creator_raven | [OOM: Raven, it seems, is paying attention]

[OOM: Raven, it seems, is paying attention]

His head is itchy. If he were truly flesh and not clay, the hair on the back of his neck would be rising. Instead, his smile is small and sharp, and his eyes are very bright.

He knows who is watching, and it is time and past time to remind her of certain things.

I will always find you

Possibly it is merely his undying affection.

It is something of a comfort, is it not?

Possibly it is something entirely different.

It is the work of a moment to walk out of the bar and toward the lake, black coat-tails flying crazily in the breeze.

And then they turn to wings as with one last caw, harsh and ringing, Raven disappears.

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(where do you end when you pass beyond the ending?)

The grayish-white mist lies outside the castle's high walls, surrounding it with something that may be protection or guardian, perhaps both or neither. It writhes with a seeming life of its own, and its voice--

(humming muttering crying screaming)

-- is a warbling howl, a buzzing wail that invites madness.

The tall gate stretches high toward into the unseen sky, drawing thirteen lines of glass in all colors of the (wizard's) rainbow.

Inside the castle, Blodwen's head snaps up. Ice-blue eyes narrow.

There is a rustling of black wings, almost lost amid the wailing howl.

A tiny black shape darts toward the gate, mist twining about it as it flies. Did one possess enough imagination, it is almost possible to imagine that the bird is dancing with it. There are some things in which Raven does not lack for grace.

His speed does not lessen as he approaches the gate, and it is, perhaps, fortunate that it opens for him. He flies through, spinning a bit as he goes.

From below, another raven mirrors him.

Odd, that.

She had not truly thought that he -- that anyone -- could find her here. But where one person may come, another may follow, and she had known when he had sensed her watching.

And so, although the White Rider is caught by surprise, she is not totally unprepared. In the darkened throne room, lit only by the sullen green glow that falls through the stained-glass windows, Blodwen rises to her feet. A chill hiss comes from her lips, the sound of a wind rising-- and turns into a low chant.

Outside, the gates snap shut and the mist boils beyond the shining bars like wind-blown smoke. The sky above Raven is a merciless, cloudless blue that seems almost baking with the heat of a desert.

It is mirrored below him in the shine of the glass courtyard. The air shimmers, heat waves rising to dim vision and trick with mirages -- but from which direction? What is above, and what lies below?

Ah, heat. It is an old friend.
blood and earth and ash oh my people
In some ways.

Part of him is laughing. Part of him is not.

It is the latter bit that narrows bird-bright eyes, feathers dropping away and turning into coat-tails as he lets gravity do what it does best.

Pull him earthwards.

Like, after all, calls to like.

The ground is closer than he may have thought, and bootheels strike mirrorglass with a steel-sharp ringing sound. Something screams in the sky above, and the shape of a single bird in the distance splits into a clamor of rooks--

(an unkindness of ravens)

-- arrowing in a dark swoop into the dimness above the walls. Each shape disappears as though swallowed utterly, and their cries are cut off, leaving only the silence of death behind.

It is broken by the tolling of a brazen bell from a distant tower in the green glass castle that stands before Raven, the castle whose doors remain closed against him.

Raven twitches. The cousins, created by magic or no, are incredibly irritating.

He snorts as they disappear.

The expression on his face sharpens as the bell begins to ring, and he tilts his head, listening. This lasts only a moment before his shoulders twitch again, and he walks toward the castle, step oddly light against the mirrorglass.

One hand is in his pocket, emerging with a cigarette that reluctantly lights itself. He takes a drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke. It twines about his face, masking his expression for several seconds before curling lazily away.

He smiles.

In his other hand is a tangle of black thread, and his fingers have already gone to work.

Inside the green glass palace, in the middle of the throne room, Blodwen stands waiting. A cold smile is on her face, and she studies the smoke swirling in the clear globe, held in the palm of her hand. With her other hand she makes a single gesture, fingers curling up into claws.

Outside the door, the cigarette smoke curls away from Raven's face... and then thins and twists into a shape above his head, widening into the form of a net, set to trap a wild bird.

One moment passes, then another-- and the smoke acquires a wire-bright gleam from the mirrorglass below.

The doors to the palace open a crack, showing nothing but darkness beyond, and the net drops upon him with the weight of stone.

He staggers, one knee dropping to touch the mirrorglass. Hard.

Beneath the weight of him (it)the mirrorglass shatters, cutting through both his jeans and the skin beneath, blood welling up.

drip

drip

His body sags a bit more, cigarette dangling limply from his fingers. The end glows red.

His blood does, as well. Then it burns an incandescent white, brighter than the heart of a star. That fire swells, engulfing the net and the man both. There is a sizzling hiss and a high piercing shriek, and then a tiny black bird, blacker now than before, perhaps, is arrowing for the open door.

Smoke trails behind him, thick and ash-grey, smelling of burnt feathers and charred flesh.

This, too, is familiar.

Behind him, the smoke swirls and then fades. The slice of harsh blue sky visible through the door burns a sapphire-blue above and below, in air and in glass reflection both.

The narrow corridor that Raven arrows into is long and ebon-dark, enough so to seem cavelike and cloying.

Far in the distance a sullen poison-green glow provides the only illumination, reflecting off of the obsidian walls and turning the corridor into a mazelike hall of mirrors.

Again the wings turn to coat-tails, smoke rising from the charred left arm of the coat.

The odor of burning feathers grows lighter, and the smell of roast flesh is more apparent. Raven's nostrils flare, lines pinched white about his mouth.

One breath. Two. His shoulders twitch, slightly out of rhythm, and he lowers the burnt one to his side before beginning to walk.

He has never relied entirely on his eyes to see. Or to See. And here, in this place that is real and not-real and almost-real and once-real all at the same time--well, this is hardly the place to start, is it?

The door behind him slams shut with the same bell-like brazen sound, ringing and echoing through the corridor at nearly deafening volume.

Ahead of him the light brightens, brightens, into a shining emerald radiance that falls from colored windows set high in the walls of the cathedral-like chamber, walls that arch up into green-tinged shadows at their utmost height.

Blodwen stands waiting in the middle of the room, glass globe nowhere in sight. Her laughter floats on the air, a soft silvery chime.

Raven tilts his head, studying her carefully out of bird-bright eyes. Something like a smirk curls the corners of his mouth.

"I do not think green is your color. Possibly it is the skin tone."

He sounds earnest.

He looks contained, waiting.

It is an interesting contrast.

"Goodness, cariad, but do you not realize it? It is springtime soon, and green is such a pretty color in spring."

She shakes her head, still laughing, and then holds out both hands to him in a gesture of welcome.

"Pretty bird. I knew you would come back to me."

Raven wrinkles his nose, eyes bright with laughter.

"It is because I told you, I think."

He adjusts his stance. It might bring him a half-step closer.

"I did not expect such impatience, on the whole. It is interesting."

She does not move, but remains where she is in the heart of the room, smiling warmly and with hands still outstretched.

Glass gleams below their feet and in all aspects of the walls. The chamber is oddly bright, shadows drawn back behind corners and at the edge of the throne, as well as into the roiling darkness far above them.

"Impatience, dear? Why, what do you mean?" The light soft voice is gentle and curious, but she continues,

"So brave you are, to have come so far and into the dangers of this wicked, wicked place, just to find me. So brave and so dear and so daring, pretty bird."

There is the faintest flicker of pleasure at her praise. He has always been a vain bird.

"I almost believe you could not wait to see me, perhaps."

He grins, wide and bright and almost real.

Almost.

"Otherwise why would you be watching, yes? It is an interesting question."

"Why, to see what I could, pretty bird -- and to see who could notice me, and follow me."

Her smile is warm as spring itself, here in this airy hall of green glass and mirrored light. She hesitates, and then lets her hands fall slowly to her side.

"I am not surprised that it is you, dear. A promise it was that you made, and one that I have counted on, goodness yes."

A pause, as she looks at him, blue eyes bright and soft. "So many dangers, to keep you from me, and yet you came still. Will you not come further? You are hurt, pretty bird; this place has wounded you." Slowly, she stretches out her hand once more. "This much I can still do -- let me help you, pretty bird."

Raven laughs, warm and bright and just this side of wild.

A breeze ruffles the edges of his coat, teasing at the dark mess of his hair. The last lingering trails of smoke spiral away, engaging in a lively dance before dissipating to nothing.

It is a playful breeze, all told.

For now.

"I am not, perhaps, quite as young as I look. Neither are you, I do not think."

His grin is sharp.

"It is best to be wary of senility. Also condescension."

She may be gritting her teeth at the insult, and soft blue eyes flash to icy sharpness, but the moment passes. Blodwen tosses her head, looking at him with amused challenge clear.

"Why, I have never pretended to be young, dear. Nor am I the fool that you think me to be -- friends we are not, yet, and it is not friendship that brought you, do you not think that I know that?"

She is still smiling, and now it turns wry and almost brittle.

"And still it is that I counted on your coming. Not many would be able to win past the gates here. It is a dangerous place, Raven, here where I was thrown -- and I will help you, in hopes that perhaps you might help me escape."

A beat, and the next words are very, very soft. "I have as little love for traps as you, cariad, and this place is one."

His eyes are no less bright, neither do they narrow; he does, however, tilt his head a bit further, watching her carefully. He still looks like he is laughing.

"It is better, I think, to escape on your own, yes?"

He blinks.

"Though you are not much like me in that, perhaps."

"Oh, to be certain, pretty bird -- but one does what one can."

Deliberately, she takes one step toward him. Her hand has returned to her side, but both hands are visible and empty.

"And we may be more alike than some would think, dear; certainly I have never been fond of being alone, and goodness, but seeing you at Milliways, I cannot think that you have, either? So lonely it can be."

The light soft voice almost seems to chime from the glass, and is gentle-- so very gentle.

"Sometimes, yes. It is also a question of will."
Each sentence as it is spoken to you
He shrugs, the movement careful.
is a thick column of light
"So it has been, I think, and so it will be."
falling
His smile, in contrast, is wide and careless.
into your darkroom, ruining
"It is why I like stories."

"Of course it is, cariad." Still soft, still gentle, and she glances at his burned arm, then at his bleeding knee.

Blodwen looks up, ice-blue eyes meeting Raven's bright ones, and essays another step towards him, holding out her hand once more.

"But here it is that you are not alone. Will you let me help you, then?"

His smile is bright and warm.

So is a forest fire.

"Not alone is not, I think, the same thing as among friends. Also it is difficult to find the right clay."

She is very still, watching him intently from only a few feet away.

A small distance, but perhaps a crucial one. Perhaps.

"Difficult is not impossible, pretty bird."

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