The cyclical nature of his life ends when she comes alive.

For the first time, the passage of time does not guide his every move. He does not look to the browning trees and make plans for when they will be green once more. He does not turn his eyes to the north in anticipation of the snow to come, does not make for the meadow or field before the trek becomes less than desirable. He does not acknowledge the consequences when he presses his lips to her shoulder. He does not wonder what his family will think if their passion becomes fruitful.

When he says her name, hushed despite hurried lips, he loses more than his breath.

And by the time spring does arrive with its resplendent shades of green coloring the valley, Ramiel still struggles against the cold hands of winter. Fingers press into him from all sides, dead and so very cold. He can feel them digging into the pit of his stomach when he looks at his children, can feel them counting each and every vertebrae on their way to his head when he tries to meet Ea’s gaze. When they pass each other, he wonders if she can feel the ice seeping through his skin. When they sleep together at night, he puts distance between them. Sometimes, it’s a forest’s width. He slinks into the darkness of the trees like a wildcat, like he belongs there.

His black light illuminates the way.

But as love ruins him, it also redeems him. It makes his feet stay when he imagines how easy it would be to leave. He could disappear (could put life behind him and trade in for death, for the greying of himself, the others, the beach). He could pull Gail with him to the Other Side and conceal her swollen belly (could hide the way his eyes spark like hammered metal when she is near). But he loves Ea. Perhaps not in the same way - the impossible, inevitable love of a boy who learned he wanted to be a hero – but in a way that is all theirs’. Not even the mountains lit by a soft morning can compare to her elusive smile. The glint of the river after a long journey, the caress of the water eddying around tired legs - neither can match her rejuvenating touch. He is complete when he is at Ea’s side. She makes him a man, reminds him that men are fallible creatures compared to the strength of a woman.

He loves her. He loves her.

But he can see what one love is doing to him.

Ramiel meets his father’s searching gaze when he finally approaches. There have always been questions clouding his golden eyes when he looks at his sire. Today, he imagines it is reciprocated. But there is no time to explain (there is never enough of it; Death waits for no one). Because his queen is standing there, atop the knoll where they had both been made guardians of the Dale. Because she looks strained but so strong, the rock he’s wrongfully tried to chisel all of these years. I’m sorry, he wants to say, but doesn’t. I love you, he thinks but doesn’t voice aloud. Instead, he moves beside her to the place he doesn’t deserve; the chill follows him and settles between them.

“Thank you Zaravich,” he says to the black mare when she volunteers to visit the Falls. As for the Tundra, “perhaps you and Tiphon could journey together to feel them out, if nothing else. We will need to determine where the Jungle stands with them before pursuing a formal alliance.” He tilts his head thoughtfully as he says it. Truly, he isn’t sure what to think of the north’s growth; they have been quiet for so long that it is hard to know how to categorize the icy kingdom in the grand scheme of Beqanna. Only time will tell where their loyalties lie. Ramiel’s have always been with the Jungle. The Sisterhood has never given them a reason to sever their ties, but they should at least determine their hold with Lagertha gone. “Father, if you’d visit the Jungle as well? I can go with you.”

He takes a deep breath, counts to thirteen.

“I know we have all known a deep, aching loss as of late. I know it seems like the world only takes: the war, the Deserts, our souls.” Even he misses the shadow of his vulture racing him across the grounds, the knowledge that he was never alone. The ghost-king had watched Weir and Eira and their beautiful family retreat months ago; he couldn’t stop his friend, knowing how much more affected he was by the loss. Ramiel glances sideways at his silvered mate. Just as she was softening without even realizing it - drinking from the pool and planting roots firmly in the Dale, for him – her efforts seem wasted. “But it hasn’t taken our hearts. It hasn’t pushed us to our knees. We are still a family, small in number but large in heart.” He finds Tiphon’s eyes, find’s his mother’s as she steps up beside the angel. “I am honored to have been entrusted this kingdom for thirteen years. But every new season means the end of the old. Every life comes at the inevitable cost of death. This is the end of my reign, but not my love for the Dale.”

The greyed once-king steps down from the knoll, joining the others gathered below it. He immerses himself in his family – blood and friend – and knows it is where he is meant to be. How much has he missed with the weight of the crown pinning him down? How quickly have his children grown before his eyes, before he could spend days on end chasing them, teaching them, adoring them. How much of a stranger his father and mother (his siblings, his friends) have become over the long years of his tenure. He looks to Ea (wants to bury his nose in the wild tangle of her mane, to talk until dawn under stars strung up between the mountains), wondering how he could have almost made her a stranger, too. He knows that he will give her everything, now. She will be his keeper, his queen. And he will support her until his dying breath.

“Long live the queen.”