[P] r.i.p. to my youth;

[Raum]

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

 

He can still taste her. Blood upon his lips, deep within the cuts from sharp, sharp fangs. But those fangs are long gone, for now Raum stands as equid as he has ever been. There is no part of him that is a weapon now. His daggers are daisies, long ago fallen to rot upon the earth. His abdomen is scratched from wild, metal flowers.
 
Ah this Crow is silver, spattered with red. He is the worst the earth has to offer.
 
Within the dark, he waits, as still as the night that hangs around him. The cave in which he stands is cold and clammy as death, but oh he does not care, not even when the mid summer breeze, chilled by the night, comes crying past its opening. Raum knows that Acton will come, for he knows his brother well, for they are bound by more than blood he has come to know. A corvid spirit lingers between them and oh it is something binding, something tethering. Yet lately the bond that ties has been fraying and who was the Crow with the beak full of rope threads?
 
The mountain is a corpse about its Ghost – not even it dares its heart to beat with a monster such as Raum so close. It has long ago fallen silent of dragon cries, and lost any colour or life that once made it beautiful. Is it any wonder, then, that this is where Raum hides? Now this mountain keeps his secret close - it is as silent as the grave and serious with its pale eyes that watch Acton ascend.
 
Acton is the stranger here. He is a spark of orange upon a mountain of barren silver and greys. Shadows flare like crow wings and are gone in the blink of an eye. They crawl like serpents and vanish as eyes settle upon them. In silence they stalk Acton up the mountainous trail, rocks skipping and tumbling away beneath his feet.
 
Acton is the only sound here. And a solitary ear twists atop the Ghost’s skull as his brother presses close, close, closer. Then, Acton is there, framed by silver light and adorned in shadows in the mouth of their cave. But not even the darkness can hide the bright of the Magician, the scars that glow bright and bold. Raum wonders what Isra’s scars will be, deep and bright and beautiful, or jagged, ugly and lurid. But oh, if he even cared one way or another – wouldn’t that be a blessing?
 
He says nothing to his brother. Acton was always speak first, and will until his dying breath, of that Raum is sure. Raum is ever the silent one, content to watch, to hiss only the smallest goodbye, if that, in a dying man’s ear. But Acton is not dying and still Raum does not care to spare him a word.
 
And ah, there it comes! Acton’s speech flares like a spark in the dead of night. It illuminates shadows, and the smoke that is Raum’s soul, there for a moment, enough to believe it existed, before it vanishes into nothingness.
 
No words come in reply to his brother’s first question, but the darkness of the cave shifts – fingers trailing idly along the wall as Raum steps forward. “When have you ever questioned my motives before, brother?” he asks at last, slow and soft as silk. Those words are a noose tightening, dread filling like a blade released from its scabbard.
 
Raum steps out from that shrouding dark. He is mercury pouring forward, poisonous and lethal, to glitter in the liminal light of the cave.  He sets blue eyes upon Acton and they are enough to drown the fire of his brother’s coat, enough to turn all to ash and smoke. “There is always reason behind hatred. Why do you think I did this, Acton?” And oh those words are no less harsh. They do not rise in ire or frustration. They dare his fellow Crow, they lay a gauntlet at his feet and throughout it all Raum is a statue, silver and still as ice.  Who dares to judge his actions? Who dares…
 
“Blood has been spilled and it was just and right.”

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@Acton I am rumbling! Can you feel it?!