"He just needs some help putting colour to his face," Dex said cheerfully. "I'll bet he'd appreciate your volunteering, China."
"Unfortunately for you, neither of us are exhibitionists, Vex," Solomon answered almost automatically, tension in his voice even though it was otherwise even. He wasn't unaware of the tension in China's soul, but he had other things to think about. Her observation wasn't inaccurate in the least. Well, Solomon couldn't exactly tell if he was pale, since he couldn't see the mirrors, but he felt tense. He had no idea what was going to happen. Rafe had been extremely unhelpful, and Solomon suspected from the Archangel's expression that he genuinely didn't know--that there were several ways this could pan out, and it all depended on just how China had written her spell, and the Archangel couldn't tell which was the most likely.
The whole room hummed magic. It wasn't just the fact that it was built of magic, although Merlin's foundation was feeding into the spell. It was the sigils, the way they linked, looped, resonated off each other. The way the eye overlapped the edges of the Cleaver's abyss, echoing it, until the rebounded off each other. It was a yawning hole that had left a low-level ache in his temples. If not for his wards, it would have been so much worse.
He had hardly dared move on his own since they had entered the maze. There were dozens of Cleavers inside it, all reflecting against the magical mirrors. Those mirrors reflected back into their abyss. From almost the first moment he had stepped into the maze, he hadn't been able to see anything except that crevasse.
He kept his eyes open, to keep himself from feeling as if he was free-falling. It meant he could see the yawning pit around him, swallowing him, but he could see the sigils; he could see its limits. There was solid ground under his feet, and it was enough. But he couldn't move on his own. He'd been helpless, needing someone to lead him just to trust that he wasn't going to go spinning off into that void.
It was probably going to get worse. Solomon wasn't going to put it off. He never did like waiting, and this was nearly unbearable as it was.
"Cleavers," he said evenly, trusting to Merlin's magical sound-system to transmit his order, "dispel. Except you."
The last was said directly to the one beside him, though he didn't dare look directly into it. He didn't feel any difference at first. The outermost Cleavers were too far away. But then he felt the surge, a faint trickle which made the sigils hum. A harbinger of an approaching tsunami.
It flooded the void, that wave. It was controlled, a series of ripples and surges through the magical sluices China had written, and that fact was the only reason Solomon wasn't swept away. He closed his eyes and breathed, rather shakily, felt his arms prickle with the swirl of magic and those rising waters and--
A hand landed on his shoulder, warm and solid, and the metaphysical drag eased. He opened his eyes to find broad wings cupped loosely around him, enough to give him a defence but not cut him off from seeing what he had to. He exhaled slowly. 'Thank you.'
Raphael's hand squeezed his shoulder in response.
The wave flowed into the circle at his feet and lit it up with a hum audible even to the others. All the hair on Solomon's body stood up on end, and when he breathed he breathed in magic.
The Cleaver was a fractured void in space, but when the magic hit its circle it jerked. It didn't waver, exactly, but it was like--it was like it was being spun on a potter's wheel, forged in a blacksmith's fire. Its edges grew harder, more defined, and yet less of a broken object. This was its full state, save for some marks Solomon could even now see appearing on its polished surface. Chips, left by the deaths of reflections that would never be returned to it.
The last of the magic flowed into the circle and the reflection's form solidified properly, hardened to that diamond glint. An empty vessel, fully defined.
Limbs tingling, Solomon made to step forward, but he didn't have to; the moment the reflection's state had settled, something was already filled it. And this was like a broken dam, an uncontrollable flood swamping this diamond vessel, something large and inexorable. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't easy.
Cracks appeared in the diamond. With a curse Solomon sprang forward, already reaching out for the ripples in the lifestream they cast. He slammed one hand to the Cleaver's chest and willed that diamond to hold, pressing against it with his own soul like he was holding a barricade. It stopped the cracks from spreading, but some were already leaking; without stopping to explicitly think over the means, Solomon knotted them one by one, like sewing sutures. The worst of them bowed a little under that extra give, but they held.
It was the most he could do. If there was a way he could heal it properly, he had no idea what it might be, and he wasn't going to ask Raphael for help when the Archangel would have to refuse.
Solomon couldn't tell when it all stopped. It seemed to go on forever, the rushing water and the nearly limitless confines of the reflection's interior, the pressure up against him as the sheer force of Bliss's soul filling this makeshift vessel tried to break it.
But eventually it did end. Eventually, the reflection filled, and Solomon sensed that the flood was slowing. He waited until it had, until he was sure there was nothing left, and then eased off, taking an unsteady step back. "Bliss?"
He could almost see the Cleaver's shape, now, filled as it was, except that it was fragmented. Like the bottom of a pool, the water never still. For a moment it just settled, the water swirling as it settled properly into all the nooks and crannies. Then, abruptly, something shifted within it and the Cleaver snapped properly upright. Solomon flinched back from the sudden motion, the turn of that massive presence inside something almost too small for it, and heard a ring of metal of something--a helmet--hitting ground.
"Get me out of this," Bliss said roughly, his voice as near to shaking as it ever did, and Solomon heard him fumbling. "Get me out of it."
"Hold up, arms up!" Dexter Vex sprang past him and Solomon stepped back, turning, suddenly as tired as he'd ever been.
Behind him, Bliss stood still with that quivering nervous tension of someone who couldn't quite, his face lined with untold strain, as Dexter swiftly and with ease of practice undid buckle after buckle; and then, one-by-one, before Dexter had even finished with the rest, the strongest man in the world tore each piece of armour off him and tossed it aside.
no subject
"Unfortunately for you, neither of us are exhibitionists, Vex," Solomon answered almost automatically, tension in his voice even though it was otherwise even. He wasn't unaware of the tension in China's soul, but he had other things to think about. Her observation wasn't inaccurate in the least. Well, Solomon couldn't exactly tell if he was pale, since he couldn't see the mirrors, but he felt tense. He had no idea what was going to happen. Rafe had been extremely unhelpful, and Solomon suspected from the Archangel's expression that he genuinely didn't know--that there were several ways this could pan out, and it all depended on just how China had written her spell, and the Archangel couldn't tell which was the most likely.
The whole room hummed magic. It wasn't just the fact that it was built of magic, although Merlin's foundation was feeding into the spell. It was the sigils, the way they linked, looped, resonated off each other. The way the eye overlapped the edges of the Cleaver's abyss, echoing it, until the rebounded off each other. It was a yawning hole that had left a low-level ache in his temples. If not for his wards, it would have been so much worse.
He had hardly dared move on his own since they had entered the maze. There were dozens of Cleavers inside it, all reflecting against the magical mirrors. Those mirrors reflected back into their abyss. From almost the first moment he had stepped into the maze, he hadn't been able to see anything except that crevasse.
He kept his eyes open, to keep himself from feeling as if he was free-falling. It meant he could see the yawning pit around him, swallowing him, but he could see the sigils; he could see its limits. There was solid ground under his feet, and it was enough. But he couldn't move on his own. He'd been helpless, needing someone to lead him just to trust that he wasn't going to go spinning off into that void.
It was probably going to get worse. Solomon wasn't going to put it off. He never did like waiting, and this was nearly unbearable as it was.
"Cleavers," he said evenly, trusting to Merlin's magical sound-system to transmit his order, "dispel. Except you."
The last was said directly to the one beside him, though he didn't dare look directly into it. He didn't feel any difference at first. The outermost Cleavers were too far away. But then he felt the surge, a faint trickle which made the sigils hum. A harbinger of an approaching tsunami.
It flooded the void, that wave. It was controlled, a series of ripples and surges through the magical sluices China had written, and that fact was the only reason Solomon wasn't swept away. He closed his eyes and breathed, rather shakily, felt his arms prickle with the swirl of magic and those rising waters and--
A hand landed on his shoulder, warm and solid, and the metaphysical drag eased. He opened his eyes to find broad wings cupped loosely around him, enough to give him a defence but not cut him off from seeing what he had to. He exhaled slowly. 'Thank you.'
Raphael's hand squeezed his shoulder in response.
The wave flowed into the circle at his feet and lit it up with a hum audible even to the others. All the hair on Solomon's body stood up on end, and when he breathed he breathed in magic.
The Cleaver was a fractured void in space, but when the magic hit its circle it jerked. It didn't waver, exactly, but it was like--it was like it was being spun on a potter's wheel, forged in a blacksmith's fire. Its edges grew harder, more defined, and yet less of a broken object. This was its full state, save for some marks Solomon could even now see appearing on its polished surface. Chips, left by the deaths of reflections that would never be returned to it.
The last of the magic flowed into the circle and the reflection's form solidified properly, hardened to that diamond glint. An empty vessel, fully defined.
Limbs tingling, Solomon made to step forward, but he didn't have to; the moment the reflection's state had settled, something was already filled it. And this was like a broken dam, an uncontrollable flood swamping this diamond vessel, something large and inexorable. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't easy.
Cracks appeared in the diamond. With a curse Solomon sprang forward, already reaching out for the ripples in the lifestream they cast. He slammed one hand to the Cleaver's chest and willed that diamond to hold, pressing against it with his own soul like he was holding a barricade. It stopped the cracks from spreading, but some were already leaking; without stopping to explicitly think over the means, Solomon knotted them one by one, like sewing sutures. The worst of them bowed a little under that extra give, but they held.
It was the most he could do. If there was a way he could heal it properly, he had no idea what it might be, and he wasn't going to ask Raphael for help when the Archangel would have to refuse.
Solomon couldn't tell when it all stopped. It seemed to go on forever, the rushing water and the nearly limitless confines of the reflection's interior, the pressure up against him as the sheer force of Bliss's soul filling this makeshift vessel tried to break it.
But eventually it did end. Eventually, the reflection filled, and Solomon sensed that the flood was slowing. He waited until it had, until he was sure there was nothing left, and then eased off, taking an unsteady step back. "Bliss?"
He could almost see the Cleaver's shape, now, filled as it was, except that it was fragmented. Like the bottom of a pool, the water never still. For a moment it just settled, the water swirling as it settled properly into all the nooks and crannies. Then, abruptly, something shifted within it and the Cleaver snapped properly upright. Solomon flinched back from the sudden motion, the turn of that massive presence inside something almost too small for it, and heard a ring of metal of something--a helmet--hitting ground.
"Get me out of this," Bliss said roughly, his voice as near to shaking as it ever did, and Solomon heard him fumbling. "Get me out of it."
"Hold up, arms up!" Dexter Vex sprang past him and Solomon stepped back, turning, suddenly as tired as he'd ever been.
Behind him, Bliss stood still with that quivering nervous tension of someone who couldn't quite, his face lined with untold strain, as Dexter swiftly and with ease of practice undid buckle after buckle; and then, one-by-one, before Dexter had even finished with the rest, the strongest man in the world tore each piece of armour off him and tossed it aside.