"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
It shouldn’t have taken her this long to come to the Dale. It’s almost shameful, really, but there is so much to do in the wake of the war, most of which has to do with trying to find a way to speed up the recovery of her home. As ruler to ruler, she has a feeling he won’t mind (does he even know the Jungle burned?) once he hears the reason. Ramiel is a rational stallion. On the way it occurs to her that he may actually be irritated with the Jungle, which sets a frown across her face and her mind churning. Politically, they are counting on maintaining their relationships with the Dale and Desert. Take one of those away, and the Jungle would be at a disadvantage. It is something they would be able to weather, but it is not an ideal situation. Not when they’re still in the heart of recovery.
The journey to the Dale is quick, with Lagertha keeping a pace at a quick canter northward, passing the Beach and swinging across the Plains to the southern border of the Dale. It is in full on spring mode, and it wipes the creases of worry from her face. His kingdom is beautiful, there is no denying that. A different sort of beauty than the wild danger of the Jungle; it was calming and offered and air of security, much like the Gates did.
The gray Khaleesi has no knowledge of recent addition to the throne, so when she arrives at the Dale’s border, her call is for Ramiel alone. He should know her voice, and it would be his choice to bring diplomats to their meeting if he wished. Lagertha takes a deep breath and settles herself in to wait, basking in the warmth of the late spring sun, and the smell of flowers in the air. She closes her eyes and takes a moment for herself. A moment that she very much needed.
He, too, should have gone to the Jungle much sooner after the war.
But time and its effects have been exceedingly long and large as of late. The few Dalean warriors had come home victorious but exhausted; their minds and hearts were heavy with the weight of all they’d accomplished, but also what they’d had to do to come through the other side. For Ramiel, the raw emotions had stacked upon each other in layers. First, the savory taste of victory. Second, the retrospective bitterness of battle, the violence forcibly pulled from the marrow of his bones and expressed by his hooves and teeth. Third, the unbridled joy of stepping into his kingdom once more. Seeing the wild push of the purple mountains against the sky when he thought he might never again had been as close to a religious experience as he’s ever had. Fourth, love. And if he thought he’d found it with Ea (only after the Valley snatched her away, only when he realized what he had when she was gone), he felt it tenfold with their daughter.
All the layers conglomerate when he looks at Sela; she is the embodiment of every emotion he is capable of.
When he hears his name on the wind and moves to find the source, however, he is mostly happy and at peace. The Dale is recovering better than he could have hoped. The turn-out at Ea’s coronation had been promising and far more busy than in recent years past. As he rides an easy canter towards their southern border, he thinks of the smaller families popping up all around them. It brings a smile to his face to think of Weir finding happiness with another and the life they’ve created. So, too, does the thought that one of their herdlands is thriving thanks to Phaedrus’ diligence. For the first time in too long, the grey king can imagine the utopia he’s always desired for the mountain people.
“Lagertha, welcome back,” he greets the iron lady when he comes upon her, dipping his head in acknowledgement. Ram is glad to see her; he has also harbored thoughts of an overdue visit and worries that he hasn’t done it sooner. Hopefully, she isn’t bringing news he should have heard long ago. “How are you and the Sisterhood faring?” He thinks it must be well, else they would have asked for assistance before now. Still, anything can happen in this day and age – no one is immune. If the war has taught them anything, it is the importance of allies. As their oldest friend and asset, the well-being of the Amazons ranks highly on the ghost-man’s priorities. And as the khaleesi of the kingdom, Lagertha’s most of all. As he waits for her to speak, Ramiel scrutinizes the steel warrior. He imagines the war hadn’t been her first brush with inflicting purposeful pain on another (not that it was his, but war was a choice unlike Carnage’s path of monsters through the stars).
Weir doesn’t really mind or take note of how long it takes anyone to come and see the Dale. Even if spring is the very best time to come and have a look, or was that autumn? No, no, winter, it had to be winter. Winter was Weir’s favorite but of course he was very much biased in that opinion. Actually Weir has quite enough of his own worries on his own plate thank you very much. Of course he doesn’t mind company, or visits, or diplomatic chit chat but he has his own problems you see. The first and foremost problem is his ever growing family, primarily the fact that his own stomach had begun swelling at an alarming rate and he was felt awfully nauseated by the whole ordeal.
Funny as it might be the ballooned roan male made his slow way to the gathering of very few. Actually the gathering of two to be precise, both he knew but one he knew much better than the other. Alongside the fat Quarter Horse was a rather smug looking tortoise, smug only because he had told Weir time and time again the source of his lengthening illness. If you wanted to call it an illness, but boy oh boy it was much more than that and rather less severe. Weir had somehow found himself on the receiving end of a magical mix-up and wound up pregnant. While Weir looked confused and uncomfortable about the notion, Darwin appeared quite happy, in an ‘I told you so’ sort of way.
As they both neared it became clear who they were welcoming for words. The visitor was the steely Amazon Queen Lagertha, she looked much the same as ever and Weir gave her a small smile. The only other Dalean to show was his own King Ramiel, but it was no surprise to Weir that he was rather late to the party. “Sorry, terribly sorry. Let me not trouble you to wait on my account good lady, Ramiel,” He greets them both in turn with a small nod as he tries to settle in looking uncertain as to which stance would be the most comfortable one to take up. “Found myself in a pickle it seems, would I could know exactly how this might have occurred.” A sour frown found his face as he took to looking at the ground, brow furrowed as he muttered quietly to himself.
Darwin on the other hand seemed frightfully humored by the news, knowing full well one of Weir’s own tamperings with Magic had gone awry.
“Anywho, how fare the ladies of the Jungle? Well I hope?” With one leg he smacks at the earth, carving into the soft spring grass as he remained oddly quiet waiting for an answer or a change of subject. Anything really to cast the spotlight away from the punchline his round body was.
Luckily for the two of them, neither is apt to hold a grudge post-war. Life goes on, minutiae becomes all-encompassing, and before you know it, a year has passed in the blink of an eye. Even easier to become enveloped in the creeping vines, swearing that you only mean to close your eyes for a minute, but oh that heat is so, so, sweet… Sometimes the Iron Lady feels the pull of the Sandman and must shake it off, knowing that it is not time to rest yet. There will be time in all the years to come, but not while she wears the thorned crown. Not while there is still a bit of uncertainty that lingers like smog on the horizon, a dark smudge in an otherwise unmarred sky.
The pale stallion doesn’t take long to appear, and despite herself, she finds a smile slinking across her face. “Ramiel,” she says in greeting, noting how healthy and content he seems to be. “Thank you. It would take more than some Chamberling’s fire to bring us to our knees. The Jungle grows back, and the Sisters seem to think I should stick around, so I can’t complain.” She chuckles dryly; injecting humor into an otherwise serious state of affairs. “You’re looking rather happy. How is the Dale?”
A somewhat familiar scent lingers on him, and Lagertha is about to inquire about it, when a very fat stallion and his tortoise companion waddle on up to join them. Weir is mostly a stranger to Lagertha, knowing him only by sight, but she remembers his power during the War. He froze the battlefield, inadvertently helping her save Lexa. He is intriguing - peculiar and eccentric - and the warrior in her decided long ago that she wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of the stallion. Nevertheless, she doesn’t bother to hide her confusion and inadvertent surprise at his appearance. “What, ahhh... exactly is wrong?” She glances towards Ramiel, and then back to the stallion, forgetting entirely to answer his second question.
To those who are out of the loop, Weird simply looks like he needs to go on diet. In which case, Lagertha could also prescribe an excellent exercise regimen if that’s what he was looking for.
He rolls his weight back on his ankles as they settle into the conversation. If there is one ally he is most comfortable around and with, it is the Sisterhood. What began with a relationship of fair exchange turned into a unifying blood alliance. He’s always known of his father’s political tryst that resulted in his half-brother, Dalten. It is the bridge that upheld the transition from Scorch’s rule to Lagertha’s. But with his grey sibling cast to the wind for years (since his first year, really) Ramiel has no doubts that it is something more that keeps the two kingdoms bound. Loyalty, comradery – knowledge and acceptance of each other’s weaknesses and strengths – all traits that link the two securely. Traits that, in his opinion, are hard to come by these days.
So he is nearly as happy to hear of the Jungle’s regrowth as Lagertha is to share the information. His concern is never entirely unselfish when it comes to the leafy forest-women, though. Both the well-being and loss of his sister is always in the corner of his mind. He sees her every time he goes to the river, sees the ghosts of their younger selves splashing (or flying, in her case) across it to the wildlands beyond. He remembers their youthful bravado in disobeying their prescribed borders, the freedom of a simpler time. But time marches ever on. She chose her own path in life. Instead of the easy, guaranteed life of Dalean royalty, Joscelin decided to forge her own way in the thorny jungle. He will always admire her choice, but he will forever worry for her, too.
“I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear it,” he says emphatically. Of the Amazons’ health and the steel khaleesi’s continued instatement. She is rather easy to get along with, despite her reputation as a warrior; he’s heard that her predecessor was an altogether different breed. More of the fire that Lagertha speaks of, the flames that tried to devour the spirit of the Sisterhood and failed. He knows the Dale would have bounced back, had Weir’s wall of protection been extinguished. He is still glad they hadn’t been tested.
As if on cue, the red roan makes his appearance. And what an appearance it is! Ramiel’s eyes show his surprise at the rounding of the man’s belly. He’s seen it grow over the last few months, but he imagined it was nothing more than post-war gluttony. Having survived the trauma and sights and smells of battle, he couldn’t blame Weir for indulging in the finer aspects of life. But perhaps it is something more. The ghost-king shares Lagertha’s shock, waiting for Weir to fill them in on his…ailment.
When he does, Ramiel presses on. The khaleesi seems to pick up on his outright contentedness and the grin he wears at his lord’s expense only grows. “We are all well.” A simple answer but true. He decides to elaborate, so proud that he can’t keep the information to himself. “Queen Ea and I have the privilege of raising two children in these peaceful times. It hardly seems fair to ask for more in this life.” The pride is a real, breathing thing between them when he speaks of his family, but he realizes it isn’t all true. Always, a soul presses against the thin membrane between here and the Other Side. Always, there is a black spot on his heart that won’t go away, that he doesn’t want to leave.
But that is neither here nor there.
Back to business then. “We are hosting games for our allies in the next several months. There will be both peace and war caste competitions, in addition to a social gathering for those who do not wish to take part in either.” He glances at Weir, wondering how far past the planning stage they’ve gotten. Something tells him that it needs to happen soon, that something else is creeping on the horizon that will make their practicing worthwhile. He does not speak of this shadow to Lagertha; only time will tell if it is merely a war-brought fear or a substantial threat. “Would the Sisters be interested in joining us?”
Meetings are always pleasant in the Dale and though uncomfortable, this one proves much the same. He stands, he listens, he shifts his weight frequently as he adjusts each tingling leg when it starts to fall asleep. They both take him in with ease yet he can feel their eyes, lenses that bore holes through his very being, beyond the flesh of his stomach. Well, honestly he probably imagines that, he’s quite embarrassed you see. Darwin on the other hand outright beams, taking pleasure from Weir’s reddened cheeks (they are always red though aren’t they). This they might find they share, the tortoise the King and the Queen because to be honest, it is quite funny.
They are surprised, perhaps a bit curious about his condition and the roan hangs his head. His amber eyes find the ground and he sighs deep and heavy. “Went and got myself pregnant, and no thanks to Prague too. Now I tried to keep things civil I did, she’s a nasty woman I can’t help if you don’t want to hear it.” He huffs then, grunts and releases a breath of icy fog among them. He didn’t mean to be so blunt but he was irritated with the whole ordeal, in ways he had been made a fool and in others perhaps a hero.
‘Too be fair the woman concealed her intentions, can’t say I agree with her either,’ Darwin lets on, of course as amused as he was he would defend Weir to a fault. In some ways that was defending himself he supposed. ‘In any case what is done is done, can’t say we know much of what happened to her after, think she disappeared. It was quite the ordeal, left Weir mightily sick for a while too.’ Neither one went into any special detail about the why or the how or the who. It would be enough to speak against the Amazon’s magician of course, ally or no ally, it was perhaps rude if not truthful.
Maybe they let it go at that, maybe they don’t but Weir moves on from the topic- not wanting to really set out all the cards. They wouldn’t understand, they wouldn’t be able to, Warshyshippy was his friend- how could they even begin to…
“Plans? I - oh, well you see..” Well...you see...he had been rather ill. Mostly he had forgotten the whole thing, and he kinda put it off too when he did remember. The preparations were all practice for more War, and Weir had had enough of war come to think of it. He also was not quick to join in another fight against his friend because now that he was sure Shippy was alive, well, he couldn’t expect the once General to sit out when a battle cry rang over the hills. “Afraid I’ve done poor planning Ramiel, poor indeed. We can of course work on a bit of practice, I’m sure we could...with the ah, the ladies too of course.” Fight the ladies, oh dear well that wasn’t very gentlemanly either but he supposed it couldn’t be helped. He had after all just recently tussled with one.
Otherwise he looked thoughtful, amber eyes bright but shadowed with concern.
