[P] oath

[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.

 


Sabine leans into him and he holds her tighter. But Raum knows all things are fleeting and when she steps away, peeling herself from him (taking from him the pieces of her that have grown to help hold him together) he is raw where they touched. He is bleeding in his heart and unraveling at the seams. Their thread grows frayed and brittle as it loops loosely between them.
 
Never has she said so much as she does now when her lips part:
 
Apologies.
 
Apologies
 
Apologies.
 
Over and over she demands that he give them to those he has killed: Acton and Seraphina and Rhoswen and more, more, more. She names their ghosts and they come. Acton grins with his fire-starter smile, Rhoswen’s gaze is soft as ash, cruel as the raging inferno, he does not look for Seraphina’s – he does not care to.
 
Fire, fire, fire, Acton and Rhoswen and Sabine… that was what defined those he loved most. He was always destined to burn, wasn’t he?
 
Then there is Octavia, Bexley, Isra, Solterra, all those living whom his actions have wronged. He should apologise to each and every one of them. So Sabine demands as she stands, frail as a fledgling, but every baby bird is brave enough to spread their wings and fly. He watches the ferocity burn in his girl’s blue, blue eyes and wonders when her wings matured, ready for this moment.
 
She flies.
 
She flies.
 
She-
 
“No.” Raum says softly, and wonders if she plummets then, caught, as if in a strong gust. Does she shatter like the statue he threw from the window? (Still he hears them, people gathering, talking, wondering what enraged the king so. And others flee, frightened of what ire he might bring.) Darkness comes creeping. Raum can feel it. It is so much thicker than night, so much more cold than the farthest reaches of the stars, so much more broken than even death. It looms like a specter and maybe this was his choice, here and now? Will he crawl upon his knees and beg for clemency? Lay his apologies upon everyone like a madman made to see reason?
 
But Raum is not mad. He has never been mad.
 
“No,” he repeats. “My apology is only for you, Sabine.” He takes a breath, inhales this dusty air that has abraded his lungs too long. “The rest…” And he thinks of them as he looks to the assembled ghosts that he has killed. The king pictures the living – those who endured him and continue to do so. “I am not sorry for my actions toward them. I am not sorry for killing them. There are no other apologies to make.”
 
But Rhoswen… “I love her and hate her. I hate her for leaving us, again and again and again, Sabine.” His breath is tight in his chest, emotion gathers, strangling in his throat. Grief is killing him, that cloud of looming darkness is reaching. “I apologise that you no longer have a mother, I apologise that I cannot be the father you wanted or needed. But I will not apologise to any other. Acton grew weak and misguided, Seraphina stood in the way of Solterra, Isra I will sooner kill if I see her again…”
 
He trails off, staring at his daughter, dousing her in silver, wishing he could keep her like this forever, safe from him, from the world. “Maybe I would apologise to the children whose parents I have killed. Maybe them, Sabine, but the regret of making orphans will not stop me doing it again.”
 
Was it worth it?
 
He smiles, he laughs, the sound is alien and the grounds rattling with the shock of his laughter. It feels strange upon his tongue and rough like gravel. There is no joy in such a noise. Raum was not made for laughter.
 
“Depends.” He answers softly, knowing this is the most he has revealed to any, except Rhoswen, except Acton and they are both dead now. Sabine stands, his only confidant. “To see Solterra broken, its pride bruised and bleeding, yes it was worth it. But at the cost of your mother’s life?” He murmurs, low, rough and tortured, “No. It was not worth that.”
 
And now he laughs true, genuine and morose. It is a sound shattering, less a laugh and more a moan. His electric eyes close as his chin tips up. The Ghost takes a breath, “She won, Sabi.” He groans as if pained as if it had all been a game. “She has ended it all.”
 
And he is content to name Rhoswen the victor.

---

@Sabine