For a blissful, far too short eternity, Solomon drifted in warm painlessness. Valkyrie's hand roused him, slightly, but not to much more than the awareness that there was pain out there, and exhaustion, and he really did not want to go back. The sorcerer tried to make some kind of response, even if it was to leave him alone, and a faintly audible moan was all that came out.
He rocked again, a little harder this time and in a way that was counter to the cab's comforting rumble. His knee complained, and though the pain was dulled and distant now it was still enough for Valkyrie's voice to translate. Not her words, but her tone.
Desperation. Terror.
"Solomon, please."
"Da, please! I'll never use it again!"
"Solomon? Wake up! We're nearly--you have to wake up."
Valkyrie. Frightened. Begging. With conscious, awful effort, Solomon tried to force himself awake. His hand clenched around his cane in an automatic desire for comfort and strength, and found nothing. That was enough. The spark of uneasy adrenaline was sluggish, but it was enough--barely. He still couldn't open his eyes. "My cane," he mumbled, and because of the old memories trudging through his mind like molasses, didn't realise that it came out in Gaelic. "Where's--my cane?"
He needed that. Except he didn't; it wasn't his cane. Not that one. Not that one, because he'd given it up. Unexpectedly he felt a spark of fierce, hot pride. It had taken four hundred years, but he was adhering to that terrified oath he'd made once more.
"I'll never use it again!"
"Never again," he whispered, not to Valkyrie or to the cabbie, but to the ghosts of his past which were closer now today than they had been in centuries. "M'sorry, Da."
For breaking that promise. For killing the guards in the first place. For the fact he had to die while failing to protect his land and family. For--for--
"I looked at the source of my power and I saw pain."
Something jolted in his stomach, something so hard that it made him draw in a painfully sharp inhale and his eyes flutter open. He didn't see Valkyrie. He wasn't really looking at Valkyrie. But for a moment, his expression register a realisation, a deep, abiding terror.
Necromancy relied upon death, upon the torture of human souls, and when he first used it, his father had been newly murdered.
Half his father's estate had been newly murdered.
How long. How long did a soul stay intact while under that kind of agony?
"I never did wonder much about right and wrong, good and evil. There seemed to be little point."
There was a bump under the wheels, several bumps, and the cab pulled to a smooth but sharp halt that made Solomon's head roll against the window. He was aware of a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with the pain in his leg, of a burn in his eyes and a warmth on his cheeks that was tears. Never considered right or wrong. Never considered right or wrong enough to even question whose deaths he'd been using as his power all this time.
"What do you want from me?"
"What do you want, Solomon?"
"Da," he said, and his voice came out like shattered glass. "I'm sorry, Da."
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He rocked again, a little harder this time and in a way that was counter to the cab's comforting rumble. His knee complained, and though the pain was dulled and distant now it was still enough for Valkyrie's voice to translate. Not her words, but her tone.
Desperation. Terror.
"Solomon, please."
"Da, please! I'll never use it again!"
"Solomon? Wake up! We're nearly--you have to wake up."
Valkyrie. Frightened. Begging. With conscious, awful effort, Solomon tried to force himself awake. His hand clenched around his cane in an automatic desire for comfort and strength, and found nothing. That was enough. The spark of uneasy adrenaline was sluggish, but it was enough--barely. He still couldn't open his eyes. "My cane," he mumbled, and because of the old memories trudging through his mind like molasses, didn't realise that it came out in Gaelic. "Where's--my cane?"
He needed that. Except he didn't; it wasn't his cane. Not that one. Not that one, because he'd given it up. Unexpectedly he felt a spark of fierce, hot pride. It had taken four hundred years, but he was adhering to that terrified oath he'd made once more.
"I'll never use it again!"
"Never again," he whispered, not to Valkyrie or to the cabbie, but to the ghosts of his past which were closer now today than they had been in centuries. "M'sorry, Da."
For breaking that promise. For killing the guards in the first place. For the fact he had to die while failing to protect his land and family. For--for--
"I looked at the source of my power and I saw pain."
Something jolted in his stomach, something so hard that it made him draw in a painfully sharp inhale and his eyes flutter open. He didn't see Valkyrie. He wasn't really looking at Valkyrie. But for a moment, his expression register a realisation, a deep, abiding terror.
Necromancy relied upon death, upon the torture of human souls, and when he first used it, his father had been newly murdered.
Half his father's estate had been newly murdered.
How long. How long did a soul stay intact while under that kind of agony?
"I never did wonder much about right and wrong, good and evil. There seemed to be little point."
There was a bump under the wheels, several bumps, and the cab pulled to a smooth but sharp halt that made Solomon's head roll against the window. He was aware of a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with the pain in his leg, of a burn in his eyes and a warmth on his cheeks that was tears. Never considered right or wrong. Never considered right or wrong enough to even question whose deaths he'd been using as his power all this time.
"What do you want from me?"
"What do you want, Solomon?"
"Da," he said, and his voice came out like shattered glass. "I'm sorry, Da."