11-08-2017, 09:02 PM
Ascending had been easy, but the flight was treacherous.
Castile’s wings carry him effortlessly, but his mind storms relentlessly. He should be contemplating this venture, of finding the leader, and informing her of Loess’ change in leadership, and yet, his mind reels and flashes with images of Ciri and of Amet. It causes a lurch in his stomach – or is it his heart that is still screaming? It would be easiest to forget, to move along, and to find joy elsewhere, but somehow Ciri has sunken her claws into him. It had been in those primary moments at Hyaline’s pond when their eyes locked. Perhaps Castile was too hopeful and optimistic. It could have been something, would have been something, if she did not eventually admit to belonging to Amet.
That evening in the river, Castile thought, ended it all.
He hasn’t seen her since; it was his attempt to heal, but it only granted his mind more time to contemplate the multitude of what if’s. It clouds his other thoughts, burrows into every crevice of his brain, and poisons him. She is often what he thinks about, but he also bristles when the wind whispers her name into his ears. He wants to be angry, to move on with life, and yet it’s the greatest struggle of his life thus far.
The shoreline of Ischia grabs hold of his hooves when he glides down, concluding his long flight across the bay. Winter’s bitter temperatures have spared him from a great sweat, but his coat slightly glistens along his neck from the exertion. He doesn’t notice until a coastal wind hits him broadside, but even then, his eyes have found something far more enrapturing. His ears tilt forward and his eyes blink once, twice, to focus and refocus. He thought for a fleeting moment that his mind was betraying him and playing tricks, but when he breathes in that familiar scent he realizes that all of this is real, that she is real.
With his wings tucked to his sides, Castile forces himself to look away and to pretend he has not yet seen her and that he awaits to be greeted like on any other diplomatic excursion.
Castile’s wings carry him effortlessly, but his mind storms relentlessly. He should be contemplating this venture, of finding the leader, and informing her of Loess’ change in leadership, and yet, his mind reels and flashes with images of Ciri and of Amet. It causes a lurch in his stomach – or is it his heart that is still screaming? It would be easiest to forget, to move along, and to find joy elsewhere, but somehow Ciri has sunken her claws into him. It had been in those primary moments at Hyaline’s pond when their eyes locked. Perhaps Castile was too hopeful and optimistic. It could have been something, would have been something, if she did not eventually admit to belonging to Amet.
That evening in the river, Castile thought, ended it all.
He hasn’t seen her since; it was his attempt to heal, but it only granted his mind more time to contemplate the multitude of what if’s. It clouds his other thoughts, burrows into every crevice of his brain, and poisons him. She is often what he thinks about, but he also bristles when the wind whispers her name into his ears. He wants to be angry, to move on with life, and yet it’s the greatest struggle of his life thus far.
The shoreline of Ischia grabs hold of his hooves when he glides down, concluding his long flight across the bay. Winter’s bitter temperatures have spared him from a great sweat, but his coat slightly glistens along his neck from the exertion. He doesn’t notice until a coastal wind hits him broadside, but even then, his eyes have found something far more enrapturing. His ears tilt forward and his eyes blink once, twice, to focus and refocus. He thought for a fleeting moment that his mind was betraying him and playing tricks, but when he breathes in that familiar scent he realizes that all of this is real, that she is real.
With his wings tucked to his sides, Castile forces himself to look away and to pretend he has not yet seen her and that he awaits to be greeted like on any other diplomatic excursion.