--She's a doctor! Despite being a water demon, she wants to help people, and has studied hard to do so. She's very gentle and caring with her patients, and does whatever she can to make sure that they're treated of any ailments they have.
30: What do they think about their current job?
--Oh, she loves it! She adores helping others. She gets flustered and upset, when she can't help anyone in need. ...Or when they run away from her, when her demon side decides to come out at unexpected times (when she gets excited and/or upset). She's very good at her job, she promises! Just ignore the eyes in the smoke surrounding her, and the hands that the smoke forms occasionally.
31: What are their hobbies?
--When she's not busy with patients, Abaddon is busy reading and studying more, making sure she's at the top of her game, when it comes to helping her patients. Aside from that, she loves swimming (water demon, duh), and enjoying nice long walks at night, in the rain.
Abaddon was shocked (and appalled) to find Sirius sitting beside him in Sitri’s tavern. The lad was too young for drink, legality be damned, and wasn’t the type to enjoy it regardless. He was a scholarly sort, like Junior, keeping largely to himself when he wasn’t tagging along behind his brother, so the chaotic atmosphere of the tavern didn’t set well with him. This was obvious from his body language alone; he perched rigidly on the edge of his stool, his hands clasped awkwardly in front of him.
“What are you doing here?” Abaddon chided. “Drinking in front of your grandfather seems unwise, don’t you think? If your fathers knew you were here, they’d--”
A quiet sniffle gave him pause. Frowning, he leaned forward, until he could more clearly see Sirius’ face. His grandson’s cheeks were tear-stained, his nose slightly runny, and he looked like he hadn’t slept the night prior. There was only one thing that could bring Sirius to such a pitiful low--or, rather, one dragon.
“Ah,” said Abaddon, “it’s Arcanus again, isn’t it?”
Suddenly, Sirius slammed his head down on the bar, making Abaddon jump in his seat. “He’s so handsome,” he whined, “he’s so handsome, and I can’t stop thinking about him, aba. I’ve tried everything. Hollyhock gave me a sleeping draught, Phantasos introduced me to other drakes, I even asked Guile if there was such a thing as an unlove potion.” He picked his head up and slammed it down again. “There isn’t; can you believe that?”
“What’s happened?” Abaddon asked. “Did he reject you?”
“No,” Sirius said, “but I know it’s coming. He’s been thoughtful lately; I catch him looking at me, and not in the way I wish he would. I know he only wants to spare my feelings, but--but--ugh, I miss when I was little, aba, when all I cared about was being near him. I wasn’t so greedy then. Now I--when I see him, I just want to--”
Abaddon smirked over the top of his glass. “Rip his shirt off and bury your face in his chest?”
“Aba!”
“What? Am I wrong?”
He wasn’t wrong, but Sirius could never have admitted something so vulgar to his grandfather. Instead, he sighed. “He’s been hanging around with Miss Castel lately,” he informed.
“That slut?” Abaddon snorted. “Arcanus may be as straight as the Beacon is bright, but I think he’d choose you over her any day. After all, he has standards, and she’s a far cry from your grandmother.”
“She’s pretty,” Sirius said, fussing with the cuffs of his sleeves, “and experienced. Even if she isn’t his type, she stands a better chance than me. She’s a dam, and I’m a drake, and you can’t help which you love.”
“Water,” Abaddon whispered when Sitri drew near, “do not serve him alcohol.”
“I hadn’t planned on it,” Sitri assured with a wink.
“Oh,” Sirius moaned, “why couldn’t I have been born a dam?”
“Sirius--” Abaddon reluctantly set aside the spiced rum he’d been nursing all evening-- “when you’re young, love is in abundance. Letting go of your first is never easy, but you have the rest of your life to find the next. When one door closes--”
“Another opens,” Sirius concluded, “I know, I know.”
“Do you?”
“It’s like that for normal dragons,” Sirius said, “but I’m not normal. Drakes with too many eyes and too many limbs don’t get too many chances, and I’ve wasted one of mine on someone who will never love me.”
“Love isn’t a finite resource,” Abaddon said.
“It is when you look like me,” Sirius insisted. “How many dragons can there possibly be who would see my extra parts and think, ‘He’s the one for me!’“
“How many would see your kindness,” Abaddon replied, placing a hand on Sirius’ shoulder, “or your loyalty, or your love for your family? How many would see how special you are, how smart, how diligent, how dedicated? No one cares about your ‘extra parts,’ Sirius; you know that’s not what true love is.”
Sirius knew that very well, but right then, all he wanted was to wallow in self-pity one last time. Soon, he would have to put on a brave face, tear down the pretty little fantasy he’d built for himself, and do the responsible thing. Abaddon understood; it was therapeutic to let yourself be immature now and again, to cry, and pout, and tell yourself you’d been cheated.
“Wasn’t there even one drake you fancied?” Abaddon asked. “Phantasos knows all of the best bachelors.”
“Um...” Sitri had returned with Sirius’ water--and a kiss on his cheek for good measure. Sirius’ face turned as pink as his hair. “They were all nice,” he conceded, “but they didn’t make me feel the way Arcanus does.”
“How’s that?”
“Safe,” Sirius said, “and familiar.”
Arcanus made him feel a few other ways too, but, as before, he couldn’t bring himself to say so to his dear, beloved grandfather, patriarch of the Prabhakar household. (Besides, he got the sense Abaddon knew already.)
“Give them time,” Abaddon said, “and maybe spend some of your own at Bramble Step, or the pleasure district. I’d bet my bottom dollar Caress and Achilles could offer you a few suggestions.”
“Aba...” Sirius crinkled his nose. “Did you just tell me to visit a--?”
“No,” Abaddon cut in, “no, no, do not visit for that purpose, that’s not what I’m suggesting. You are to visit to discuss your love life with trusted friends of the family only, and if I hear you’ve done anything else, or anyone has done anything else to you, you’ll be grounded.”
“I-I wouldn’t--!”
“You say that, but I know what it’s like to be your age.”
“Oh, aba, please--”
“Hormones raging, the world at your fingertips...”
Despite his embarrassment, Sirius couldn’t help but smile; his grandfather’s good humor was contagious, and he found himself laughing through his tears. “Ok, aba,” he said, wiping his eyes on the heels of his hands, “I’ll talk to them, and I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do.”
“Gods--” Abaddon chuckled-- “then you’ll have every drake under their employ wrapped around your little finger.”
‘Huh? You’re getting an odd vibe from me? Well, I am a water demon... Wait! Don’t go! I-I won’t hurt you, I’ve sworn a doctor’s oath!’
Abaddon is a bit of a fish out of water. A water demon, she’s surprisingly nice and gentle. Unlike her other brethren, she doesn’t drown her victims. In fact, she has no victims; only patients. She became a doctor, to help others. She knows she’s a demon, and she knows that certain dragons could sense her out, but she still wants to help others.
Just ignore the strange eyes in the smoke that seems to surround her, when she gets emotional; happy, sad, angry, or any range of heightened emotions. Sometimes, the smoke forms into hands. Hands that are meant to drag victims under the water, to drown them and steal their souls...
Only these smoky hands are used to help her in her clinic, grabbing things for her to use, and setting things up for her next patient.
Abaddon is very outgoing, and does her best to make others feel at ease around her. Only ‘sensitive’ dragons can see her true form...
For some reason, last night I thought about Abaddon/Seaglass being a thing; not romantically, they aren’t each other’s types, but sexually.
Abaddon was very accustomed to an active sex life before meeting the Radiant, and I’m certain he and the Radiant enjoyed, ah, “private time” now and again. For Abaddon, although he’s entirely dedicated to the Radiant, going without physical pleasure for so long, and so abruptly, has likely been uncomfortable.
Seaglass, eh, not so much, because he wasn’t nearly as sexual a being as Abaddon before or after Jìng’s passing, but he’s certainly not celibate.
So it got me to thinking how this would come about, and the conclusion is that they get very drunk one night while commiserating over loved ones lost, end up back at Abaddon’s place, and they both wake up the next morning in a panic--Abaddon because he feels he’s betrayed the Radiant, and Seaglass because he knows Abaddon feels that way.
THEN I got to thinking how the Radiant views their separation.
Did he ever expect Abaddon to remain faithful, or did he want Abaddon to take another mate? Did he think Abaddon would, in essence, “move on,” and was that what he wished for Abaddon to do?
Or is there still a kind of connection between the two of them, even across dimensions, that neither is willing to break? That’s how Abaddon feels, but he really has no way of knowing whether the Radiant feels the same; all he knows is that they love one another.
I’ve said before that he’ll never take another mate, and I’m sticking by that, but me throwing the whole, “Abaddon and Seaglass have an awkward one-night stand,” idea around made me curious about the Radiant’s view on Abaddon’s life and how it should progress in his absence.
God, and to think a couple years ago, Abaddon was going to be a simple selfish, egotistical bastard who used the Radiant to gain power and influence.
Now he's just a loving father who misses his mate and, yes, has some trouble coping with the distance between them, but who is ultimately so blessed to have met the Radiant and raised such a beautiful family.
Abaddon had so much more love in his heart than I ever thought he could, and he's made so many people's lives better for it. Talk about character development.
The group Dreamweaver had gathered in their den appeared ragtag at a glance, but Jorah knew that each had been carefully selected. If what he had just revealed to them was true, then a crisis was almost surely brewing. What had been said could not leave this room, not until they had some semblance of a plan.
As always, Banrai stood at his mate’s side, the twins squirming in his arms. They were excited to see so many beloved and familiar faces in one place. Morpheus reached out for Rue, who they had become fascinated with in recent weeks, while Phobetor held staunchly to Phantasos’ pinky finger.
Solaire and Hollyhock loitered by the mantle. It was rare for Hollyhock to be called away from his duties, but he was Solaire’s mate, and, therefore, equally responsible for leading the clan should tragedy befall its founders or their heir. Still, he looked out of place among grim and hardened veterans, doe-eyed and soft-spoken as he was.
Crucis and Betelgeuse had been summoned for their expertise in magic. Betelgeuse was the clan’s head witch, and although the Arcane arts were not his forte, his unusual connection to the stars granted him a strange wisdom. More importantly, he could keep a secret better than any of them--and ensure that Crucis followed suit.
As a practitioner of the medical sciences, Isaiah felt he did not belong. Then again, he rarely did, and would have much rather been left to his work at the hospital. When Jorah told of Junior’s affliction, however, he sobered considerably. At the very least, Junior’s head would need stitching.
Abaddon’s presence required no explanation.
Predictably, Dreamweaver was the first to speak. “You’re certain?” they asked.
“Yes,” Jorah replied. “He said I was Light-aligned. Da knows I have no alignment--or, if I do, no one’s figured it out.”
“Could be a type of fugue state,” Isaiah suggested. “It would explain the erratic behavior, the aimless wandering, and especially the lapses in memory.”
“Then why did he remember so much else?”
“That...” Isaiah pinched his chin between his thumb and knuckle. “I don’t know,” he conceded. “Magic’s beyond me, but it sounds like a fugue state. I suppose the magical equivalent would be a trance.”
“Or a possession,” Betelgeuse added darkly.
“Exactly,” Jorah said. “It didn’t feel like da talking to me.”
“I do not mean to cause alarm,” Betelgeuse went on, “but possessions are most commonly inflicted by necromancers.”
“Atsushi’s master is gone,” Phantasos reminded, “and with it any motivation he would have to harm the clan. He paid for his crimes in blood and sweat; dede saw to that. Let’s not accuse the poor guy because it’s convenient, especially when he’s not even here to defend himself.”
“I’m not accusing,” Betelgeuse assured, “merely stating what is known.”
“Betelgeuse has a point,” Crucis said. “Do we know of any other necromancers in the territories?”
“It may not be the work of a necromancer,” Rue pointed out.
“No,” Betelgeuse agreed, “it is merely likely. There are other explanations, though I shudder to entertain them. Junior is powerful. What he lacks in emotional fortitude, he makes up for in resilience and raw magical talent. To posses him, it would take either a very skilled necromancer, perhaps even a lich, or...”
“Or?” Phantasos pressed.
Betelgeuse shifted uneasily under the group’s scrutiny. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he concluded, “A divine being.”
“Which of the Eleven would betray dragonkind so heinously?!” Solaire exclaimed. “The Arcanist and the Lightweaver have never been on the best of terms, but this--this would be a declaration of war, and against the Lightweaver’s most devout no less!”
“You’re right,” Crucis said, “it’s not something He’d do.”
“Jorah...” Dreamweaver leaned forward in their seat, and took Jorah’s hands in theirs. He hadn’t realized he’d been trembling. “What did you feel?” they asked. “You are not close to him, but you do know Atsushi; did you sense his magic, catch his scent? Were there any signs of him on Junior?”
“No,” Jorah said confidently. “I don’t think Atsushi had anything to do with this.”
Dreamweaver nodded, their expression impassive. In the corner of the room, Abaddon grit his teeth. “The Arcanist,” he growled, “I’ll tear His precious Observatory apart piece by piece.”
“Let’s not be hasty,” Hollyhock said, “let’s all take a moment to collect our thoughts. The last thing we need is a rash decision gone awry.”
“My son is out there,” Abaddon spat, the venom in his tone making Hollyhock shy away behind his mate, “stumbling around in the wilderness, dying, and it’s the work of the same son of a bitch who took Fragment and Sliver from me. I’m going to find him, and then I’m going to rip the Arcanist limb from limb for daring to lay a single spindly finger on him.”
“No one is going anywhere,” Dreamweaver said, “until we know what we’re up against.”
“Junior is my son,” Abaddon reiterated. “You and Banrai both nearly threw yourselves into an active colony of Seat-corrupted pink celestine for yours.”
“And you stopped us from doing so.”
“I should have stayed with him,” Jorah mumbled. “It’s my fault, aba.”
Abaddon’s fierce expression softened. He moved swiftly to his grandson’s side, and pulled him into a crushing embrace. The assembly heaved a collective sigh; thank the gods for a grandfather’s tender heart. “It isn’t your fault,” Abaddon said. “You did the right thing, coming to Dreamweaver. There was nothing you could have done for him.”
“I could have made him come back.”
“Doubtful,” Crucis said. “He’s not himself, Jorah. He would have killed you if you’d pushed him hard enough--or, rather, whoever’s inhabiting him would have used him to kill you.”
“But he’s alone,” Jorah persisted, “and hurt.”
“We’ll find him,” Abaddon said, “and we’ll make sure he’s taken care of. If he’s being possessed, then it’s for a reason. He can’t carry out his mission if he’s dead.” He could not muster a smile, but he tilted Jorah’s chin up to catch his gaze regardless. “I’m sorry I overreacted,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“It’s ok,” Jorah said, “you’re just worried.”
“We all are,” said Hollyhock.
“I know.” Abaddon rubbed at the crook between his neck and shoulders, exhaling a slow, weary breath. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Hollyhock. I think I’m finally starting to feel my age. I know you care as much as I do.”
“Of course,” Hollyhock said. “There isn’t a dragon in Feldspar who wouldn’t move mountains for you and your family, Abaddon. You’re not alone in this.”
“Junior’s faced worse,” Solaire asserted. “The lad’s a stauncher drake than I, and that’s saying quite a--”
They each felt the magic before its effects, a wave of raw Arcane energy emanating from the city center. Dreamweaver leapt to their feet just as Solaire and Crucis collapsed. “Take the twins,” they said to Banrai, “take them upstairs.”
“What about you?” Banrai asked.
“I’ll take care of them, da,” Phantasos said.
“No,” said Dreamweaver, “I need you to find your brothers. Tell them to get to safety, then fly to Aphaster as fast as your wings will carry you. That was Arcane magic. It can only be connected to Junior.”
“But--”
“Do as your progenitor says,” Crucis said. He was sagged against Dreamweaver’s now vacant seat, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands clutching his head. “I pray to the Eleven they were unaffected. Lutia is bonded to the Seat, and--agh! They need to be warned!”
“I’ll go with him,” Rue offered. “Mother may have some insight.”
“Quickly,” Dreamweaver urged, and, sharing a solemn glance, the two were off, shedding their glamours with sparks of golden magic. The sounds of their wingbeats were joined quickly by Ozymandias’. “Betelgeuse,” Dreamweaver continued, “gather the clan’s witches. Abaddon, Isaiah, Jorah, Hollyhock, you’re with me. We must tend to Solaire and Crucis.”
“No,” Crucis gasped. “Get away. Get away from us.”
“Solaire...” Hollyhock knelt beside his mate, who had begun to beat on the sides of his head. “Solaire, please,” he whispered, “get up. I--I must have something in my garden that will help you.”
“Hollyhock,” Crucis cried, “get away from--!”
Solaire stilled. His knuckles were bloody where he had beaten gashes into his scalp, and bruised from the force of his strikes. Hollyhock took the nearest in his own hands, running his thumbs gingerly across the cuts. He was too distracted, too distraught, to catch the quiet sound of his husband’s free hand moving downward to draw the dagger from its sheath at his hip. It withdrew with a hiss...
...and Solaire buried it to the hilt in Hollyhock’s stomach.
Hollyhock gripped the hilt of the knife with robotic numbness. Warm blood had begun to seep into his tunic, and stained his fingers red where they met. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a strangled gasp, the faintest whisper of his husband’s name. A single confused sob escaped him, and then he slumped forward.
The room exploded into chaos.
Abaddon was on Solaire before anyone could think to restrain him. In draconic form, Solaire would have been no match, but under the guise of their glamours, Abaddon struggled to pin him down. A swift strike to Solaire’s temple ended the confrontation.
“Move,” Isaiah said, and Abaddon dragged Solaire’s unconscious body back as the doctor knelt at Hollyhock’s side. “Hollyhock, can you hear me?” he asked. Hollyhock stirred only slightly in response. “Abaddon, help me with him. We need to get him to the hospital.”
“What about Solaire?”
“He’s fine where he is. Hollyhock’s our primary concern.”
The exchange reached Dreamweaver through a dense fog. The sight of so much blood, blooming from the belly of an innocent, had blanked their mind. Hollyhock was no warrior. He should have been at home, tending his herb gardens. Instead, he lay in a pool of red, his eyes glassy, his heart slowing with every labored beat. Each breath could be his last.
Use me, the nightmare implored, I will track your enemy to its nest. Use me.
“Dreamweaver...”
Crucis’ hand on their arm brought them to a dazed attention. He clutched their sleeve tightly, his knuckles white with exertion. “Put me to sleep,” he said. “Abaddon had the right idea; we can’t be used if we aren’t conscious.”
Dreamweaver did as Crucis commanded without a word, and he went slack against them. The Arcane emblem upon his forehead glowed with a faint light, but it was merely the remnants of their enemy’s attempt to breach his mind. Satisfied with their work, Dreamweaver turned to Abaddon and Isaiah.
“Go,” they said, “do whatever you must to save him. Solaire and Crucis sleep; I will see that the rest of our Arcanite brethren do as well.”
“I’ll take Hollyhock,” Banrai offered as he trotted breathlessly into the den. Noting the look of cold panic on his mate’s face, he was quick to add, “Winter returned just now through the back. He’s with the twins, and Abaddon should be here with Jorah. Let me take Hollyhock.”
“How did you...?”
“The whole house smells like blood, Dreamy.”
Dreamweaver nodded stiffly, and Banrai took Hollyhock’s lifeless body from Abaddon. Hollyhock was awake, but only just, his eyes rolling in his head as he searched for his husband. “Solaire,” he said weakly, “is he...?”
“Don’t speak,” Isaiah chided.
“He’s fine, Holly,” Banrai said. “Worry about yourself first.”
“What can I do?” Abaddon asked. He had returned to Jorah, who reached instinctively for his grandfather’s hand to hold, a familiar warmth beneath his fingertips to ground him. Again, Abaddon’s expression melted into one of tender affection. “Whatever it is,” he said, “we can do it together.”
“Abaddon, you’re Light-aligned,” Dreamweaver said. “It may be best for you to keep your distance. Jorah, I know you have no alignment, but if by some chance Junior returns, he will most likely come here. His family should be here to meet him.”
“You’re sure?” Jorah said. “There’s more that I can do. I want to help.”
“The best place for you is where Junior will be able to find you easily,” Dreamweaver insisted. They cupped Jorah’s cheek in one hand, and gripped Abaddon’s shoulder with the other. “I will return shortly,” they said, “hopefully with Junior at my side.”
“No need.”
The front door slammed open, and Atsushi stumbled into the den, struggling under Junior’s weight. His face was red with exhaustion, sweat dripping from his brow; he carried the scent of the summerlands on him. “Met him in Aphaster,” he panted, “he’s possessed.”
“I knew it,” Jorah said, “I knew that wasn’t da.”
“Whatever’s inhabiting him worked some tricky bit of magic,” Atsushi informed, heaving a relieved sigh when Abaddon took Junior from him. He rolled his shoulders, popped his neck, grimaced. “I wasn’t quick enough to stop it, so I knocked him out--er, I mean--”
“I won’t hold it against you,” Abaddon said. “It needed to be done.”
“What did you learn from it?” Dreamweaver asked. They pressed the back of their hand to Junior’s forehead. He was burning with fever, most likely a result of battling his possessor for control. Abaddon sat with him on the couch, resting his son’s head in his lap, while Jorah clasped his hand with desperate strength.
“It’s divine,” Atsushi said, “but it claims it is not one of the Eleven.”
“Do you believe it?”
“Yes.”
“A twelfth deity?” Abaddon said. “Rumors of a twelfth have always been popular among occultists and conspiracy theorists, but there’s never been any proof.”
“I don’t think it’s so much a twelfth deity,” Atsushi clarified, “as it is what would have been one. It spoke of a rivalry with the Arcanist, said that He cheated it out of its throne. I have a theory, but no evidence to substantiate it.”
“Let’s hear it,” Dreamweaver said.
“It’s possible that the Arcanist was not the only divinely powerful being born of the apocalypse that ended the Second Age,” Atsushi elaborated. “The Starfall Isles are enigmatic, even to their residents; there are many ancient beasts inhabiting them that we know of, and many more that we do not. This entity could be one of the latter.”
“Great,” Abaddon said, “how do we stop it?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Atsushi’s gaze wandered to Crucis, then to Solaire, marked with his lover’s blood. “Whatever magic it unleashed will drive Arcanites to violent madness,” he said. “I saw nothing amiss when I arrived, but I imagine that will change soon enough, especially if Glamour is affected.”
Jorah leaned in, touching his horn to Junior’s forehead. He wished that he could heal as a unicorn did, but his father’s face remained hot, his eyes darting restlessly beneath their lids. There had to be something more that he could do. There had to be something--
JORAH.
“Yes?” Jorah looked up at the calling of his name, but Abaddon, Atsushi, and Dreamweaver remained deep in conversation.
ILLUMINATOR OF THE HEAVENS. CHILD OF THE BLACK SUN. SON OF--EXACTLY HOW MANY TITLES DO YOU POSSESS, BOY?
He hadn’t been aware he possessed any titles, being far too young to have earned them. The reverence with which the voice spoke them made Jorah blush, even more so when he realized who it must have belonged to. “Can I be of service?” he asked.
Now his elders had grown quiet, and were watching him with wide, curious eyes. “Who has touched you?” Dreamweaver asked. “Is it the Lightweaver?”
“No,” Jorah said, “I think it’s the Arcanist.”
YES.
“Yes, it is.”
YOUR FATHER WAS FOOLED. IN HIS SLEEP, THE FALSE PROPHET CALLED OUT, AND SHARD ANSWERED HIS PLEA.
“He’s saying that da was tricked by some false prophet,” Jorah relayed, “who cried out in his sleep. It must have mimicked a Call; that’s why da went to the Isles.”
WE WERE BORN OF THE SAME CATASTROPHE, BUT WHILE I PURSUED KNOWLEDGE, HE PURSUED POWER. I USURPED HIM FOR THIS REASON, ELSE WE MAY HAVE RULED TOGETHER.
“You were right, Atsushi.”
Atsushi couldn’t help a small grin, which faded promptly with a look from Abaddon. “Of course I was,” he mumbled under his breath.
JORAH, YOU MUST BRING SHARD TO ME AT THE OBSERVATORY.
“No,” Jorah said, so defiantly that Dreamweaver felt faint. “You aren’t taking him like you took papa’s father.”
I DID ATTEMPT TO BRING HIM INTO MY REALM WHEN HE ANSWERED THE FALSE PROPHET’S CALL, BUT I KNOW NOW THAT IT WAS A MISTAKE ON MY PART. THE FALSE PROPHET WOULD ONLY SEEK ANOTHER VESSEL. I WILL NOT FORCE SHARD INTO EXALTATION.
Jorah sensed the truth in the Arcanist’s words, and gave a solemn nod. “He wants me to bring da to the Observatory,” he said. “Will you heal him? Can you purge the prophet from his body?”
I CAN, BUT I REQUIRE YOUR STRENGTH TO DO SO. YOU ARE AN ABOMINATION UNTO THE GODS. SOME MAY CALL IT A WEAKNESS. I CALL IT A BOON. ONLY THOSE WITHOUT ALIGNMENT, WHETHER BY BIRTH OR BY CHOICE, CAN WITHSTAND POSSESSION BY THE DIVINE. IT MUST BE YOU.
“Alone?”
NOT NECESSARILY. IF THERE ARE OTHERS AMONG YOU WITHOUT ALIGNMENT, ENLIST THEIR AID.
“What is He saying?” Abaddon asked. “Surely He isn’t suggesting you face the bastard alone.”
“No,” Jorah said, “but I can only bring certain people. You can’t come, aba, and neither can papa. The false prophet could possess you both, but he can’t possess me--or Atsushi.”
“Me?” Atsushi squeaked. He tried to back away, but Abaddon caught him by the arm. “Oh, no, no,” he said, “I’m sure the Arcanist would rather anyone else. I nearly killed Crucis, and I used a piece of the Seat to do it. I should, ah, stay here and, er--”
“You’re going,” Abaddon said, “and if my grandson comes back with a single scratch on him, I’ll send you back to Spellwall Isle in a pine box. I shudder to think what that lunatic, Sadalbari, could do with a necromancer’s corpse.”
“You really must learn to ask nicely,” Atsushi grumbled.
“Who else, dear?” Dreamweaver asked.
Jorah crinkled his brow. He wasn’t spoiled for options. Most who spurned the Eleven would accompany him only under duress, and perhaps not even then. He would have to rely on the unaligned, his kin. “I need Penumbra and Holloway,” he said. “Penumbra’s alignment has been all but erased by the Shade, and Holloway had none to begin with.”
“I will fetch them.”
“Wait.” Jorah, who had appeared so self-assured a moment ago, now looked to his feet shyly. “There’s someone else,” he muttered. “You aren’t going to like it.”
Dreamweaver steeled themself. “Who?”
Taking in a deep, bracing breath, Jorah met Dreamweaver’s gaze. “I need Abraxas.”
