Somehow, Solomon wasn't sure how, Father O'Reilly's laughter was like a dash of cold water. It wasn't that it was mocking, precisely, though it could well have seemed so if Solomon had been more self-possessed than he was right now. The fact was, he almost preferred being insane. And he wasn't entirely sure he wasn't.
But it was a dash. It reminded him that he was Solomon Wreath, and he didn't particularly like being laughed at. It reminded him that all these events were as alien and nonsensical to Father O'Reilly as the Church was to Solomon.
The priest's offer of aid came too quickly for Solomon to move much beyond that. The matter-of-factness of the mortal's actions--as if he'd done this before, frequently, for others--somehow helped even more. Calming. No need to think. With a deep breath Solomon managed to prop himself up a bit higher, even slanted as the bed was, and drank without shame. There was no place for pride when possessed of such injuries and potential insanity; if he'd ever thought so, that foolishness was gone. And it gave him the chance to pull in, to bring himself under some veneer of control.
At least he felt better in control now, even though sitting up, and then down again, even that little made his knee throb and his body complain. It also made the teddy-bear tilt over, falling onto his lap and staring at him with its tiny button eyes.
For a moment Solomon stared back, his throat and chest tight but feeling less as if he was about to crumble. Well. A little less.
"You don't believe me," he said, and his voice was rough, but controlled. Mostly. He reached out with a shaking hand to pick up the bear. It was amazingly soft. Softer than he thought it would be.
God had asked Valkyrie to give this to him. God, Himself.
For a moment the sorcerer's expression flickered, verging on that shattered controlled once again. "I wouldn't believe me either. I would have thought it a dream. Except that He was with someone whom I know, and my own student delivered it into my hands on His behalf, and ..."
His voice cracked as he turned over the label, staring with a shaking hand at handwriting which looked exactly like his own. "And it shares the name my father gave me. The name no one, but myself and one other, knew before yesterday."
no subject
But it was a dash. It reminded him that he was Solomon Wreath, and he didn't particularly like being laughed at. It reminded him that all these events were as alien and nonsensical to Father O'Reilly as the Church was to Solomon.
The priest's offer of aid came too quickly for Solomon to move much beyond that. The matter-of-factness of the mortal's actions--as if he'd done this before, frequently, for others--somehow helped even more. Calming. No need to think. With a deep breath Solomon managed to prop himself up a bit higher, even slanted as the bed was, and drank without shame. There was no place for pride when possessed of such injuries and potential insanity; if he'd ever thought so, that foolishness was gone. And it gave him the chance to pull in, to bring himself under some veneer of control.
At least he felt better in control now, even though sitting up, and then down again, even that little made his knee throb and his body complain. It also made the teddy-bear tilt over, falling onto his lap and staring at him with its tiny button eyes.
For a moment Solomon stared back, his throat and chest tight but feeling less as if he was about to crumble. Well. A little less.
"You don't believe me," he said, and his voice was rough, but controlled. Mostly. He reached out with a shaking hand to pick up the bear. It was amazingly soft. Softer than he thought it would be.
God had asked Valkyrie to give this to him. God, Himself.
For a moment the sorcerer's expression flickered, verging on that shattered controlled once again. "I wouldn't believe me either. I would have thought it a dream. Except that He was with someone whom I know, and my own student delivered it into my hands on His behalf, and ..."
His voice cracked as he turned over the label, staring with a shaking hand at handwriting which looked exactly like his own. "And it shares the name my father gave me. The name no one, but myself and one other, knew before yesterday."
Him, Skulduggery ... and God.