Everyone is beholden to their own ghosts. For Ramattra, he knows that feeling better than anyone.
It weighs him down and forces him to reminisce, wishing for those days when he didn’t have to hide in gunships and underground safe houses. He thinks of the green fields and white sheep. Of the cool winds blowing from the mountains and the yellow dots of marigolds in simple vases.
A chaotic street, his brothers and sisters strewn about like discarded dolls.
A burning barn caused by the hatred of a man.
A sacrifice made, reverting his friend back into the animal he never wanted to be again.
And Ramattra could do nothing about it. But he was naïve. Weak.
And despite the pain these memories cause him, it gives him the motivation to push on. He’ll not lose another to the malice of humanity, not while he’s standing.
