Wonder Made

Twenty-Six

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As much as Rayburn hates staying in one place too long, Crispen hates doing nothing, like he's doing now, pacing outside 1809 Melbourne Way. He can't see inside the house. Much as he tries, Gideon's web of magic stops him from using his magic to spy on what's going on. Instead, he's asked Genesis, to take to the sky, and see if an aerial view can help them attain some new insight on what's happening.

Though Crispen, at this critical moment, is blind to what's going on inside the Auttsley house, he can sense Gideon. He knows the moment his brother sees Peneloper for the first time, as there is an unnatural glee that overtakes Gideon's usual, frigid demeanor. Gideon, feels happiness, true happiness, though he won't let himself feel that way for long. He'll stuff the momentary emotion deep inside himself and try to forget it ever occurred. Much like Gideon had done with all his emotions concerning Crispen. All the happy times they shared prior to the Council's intervention, served Gideon no purpose, and so he pretended they never happened.

If only Crispen could do the same. But, the boy of crows cherished those fond memories of when it was just the two of them, surviving in the voids on the Refracted. The nights were cold and the days were dreary, but they had each other. If he reached out his hand, Gideon's fingers would wrap around it and fill him with a warmth, all the cold, rainy, endless days of despair could never truly dampen.

And now, Crispen waited. For his brother to destroy Peneloper. For Peneloper to destroy his brother. A lose-lose for him no matter how it's viewed.

He crunches gravel underneath his shoes. Beside him, a cross walk blinks that it is safe for pedestrians to cross though the roads are empty and the streets silent. Empty paper bags and abandoned newspapers roll across the streets and parking lots. Lights in the neighboring skyscrapers are all off. Blinds are shut, windows closed and locked tight. The city can feel it's on the precipice of a battle.

Not only can Crispen feel it too, but he hears the exact second Peneloper's magic explodes and the battle commences. And yet, he stands at its fringes, a second stringer that will never be subbed in. Useless in this matter that concerned two of the people he loved most.

Again, and again, he tries to break through Gideon's magic. As Peneloper hurls all she has at Gideon, Crispen thinks the distraction would weaken his wards, but it doesn't, and no matter how much Phil Collins he blasts into his ears, he's unable to cut through all that magic. Where Crispen severs one strand, three more rise up and thicken the bond, making it stronger, impenetrable.

Beside Crispen, Chant shuffles, eyes flitting from the house to the side walk, anxious, and leashed into a role of helplessness. Rayburn plops another chocolate candy in his mouth, fingers extending and retracting at his sides. He's so worried he's unable to control who sees his aura and so Crispen sees it -- the anxious greens, the alighting fear of losing not just one or two people closest to him, but losing them all in one disastrous moment, the insecurity, the annoyance at being sidelined.

Like Crispen and Chant, Rayburn is unable to do anything for the ones he loves.

It's up to Peneloper; it's always been up to her.

Genesis squawks in the distance, reporting his findings though they're nothing of interest. He's as blind in the air as they are on the ground. Crispen frowns. He continues to fight with Gideon's magic, failing again and again, when, finally, a chink in the chain appears. A thin strand of Gideon's magic, not bolstered by other strands, single and alone. Easy prey.

Crispen gets to work, plucking at it, pulling it apart, chiseling away its integrity until--

He looks up. Takes a deep breath. Feels what is to come. The chapter bursts from the front door. It sprints on its footnotes, and huffing, arrives, not one second too soon at Crispen's side.