"When did I become a confidential listener?" Solomon wondered out loud. "When did I become analogous to a priest?"
"You are a cleric, are you not?" Merlin pointed out. Solomon turned his face toward the man, just enough to feel the soft, gentle snowflakes on his face.
"Was," Solomon corrected. "I hardly think my institution would accept me under that title anymore."
"Perhaps you ought to find another," Merlin suggested with perfect equanimity. "How is your head?"
"Throbbing along nicely, now that they've turned some of the lights off. I didn't need to see any of them in that much detail, thank you."
"Now you're just being mean," Larrikin grumbled from the middle of the huddle of light. "Why wouldn't you want to see all of us? We're gorgeous. Especially me." The huddle wasn't as bright as before, which had been something akin to ...
'Kinda like the middle of a sun,' Rafe provided. Solomon squinted.
Was it?
'Yep. I can show ya sometime, when your head ain't so poundy.'
Pass.
"What do we look like?" Dexter wondered, in the tone of a man searching for some kind of distraction, something to put events on a track. Solomon squinted at them.
"Like a web," he admitted, a little reluctantly. A web. A spiderweb. Children of the Spider. Ravel, a traitor.
"I did it. All of it. I hired Marr. I hired Tesseract."
Solomon didn't know how he felt about that. An outsider, once again, looking in on an exceedingly intimate moment. An outsider Ravel had knowingly and consciously tried to have assassinated. Solomon had actually found himself liking Ravel over the last week. It wasn't impossible for Necromancers to like each other and still expect to be betrayed, but Ravel was a Dead Man, and they had standards about doing things like that.
Except he had. Solomon wasn't used to feeling betrayed. At the same time, the fact that the people to whom Ravel really was closest were doing their best to outright forgive him? Where was Solomon's right to feel betrayed at all?
He watched the silken bindings between the Dead Men seesaw with threads of light. The bindings themselves were golden, but the threads were red. Anger. Betrayal. The colours offset each other, as if the presence of the bindings in spite of the fury just made it brighter.
"Have you any questions, Solomon?" Gabe asked.
"Not right now," he said quietly. But he might, later, once he'd had a chance to take it all in and figure out where he stood.
no subject
"You are a cleric, are you not?" Merlin pointed out. Solomon turned his face toward the man, just enough to feel the soft, gentle snowflakes on his face.
"Was," Solomon corrected. "I hardly think my institution would accept me under that title anymore."
"Perhaps you ought to find another," Merlin suggested with perfect equanimity. "How is your head?"
"Throbbing along nicely, now that they've turned some of the lights off. I didn't need to see any of them in that much detail, thank you."
"Now you're just being mean," Larrikin grumbled from the middle of the huddle of light. "Why wouldn't you want to see all of us? We're gorgeous. Especially me." The huddle wasn't as bright as before, which had been something akin to ...
'Kinda like the middle of a sun,' Rafe provided. Solomon squinted.
Was it?
'Yep. I can show ya sometime, when your head ain't so poundy.'
Pass.
"What do we look like?" Dexter wondered, in the tone of a man searching for some kind of distraction, something to put events on a track. Solomon squinted at them.
"Like a web," he admitted, a little reluctantly. A web. A spiderweb. Children of the Spider. Ravel, a traitor.
"I did it. All of it. I hired Marr. I hired Tesseract."
Solomon didn't know how he felt about that. An outsider, once again, looking in on an exceedingly intimate moment. An outsider Ravel had knowingly and consciously tried to have assassinated. Solomon had actually found himself liking Ravel over the last week. It wasn't impossible for Necromancers to like each other and still expect to be betrayed, but Ravel was a Dead Man, and they had standards about doing things like that.
Except he had. Solomon wasn't used to feeling betrayed. At the same time, the fact that the people to whom Ravel really was closest were doing their best to outright forgive him? Where was Solomon's right to feel betrayed at all?
He watched the silken bindings between the Dead Men seesaw with threads of light. The bindings themselves were golden, but the threads were red. Anger. Betrayal. The colours offset each other, as if the presence of the bindings in spite of the fury just made it brighter.
"Have you any questions, Solomon?" Gabe asked.
"Not right now," he said quietly. But he might, later, once he'd had a chance to take it all in and figure out where he stood.