07-24-2016, 01:35 PM
Miles and miles away from where the stallion stands against a backdrop of mountains, his muse resurrects.
He shudders, but it is only the autumn wind that chills him. He does not feel the moment the air makes itself vital in her lungs again. He does not know when her eyes open to her second life, the rods and cones quenching their thirst on all the light they’ve missed in the murky afterlife. There is no pulling on his heart the second she becomes solid, though he has become unconditionally anchored to her. If he knew that Gail walked the Earth once more, perhaps nothing could stop him from flying to her side.
His ignorance, however, keeps him home.
All the while, he waits. Ramiel has grown used to waiting over the years. He has anticipated his father’s return since the beginning (the verdant grass of spring browning into fall as he counted the days of his youth). He has ticked off the time of his rule, recounts the long stretch of his people’s safety with grateful care. He has waited for Ea to soften, has tried to be the relenting rivulet of water to her stone, gently chiseling over the years. He has awaited (and is awaiting) the birth of his children - the beautiful, worthwhile pause before Sela and Kha entered his life. He is used to waiting; he has grown weary of only one standstill in his lifetime.
She is accessible, but not. There, but gone. When he tries to visit her, the breaking, changing waves remind him that her company cannot last. When he tries to hold her, the edges of her skin blur; she slips right through his grasp every time. She is his black light, his constant and anchor against the universe and all its monsters. She had saved him when the langoliers crunched their way through faulty timelines and the infinite, inky sky. And even though his lips had been ready to spill any words that might grant him an escape from death, she had still chosen to follow him to life (to the afterlife, anyway, unbeknownst to them all). She had done it to keep them alive, to keep him alive. And he could – can - never do the same for her.
He makes her wait and wait and wait.
Fortunately, they are both used to the repetition.
Ramiel is stuck fast in the stale cycle of another day when it is suddenly broken apart. The black speck meandering through the wild edge of the forest grows larger, comes closer. He can’t tell that it is her at first. His eyes tell him that the impossible does not become reality, that all of the seeds they have planted (all the time they have waited) will not sprout in this life. But his heart knows. The line that connects them is flaccid for the first time, no longer yanking on the meaty muscle buried in his ribcage. She is here, parting the dried out grasses and weaving through the towering, sentinel oaks. She is alive. Home.
He wastes no time loosening the line some more.
Ramiel runs to her and it doesn’t matter that the hard earth sends shockwaves up his churning feet. “Gail!” He calls, without hint of a question in his tone. The how doesn’t matter, anyway. When he is near enough, the grey comes to a stop in front of the black, a slow grin dawning on his face. She is different here, too. She shines with health, her coat as inky as the sky of the apocalypse. She sits more comfortably in her skin, on her feet – as if breathing the air and walking the earth has eased all of her ailments. “I’m here,” she says, and his grin widens.
“You are.” And because his golden heart is finally whole (and beating madly alongside her’s), he pulls her in close. He presses against her, cradles her smaller body against his. For the first time she is there, totally and completely. Warm and alive and there. The ghost-king feels the final storm cloud pass over his very soul. The one accomplishment he could never claim (one that their dark god couldn’t, either, which gives him a strange satisfaction) is now moot. He doesn’t know that it can’t last. All he knows is that Gail is with him. All he feels is the curve of her against his shoulder, against his hip. He suddenly realizes he wants more. Even if it should be enough that she’s here, a fire lights in his belly that tells him it will never be enough. “You are finally free,” he says, withdrawing to meet her eyes, to tamp down the flames that rise in him regardless. “What does it feel like? What will you do with it?”
He shudders, but it is only the autumn wind that chills him. He does not feel the moment the air makes itself vital in her lungs again. He does not know when her eyes open to her second life, the rods and cones quenching their thirst on all the light they’ve missed in the murky afterlife. There is no pulling on his heart the second she becomes solid, though he has become unconditionally anchored to her. If he knew that Gail walked the Earth once more, perhaps nothing could stop him from flying to her side.
His ignorance, however, keeps him home.
All the while, he waits. Ramiel has grown used to waiting over the years. He has anticipated his father’s return since the beginning (the verdant grass of spring browning into fall as he counted the days of his youth). He has ticked off the time of his rule, recounts the long stretch of his people’s safety with grateful care. He has waited for Ea to soften, has tried to be the relenting rivulet of water to her stone, gently chiseling over the years. He has awaited (and is awaiting) the birth of his children - the beautiful, worthwhile pause before Sela and Kha entered his life. He is used to waiting; he has grown weary of only one standstill in his lifetime.
She is accessible, but not. There, but gone. When he tries to visit her, the breaking, changing waves remind him that her company cannot last. When he tries to hold her, the edges of her skin blur; she slips right through his grasp every time. She is his black light, his constant and anchor against the universe and all its monsters. She had saved him when the langoliers crunched their way through faulty timelines and the infinite, inky sky. And even though his lips had been ready to spill any words that might grant him an escape from death, she had still chosen to follow him to life (to the afterlife, anyway, unbeknownst to them all). She had done it to keep them alive, to keep him alive. And he could – can - never do the same for her.
He makes her wait and wait and wait.
Fortunately, they are both used to the repetition.
Ramiel is stuck fast in the stale cycle of another day when it is suddenly broken apart. The black speck meandering through the wild edge of the forest grows larger, comes closer. He can’t tell that it is her at first. His eyes tell him that the impossible does not become reality, that all of the seeds they have planted (all the time they have waited) will not sprout in this life. But his heart knows. The line that connects them is flaccid for the first time, no longer yanking on the meaty muscle buried in his ribcage. She is here, parting the dried out grasses and weaving through the towering, sentinel oaks. She is alive. Home.
He wastes no time loosening the line some more.
Ramiel runs to her and it doesn’t matter that the hard earth sends shockwaves up his churning feet. “Gail!” He calls, without hint of a question in his tone. The how doesn’t matter, anyway. When he is near enough, the grey comes to a stop in front of the black, a slow grin dawning on his face. She is different here, too. She shines with health, her coat as inky as the sky of the apocalypse. She sits more comfortably in her skin, on her feet – as if breathing the air and walking the earth has eased all of her ailments. “I’m here,” she says, and his grin widens.
“You are.” And because his golden heart is finally whole (and beating madly alongside her’s), he pulls her in close. He presses against her, cradles her smaller body against his. For the first time she is there, totally and completely. Warm and alive and there. The ghost-king feels the final storm cloud pass over his very soul. The one accomplishment he could never claim (one that their dark god couldn’t, either, which gives him a strange satisfaction) is now moot. He doesn’t know that it can’t last. All he knows is that Gail is with him. All he feels is the curve of her against his shoulder, against his hip. He suddenly realizes he wants more. Even if it should be enough that she’s here, a fire lights in his belly that tells him it will never be enough. “You are finally free,” he says, withdrawing to meet her eyes, to tamp down the flames that rise in him regardless. “What does it feel like? What will you do with it?”
R A M I E L
this is a man pulling at his iron chains