly or the others arriving, from time to time, he'd never actually figured out what he would say.

He winced at the mention of the Accelerator, curling a little tighter against Hopeless's side. "He's been here longer than I have," he answered, his voice hoarse. "Anton and Skulduggery both. Rover's been here before, just before I arrived last year." It wasn't much help, but it was the best he could offer at the moment.

As much as it was good to see Hopeless alive-- as much as Erskine walking away wasn't going to be acceptable-- Ghastly was nowhere near in a state to hug the latter. There was some internal conflict over this, the desire to find a brother whole and real and physical versus the inability to accept his murder and his murderer, but in the end it wasn't happening. He could wait until Hopeless was on his own.

(Erskine appeared to be a grieving mess. Erskine had also murdered him. Hm.)

"Skulduggery?" And Rover had been here, apparently. Ghastly revised his earlier estimate: he wouldn't be surprised if all of them wound up in the same room within the next hour, as improbable as it seemed with four of their number actually dead. "--wait, what about the Accelerator?"

...Something that had happened after his death, almost certainly. Maybe he didn't want to know. Ghastly had to force himself not to touch the scar again.

Anton's hug didn't last very long, and after he straightened he tilted his head at Hopeless, silently asking:

Tea?

Tea for all of them, for something to do; tea to get the Elementals to draw water, remember campfire domestics, give Hopeless something to ease his headache. Hopeless gave Anton a nod and he moved off to the bureau by the wall to fish out his office stockpile of tea and 'special' tea-set (a chipped, old set of things, made of tin because tin didn't break while on the move).

The Accelerator was something Raine hadn't known about, blooming like a terrible flower--or an explosion--in Erskine's head. Hopeless echoed the flinch, and cradled Erskine closer with one hand. "Skulduggery turned it off. He's here. He's coming. He'll be soon."

Hugs ... might have to wait. There was something to be said for prompting the apparently insurmountable before it solidifed as insurmountable, but Saracen had already done that and Ghastly ... needed just a bit more time. A hug now could well settle it as something aversive, instead of something connecting.

Later, though. Later, Hopeless would make sure it happened. Not too much later, either.

Anton picked up their large and dented tin pot, and brought it toward them, and announced: "I need water. Who's going to be the tap today?"

"Anton, where's dinner going to be ready?"

"I haven't started it yet."

"What! Why not? I'm hungry!"

"Because it's going to be stew and none of my travelling watering cans were around an hour ago."

Hopeless rested his head on Erskine's, and didn't even bother to hide his smile.

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