It was difficult not to feel some kind of petty amusement as the meeting broke up and Tipstaff was clearly at a loss as to how to accommodate a blind Elder. For one, Solomon couldn't read the Elder Journals, and Tipstaff had stopped mid-sentence, half flustered, at the realisation that no, Solomon could not pick his copies up from the Sanctuary.

Then again, Solomon suspected the main reason why the man had kindly suggested he get some rest was because he actually looked like he needed it. The fact that he did was the only reason he didn't feel irritated by the treatment.

Unlike Ravel, Solomon had gone back to the Hibernian and slept right through until about three-thirty in the morning, at which point he'd woken up and been unable to fall back to sleep. Leaving aside his need to find a new place to stay, it now seemed likely the Sanctuary would all but be his new home, which meant he should probably avoid having to run into walls. Which meant scouting the place while blind, and preferably while no one was around.

Which wasn't terribly easy when he was blind, and under fire, and given the last time he'd left the Hibernian Solomon rathered having company. So he wound up wandering down the halls, one hand trailing the wall, and taking a left each time until he'd run into Merlin. Almost literally.

"I beg your pardon," Solomon had murmured. Now that he wasn't delirious and actually had his eyes back, he found it oddly difficult to look at the man. The angels were bright, but in a way that encouraged you to look and be glad. Merlin ... shone. Like sunlight off snow. Solomon squinted and then had to look away.

"Not at all," the other sorcerer said pleasantly. "Can't sleep?"

"Not anymore, at least," Solomon said wryly, palm planted firmly on the wall and body oddly tense. Merlin's soul was overtaking nearly everything else, and made his head ring. "I had thought to go to the Sanctuary early, but of course that means actually leaving the Hibernian."

"Oh, yes; I heard congratulations are in order. Or sympathies, perhaps?" Solomon laughed. "I'm not likely to get any more sleep tonight either. Would you like me to escort you?"

Solomon couldn't help but hesitate. On one hand, it was Merlin. In one way, he was even more unbelievable than the Archangels. The Archangels went beyond disbelief and came full circle; they were acceptable because they were so utterly alien. Merlin was human. That made him just similar enough to make the differences more obvious. It meant Solomon wouldn't need to be afraid of an attack. It meant Solomon had no idea what to say.

It meant the man's soul was leaving a low-level buzz in Solomon's temples.

"I'm still ... adjusting to this method of sight," he said finally, trying to figure out a tactful way to tell Merlin, of all people, that his soul was too bright.

There was a pause, and something flurried across the man's soul which Solomon didn't recognise until Merlin spoke, his tone chagrined. "Oh. That didn't occur to me. Just give me a moment to ward myself."

Which was how Solomon found himself being escorted into the Waxworks Museum by Merlin, his soul not exactly dulled but feeling as though it was a several removes. Like looking in a car-mirror and knowing that although the object looked far away, it was closer than it appeared.

It took them a little while to find the figure of Phil Lynott, but once they had, Solomon discovered what Ravel would several hours later: that apparently he had an automatic key.

"Is that ability able to be copied?" he asked, intrigued, while Merlin examined the doorway.

"No, Elder Wreath," Lynott said patiently. 'Elder Wreath.' That would take some getting used to. "Only you, Elder Ravel, and Grand Mage Deuce have that ability."

Only because the Sanctuary thinks Merlin is a myth, Solomon thought, watching the man's soul gleam with interest in the challenge. Solomon couldn't see the sigils, but he saw the way the magic hummed around the doorway, and when Merlin's probing fingers tracing the lintel and touched the wards, Solomon saw brief sparks of magic in them, reflecting off his soul.

"His title's not Grand Mage," Solomon said almost absently. "It's Crossward Puzzler Extraordinaire." Merlin's soul rippled, glittering like the sun on river-water, and Solomon heard the scrape of his shoe as the man turned. The ex-Necromancer lifted his eyebrows innocently. "I heard him say so myself at the meeting last night."

The warmth of amusement made the ice mist over.

"Of course, Elder Wreath. I will make amends to my vocabulary."

"Shall we?" Solomon asked Merlin, and then added dryly, "I'll have Tipstaff make you a visitor's badge, if that makes you feel better."

That same flurry of chagrin ran across the man's soul, this time accompanied by amusement. "Of course. My apologies."

By that time it was getting close to five, but Merlin and Solomon still had time to walk through the Sanctuary, letting the newly-elected Elder familiarise himself with the place blind. There were some others around, but only one or two--the sort who were workaholics or crawlers trying to gain brownie points. Tipstaff was one of them, understandably. None of them had been expecting an Elder to show up at this time of morning.

The thing Solomon hadn't been expecting, however--the thing that made him stop short at the bottom of the stairs and pale--were the Cleavers. Exactly how the Cleavers were made wasn't well-known. Solomon still didn't know the details. But he knew more, now, about what they were than he ever wanted.

They were reflections. Each and every one of them, somehow copied far beyond any reflection should be; hollow and empty, rebounding the magic around them as if they were empty pits. There was a soul there, somewhere--deep, deep inside that maze of never-ending mirrors. Solomon felt like it was a soul he should know, except it was so distorted and distant, and he was so new to the Sight, that he couldn't tell who had been the original just on familiarity alone.

A little logic gave him a suspicion, though.

A little logic gave him chills.

Merlin's hand squeezed his shoulder. "Solomon?"

"Yes," he said, and sounded shaken. He stared at one of the Cleavers and felt it staring back. When he looked into it, he saw gold, and hastily glanced away. He didn't want to know if he could see himself in that abyss. "I need to find my office."

"Of course."

It was, frankly, a relief to have walked the Sanctuary and not have to pass the Cleavers anymore. To go to an office he could sit for a while and remain. He wasn't going to enjoy having to pass ... those every day. Of course, by then more people had arrived, including Deuce, which meant Tipstaff had found them and suggested the newly-elected Council should probably discuss how to go about holding Ireland together in the Grand Mage's office.

Deuce, annoyingly, had shown barely a reaction to being introduced to Merlin (under, Solomon was startled and amused to discover, the pseudonym of Solomon). "Oh, yes, I heard you were around," were the man's exact words; his soul had been turned inward. Focussed, to the point that even being introduced to a legendary sorcerer hadn't broken his weary resignation. "Go ahead and look around the Sanctuary. Tipstaff, visitor's badge."

"Of course, Grand Mage."

Solomon waited until the man had left before inclining his head at Merlin. "Thank you for you company."

"And yours," Merlin said, genuine warmth in his tone. "You're an interesting man, Solomon Wreath. Now, I believe I might take a closer look at those wards at the entrance, and I suppose I should find a reprobate angel at some point during the day."

Corrival had snorted. Solomon had laughed. Merlin, soul swirling amusement, had left.

And then they had been left to wait for Ravel to arrive. Solomon had groped his way to a chair, taken a seat, and listened as Corrival read some recent reports out loud, complete with peanut gallery comments. (The ex-Necromancer, of course, embellished with his own on occasion.)