05-31-2016, 01:44 PM
They may be indefinable.
Stars may part for Carnage and Gail, galaxies may swirl and time may twist at their whim (his whim). The world might be shaped by their separation, by the methods they employ to be rid of the divide between them. Hell may freeze and ghosts may rise to walk alien shores when they are together. Their bond is unique, legendary - indefinable.
But he and Gail are inevitable.
Ramiel. Her voice calls to him in his sleep, long after he’s tucked his little family into the protected space between himself and the mountains. He had watched Sela fade with the sunset, her eyelids like masts falling more and rising less with each star that blinked to life. Ea, too, had eventually succumbed to her weariness. The simultaneous weight of new motherhood and a new crown could not be easy to bear; Ramiel only hopes he has helped share the burden as best as he can. The sight of Ea and Sela finding sleep together soothes him as much as it sets his heart to race. Most nights, it is hard to let his own exhaustion steal the picture of mother and daughter from his greedy eyes. Most nights, he spends hours watching the rise and fall of their ribs with breath, watching their lips twitch with dreams, watching the culmination of his life and his greatest success in their hours of absolute peace.
Some nights, he even sleeps himself.
But this night, she calls to him as drowsiness is just beginning to pull him under like the waves of the ocean. Immediately, he is awake. Immediately, he disappears from the Dale and pops back into existence on the shores of the dead. It is too simple to come here, his mastery of his gift finally final. But even easier, even more instinctual is his response to the black woman. Answering her call (even as it carries over the line dividing those with heartbeats from those without) is like a reflex he cannot help, cannot ignore. He is powerless against her voice. Carnage had trained them well.
“Gail?” The nearly-white stallion asks unnecessarily when he finds her. She stands out, somehow, as if she is untouchable to the same force that drains everyone else of their color. She is still pitch black, as he had been the first time they had met. But that is not what he thinks of as he stands before her. He isn’t reminded of monsters that had puckered the skin at his thigh or the quickness of time as it flashed in the wormholes (though oddly, the heat of the six plus one pressed together warms him now as he looks at Gail, a shiver he cannot place). Instead, Ramiel remembers the last time he was here, remembers the deep well of ache at his brother’s murder.
Like before (like forever?), she had guided him through his sorrow. He wonders if this is why she has called him now, to do the same for her. But he doesn’t ask anymore. He is sure she already knows he will do whatever she requires of him. He has done enough, but he will always do more. For her. For his black light transplanted from the end of the universe.
Stars may part for Carnage and Gail, galaxies may swirl and time may twist at their whim (his whim). The world might be shaped by their separation, by the methods they employ to be rid of the divide between them. Hell may freeze and ghosts may rise to walk alien shores when they are together. Their bond is unique, legendary - indefinable.
But he and Gail are inevitable.
Ramiel. Her voice calls to him in his sleep, long after he’s tucked his little family into the protected space between himself and the mountains. He had watched Sela fade with the sunset, her eyelids like masts falling more and rising less with each star that blinked to life. Ea, too, had eventually succumbed to her weariness. The simultaneous weight of new motherhood and a new crown could not be easy to bear; Ramiel only hopes he has helped share the burden as best as he can. The sight of Ea and Sela finding sleep together soothes him as much as it sets his heart to race. Most nights, it is hard to let his own exhaustion steal the picture of mother and daughter from his greedy eyes. Most nights, he spends hours watching the rise and fall of their ribs with breath, watching their lips twitch with dreams, watching the culmination of his life and his greatest success in their hours of absolute peace.
Some nights, he even sleeps himself.
But this night, she calls to him as drowsiness is just beginning to pull him under like the waves of the ocean. Immediately, he is awake. Immediately, he disappears from the Dale and pops back into existence on the shores of the dead. It is too simple to come here, his mastery of his gift finally final. But even easier, even more instinctual is his response to the black woman. Answering her call (even as it carries over the line dividing those with heartbeats from those without) is like a reflex he cannot help, cannot ignore. He is powerless against her voice. Carnage had trained them well.
“Gail?” The nearly-white stallion asks unnecessarily when he finds her. She stands out, somehow, as if she is untouchable to the same force that drains everyone else of their color. She is still pitch black, as he had been the first time they had met. But that is not what he thinks of as he stands before her. He isn’t reminded of monsters that had puckered the skin at his thigh or the quickness of time as it flashed in the wormholes (though oddly, the heat of the six plus one pressed together warms him now as he looks at Gail, a shiver he cannot place). Instead, Ramiel remembers the last time he was here, remembers the deep well of ache at his brother’s murder.
Like before (like forever?), she had guided him through his sorrow. He wonders if this is why she has called him now, to do the same for her. But he doesn’t ask anymore. He is sure she already knows he will do whatever she requires of him. He has done enough, but he will always do more. For her. For his black light transplanted from the end of the universe.
R A M I E L
this is a man pulling at his iron chains