"'Course I'm full of myself," Gabe said. "There's no one else in here with me." Then he laughed, and tugged a little on Fletcher's arm, and they moved up level with Skulduggery. The taunting edge left the Archangel's voice, replaced with dry, but sort-of gentle, amusement.
"Couple things wrong with that. Firstly, we actually came along to rescue our friend with our Teleporter and you got in the way," Gabe informed Sanguine, holding up a finger. And then another finger. "Secondly, just 'cos we're angels don't mean we dunno how to have a bit of fun. And thirdly, Billy-Ray, I'da thought a wise man would know better than to step out in front of a moving gun when he didn't have a way to escape. So remind me--what does that make you?"
~~~
That was ... well, it was something Solomon had thought of, the night before when speaking to Saint Gabriel. What was it he'd said? Ah, yes. "If you're waiting for me to cast off all my years of faith to the Temple and declare my belief in God, you may as well find something better to do with your time."
Solomon chuckled abruptly, but there was no warmth in the sound. In spite of that assertion, here he was, not even a full day later.
"Someone without magic in a world of sorcerers is likely to end in a death sentence," he said. "I may as well put a gun to my own head." An exceedingly dry smile touched his lips. "Saint Gabriel didn't recommend dying. Apparently, the Temple's belief about what happens to our souls after death is a bit flawed. We are what feeds our magic, and I saw that Scream when Saint Gabriel illuminated me." He couldn't resist the urge to look up at the crucifix again. "I'd much rather not be murdered and share that fate."
He'd much rather not be murdered at all, and surely if he left the Temple, they'd come after him. He was too high in the order for that.
Yet, despite the dismissiveness of his words, there was a contemplation in Solomon's eyes and face, in the way he turned his cane under his fingers. The cold made his skin prickle.
"Not everyone who has magic uses magic," he murmured. There were often those too afraid of it to enter the sorcerer's world, and others who simply wanted a peaceful life. Ghastly Bespoke, as an example, in spite of the nature of his tailoring, had done very well at minding his own business before Valkyrie had come along.
But could Solomon wish for, and get, a similar life for himself? Would he be able to stomach it? He was, at heart a man of action--slow and patient, but action nonetheless. Yet without magic at all, he'd be defenceless. And more than that--if he stopped using magic to the extent he knew O'Reilly was implying, would he start to age just as if he'd been placed in a Sanctuary's prison cell?
He frowned, frustrating beginning to rise in him. What kind of choice was that? To die or to die or to become one with the Scream?
"What do you want, Solomon?"
Well, not dying and not being tortured for all eternity by his own magic would be nice.
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"Couple things wrong with that. Firstly, we actually came along to rescue our friend with our Teleporter and you got in the way," Gabe informed Sanguine, holding up a finger. And then another finger. "Secondly, just 'cos we're angels don't mean we dunno how to have a bit of fun. And thirdly, Billy-Ray, I'da thought a wise man would know better than to step out in front of a moving gun when he didn't have a way to escape. So remind me--what does that make you?"
~~~
That was ... well, it was something Solomon had thought of, the night before when speaking to Saint Gabriel. What was it he'd said? Ah, yes. "If you're waiting for me to cast off all my years of faith to the Temple and declare my belief in God, you may as well find something better to do with your time."
Solomon chuckled abruptly, but there was no warmth in the sound. In spite of that assertion, here he was, not even a full day later.
"Someone without magic in a world of sorcerers is likely to end in a death sentence," he said. "I may as well put a gun to my own head." An exceedingly dry smile touched his lips. "Saint Gabriel didn't recommend dying. Apparently, the Temple's belief about what happens to our souls after death is a bit flawed. We are what feeds our magic, and I saw that Scream when Saint Gabriel illuminated me." He couldn't resist the urge to look up at the crucifix again. "I'd much rather not be murdered and share that fate."
He'd much rather not be murdered at all, and surely if he left the Temple, they'd come after him. He was too high in the order for that.
Yet, despite the dismissiveness of his words, there was a contemplation in Solomon's eyes and face, in the way he turned his cane under his fingers. The cold made his skin prickle.
"Not everyone who has magic uses magic," he murmured. There were often those too afraid of it to enter the sorcerer's world, and others who simply wanted a peaceful life. Ghastly Bespoke, as an example, in spite of the nature of his tailoring, had done very well at minding his own business before Valkyrie had come along.
But could Solomon wish for, and get, a similar life for himself? Would he be able to stomach it? He was, at heart a man of action--slow and patient, but action nonetheless. Yet without magic at all, he'd be defenceless. And more than that--if he stopped using magic to the extent he knew O'Reilly was implying, would he start to age just as if he'd been placed in a Sanctuary's prison cell?
He frowned, frustrating beginning to rise in him. What kind of choice was that? To die or to die or to become one with the Scream?
"What do you want, Solomon?"
Well, not dying and not being tortured for all eternity by his own magic would be nice.