When one simply accepted the world of magic as fact - which Paddy was actually fairly close to doing now - the rest was only a natural progression of logic. Necromancy being addictive made sense. Magic in general was probably incredibly addictive. That kind of power right at your fingertips, prolonging your lifespan and letting you do the most fantastic things... who wouldn't be seduced by that idea? Magic was most definitely emotionally addictive, if not quite physically. Paddy wouldn't blame anyone for that.
From the sounds of things, Necromancy took that addiction one step further into physical withdrawal when one tried to end it. Paddy certainly wouldn't blame Solomon for that, either. His pride in Solomon's initial rejection of that magic, in fact, only grew stronger.
But the so-called Temple... they'd blinded him. Willingly blinded Solomon Wreath. For what? Even if they believed they were doing it for the right reasons, what reasons were they? Just to cause him pain? Just to cripple him? Bringing him back into the Temple even when they most likely knew the effect that would have - was that also deliberate? Or was that, in their eyes, like ripping off a band-aid and shortening the withdrawal period?
Paddy didn't know. He didn't particularly want to know, either. He was slightly ashamed to realise that if he ever came across the people who willingly did this to Solomon, he wouldn't even be able to feel pity for them. Paddy apologised silently for that, but moved on before he could dwell too far.
The next bit he didn't really understand, or at least not enough to be able to offer any advice on it. It turned out not to matter, though. Because Solomon placed his hands palm-up on the table in front of him, and for the first time that evening, Paddy saw the scars.
His breath caught. Stigmata. The wounds Jesus Christ suffered during his crucifixion. Nail-wounds in the hands, and the feet. A wound in the side from a lance. On the forehead, from a crown of thorns; sometimes on the back, from a whip. Before now, Paddy had only ever read about them. Seeing such an obvious example in person rendered him completely speechless for a lot longer than he would have preferred to be.
Because of that, it was a good thing he didn't need to ask about the Man who gave Solomon the bear - Paddy remembered that bear from back at the hospital, and the story surrounding it. He did need to take a moment before replying, however, shifting back in the chair and picking apart the multitude of feelings that had swamped him all at once.
The most important one, he decided, was pride. And that was what Paddy used as a springboard. "How many others have successfully given up Necromancy before you?" he asked. The priest was willing to bet on what the answer would be, if there were even any others at all. "And how many have so much as tried? I seem to recall you, yourself, telling me it was impossible. Congratulations, Solomon, you've just achieved it."
And Paddy was so very proud of him for that. It may have been Saint Gabriel who planted the idea, Paddy's urging that tipped Solomon over the edge, or Skulduggery and his friends who rescued him, but every moment in between was Solomon's own doing. This was Solomon's achievement. The stigmata alone were more than enough evidence of that. And now... now, blind and very likely emotionally crippled by that fact, the ex-Necromancer was still here. Still walking around. Still trying.
"It's no surprise to me," Paddy continued, "that He was there. Our Lord doesn't abandon those who don't wish to be." He hesitated, and then smiled. "Besides, what father doesn't keep an eye on his closest children? It may not feel like it now, but I think meeting Saint Gabriel was the best thing to ever happen to you."
no subject
From the sounds of things, Necromancy took that addiction one step further into physical withdrawal when one tried to end it. Paddy certainly wouldn't blame Solomon for that, either. His pride in Solomon's initial rejection of that magic, in fact, only grew stronger.
But the so-called Temple... they'd blinded him. Willingly blinded Solomon Wreath. For what? Even if they believed they were doing it for the right reasons, what reasons were they? Just to cause him pain? Just to cripple him? Bringing him back into the Temple even when they most likely knew the effect that would have - was that also deliberate? Or was that, in their eyes, like ripping off a band-aid and shortening the withdrawal period?
Paddy didn't know. He didn't particularly want to know, either. He was slightly ashamed to realise that if he ever came across the people who willingly did this to Solomon, he wouldn't even be able to feel pity for them. Paddy apologised silently for that, but moved on before he could dwell too far.
The next bit he didn't really understand, or at least not enough to be able to offer any advice on it. It turned out not to matter, though. Because Solomon placed his hands palm-up on the table in front of him, and for the first time that evening, Paddy saw the scars.
His breath caught. Stigmata. The wounds Jesus Christ suffered during his crucifixion. Nail-wounds in the hands, and the feet. A wound in the side from a lance. On the forehead, from a crown of thorns; sometimes on the back, from a whip. Before now, Paddy had only ever read about them. Seeing such an obvious example in person rendered him completely speechless for a lot longer than he would have preferred to be.
Because of that, it was a good thing he didn't need to ask about the Man who gave Solomon the bear - Paddy remembered that bear from back at the hospital, and the story surrounding it. He did need to take a moment before replying, however, shifting back in the chair and picking apart the multitude of feelings that had swamped him all at once.
The most important one, he decided, was pride. And that was what Paddy used as a springboard. "How many others have successfully given up Necromancy before you?" he asked. The priest was willing to bet on what the answer would be, if there were even any others at all. "And how many have so much as tried? I seem to recall you, yourself, telling me it was impossible. Congratulations, Solomon, you've just achieved it."
And Paddy was so very proud of him for that. It may have been Saint Gabriel who planted the idea, Paddy's urging that tipped Solomon over the edge, or Skulduggery and his friends who rescued him, but every moment in between was Solomon's own doing. This was Solomon's achievement. The stigmata alone were more than enough evidence of that. And now... now, blind and very likely emotionally crippled by that fact, the ex-Necromancer was still here. Still walking around. Still trying.
"It's no surprise to me," Paddy continued, "that He was there. Our Lord doesn't abandon those who don't wish to be." He hesitated, and then smiled. "Besides, what father doesn't keep an eye on his closest children? It may not feel like it now, but I think meeting Saint Gabriel was the best thing to ever happen to you."