"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
The waves lap more tenderly against the shore, the swells quieting from their mid-day rage. The seagulls let out their final cries as they find roosts, shaking and flapping their wings at their sides until they are resting comfortably. It becomes so still that he thinks he can hear the crabs scuttling across the sand, emerging from their little burrows to hunt the grainy expanse until sunrise. The stallion bends down to watch one, smiling at the way it brandishes its claws at him and ignoring the twinge in his neck. The creatures here are so strange, he thinks, remembering the opaque globule he’d spotted washing up on the shore earlier. It hadn’t moved once it made it to the beach, but the tendrils attached to it had looked like arms. A hunter, he’d thought, a taker of lives. And then he’d grown sad.
But as Crito watches the crab move on (apparently no longer threatened by the stationary animal looming above him), he’s still glad he’s made it here. He’s glad to feel the sting of the salt air on his face. The spray is warmer here than back home, but it tastes the same on his tongue. It makes the Tundra feel closer than it is. As if the now-impossible journey could be shortened by the appearance of the northern lights in the sky. As if he could hear the bellow of rutting musk oxen in the distance, if only he’d close his eyes and listen. As if he could bring his home here, to the beach, for a final goodbye. He thinks maybe he can make it to the water before the sun rises; he wonders if he’ll last that long.
Surely the heated, southern waters will be a balm to his aching joints, Crito takes a step forward. His twisted left leg screams in protest as it holds more of his weight. He tries not to remember how it came to be this way. But the flash-memory of his accident springs forth in his mind. The snaking vine. The pit he hadn’t seen. The fall and the snap -
The bay roan’s stomach lurches at the phantom pain of that day. A pain which is now less sharp but constant; a pain that he can no longer tolerate.
Lagertha hadn’t found him that day or in the subsequent days of misery and hunger. He’d recovered (as much as an ancient, sway-backed stallion could), but he knew he would forever be crippled. He didn’t want his child to see its father like this. He didn’t want it to associate its sire with the broken shell of the man he’d become. And the Khaleesi?
He didn’t love her.
What he felt for the grey lady wasn’t anything close to love. What he felt was admiration in its highest degree. What he saw when he looked at her was an unshakable iron pillar (he’d certainly leaned on her more than he’d like to admit, more than he told her, even). What he believed was that she was unyielding in her convictions and firm in her actions. She could do no wrong, because everything she did was transparent; all of her motivations were plain to see with the naked eye. If he couldn’t read them, well, that was either his fault or the fault of his ever-dimming eyes.
He didn’t love her, but hell, he’d miss her.
Crito takes another step, but now he is certain he will not make it to the water. “How stupid,” he shakes his head, his tangled black mane falling across his thin neck. A tingling has spread up from his wasted foreleg. It prickles like it has fallen asleep, but he thinks it is not such a benign symptom. Because a heat like infection follows it, traveling throughout his body. He hadn’t thought the cut stretching along his canon had been much to worry about (the very real threat of having only three legs had seemed more pressing at the time), but now, he knows that worrying will no longer help. “Buck up, old man,” he grumbles, determination and despair hitting him in waves. Just to the water, then everything will feel better.
But after a few excruciating steps, he can go no further. He closes his eyes, keeping the first and only tears in his life from spilling over.
Ramiel had been quiet, though he hadn’t really meant to be. His hooves sink into the soft sand but don’t slow him down. He’s had a lot of practice – willingly and unwillingly - walking across these shores. Tonight, he has come of his own accord, but he isn’t sure why. When war looms over the land like a black cloud, certain of destruction, should he even be outside of the Dale? Not much supersedes his desire to protect his family, always, but the place beyond will always be one of them.
And seeing the creaking, leaning old man, he thinks he knows why he’s come.
Crito peers at him with one stormy grey eye, barely turning his head (Ramiel wonders if he’s unable or simply uncaring). His gaze looks lost, desperate. The gathering dark combined with his aged eyes probably provides him little to see with, so the grey stallion moves closer quickly. “I’m not here to hurt you.” He smiles a gentle smile and stays back a respectful distance, trying to convince the older horse that he meant it. But Crito’s watchful, narrowed eye doesn’t relax at first. He seems to be sizing the ghost man up, unasked questions filling his gaze but not the air. It is silent for a long time until he finally speaks.
“Stupid,” he repeats, but he cracks a toothy grin that looks more like a grimace. “That’s just what a murderer would say.” He shifts awkwardly in the sand to look at the young man head on, cursing under his breath all the while. Ramiel relaxes but doesn’t move at first, not sure what to make of the grumpy stallion. Would he be offended if he tried to shoulder his weight? Crito eyes him pointedly, staring until Ramiel gets the hint. “Well are you going to help me or stand there and watch me struggle? Crito, by the way, and I’d like to make it to the water.”
“Ramiel,” he says, having moved alongside the stallion. He can feel each of the man’s ribs under his emaciated hide. But he can feel something else as well. An indomitable spirit radiates off of him; a strength lingers beneath tired, weathered muscles and skin. He will not go down easy – and Ramiel will certainly not allow him to.
It takes hours for the pair to make it to the water’s edge. By the time the salty water is lapping at their hooves, the moon is beginning its retreat to the horizon. Crito hasn’t spared his helper any detail of his life, and Ramiel is grateful to learn it all. He learns of the Blood Alliance, how it united and tore apart the kingdoms all at once, how Crito and his siblings were at the heart of it, unknowingly. He learns of the Jungle and the cold Queen Echion, learns of the Tundra and the wall. He learns about the northern lights and the narwhals, of the polar bears and the lichen the Brothers survived on. Crito says Lagertha’s name once, but he does not continue the thread of thought. He forgets, sometimes, like all the memories are leaking away with each passing moment. Scorch, he says, then shakes his head. Errant, he looks out into the sea as if he’ll find the man there.
When he falls silent for the last time, it takes a moment for him to collect himself. When he looks back at Ramiel, it’s as if he doesn’t remember the grey man being beside him. “What now?” He seems to look through the king as he says it, his eyes unfocused. His face is screwed up in pain, but he tries to hide it well under his leaden strength.
“Now, we leave.” Ramiel touches the grumpy old man’s shoulder and they disappear.
Between heartbeats, they reappear – as they were – on the same spot on another beach.
“Rest well, Brother.” The ghost-king says to the ghost before he leaves him, restored but gone, never to be seen on the Other Side again.
04-11-2016, 01:07 PM (This post was last modified: 04-11-2016, 01:08 PM by Scorch.)
The seam splits open, and two ghosts appear. They're not her children come to visit, nor are they her enemies she would be wont to laugh at, but one catches her gaze.
It is her dear brother.
And, as was once promised in another land, at another time, she runs to him and embraces him like fire embraces a forest: all at once, and all too forcefully.
"I missed you."
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