[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.

 


The blade drips with moonlight as it drives toward Raum’s flesh and it is answer enough.
 
They are brethren Crows no more.
 
Time is a slow thing. It draws out, languid and idle. It drags and drags until Raum can feel the tick of every millisecond passing him by like a minute. But Raum is no magician and time is not really slow. But foresight is learned and Raum has learned so many things about his brother lately. He knew Acton would not take the blade, not with that bright fire smile he wore, not with the white-hot ire he directed at Raum in the caves.
 
Acton had been changing for some time now. He bore no more Crow feathers, his skin was not black and sleek. His allegiance had shifted and so the Ghost was ready: He was ready to see Isra’s blood spill like a fountain. He was ready to see Acton secret away the blade and appeal for a truce. And above all, Raum was ready to see his blade directed back upon himself.
 
And it comes, glinting bright, it singing with laughter as it cuts the air like butter. It thirsts for its master’s skin and its master expects nothing less of it.
 
But, to expect his brother’s betrayal and to experience it, nothing could prepare Raum for that. Rage rises within him like the dragon that stirs from slumber upon Denocte’s borders. It is electricity along his nerves and turns his skin red as blood. Before even the blade has touched his skin, the Ghost is no longer quicksilver, but crimson pooling in the moonlight. The blade cries for him, but Raum knows his brother and he knows his blade (for he has watched both all of his life). Though the blade bites his skin and cuts along its throat – for it always strikes true – the Ghost deftly dodges its culling blow.
 
Already magic is turning his teeth sharp. Fangs are forming, wicked and gleaming as his maw parts. Then he lunges, as he had within Denocte’s caves, but this time, it is not a hooked wing that presses upon Acton’s throat. Instead, it is a lion’s maw that clamps about Acton’s firebright neck. And it holds, it holds and squeezes and pours every ounce of bitter betrayal into that one savage, world-ending bite.
 
Leonine and cold, Raum pulls them down in a flurry of rent flesh and hot blood. The earth baptizes them in mud, blood and water of Isra’s tears. There Raum holds, until there is nothing between his jaws, until air is still within the Magician and his spark is gone. Only then does the Ghost rise, silver and cold once more. Blood adorns him, thick as mud and not enough to ever tie him to his brother’s lifeless body again.
 
Slowly Raum breathes, drinking in the air, feeling the ache of his lungs, the throb of his jaw and the river of blood that oozes from his own cut. Ah, that stinging cut, the final wound Acton could ever lay upon him. The Crow studies the lifeless body before him, the other Crow, now broken; a magician with no tricks left to play.
 
Blood seeps from his maw, the taste a horrific thing that twists and convulses within the shell of his soul. Doused in death, he stands, as still as a silver statue, every part of him stone, every part of him untouched by his sin, but for his eyes. Oh his eyes… they are a maelstrom, a storm broiling out at sea - screaming.
 
Then he turns that gaze upon Isra, upon the fire of her hatred. She lies like a dragon tethered, savage but subdued by wicked poison. In the distance a true dragon screams, Raum’s skull tilts to hear it. His gaze watches Isra, corvid, wild, soulless. “We had better go before your dragon comes.” Ragged is that voice and one might dream it is all rent flesh and bruised hearts, but he is detached, a ghost, and with every step towards Isra, his soul dies a little more.
 
From the darkness a stranger looms, an orphan once, the promise of money, of food, keeping his deeds blacker than black. He skirts the dead and moves to stand before Raum and his queen, ready.

---

@Isra @Acton

[Public Service Announcement: Acton is dead, I am sorry Novus. Just to let you know that: Griff made me do this.  IT'S ALL HER FAULT. Blame her.
RB - Bexley and Raum thread, ya? End of Public Service Announcement]