03-22-2016, 02:01 PM
He would not go back on his word to the Jungle.
He’d promised to help them, to fight and bleed and die for them if need be. He’d vouched for the warrior-women, would stand alongside them as they battled against the darkness falling across Beqanna. He would uphold their alliance – for better or worse – because he would not go back on his word. But now, in the thick of war, he wonders what he’s gotten himself into.
More importantly, what has he brought his people into?
Because war is hell, as the saying goes, but now he knows it isn’t completely true. Hell isn’t an adequate enough description for the desperate chaos consuming the Chamber. War is not an end. It is not a fiery conclusion to the continued threat of violence that had plagued them for so many years. War is only a beginning, a lit match-combustion that burns evermore, long after the blood has dried on the stems of the wild grass. War is still a giver on the cold, desolate nights that come after the bodies have vacated the fields, when memories and the faces of departed loved ones appear like ghosts in the mind. War gives you scars and terrors and kill counts. War brings anarchy and relishes every spill, splatter, and spray in its name.
War is more than hell; it is merely the first step of misery.
Ramiel exhales sharply as the skin on his left shoulder is vaporized. Demian’s cosmic fire burns him down to the muscle before he can react. Fortunately, its’ small circumference makes it less of a debilitating injury than it otherwise might have been. He still winces on the next step, his metallic gaze following the Valley king’s hasty retreat into the sky in the same moment. He considers taking off on foot after the skybound stallion but thinks better of it. There is more work to be done down here. Let the gods and mages wage their own private wars. Let the cowards run away to their own demises. He still burns with his protective rage and half-used effort as he watches Demian shrink to a speck in the heavens, but eventually he turns away. He turns towards what matters, to the sister he would never hesitate to become ashes for.
“Joscelin,” he says, his voice like the smoke, thick and heavy. Ramiel tries another step towards her and he finds that it is impossible to hide the limp. A ragged, war-torn smile dismisses the injury. Perhaps they’ll fight together now. Gods know he will need a steadying comrade after his first adrenaline-fueled attack. But as soon as he thinks it, a raven flutters down from the inky, stained sky to hover above him and his Amazonian sister. The grey king freezes in preparation for an attack, but the bird merely puts words in his head – words that surprise him almost as much as being spared an avian offensive move.
Over. Can it be already? Can it be this easy? “It’s over,” he tells Joscelin breathlessly, his heart racing despite his disbelief. “I’ll be back.”
Ramiel follows the raven through the fighting, invisible but not completely safe. Every now and then, the elements manage to find him. A burst of fire here or a blast of arctic air there; charred branches fall all around the injured Chamber, further littering the tired ground. And still, the fighters clash. He waits until he sees the small gathering to reveal himself. The wound on his shoulder oozes painfully but he ignores it. If it is the only injury he will suffer in order to keep his word, he will consider it a win. He only hopes the other Daleans have fared as well, wherever they are.
Lagertha’s face reveals little when he first arrives at the meeting. It is as stony and strong as he’s always seen it, and the grey isn’t sure if it means they have won or lost. Only the dragon king’s reckless bravado seems to say that they haven’t given in, that they haven’t rolled over to end the bloodshed. Straia and one of her men stand alone against the others. Two against two. Ramiel moves alongside Lagertha and Vanquish to tip the scale in their favor.
What the raven queen says is true, so Ramiel doesn’t deny it. The Dale would certainly not have gotten involved if it hadn’t been for their ties to the Jungle. But whereas he wouldn’t force his kingdom into a situation that wasn’t almost fully guaranteed, he was not the same. His reasoning for aiding in this war was as personal as it was political. Straia knew where his nephew Khalis was (whether he was being held or had been buried as bones). What she didn’t know was that Tiberios was aware of the kidnapping at her order. What she didn’t know was that the Dalean king was here fighting to uphold an alliance but also a promise to his brother.
This war had been a convenience as much as a necessity.
The iron woman says that it will all end with Straia’s removal from the throne. Ramiel exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding in. "The Dale agrees to these terms." He looks to the heir then, scrutinizing the man who would be king. Over. It’s over. Even the land seems to sigh with relief when the once-Chamber queen declares Killdare its newest sovereign. Maybe this will be the balm to the burn. Maybe Beqanna will quiet its strained nerves and heal its fractured mind. Maybe the only way out of hell is through it.
The ravens take up the call, but it’s not the heavenly chorus of victory he imagines it might have been.
He’d promised to help them, to fight and bleed and die for them if need be. He’d vouched for the warrior-women, would stand alongside them as they battled against the darkness falling across Beqanna. He would uphold their alliance – for better or worse – because he would not go back on his word. But now, in the thick of war, he wonders what he’s gotten himself into.
More importantly, what has he brought his people into?
Because war is hell, as the saying goes, but now he knows it isn’t completely true. Hell isn’t an adequate enough description for the desperate chaos consuming the Chamber. War is not an end. It is not a fiery conclusion to the continued threat of violence that had plagued them for so many years. War is only a beginning, a lit match-combustion that burns evermore, long after the blood has dried on the stems of the wild grass. War is still a giver on the cold, desolate nights that come after the bodies have vacated the fields, when memories and the faces of departed loved ones appear like ghosts in the mind. War gives you scars and terrors and kill counts. War brings anarchy and relishes every spill, splatter, and spray in its name.
War is more than hell; it is merely the first step of misery.
Ramiel exhales sharply as the skin on his left shoulder is vaporized. Demian’s cosmic fire burns him down to the muscle before he can react. Fortunately, its’ small circumference makes it less of a debilitating injury than it otherwise might have been. He still winces on the next step, his metallic gaze following the Valley king’s hasty retreat into the sky in the same moment. He considers taking off on foot after the skybound stallion but thinks better of it. There is more work to be done down here. Let the gods and mages wage their own private wars. Let the cowards run away to their own demises. He still burns with his protective rage and half-used effort as he watches Demian shrink to a speck in the heavens, but eventually he turns away. He turns towards what matters, to the sister he would never hesitate to become ashes for.
“Joscelin,” he says, his voice like the smoke, thick and heavy. Ramiel tries another step towards her and he finds that it is impossible to hide the limp. A ragged, war-torn smile dismisses the injury. Perhaps they’ll fight together now. Gods know he will need a steadying comrade after his first adrenaline-fueled attack. But as soon as he thinks it, a raven flutters down from the inky, stained sky to hover above him and his Amazonian sister. The grey king freezes in preparation for an attack, but the bird merely puts words in his head – words that surprise him almost as much as being spared an avian offensive move.
Over. Can it be already? Can it be this easy? “It’s over,” he tells Joscelin breathlessly, his heart racing despite his disbelief. “I’ll be back.”
Ramiel follows the raven through the fighting, invisible but not completely safe. Every now and then, the elements manage to find him. A burst of fire here or a blast of arctic air there; charred branches fall all around the injured Chamber, further littering the tired ground. And still, the fighters clash. He waits until he sees the small gathering to reveal himself. The wound on his shoulder oozes painfully but he ignores it. If it is the only injury he will suffer in order to keep his word, he will consider it a win. He only hopes the other Daleans have fared as well, wherever they are.
Lagertha’s face reveals little when he first arrives at the meeting. It is as stony and strong as he’s always seen it, and the grey isn’t sure if it means they have won or lost. Only the dragon king’s reckless bravado seems to say that they haven’t given in, that they haven’t rolled over to end the bloodshed. Straia and one of her men stand alone against the others. Two against two. Ramiel moves alongside Lagertha and Vanquish to tip the scale in their favor.
What the raven queen says is true, so Ramiel doesn’t deny it. The Dale would certainly not have gotten involved if it hadn’t been for their ties to the Jungle. But whereas he wouldn’t force his kingdom into a situation that wasn’t almost fully guaranteed, he was not the same. His reasoning for aiding in this war was as personal as it was political. Straia knew where his nephew Khalis was (whether he was being held or had been buried as bones). What she didn’t know was that Tiberios was aware of the kidnapping at her order. What she didn’t know was that the Dalean king was here fighting to uphold an alliance but also a promise to his brother.
This war had been a convenience as much as a necessity.
The iron woman says that it will all end with Straia’s removal from the throne. Ramiel exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding in. "The Dale agrees to these terms." He looks to the heir then, scrutinizing the man who would be king. Over. It’s over. Even the land seems to sigh with relief when the once-Chamber queen declares Killdare its newest sovereign. Maybe this will be the balm to the burn. Maybe Beqanna will quiet its strained nerves and heal its fractured mind. Maybe the only way out of hell is through it.
The ravens take up the call, but it’s not the heavenly chorus of victory he imagines it might have been.
R A M I E L
this is a man pulling on his iron chains