"Not a very big step," Gabe observed tranquilly. "Looked more like a shuffle to me. Look like a shuffle to you guys?" The Archangel turned slightly, just enough to see them both out of the corner of his eyes without allowing Sanguine to leave his sight.
Then he turned back and said airily, "Aw, I know a thing or two. How's Daddy, Billy-Ray?"
The strange thing was, he sounded genuinely and unironically interested--or at least leaning more toward genuinely and unironically interested than any person confronting a sociopath should.
~~~
"I need to cleanse a taint," Solomon said simply, and although the majority of his mind was too busy being suspended within that crystalline state of awareness-combined-action, part of the Necromancer took in those words. In high demand. Angels visiting. Likely one of Pleasant's group, for Saint Gabriel.
The Necromancer didn't get far enough to actively pursue the reasons why an angel would want human-blessed water, given the fact that said angel was an angel. Instead, when Father O'Reilly rose, so did Solomon.
Unlike before, he didn't rest his cane on the floor, didn't use it for the purpose it had been made. He held it in his hands, not against his body but not away from it either. Already, the sorcerer was detaching himself from it. What else could he do? He knew what lay beyond death, for him. If there was a chance, even the slightest chance, of avoiding that fate, he would take it; he would make that sacrifice, just as he would have murdered three billion people for the same.
It had to be done. And Solomon was a great believer in doing what had to be done.
The small room to which Father O'Reilly led him was at the back of the church, and seemed even smaller because of the solid stone from which the church had been built. The lights didn't reach right into its corners; Solomon glanced around and didn't shiver. It was cold, but not cold enough to burden him--not with what he held.
Ordinarily, the barrels would have drawn more of a reaction than they did. Instead Solomon merely stared wordlessly as Father O'Reilly opened one, wondering if all of them were filled with holy water, and why the priest possibly felt the need to stock them, and then realised that he probably had good reason to want to do so.
Then the priest stepped back.
And Solomon stepped forward. Did he tremble? Perhaps. He felt light-headed, heard his pulse roaring in his ears, but most of all he knew that this wasn't a thing from which he could turn back. It frightened him, oh yes; he was frightened. Terrified, even.
It was a strange feeling. Solomon had always done what he had to to ensure his fear was kept at bay. He'd had goals to overcome it, every time. The Passage. Submitting to his father's desire to have an 'unpossessed' son. But until this moment, Solomon had never quite realised that those things weren't overcoming the fear at all. They were a submission. This was ... what was this? This was the sort of fear which drove him to murder to save himself, and yet he walked forward. In spite of it, resisting it, he walked forward.
Solomon paused at the barrel, at the gentle ripple of the dim lights in the water's surface. For a moment he said nothing, did nothing, but stare down at the liquid, feeling his disconnect and the rage of his body and this strangely satisfying contrast between strength and fear.
He could do this. Standing there like that, at this very moment, he knew that he could do this. This, he realised, was what Pleasant, or Ghastly, or Low, or every other person who had claimed to be a hero, felt at any time they were called upon to do something they did not want to do.
This was control. He could do this. Because he chose to.
Solomon Wreath let the cane fall.
The moment it hit the surface something rocked the space in the room. It didn't touch the air; it went beyond merely touching the air. The holy water didn't fizz, or bubble, but it blackened abruptly--like paint hitting it, and then billowing all through the liquid. The shadows in the room writhed, sucked toward the barrel and then yanking back as if they were living things attempting to escape something they couldn't.
There was something in the room. Something that made Solomon's heart leap and race, something that made his skin prickle wildly with pain and terror. Not a sound, but a sensation; an endless Scream which surely anyone in the vicinity must have felt. He couldn't back away; instead the Necromancer was rooted to the spot, shuddering and breathless at the feel of that awful sound. It seemed to go on forever, and just when Solomon began to feel as if something had to give, something did.
There came a sigh from the barrel, a sigh and rush of pure unadulterated relief which chased away the Scream. The blackness evaporated as though it had diffused entirely in the liquid; the shadows settled.
Something turned over in the water, floated to the top--something bone-white and dead. His cane. It bobbed there for a moment and then splintered, like something hard left to soak and then turn half to mush. The pieces sank again and Solomon saw the last remnants of his cane settle on the bottom of the barrel, clearly visible in their paleness.
Then there was silence, the silence of a disaster met and matched and over. Solomon exhaled shakily, no longer disconnected from his body but very much in attendance. His limbs felt rubbery. His heart was like a jackhammer. His clothes and hair clung to him with sweat.
After a moment the sorcerer managed to make his feet move, taking a step away and turning toward Father O'Reilly. Too late, Solomon realised that the sleepless night coupled with far too much adrenaline had taken its toll; his vision burned white and his knees shook, and the man blindly reached out to lean on one of the barrels before the dizziness could overtake him completely.
He'd done it.
He'd destroyed his own source of power, his own source of magic. Now, for the first time, he had no idea what was going to happen, no faith even regarding what he was going to make happen. He could die tomorrow.
With a start Solomon realised that, for the first time in his long life, that thought didn't fill him with fear.
no subject
Then he turned back and said airily, "Aw, I know a thing or two. How's Daddy, Billy-Ray?"
The strange thing was, he sounded genuinely and unironically interested--or at least leaning more toward genuinely and unironically interested than any person confronting a sociopath should.
~~~
"I need to cleanse a taint," Solomon said simply, and although the majority of his mind was too busy being suspended within that crystalline state of awareness-combined-action, part of the Necromancer took in those words. In high demand. Angels visiting. Likely one of Pleasant's group, for Saint Gabriel.
The Necromancer didn't get far enough to actively pursue the reasons why an angel would want human-blessed water, given the fact that said angel was an angel. Instead, when Father O'Reilly rose, so did Solomon.
Unlike before, he didn't rest his cane on the floor, didn't use it for the purpose it had been made. He held it in his hands, not against his body but not away from it either. Already, the sorcerer was detaching himself from it. What else could he do? He knew what lay beyond death, for him. If there was a chance, even the slightest chance, of avoiding that fate, he would take it; he would make that sacrifice, just as he would have murdered three billion people for the same.
It had to be done. And Solomon was a great believer in doing what had to be done.
The small room to which Father O'Reilly led him was at the back of the church, and seemed even smaller because of the solid stone from which the church had been built. The lights didn't reach right into its corners; Solomon glanced around and didn't shiver. It was cold, but not cold enough to burden him--not with what he held.
Ordinarily, the barrels would have drawn more of a reaction than they did. Instead Solomon merely stared wordlessly as Father O'Reilly opened one, wondering if all of them were filled with holy water, and why the priest possibly felt the need to stock them, and then realised that he probably had good reason to want to do so.
Then the priest stepped back.
And Solomon stepped forward. Did he tremble? Perhaps. He felt light-headed, heard his pulse roaring in his ears, but most of all he knew that this wasn't a thing from which he could turn back. It frightened him, oh yes; he was frightened. Terrified, even.
It was a strange feeling. Solomon had always done what he had to to ensure his fear was kept at bay. He'd had goals to overcome it, every time. The Passage. Submitting to his father's desire to have an 'unpossessed' son. But until this moment, Solomon had never quite realised that those things weren't overcoming the fear at all. They were a submission. This was ... what was this? This was the sort of fear which drove him to murder to save himself, and yet he walked forward. In spite of it, resisting it, he walked forward.
Solomon paused at the barrel, at the gentle ripple of the dim lights in the water's surface. For a moment he said nothing, did nothing, but stare down at the liquid, feeling his disconnect and the rage of his body and this strangely satisfying contrast between strength and fear.
He could do this. Standing there like that, at this very moment, he knew that he could do this. This, he realised, was what Pleasant, or Ghastly, or Low, or every other person who had claimed to be a hero, felt at any time they were called upon to do something they did not want to do.
This was control. He could do this. Because he chose to.
Solomon Wreath let the cane fall.
The moment it hit the surface something rocked the space in the room. It didn't touch the air; it went beyond merely touching the air. The holy water didn't fizz, or bubble, but it blackened abruptly--like paint hitting it, and then billowing all through the liquid. The shadows in the room writhed, sucked toward the barrel and then yanking back as if they were living things attempting to escape something they couldn't.
There was something in the room. Something that made Solomon's heart leap and race, something that made his skin prickle wildly with pain and terror. Not a sound, but a sensation; an endless Scream which surely anyone in the vicinity must have felt. He couldn't back away; instead the Necromancer was rooted to the spot, shuddering and breathless at the feel of that awful sound. It seemed to go on forever, and just when Solomon began to feel as if something had to give, something did.
There came a sigh from the barrel, a sigh and rush of pure unadulterated relief which chased away the Scream. The blackness evaporated as though it had diffused entirely in the liquid; the shadows settled.
Something turned over in the water, floated to the top--something bone-white and dead. His cane. It bobbed there for a moment and then splintered, like something hard left to soak and then turn half to mush. The pieces sank again and Solomon saw the last remnants of his cane settle on the bottom of the barrel, clearly visible in their paleness.
Then there was silence, the silence of a disaster met and matched and over. Solomon exhaled shakily, no longer disconnected from his body but very much in attendance. His limbs felt rubbery. His heart was like a jackhammer. His clothes and hair clung to him with sweat.
After a moment the sorcerer managed to make his feet move, taking a step away and turning toward Father O'Reilly. Too late, Solomon realised that the sleepless night coupled with far too much adrenaline had taken its toll; his vision burned white and his knees shook, and the man blindly reached out to lean on one of the barrels before the dizziness could overtake him completely.
He'd done it.
He'd destroyed his own source of power, his own source of magic. Now, for the first time, he had no idea what was going to happen, no faith even regarding what he was going to make happen. He could die tomorrow.
With a start Solomon realised that, for the first time in his long life, that thought didn't fill him with fear.