[Worship] My unconquerable soul

[Raum]

 


The sound of metal clattering upon marble ricochets through the temple. At the foot of Caligo’s altar he casts his weapons. Two daggers lie half unsheathed, their twin bodies gleaming, silver and sharp. Moonlight lances along their razor edges and they glitter malevolently in the light. Their song is cut moonlight and bleeding black, made for Caligo’s ears alone.
 
Such weapons are but a mirror for the man above them. With electric blue eyes he stares at the altar of his goddess. Raum’s offerings lie, promising blood and chaos and above them he stands, their Deliverer, swathed in shadow and menace. Obsidian stones shed a dappling light that flickers like ants across his silvered skin. In the black, bathed in the only light that endures here, Raum is as silver as the moon. The moon, ah, it is the only light Caligo lets shine in her world of black, black darkness and far-flung stars.
 
In silence her servant stands, his offerings of steel cast before her shrine. The world slumbers beyond her midnight walls. The darkness here is enough to swallow stars, it is enough to eat the world and Raum is so very hungry. Oh his skin bleeds to black, black as the sins of his heart.
 
His scarf is a silken breath about his throat, a caress. His sides are bruised with Rhoswen’s final blow. His body remembers her, it will never forget. Ah, his head tilts back, his eyes closing. Denocte’s Ghost seems delirious then, drunk upon his thoughts. The temple whispers violence, it shudders with the presence of him, here, now. But still he stands oblivious: a dark deliverer, an angel of menace.
 
How long passes? A day? An hour? A minute? Or maybe it is mere seconds… but time stands still for his vigil. He leaves his throat exposed and his chest, with its ragged heart, open to be struck down. Denocte was lost. It was a flock of sheep scattered, with no shepherd left to hold it together. Raum had never cared for Denocte’s people, not in the way that he cared for his Crows and his goddess. But all was broken and twisted now and he had returned to this midnight Court as a prodigal son. Caligo had asked for a sovereign, but he was not made to sit upon a throne. No, Raum was made to desecrate thrones and raze to the ground the unworthy and greedy.
 
Acton is a spark in his eye, Rhoswen a burn of the sun upon his skin and Sabine a twinge of his blackened heart. His prayer is a vow. Its voice is the whispering of the blades that lie, waiting for their goddess’ command. These daggers yearn to pierce the world and watch it bleed beneath her justice. Her servant, her Ghost, had returned to Night but his lover, Rhoswen, returned to Day. The lovers had drawn their lines in blood this time and so, Raum stands, before this temple and vows his life to his goddess. Word of his risen goddess was feverish and bright across Denocte.  But such hope was fleeting: there and then gone, His vow is devout enough that, wherever she is, she might hear it and she might know.
 
The Crows were gone, Raum’s family had left him. Just he and Acton remained, rejected. Ah, Raum had been an orphan once – still was! He knows now the rejection Caligo felt (no, feels!) and it steels his heart. Slowly his chin lowers and his eyelids open over blue, blue eyes. That azure gaze drowns and chokes everything in blue. He electrifies the world with that keen, keen gaze. There is no softening of this man. He is wicked sharp, even in the ache of his love for his goddess.
 
Raum would smother the world for the justice of those abandoned and rejected. Slowly his chin curls into his chest, long ears falling against his skull. His prayer to Caligo was thus:
 
“Vengeance.”
 
For her, for him, for their Court.

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