[P] a night so black that the blackness hummed.

[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 is smoke within the midnight maze. His skin is the surface of the moon, bright and shadowed. The Ghost is as any spook might be. He glows, unearthly bright, stepping silent as a nightmare.
 
The shrub walls whisper as they watch him pass. They reach out with long gnarled fingers that drip as melting wax. Magic is fading here and for a moment it is as if Raum is the most real thing. For every labored breath the crumpled queen inhales and releases, her make-believe world melts a little bit more.
 
Corporeal and as real as she, Raum finds her in her shadowed corner. He looks at her, as if he can hear – can see- the poison lacing through her veins. The darkness cradles Isra (and oh how it fans his ire), shadows swim over her and pull her into the darkness – much like the drug that pulls the girl deeper into unconsciousness.
 
There is no rush in him as he moves to her side, unaffected and as cold as night. The Crow’s gaze meet hers and the Queen’s eyes hiss the words her tongue cannot. Raum feels her threat as a whip upon his skin. I will have your bones, I will turn your blood into soil and your skin into roses..
 
Such promises!
 
Yet there is no sting from the bite of a whip. No, all that escapes the Night Court Queen is a tearful sob that echoes in the night.
 
How the maze trembles at the sound! How the magic quakes at the undoing of its maker!
 
Raum slips to Isra, pouring through her maze. He is quicksilver, here to drown the world in metal and poison. Closer, closer, he moves. Close, close, until his ankle is a hair’s breadth from hers. Then, down he leans, until their eyes meet, until their stance is an intimate thing. Only then does Raum utter softly, as though Isra were his daughter and this was any quiet night he might gently urge Sabine to sleep, “I am sorry, my Queen, I could not hear you.” Soft as a raven’s wing, he smooths down the tangle of her fringe.
 
A spark flares in the corner of Raum’s eye. It is bright enough to never be extinguished in the blue of his gaze. His attention drifts from the fallen queen. The song of her sobs, her labored breaths, joins with the birds of the night, as he now watches his brother in silence.
 
It is with slow regard that the Ghost watches his Magician, that he studies the black curve of his performer’s smile. Acton’s flattery is a fan breathing cold kisses upon Raum’s skin.
 
For so long, the silver Crow says nothing at all, but feels the bite of Isra’s gaze and studies the way his brother watches their queen – a girl downed like a bird from the sky.
 
Acton is a lick of flame, rippling as a fire before him and Raum knows that fire as well as he knows his own skin. He studies the curve of his brother’s black lips and hums, gently, considering, “You have changed your tune, Acton. And I do not think it is because of the breath I choked from your lungs…”
 
Raum’s voice is so dangerously soft. His look a wicked thing. The blade upon his forelimb laughs. It is broken in part and knows the blood of a once-god. Does it now thirst for the blood of a Magician?
 
“I know you are changeable, Acton,” His voice is the soft rumble of thunder, the stirring of a sky to chaos and fright.  Silently the Ghost invites his brother closer as the blade frees itself from its brace. Raum offers it openly, holding it above the curve of Isra’s throat. It is close enough for Raum to strike the queen as she lays and close enough for Acton to take…
 
“So, come then, brother. Finish it for us.” Slowly Raum turns blue eyes upon Acton and now they are bluer then the sea, deep enough to drown any spark, deep enough to drown an infernal sun. Such challenge lies in that invitation, one as great as death.
 
In silence Raum waits and the silence knows he is no fool.

---

@Isra @Acton