Of course. Tenebrae, all three of the men before him, in fact, had been born and raised in the Temple. There were faint elements of the Christian faith they might recognise--but not these. Solomon didn't answer immediately; he only breathed.
He didn't search for the words. They came to him from the wellspring of memories, the ones close-by now they were unshrouded by bitterness. The ones drawn by his father's soul, the ones Solomon held close and could actually view, now, without shame. "So Pilate took Jesus and scourged him," he murmured, his tone the cadence of a quote. "And the soldiers twisted a crown of thorns and put it on His head, and they put him in a purple robe. Then they said 'Hail, King of the Jews!' And they struck Him with their hands."
It was a quote and yet Solomon knew it would explain nothing. Nor was he inclined to do so beyond that. These men didn't know anything about the Christian faith. They would never understand what it meant, for him to bear this wounds, and why he bore them now after that harrowing.
Except ... Solomon opened his eyes, and while he didn't dare look at Quiver--because he was the only one here who had any light at all, and if Tenebrae knew that it would be dangerous for the man--he took in the slow waft of the lifestream around him. "The injuries not caused by the tender embrace of the stone floor," he said sardonically, but tiredly, "are the same marks Christ Jesus bore when He was crucified. You may have heard of Him." This last was added almost in afterthought, and even more deeply sarcastic. "The Son of God."
Something stirred. A shock, like a pebble dropped in a murky pool, shaking up the grime. Heard and registered. A faint smile cross Solomon's face and he closed his eyes again.
His mind was starting to speed up, now he wasn't busy adjusting to this new dual-sight, now he wasn't feeling out the confines of his exhausted body. It was still sluggish, because he had to consciously turn the pieces over one by one. Medical ward. Given how he was strapped down, there had to be more to it than just tending his injuries. Which meant it was something to do with his withdrawal, with this new talent of his, with--
The penny dropped and all the blood drained from Solomon's face. His breath caught with the weight of the stone in his belly, such an electrifying bolt of adrenaline running through him that he tensed up and knew it would be impossible to relax. He took a moment to exhale and then inhale slowly. He couldn't keep it from being slightly shaken.
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He didn't search for the words. They came to him from the wellspring of memories, the ones close-by now they were unshrouded by bitterness. The ones drawn by his father's soul, the ones Solomon held close and could actually view, now, without shame. "So Pilate took Jesus and scourged him," he murmured, his tone the cadence of a quote. "And the soldiers twisted a crown of thorns and put it on His head, and they put him in a purple robe. Then they said 'Hail, King of the Jews!' And they struck Him with their hands."
It was a quote and yet Solomon knew it would explain nothing. Nor was he inclined to do so beyond that. These men didn't know anything about the Christian faith. They would never understand what it meant, for him to bear this wounds, and why he bore them now after that harrowing.
Except ... Solomon opened his eyes, and while he didn't dare look at Quiver--because he was the only one here who had any light at all, and if Tenebrae knew that it would be dangerous for the man--he took in the slow waft of the lifestream around him. "The injuries not caused by the tender embrace of the stone floor," he said sardonically, but tiredly, "are the same marks Christ Jesus bore when He was crucified. You may have heard of Him." This last was added almost in afterthought, and even more deeply sarcastic. "The Son of God."
Something stirred. A shock, like a pebble dropped in a murky pool, shaking up the grime. Heard and registered. A faint smile cross Solomon's face and he closed his eyes again.
His mind was starting to speed up, now he wasn't busy adjusting to this new dual-sight, now he wasn't feeling out the confines of his exhausted body. It was still sluggish, because he had to consciously turn the pieces over one by one. Medical ward. Given how he was strapped down, there had to be more to it than just tending his injuries. Which meant it was something to do with his withdrawal, with this new talent of his, with--
The penny dropped and all the blood drained from Solomon's face. His breath caught with the weight of the stone in his belly, such an electrifying bolt of adrenaline running through him that he tensed up and knew it would be impossible to relax. He took a moment to exhale and then inhale slowly. He couldn't keep it from being slightly shaken.
His next exhale carried with it a sound. "Ah."