in our empty rooms;

Mammon shrugged - it wasn’t as if they truly understood fashion sentiments. For them, more was more and sometimes well, less could also be a statement in itself. They themselves thought little of it. ( And perhaps this was why their closet could be synonymous to a landfill on fire. ) “If they truly were bothered by such a thing, just kill them.” The statement rolled off their tongue easily. They had no qualms in disposing those who were disagreeable and made out of human flesh within the span of moments should they prove to be … obnoxious. ( Ironic for someone like them to claim such a thing ) 

At this point the glassware had though roughly been trashed and Mammon walked over it with delight, the crunching sounded like leaves against the grass. Their eyes flitted through the rest of the house, what else could they tear apart next … their hands reacted like claws as they found picture frames, sending them through the air like frisbees and watching it smash against the walls, more shards spitting through the air. They gazed at the image, faux faces of smiles worn like masks - pitiful. They ripped through the photos. 

But Raum’s voice is like a beacon and they stop in their tracks, like a beast following it’s lead, they listen. She beckoned them and without question, they follow with intrigue. They did find appeal in shiny new things and certainly Raum’s opinion would be made with utmost discernment. “It looks like a collar,” they smirked but followed her decision with no resistance. “I suppose I’ll be leaving this house with whatever clothes you find worthy,” their is a casual lightness in their voice, a clarity that is rare - a slight ease that is hardly spared for anyone. 

              “𝐈 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊,” Raum responds, her head bobbing in agreement, kicking a discarded item aside. Her eyes gloss over a discarded family portrait— unable to tear her eyes away from the stuffy mortals. No matter how dreadful it would’ve been to be them, they’d always have something she didn’t have— history. Even if that meant extracting each of their individual memory of theirs— it would never result in a legacy of her own. She digs the tip of her boot into what she assumed to be the patriarch’s smug face, before turning back to the items she’d presently been showcasing. “Well, duh, a collar’s what it is. But how does it look? Good? Bad?” 

I’m sorry for you.

The words ring in their ears, the apologetic smile that had painted their features smeared away like a mistaken word - as if it had never been meant to exist in the first place. It was an err, a sorry accident, a misstep. The likes of Romilda Altier were not meant to be joyous, certainly not within the presence of the great Vice of Infernum, Raum. Instead of acknowledging the serrated words of the figure that stood before them, they chose to let the silence fester between them, taking the time to meticulously collect every ounce of patience that was contained within them and hoard it. Today was not the day to indulge in petty exchanges - not when harmony was so necessary and its obliteration loomed over the entirety of the Holy Land, a dark cloud waiting to encroach on the sacred land to saturate its soil in blood and its people in hateful anarchy. The fissure of discord would not begin with Romilda, and it most certainly would not be catalyzed by Raum.

“Pity is not sought,” they say as they gather the hem of their shirt to wring out the rich, red wine from it. “Nor is it welcome.” The words are clipped, perhaps a bit unkind. Although, any such thing that isn’t bleeding with warmth and amiability might be considered unkind by the elder Altier - and though their stomach twists at the notion, they refuse to let this slight go unacknowledged. Why demons seem to have such a keen interest in letting barbed words cut at Romilda’s skin again and again, she do not know. With each passing day it seems that the answer becomes less rational, the only one that holds firm is that they simply enjoy it. Why wouldn’t they find amusement in letting their words leave bruises upon the knight? Their lips part nonetheless, the words on the tip of their tongue: I do appreciate your consideration, though. What a lie it would be, though, for there was no consideration to be found. Only judgement, condescension, and pity - an infernal concoction, to be sure.

Baldur nosed at their hand, glancing between them and the demon. “What one chooses to do during this period of celebration is up to them,” they say, eyes remaining on Baldur as they speak. They trail their finger from his forehead and along his snout, grinning as he nips at their hand playfully.  Finally, their gaze lifts to Raum, tying the hem of their blouse into a knot so that the stain might be a little less unseemly. “If they grieve through copious amounts of alcohol, so be it. If they wish to lay with another body that reminds them of the joys of life, so be it. Who are we to dictate how grieving should be demonstrated?” What does a demon like you know of grief, anyway? It was surprising, how blood has not filled their mouth considering how often they find themselves biting down on their tongue. Their eyes fall to Raum’s empty hands. “Has a mortal ever drunk you under the table?”

              “𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐌𝐄 then, Romilda?” Raum inquires with a coy smirk. She asks as if Romilda’s reaction wasn’t almost everything she wanted— minus their ever so boring restraint. There was a place and a time for the Altier, and this contrasted starkly with Raum’s any time, any place motto. Yet, what better than to cause a ruckus in the fallen Cador’s honor? It would make the celebration of his death— his life— all the more memorable. “If it isn’t boring, then I’ll consider. My silence and my absence, for example, would be far too boring.” Her eyes shift to the bear with neither disdain nor approval, but she was never one to back down from a staring contest, even with a bear. 

              “You have me pegged all wrong, Altier,” Raum coos, the faux disappointment evident all throughout her expression. “All of this is much preferable to the usual mopiness and monotony of funerals,” she explains before turning dreamily to the various pockets of people surrounding them, eyes completely ablaze— desire igniting in her core. The thought of what possessions she could collect without exerting even an ounce of her power had her brimming with excitement. She turned back to Romilda, knowing how unlikely they are to fall for her tricks, thus making her significantly smarter and much preferable company than anyone else in the demon’s general proximity— for the time being at least. And besides, Raum delighted in the underlying detestation seething in their every interaction. It’s always lovely to be recognized, and that’s exactly what Romilda did; they saw Raum for what she was— a cruel, twisted thing— a deep chasm in which their rays could not reach. Nor could Raum’s shadow so easily pollute the barrier of her light. “Oh— and I wasn’t dictating. I was passing judgment.”

A well placed smile rests upon Jasper’s lips, but fades before it may reach the dark of his eyes. He had mostly avoided the pains of small talk, bidding his condolences here, and there, before slipping back from the press of a raucous crowd. A few had captured him briefly, resisting the urge to gnaw at his own ankle to break free from their boorish traps of idiocy, but they, for the most part, avoided Jasper as diligently as he did them. With the exception of one — 

Raum’s voice digs beneath the flesh like a well placed sliver; aggravating for now but capable of great infection, of a rot abated only by the carving of oneself. Jasper should know, it was the only reason he often stomached its grate. The mortal had sought her out for no other purpose, after all; plucked by him specifically when she was little more than an irksome grain of sand beneath his heel, rolled in his palms until he glimpsed the greatness she might grow into, the ruinous pearl he might pocket before she knew herself to be one. 

The curve of his lips do not falter at her prodding, though something in his gaze shifts, something very nearly resembling curiosity. “Some of them might,” Jasper counters slowly, as if to remind her that he is not to be lumped in with the simplicity of his own kind. “You know how little games interest me, Raum.” He angles his chin to set dark eyes on her at last, noting the gleam in her own that suggests Jasper’s interests mean frustratingly little. If only she knew. “Parlor tricks and petty hoaxes are beneath you,” he elaborates, crossing wrists behind his back, “I don’t trust even you could make peanuts worth my while.” 

There was the cusp of truth inlaid in Jasper’s baiting — a warning — did Raum ever think to search for them. She used her energies so frivolously, gluttonously drinking her divinity down to the marrow for fleeting whims. It would do her better to fashion goals, aspirations, weapons, from those hungry bones — to steal crowns and kingdoms rather than scraps and pennies. With Jasper’s guidance she would learn to fasten her empty stomach to larger feasts, but he dared not bestow her with the inkling of them before making certain that wanting appetite bent to suit his own cravings before her own.

For now, Jasper would entertain her sniffing, her pawing at the dirt for something to fill her empty mouth, if only to observe how deftly she plucked free the fruits of her labor, far from the usual comfort of their own intermittent trainings. 

               “𝐎𝐇, 𝐉𝐀𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑, 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐎!”   Raum professes a little too loudly, as she’s suddenly overcome with a bout of melodrama. The back of her hand rests atop her forehead, tilted in Jasper’s direction, as if to shield herself from his suffocating darkness. Once she was satisfied with her impromptu performance, Raum allowed her hand to fall loosely to her side, her other hand bridging the divide between the goblet and her lips.

              “I was under the impression that you knew me far better than that,” she divulges with a disappointed shake of the head.  “Tricks are beneath me— that you assumed correctly.” A pointed fingernail leisurely outlines the curve beneath his eye.”If I were to strip you of your eyesight at this very instance, then it would be no trick. I wouldn’t do that though— I would not want you to be met with a bleak reality in which you are no longer able to see my face.” 

              With Jasper, Raum perpetually refused to back down— so much so that she no longer could remember that initial irritation— only the feeling of flames building behind her eyes. Time and time again she assured herself that there was nothing for her to prove— and therefore no reason for the disdain that clawed up her throat every time he successfully goaded her to irritation.

              She tells herself that even without Jasper’s assistance, she would’ve been just as successful in her thieving escapades. He could not know that he was a valuable asset to her— even if this became something left unspoken between the pair long ago. 

HER FIRST MEMORY IS OF BEING KISSED. Pink cheeks baptized in lips, declared beloved with heartsick praise for the babe that appeared on the Altier doorstep. She was born to be an Altier, for no other family would love or prize her more; so her mother and father decreed, so it will be. Adoration is her birthright, every heart predestined to rest happily under her knife. Raum suggests, as simply and clearly as still water, that it will be her unraveling. Serenely, otherworldly, Arianne smiles. It is a bemusing thought indeed; as if there will ever be enough attention to fill her to the brim, return to her what has been taken. A mother is buried too soon, a childhood is plundered — and it will take all the love in the world to prove that Arianne will ever be safe again.

But Raum knows a thing or two about things taken and thieved. A glorified looter, the demon knows only to covet. We share that in common, Arianne thinks. 

“You worry for my wellbeing. How kind.” Her gaze tethers itself to Raum’s, allowing the adoring crowd to slip away and out of focus. Arianne’s voice dances lightly on the wind, every lilt up and dip down a delicate game to be played with Raum. There is something utterly tempting about Raum’s unending appetite. How delicious it is, to see it worn so openly. Arianne’s own hunger is concealed in beauty and glamor; the curve of her smile distracts from its jaws stretching wide. “You chose to remain in the Holy Land, and not return to Infernum. What caught your eye, I wonder?” 

⋆—

               𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐄’𝐒 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒. Raum is reminded of what makes her so appealing, how swift and direct the mortal was with her tongue— how no amount of taunts would lead to her backing down, let alone missing a single beat. She’d noticed how at home Arianne became in the presence of commendation. Rarely did people strike a balance as masterfully as the Altier— the minuscule difference between basking and drowning. “Of course I do. What use to me would a dead Arianne be?” There was a truth hidden somewhere in her sarcasm, as a dead mortal was of no interest to the demon. “I wouldn’t attribute my desire for your wellbeing to kindness, though. My motives are wholly self-serving.”

              What didn’t catch Raum’s eye was a better question to be asked. The valuables that existed all around them were twice as shiny, and its inhabitants that roamed its streets were twice as foolish. It was a land of EXCESS and OPPORTUNITY, a land unpunished and untouched, as if the land ached and awaited Raum enacting her desires. It was in the Holy Land that Raum’s darkest desires came to fruition, that her darkness did not exist in the shadow of another. It was a darkness of her own— a chaos dictated by her and her alone. She wears her hunger proudly and invitingly, her eyes glimmering dangerously, as if to beckon Arianne closer. How spectacular Arianne would become if she simply let loose. 

Jasper’s relationships were none of Luca’s business. This was not because Luca has chosen to keep his head out of his brother’s doings and those he associates himself with, but rather it was because Jasper held Luca at a distance, and the length of which included most relationships the older Riche kept. Luca didn’t quite know who Jasper dealt with, be it positive or negative, with the exception of those relationships so grand he could not help but take notice. He knew Cain and Jasper shared a deep bond of friendship that he admired, that Jasper and Arianne were often seen talking aside to one another, and that the Riche and Atlier friendship in general ran as true as Luca had seen in his childhood. 

But Raum was not one of those whom Jasper held in such public reverence that Luca would have had the chance to take notice. Their relationship kept too much to the shadows to Luca’s viewpoint, or at least the limited view that Jasper had allowed Luca to have into his life (and truly, it wasn’t even entirely allowed and more like the act of Luca wedging himself into the life of his brother at every possible turn). Luca was not so treasured by Jasper to be privy to his shaded dealings; in fact, Luca was not so treasured by Jasper at all. The viscosity of blood did not determine the strength of its bond.

He had been going through some basic training that morning, taking it easy to save his strength for the security detail he would have to provide tonight as the threats loomed closer to the Holy Land and its surrounding villages, when he was approached by the demon. Lowering his sword as she approached, the weapon was sheathed as Raum studied him, and Luca found himself looking back with a bit of curiosity. “Oh, thank you,” he replied humbly, more at ease with the mention of his brother’s name from her lips. “What sort of duel is it that you seek?” he asked, the curiosity now appearing in his voice. “Have you much experience in swordsmanship?”

            𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐔𝐍𝐀𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒— perhaps even to a foolish degree, though, this was something Raum was yet to determine. Excess propelled through him, but it was not the excess Raum was used to— the excess she’d habitually succumbed to— the excess she found shelter in. He would remain HONORABLE even when faced with it’s antithesis— Raum who aligned with disorder above all else; Raum who would lie, cheat, and steal in order to achieve her desired outcome. He was an irrevocable alter, one not easily tainted by her likes, only strengthening her desire for corruption. How valuable of an asset Luca would be if he channeled such willpower into something more useful. Perhaps the potential existed for him to become even more useful than Jasper.

            The potentialities the future held for them tempted Raum away from reality, but reeled her vision in for the time being— if only to complete the present task at hand. She is delighted by his foolish assertion. Though Luca had no necessarily been wrong to ask Raum of her preferred fighting methods, he’d been foolish to assume that they were to even fight at all— that Raum was even willing to truly play fair. But she would indulge the young Riche, as she’d never witnessed his sword in action— it’s own legacy proceeding itself, to the point where even Raum began to believe. She looks to Luca, as if to dare him to disappoint her— challenging him to make a fool of her by him not living up to her expectations.

Arael was always a solitary creature. She was born of a single star, and that knowledge kept her on the edge of any social circles. She never felt connected to her brethen who either earned their wings from deeds performed in a prior life or grew from some part of their fallen creator. She was a creature all on her own, and she had grown to find comfort in the fact. She had learned that letting someone in meant letting the possibility of them slipping away in as well, and she had suffered from that fate far too long. Perhaps that’s why she elected to travel on her own. 

Or at least she had planned to. The demon’s presence interrupted her plans, and her questions made the angel wish she just stayed back in her realm. Her eyes narrowed at the demon’s remark regarding her role as an escort before she turned away and started heading towards the Holy Land. Her long stride fought to slip away from the thief, but the she had a feeling the demon wasn’t abandoning her anytime soon.

“So you’re a useless escort,” Arael replies as if the realization hadn’t hit her as soon as she caught a glimpse of the intruder. Her eyes fought to stay alert ahead of her as she felt the tendrils of hope trying to wrap itself around her. Some have asked if the feeling of hope is intoxicating, but she likened it more to a poison. It suffocated her, drew away her focus, and she wondered what it would be like to take it all away. Had that not been done to her already? Was Uriel’s fall from grace not like ripping the air from her lungs?

She had only ever heightened someone’s hope, allowed them to be blinded by their dreams and ambitions, but it was a thought that crossed her mind as she avoided looking at the thief. Her back straightened up and her wings drew towards her body at the thief’s next question. Memories of her rage and confusion flooded back to her as she responded,

“I was a star.”

⋆—

             𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍’𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 into something unnatural. Arael’s assertion— her challenge, her provocation, managed to invoke the entirety of Raum’s mischief, present in the way Raum’s eyes appeared to recede into darkness, her expression contorted in a way that only maliciousness could accomplish. “Still not an escort, though my usefulness is still up in the air,” Raum declares assuredly, eyes scanning the perimeter of their path as they continued their trek. She may have been a nuisance, but a fool she was not. “It all depends on if you decide to be boring today or not.”             

              Raum envisioned the tranquility Arael must have associated with stardom, a level of calm only obtainable through the simplicity of being someone other than yourself. What would Arael’s legacy have amounted to if God hadn’t decidedly plucked and reinvented her in a new environment? Who would Arael have been if she’d never discovered love as grand as her and Uriel’s, would she even remotely resemble the Arael that appeared in front of her whatsoever?

              These were all questions that danced at the tip of Raum’s tongue, knowing if they escaped her the impenetrable divide Arael positioned between them would only increase tenfold. She’d been too intent on unearthing one of heaven’s grandest mysteries to jeopardize that. It was Arael’s  GRIEF that Raum always felt herself return to. It was a sense of loss that she had yet to uncover, one of the many emotions she desperately wished to understand and experience, and the depth of the Angel’s grief, the permanence of it spoke to Raum, who only indulged in extremities. She wished for nothing more than to climb into the recesses of her body, to identify such grief and make it her own, something tangible to devour, to once again fall victim to her own excess.        

              “How lazy of Him,” Raum explains with the typical disdain present only when she spoke of God of Lucifer. “To design a creature from the essence of another. It wasn’t him who needed to exist in the lingering shadow of what once was.” She spoke these words unassuredly, as if she didn’t know if they belonged to Arael or herself.

              𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐑𝐀𝐔𝐌 𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 outside of the shadows of her solitude alone. She thrived in the tumult of others— it nurtured and caressed the pandemonium within herself. Today, the occasion happened to call for it. This was the only remedy for the gnawing within her, to answer for the moments in which Raum knew herself the least— as if she’d awakened a soul tasked with spectating the everyday happenings of her body. These were days that Raum relinquished all control to the void festering within her. It demanded feeding, and the demon was burdened with its fulfillment— lest she herself wanted to become its next casualty. Where others threatened to collapse under the weight of their histories, Raum was perpetually at risk of drowning in her lack thereof. The semblance of what once was preoccupied her at every moment. Neither God nor Lucifer looked kindly upon the demon. Stripping her of a legacy was not enough— Raum was then cursed with spontaneous, unintelligible fragments of a past life she had no way to make sense of. And as if that hadn’t been enough, they’d died with the answers she sought out.

               Complete and utter satiation was the only answer. Indulge, Indulge, Indulge. Raum gave herself over entirely to hedonism— as what better to fill the void than with things? The finest clothing, the best-imported jewelry The Holy Land had to offer were all at her disposal. And during the most turbulent of times, the beating heart of some stranger. All of these things aided her in the burying of her void, and buried it would remain until it unearthed itself once more— demanding to be fed; demanding more and more and more—

               Surely, it’d been clear that Raum was up to no good. Any who dared entertained her must not have known her, or simply went where chaos called. Presently, she’d been unattended, with only the finest rum to keep her company, but her attention immediately captured by the warmth of a living body lingering nearby. “It must be my lucky day— or so the mortals say,” Raum coos with a wicked smirk, bridging the space left between them. “Fancy a game of sorts? I’ll make it worth your while.”

        𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐄, 𝐔𝐍𝐀𝐃𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 only achievable by being in the presence of heaven's greatest tactician undone. However misaligned their values had been— however misaligned their values would become mattered little in the privacy of their bed chambers. Ephemera surpassed Raum's criteria tenfold; becoming one of the alluring, brilliant women whose company she kept. She was someone who remained an inevitable risk, an unspoken qualification set for her lovers. Trust did not move her; permanently overshadowed in the presence of thrill and desire. 

              Even under the dim glow of the candlelight did Raum's skin radiate with something anew. With Ephemera, it was as if all prior evils were recompensed— if Raum sought out any repentance at all, it was through the curve of the angel's hips or the path of her spine. All wrongs were righted the moment Ephemera’s body became an alter. The sins the demon’s tongue confessed became nothing more than secrets swirled down the lengths of her companion’s body. Each encounter left Raum afresh— the gravity of her offenses were lifted entirely, Raum was then free to relinquish herself to avarice in its entirety, perhaps with even less remorse than before. 

       No longer fascinated with the various patterns etched into her ceiling, Raum shifts smoothly onto her side— paying extra attention to the lit cigarette ensuring no ash made contact with her high-priced bedsheets. Mischief awaits in the curve of her lips, as Raum gazes upon Ephemera with a tantalizing smirk. “No battle plans to concoct today, general?” Raum questions her teasingly, tracing a finger down the curve of her arm. “Having you to myself is all the better knowing that somewhere you are missed.”

SEND ME ⊙ AND MY MUSE WILL BOLD ALL THAT APPLIES TO YOURS.

               𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐘, 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 in which Jasper Riche has pissed her off. The particulars behind the situation did not matter— not when he pissing Raum off was as frequent as the moon’s cycles or the rising tides, and she would continue putting up with it for as long as he remained as brilliant as he was infuriating. That did not mean he would be exempt from retaliation, though. Ever so often, Jasper needed an occasional reminder that his actions came with consequences. 

               Luca Riche, unfortunately, would become victim to Raum’s consequences. A demonstration of sorts, as who better to torment than the man’s very own brother? She knew little of the younger Riche, other than that he possessed a far more pleasant demeanor while being just as handsome as Jasper. She fantasized about what exactly she’d leave with during the encounter— nothing life-threatening, as she could not afford such energy exertions at the moment, but something enough to shake him up— something that would be a constant reminder when and if he were to cross paths with the demon at a later date. 

               Locating him was the easy part— as all the mortal soldiers tended to train in the same location, but what Raum did not prepare for was seeing Luca in all his hailed beauty and glory— the way the sun caressed his Icarian cheeks as if it could no longer bare a moment longer without him. For several moments, Raum felt something almost akin to remorse. Her issue never was with Luca Riche himself after all, but she had not traveled all this way for no reason. 

               It was relatively empty on the training grounds that day, and Raum approached Luca as if they’d been old friends, taking a few moments to circle him— appraising his beauty from a closer distance. “Jasper certainly has the smolder,” she comments allowed as if she were noting her observations. “But your bone structure is absolutely to die for.” She halts her pacing, head tilted slightly, lips curling into a mischievous smirk. “Fancy a duel, soldier?” Raum inquires while deciding what exactly it would be that she’d take from him. She reaches out as if to trace the outline of his jaw, but her finger never directly makes contact. It would be something from that pretty little head of his, Raum decided. A memory of some sort.