They collected the dark, singed ashes of Jatayu, the only remnants of the maharaj who had sacrificed himself for Sita's sake, from the embers. Embers that sparked even as they turned their back on the charred land, heads bowed, shadows scarred into the Earth as the sun set on their party. 

A humble earthen urn held his remains, tucked safely in the crook of Ram's arm. It was the only luggage they still carried on their journey. 

 If Ram would have had his way, they would have kept walking until they became living corpses, more so than they already were, wracked with guilt, wrecked with tears, and drowning under the heavy weight of purpose without meaning.  

They would have been the slaves of sorrow and dragged down into an ocean of misery, men who didn't know how to swim. They would have been ghosts drifting towards a destination that never had a location, save prized in the depths of their mind. 

Lakshman's firm word stopped their mindless walking as inky black began to leak into the pale blue up above. 

They made rest in a small clearing, sheltered by the watchful gaze of the trees and the gentle blue light of the moon. 

Neither pretended to rest, instead basking as if in exhausted glee in the meditative silence that drifted thickly in the smoke of the fire and the crackling that filled the emptiness left behind by words.

Ram had long since closed his eyes until his breathing became even, though painfully ragged. Sleep, it seemed, was no haven to hide from the torture his mind inflicted on itself. 

 His hands clenched and unclenched around an invisible sword, his jaw tensing dangerously until he was shaken awake, calming words whispered in his ear, breeze reassuringly running through his hair until he fell into the depths of sleep once more.

Lakshman did not trust the watch of the trees enough. In the orange light, his stone hard face was illuminated, watching the flames lick against the rough brush and kindling.

The metallic smell of blood drifted around their camp, and his eyes soon drifted from the almost mechanic consumption of the fire to the brownish stain that soaked the deep orange of Ram's clothes. 

He exhaled, breath shaky, and his eyes darted away in an instant to rest back upon the fire, which welcomed back his guilty gaze with a burning warmth. 

 The urn sat between them, more peaceful than they could be, watching with him.

They were hapless wanderers, trapped in the passions of melancholy.