There was something happening here. Something ... important. "Bespoke," Solomon mumbled, just barely recognising the tailor's solid build sliding under his arm. "Where'd you come from?"
He was still speaking Gaelic, but now he could sort-of tell. Sort-of tell, but not have the energy to care or stop it. Instead he was focussed on that man, that ... thing he'd seen, the one he couldn't explain or describe or even begin to imagine. The sorcerer's eyes rolled toward the old man Bespoke had apparently been with, an old man loaded with teddy-bears. He looked normal now. Grizzled, weathered, eyes filled with gentle concern and confident assurance both.
And yet Solomon couldn't shake the light he thought he'd seen, looking at him. Not like Saint Gabriel's. Not the way the Archangel had been part of the lifestream, the way it had caught on him, been influenced by him. Saint Gabriel had been a stone changing a current. The brief moment he'd locked eyes with this stranger, all Solomon had seen was a wellspring of light and ... and energy from which that current had come. A flash, an overlay, like an after-image--dazzling and incomprehensible even in the briefest moment he'd seen it.
Never before had Solomon felt that strange combination of terror and resignation and fascination. As if part of him, even in his terror, had wanted to get closer. Know more. As if he could have reached out and he'd be touching the source of all that was.
Maybe that was what that roll of dizziness was. Maybe he was seeing parts of the lifestream and couldn't tell, and it was all combining into a condensing swirl.
Maybe he was just half-dead and in shock.
The world rolled under him and abruptly Solomon found himself on his back on a narrow bed, a gloriously comfortable bed. People bustled around him; the sorcerer blinked up at them, his eyes alternately sliding shut and prying open. Valkyrie's worried face spun lazily overhead along with the strangers in medical uniforms. So did Bespoke's. So did the cabbie's.
And ... that man. The man in the cowboy hat. He reached out and patted Solomon's hand, and said gruffly, "You'll be okay, lad. Rest now."
Just an ordinary man. A sailor in a cowboy hat, with a salt-lined face and grey eyes deeper than the ocean. Those eyes were the last thing Solomon saw before he obeyed, sinking into the blissfully painless darkness of unconsciousness.
Dad pulled back, neatly stepping out of the paramedics' way even burdened by eleven teddy-bears as he was, and stopped by Ghastly's side. "We've got timin', Bespoke," He observed, and then grinned at Valkyrie and Barney, somehow balancing the bears in the bag, on each other, in one hand and under His arms just enough to doff His hat at the other pair. "Afternoon, pardner, l'il lady. Don't be supposin' either of you know any kids in sore need of a l'il teddy-bear company?"
no subject
He was still speaking Gaelic, but now he could sort-of tell. Sort-of tell, but not have the energy to care or stop it. Instead he was focussed on that man, that ... thing he'd seen, the one he couldn't explain or describe or even begin to imagine. The sorcerer's eyes rolled toward the old man Bespoke had apparently been with, an old man loaded with teddy-bears. He looked normal now. Grizzled, weathered, eyes filled with gentle concern and confident assurance both.
And yet Solomon couldn't shake the light he thought he'd seen, looking at him. Not like Saint Gabriel's. Not the way the Archangel had been part of the lifestream, the way it had caught on him, been influenced by him. Saint Gabriel had been a stone changing a current. The brief moment he'd locked eyes with this stranger, all Solomon had seen was a wellspring of light and ... and energy from which that current had come. A flash, an overlay, like an after-image--dazzling and incomprehensible even in the briefest moment he'd seen it.
Never before had Solomon felt that strange combination of terror and resignation and fascination. As if part of him, even in his terror, had wanted to get closer. Know more. As if he could have reached out and he'd be touching the source of all that was.
Maybe that was what that roll of dizziness was. Maybe he was seeing parts of the lifestream and couldn't tell, and it was all combining into a condensing swirl.
Maybe he was just half-dead and in shock.
The world rolled under him and abruptly Solomon found himself on his back on a narrow bed, a gloriously comfortable bed. People bustled around him; the sorcerer blinked up at them, his eyes alternately sliding shut and prying open. Valkyrie's worried face spun lazily overhead along with the strangers in medical uniforms. So did Bespoke's. So did the cabbie's.
And ... that man. The man in the cowboy hat. He reached out and patted Solomon's hand, and said gruffly, "You'll be okay, lad. Rest now."
Just an ordinary man. A sailor in a cowboy hat, with a salt-lined face and grey eyes deeper than the ocean. Those eyes were the last thing Solomon saw before he obeyed, sinking into the blissfully painless darkness of unconsciousness.
Dad pulled back, neatly stepping out of the paramedics' way even burdened by eleven teddy-bears as he was, and stopped by Ghastly's side. "We've got timin', Bespoke," He observed, and then grinned at Valkyrie and Barney, somehow balancing the bears in the bag, on each other, in one hand and under His arms just enough to doff His hat at the other pair. "Afternoon, pardner, l'il lady. Don't be supposin' either of you know any kids in sore need of a l'il teddy-bear company?"