The oasis of Paddy's soul burst around him, filling the room with lushness. For a long moment Solomon didn't, couldn't, say anything at all. Then, not-quite-abruptly, Gabe stood up and turned to the others, still with his tea in his hand. "Y'all ain't been to a proper church for a while, have you? C'mon and I'll show you around."
It was a blatant excuse to leave Solomon and Paddy alone, even with the genuine enthusiasm in Gabe's being to share a 'proper church', and in that moment Solomon felt a fierce gratitude toward the Archangel. He said nothing, head not precisely bowed, as the others left the room, and even for several moments after that. It wasn't that he had to gear up his nerve, exactly. It was just that ... the others knew. They'd seen the damage. There'd been no need to explain. It was different making jokes and pretending the edges weren't there.
When he did speak, it was sudden. "I was stupid. When I heard about Gabe I needed to do something--anything. I left the Hibernian, and they were waiting for me. They took me back to the Temple."
Solomon couldn't exactly look into his tea, but he did anyway, if only to feel the steam on his face and its warmth, its scent. At least now he'd begun, it was surprisingly easy to close his eyes and pretend he was alone in the room, and just talk. "It turns out that Necromancy is literally addictive. I didn't know. The High Priest and one of my peers did. Being in the Temple made my withdrawal worse. Intensified it. Made it faster, I imagine, but worse than it should have been."
He paused for a moment to gather the words he needed, but not long enough for his mind and nerves to catch up and get in the way. This wasn't an explanation. It was almost a confession. Odd, that he felt comfortable doing so to Paddy and not Skulduggery or Gabe. "I saw things." Simply, quietly. "At first it was just painful, but then I ... saw things. My memories of Necromancy, working backwards from that day, but they were overlaid by the Scream."
Had he mentioned the Scream to Paddy? He couldn't remember; he looked up, not opening his eyes, but at the warmth of green foliage that made Paddy's soul. "Ever since I saw Saint Gabriel, I've been having flashes of his plane of existence. The one which contains the current of life, the souls. Necromancy registers on it as a never-ending Scream. My memories were overlaid with that, right back to the day that my magic settled--the Surge." Something ironic twisted his mouth. "I had to undergo my Surge all over again."
Solomon set his mug down carefully, because he was aware now of how his fingers trembled with adrenaline, and spread his hands palm up on the tabletop. Almost like a beggar. He watched them because he had to, because of how he'd avoided looking at them all this time--because of the open wounds he could see.
"I heard Him," he said softly, and something in his voice was hoarse with this thing he'd been trying hard not to think about, but which he could no longer avoid. "Begging. Giving in. I felt Him die." He laughed softly, a bit wonderingly, a bit apprehensively. "I should have died that day. I would have died that day, but--He was there. Not just ..." His fingers twitched, as if to indicate the scars on his palms. "Himself. The Man who gave me the bear. I could feel His hand on me, when it got too much. He was there."
The part the others didn't know. The part he didn't know how to begin to explain or describe to anyone but this kind mortal priest.
no subject
It was a blatant excuse to leave Solomon and Paddy alone, even with the genuine enthusiasm in Gabe's being to share a 'proper church', and in that moment Solomon felt a fierce gratitude toward the Archangel. He said nothing, head not precisely bowed, as the others left the room, and even for several moments after that. It wasn't that he had to gear up his nerve, exactly. It was just that ... the others knew. They'd seen the damage. There'd been no need to explain. It was different making jokes and pretending the edges weren't there.
When he did speak, it was sudden. "I was stupid. When I heard about Gabe I needed to do something--anything. I left the Hibernian, and they were waiting for me. They took me back to the Temple."
Solomon couldn't exactly look into his tea, but he did anyway, if only to feel the steam on his face and its warmth, its scent. At least now he'd begun, it was surprisingly easy to close his eyes and pretend he was alone in the room, and just talk. "It turns out that Necromancy is literally addictive. I didn't know. The High Priest and one of my peers did. Being in the Temple made my withdrawal worse. Intensified it. Made it faster, I imagine, but worse than it should have been."
He paused for a moment to gather the words he needed, but not long enough for his mind and nerves to catch up and get in the way. This wasn't an explanation. It was almost a confession. Odd, that he felt comfortable doing so to Paddy and not Skulduggery or Gabe. "I saw things." Simply, quietly. "At first it was just painful, but then I ... saw things. My memories of Necromancy, working backwards from that day, but they were overlaid by the Scream."
Had he mentioned the Scream to Paddy? He couldn't remember; he looked up, not opening his eyes, but at the warmth of green foliage that made Paddy's soul. "Ever since I saw Saint Gabriel, I've been having flashes of his plane of existence. The one which contains the current of life, the souls. Necromancy registers on it as a never-ending Scream. My memories were overlaid with that, right back to the day that my magic settled--the Surge." Something ironic twisted his mouth. "I had to undergo my Surge all over again."
Solomon set his mug down carefully, because he was aware now of how his fingers trembled with adrenaline, and spread his hands palm up on the tabletop. Almost like a beggar. He watched them because he had to, because of how he'd avoided looking at them all this time--because of the open wounds he could see.
"I heard Him," he said softly, and something in his voice was hoarse with this thing he'd been trying hard not to think about, but which he could no longer avoid. "Begging. Giving in. I felt Him die." He laughed softly, a bit wonderingly, a bit apprehensively. "I should have died that day. I would have died that day, but--He was there. Not just ..." His fingers twitched, as if to indicate the scars on his palms. "Himself. The Man who gave me the bear. I could feel His hand on me, when it got too much. He was there."
The part the others didn't know. The part he didn't know how to begin to explain or describe to anyone but this kind mortal priest.