No. Tenebrae could say what he liked. Solomon was what he was because of the Temple, but that didn't mean he had to remain a part of it. He couldn't. He wouldn't.
He couldn't muster the air or the strength to answer before Tenebrae had kept speaking. He breathed, not slowly but more controlled, bringing his shaking body back under some semblance of control. Enough that he could at least speak. Enough that the radiating shriek in the walls, the utterly unmoving stone of Tenebrae's soul, didn't make his stomach rise.
They weren't going away. He couldn't close his eye; he couldn't make that vibrating colour go away. It was too blurry for him to see Cirurgie, or Quiver more than the faint spark, but Tenebrae's sheer lack of movement was enough of an antithesis. Him, Solomon could see. His words, Solomon heard. They rang in his mind alongside the pain and the Scream.
"I'm willing to stop here, as long as you're willing to answer some of our questions. What do you think?"
Despite everything, Solomon let out a short, broken bark of laughter. "I think--you'll stop at nothing to--finish what you've started. I think the most--I can expect from you--is to endure the rest without pain."
A breath, still ragged, but deeper and more controlled. And then another. Something was sinking into him, a weight of knowledge that closed his throat and tightened his gut. He was going to lose his eyes. Both of them. There was no question about it. Tenebrae wanted a tool, and he was going to try and make it Solomon. The only question was how much pain Solomon wanted to endure to that eventuality.
He didn't. The thought of having to go through that again--it made his next inhale catch with a half-sob. No, he couldn't do that. It would break him.
The words were on his lips. 'What do you want to know?'
They died before they gained sound.
"What do you want from me?"
"What do you want, Solomon?"
Solomon's breath hitched and he went still, an odd sort of still aside from his breathing. Even his trembles eased.
What would happen if he stopped here? If he gave in now, agreed to talk? Tenebrae would want to know about Saint Gabriel. That was one thing Solomon couldn't do. Not because he thought he would be punished for it--because he knew he wouldn't be. Because Saint Gabriel would forgive him, and then Solomon would have to live the rest of his life with the guilt of knowing he'd betrayed a being who had freed him in the first place.
And he was free. He was free, because he had a choice. Tenebrae, unknowingly, was giving him that choice. To submit, once more, to the institution to which Solomon had given his life and soul. Or to endure--or die--and know he had done all he could, that he had lived in a manner befitting those beings who, for whatever reason, saw something worthy in him.
"It isn't over yet, but the steps you've taken are steps for which very few have any strength."
For the first time in his life since his father, Solomon had someone he truly did not want to disappoint. To the point, this point, of throwing himself to the wolves as he hadn't been able to do even for Skulduggery Pleasant.
What do I want?
I want to be a man of whom my fathers can be proud.
Something shifted in him. Not a physical thing, exactly--a mental thing which caused a very real and physical change. He exhaled and it was shaky but loose; his throat opened up and the tears that came then felt like relief. The adrenaline ebbed, some of the tension coiled in his body unwinding.
He could betray Saint Gabriel. But he wouldn't. Because he didn't want to. Because even if he said so and then went back on his word, he would be forever enslaved to Tenebrae, to the Temple, to his own guilt. To the knowledge that he had given up the only thing right now worth having.
Even if he broke, at least he still had that.
"If your right eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away." His voice was quiet and hoarse, but accepting in a way that wasn't mere resignation. Strong. "It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell."
He lifted his head, breathing still regulated, and smiled. A faint smile. A knowing smile. The smile of a man who knew precisely what he was going to endure, and moreover, that it was his choice. "I think you're a fool, Tenebrae. You're a fool and I ... actually pity you for it."
no subject
No. Tenebrae could say what he liked. Solomon was what he was because of the Temple, but that didn't mean he had to remain a part of it. He couldn't. He wouldn't.
He couldn't muster the air or the strength to answer before Tenebrae had kept speaking. He breathed, not slowly but more controlled, bringing his shaking body back under some semblance of control. Enough that he could at least speak. Enough that the radiating shriek in the walls, the utterly unmoving stone of Tenebrae's soul, didn't make his stomach rise.
They weren't going away. He couldn't close his eye; he couldn't make that vibrating colour go away. It was too blurry for him to see Cirurgie, or Quiver more than the faint spark, but Tenebrae's sheer lack of movement was enough of an antithesis. Him, Solomon could see. His words, Solomon heard. They rang in his mind alongside the pain and the Scream.
"I'm willing to stop here, as long as you're willing to answer some of our questions. What do you think?"
Despite everything, Solomon let out a short, broken bark of laughter. "I think--you'll stop at nothing to--finish what you've started. I think the most--I can expect from you--is to endure the rest without pain."
A breath, still ragged, but deeper and more controlled. And then another. Something was sinking into him, a weight of knowledge that closed his throat and tightened his gut. He was going to lose his eyes. Both of them. There was no question about it. Tenebrae wanted a tool, and he was going to try and make it Solomon. The only question was how much pain Solomon wanted to endure to that eventuality.
He didn't. The thought of having to go through that again--it made his next inhale catch with a half-sob. No, he couldn't do that. It would break him.
The words were on his lips. 'What do you want to know?'
They died before they gained sound.
"What do you want from me?"
"What do you want, Solomon?"
Solomon's breath hitched and he went still, an odd sort of still aside from his breathing. Even his trembles eased.
What would happen if he stopped here? If he gave in now, agreed to talk? Tenebrae would want to know about Saint Gabriel. That was one thing Solomon couldn't do. Not because he thought he would be punished for it--because he knew he wouldn't be. Because Saint Gabriel would forgive him, and then Solomon would have to live the rest of his life with the guilt of knowing he'd betrayed a being who had freed him in the first place.
And he was free. He was free, because he had a choice. Tenebrae, unknowingly, was giving him that choice. To submit, once more, to the institution to which Solomon had given his life and soul. Or to endure--or die--and know he had done all he could, that he had lived in a manner befitting those beings who, for whatever reason, saw something worthy in him.
"It isn't over yet, but the steps you've taken are steps for which very few have any strength."
For the first time in his life since his father, Solomon had someone he truly did not want to disappoint. To the point, this point, of throwing himself to the wolves as he hadn't been able to do even for Skulduggery Pleasant.
What do I want?
I want to be a man of whom my fathers can be proud.
Something shifted in him. Not a physical thing, exactly--a mental thing which caused a very real and physical change. He exhaled and it was shaky but loose; his throat opened up and the tears that came then felt like relief. The adrenaline ebbed, some of the tension coiled in his body unwinding.
He could betray Saint Gabriel. But he wouldn't. Because he didn't want to. Because even if he said so and then went back on his word, he would be forever enslaved to Tenebrae, to the Temple, to his own guilt. To the knowledge that he had given up the only thing right now worth having.
Even if he broke, at least he still had that.
"If your right eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away." His voice was quiet and hoarse, but accepting in a way that wasn't mere resignation. Strong. "It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell."
He lifted his head, breathing still regulated, and smiled. A faint smile. A knowing smile. The smile of a man who knew precisely what he was going to endure, and moreover, that it was his choice. "I think you're a fool, Tenebrae. You're a fool and I ... actually pity you for it."