[P] 'and you're in the half-light'

[Raymond]

***

Oh, there were certainly many things that Raymond might do with a regency that Isra could not. Was that not why part of him wanted to reject her command, to slink back into the shadows and the porous halls through which the very lifeblood of the kingdom flowed? He had eaten enough sins to understand the seductive nature of power, had only just finished rattling his saber at the withered husk of a regime consumed by it. But had he eaten so many sins now that he doubted his ability to control the deeper demons of his nature?

Well, no.

The red stallion never doubted his own fortitude. That was why he was still alive.

Isra, too, had been forged in the red-hot crucibles of adversity and come out something that perhaps she'd never meant to be. She was a yielding soul, but she yielded like water: the more forceful the push, the harder she became. Water was the ultimate essence of adaptation, filling perfectly whatever space into which it flowed, but water was nothing to the wind and iron of a rendari lancer.

While she spoke, the little smile left on his face by his brief laughter had not wavered. If her words stirred him, they did so in waters of his psyche too deep to reflect upon his angular features.

Tonight is for choices, Raymond. What will yours be?

"Unicorns," he huffed amusedly, his guttural murmur loud enough to be heard but still soft enough not to be mistaken for a disparaging mark. While it paled in comparison to the raging fires of Calliope, Isra had a bit of the spark in her too - the spark of old ones, wild ones. Of survivors. "Good." Raymond straightened animatedly to his full stature and grimaced at the protestations of his wounded body. "I'm glad we understand each other. I will be your Regent, then," he echoed, only a little wryly. "You supply the hope, I'll supply the fury." 

Tilting his hip, the red stallion patted the night queen companionably on the shoulder with the flat of his freshly-tended blade, flashing a fatigued but winning smile before turning to join the mass of gathering Denocteans. "Oh - and Isra," He paused after several steps, snaking his head around to fix her with a strangely mirthless look.

"Your running days are over," Raymond continued, his vocal fry invoking the roar of dragonflame and splitting timber she had once recounted to him in the empty streets. "You're in the fire now. As your regent I suggest you own it - like you know you can - or it will burn you to ash."

His piece said, the red stallion turned back and proceeded on his way, stepping stiffly but still proudly around his injuries as he went to join the others. His words carried a subtle warning, a warning against obsequious smiles and wandering eyes, against the scheming chatter of courtiers and the flash of a palmed knife. Apart from the far wilderness, there was no lonelier place in the world than a throne, shadowed as it was by the invisible sword of Damocles and lit by a thousand prying, hungry eyes. There was no slower poison than a crown resting upon the brow.

And there was no judge more watchful than Raymond the Red.

***

Raymond
And at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
When the man comes around.

@Isra