Solomon drew his hand back. "Sorry. I can feel it, is all." He hesitated a moment as if he was about to say something more, and then pressed his palms against the wall to help himself up to his feet.
He wasn't going to say anything. Then, somewhere between the floor and the stand, his mind reversed. "When I went to talk to China," he said, "I touched her soul. Literally. She's woven, like a spider-web, and I touched one of the threads. I moved it. I've no idea what I was moving it to, but I did."
He looked down at Ghastly, studying that raw wound and lifting his near hand off the wall, just slightly. Enough to touch the brand cautiously with his fingers. "I don't know if it's something I can just do to anything, but some things ... reach out. They're open. Accessible. And this one is not nearly as well-healed as you think it is, by the way, if I can feel its heat."
It wasn't something crippling, but it was certainly something persistent. Solomon wasn't even sure if there was a thought involved, or if the raw sting of that wound just got under his metaphorical skin that much without him realising it. Or maybe it was just a matter of simple, pure intent that such a wound should be addressed and not simply left open and untended. Either way, light wisped around his fingers and he felt startled at the sensation that ran through him and toward Ghastly's pain.
It felt like a cooling hand on his forehead. Not just any, but his father's right before he vanished into the lifestream. That peace, that certainty, that he was where he ought to be, and no longer pained.
no subject
He wasn't going to say anything. Then, somewhere between the floor and the stand, his mind reversed. "When I went to talk to China," he said, "I touched her soul. Literally. She's woven, like a spider-web, and I touched one of the threads. I moved it. I've no idea what I was moving it to, but I did."
He looked down at Ghastly, studying that raw wound and lifting his near hand off the wall, just slightly. Enough to touch the brand cautiously with his fingers. "I don't know if it's something I can just do to anything, but some things ... reach out. They're open. Accessible. And this one is not nearly as well-healed as you think it is, by the way, if I can feel its heat."
It wasn't something crippling, but it was certainly something persistent. Solomon wasn't even sure if there was a thought involved, or if the raw sting of that wound just got under his metaphorical skin that much without him realising it. Or maybe it was just a matter of simple, pure intent that such a wound should be addressed and not simply left open and untended. Either way, light wisped around his fingers and he felt startled at the sensation that ran through him and toward Ghastly's pain.
It felt like a cooling hand on his forehead. Not just any, but his father's right before he vanished into the lifestream. That peace, that certainty, that he was where he ought to be, and no longer pained.