Merlin was the one who stepped into the circle last. Raphael knew it because he could feel it, the pieces of power snapping into place one-by-one, matching the lines Merlin had drawn. The circles hummed on a level only Archangels, or mortals attuned to the metaphysical as Merlin and Skulduggery currently were, could hear.
It was only when Merlin closed his circle, marking the final line of power, that the circle crackled in a way that marked the physical. It wasn't anything flashy; the lines hummed, glowing, phosphorescent. It left an illumination in the air at once there and not, almost able to be smelled and heard and felt as the warmth of that perfect moment of connection between one's self and another, rather than seen.
The individual circles would be draining, but in the manner of honest exertion, just as if they had used their magic in a normal way. Kenspeckle's circle, unique, his lines cross-crossing to mark each of the others', was what did it. Raphael was glad. He could have buffered the others himself, but it would have made things inefficient. Now, Kenspeckle's magic would keep them safe and level, protect them from the sharp edges of Gabe's pain as Raphael wasn't able to protect Skulduggery.
The detective was simply too close. Raphael had threaded himself in-between them as gently as he could, provided as much support to Skulduggery as possible, but he himself was unfamiliar to Skulduggery's soul, unaccepted; forcing himself on the sorcerer would only make him panic on a level even his vaunted control couldn't oppose. It already had, once. The pair were sharing a balance to such a degree that to remove Skulduggery entirely would only have destablised Gabe all over again, and even for the sake of Skulduggery's pain, Raphael would not let that happen to his little brother.
Even now, Raphael took the threads of Skulduggery's anchoring thought and diffused them quietly before they hit the chords that made Gabriel's inner self. As understandable as that doubt was, Skulduggery was anchoring Gabe because of Gabe's love for him, and a thought like that would only be like water on limestone. Dissolving.
Kenspeckle's power washed through the circle and activated the inner, and like a tide drawing sand and seaweed into its ocean, it took their magic with it. They were added to the pool, each a rush of power unique to the person to whom they belonged. It wasn't a clash; it was never a clash, because the wards in the circle made sure there wasn't. Each individual's magic flowed through the tiniest filaments, finely-drawn letters to synchronise them before they hit the greater pool.
Kenspeckle's first, like a lightning-bolt hitting solid, sun-baked stone. Unyielding and always-moving at once. Then it was Erskine and Merlin's together, their magicks mingling just before the inner circle. Erskine's was warmth, a never-dying hearth which smelled of timber and fragrance. Merlin was white, but not the pure white of divinity; the white of snow, blinding when clean and grimy when stained--difficult to keep clean at all. In that brief moment they were mingled, before they joined with Kenspeckle, they felt like a protected wood cabin in the woods, just when winter was at its peak and liable for either viciousness or tranquillity.
Each of the couples' magicks pooled around in a third, smaller circle wedged up against their sides that made their circles shine even before their power joined the rest. Fletcher felt like staring into the night sky with not a cloud or city-glow in sight, into that wondrous expanse and feeling small but aware, secure, of one's place in the universe all at once. Valkyrie's magic was yawning, a canyon with depths unplumbed, with the smell of pollution--but clearing. Revitalised. Combined they created a vastness that looked upon one another but never quite met.
Ghastly was more solid than Kenspeckle. He was the weight of the ground under feet, not looming or heavy, not even stone--just the earth, the soil, warm and giving. Tanith was movement. Not like lightning, quick and darting, nor like fire, crackling and hot. She was exertion, control, a pulse and heartbeat. When they were together Tanith's magic walked the broad expanse of Ghastly's, sowing it and exploring it and finding depths not quite plumbed.
These powers aligned and flowed into a single pool, a rush of difference that combined created a harmony. Some were louder, some were quieter, but each were present and needed, even the softest chord lending resonance to the loudest. The music built and the third, and smallest, circle in the middle opened with a quiet sigh.
Skulduggery was there. Skulduggery was there and surprisingly strong, the edges of his circle filtering his magic past the Archangels'. Skulduggery was ... restraint. The stillness of a deep, deep pond with currents that couldn't be seen from the surface, currents invisible unless or until someone dropped just the right-sized stone in just the right way. So deep one could drown in it, be swept away in it, and never know the danger until the step into it had been taken.
That was all of them. Every one of them, except that Skulduggery's magic was ... it didn't hide anything. But it reflected something, something as expansive as starlight in a pool, wide and scattered and with the appearance of having no boundary at all. But distant; made distant by the reflection itself, so the weight of it came down on the pool and not on those viewing it.
Gabriel.
And with him, dark matter, invisible except in the awareness that it was there but unseen, was Raphael. Unseen, except by the influence he left on the universe inside that circle of power.
The Archangel released Gabriel and Skulduggery, let them support one another, let the detective pull his brother's self together to the here and now. He laid his hands on his brother's back and spread his wings around the circle. His flight-feathers brushed certain sigils at certain points, and he let the power flow up and through their lines and vanes, gathering the freely-offered magic into the web of his being. His glory illuminated the room with a kind of light that left no trace except by the way it washed with quiet welcome up against Gabe's, with the way it caressed the bodies and minds of those in the room.
Breathing was breathing pure magic. And then Raphael took what was offered to him and let it trickle through his hands and into Gabriel.
It wasn't sudden; it was a gentle thing, an alignment of harmonies, weaving him back together, nudging thoughts and intent back to where they should be. Raphael didn't work around Skulduggery's presence, but used it, building on those strains in Gabe that were made strongest by the detective's soul. Slowly, Gabriel's wings solidified, his feathers patterning. His light resonated, its oiliness dissolving, until it was as clean as--cleaner than--it had been when he arrived.
That light drew out everything in the room worth keeping, as it always did, but where Raphael's light struck it drew crystalline and resonant. In the closeness between the Archangels, Skulduggery's soul was cast starkly in contrast. Like a stained-glass window, paned and rainbow-coloured, throwing light everywhere save the blurry black threads which kept the panes together.
Everywhere Gabriel's light hit that glass, the humming air was painted gold.
no subject
It was only when Merlin closed his circle, marking the final line of power, that the circle crackled in a way that marked the physical. It wasn't anything flashy; the lines hummed, glowing, phosphorescent. It left an illumination in the air at once there and not, almost able to be smelled and heard and felt as the warmth of that perfect moment of connection between one's self and another, rather than seen.
The individual circles would be draining, but in the manner of honest exertion, just as if they had used their magic in a normal way. Kenspeckle's circle, unique, his lines cross-crossing to mark each of the others', was what did it. Raphael was glad. He could have buffered the others himself, but it would have made things inefficient. Now, Kenspeckle's magic would keep them safe and level, protect them from the sharp edges of Gabe's pain as Raphael wasn't able to protect Skulduggery.
The detective was simply too close. Raphael had threaded himself in-between them as gently as he could, provided as much support to Skulduggery as possible, but he himself was unfamiliar to Skulduggery's soul, unaccepted; forcing himself on the sorcerer would only make him panic on a level even his vaunted control couldn't oppose. It already had, once. The pair were sharing a balance to such a degree that to remove Skulduggery entirely would only have destablised Gabe all over again, and even for the sake of Skulduggery's pain, Raphael would not let that happen to his little brother.
Even now, Raphael took the threads of Skulduggery's anchoring thought and diffused them quietly before they hit the chords that made Gabriel's inner self. As understandable as that doubt was, Skulduggery was anchoring Gabe because of Gabe's love for him, and a thought like that would only be like water on limestone. Dissolving.
Kenspeckle's power washed through the circle and activated the inner, and like a tide drawing sand and seaweed into its ocean, it took their magic with it. They were added to the pool, each a rush of power unique to the person to whom they belonged. It wasn't a clash; it was never a clash, because the wards in the circle made sure there wasn't. Each individual's magic flowed through the tiniest filaments, finely-drawn letters to synchronise them before they hit the greater pool.
Kenspeckle's first, like a lightning-bolt hitting solid, sun-baked stone. Unyielding and always-moving at once. Then it was Erskine and Merlin's together, their magicks mingling just before the inner circle. Erskine's was warmth, a never-dying hearth which smelled of timber and fragrance. Merlin was white, but not the pure white of divinity; the white of snow, blinding when clean and grimy when stained--difficult to keep clean at all. In that brief moment they were mingled, before they joined with Kenspeckle, they felt like a protected wood cabin in the woods, just when winter was at its peak and liable for either viciousness or tranquillity.
Each of the couples' magicks pooled around in a third, smaller circle wedged up against their sides that made their circles shine even before their power joined the rest. Fletcher felt like staring into the night sky with not a cloud or city-glow in sight, into that wondrous expanse and feeling small but aware, secure, of one's place in the universe all at once. Valkyrie's magic was yawning, a canyon with depths unplumbed, with the smell of pollution--but clearing. Revitalised. Combined they created a vastness that looked upon one another but never quite met.
Ghastly was more solid than Kenspeckle. He was the weight of the ground under feet, not looming or heavy, not even stone--just the earth, the soil, warm and giving. Tanith was movement. Not like lightning, quick and darting, nor like fire, crackling and hot. She was exertion, control, a pulse and heartbeat. When they were together Tanith's magic walked the broad expanse of Ghastly's, sowing it and exploring it and finding depths not quite plumbed.
These powers aligned and flowed into a single pool, a rush of difference that combined created a harmony. Some were louder, some were quieter, but each were present and needed, even the softest chord lending resonance to the loudest. The music built and the third, and smallest, circle in the middle opened with a quiet sigh.
Skulduggery was there. Skulduggery was there and surprisingly strong, the edges of his circle filtering his magic past the Archangels'. Skulduggery was ... restraint. The stillness of a deep, deep pond with currents that couldn't be seen from the surface, currents invisible unless or until someone dropped just the right-sized stone in just the right way. So deep one could drown in it, be swept away in it, and never know the danger until the step into it had been taken.
That was all of them. Every one of them, except that Skulduggery's magic was ... it didn't hide anything. But it reflected something, something as expansive as starlight in a pool, wide and scattered and with the appearance of having no boundary at all. But distant; made distant by the reflection itself, so the weight of it came down on the pool and not on those viewing it.
Gabriel.
And with him, dark matter, invisible except in the awareness that it was there but unseen, was Raphael. Unseen, except by the influence he left on the universe inside that circle of power.
The Archangel released Gabriel and Skulduggery, let them support one another, let the detective pull his brother's self together to the here and now. He laid his hands on his brother's back and spread his wings around the circle. His flight-feathers brushed certain sigils at certain points, and he let the power flow up and through their lines and vanes, gathering the freely-offered magic into the web of his being. His glory illuminated the room with a kind of light that left no trace except by the way it washed with quiet welcome up against Gabe's, with the way it caressed the bodies and minds of those in the room.
Breathing was breathing pure magic. And then Raphael took what was offered to him and let it trickle through his hands and into Gabriel.
It wasn't sudden; it was a gentle thing, an alignment of harmonies, weaving him back together, nudging thoughts and intent back to where they should be. Raphael didn't work around Skulduggery's presence, but used it, building on those strains in Gabe that were made strongest by the detective's soul. Slowly, Gabriel's wings solidified, his feathers patterning. His light resonated, its oiliness dissolving, until it was as clean as--cleaner than--it had been when he arrived.
That light drew out everything in the room worth keeping, as it always did, but where Raphael's light struck it drew crystalline and resonant. In the closeness between the Archangels, Skulduggery's soul was cast starkly in contrast. Like a stained-glass window, paned and rainbow-coloured, throwing light everywhere save the blurry black threads which kept the panes together.
Everywhere Gabriel's light hit that glass, the humming air was painted gold.