03-30-2020, 08:41 PM
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
It doesn’t escape his notice as she diverts her eyes when he makes light of the relationship they once had. Still a barb in her life, he resolves, and his throat tightens regrettably, but he says nothing more of it. Anything else will simply focus on what once was, what no longer is. It would crack her more and chisel away at the wall she has fortified around herself.
Castile isn’t immune to it, of course. He has often reflected on their lives together, but over the years, he has determined to suppress it for his own sanity. A mild joke is his coping and his attempt to elude more pain down the road.
But it hurts others in the process.
And here, while he sinks a knife into her emotional memories, Castile offers to hurt her physically by meddling with the javelin. Sabra offers him permission, and he obediently snakes his head forward with his mouth slightly agape in preparation. His breath reeks of fire and sulfur as he hovers just in front of her. It’s there, tempting him, but so is the scent of her blood as it dribbles from her wound. ”I—“ he hesitates, inhaling deeply before reluctantly withdrawing, ”I shouldn’t. You and I both would probably experience some repercussion if we messed with it.” Admittedly, he also fears losing himself in the act. One taste of her blood, and he may want more – more than he should.
In the slow retraction of his head and neck, Sabra’s statement catches him off guard. Something wrenches inside him, and now he is the one to look away forlornly. It’s true, what she says, and it has frequently crossed his mind, but he is contradictory. He has always wanted love and a family, but then he pushes everyone away in attempt to protect them from himself. Then, finally, when he finds an equal and finds someone that fulfilled his heart, he broke it because of his sinful lust and temptation. Self-sabotage, it seems, is his downfall. An idle flick of his tail is the silent indication of his reeling thoughts before bringing himself to level his eyes again on Sabra. A curling wisp of smoke escapes his flaring nostrils in the midst of his slow, deliberate nod. ”Time will tell, I suppose,” at a loss for words, and in fear of failing another ideation of his, Castile neutralizes his situation, unsure what lies in his future: a lonely throne and destruction or happiness and love in a life less ambitious.
Castile isn’t immune to it, of course. He has often reflected on their lives together, but over the years, he has determined to suppress it for his own sanity. A mild joke is his coping and his attempt to elude more pain down the road.
But it hurts others in the process.
And here, while he sinks a knife into her emotional memories, Castile offers to hurt her physically by meddling with the javelin. Sabra offers him permission, and he obediently snakes his head forward with his mouth slightly agape in preparation. His breath reeks of fire and sulfur as he hovers just in front of her. It’s there, tempting him, but so is the scent of her blood as it dribbles from her wound. ”I—“ he hesitates, inhaling deeply before reluctantly withdrawing, ”I shouldn’t. You and I both would probably experience some repercussion if we messed with it.” Admittedly, he also fears losing himself in the act. One taste of her blood, and he may want more – more than he should.
In the slow retraction of his head and neck, Sabra’s statement catches him off guard. Something wrenches inside him, and now he is the one to look away forlornly. It’s true, what she says, and it has frequently crossed his mind, but he is contradictory. He has always wanted love and a family, but then he pushes everyone away in attempt to protect them from himself. Then, finally, when he finds an equal and finds someone that fulfilled his heart, he broke it because of his sinful lust and temptation. Self-sabotage, it seems, is his downfall. An idle flick of his tail is the silent indication of his reeling thoughts before bringing himself to level his eyes again on Sabra. A curling wisp of smoke escapes his flaring nostrils in the midst of his slow, deliberate nod. ”Time will tell, I suppose,” at a loss for words, and in fear of failing another ideation of his, Castile neutralizes his situation, unsure what lies in his future: a lonely throne and destruction or happiness and love in a life less ambitious.
castile
@[Sabra]