Ramiel is forced to halt many times as they continue their descent into the Dale. The list of curiosities for Weir seems endless, but the first few times the red roan stops, it catches the colt off guard. It doesn’t bother him, of course. If he had suddenly found himself a resident of a new home, he surely would do the same inspections of its flora and fauna. They are greatly alike in this, he thinks, smiling bemusedly at each pit-stop.
The beetle Weir studies on one such stop is not as amused. It scuttles off when the relatively towering creature breaths on its back, leaving tracks on the dusty trail. Still concentrating on the space where the now-absent creature was, Weir speaks words that Ramiel doesn’t know. He had just asked after the place of his birth, however – perhaps that was the name of it? Tilting his head in confusion, he asks, “is that what your homeland was called?” But the way his companion regards the beetle, Ramiel doesn’t think it is. Realization dawns on his face before he adds, “or is that your name for the insect? We call them summer beetles.”
They meander on slowly, working their way progressively towards the flat meadows of the Dale. At a sudden break in the trees, the view opens up below them. The kingdom is laid out before them: sweeping fields split in half by the glinting river, foothills that rise along the edges, giving way to the rugged mountain slopes. Winter has taken its toll on the greenery of the place, stripping it of its vibrancy but not its beauty. The colors are simply muted this time of year. The land is a palette of soft greys and blues and browns made lighter by the midday sun falling across it.
For once, Ramiel initiates a stop in order to take it all in. He looks over to Weir, wondering if the sight stirred him in a newfound way. He wonders if the man equates it to home just yet, or if time would have to create an attachment to the place he has pledged himself. How different it must be to walk into a land rather than be raised up in it. Weir has more questions about his mother, and the grey boy is all too happy to oblige. “It spread on her as the years went by. Back then, it was a hindrance as it was much thicker than it is today. Sometimes it froze her limbs or head, sometimes her entire body.” Talulah has told him the horrifying stories of her alien skin, how she had been frozen in place for two long years before the prison of her own body relented. He stops himself before he reveals all of it to Weir, not knowing if his mother would want it to be common knowledge.
Talk turns from one of his parents to the other, and on the matter of his father, Ramiel doesn’t hold back. Everyone knows of Tiphon’s otherworldly presence, how he is divine among mortals (and immortals, he supposes). “Oh yes. He is very much an angel.” On this, the boy is certain. He’s seen Tiphon appear and disappear, has seen him glow with the brightness of the sun and grow wings as ethereal as you would imagine an angel’s would be. To him, though, he’s simply a father. “He’s rather our guardian.” His gold eyes glance at the roan again. Was magic as diverse in his old world as it is here? “Did horses have powers where you came from or is this a change?” A circling turkey vulture catches his attention. He follows its arcing progression in the sky for a moment before turning back to Weir. “Do you have any gifts yourself?”
r a m i e l
what a day to begin again