ran my wandering mind away; Ramiel

[Ramiel]

ghost king of the dale >>

“Here, let me help.”

Ramiel had been quiet, though he hadn’t really meant to be. His hooves sink into the soft sand but don’t slow him down. He’s had a lot of practice – willingly and unwillingly - walking across these shores. Tonight, he has come of his own accord, but he isn’t sure why. When war looms over the land like a black cloud, certain of destruction, should he even be outside of the Dale? Not much supersedes his desire to protect his family, always, but the place beyond will always be one of them.

And seeing the creaking, leaning old man, he thinks he knows why he’s come.

Crito peers at him with one stormy grey eye, barely turning his head (Ramiel wonders if he’s unable or simply uncaring). His gaze looks lost, desperate. The gathering dark combined with his aged eyes probably provides him little to see with, so the grey stallion moves closer quickly. “I’m not here to hurt you.” He smiles a gentle smile and stays back a respectful distance, trying to convince the older horse that he meant it. But Crito’s watchful, narrowed eye doesn’t relax at first. He seems to be sizing the ghost man up, unasked questions filling his gaze but not the air. It is silent for a long time until he finally speaks.

“Stupid,” he repeats, but he cracks a toothy grin that looks more like a grimace. “That’s just what a murderer would say.” He shifts awkwardly in the sand to look at the young man head on, cursing under his breath all the while. Ramiel relaxes but doesn’t move at first, not sure what to make of the grumpy stallion. Would he be offended if he tried to shoulder his weight? Crito eyes him pointedly, staring until Ramiel gets the hint. “Well are you going to help me or stand there and watch me struggle? Crito, by the way, and I’d like to make it to the water.”

“Ramiel,” he says, having moved alongside the stallion. He can feel each of the man’s ribs under his emaciated hide. But he can feel something else as well. An indomitable spirit radiates off of him; a strength lingers beneath tired, weathered muscles and skin. He will not go down easy – and Ramiel will certainly not allow him to.

It takes hours for the pair to make it to the water’s edge. By the time the salty water is lapping at their hooves, the moon is beginning its retreat to the horizon. Crito hasn’t spared his helper any detail of his life, and Ramiel is grateful to learn it all. He learns of the Blood Alliance, how it united and tore apart the kingdoms all at once, how Crito and his siblings were at the heart of it, unknowingly. He learns of the Jungle and the cold Queen Echion, learns of the Tundra and the wall. He learns about the northern lights and the narwhals, of the polar bears and the lichen the Brothers survived on. Crito says Lagertha’s name once, but he does not continue the thread of thought. He forgets, sometimes, like all the memories are leaking away with each passing moment. Scorch, he says, then shakes his head. Errant, he looks out into the sea as if he’ll find the man there.

When he falls silent for the last time, it takes a moment for him to collect himself. When he looks back at Ramiel, it’s as if he doesn’t remember the grey man being beside him. “What now?” He seems to look through the king as he says it, his eyes unfocused. His face is screwed up in pain, but he tries to hide it well under his leaden strength.

“Now, we leave.” Ramiel touches the grumpy old man’s shoulder and they disappear.

Between heartbeats, they reappear – as they were – on the same spot on another beach.

“Rest well, Brother.” The ghost-king says to the ghost before he leaves him, restored but gone, never to be seen on the Other Side again.

ramiel