"That much is ob--Pleasant?!" Kenspeckle cut off mid-word to stare at Skulduggery, and in spite of everything, Rafe found himself wearing a faint smile. Hey, it was funny. The professor was so genuinely nonplussed that it took him a few moments to shake his head and decide to ignore Skulduggery's ... well, face.
"Never mind. Wreath's choice of magic is deplorable, but after only two days with the man I can say with confidence that he won't be convinced easily. If he's as used to pain as you say, I'd be more worried about his mental health after they've broken him. That," this last was added with asperity, "is not within my purview, for the record."
"It doesn't have to be," Gabriel said as he came in through the door, moving with urgency but less speed than Raphael had been able to manage. His face was tight and his eyes oddly shiny, though, and when Raphael turned Gabe met his gaze and let him see the prayer that had rung through him just before he entered.
'Gabriel. I'm at the Temple. I'd like to come home now, if you don't mind.'
Michael was the one with the steady nerves. Gabe was the one prone to anxiety. Raphael fell somewhere in the middle. He could let things slide off his back, but sometimes things, things which seemed minor to anyone but an angel, could throw him. Like the reflection of Solomon in those words. Tired beyond tired. Injured in ways very few deserved. Yet echoing with acceptance, with a kind of rising amazement and wonder. Badly hurt, yes, but in a way that sloughed off all the metaphysical grime; in a way which revealed the measure of a man's greatness or weakness, to himself and to others.
A way which allowed a man to see their Lord's graciousness for what it was.
It was but an echo and yet it rocked Raphael into momentary speechlessness. That sort of righteousness, that sort of world-changing revelation--it happened. It happened, but infrequently, and it was always stunning when it did, because when true mortals touched divinity like that it was indescribably glorious. A soul cleansed by fire, hurting but healing, in awe of their own selves and what they had seen of the Creator.
"Skul," Gabe said, turning toward the detective, "you need to call Fletcher. And whoever else wants to come, but I need Fletcher. Solomon just prayed to me. He's at the Temple, and I'm going to get him."
The last sentence was said calmly and matter-of-factly, as if there was no other course of action. Except, Rafe noticed with quiet displeasure, Gabe had said 'I'.
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"Never mind. Wreath's choice of magic is deplorable, but after only two days with the man I can say with confidence that he won't be convinced easily. If he's as used to pain as you say, I'd be more worried about his mental health after they've broken him. That," this last was added with asperity, "is not within my purview, for the record."
"It doesn't have to be," Gabriel said as he came in through the door, moving with urgency but less speed than Raphael had been able to manage. His face was tight and his eyes oddly shiny, though, and when Raphael turned Gabe met his gaze and let him see the prayer that had rung through him just before he entered.
'Gabriel. I'm at the Temple. I'd like to come home now, if you don't mind.'
Michael was the one with the steady nerves. Gabe was the one prone to anxiety. Raphael fell somewhere in the middle. He could let things slide off his back, but sometimes things, things which seemed minor to anyone but an angel, could throw him. Like the reflection of Solomon in those words. Tired beyond tired. Injured in ways very few deserved. Yet echoing with acceptance, with a kind of rising amazement and wonder. Badly hurt, yes, but in a way that sloughed off all the metaphysical grime; in a way which revealed the measure of a man's greatness or weakness, to himself and to others.
A way which allowed a man to see their Lord's graciousness for what it was.
It was but an echo and yet it rocked Raphael into momentary speechlessness. That sort of righteousness, that sort of world-changing revelation--it happened. It happened, but infrequently, and it was always stunning when it did, because when true mortals touched divinity like that it was indescribably glorious. A soul cleansed by fire, hurting but healing, in awe of their own selves and what they had seen of the Creator.
"Skul," Gabe said, turning toward the detective, "you need to call Fletcher. And whoever else wants to come, but I need Fletcher. Solomon just prayed to me. He's at the Temple, and I'm going to get him."
The last sentence was said calmly and matter-of-factly, as if there was no other course of action. Except, Rafe noticed with quiet displeasure, Gabe had said 'I'.