Nathanial was aware of the High Priest's interest. It wasn't that the man said anything, or even really moved, but there was a keen interest in his bearing, an intensity. Nathanial ignored him as best as he could.
"Who is screaming, Solomon?" he asked, because that was the part Solomon had repeated, more than once, but hadn't explained. It took a minute or two for an answer to come.
"Souls," Solomon breathed, and then something seemed to turn in him. A realisation, almost, an intent. He opened his eyes again and looked at Nathanial, really looked at him and saw him, instead of just seeing through him as he had before. It was at once better and worse, especially since his hand lifted to grip Nathanial's robes. It was weak, or should have been, but there was an odd, trembling urgency to it. Nathanial couldn't even fight it; he was too hypnotised by Solomon's eyes.
"Souls screaming in our magic, Quiver," Solomon whispered in a voice so cracked that Nathanial wasn't sure even Tenebrae would be able to hear. "Our magic makes them scream. The lifestream--"
He arched and his grip tightened, dragging on Nathanial's clothes; he drew in a sharp breath, but his gaze didn't waver. "--it hurts--"
He wasn't talking about himself, Nathanial realised abruptly with a chill so intense that he broke out in a cold sweat. Or maybe he was, but only in a reflection. In terms of what he felt from something else. From the lifestream.
"I see," he said after a moment to gather himself, but evenly. Solomon laughed, a short, broken laugh as he turned his head away.
"N- no, you can't. I- if you could, you--would prefer--anything else--to what we have." He shook under Nathanial's hands, the silence punctuated with short gasps. Nathanial let him recover marginally, remained leaned over to hide the drum of urgency in the pound of his heart, the one he wasn't sure he had hidden in his eyes. Just a moment or two, to make sure it was.
"Is that why you're doing this to yourself?" he asked when the time seemed right. "You feel the pain, Solomon. Would it not be easier to return to the Temple?"
It was reasonable. What Solomon was enduring now seemed to be a reflection of what he was seeing, on top of the withdrawal itself. Nathanial had to wonder--would the others, if they'd come this far, have seen the things Solomon was seeing, or was there another catalyst which had spurred this Sight on?
"No." The certainty, the firmness, in Solomon's voice surprised him. The lucid clarity in his eyes, when he opened them a moment later, was flooring. His words, soft and clear and slow, as if Solomon was putting effort into making them so. "I would rather endure this and die free than die in the service of my magic and be consumed by it forever."
For some moments Nathanial couldn't say anything at all. Something in Solomon's face and eyes, before he was taken yet again, shook Nathanial to the core, made his heart pound with adrenaline and sudden awareness of some looming terror. Necromancers didn't use words like 'forever' lightly, given their goals. Yet Solomon Wreath would rather die than use his magic any longer.
Solomon Wreath would rather die. He considered the use of his magic to be an enslavement.
"What happens when a Necromancer dies 'in the service of his magic', Solomon?" he asked, managed to keep his voice steady aside from an undercurrent of tension which could have meant anything. The quote was audible. He was aware of Tenebrae's presence by the wall, aware that he was encroaching on a genuine sympathy which would be dangerous for him if Tenebrae suspected it. He needed now, more than ever, to pretend that he was simply playing to Solomon's delusions.
For a long moment Solomon just breathed. Then: "Whose souls do you think power our magic, Nathanial?"
Nathanial froze. His mind, his body; he couldn't move at all as Solomon was gripped by more seizures, his agony pinpointed with exhausted resignation, over and over and again. Nathanial wasn't sure for how long. Occasionally Solomon mumbled, his head jerking, this way and that, his eyes flickering under their lids. Other times he arched in abject agony, releasing a hoarse cry that would have been a scream if he'd had the breath for it.
At once point he huffed something close to an incredulous laugh. "M'not--sparring Vile--" The bout ended and then he was taken by another just as quickly, more powerful than the last, his voice pleading and terrified. "Skulduggery, don't--"
Nathanial watched, waited, his body aching from his stillness and the cold. Every now and then he spoke Solomon's name. The man never answered. Eventually, Nathanial looked up, his dark eyes cool with absolute composure.
"I don't believe we'll get more out of him until his memories have run their course, High Priest."
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"Who is screaming, Solomon?" he asked, because that was the part Solomon had repeated, more than once, but hadn't explained. It took a minute or two for an answer to come.
"Souls," Solomon breathed, and then something seemed to turn in him. A realisation, almost, an intent. He opened his eyes again and looked at Nathanial, really looked at him and saw him, instead of just seeing through him as he had before. It was at once better and worse, especially since his hand lifted to grip Nathanial's robes. It was weak, or should have been, but there was an odd, trembling urgency to it. Nathanial couldn't even fight it; he was too hypnotised by Solomon's eyes.
"Souls screaming in our magic, Quiver," Solomon whispered in a voice so cracked that Nathanial wasn't sure even Tenebrae would be able to hear. "Our magic makes them scream. The lifestream--"
He arched and his grip tightened, dragging on Nathanial's clothes; he drew in a sharp breath, but his gaze didn't waver. "--it hurts--"
He wasn't talking about himself, Nathanial realised abruptly with a chill so intense that he broke out in a cold sweat. Or maybe he was, but only in a reflection. In terms of what he felt from something else. From the lifestream.
"I see," he said after a moment to gather himself, but evenly. Solomon laughed, a short, broken laugh as he turned his head away.
"N- no, you can't. I- if you could, you--would prefer--anything else--to what we have." He shook under Nathanial's hands, the silence punctuated with short gasps. Nathanial let him recover marginally, remained leaned over to hide the drum of urgency in the pound of his heart, the one he wasn't sure he had hidden in his eyes. Just a moment or two, to make sure it was.
"Is that why you're doing this to yourself?" he asked when the time seemed right. "You feel the pain, Solomon. Would it not be easier to return to the Temple?"
It was reasonable. What Solomon was enduring now seemed to be a reflection of what he was seeing, on top of the withdrawal itself. Nathanial had to wonder--would the others, if they'd come this far, have seen the things Solomon was seeing, or was there another catalyst which had spurred this Sight on?
"No." The certainty, the firmness, in Solomon's voice surprised him. The lucid clarity in his eyes, when he opened them a moment later, was flooring. His words, soft and clear and slow, as if Solomon was putting effort into making them so. "I would rather endure this and die free than die in the service of my magic and be consumed by it forever."
For some moments Nathanial couldn't say anything at all. Something in Solomon's face and eyes, before he was taken yet again, shook Nathanial to the core, made his heart pound with adrenaline and sudden awareness of some looming terror. Necromancers didn't use words like 'forever' lightly, given their goals. Yet Solomon Wreath would rather die than use his magic any longer.
Solomon Wreath would rather die. He considered the use of his magic to be an enslavement.
"What happens when a Necromancer dies 'in the service of his magic', Solomon?" he asked, managed to keep his voice steady aside from an undercurrent of tension which could have meant anything. The quote was audible. He was aware of Tenebrae's presence by the wall, aware that he was encroaching on a genuine sympathy which would be dangerous for him if Tenebrae suspected it. He needed now, more than ever, to pretend that he was simply playing to Solomon's delusions.
For a long moment Solomon just breathed. Then: "Whose souls do you think power our magic, Nathanial?"
Nathanial froze. His mind, his body; he couldn't move at all as Solomon was gripped by more seizures, his agony pinpointed with exhausted resignation, over and over and again. Nathanial wasn't sure for how long. Occasionally Solomon mumbled, his head jerking, this way and that, his eyes flickering under their lids. Other times he arched in abject agony, releasing a hoarse cry that would have been a scream if he'd had the breath for it.
At once point he huffed something close to an incredulous laugh. "M'not--sparring Vile--" The bout ended and then he was taken by another just as quickly, more powerful than the last, his voice pleading and terrified. "Skulduggery, don't--"
Nathanial watched, waited, his body aching from his stillness and the cold. Every now and then he spoke Solomon's name. The man never answered. Eventually, Nathanial looked up, his dark eyes cool with absolute composure.
"I don't believe we'll get more out of him until his memories have run their course, High Priest."
Inside, he shivered, and didn't stop.