Solomon paled and it took effort not to look away. He knew this angel. Unlike many of his fellow clerics, he still remembered good parts of his medieval Christian upbringing. It was, in fact, an indirect catalyst for his choice to become a Necromancer. There were similarities between the two faiths, and where Christianity had rung so obviously hollow for him, Necromancy had not. Christianity had no proof of what happened after death; Necromancy did. Christianity had no guarantee that there would be peace after death; Necromancy ensured power over it.
And now he was faced with an Archangel, one of only two mentioned in the Bible, and the very one to whom he had recently been comparing himself. The Messenger, the harbinger for the messiah. The one who revealed the messiah to the world.
"Saint Gabriel," he greeted the angel with as much calm as he could possibly summon to hide the panic. What sort of trouble did someone get into for comparing themselves to an angel?
Saint Gabriel was giving Pleasant a wearily exasperated look, but there didn't seem to be much heat in it. At Solomon's greeting the Archangel turned to Solomon, smiling gently. "Hello, Solomon. For the record, we were inside the mountain and the Faceless Ones had just collapsed it on us. There wasn't really much time to do anything else."
Solomon's relief that, apparently, Saint Gabriel was more concerned with reassuring him than reprimanding him eclipsed a moment later by realisation. His eyes widened and he instinctively turned toward Valkyrie with a jerk. "You didn't--?" he started to ask, and then stopped. He didn't need to finish the question to know. The Faceless Ones.
An Archangel had rescued Skulduggery Pleasant from Hell. And Pleasant spoke to him as if he was a familiar brother-in-arms!
Solomon's stomach was churning, and he didn't know if it was the fear or the disbelief or the simple knowledge that here, in front of him, was proof of the higher power Necromancers had always rejected. Even now, Saint Gabriel's wings were still wisps of shadow--a reversed shadow, where it was brighter than the wall behind it rather than darker--but as Solomon watched they faded altogether until the Archangel looked like nothing more than a barefoot man in a cowboy hat.
It wasn't a lie. In his true form Saint Gabriel had still borne the same facial characteristics as he did now. But he had been so much more, a more that had made Solomon's eyes hurt even now, that there was no way the Necromancer would be able to forget he had seen it at all.
He couldn't do this. He didn't know how to handle this at all. He had an Archangel standing in front of him and while he felt gripped with terror there was a warmth in his chest that was some kind of insane curiosity.
Focus, he told himself, on the little things. Clearing his throat, Solomon reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to clean his face.
"I see," he said unsteadily, and then was able to add to Skulduggery Pleasant with something approaching his usual dryness, "You're enjoying this, I suppose."
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And now he was faced with an Archangel, one of only two mentioned in the Bible, and the very one to whom he had recently been comparing himself. The Messenger, the harbinger for the messiah. The one who revealed the messiah to the world.
"Saint Gabriel," he greeted the angel with as much calm as he could possibly summon to hide the panic. What sort of trouble did someone get into for comparing themselves to an angel?
Saint Gabriel was giving Pleasant a wearily exasperated look, but there didn't seem to be much heat in it. At Solomon's greeting the Archangel turned to Solomon, smiling gently. "Hello, Solomon. For the record, we were inside the mountain and the Faceless Ones had just collapsed it on us. There wasn't really much time to do anything else."
Solomon's relief that, apparently, Saint Gabriel was more concerned with reassuring him than reprimanding him eclipsed a moment later by realisation. His eyes widened and he instinctively turned toward Valkyrie with a jerk. "You didn't--?" he started to ask, and then stopped. He didn't need to finish the question to know. The Faceless Ones.
An Archangel had rescued Skulduggery Pleasant from Hell. And Pleasant spoke to him as if he was a familiar brother-in-arms!
Solomon's stomach was churning, and he didn't know if it was the fear or the disbelief or the simple knowledge that here, in front of him, was proof of the higher power Necromancers had always rejected. Even now, Saint Gabriel's wings were still wisps of shadow--a reversed shadow, where it was brighter than the wall behind it rather than darker--but as Solomon watched they faded altogether until the Archangel looked like nothing more than a barefoot man in a cowboy hat.
It wasn't a lie. In his true form Saint Gabriel had still borne the same facial characteristics as he did now. But he had been so much more, a more that had made Solomon's eyes hurt even now, that there was no way the Necromancer would be able to forget he had seen it at all.
He couldn't do this. He didn't know how to handle this at all. He had an Archangel standing in front of him and while he felt gripped with terror there was a warmth in his chest that was some kind of insane curiosity.
Focus, he told himself, on the little things. Clearing his throat, Solomon reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to clean his face.
"I see," he said unsteadily, and then was able to add to Skulduggery Pleasant with something approaching his usual dryness, "You're enjoying this, I suppose."