Raphael had been in prisons before. Actually, this prison was veritably comfortable in comparison to some places he'd posed as a prisoner before. The part that made this particular experience both frustrating and relieving was that Rafe wasn't quite posing. He'd spent the whole of the first day on his tiny cot, the one far too small to hold his frame, and edged his meagre reserves of magic around his body to help rebuild his strength.
Now, though, he had a baseball in hand which he was tossing easily against the far wall--the one which he shared with Merlin. The guards had double-taked at the sight of it, but he told them, totally straight-faced, that it was a boomerang-ball. It came back to him no matter where they went or how they were separated.
Since the guards had been arrogantly confident in their magic-suppressing wards, bless them, they'd believed him.
"You do realise," came Merlin's voice wafting through from next door, sounding mild with an undercurrent of grumpiness. Rafe grinned. "That it is exceedingly difficult to examine wards when you have a never-ending drum sounding in your ears."
"Hearing music already, nephew?" Rafe asked, nodding to himself and speaking, as Merlin had, in a dialect of Gaelic that had been old back when the Ancients were known as Tuatha de Danaan. "Yep, you're round the twist." He tossed the ball. It rebounded easily off the ceiling, wall and floor before back into his hand with a thwack of skin that sounded like it should've hurt. Merlin grumbled wordlessly.
In point of fact, the music had never really left. Not for Rafe, at least. He'd grown used to it, managed ways he could shift around his thin wards to keep off the strain, and then set himself a closed-circuit energy-cycle to build his strength for him. Which was why the Archangel hadn't moved, except for his hand and his mouth, for over a day.
"How are they?"
"Not bad," Merlin returned after a moment, slow like he was still studying, approving and disapproving in equal amounts. "But not perfect. I could get around them with relative ease, if given the time and preparation. Their side-effects are less-than-pleasant, but I'm beyond their touch, thankfully."
He was talking about the magical-ageing thing. Sorcerers here, apparently, aged faster when they lacked magic. It made sense and was chilling at once.
"That's good. You're already an--"
'Raphael. Gabriel is missing. He was injured when he got here, never gave himself the chance to recover, then spirited away with a magical bomb. He's not answering prayers. You need to get here right now.'
The prayer didn't explode so much as washed inexorably through Raphael's aching mind, cast up by urgency and fear and his brother's full name all at once. The ball rebounded off the floor and Rafe missed the catch, cursing at the sudden pound in his temples at the words both.
Automatically he tried to reach out and was almost floored by the constant, regulated eeeeeeeer of the dimensional Cacophony. Of course, he thought bitterly, he'd have trouble replying when he really needed to. Whoever'd spoken the prayer didn't have a magical compatibility and Rafe was in a dead zone--as well as injured himself. Gabe could have broken through, angel to human, but Rafe? Not now.
There was someone else he could reach, though. He could always reach his brothers. Which was why he timed the dimensional shifts and then cast his mind out for Gabriel.
The Archangel didn't expect to slam headlong pain so intense it sent his consciousness rolling in every direction. It was so unexpected that Rafe couldn't even do anything about it; one moment he was collected, if pained, and the next he was looking at the inside of the universe and the whole thing was radiating a kind of shrieking agony which--
Something nudged him and Rafe snapped back to his body with a gasp. He found himself sprawled on the cot, shaking, his wings half-unfolded in spite of their ache.
"Rafe?! What's wrong?!"
Rafe groaned and buried his head in the blankets without answering. His focus was on Someone else. 'Master--'
Not yet, Rafe.
His Master's voice didn't well up so much as speak simply and plainly as if they were next to each other. Not yet. Gabriel was in such pain that it sent Rafe's own being sprawled in all directions, and 'not yet'. That made it bad. That made it really, really bad.
And all Rafe could do was wait.
He decided he hated waiting.
~~~
Pain was all that existed in him. That's what it felt like. Gabe wasn't even sure just when he started to be aware of things other than it, to be aware that he had some kind of form and substance. He wouldn't have believed it, if he had the mind to do so.
He had awareness, but no control. He didn't even want to begin feeling out the confines of his body. It all hurt too much.
But at least he knew it was there.
He was vaguely aware that something else was there too, but wasn't sure what. Something which was both inside and outside him; something which was an anchor at his core, but which seemed to be giving that form of his some kind of definition from without as well. Something he could trust, though, so he let it get on with that while he tried to seduce the ability to think back into his grasp.
Hurts.
Yes, it does. That's what happens when you get in the way of a magical explosion.
Really hurts.
Yes. Because that's also what happens when you get in the way of a magical explosion while already injured.
Safe.
Well, the Sanctuary is, anyway. You got the Engine away in time.
Skulduggery.
Worried, probably.
Skulduggery.
He's a bit of a worry-wart, really.
Find Skulduggery.
It'd probably be easier to get him to find you. You're sort-of in space right now, you know.
Sanctuary.
Which one? There's a few ...
Gabe had to find Skulduggery. He had to find Skulduggery somewhere he'd be safe. A safehouse. A hidden place.
Thought. Definition. Intent. Gabe wasn't sure where the line between them was, except that his thoughts told him he needed to be somewhere, to be with someone, and to do that he needed to be elsewhere, and since he could feel his definition now his wings flapped and then--
The Archangel crashed through the ceiling of the safehouse with a quake of the structure and an eruption of dust and debris, hitting the floor with enough force to leave a two-foot-deep crater. The ceiling fell in, missing half of itself, but not breaking through to the roof proper. One of the walls collapsed in as well, leaving sigils sparking magic into the room, the wards damaged but not broken completely.
For some time Gabe lay at the bottom of that crater, propped up on half of a wall. The whole of his being was wracked with pain too great to feel anything else. He wasn't even aware that he was whimpering, over and over, unstoppably, a deep resonance that combined with his light until he radiated his own agony.
It took time, but eventually his thoughts came back. Only he couldn't speak. He could only feel.
It was enough. He tailored in himself a place, a location--his location--and whispered a name.
no subject
Now, though, he had a baseball in hand which he was tossing easily against the far wall--the one which he shared with Merlin. The guards had double-taked at the sight of it, but he told them, totally straight-faced, that it was a boomerang-ball. It came back to him no matter where they went or how they were separated.
Since the guards had been arrogantly confident in their magic-suppressing wards, bless them, they'd believed him.
"You do realise," came Merlin's voice wafting through from next door, sounding mild with an undercurrent of grumpiness. Rafe grinned. "That it is exceedingly difficult to examine wards when you have a never-ending drum sounding in your ears."
"Hearing music already, nephew?" Rafe asked, nodding to himself and speaking, as Merlin had, in a dialect of Gaelic that had been old back when the Ancients were known as Tuatha de Danaan. "Yep, you're round the twist." He tossed the ball. It rebounded easily off the ceiling, wall and floor before back into his hand with a thwack of skin that sounded like it should've hurt. Merlin grumbled wordlessly.
In point of fact, the music had never really left. Not for Rafe, at least. He'd grown used to it, managed ways he could shift around his thin wards to keep off the strain, and then set himself a closed-circuit energy-cycle to build his strength for him. Which was why the Archangel hadn't moved, except for his hand and his mouth, for over a day.
"How are they?"
"Not bad," Merlin returned after a moment, slow like he was still studying, approving and disapproving in equal amounts. "But not perfect. I could get around them with relative ease, if given the time and preparation. Their side-effects are less-than-pleasant, but I'm beyond their touch, thankfully."
He was talking about the magical-ageing thing. Sorcerers here, apparently, aged faster when they lacked magic. It made sense and was chilling at once.
"That's good. You're already an--"
'Raphael. Gabriel is missing. He was injured when he got here, never gave himself the chance to recover, then spirited away with a magical bomb. He's not answering prayers. You need to get here right now.'
The prayer didn't explode so much as washed inexorably through Raphael's aching mind, cast up by urgency and fear and his brother's full name all at once. The ball rebounded off the floor and Rafe missed the catch, cursing at the sudden pound in his temples at the words both.
Automatically he tried to reach out and was almost floored by the constant, regulated eeeeeeeer of the dimensional Cacophony. Of course, he thought bitterly, he'd have trouble replying when he really needed to. Whoever'd spoken the prayer didn't have a magical compatibility and Rafe was in a dead zone--as well as injured himself. Gabe could have broken through, angel to human, but Rafe? Not now.
There was someone else he could reach, though. He could always reach his brothers. Which was why he timed the dimensional shifts and then cast his mind out for Gabriel.
The Archangel didn't expect to slam headlong pain so intense it sent his consciousness rolling in every direction. It was so unexpected that Rafe couldn't even do anything about it; one moment he was collected, if pained, and the next he was looking at the inside of the universe and the whole thing was radiating a kind of shrieking agony which--
Something nudged him and Rafe snapped back to his body with a gasp. He found himself sprawled on the cot, shaking, his wings half-unfolded in spite of their ache.
"Rafe?! What's wrong?!"
Rafe groaned and buried his head in the blankets without answering. His focus was on Someone else. 'Master--'
Not yet, Rafe.
His Master's voice didn't well up so much as speak simply and plainly as if they were next to each other. Not yet. Gabriel was in such pain that it sent Rafe's own being sprawled in all directions, and 'not yet'. That made it bad. That made it really, really bad.
And all Rafe could do was wait.
He decided he hated waiting.
~~~
Pain was all that existed in him. That's what it felt like. Gabe wasn't even sure just when he started to be aware of things other than it, to be aware that he had some kind of form and substance. He wouldn't have believed it, if he had the mind to do so.
He had awareness, but no control. He didn't even want to begin feeling out the confines of his body. It all hurt too much.
But at least he knew it was there.
He was vaguely aware that something else was there too, but wasn't sure what. Something which was both inside and outside him; something which was an anchor at his core, but which seemed to be giving that form of his some kind of definition from without as well. Something he could trust, though, so he let it get on with that while he tried to seduce the ability to think back into his grasp.
Hurts.
Yes, it does. That's what happens when you get in the way of a magical explosion.
Really hurts.
Yes. Because that's also what happens when you get in the way of a magical explosion while already injured.
Safe.
Well, the Sanctuary is, anyway. You got the Engine away in time.
Skulduggery.
Worried, probably.
Skulduggery.
He's a bit of a worry-wart, really.
Find Skulduggery.
It'd probably be easier to get him to find you. You're sort-of in space right now, you know.
Sanctuary.
Which one? There's a few ...
Gabe had to find Skulduggery. He had to find Skulduggery somewhere he'd be safe. A safehouse. A hidden place.
Thought. Definition. Intent. Gabe wasn't sure where the line between them was, except that his thoughts told him he needed to be somewhere, to be with someone, and to do that he needed to be elsewhere, and since he could feel his definition now his wings flapped and then--
The Archangel crashed through the ceiling of the safehouse with a quake of the structure and an eruption of dust and debris, hitting the floor with enough force to leave a two-foot-deep crater. The ceiling fell in, missing half of itself, but not breaking through to the roof proper. One of the walls collapsed in as well, leaving sigils sparking magic into the room, the wards damaged but not broken completely.
For some time Gabe lay at the bottom of that crater, propped up on half of a wall. The whole of his being was wracked with pain too great to feel anything else. He wasn't even aware that he was whimpering, over and over, unstoppably, a deep resonance that combined with his light until he radiated his own agony.
It took time, but eventually his thoughts came back. Only he couldn't speak. He could only feel.
It was enough. He tailored in himself a place, a location--his location--and whispered a name.