I'm back! Just going to respond to reviews and let you get on with reading.

Mya2015: Kinda, and thanks :)

Now enjoy as I present you more traumatised Erskine.

Chapter 25 – Let the Sleepless Wolves Rest

"Is everything alright, Erskine?" Clarity asked, turning around to face the man on crutches who stood in the middle of the RV, looking at them apprehensively. Erskine had gotten out of the gaol several days ago, and so far, his condition hadn't changed. If anything, it had gotten worse. He was perpetually absent-minded, and whenever anyone did manage to get his attention, he was tossed into a panic attack that left him crippled with fear. Waking up every morning was a struggle for him, and Clarity had lost count of the amount of times he very nearly collapsed and risked breaking his arm after getting it caught in the handles of his crutches.

"I… I-I, um…" Erskine stammered; too afraid to say anything. Whenever he'd said that something was bothering him back at the gaol, somebody would hit him. One time, he'd even had his head smashed into a wall. "I… I-I haven't been sleeping recently. I can't… I can't sleep, and it's really… r-really getting to me."

He was shaking by this point, and his throat was feeling tight. Tears pricked at his eyes, and the moment he tried to open his mouth to continue speaking, they were falling freely down his gaunt cheeks and soaking the bandages over his damaged eye. In desperation, he tried to stifle the sobs that were threatening to escape him, but he only succeeded in making the fierce convulsions of his chest more violent to the point where it was painful.

Worried, but hardly shocked by the sudden breakdown, Clarity tentatively stepped forward and coaxed him into a gentle embrace; hoping to calm him down. Erskine more or less collapsed into their arms after a moment; chest heaving immensely as he sobbed into Clarity's shoulder.

"I… I'm s-sorry," Erskine whimpered, his voice muffled by the now damp fabric of Clarity's shirt. "I-I w-wouldn't be c-causing s-so much t-trouble if I hadn't been so… so selfish!"

Clarity sighed hopelessly and rubbed Erskine's back in an attempt to calm him down. "It's not your fault," they said firmly. "And you're not causing any trouble; there's nothing to be sorry about. How long has it been since you last slept?"

"I can't… I can't remember… E-everything's foggy, and it hurts to think…"

Pain lanced through Clarity, and they regretted pushing Erskine away; mostly because of the hurt in his eyes and the way he desperately clung to them. He was still crying and shivering when he was guided over to the bed and sat down on it, and the only comprehensible words that escaped him were mumbled apologies and quiet, fearful ramblings.

"Try to get some rest," Clarity told him, waiting for him to lie down before draping a blanket over his thin body. "I'll find something to help you sleep; don't worry."

Little more than a week later; several days after arriving in Canada to be precise; Erskine found himself looking down at a small vial that lay in his hand late one evening. It was the same size as his ring finger and filled with a translucent, glittering, silver-blue liquid that managed to hypnotize him in his nearly brain-dead state of mind.

"Take it when you're ready," Clarity had said when they'd handed it to him. "The guy gave me directions on how to make it, so you don't have to worry about wasting anything."

"Thank you," Erskine had murmured softly. Satisfied, Clarity had left the RV to talk to the others about where to go next.

It was ten minutes before Erskine finally managed to drag himself out of his trance. Exhaustion tugged at his mind, and he could barely process any meaningful thought any more. The most complex sentence that he could formulate was 'this is pretty.' Clearly, he needed to sleep.

Slowly and tediously, he pulled off his clothes and haphazardly slipped a baggy shirt and boxers over his bandaged form. The shirt was back to front, but other than that, he was as comfortable as he could get with all the partially healed injuries that covered him. Once he was done, he picked up the vial from where he'd left it on the bed and fumbled with the screwcap that prevented any of the medicine from spilling anywhere. After a few minutes of staring at it blankly, he hesitantly brought it to his dry lips and tipped his head back, swallowing the sleeping draught as if it were a shot of whiskey. But unlike whiskey, the liquid was sweet and soothing on his throat and didn't make his eyes water.

Several moments later, he decided that he probably shouldn't have been standing up when he drank the sleeping draught. A cool, fatiguing fog rolled into his mind; more comforting than the one that usually plagued him with stinging headaches; and he started swaying on his feet as if he were drunk. His legs were even more unwilling to support his weight, and he finally complied; sluggishly pulling back the bedsheets on his bunk and crawling underneath them. The moment he was curled up on the bed with the blanket gathered around him, he gave in to the depths of sleep.

An hour later, Clarity walked in to find Erskine sleeping peacefully for the first time in god knew how long. Comforted by this small respite, they silently walked up and tucked him in a little tighter, making sure he wasn't agitating his wounds. The unwelcome contact sparked up that usual fear yet again, and Erskine started whining; making feeble attempts to shove Clarity away.

"Please don't," he whimpered, sounding almost on the verge of tears. "D-don't touch me."

Clarity sighed and firmly pushed Erskine's bandaged hands away; gently rubbing the pad of their thumb against his palm in soothing motions. Hushed reassurances murmured from their lips, promising not to hurt him and that he was safe. The whole thing reminded them of when Dipper was a child and woke up after a nightmare.

And to think it was little over a century ago when I was the child and you were the one promising me safety, Clarity thought. This world is a cruel hell, regardless of which god made it and the heaven that they promised us.

Ghastly walked into the Graveyard to find something he'd never expected to see. Skulduggery and Erskine were both asleep on one of the sofas. Together. And his eyes were not playing tricks on him. The detective had his arms wrapped around the smaller mage, whose head was resting on Skulduggery's chest. An empty vial lay on the coffee table, its clear surface glinting noticeably.

Shaking his head, Ghastly decided to think nothing of it and made himself a coffee before sitting down on another couch and switching on the television. He could ask questions later.

About halfway through the lousy crime documentary that he was watching, Valkyrie came in with a small stack of papers. She shot a somewhat disbelieving look towards the two sleeping mages, but made no comment as she sat down opposite Ghastly and started rifling through the forms.

"Any theories as to why..?" Ghastly ventured, trailing off and instead choosing to tilt his head in the direction of Skulduggery and Erskine.

Valkyrie simply glanced at the men in question before returning to her work. "Who knows?" she said nonchalantly. "I gave up trying to figure them out ages ago."

Not entirely satisfied with the answer, but sensing he wouldn't get anything better, Ghastly shrugged and returned half of his attention to the television. The other half was focused on reasons as to why Skulduggery and Erskine were sleeping together. He remembered Clarity saying something about Erskine experiencing nightmares, and something about difficulty sleeping, but he failed to see how that had much to do with anything. But then again, the two had shared tents during the war, maybe they were just doing what they had in the old days; remained close just for reassurance. It was plausible.

As he continued to ponder this, his thoughts were interrupted by soft, fearful whimpers. Looking towards the source of the noise, he saw that Erskine had started stirring in his sleep; faint twitches shuddering along his body. He had his back to Ghastly, so the Elder didn't know what sort of expression he had on his face, but Skulduggery's brow was beginning to crease in concern. Blinking into a half-awake state, he raised his head a fraction and looked down at the smaller man in his arms, who had descended into a bout of weak, terror-fuelled sobs.

"Erskine," Skulduggery murmured, his velvety tone hushed and reassuring. "Erskine, it's just a nightmare. I'm right here, it's okay."

A feeble whine escaped Erskine's lips, and he pressed up against Skulduggery's chest some more, shivering weakly. The detective hummed softly, and tightened his embrace on the smaller mage, running a gentle hand through Erskine's hair. "No one's going to hurt you," he whispered.

Ghastly watched the whole thing with curiosity and apprehension, only allowing his nerves to ease when Erskine had quieted and settled somewhat. His eyes locked onto Skulduggery, who had a satisfied, relieved expression in his half-lidded eyes as he lowered his head and fell asleep again.

Nightmares, Ghastly concluded grimly. It was quite… disconcerting… how badly shaken Erskine still was by his ordeal. He probably wasn't the first person to have these thoughts; anyone who had known him even slightly before his betrayal would have expected the powerful, confident Grand Mage figure to have returned, not a shattered soul who was forced to lean so heavily on others for even the slightest bit of strength. Because that was in fact the case. Alone; Erskine had no might left; he was broken to the point where any attempts to fix him would not be rewarded with the mask he once wore. Perhaps a cheap copy, but it would never be the same. That tough, robust exterior had only been there to defend the fragile, sensitive man beneath; the one who cared too much; as was the case with the rest of the Dead Men. Because the whole thing was a collection of elaborate masks. Very few got to see what lay beneath them. Skulduggery's elegant, puzzling façade hid a young vagabond who was haunted by the past; Dexter's sweet-talking masquerade only served to obscure a fidgety colt who found it difficult to form solid commitments; and even Ghastly had fashioned himself a rough but sturdy war mask to protect himself.

"Is everything okay, Ghastly?"

Ghastly's eyes snapped onto Valkyrie, who was still rifling through papers. "Nothing," he said quietly. "I was just thinking."

Valkyrie looked like she wanted to say more, but instead returned to her work. It was best to let the sleepless wolves rest for now.

That... that talk about masks? I'm writing a drabblefic about it. Keep an eye out for that, because it'll be the first of a collection of random-ass oneshots and stuff.