It made logical sense. As much as anything could make logical sense. No one knew why Skulduggery hadn't properly died, and Necromancy certainly was about death. Maybe it did have the answer, somehow.
Except it didn't make any sense at all. Skulduggery hadn't exactly been alone after he came back. He'd had Bespoke, the rebellion, the Dead Men. The two thoughts seemed incompatible--the logic of the detective following every lead, and the emotion of Skulduggery himself, who cared too deeply for his people to betray them.
Yet he had.
If he'd been properly conscious and aware, Solomon might have been able to reconcile that. Might have been able to understand, finally, in some measure, just how deep Skulduggery's wrath went and how dangerous it was in a way he hadn't known before. But he wasn't. Right here and now, his barriers down, there was a part of him that still remembered being a young, lonely teen whose family had been murdered and hero-worshipping a young, driven adult who had seemed to have all the answers--or knew where to find them.
That part of Solomon felt betrayed. If there had been one other constant in his world other than Necromancy, it would have been Skulduggery Pleasant. Even when they were on opposite sides.
And yet, as well, there was another part of him that felt oddly comforted. That he might not be alone, even in this choice, even if in actual fact Skulduggery wanted nothing to do with him still. That it could be done. Had been done. Solomon had always been one to persevere, even when there was no trail to follow. Now there most certainly was, after a fashion.
For a moment Solomon said nothing at all. Then, as he breathed out, the breath came with a word: "Idiot."
It was soft, drowsy, exasperated, affectionate in a way he hadn't been for centuries. Because this wasn't real, anyway; because he was dreaming, or hallucinating, and so it didn't matter what came out. He wasn't even sure it actually had.
There were other things he wanted to say. Things the child part of him was still crying for. The realisation of what he might have been doing to his father's soul. To Valkyrie's. They were still there. He hadn't forgotten. If anything, the awareness of them was more acute because of what Skulduggery had said.
The need for sleep was greater. Impossible to resist, in fact. Even as he spoke he was in that haze of half-sleep, well on the way to full. By the time Skulduggery said anything else, Solomon was drifting too deeply to answer.
no subject
Except it didn't make any sense at all. Skulduggery hadn't exactly been alone after he came back. He'd had Bespoke, the rebellion, the Dead Men. The two thoughts seemed incompatible--the logic of the detective following every lead, and the emotion of Skulduggery himself, who cared too deeply for his people to betray them.
Yet he had.
If he'd been properly conscious and aware, Solomon might have been able to reconcile that. Might have been able to understand, finally, in some measure, just how deep Skulduggery's wrath went and how dangerous it was in a way he hadn't known before. But he wasn't. Right here and now, his barriers down, there was a part of him that still remembered being a young, lonely teen whose family had been murdered and hero-worshipping a young, driven adult who had seemed to have all the answers--or knew where to find them.
That part of Solomon felt betrayed. If there had been one other constant in his world other than Necromancy, it would have been Skulduggery Pleasant. Even when they were on opposite sides.
And yet, as well, there was another part of him that felt oddly comforted. That he might not be alone, even in this choice, even if in actual fact Skulduggery wanted nothing to do with him still. That it could be done. Had been done. Solomon had always been one to persevere, even when there was no trail to follow. Now there most certainly was, after a fashion.
For a moment Solomon said nothing at all. Then, as he breathed out, the breath came with a word: "Idiot."
It was soft, drowsy, exasperated, affectionate in a way he hadn't been for centuries. Because this wasn't real, anyway; because he was dreaming, or hallucinating, and so it didn't matter what came out. He wasn't even sure it actually had.
There were other things he wanted to say. Things the child part of him was still crying for. The realisation of what he might have been doing to his father's soul. To Valkyrie's. They were still there. He hadn't forgotten. If anything, the awareness of them was more acute because of what Skulduggery had said.
The need for sleep was greater. Impossible to resist, in fact. Even as he spoke he was in that haze of half-sleep, well on the way to full. By the time Skulduggery said anything else, Solomon was drifting too deeply to answer.