"Of course I'm practically helpless," Solomon said, his voice as soft as before. He was going to fall asleep no matter what, very soon. His body and soul had been through a wringer, and it felt as if Saint Raphael's presence was drawing off everything uncomfortable that would have nudged Solomon awake. "I've been awake and in pain for the last twenty-four hours."
"Besides," Saint Gabriel said with a smile from where he still stood beside Skulduggery. Solomon finally dragged his gaze away from Saint Raphael toward the other Archangel, and if he could he would have blinked at the sight that met him. It was blurry, but very definitely recognisable as Saint Gabriel's wing curled around Skulduggery's rainbow soul.
It was strangely adorable.
"Metaphysical Sight is only the tip of the iceberg, Valkyrie. He can see the lifestream. Most people have no understanding of it at all, but once he's learned it well enough, he ought to be able to manipulate it in some fashion. His magic has to go somewhere. His new Sight will just make for a conduit."
"Yeah, sorry about that, man." Saint Raphael grinned down at him and Solomon looked back. "You don't get to become an old fogey that quick."
"Heaven forbid," Solomon murmured drowsily with a faint smirk. He was aware of Kenspeckle's hands on him, of a faint ... tingle, he supposed, was the nearest description. It was visible but not at the same time. Like static electricity. Kenspeckle's magic.
"The concussion and your scraped fingers are treatable," the professor informed him. This close, Solomon could see the darting bolts in his soul; they seemed to come more quickly, but not land, and a moment later Kenspeckle's voice came out confused. "It's these rest I'm not sure about. They weren't caused by Necromancy, but they're resistant to healing."
"Stigmata," Solomon said. "The marks Christ bore when he was crucified."
"Not even I could heal those, Kenspeckle," Saint Raphael said softly. His voice wasn't like Saint Gabriel's. It didn't leave ripples, didn't affect everything around it; but it still seemed to knell like a huge, pleasantly resonant drum. "Those wounds, borne truly, are a mark of the saved. They're tied more to soul than body. I wouldn't heal them even if I could. Y'know." Solomon saw him grin over at Skulduggery. "For sentimental reasons."
There was a very long pause. Then: "Oh. I'd better leave them alone, then, shall I?"
Solomon was still laughing quietly when he finally dipped properly into true sleep, guided by the gentle, warm hand on his forehead.
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"Besides," Saint Gabriel said with a smile from where he still stood beside Skulduggery. Solomon finally dragged his gaze away from Saint Raphael toward the other Archangel, and if he could he would have blinked at the sight that met him. It was blurry, but very definitely recognisable as Saint Gabriel's wing curled around Skulduggery's rainbow soul.
It was strangely adorable.
"Metaphysical Sight is only the tip of the iceberg, Valkyrie. He can see the lifestream. Most people have no understanding of it at all, but once he's learned it well enough, he ought to be able to manipulate it in some fashion. His magic has to go somewhere. His new Sight will just make for a conduit."
"Yeah, sorry about that, man." Saint Raphael grinned down at him and Solomon looked back. "You don't get to become an old fogey that quick."
"Heaven forbid," Solomon murmured drowsily with a faint smirk. He was aware of Kenspeckle's hands on him, of a faint ... tingle, he supposed, was the nearest description. It was visible but not at the same time. Like static electricity. Kenspeckle's magic.
"The concussion and your scraped fingers are treatable," the professor informed him. This close, Solomon could see the darting bolts in his soul; they seemed to come more quickly, but not land, and a moment later Kenspeckle's voice came out confused. "It's these rest I'm not sure about. They weren't caused by Necromancy, but they're resistant to healing."
"Stigmata," Solomon said. "The marks Christ bore when he was crucified."
"Not even I could heal those, Kenspeckle," Saint Raphael said softly. His voice wasn't like Saint Gabriel's. It didn't leave ripples, didn't affect everything around it; but it still seemed to knell like a huge, pleasantly resonant drum. "Those wounds, borne truly, are a mark of the saved. They're tied more to soul than body. I wouldn't heal them even if I could. Y'know." Solomon saw him grin over at Skulduggery. "For sentimental reasons."
There was a very long pause. Then: "Oh. I'd better leave them alone, then, shall I?"
Solomon was still laughing quietly when he finally dipped properly into true sleep, guided by the gentle, warm hand on his forehead.