this is the light that shines; Munroe, Joscelin

[Ramiel]

ghost king of the dale >>

Death plagues him more and more every day.

At first, it had been an obvious thing he couldn’t ignore. His brother had been brutally murdered, after all. That sort of death sends out reverberations that shake far more than his own flesh – it had shaken his family to their very core, to their blood and even beyond. But even after the shock had turned to numb, bitter acceptance in the eyes and hearts of his kin, he felt it. He felt the icy fingers creeping across his grief-weary throat, encircling him like an unbreakable necklace. He felt the needle-sharp gaze of the scavengers of his home, how they seemed always to be watching him, waiting for something…

Sometimes, he thinks he can hear the undertaker’s scythe trailing behind him. He can hear the metal scratching against the earth, leaving a permanent furrow in his wake. He is rational enough to know it’s not real. He is still in control enough to know it is the still-grief conjuring sensory details to remind him of the death, to move on, to forget – a coping mechanism with little care for tact. But then, how many impossible sights have his eyes already seen? How many monsters and devils and aliens has he felt and smelled and heard? Sometimes, he wonders if the real world lies just beyond the filters they put up. What if, like the afterlife, he is only a step away from the next plane? What if the only barrier between this world and the world where Death rules is self-created?

His eyes are closed; his imagination takes hold.

When he opens them again, blackness stretches as far as he can see.

But it’s not the severe black of Another World, not the all-consuming shadows of the next plane he paints in his mind. It’s only the gloom of the forest. Ramiel sighs and moves through it. He weaves through the dense trees with only slight difficulty. The forests of the Dale are marginally more expansive; the pine and deciduous trees do not press together so tightly as they do here. It is a welcome exercise, though. For once, thoughts of impending war and dangerous politics are far from his mind, as he has to concentrate on finding a decent path through the foliage.

At first, he had meant to meander his way through the forest and onto the meadow beyond (where conversation was traditionally found). But now, watching the late summer sunlight filter through the overhead boughs of the trees and make latticework of the shadows, he thinks he’d rather stay hidden among them. Far more fitting here. A crack sounds somewhere in the forest just behind him. He turns his large charcoal head towards the source, peering but unafraid. Perhaps the reaper has finally decided to make an appearance, but the cold logic of his brain tells him otherwise. “Hello,” he says simply, efficiently, his voice devoid of any of the emotion he keeps hidden in his own shadows.

ramiel