[P] — cask of amontillado

[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.

 



I must applaud a man for seeking out his ambitions.
 
Those words sit as crows upon a fence, pecking at the eyes of his mind.
 
Ambition. Is that what they all felt compelled him? If so, they were all soon to be struck down with mis-knowing. Maybe only Rhoswen and Acton and Sabine would be the ones to know the truth of him. They might be the only ones to look upon this white-flesh man and know that something silver lurked beneath. Rhoswen might taste the salt of sea-water from eyes that were a sea turned inky black. Acton might know from the flat of his voice, from the disinterest and neutrality by which he spoke and Sabine… She might know for the way he could not disguise his adoration.
 
They all would know that he is not ambitious. They all would know that Raum cares nothing for power. He had no aspirations to become a king. He has no desire to retain his throne – he would sooner burn the citadel into ash and ruin and maybe he will, when the time is right.
 
“Is ambition really what you think when you look upon such a man?” Raum murmurs, in snow and ice and white, white lace. Is ambition what parches the throats of his people? Is ambition what turns their bodies into bags of rattling bones? Is it ambition that sank a boat full of slaves and asylum seekers?
 
Already the parade has moved on. It echoes back, whispering off buildings and rumbling glass. The grey man shifts from where he stands beneath the awning of a building and moves slowly to trail the parade. His eyes drift back to welcome the stranger along with him.
 
“What makes you think it is ambition and not revenge?” What makes you think that any of this is about a Court and not a girl? He does not say the latter, though it laughs upon his tongue, it gleams like a wildfire in his eye. His wicked wood heart is burning and smoke is slipping through his veins.
 
His gaze shifts pointedly to a child who cowers into the dark of a doorway, who cowers before the strangers passing by him. His skin it pulled too tight, his body more angular than any child’s should be. “What makes you crown him with ‘ambition’ and not condemn him with ‘abhorrence’?”
 
“You called him monstrous… a skin shifting thing of horror and dismay…” Raum utters softly  and moves beyond the child and to a street seller with honey cakes upon his stall. From it he plucks a sticky bun and places his payment within the vendor’s bowl. In silence he returns to the child and gifts him the sweet treat.
 
The child’s lips are sticky sweet when they now move on and begins to trail the king and his compatriot. He is a shadow in their wake, angular and weak, hungry and desperate for more. His eyes are filled with hope as they rest upon the snow-white flesh of his savior.
 
“I think you were right the first time, Erasmus. Who starves a nation? Not a man but a monster.”

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@Erasmus - <3