Many recent things were a blur. If Solomon thought on them deeply enough, he could remember details. He could remember just how much his body had hurt. Just how much his head had rung with the Scream. Just how Tenebrae's soul had chipped, truly chipped, with surprise and self-doubt. Solomon's words hadn't done it, but his laughter had. It wasn't doubt, exactly, but Tenebrae had been unnerved, significantly enough to leave a mark on him. Solomon wasn't surprised, really. He had always viewed heroes with a faint disdain himself. Couldn't understand what could be so important to throw away one's life.
Fight, certainly. Solomon had considered fighting the Faceless Ones important--yet even that was to perpetuate his ultimate goal to begin with. No Necromancer could understand what glory there was in the simple measure of integrity. Just as Solomon hadn't. Until now.
And seeing it, seeing him turn so completely, had chipped Tenebrae's obsidian soul.
Solomon couldn't help but find some measure of satisfaction in that, although it certainly wasn't his predominant feeling in the aftermath of what Cirurgie generously called 'surgery'. No, most of what he felt was some cross between absolute exhaustion and peace. He'd never felt that before. Not like this. He'd had a taste of it, before the barrel, just after he'd cast aside his cane. But this? This was ... not overwhelming. Not overwhelming because that implied something Solomon might object to.
It was all-encompassing. He wasn't afraid. At all. Not of what might come next. Not of the Scream-lit darkness. Not of the hands on him that released the restraints, or the hard soul before him, or the knowledge that he was even more helpless than he had been before he'd been captured. None of it mattered.
If he died in the next hour, it wouldn't matter. What Solomon existed in now was a quiet, tranquil knowledge. Where he'd been. Where he'd come. Where he was now. That what was in a soul was so, so much more important than anything else could possibly be. Tenebrae could do nothing to him now. It was strange, how the loss of his eyes had made Solomon's metaphysical vision at once so blurry and so liberating. If he focussed on it, it would make him feel sick, but when he didn't, he felt ... vindicated. His physical body didn't seem to matter much at all.
He just observed it quietly, resting in the dull pain of his own soul that told him of his well-earned exertion.
The hands on him, the ones sponging off the blood that hadn't quite congealed, faltered. He heard a distant footstep, a familiar voice he didn't care to identify. "What is it?"
"He's ... smiling."
A pause, and the first voice came shaken and wondering. "He has no eyes. The High Priest is furious. Why is he smiling?"
"Maybe he's insane." The second voice again, hushed, unsure. "I heard the High Priest had him tortured all night."
"I heard the same thing, but it can't be true. This is Solomon Wreath. He's one of the High Priest's closest advisers. Why would he be tortured?"
"Maybe it has something to do with the mission they said he was on. Maybe that's why he's smiling. I mean, this has to be something they planned, right?"
Despite himself, Solomon laughed, soft but with ringing amusement. "No, not really."
His voice was scratchy. He marvelled at the sensation. Everything seemed so new, almost delightful. Even the pain. Strange, how that would be. He was alive. He was alive, and he didn't fear death or pain.
Glorious.
He sensed more than heard the pair of nurses jump. One of them squeaked. Solomon turned his head toward the glow in the lifestream that made them. Not lost yet, either of them. "You're healers, aren't you? True healers, not like that idiot Cirurgie."
"Er--"
"Ask yourself, next time you have to examine a body brought into the Temple, where its soul has gone. And where yours might go if you die in the Temple's service."
They were unnerved. Very unnerved, too much so to really pay his words any mind, but they would settle. Maybe they'd remember. Maybe they'd think on them. It was enough. Solomon didn't speak again, but neither did the nurses; he let himself lose track of time as they cleaned him up and changed his bandages, then his clothes. Loose pants, a loose button-up shirt. Undignified, in any other circumstance. Comfortable on his wounds, in this one. He was distantly aware of it all, more aware than he had been when they'd brought him in, but content with this quiet contemplation of his surroundings.
The nurses helped him into a wheelchair--moved him almost bodily, really--and took him through the passages to a room. They used hallways little-walked by most others. Avoiding more rumours, probably. Solomon wasn't sure whether to expect another cell or not, but he wasn't entirely surprised, when they came to a room, to take in a deep breath and smell the pine of his own quarters.
It sounded empty. Felt empty. Smelled empty, actually. Usually he had some pinewood in the fire. The smoke was there enough for him to scent, but he doubted he would have been able to if he'd still had all his senses. The wood itself was gone, the smoke just a residue.
Of course. They'd probably taken all his belongings, had them neatly catalogued while tutting over how many he'd had. A brief smirk crossed his lips. He never had quite let go of his creature comforts. Faith didn't demand that, after all.
The nurses helped him out to sit on his bed. He was so rubbery-limbed it was almost impossible, and he moved like a very old man to avoid exacerbating his injuries. His bed felt divinely comfortable even without the soft blanket he'd always used. The nurses left. Almost laughing at their haste, Solomon slid a stinging hand up the covers to feel for his pillow.
His grazed fingers fell on fur. Soft fur, still hot from the dryer. (This deep underground, there was no other way to clean clothes. Who was going to put things out on a line in a graveyard? Ruin the look of their backyard, it would.)
Quiver had kept his promise. With another laugh that was mixed with tears of something Solomon couldn't define--something that could have been hope or joy or gratitude or simple relief--the sorcerer pulled Kian closer. He almost fancied the bear took the edge of pain away. Or helped clear his mind, perhaps. He wasn't sure whether the thought came from. Whether it was a vestige of his subconscious providing him with something he really should have done much, much earlier, now with the chance to break through to his conscious mind.
Or maybe it came from the bear himself. It didn't really matter, at this point. His breath catching with emotion, not even caring at the fact there was probably a camera in the room, Solomon Wreath lowered himself properly onto his bed, pulling up his feet and curling loosely around the bear in his arms.
And he prayed.
'Gabriel, I'm at the Temple. I'd like to come home now, if you don't mind.'
no subject
Fight, certainly. Solomon had considered fighting the Faceless Ones important--yet even that was to perpetuate his ultimate goal to begin with. No Necromancer could understand what glory there was in the simple measure of integrity. Just as Solomon hadn't. Until now.
And seeing it, seeing him turn so completely, had chipped Tenebrae's obsidian soul.
Solomon couldn't help but find some measure of satisfaction in that, although it certainly wasn't his predominant feeling in the aftermath of what Cirurgie generously called 'surgery'. No, most of what he felt was some cross between absolute exhaustion and peace. He'd never felt that before. Not like this. He'd had a taste of it, before the barrel, just after he'd cast aside his cane. But this? This was ... not overwhelming. Not overwhelming because that implied something Solomon might object to.
It was all-encompassing. He wasn't afraid. At all. Not of what might come next. Not of the Scream-lit darkness. Not of the hands on him that released the restraints, or the hard soul before him, or the knowledge that he was even more helpless than he had been before he'd been captured. None of it mattered.
If he died in the next hour, it wouldn't matter. What Solomon existed in now was a quiet, tranquil knowledge. Where he'd been. Where he'd come. Where he was now. That what was in a soul was so, so much more important than anything else could possibly be. Tenebrae could do nothing to him now. It was strange, how the loss of his eyes had made Solomon's metaphysical vision at once so blurry and so liberating. If he focussed on it, it would make him feel sick, but when he didn't, he felt ... vindicated. His physical body didn't seem to matter much at all.
He just observed it quietly, resting in the dull pain of his own soul that told him of his well-earned exertion.
The hands on him, the ones sponging off the blood that hadn't quite congealed, faltered. He heard a distant footstep, a familiar voice he didn't care to identify. "What is it?"
"He's ... smiling."
A pause, and the first voice came shaken and wondering. "He has no eyes. The High Priest is furious. Why is he smiling?"
"Maybe he's insane." The second voice again, hushed, unsure. "I heard the High Priest had him tortured all night."
"I heard the same thing, but it can't be true. This is Solomon Wreath. He's one of the High Priest's closest advisers. Why would he be tortured?"
"Maybe it has something to do with the mission they said he was on. Maybe that's why he's smiling. I mean, this has to be something they planned, right?"
Despite himself, Solomon laughed, soft but with ringing amusement. "No, not really."
His voice was scratchy. He marvelled at the sensation. Everything seemed so new, almost delightful. Even the pain. Strange, how that would be. He was alive. He was alive, and he didn't fear death or pain.
Glorious.
He sensed more than heard the pair of nurses jump. One of them squeaked. Solomon turned his head toward the glow in the lifestream that made them. Not lost yet, either of them. "You're healers, aren't you? True healers, not like that idiot Cirurgie."
"Er--"
"Ask yourself, next time you have to examine a body brought into the Temple, where its soul has gone. And where yours might go if you die in the Temple's service."
They were unnerved. Very unnerved, too much so to really pay his words any mind, but they would settle. Maybe they'd remember. Maybe they'd think on them. It was enough. Solomon didn't speak again, but neither did the nurses; he let himself lose track of time as they cleaned him up and changed his bandages, then his clothes. Loose pants, a loose button-up shirt. Undignified, in any other circumstance. Comfortable on his wounds, in this one. He was distantly aware of it all, more aware than he had been when they'd brought him in, but content with this quiet contemplation of his surroundings.
The nurses helped him into a wheelchair--moved him almost bodily, really--and took him through the passages to a room. They used hallways little-walked by most others. Avoiding more rumours, probably. Solomon wasn't sure whether to expect another cell or not, but he wasn't entirely surprised, when they came to a room, to take in a deep breath and smell the pine of his own quarters.
It sounded empty. Felt empty. Smelled empty, actually. Usually he had some pinewood in the fire. The smoke was there enough for him to scent, but he doubted he would have been able to if he'd still had all his senses. The wood itself was gone, the smoke just a residue.
Of course. They'd probably taken all his belongings, had them neatly catalogued while tutting over how many he'd had. A brief smirk crossed his lips. He never had quite let go of his creature comforts. Faith didn't demand that, after all.
The nurses helped him out to sit on his bed. He was so rubbery-limbed it was almost impossible, and he moved like a very old man to avoid exacerbating his injuries. His bed felt divinely comfortable even without the soft blanket he'd always used. The nurses left. Almost laughing at their haste, Solomon slid a stinging hand up the covers to feel for his pillow.
His grazed fingers fell on fur. Soft fur, still hot from the dryer. (This deep underground, there was no other way to clean clothes. Who was going to put things out on a line in a graveyard? Ruin the look of their backyard, it would.)
Quiver had kept his promise. With another laugh that was mixed with tears of something Solomon couldn't define--something that could have been hope or joy or gratitude or simple relief--the sorcerer pulled Kian closer. He almost fancied the bear took the edge of pain away. Or helped clear his mind, perhaps. He wasn't sure whether the thought came from. Whether it was a vestige of his subconscious providing him with something he really should have done much, much earlier, now with the chance to break through to his conscious mind.
Or maybe it came from the bear himself. It didn't really matter, at this point. His breath catching with emotion, not even caring at the fact there was probably a camera in the room, Solomon Wreath lowered himself properly onto his bed, pulling up his feet and curling loosely around the bear in his arms.
And he prayed.
'Gabriel, I'm at the Temple. I'd like to come home now, if you don't mind.'