"It seemed prudent," Solomon said. "As an Elder I'll be too much in the public eye for Tenebrae to try and have me killed very often." Or anyone else who might be holding a grudge, for that matter. He smiled again, lopsidedly, at Paddy's disconcerted tone of voice.
"The nomination was a matter of politics, of course. Corrival Deuce is well-known for having a less-than-political agenda. He's a good man, but he has no time for bureaucrats, and he nominated his right-hand man for the other position. Had he tried to nominate someone else with whom he was associated, people would have accused him of favouritism. I was a 'balancing entity'."
It made sense. It all made perfect sense and it gave Solomon an added layer of protection, as well as something to do. He'd had no reason to say no.
At that Solomon could only laugh. It was quiet and ironic, but even so. It hadn't been the response he'd wanted, but he wasn't sure what response he wanted. He shouldn't have been surprised. One made one's own comfort, after all. "Maybe it would, between it and Kenspeckle's holy-water concoction."
Solomon felt for his mug of tea and found it, but it had gone cold; he was just debating finishing it or not when he caught the sound of slamming doors outside the church. He lifted his head, tilting it toward the door. "That's Rafe and the others, I imagine."
It felt at once as if nothing had been resolved and yet everything had been. Solomon's feelings hadn't really been assuaged, but he felt better anyway. Maybe it was just having someone to talk to. Maybe it was because something had settled, even though his feelings hadn't actually changed. Either way, he was more stable. Not completely so, but better; enough to leave the kitchen. The sorcerer set down the mug again and rose, feeling out the edges of the table. It didn't really help, even though he knew where the exit was; he didn't know where the chairs were. Paddy was almost immediately by his side, however, and Solomon let the priest guide him toward the door. (Solomon kept himself turned stoically away from the altar.)
They'd barely reached the aisle, interrupting the others' conversation, when the doors burst open. Solomon blinked, startled, at the sight of Rafe sprinting between the pews, and it wasn't until he heard the click of claws and panting breaths, and then a joyful bark, that he realised why. Instinctively he pulled back, stumbling over one of the pews, but the Archangel wasn't aiming for him.
Paddy's oasis rustled wildly and half-vanished beneath the radiance of metaphysical sunlight as Raphael tackled the priest and sent him toppling to the floor. Catching his balance by gripping the back of a pew, Solomon looked up. "What's happening?" It sounded ... slobbery. He wasn't. Was he? Solomon's voice was filled with amused incredulity. "Is the Archangel licking the priest's face?"
no subject
"The nomination was a matter of politics, of course. Corrival Deuce is well-known for having a less-than-political agenda. He's a good man, but he has no time for bureaucrats, and he nominated his right-hand man for the other position. Had he tried to nominate someone else with whom he was associated, people would have accused him of favouritism. I was a 'balancing entity'."
It made sense. It all made perfect sense and it gave Solomon an added layer of protection, as well as something to do. He'd had no reason to say no.
At that Solomon could only laugh. It was quiet and ironic, but even so. It hadn't been the response he'd wanted, but he wasn't sure what response he wanted. He shouldn't have been surprised. One made one's own comfort, after all. "Maybe it would, between it and Kenspeckle's holy-water concoction."
Solomon felt for his mug of tea and found it, but it had gone cold; he was just debating finishing it or not when he caught the sound of slamming doors outside the church. He lifted his head, tilting it toward the door. "That's Rafe and the others, I imagine."
It felt at once as if nothing had been resolved and yet everything had been. Solomon's feelings hadn't really been assuaged, but he felt better anyway. Maybe it was just having someone to talk to. Maybe it was because something had settled, even though his feelings hadn't actually changed. Either way, he was more stable. Not completely so, but better; enough to leave the kitchen. The sorcerer set down the mug again and rose, feeling out the edges of the table. It didn't really help, even though he knew where the exit was; he didn't know where the chairs were. Paddy was almost immediately by his side, however, and Solomon let the priest guide him toward the door. (Solomon kept himself turned stoically away from the altar.)
They'd barely reached the aisle, interrupting the others' conversation, when the doors burst open. Solomon blinked, startled, at the sight of Rafe sprinting between the pews, and it wasn't until he heard the click of claws and panting breaths, and then a joyful bark, that he realised why. Instinctively he pulled back, stumbling over one of the pews, but the Archangel wasn't aiming for him.
Paddy's oasis rustled wildly and half-vanished beneath the radiance of metaphysical sunlight as Raphael tackled the priest and sent him toppling to the floor. Catching his balance by gripping the back of a pew, Solomon looked up. "What's happening?" It sounded ... slobbery. He wasn't. Was he? Solomon's voice was filled with amused incredulity. "Is the Archangel licking the priest's face?"