It all make sense. It all made sense and it didn't change one thing about what Solomon was feeling. He didn't dare look up and around him, but after a moment, something occurred and he glanced up with an ironically amused tilt to his mouth. "How do I want to see myself? That was awful, even for a priest."
That wasn't what Paddy meant, he knew, but he needed that little bit of distance. A bit of humour, to offset everything else. Otherwise he'd drown in the questions for which he didn't have answers. Which was why, after a moment, he looked away.
"I don't know." Even that much was an admittance. This was something for which logic wasn't any help at all. "If Raphael heals me, then my magic will have no outlet. I don't think I can give it up." It was too much a part of him, not in its nature but in its presence and nearness. "What if I fall back into Necromancy again, just for the sake of having it?" He wasn't sure he could be strong enough to resist. Maybe now, but after days, weeks, years knowing there was magic there and only one way to access it? He'd rationalise. He knew he would, because even Skulduggery had.
At least this way he could still use it, in a way that barred him from traditional Necromancy altogether.
And still he wanted it all to be gone. That was the problem. Things he wanted, and things he now knew he shouldn't want. Things he wasn't sure he was strong enough to ignore.
That didn't stop Skulduggery, did it?
He found himself gazing out the door of the kitchen, and only knew it because he could see the coloured mist seeping across the floor--souls in interaction, whose attention was turned away but were still too near to fully ignore. Skulduggery was, undoubtedly, a 'good' person. But even he'd fallen. Of course, his circumstance had been different. Never-ending in its own way. It wasn't like he could just give back being a skeleton.
Solomon's thoughts ran round and round, relevant but never quite linking well enough for him to see the point. Dimly he realised how tightly his hands were clasped together, that he could feel the roughness of the scars under his palms. He shifted in the chair and felt the bulge of the teddy-bear in his pocket.
"Father, why have You forsaken me?!"
The memory felt something like a shaft of light. It may not have, if he'd just heard the words, just knew the story, but he didn't. He'd felt those final moments. Felt that despair, knowing he was abandoned, and then in equal moments felt the warmth of a hand and known he wasn't. But even Jesus had doubted.
It was enough of one to send his thoughts on a somewhat linear track.
"Live, Kian. Live now you have something worth living."
How? he wanted to demand, and he knew equally that no answer would be forthcoming. Not from his father. Not from Skulduggery, not from Jesus, not even from God.
He shifted his elbow against the teddy-bear again. Maybe a little from God.
"I don't know," Solomon repeated, but calmer than before. He still felt like a bundle of tension, but more like it was shifting away, moving by him, than holding him captive. Not a certainty, but still a collection of choices coming together. Settling. Resignation. Resolve. Awareness. "I've changed."
"Your magic is different. You're blind. You're an Elder. I'm not the one who's changed, and certainly not of my own free will."
Solomon smiled wryly. China wasn't wrong. Oh, she'd walked into that situation of her own free will, but blindly. Solomon had known quite well the consequences and walked into it anyway. A man who'd thrown twenty-three people to Vile. A man who'd suffered pain to protect an Archangel's identity. People didn't make sense at the best of times, and Solomon was finding he was making even less sense to himself than he thought he ever would.
"I can't really go back." Even if he was healed, he'd know what lay just beneath. Maybe it would be enough to keep him from taking up Necromancy again. But he'd always know it was there. He'd always wonder. Would he ever stop trying to see it? Would having eyesight ever be more than a pretence that it wasn't there?
The dragonfly buzzed across the table again, going the other way. Solomon stared down at it, shifted his hand so he felt the vibration against his knuckles. The construct wavered and for a moment, was nothing more than a coloured vein in a greater current.
Would knowing it was there be enough to use it anyway, the way he could now? And if it was, did it matter to what manner of Sight he'd want?
"You know, I just got elected as a leader of Ireland's magical population," he found himself saying. He seemed to recall someone, at the Hibernian, explaining the politics to Paddy. "I'm still not exactly sure how it happened, except that our new Grand Mage is probably senile."
Not having magic would be a rather bad thing. Being able to see peoples' inner motivations had already proven to be a very good one. And he actually had something to do with himself in the meantime, even if it was something he'd never imagined. Could he do it without magic? Probably. Tome had been a Teleporter. You didn't need magic to be a bureaucrat. Having eyes would be more of a benefit there.
One moment he felt as if he'd made a decision one way, and then the next the other. Yet at the same time it didn't feel like a struggle, because he already knew what it would be and shied from it--for just a little longer. Solomon moved his hand and the dragonfly coalesced into view a couple of feet away. For a moment, at the same time, it was still just by his fingers.
"It keeps giving me headaches," he said plaintively.
It was childish. He knew it was. An objection to something to which he was already resigned, but to which he still on some level objected, for no reason other than the desire to hear someone say it would be all right in the end. It had been a long time since he'd settled for meaningless comfort. He just wasn't sure, anymore, whether all of it was necessarily meaningless.
no subject
That wasn't what Paddy meant, he knew, but he needed that little bit of distance. A bit of humour, to offset everything else. Otherwise he'd drown in the questions for which he didn't have answers. Which was why, after a moment, he looked away.
"I don't know." Even that much was an admittance. This was something for which logic wasn't any help at all. "If Raphael heals me, then my magic will have no outlet. I don't think I can give it up." It was too much a part of him, not in its nature but in its presence and nearness. "What if I fall back into Necromancy again, just for the sake of having it?" He wasn't sure he could be strong enough to resist. Maybe now, but after days, weeks, years knowing there was magic there and only one way to access it? He'd rationalise. He knew he would, because even Skulduggery had.
At least this way he could still use it, in a way that barred him from traditional Necromancy altogether.
And still he wanted it all to be gone. That was the problem. Things he wanted, and things he now knew he shouldn't want. Things he wasn't sure he was strong enough to ignore.
That didn't stop Skulduggery, did it?
He found himself gazing out the door of the kitchen, and only knew it because he could see the coloured mist seeping across the floor--souls in interaction, whose attention was turned away but were still too near to fully ignore. Skulduggery was, undoubtedly, a 'good' person. But even he'd fallen. Of course, his circumstance had been different. Never-ending in its own way. It wasn't like he could just give back being a skeleton.
Solomon's thoughts ran round and round, relevant but never quite linking well enough for him to see the point. Dimly he realised how tightly his hands were clasped together, that he could feel the roughness of the scars under his palms. He shifted in the chair and felt the bulge of the teddy-bear in his pocket.
"Father, why have You forsaken me?!"
The memory felt something like a shaft of light. It may not have, if he'd just heard the words, just knew the story, but he didn't. He'd felt those final moments. Felt that despair, knowing he was abandoned, and then in equal moments felt the warmth of a hand and known he wasn't. But even Jesus had doubted.
It was enough of one to send his thoughts on a somewhat linear track.
"Live, Kian. Live now you have something worth living."
How? he wanted to demand, and he knew equally that no answer would be forthcoming. Not from his father. Not from Skulduggery, not from Jesus, not even from God.
He shifted his elbow against the teddy-bear again. Maybe a little from God.
"I don't know," Solomon repeated, but calmer than before. He still felt like a bundle of tension, but more like it was shifting away, moving by him, than holding him captive. Not a certainty, but still a collection of choices coming together. Settling. Resignation. Resolve. Awareness. "I've changed."
"Your magic is different. You're blind. You're an Elder. I'm not the one who's changed, and certainly not of my own free will."
Solomon smiled wryly. China wasn't wrong. Oh, she'd walked into that situation of her own free will, but blindly. Solomon had known quite well the consequences and walked into it anyway. A man who'd thrown twenty-three people to Vile. A man who'd suffered pain to protect an Archangel's identity. People didn't make sense at the best of times, and Solomon was finding he was making even less sense to himself than he thought he ever would.
"I can't really go back." Even if he was healed, he'd know what lay just beneath. Maybe it would be enough to keep him from taking up Necromancy again. But he'd always know it was there. He'd always wonder. Would he ever stop trying to see it? Would having eyesight ever be more than a pretence that it wasn't there?
The dragonfly buzzed across the table again, going the other way. Solomon stared down at it, shifted his hand so he felt the vibration against his knuckles. The construct wavered and for a moment, was nothing more than a coloured vein in a greater current.
Would knowing it was there be enough to use it anyway, the way he could now? And if it was, did it matter to what manner of Sight he'd want?
"You know, I just got elected as a leader of Ireland's magical population," he found himself saying. He seemed to recall someone, at the Hibernian, explaining the politics to Paddy. "I'm still not exactly sure how it happened, except that our new Grand Mage is probably senile."
Not having magic would be a rather bad thing. Being able to see peoples' inner motivations had already proven to be a very good one. And he actually had something to do with himself in the meantime, even if it was something he'd never imagined. Could he do it without magic? Probably. Tome had been a Teleporter. You didn't need magic to be a bureaucrat. Having eyes would be more of a benefit there.
One moment he felt as if he'd made a decision one way, and then the next the other. Yet at the same time it didn't feel like a struggle, because he already knew what it would be and shied from it--for just a little longer. Solomon moved his hand and the dragonfly coalesced into view a couple of feet away. For a moment, at the same time, it was still just by his fingers.
"It keeps giving me headaches," he said plaintively.
It was childish. He knew it was. An objection to something to which he was already resigned, but to which he still on some level objected, for no reason other than the desire to hear someone say it would be all right in the end. It had been a long time since he'd settled for meaningless comfort. He just wasn't sure, anymore, whether all of it was necessarily meaningless.