"As opposed to you just playin' the mysterious stranger?" Gabe said dryly. He felt calmer. Sort of. More in control, at least, even if not precisely calm at all. There was nothing to be calm about here--not truly. The Archangel's gaze travelled around the rooms even as he spoke, in that way of a person who didn't look like he was looking around even though he was.
The state of Myron's house ... the outside was awful. The inside spoke of a man bereft of hope or purpose. Something in Gabriel tightened, lurched. Myron's end wasn't likely to be anything good. He'd completely given up, and there was almost not enough of him left to truly say where he ought to go at a glance.
This was wrong. It was all wrong.
Myron's attention to him made Gabe focus back on the sorcerer, and he summoned a quirk of a smile, convincing enough for a layman. "Could use somethin' to steady my nerves after all Skul here drags me into. Thanks."
His tone was light, teasing, pointed toward Skulduggery. (He was still leaning on the detective. using his soul. Borrowing his humour. This place was a hell of Myron's own making.)
~~~
That was ... not helpful. Not helpful and in a way it was. It wasn't a question of what Solomon was afraid of, which meant Solomon could, for the moment, avoid thinking about it. All he had to answer with was facts. Thus, his first impulse was to correct. "Not why I thought he should have. Merely would have."
He wasn't calm, exactly. His words weren't rehearsed, but they were the words of someone who knew them well nonetheless. He was still in a state of terrible fragility, still on the edge, but no longer teetering. For the moment.
"Because my philosophy and his are incompatible," he said. "Because I've plotted the deaths of others for the sake of my power." His gaze was drawn inexorably to his cane. His hands convulsed, his body torn between releasing it and being to afraid to do so; the result was the he kept it upright with two fingers only.
So preoccupied with that, the words were out before he could even consider stopping to wonder whether he should say them. "Because magic is real, and I am a Necromancer, and all that I am is against everything that he is. I looked on Saint Gabriel and my eyes bled. Then I looked at the source of my power ..." He turned the cane idly under his fingers, as if doing so would make it turn pale with the Scream. "... and I saw pain."
Well. He had begun to suspect there would be no answers in deception. He just hadn't anticipated such honesty. What else could he do? His walls were breaking. Now surely he'd be condemned. Either he could resign himself or seek another avenue, once he managed to regain control.
Solomon looked up at the cross, the image of Jesus with torment on his face. There was, in fact, not a lot of difference between that image and the Sceam, except the effigy was only wooden. If it were emotion, Solomon knew there would have been no difference at all.
That was significant somehow. Solomon didn't have the wits left to consider how.
no subject
The state of Myron's house ... the outside was awful. The inside spoke of a man bereft of hope or purpose. Something in Gabriel tightened, lurched. Myron's end wasn't likely to be anything good. He'd completely given up, and there was almost not enough of him left to truly say where he ought to go at a glance.
This was wrong. It was all wrong.
Myron's attention to him made Gabe focus back on the sorcerer, and he summoned a quirk of a smile, convincing enough for a layman. "Could use somethin' to steady my nerves after all Skul here drags me into. Thanks."
His tone was light, teasing, pointed toward Skulduggery. (He was still leaning on the detective. using his soul. Borrowing his humour. This place was a hell of Myron's own making.)
~~~
That was ... not helpful. Not helpful and in a way it was. It wasn't a question of what Solomon was afraid of, which meant Solomon could, for the moment, avoid thinking about it. All he had to answer with was facts. Thus, his first impulse was to correct. "Not why I thought he should have. Merely would have."
He wasn't calm, exactly. His words weren't rehearsed, but they were the words of someone who knew them well nonetheless. He was still in a state of terrible fragility, still on the edge, but no longer teetering. For the moment.
"Because my philosophy and his are incompatible," he said. "Because I've plotted the deaths of others for the sake of my power." His gaze was drawn inexorably to his cane. His hands convulsed, his body torn between releasing it and being to afraid to do so; the result was the he kept it upright with two fingers only.
So preoccupied with that, the words were out before he could even consider stopping to wonder whether he should say them. "Because magic is real, and I am a Necromancer, and all that I am is against everything that he is. I looked on Saint Gabriel and my eyes bled. Then I looked at the source of my power ..." He turned the cane idly under his fingers, as if doing so would make it turn pale with the Scream. "... and I saw pain."
Well. He had begun to suspect there would be no answers in deception. He just hadn't anticipated such honesty. What else could he do? His walls were breaking. Now surely he'd be condemned. Either he could resign himself or seek another avenue, once he managed to regain control.
Solomon looked up at the cross, the image of Jesus with torment on his face. There was, in fact, not a lot of difference between that image and the Sceam, except the effigy was only wooden. If it were emotion, Solomon knew there would have been no difference at all.
That was significant somehow. Solomon didn't have the wits left to consider how.