08-03-2016, 12:19 PM
He is unburdened by the heavy weight of her decision.
It feels right, after all, the way she curls into him (how they seem like a completed whole rather than waiting halves). It feels natural, as she presses her lips into his shoulder - a stamp from the Other Side he acknowledges long after the gesture. The crushing weight of the crown lifts from its long residence atop his poll when he is with her. The respite is not one he has ever longed for, but he finds himself grateful nonetheless. They are blessedly alone, freed. No eyes witness their embrace through the thicket beyond: not Ea’s, not his children, and certainly not His. They are alone. Alive. Whole.
He is made lighter in her presence.
The woman with a world’s worth of history behind her eyes talks to him and it is enough. Before, their words had been urgent (as he walked the precipice of life and death, convinced her to go home or be fed to the clanking, chomping langoliers). Before, they had spoken in the language of grief (as he mourned his murdered brother, as he promised himself there was more life to be lived beyond the veil – that it was not his time yet, as easy as it had seemed to stay). Before, fear had gripped their throats and made them anxious for every next breath, every next chance to see each other (because they were both changing; death was poisoning her, life was morphing him). But now, there is only conversation. Only happy words float air-light in the little space between their bodies. Words, and want.
It is so much easier here, he thinks, not for the first time. She smells like she should. She appears as she should, like a vessel with an added soul, providing evidence in the form of breaths, heartbeats, movements. The false light of the afterlife had done her no favors (had made her into a hologram not representative of the real substance hidden beneath). But here, with the harsh sunlight filtering through the trees to fall across her glossy back, she is completely exposed to him. Here, she is attainable. He does not hold back in reassuring himself of her realness. Ramiel presses in tightly against her, feeling the jut of her hipbone and the bend of each rib. He relishes the heat she exudes, finds a welcome home in her shadow.
It’s not forever, she says, but he doesn’t believe it. There is so much more to believe in – the simmer in her eyes, the tickling touch of her hair against his shoulder – that this last truth cannot hold water. He pushes those words away and lets the rest filter through. The black speaks of the world as though she has just been born to it, and he supposes she has, in a way. She speaks of color, of the sights and smells that are amplified on the Other Side of death. He knows exactly what she means, knows exactly how much it must mean to someone kept away for so long. Every time he had visited that stretch of beach birthed from a broken timeline, Ramiel had felt the same upon his return to Beqanna. It is truly a wonder she remembers at all.
He doesn’t spare the colors around him any attention, though. The grey would much rather see her take it in again, her memories and senses unfolding with each new sight like a bloom to the sun. And if there is the subtle feeling of fleeting time, of grains falling too quickly for him to catch, he ignores it. He stifles the stiffness in his stomach that says this too shall pass; Death waits for no one. He’s stood before the Reaper and his scythe already and come through with his head intact. He is unafraid to do so again.
“Only on my best days. And for you,” he says, his grin growing on his face. His bones are reluctant anchors, but he manages to put some space between the two of them (the heat is becoming impossible to ignore, impossible to become willingly consumed by). Each step away is painful, but no more than the clock ticking each second loudly in his head. “Well there is no time to waste, then.” Ramiel looks towards the river, his gaze tracking upwards and into the mountains. So much to see, so many moments he wants to make with Gail. So little time. He remembers his family, then. Ea’s face turns harsher, to granite instead of limestone, before shattering into a million pieces. It is not what he wants - to undo all the work he’s put into her, to harden the woman he’s spent years trying to soften – but he cannot reconcile the rest of his wants.
“I will not deny a woman so worthy of her wishes.” His smile is gentle now, his golden eyes soft. How can he put out his guiding light once at the end of the universe, now here, before him in the flesh? Despite the guilt that wracks him and the falling time he cannot hope to catch, she remains his anchor. He is pulled by her and made weightless all at once. She steers him, but together they move unknowingly towards the abyss. Together, they walk several paces ahead of the Reaper, oblivious to His footsteps echoing in their ears.
It feels right, after all, the way she curls into him (how they seem like a completed whole rather than waiting halves). It feels natural, as she presses her lips into his shoulder - a stamp from the Other Side he acknowledges long after the gesture. The crushing weight of the crown lifts from its long residence atop his poll when he is with her. The respite is not one he has ever longed for, but he finds himself grateful nonetheless. They are blessedly alone, freed. No eyes witness their embrace through the thicket beyond: not Ea’s, not his children, and certainly not His. They are alone. Alive. Whole.
He is made lighter in her presence.
The woman with a world’s worth of history behind her eyes talks to him and it is enough. Before, their words had been urgent (as he walked the precipice of life and death, convinced her to go home or be fed to the clanking, chomping langoliers). Before, they had spoken in the language of grief (as he mourned his murdered brother, as he promised himself there was more life to be lived beyond the veil – that it was not his time yet, as easy as it had seemed to stay). Before, fear had gripped their throats and made them anxious for every next breath, every next chance to see each other (because they were both changing; death was poisoning her, life was morphing him). But now, there is only conversation. Only happy words float air-light in the little space between their bodies. Words, and want.
It is so much easier here, he thinks, not for the first time. She smells like she should. She appears as she should, like a vessel with an added soul, providing evidence in the form of breaths, heartbeats, movements. The false light of the afterlife had done her no favors (had made her into a hologram not representative of the real substance hidden beneath). But here, with the harsh sunlight filtering through the trees to fall across her glossy back, she is completely exposed to him. Here, she is attainable. He does not hold back in reassuring himself of her realness. Ramiel presses in tightly against her, feeling the jut of her hipbone and the bend of each rib. He relishes the heat she exudes, finds a welcome home in her shadow.
It’s not forever, she says, but he doesn’t believe it. There is so much more to believe in – the simmer in her eyes, the tickling touch of her hair against his shoulder – that this last truth cannot hold water. He pushes those words away and lets the rest filter through. The black speaks of the world as though she has just been born to it, and he supposes she has, in a way. She speaks of color, of the sights and smells that are amplified on the Other Side of death. He knows exactly what she means, knows exactly how much it must mean to someone kept away for so long. Every time he had visited that stretch of beach birthed from a broken timeline, Ramiel had felt the same upon his return to Beqanna. It is truly a wonder she remembers at all.
He doesn’t spare the colors around him any attention, though. The grey would much rather see her take it in again, her memories and senses unfolding with each new sight like a bloom to the sun. And if there is the subtle feeling of fleeting time, of grains falling too quickly for him to catch, he ignores it. He stifles the stiffness in his stomach that says this too shall pass; Death waits for no one. He’s stood before the Reaper and his scythe already and come through with his head intact. He is unafraid to do so again.
“Only on my best days. And for you,” he says, his grin growing on his face. His bones are reluctant anchors, but he manages to put some space between the two of them (the heat is becoming impossible to ignore, impossible to become willingly consumed by). Each step away is painful, but no more than the clock ticking each second loudly in his head. “Well there is no time to waste, then.” Ramiel looks towards the river, his gaze tracking upwards and into the mountains. So much to see, so many moments he wants to make with Gail. So little time. He remembers his family, then. Ea’s face turns harsher, to granite instead of limestone, before shattering into a million pieces. It is not what he wants - to undo all the work he’s put into her, to harden the woman he’s spent years trying to soften – but he cannot reconcile the rest of his wants.
“I will not deny a woman so worthy of her wishes.” His smile is gentle now, his golden eyes soft. How can he put out his guiding light once at the end of the universe, now here, before him in the flesh? Despite the guilt that wracks him and the falling time he cannot hope to catch, she remains his anchor. He is pulled by her and made weightless all at once. She steers him, but together they move unknowingly towards the abyss. Together, they walk several paces ahead of the Reaper, oblivious to His footsteps echoing in their ears.
R A M I E L
this is a man pulling at his iron chains