"I know my friend over there better than you'd think," Gabe replied with a slow and unworried grin back. "Know myself pretty well too. You think I'm gonna crumble just 'cos an admitted bad guy says I'm more like him than I reckon?" The Archangel shook his head with a tsk. "And here I thought you didn't want to be compared. You needa go watch some movies with more original villains, Billy-Ray."
With a shrug Gabe let go of Fletcher's arm, consciously hiding the cramps in his body, and ambled past Skulduggery. He didn't get in the way of the gun, but he certainly wasn't standing behind it anymore. Just making a point. Sanguine couldn't hurt him; he was still too far away for the sorcerer to attempt an attack. "Even bigger words comin' from a guy who can't even take a step without keelin' over," he said in response and with amusement.
With a glance down at his shirt he shrugged again, and looked up to say deadpan, "Lost my other outfit in the wash. And you do cheat, Skul. On occasion. Judiciously."
Like by using an angel as his lie-detector.
~~~
It wasn't a rule, precisely. It was simply that Solomon was too powerful, too cautious, too intelligent, too rooted in a religion most sorcerers disdained to not become a target should people have the opportunity. And that wasn't even considering the other Necromancers and how they would react. If Solomon did this, he would never be able to go back--not for anything. Nothing in his home, nothing in his quarters in the Temple. He'd have to abandon it all.
Only after Solomon had the thought did he realise that he had actually thought 'if'. As though it was a possibility. As though he could actually do so. As though he wanted to.
Did he want to?
"Amputation," Solomon murmured. His eyes flickered as something in his mind clicked. "Of course. Cut off a limb, so the person might live. I should have thought of that." He should have thought of that because those whose limbs were killing them were always a point of contention between Necromancers and other forces. Cut off the limb, and they were less likely to die. Leave the limb, and the Necromancers had more power from the slow death. Empathy versus logic. Those sorts of arguments had contributed to the Necromancers and the Sanctuary's forces eventually parting ways.
When put like that it was only logical. Cut off a limb, in this case Necromancy, to save the rest of him. Theoretically it ... should work, shouldn't it? If the--he didn't want to call it poison, but after a moment Solomon acknowledged grudgingly that it was an appropriate word. After what he'd seen, after the Scream, it was impossible to view Necromancy as anything but some sort of taint. If the poison would take his soul, better to get rid of it.
True, in a battlefield such an injury was liable to result in death--it made it difficult to protect one's self. And yet, when death was imminent, what else could be done? Better to take the risk.
Logic. Not emotion, but logic. Logically, the best thing for Solomon now was to abandon Necromancy for good. Forever. Not just for now, but always. Could he do that? Could he resist the urge to use his magic? Even if he destroyed his cane, it would still be there. But he wouldn't be able to use it. If he destroyed his cane, he would be cut off from it. The Temple was the only place it could be reforged, and walking back there would only mean certain death.
Of course, Solomon realised, the Temple would say it was logic in the other direction. Let himself be consumed, and the Temple was given more power.
But Solomon didn't want to give the Temple more power. The Temple's whole reason for existing was so the individuals within it could live. Each and every Necromancer was out for their own self--for their own survival. They could come together, work with others, in the interest of that goal; but that was the goal. It had always been Solomon's goal.
It wasn't a dawning, exactly. It was just an sudden awareness, an abrupt clarity. Solomon's hands were shaking with adrenaline once more, shaking because he had been terrified and driven too many times too quickly. Yet his mind, for the first time since last night, was clear. Clear and detached from the physiological reactions of his body.
Solomon wanted to survive. He wanted to live, and not just live, but remain intact--his soul as well. He did not want to suffer. That meant he had to get rid of what was poisoning him. Necromancy was a tool. Tools, when they ceased to become useful, ought to be discarded. Destroyed, so they couldn't be misused by another. Solomon had never imagined that Necromancy might become obsolete for him--but it had, and he couldn't deny it any longer, and now he could make the only logical choice left to him.
There weren't many things that could break a Necromancer's item of power. Solomon could think of one that may be right here in this church.
"I don't suppose," he said quietly, holding his cane in both hands and fascinated by the way they trembled, "you have a large container of holy water available?"
no subject
With a shrug Gabe let go of Fletcher's arm, consciously hiding the cramps in his body, and ambled past Skulduggery. He didn't get in the way of the gun, but he certainly wasn't standing behind it anymore. Just making a point. Sanguine couldn't hurt him; he was still too far away for the sorcerer to attempt an attack. "Even bigger words comin' from a guy who can't even take a step without keelin' over," he said in response and with amusement.
With a glance down at his shirt he shrugged again, and looked up to say deadpan, "Lost my other outfit in the wash. And you do cheat, Skul. On occasion. Judiciously."
Like by using an angel as his lie-detector.
~~~
It wasn't a rule, precisely. It was simply that Solomon was too powerful, too cautious, too intelligent, too rooted in a religion most sorcerers disdained to not become a target should people have the opportunity. And that wasn't even considering the other Necromancers and how they would react. If Solomon did this, he would never be able to go back--not for anything. Nothing in his home, nothing in his quarters in the Temple. He'd have to abandon it all.
Only after Solomon had the thought did he realise that he had actually thought 'if'. As though it was a possibility. As though he could actually do so. As though he wanted to.
Did he want to?
"Amputation," Solomon murmured. His eyes flickered as something in his mind clicked. "Of course. Cut off a limb, so the person might live. I should have thought of that." He should have thought of that because those whose limbs were killing them were always a point of contention between Necromancers and other forces. Cut off the limb, and they were less likely to die. Leave the limb, and the Necromancers had more power from the slow death. Empathy versus logic. Those sorts of arguments had contributed to the Necromancers and the Sanctuary's forces eventually parting ways.
When put like that it was only logical. Cut off a limb, in this case Necromancy, to save the rest of him. Theoretically it ... should work, shouldn't it? If the--he didn't want to call it poison, but after a moment Solomon acknowledged grudgingly that it was an appropriate word. After what he'd seen, after the Scream, it was impossible to view Necromancy as anything but some sort of taint. If the poison would take his soul, better to get rid of it.
True, in a battlefield such an injury was liable to result in death--it made it difficult to protect one's self. And yet, when death was imminent, what else could be done? Better to take the risk.
Logic. Not emotion, but logic. Logically, the best thing for Solomon now was to abandon Necromancy for good. Forever. Not just for now, but always. Could he do that? Could he resist the urge to use his magic? Even if he destroyed his cane, it would still be there. But he wouldn't be able to use it. If he destroyed his cane, he would be cut off from it. The Temple was the only place it could be reforged, and walking back there would only mean certain death.
Of course, Solomon realised, the Temple would say it was logic in the other direction. Let himself be consumed, and the Temple was given more power.
But Solomon didn't want to give the Temple more power. The Temple's whole reason for existing was so the individuals within it could live. Each and every Necromancer was out for their own self--for their own survival. They could come together, work with others, in the interest of that goal; but that was the goal. It had always been Solomon's goal.
It wasn't a dawning, exactly. It was just an sudden awareness, an abrupt clarity. Solomon's hands were shaking with adrenaline once more, shaking because he had been terrified and driven too many times too quickly. Yet his mind, for the first time since last night, was clear. Clear and detached from the physiological reactions of his body.
Solomon wanted to survive. He wanted to live, and not just live, but remain intact--his soul as well. He did not want to suffer. That meant he had to get rid of what was poisoning him. Necromancy was a tool. Tools, when they ceased to become useful, ought to be discarded. Destroyed, so they couldn't be misused by another. Solomon had never imagined that Necromancy might become obsolete for him--but it had, and he couldn't deny it any longer, and now he could make the only logical choice left to him.
There weren't many things that could break a Necromancer's item of power. Solomon could think of one that may be right here in this church.
"I don't suppose," he said quietly, holding his cane in both hands and fascinated by the way they trembled, "you have a large container of holy water available?"