"Thanks." The table was near enough for Gabe to reach without having to move too far, but far enough to make the way he moved obvious. Stiff, limping, not exactly in full shape. The Archangel shot a sympathetic smile over at Fletcher, the teen's huffiness resonating. That was one of the nice things about Fletcher. He didn't really try to hide things, either inside or out.
"We were wonderin' if you knew where Scarab might be," Gabe said, opening the can. "Or Dusk, or Sanguine. Or anyone who'd be in on their kinda thing."
The Archangel's tone was much calmer, now, without hardly even the undercurrent. Gabe wasn't focussing on Myron unnaturally; casual, hopeful for aid, appreciative of the drink he knocked back without trouble, but no longer seeming affected by being in the house or seeing Myron.
He was, however, aware of the thought processes going on in the man. Or, well, not exactly the thoughts, but closer to being actual thoughts than in anyone else. Souls had a surface tension, and Myron's was broken. It made him and his mind more open, accidentally broadcasting, beyond what was usual. But the thought processes, while interesting and perhaps a bit concerning, also indicated something else: that there was enough of Myron left to give himself some cohesiveness.
He could be saved. Of that Gabe was sure now. And that fact made being in his presence easier.
~~~
Ah. Solomon smiled without meaning to, and there was something genuinely amused in the smile even though he didn't look around at the priest. He should have thought of that. Father O'Reilly didn't believe him. It was in his words, the way his tone turned careful again instead of excited and companionable. The companionableness of someone who knew.
The question was, did Solomon wish to give the priest the proof literally at the end of his fingertips? Technically just what he'd said was illegal. Proving it ...
What else could he do? Father O'Reilly was, right now, the only person who could help him. He was only human. Mortal. Not even a sorcerer. And yet he knew things, things Solomon had rejected long ago. Things that were now thrown in his face.
There was something else too. An ache in his chest Solomon didn't remember having, not since he was a boy and he'd realised his father would make him continue to go to church even though Solomon didn't believe. Not exactly betrayal, but a desire for someone to talk to who might understand. A desire to have someone to advise him.
A desire to not be alone.
It had been a long time since Solomon had felt lonely.
Solomon stretched out his hand and the shadows came to him like a tide, rushing up all over the church and gathering around them in a living gloom. The hand on his cane went cold and his heart suddenly pounded, his skin prickling with that same terror as before. Almost. It was subtly different. Less bright, more pervasively there. The church, similarly, seemed to press in on his shadows; they flickered and died, not burning away like with Saint Gabriel but dulling and finally simply fading away as if they were dust-motes.
Automatically Solomon looked up at the cross, and his throat closed, his eyes burning. The look of anguish on that face ...
The effigy didn't look like mere timber. If Solomon had had to swear, he would have said it was flesh and blood, living and breathing and pained. All of a sudden the sorcerer knew--knew--that it was the echo of this man's scream he heard resonating all throughout Necromancy.
Something warm hit Solomon's cheek and he could tell from the sluggish consistency and the smell that it was blood again. The church itself seemed to glow, a very faint but unmistakably there aura of power. It was like electricity, or perhaps--no. He couldn't compare it to Necromancy. Whatever it was, it infused the church, dim but unmistakeably present.
It could have been brighter, Solomon could tell. But it was bright enough still to cause him pain.
The sanctity of a truly holy church.
He should have thought of that too.
Solomon exhaled shakily and relinquished the power in his bleached-white cane, and watched as the effect of the lifestream ebbed from it until it looked like obsidian once again.
Then he remained silent. Staring. Waiting, while the blood congealed on his cheeks.
no subject
"We were wonderin' if you knew where Scarab might be," Gabe said, opening the can. "Or Dusk, or Sanguine. Or anyone who'd be in on their kinda thing."
The Archangel's tone was much calmer, now, without hardly even the undercurrent. Gabe wasn't focussing on Myron unnaturally; casual, hopeful for aid, appreciative of the drink he knocked back without trouble, but no longer seeming affected by being in the house or seeing Myron.
He was, however, aware of the thought processes going on in the man. Or, well, not exactly the thoughts, but closer to being actual thoughts than in anyone else. Souls had a surface tension, and Myron's was broken. It made him and his mind more open, accidentally broadcasting, beyond what was usual. But the thought processes, while interesting and perhaps a bit concerning, also indicated something else: that there was enough of Myron left to give himself some cohesiveness.
He could be saved. Of that Gabe was sure now. And that fact made being in his presence easier.
~~~
Ah. Solomon smiled without meaning to, and there was something genuinely amused in the smile even though he didn't look around at the priest. He should have thought of that. Father O'Reilly didn't believe him. It was in his words, the way his tone turned careful again instead of excited and companionable. The companionableness of someone who knew.
The question was, did Solomon wish to give the priest the proof literally at the end of his fingertips? Technically just what he'd said was illegal. Proving it ...
What else could he do? Father O'Reilly was, right now, the only person who could help him. He was only human. Mortal. Not even a sorcerer. And yet he knew things, things Solomon had rejected long ago. Things that were now thrown in his face.
There was something else too. An ache in his chest Solomon didn't remember having, not since he was a boy and he'd realised his father would make him continue to go to church even though Solomon didn't believe. Not exactly betrayal, but a desire for someone to talk to who might understand. A desire to have someone to advise him.
A desire to not be alone.
It had been a long time since Solomon had felt lonely.
Solomon stretched out his hand and the shadows came to him like a tide, rushing up all over the church and gathering around them in a living gloom. The hand on his cane went cold and his heart suddenly pounded, his skin prickling with that same terror as before. Almost. It was subtly different. Less bright, more pervasively there. The church, similarly, seemed to press in on his shadows; they flickered and died, not burning away like with Saint Gabriel but dulling and finally simply fading away as if they were dust-motes.
Automatically Solomon looked up at the cross, and his throat closed, his eyes burning. The look of anguish on that face ...
The effigy didn't look like mere timber. If Solomon had had to swear, he would have said it was flesh and blood, living and breathing and pained. All of a sudden the sorcerer knew--knew--that it was the echo of this man's scream he heard resonating all throughout Necromancy.
Something warm hit Solomon's cheek and he could tell from the sluggish consistency and the smell that it was blood again. The church itself seemed to glow, a very faint but unmistakably there aura of power. It was like electricity, or perhaps--no. He couldn't compare it to Necromancy. Whatever it was, it infused the church, dim but unmistakeably present.
It could have been brighter, Solomon could tell. But it was bright enough still to cause him pain.
The sanctity of a truly holy church.
He should have thought of that too.
Solomon exhaled shakily and relinquished the power in his bleached-white cane, and watched as the effect of the lifestream ebbed from it until it looked like obsidian once again.
Then he remained silent. Staring. Waiting, while the blood congealed on his cheeks.