Valkyrie and Pleasant's conversation wasn't quiet enough to keep Solomon from hearing bits and pieces--or wouldn't have been, had Solomon been able to concentrate on eavesdropping at all. He wasn't. Not in the least. Instead the Necromancer stared down the street, his jaw tight and his hands on his knees because his cane was still lying on the road.
Saint Gabriel sat quietly beside him. Patient. Waiting.
Solomon was a patient man, the same way Skulduggery was a patient man. This was different. The Archangel had the air of someone who could, and would, and even wanted to, wait in perpetuity for a single person to make a choice.
The Necromancer suspected he knew what kind of choice Saint Gabriel wanted him to make.
"If you're waiting for me to cast off all my years of faith to the Temple," he said, and was unable to keep the tightness from his voice, "and declare my belief in God, you may as well find something better to do with your time."
Because he wasn't. Because even if he wanted to--and where had the thought come from that he might?--he was a Necromancer. There was no other path for him, save perhaps to give up magic entirely, and he may as well shoot himself in the head if he did that.
"I wouldn't recommend doing that," Saint Gabriel said quietly, and it was such a non sequitur that Solomon started, then frowned.
"Do what?"
"Shoot yourself in the head." The Archangel looked at him earnestly, but a chill ran down Solomon's back and he looked back, tight-lipped. "You wouldn't like what would happen to you if you died any time soon."
Well. Solomon didn't mean to pale, but he did; nor could he help it. "What does that mean?"
Saint Gabriel looked at him sadly. Once, Solomon had thought that was merely a term--he looked sad, she looked sad. This was different yet again. There were tears in the angel's eyes, as if for him it was never a matter of simply looking, but being, no matter who the emotion was for. "You saw," he said gently, "and I think you know."
"I don't--" Solomon cut the words off and took a breath, bringing his hands up to grind the heels of his palms into his eyes. That was a mistake, because although the ache had subsided, the slightest hint of pressure brought it back to life again, and he hissed.
What, he wondered, could the Archangel have possibly meant by that? A good deal of what Solomon saw, he couldn't even begin to understand. About all he had managed to comprehend was the lifestream and the way in which it gripped ... well, everything. Even Saint Gabriel.
No, he thought with a jolt. Not everything. Everything except the magic of Necromancy.
Solomon's skin prickled wildly with realisation and a sudden rush of nausea, and he bent inward with a gasp, hands gripping his knees, trying to keep down the bile that came with terror. His head rang with it. Everything had been touched by the lifestream except Necromancy. Necromancy was fuelled by death. Death was fuelled by souls.
The souls of Necromancers. Where else would the magic get its power, but from those who bathed it and breathed it and lived it, and then died in it?
Solomon had been afraid before. He had spent his whole life being afraid, because that was one requirement of being a Necromancer; the fear of death. But he had never been so afraid as he had this day, nor as intensely frightened as he was now. Necromancers thought being added to the lifestream, future unknown, was the worst thing that could happen.
But now all Solomon could think of was the Scream.
He was doomed. He was a Necromancer who had endured his Surge, who could no longer choose his magic. A Necromancer who would either find himself dead and tormented for his brothers' own power or trapped in that never-ending fear the Passage was supposed to end--because even if the Necromancers managed to succeed in completing the Passage, Solomon would be waiting for the day a higher power would come along to break the dam blocking the lifestream and send them all back to the mercilessness of death. Only as early as this morning, his fear had been kept in check by the complete faith that that fear could be ended, and would be ended, as soon as the Passage took place.
Now there would be no such hope, in a world after the Passage. He would only be waiting for another end, a worse one.
A weight landed on the back of Solomon's neck and he felt the warmth of a hand, then a rush of reassurance he knew did not come from him. Even so, it loosened his gut and his throat, allowed him to breathe, and although it didn't completely take away the wild tingle in his limbs, after a few slow inhale-exhales he had some measure of stability.
"That," he managed, and his voice was even, "is quite a trick." A trick that would surely wear off. A trick he couldn't rely on.
"It comes in handy sometimes," said Saint Gabriel with wry gentleness.
Trick or not, right now it was what Solomon needed. It let his mind work again, slowly grinding away the rust of terror and uncertainty and shock. There had to be a way. There were always ways. Solomon Wreath was particularly skilled at finding them, and he would do so this time as well. He would have to. Necromancers had always been concerned about their souls. Now Solomon had more than ever to be concerned about.
A fragile calm settled over him, something more akin to numbness. Gently Saint Gabriel squeezed the back of his neck once and then drew away, but the terror remained at bay. With one last deep breath Solomon straightened up again, his expression tight but composed, and his gaze landed on the cane still lying on the bitumen. "If you don't mind," he said with exceptional composure given he had just been having a panic attack, "I'd rather be alone for a time."
"Of course." Saint Gabriel rose and started to move away, but then he paused and turned. "If you'd like to talk," he said, "or need something, feel free to give me a prayer."
A prayer. He could summon an Archangel with a prayer. Of course; he shouldn't even be surprised. Solomon inclined his head in acknowledgement but found himself unable to answer or tear his gaze from the cane. The island of calm in which he was moored needed to be secured before he was capable of deeper thought.
no subject
Saint Gabriel sat quietly beside him. Patient. Waiting.
Solomon was a patient man, the same way Skulduggery was a patient man. This was different. The Archangel had the air of someone who could, and would, and even wanted to, wait in perpetuity for a single person to make a choice.
The Necromancer suspected he knew what kind of choice Saint Gabriel wanted him to make.
"If you're waiting for me to cast off all my years of faith to the Temple," he said, and was unable to keep the tightness from his voice, "and declare my belief in God, you may as well find something better to do with your time."
Because he wasn't. Because even if he wanted to--and where had the thought come from that he might?--he was a Necromancer. There was no other path for him, save perhaps to give up magic entirely, and he may as well shoot himself in the head if he did that.
"I wouldn't recommend doing that," Saint Gabriel said quietly, and it was such a non sequitur that Solomon started, then frowned.
"Do what?"
"Shoot yourself in the head." The Archangel looked at him earnestly, but a chill ran down Solomon's back and he looked back, tight-lipped. "You wouldn't like what would happen to you if you died any time soon."
Well. Solomon didn't mean to pale, but he did; nor could he help it. "What does that mean?"
Saint Gabriel looked at him sadly. Once, Solomon had thought that was merely a term--he looked sad, she looked sad. This was different yet again. There were tears in the angel's eyes, as if for him it was never a matter of simply looking, but being, no matter who the emotion was for. "You saw," he said gently, "and I think you know."
"I don't--" Solomon cut the words off and took a breath, bringing his hands up to grind the heels of his palms into his eyes. That was a mistake, because although the ache had subsided, the slightest hint of pressure brought it back to life again, and he hissed.
What, he wondered, could the Archangel have possibly meant by that? A good deal of what Solomon saw, he couldn't even begin to understand. About all he had managed to comprehend was the lifestream and the way in which it gripped ... well, everything. Even Saint Gabriel.
No, he thought with a jolt. Not everything. Everything except the magic of Necromancy.
Solomon's skin prickled wildly with realisation and a sudden rush of nausea, and he bent inward with a gasp, hands gripping his knees, trying to keep down the bile that came with terror. His head rang with it. Everything had been touched by the lifestream except Necromancy. Necromancy was fuelled by death. Death was fuelled by souls.
The souls of Necromancers. Where else would the magic get its power, but from those who bathed it and breathed it and lived it, and then died in it?
Solomon had been afraid before. He had spent his whole life being afraid, because that was one requirement of being a Necromancer; the fear of death. But he had never been so afraid as he had this day, nor as intensely frightened as he was now. Necromancers thought being added to the lifestream, future unknown, was the worst thing that could happen.
But now all Solomon could think of was the Scream.
He was doomed. He was a Necromancer who had endured his Surge, who could no longer choose his magic. A Necromancer who would either find himself dead and tormented for his brothers' own power or trapped in that never-ending fear the Passage was supposed to end--because even if the Necromancers managed to succeed in completing the Passage, Solomon would be waiting for the day a higher power would come along to break the dam blocking the lifestream and send them all back to the mercilessness of death. Only as early as this morning, his fear had been kept in check by the complete faith that that fear could be ended, and would be ended, as soon as the Passage took place.
Now there would be no such hope, in a world after the Passage. He would only be waiting for another end, a worse one.
A weight landed on the back of Solomon's neck and he felt the warmth of a hand, then a rush of reassurance he knew did not come from him. Even so, it loosened his gut and his throat, allowed him to breathe, and although it didn't completely take away the wild tingle in his limbs, after a few slow inhale-exhales he had some measure of stability.
"That," he managed, and his voice was even, "is quite a trick." A trick that would surely wear off. A trick he couldn't rely on.
"It comes in handy sometimes," said Saint Gabriel with wry gentleness.
Trick or not, right now it was what Solomon needed. It let his mind work again, slowly grinding away the rust of terror and uncertainty and shock. There had to be a way. There were always ways. Solomon Wreath was particularly skilled at finding them, and he would do so this time as well. He would have to. Necromancers had always been concerned about their souls. Now Solomon had more than ever to be concerned about.
A fragile calm settled over him, something more akin to numbness. Gently Saint Gabriel squeezed the back of his neck once and then drew away, but the terror remained at bay. With one last deep breath Solomon straightened up again, his expression tight but composed, and his gaze landed on the cane still lying on the bitumen. "If you don't mind," he said with exceptional composure given he had just been having a panic attack, "I'd rather be alone for a time."
"Of course." Saint Gabriel rose and started to move away, but then he paused and turned. "If you'd like to talk," he said, "or need something, feel free to give me a prayer."
A prayer. He could summon an Archangel with a prayer. Of course; he shouldn't even be surprised. Solomon inclined his head in acknowledgement but found himself unable to answer or tear his gaze from the cane. The island of calm in which he was moored needed to be secured before he was capable of deeper thought.