Erskine Ravel, though he hated to admit it, was a politician. Born the son of an aristocrat, he had spent a ridiculous amount of his childhood standing around in grand halls or sitting at grand dinner tables listening to adults speak on a variety of topics. Money, as a source of conversation, was often the most popular. Erskine's father, always needing his hands in as many aspects of the political sphere as he could, was not a subtle man. He was loud, and opinionated, and when he spoke, people listened: not out of respect, but simply because he was all you could hear. There was no ignoring his father. Erskine's presence at these gatherings had been simply for display and he hadn't been allowed to speak.

It was Erskine's opinion, however, that politics were in all actuality a matter of diplomacy that required an immense amount of composure and elegance, and in his youth, Erskine had the opportunity to observe both. He was a patient man, a trait Erskine had inherited from his mother and one he was quite happy to have, though he suspected night after night of listening to his father may have also been to blame. His mother had been beautiful, refined, and gentle. Her allure came easy; in the form of beauty, yes, but also in the form of a charismatic smile and a way with words that charmed those that listened. Some would have called her manipulative. Erskine called her tactful.

When she had died giving birth to her fourth child, Erskine had thrown himself into his studies, reading and absorbing as much as he could. He attended balls and gatherings and meetings, and at these he spoke, practicing and refining that effortless charm his mother had conducted herself with and intent on separating his public image from his father. When the war came knocking, Erskine had answered and accepted it as an opportunity to solidify himself as the patriarch of the family. Military accolades, he wagered, were not something his father could achieve.

But the war had dragged on, and even for a man of such patience as Erskine, he was wary, and it seemed to him that the war was to continue to drag on still. Erskine found himself struggling, occasionally, to maintain that patience that he so very prided himself on.

He stood there, in the biting cold, and willed himself to maintain it now. Corrival Deuce stood by his side, seemingly unperturbed by the chill and by the waiting, so Erskine didn't speak. He wasn't a man to fidget, but his fingers rubbed against themselves behind his back, and he watched the farmhouse, listening intently. It had been fifteen minutes since Ghastly and Hopeless had entered. The lack of screaming was either a good thing, or a very, very bad thing.

"They'll be fine," Corrival stated gruffly, breaking the silence. Erskine pursed his lips.

"Maybe I should go check on them," he said, but Corrival shook his head.

"Those two are more than capable of handling themselves. If the thing was lying, we don't want to go barging in there and ruin any chances of cooperation. If it wasn't, I think it would be best if we gave them space."

Erskine grunted, and knew that Corrival was right. He usually was.

"How's that father of yours?" Corrival asked. "Still trying to work his way into that sanctuary business?"

Erskine couldn't keep himself from scowling. "The man doesn't know when to stop."

"I heard he petitioned for the role of Grand Mage."

"And he lost. Horribly. I think he only got one vote."

Corrival raised an eyebrow. "One?"

"It was his aide."

There was a chuckle from beside him and Erskine's scowl deepened.

"He's an embarrassment to the family, and I refuse to clean up anymore of his messes. Hopefully this newly formed council means he finally can't shove his nose where he wants and bully himself into matters that are none of his business."

"I heard the sanctuaries were temporary," Corrival said, "just until the war was over. But, I admit, I tend to keep myself removed from politics. Never been one for blowing hot air. I leave that up to people like your father. No offense, of course."

"None taken," Ravel said dryly.

They lapsed back into a momentary silence.

"What do you suppose we do?" Erskine asked. "We can't keep this secret forever."

Corrival looked at him, and then returned his gaze to the farmhouse.

"What do you suggest?"

Erskine thought about it for a moment, formulating his thoughts. The apparition would cause fear and unrest, no matter who it turned out to be. But however their side took it, Mevolent's side would most likely take it worse. It seemed it was just a question of how to properly play the hand they'd been dealt.

He opened his mouth to give Corrival his answer, but was abruptly cut off by the opening of the farmhouse door. Ghastly emerged, Hopeless closing the door behind them, and Erskine breathed a sigh of relief. The pair approached, and Erskine could see the grim line of their mouths and the troubled look in their eyes.

"Well?" Corrival asked when they stopped. "What did you read?"

"Nothing," Hopeless said.

Erskine blinked. "What do you mean 'nothing'?"

"Nothing," Hopeless repeated. "I couldn't read anything. Not a single thought."

"What does that mean? It's not human? It was lying to us?"

"Not it. He. And he wasn't lying."

Corrival narrowed his eyes. "You better start making sense, private."

"When he put himself together, he must have reconstructed his thoughts in a manner that I can no longer read. But it's certainly him. That's Skulduggery."

Erskine felt his brow furrow and he made a conscious effort to stop the creasing. "Did you say… put himself back together?"

It was Ghastly who responded. "They threw the bag of his bones into a river. That's why we didn't find any remains."

"And you're certain it's him? Can we trust him?"

Ghastly hesitated, only for a moment. "Yes. I think we need to keep him under observation until we're sure, but… it's him."

Erskine folded his arms and Corrival let out a low whistle.

"Well," Corrival said, "that's certainly a development. What's he doing now? Did you tell him not to leave?"

Hopeless nodded. "We did. We took him upstairs to the master bedroom. There's still some furniture there and it's a better place to rest until we can return. It doesn't seem like he's in any sort of hurry."

"I think this is an opportunity," Erskine said suddenly, and they looked at him in surprise. "There's an enemy encampment a few miles from here. It's not so large as to be a problem, but enough that we've been keeping tabs on them. I think it's high time they left."

Hopeless looked at him for a moment and then shook his head. "No. Absolutely not."

"We need to use the advantage that's been given to us here."

"No."

"If it truly is Skulduggery, then he can make his own decisions. I'm not asking you, Hopeless."

Hopeless stepped forward and jammed a finger into Erskine's chest. It was sharp, and painful, but he held his ground.

"Skulduggery," Hopeless said, his voice sharp and cold, "is not an advantage. He is not a weapon. He is a human being and our friend, and I will not allow you."

Corrival stepped between them before Erskine could respond.

"Explain," he snapped. "Now."

Hopeless glared. "He wants to use Skulduggery as bait."

Irritation bubbled in Erskine's chest, and he pushed it down. "Not as bait," he said, his voice measured. "As a warning. I know you've all heard the stories, the fiery apparition blazing through the battlefield, searching for and punishing those who were involved in the massacre. We need to capitalize on these stories, and use it to our advantage."

He sighed, and closed his eyes. His cheeks stung with the cold and his ears were going numb.

"I'm simply saying that this is an opportunity," he continued. "I'm not even asking him to fight. He should just approach the camp at night and Mevolent's soldiers will be scared witless. They'll either leave, or be rattled enough that we can send a team in and take advantage of their fear. Their encampment will be taken care of and the stories will grow."

There was silence for a moment.

"Do you," Hopeless said finally, his voice dangerously low, "have any idea what he's feeling? Do you? Because I don't. And I know for a fact that you don't either. There is no way for any of us to even begin to comprehend what it must be like to be Skulduggery right now. And here you are, formulating how to best put him to use. What does that tell him? That he's just a tool? A thing to be used? A creature to be whispered fearfully about around a dying campfire? He doesn't need to be told to go on a mission right now, Ravel. He needs to be told that he's safe."

"I think," Corrival stated firmly, "that we all need to take a breath here. As much as you don't want to hear it, private, Erskine makes a good point. This is an opportunity, and the choice should be left up to Skulduggery. If he opposes, we will respect that. But it's something that should be discussed before the opportunity is missed."

Anger seeped from Hopeless' eyes and coiled from his shoulders. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, and he turned his gaze to Ghastly.

Ghastly looked away.

For a moment, Erskine thought Hopeless might strike him. Instead, he turned on his heel and stalked away, disappearing between the tents. The three of them were silent for a moment.

Erskine considered apologizing to Ghastly. It was insensitive, he knew, to be asking such a thing of Skulduggery, and he could see that Ghastly was physically uncomfortable. The man noticed Erskine looking at him, and he sighed.

"I understand your reasoning," he said, and Erskine raised an eyebrow. "And I think we should present it to him. But we need to wait. Give him a few days to adjust on his own."

Corrival nodded. "I agree. Did he have any requests?"

"No. But I'm going to alter a few clothing items I have, get him into something more comfortable. I'll do the alterations in the farmhouse so he isn't alone."

"I'd like to go with you," Erskine said. "Offer my support."

Ghastly observed him for a moment, and then nodded. "Wait for me here. I'll go grab my supplies and we can go in together."

He left them standing there in the cold, and Corrival let out a deep sigh. "This is quite the strange turn of events," he said. "I'm going to keep this quiet, but the new Grand Mage needs to know. Meritorious is a trustworthy man, and I have faith in the council."

He clapped a hand on Erskine's shoulder as he passed, and Erskine nodded to him in farewell. He was alone, suddenly, and it was quiet. The camp had been slowly waking up, and he could see soldiers exiting their tents and passing greetings to each other as they began their daily tasks. This regiment hadn't seen action for the last few weeks, but the threat of an attack weighed heavily on everyone's mind. And it was only a matter of time before they were called to the frontlines.

Their side needed a breakthrough. They had been losing ground in Poland to Vengeous and his men, and there were two fronts being fought in Ireland alone. Men were dying, morale was fading, and over the past few weeks, they had nothing to show for it. Something needed to change, and it needed to change quickly.

He saw Ghastly on the main causeway between the tents and he nodded, moving to join him at the front door and Ghastly took the lead, taking them up the narrow staircase. The house was quiet and just as cold, and Ravel hoped there was a fireplace in whatever room they were going to.

Ghastly stopped at the first door they came across and rapped gently on the wood. When there was no reply, he reached for the handle and cracked the door open a fraction.

"Skulduggery?" He said softly. "It's me."

The room was silent, and Ghastly slowly opened the door and stepped through, holding it for Erskine and then closing it gently behind them. The room was modest enough, and Erskine noted with approval the small fireplace across from the bed, situated within the wall. The bed was sturdy, and sitting along the wall adjacent to the door was a wooden desk, painted an uneven white, and what looked to be a mirror covered by cloth. Erskine allowed his eyes to travel across the room before setting on its occupant.

The skeleton stood facing away from them, looking through the dirty window. There was nothing out there of any interest, just flat farmland, but it didn't move as Ghastly stepped past Erskine. He had a set of clothes draped across his arm and a small bag in his other hand.

"I stole these from Hopeless," Ghastly said, cutting the silence. "You two are about the same height and I'm afraid it would be too much work for me to alter any of my clothing down to your size. It might take me a bit to finish."

No reply. It didn't even move.

Erskine leaned toward Ghastly slightly. "Can it hear you?"

This bought him a glare.

"He can hear both of us, I just don't think I said anything worth responding to. If you would like to offer something of substance to the conversation, Ravel, then by all means."

There was a soft little grunt, almost like a laugh, and Erskine jerked his head up.

"I'm dead," said the voice of Skulduggery Pleasant, "not deaf."

Erskine blinked, finding himself at a loss for words, and Ghastly grinned slightly.

"I hope you don't mind," Ghastly said. "He wanted to come along."

Skulduggery moved, finally, turning slightly from the window to look at them. Erskine swallowed as empty eye sockets surveyed them silently.

"Hopeless?" Skulduggery asked. Erskine suppressed a shiver as the empty voice washed over him. The whole thing was incredibly unsettling.

"We had a bit of a misunderstanding," Ghastly said. "I'm sure he'll turn back up eventually."

The skull tilted slightly, but Skulduggery made no other reaction. Erskine looked at him, at the exposed bone and the grinning teeth, and felt his stomach drop. It was the same feeling he experienced when he and Corrival had attempted to speak with him just hours earlier, before he knew it was Skulduggery. This was, Erskine realized, much more distressing.

Erskine coughed slightly, to distract himself more than anything else, and forced himself to look at those empty sockets. "Hello, Skulduggery," he said, fully aware of how formal and awkward he sounded, "how are you feeling?"

Skulduggery looked at him and Erskine could see Ghastly raise his eyebrows.

"Splendid," Skulduggery said, flatly. "And how are you, Erskine?"

Erskine saw Ghastly stifle a grin and he tried to ignore him.

"I've been better," he said and then hit himself, internally, over his choice of words. He attempted to keep an expression of pleasant neutrality on his face as Skulduggery observed him.

"Well," Skulduggery said, eventually. "I can certainly relate."

Erskine nodded, the movement feeling jerky and uncoordinated, and Ghastly moved to the bed, setting down the items he held. He breathed a breath of relief as Skulduggery's attention shifted.

"I'll be here for a bit," Ghastly said, "so I'm going to need some warmth. Is that alright?"

Skulduggery didn't respond and Ghastly nodded.

"Erskine," he said, opening his bag and pulling out some items, "if you don't mind."

He obliged, grateful at the opportunity to do something, anything, to dispel the air of uncomfortableness that had settled around them. There were a few pieces of wood stacked to the side and a darkened log still left in the fireplace and it took only a few moments for Erskine to get a substantial fire going. He felt it warm his cheeks, and he rubbed his ears slightly, willing the blood to flow.

Ghastly was perched on the bed when he turned around, a pair of trousers on his lap and snipping expertly at the seams. Skulduggery had turned all the way, and was now leaning against the wall. Ghastly nodded to the white fabric on the bed.

"That should work for you," Ghastly said. "It's a relatively small shirt, and it should be fine under your coat."

Skulduggery didn't respond and Erskine could see each individual bone of his hand as he straightened and picked up the item. He began working silently on the buttons of the ragged top he wore and Erskine looked away when the shirt parted and he caught a glimpse of bone. He looked around the room, anywhere but the window, and his eyes landed on the poorly painted desk. He stepped over to it.

The desk was unexceptional, and the top drawer he opened was empty, as was the drawer beneath it. Slightly disappointed, Erskine pulled the fabric from the mirror, and was momentarily surprised by the lack of dust. The frame that was revealed beneath was simple and modest, nothing like the elaborately carved mirrors that adorned Erskine's family home. He looked at himself, and realized it was the first time he'd seen his reflection since he'd been stationed here.

Erskine, in all humbleness, considered himself to be handsome. He had a nice face, all things considered, and when he felt clean and rested and in familiar surroundings, he had the additional attractiveness that walked hand and hand with money and status. Here, however, this was not the case. His dark hair, though he tried to style it as best he could, was visibly dirty, and he had the beginning of a beard starting across his jaw. He didn't like beards. He preferred a clean shave, but he hadn't had a chance to do so since he'd returned, and only darkened the gauntness of his cheeks.

It was only his eyes that remained unchanged, despite the dark circles from stress and lack of sleep. They were bright and they glittered and they seemed to shine with the years of knowledge he had been storing behind them. Erskine liked his eyes. They were his mother's eyes.

He saw Ghastly glance at him and frown, and then he could see Skulduggery's reflection in the mirror look over, turning those empty eye sockets in Erskine's direction. He seemed to make eye contact- with himself or Erskine, he couldn't tell- and then looked away, sharply. Erskine frowned. Skulduggery had practically recoiled, going so far as to move his body. It was the most pronounced reaction he had supplied so far.

Erskine looked down at the fabric that was still clutched in his hand, the fabric without dust, that had been covering the mirror when he and Ghastly had arrived.

Oh.

Erskine felt a sudden burst of guilt.

"Sorry," he said, a little dumbly, and was met with silence. Ghastly glared at him and Erskine dropped the fabric onto the desk. Skulduggery was, as now seemed typical, silent, and he simply finished fastening the new shirt. It hung off him in a shapeless quality, but it was a considerable improvement. Ghastly looked at him and nodded approvingly.

"How does it feel?" He asked, and Skulduggery raised his arms slightly, looking at the clean sleeves.

"Better," he said. He turned his hands over. "Do you have any gloves?"

"I do. They're a bit thicker than would be practical, but we are in the middle of winter. They're just inside that bag."

Skulduggery stepped forward, pulling out a pair of black wool gloves. They looked incredibly comfortable and Erskine wondered briefly if Ghastly had made them. He made a mental note to ask him later.

White bone disappeared into the glove and Skulduggery's fingers wiggled as he adjusted them. He paused, slightly, and moved his hand slowly.

Ghastly frowned. "Is something wrong?"

Skulduggery didn't respond, but pressed his middle finger and thumb together. They slid off each other, resounding in a muted snap. Nothing happened. He did it again. Nothing.

"It's the fabric," Ghastly said. "Those are meant for warmth, not magic. You're going to have to take them off for that."

Erskine blinked. "Magic?" He asked. "You didn't say he could do magic."

Ghastly looked at him. Skulduggery didn't raise his gaze.

"You thought he couldn't?"

"I don't know," Erskine muttered, "I thought he was technically a zombie or something."

Skulduggery began pulling on the second glove. "Cheers," he said, without enthusiasm.

Erskine gained another glare shot in his direction from Ghastly, and he felt himself whither a little inside. He wasn't doing as particularly good a job at offering support as he would have liked. It was all a little embarrassing.

They stood there in awkward silence, Ghastly beginning to work on the seams and Skulduggery flexing his hands in the gloves. Erskine fought the urge to rock on his heels and scratched his chin instead. He, and this was rare for him, was again at a loss for words.

Skulduggery dropped his hands to his side. "You might as well get it over with," he stated, cutting the silence.

Ghastly glanced up at him. "Get what over with?"

Skulduggery turned his head to Erskine, and he felt a burst of nervousness explode in his chest.

"You have something to say," Skulduggery said, "something Hopeless disagreed with, so you don't want to bring it up. But you can't think of anything else. What is it?"

Erskine shifted slightly and opened his mouth, but Ghastly cut him off.

"It's nothing of immediate importance," Ghastly said, "don't worry about it."

"But that means it's something of general importance. If you're simply trying not to offend me, I assure you that there is nothing you can say that I haven't already thought of myself."

These were the most words Erskine had heard Skulduggery speak, and his voice seemed oddly detached, devoid of emotion or inflection. It was a cold and empty thing, as cold and empty as the one it belonged to.

"There's an enemy encampment north of here," Ravel said, and Skulduggery looked at him. "They've been there for the last few weeks. We want them gone."

Skulduggery observed him and Erskine wondered what kind of thoughts were running through that empty space in his head.

"You want me to make them leave," Skulduggery said finally, and Ghastly automatically shook his head.

"We don't want you to do anything. We don't even want you to fight. I told them they should give you a few days to adjust."

"You want me to frighten them, then? Scare them off? Convince them there's a monster after them and make them flee in terror?"

Ghastly faltered and Erskine lowered his eyes. Hopeless had been right, and Erskine knew that he should have listened to the two people that had known Skulduggery best. So much for patience, it seemed.

"I can see why Hopeless didn't approve," Skulduggery continued, and then went quiet. The silence permeated the air and Erskine was about to take the whole idea back when Skulduggery spoke again.

"I'll do it."

Surprise flashed through Erskine and he snapped his head up. Ghastly raised his eyebrows.

"You will?" Erskine asked, and a ghost of a shrug tugged at Skulduggery's shoulder.

"I'm back," he said. "I don't know why and I don't know how and I have nothing left. If I can be some sort of use to you, I'll do it."

"It won't be for the next few nights," Erskine informed him. "We need to get you situated and it's something we'll need to discuss with Corrival. We don't have a solid plan and we'll need to work out the details."

"And I have to finish these clothes," Ghastly added. Skulduggery nodded and leaned his shoulder against the wall once again.

"Thank you," Erskine said. "And I want you to know, we're not trying to use you. You aren't a tool or an object that we-"

"No," Skulduggery corrected, cutting him off, "that's exactly what I am. I'm an opportunity and an advantage and it's wise of you to make use of that."

Ghastly looked at his friend and Erskine could see the sadness in his eyes as he spoke.

"Skulduggery," he said softly, "you need time to process. To heal"

"I have been processing," Skulduggery responded, "and there's nothing to heal. What I need is to get my hands around Nefarian Serpine's neck and make him suffer, but it looks like that won't be happening anytime soon. This, to me, seems like the next best thing."

He finished speaking and his skull turned back to the window, offering no more insight into what he might be thinking. Standing there with the warmth and the gentle crackle of the fire, surrounded by the empty house and surrounded further still by war and the death and destruction it offered, Ghastly looked away from the friend and man he used to know and Erskine found himself, once again, at a loss for words.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

If you've made it this far, I appreciate you so much and I'd love to hear from you! I'm having so much fun with this story, and I'm getting the next few chapters ready to post.