Ankyra Sound o green world, don't desert me now

The ghost's pace had slowed dramatically since his return to the wilds. The cold winds made his bones ache and his limbs shiver, regardless of how he tried to contain them. Kierkegaard had grown frustrated with his own body and the age that was beginning to slow him down. Each morning, he continued to remind himself that it was smart to have settled in the sound; Grimnismal was a good group, and worthy of his fangs. Still, nothing could prevent that sharp longing for previous years and the ability to wander away as he pleased. The ashen figure never had imagined himself there, but it was there that he would stay and eventually end.

Kierkegaard moved down the edge of the water with ragged steps. The length of his limbs seemed to quiver with each touch of the frigid ocean water. As Caiaphas approached him at the side, he swung his skull around to face her with a tired amber stare. The ghost of a smile seemed to tug lightly at the corners of his dark lips before ceasing its efforts. She had seemed to spark a new bead of life in him, in spite of his rigid movements and winter-afflicted limbs. For that moment, his eyes danced with a rare sort of pleasure.

“Are you happy to be home?”