"It would have meant an end to the suffering of death," Solomon said, "a sacrifice for which they would have been honoured for the rest of eternity." He believed that. He believed that. For centuries, that was the goal to which he'd been working; for a year, that was the honour for which he had been preparing Valkyrie.
So why did he sound so uncertain?
"Three billion souls, to block this world from Heaven."
Solomon shook his head. Heaven wasn't real. It was just a ... a construct. Even the angel before him didn't prove Heaven was real. Did it?
"We knew you wouldn't understand," he tried again, trying to summon up his certainty from deep inside, "not yet. These beliefs are something we teach over time, to give our students time to accept them. Cutting this world from the lifestream ..."
His voice died. His words rang hollow, even to him, and without thinking he glanced toward the cemetery. It looked as it should, now, but in his mind's eye he still saw the glare of that endless scream of souls distilled into their magic. If the Passage occurred, was that what the whole of the world would look like? A never-ending sore on the face of the Earth, blocking out the light? Even though he couldn't see it, he would still know it was there. He would always know it was there, now. And that thought, the thought of walking a planet with the anguish under his feet, made his mouth dry up all over again, though he wasn't sure why. Hadn't he always lived in the shadow of Necromancy?
... Hadn't he never known what shrieked beneath it?
What was happening? He had been so faithful, for so long; how was it that all of his certainty could be crumbling in the space of a few minutes? All his certainty in what they could do with death, in the fact that there was nothing worth waiting for beyond it, no higher being at all. With a prickle on his neck Solomon came aware that Saint Gabriel was watching him with such an expression of compassion that it made the Necromancer's chest clench.
"He exists," Saint Gabriel said, answering the question Solomon hadn't even managed to ask even in his own mind. Then he added, "I had cocktails with Him just before I left to help Skul with the Faceless Ones." Solomon stared, uncertain for a moment if he was being teased, but the patience and utter lack of amusement in the angel's expression said otherwise.
The Necromancer opened his mouth to ask how Saint Gabriel knew the world would be cut off from Heaven and shut it again. The angel was practically made from the lifestream. Of course he knew. If he wasn't lying. Could angels even lie? A question for the ages.
Saint Gabriel was still staring at him, and Solomon wished he'd stop.
"What do you want from me?" he asked, frustrated and bewildered, because he had no idea why the angel was looking at him like that, as if waiting, as if expecting. Solomon was a Necromancer. He would always be a Necromancer. He had already been through his Surge.
The angel looked surprised. "What do you want, Solomon?"
Once again, Solomon had no answer. This time he did look away.
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So why did he sound so uncertain?
"Three billion souls, to block this world from Heaven."
Solomon shook his head. Heaven wasn't real. It was just a ... a construct. Even the angel before him didn't prove Heaven was real. Did it?
"We knew you wouldn't understand," he tried again, trying to summon up his certainty from deep inside, "not yet. These beliefs are something we teach over time, to give our students time to accept them. Cutting this world from the lifestream ..."
His voice died. His words rang hollow, even to him, and without thinking he glanced toward the cemetery. It looked as it should, now, but in his mind's eye he still saw the glare of that endless scream of souls distilled into their magic. If the Passage occurred, was that what the whole of the world would look like? A never-ending sore on the face of the Earth, blocking out the light? Even though he couldn't see it, he would still know it was there. He would always know it was there, now. And that thought, the thought of walking a planet with the anguish under his feet, made his mouth dry up all over again, though he wasn't sure why. Hadn't he always lived in the shadow of Necromancy?
... Hadn't he never known what shrieked beneath it?
What was happening? He had been so faithful, for so long; how was it that all of his certainty could be crumbling in the space of a few minutes? All his certainty in what they could do with death, in the fact that there was nothing worth waiting for beyond it, no higher being at all. With a prickle on his neck Solomon came aware that Saint Gabriel was watching him with such an expression of compassion that it made the Necromancer's chest clench.
"He exists," Saint Gabriel said, answering the question Solomon hadn't even managed to ask even in his own mind. Then he added, "I had cocktails with Him just before I left to help Skul with the Faceless Ones." Solomon stared, uncertain for a moment if he was being teased, but the patience and utter lack of amusement in the angel's expression said otherwise.
The Necromancer opened his mouth to ask how Saint Gabriel knew the world would be cut off from Heaven and shut it again. The angel was practically made from the lifestream. Of course he knew. If he wasn't lying. Could angels even lie? A question for the ages.
Saint Gabriel was still staring at him, and Solomon wished he'd stop.
"What do you want from me?" he asked, frustrated and bewildered, because he had no idea why the angel was looking at him like that, as if waiting, as if expecting. Solomon was a Necromancer. He would always be a Necromancer. He had already been through his Surge.
The angel looked surprised. "What do you want, Solomon?"
Once again, Solomon had no answer. This time he did look away.