[P] ' ' you're all that glitters, all that's gold *

[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 girl lies upon her bed of green. Ivy is her pillow, moss her bed and the filtering sun the sheets that cover her in gold. Her silver eyes are as bright as his true skin. He looks at them and thinks of mercury – the way they glitter, the way they shine and reflect the world back upon their beholder. Yet there is no poison there. Oh to taste mercury is to die, yet this girl is anything but. Dear Terrastella, the court with a dreamer king, a blissful world of dreamers and peace.
 
Raum steps forward, he does not stand back. Through each beam of light he moves and how the sun transforms him into flames that lick and greedily drink the air of the swamp.
 
Her coy smiles are lost to him, the laughter of her gaze, those eyes that dance with silver silk, chattering and dancing. Yet he studies her, the curve of her wings, the soft of her feathers. All of her glitters gold where snow does not rest. All of her is bright and fierce and so utterly bright. Raum is the flames to melt the soft of her. He should be the blade to cut, cut, cut. Yet he stands warmer than he has ever been, caught by the setting sun. He is Icarus and the sun is falling to catch him.
 
‘You’re something new.’ Yes, Raum thinks, but does not say. His skin is hot and his eyes are emerald. That gaze is the deepest depths of an old, old forest. It is creeping woodland strung with vines and hiding all within its looming shadows. Ah his gaze is beautiful as all forests are, yet it whispers terrible things as it charms and lures with its siren beauty.
 
Slowly, slowly, he steps toward her. He moves until he stands tall, haloed by the sun, made glorious in its deception. Ah, Raum is no angel, no matter his beauty, no matter the golden divinity of him here. Death stalks him and oh it watches him from behind a blue, blue scarf. Legion’s skull tilts still listening, hearing the thrum of a girl’s breath as she rests in a bed of flowers.
 
“I could say the same of you.” Raum murmurs. Too lazy he is to change his voice and it is the silk of a silver king. It is the rough camber of a murderous dictator. But when spoken through lips of gold, well, then that voice is a thing entirely other – especially when received by ears that do not know him.
 
“I am new,” Raum muses softly. “Can you tell me more about my new home?” He murmurs gently, limbs folding as he lowers into the  grasses beside her. In silence he looks up, up to the umbrella of boughs, up beyond the veil of leaves and there, oh there the sun searches for him. It yearns to bathe his skin in silver, to urge Juniper to run! Run! To keep her lips sealed, to betray nothing of value to a listening Crow and his monster.
 
Does anyone remember a boy from Denocte: an orphan who became a performer, a boy who adorned himself in silks and glitter and danced upon a string held high, a boy who charmed girls out of money and jewels. An orphan who when his show was ended each night, stripped himself of silks and jewels and took to the streets like a wraith, murdering for money and justice… That boy lies beside a girl this eve and as his eyes tip up to those trees, they change from a dictator king into a performer once more. Then as his gaze lowers and he watches Juniper, then does he smile, warm as sunrise, with those golden lips. He gives unto this girl of snow and gilded gold, a beautiful deception. Raum is, and was, and always will be a performer.

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@Juniper