11-20-2017, 02:45 PM
He didn’t expect to see her here. This was to be a mind-numbing excursion to inform Ischia of Ivar’s ascension to Loess’ throne; it wasn’t meant to be a personal visit to rip off and re-patch the Band-Aids on his feeble heart.
When he breathes in the salty air, Castile desperately focuses on the ocean and the scent of the exotic birds and trees, but Ciri’s is far more potent than them all – far more alluring. His eyes clamp shut as he faces the tide, wishing away the discomfort tingling down his spine. He could just as easily leave, but that would be too obvious, too heart-wrenching. The tendril of hope that he latches tightly to is that she didn’t notice his eyes rake across her or the frown that creased his lips when he stumbled over how to even broach the situation. Rather than face her, cowardice sunk its teeth into him – so, he turned away.
But she finds him just as easily as he had her. The musk of his scent slides across the delicate lining of her nostrils, and her eyes lace upon him like a wolf finding a lost lamb.
When she says hello, a sharp intake of air slashes down the length of his throat. Before he can turn around, her name slips from his tongue like velvet. ”Ciri,” it tastes so sweetly, tempting him to face her. The sand hisses underfoot as he pivots, the ocean now at his back. Nothing could have ever prepared him to see her pregnant, her stomach swollen with child. Castile’s mismatched gaze settles first on her stormy eyes, but then slides to her body as it screams of her pregnancy. He smiles – it’s forced, but passable – and inclines his head just slightly. ”Congratulations,” it would be Amet’s, he knows, and so he glances left, right, then back to her. ”Shouldn’t you be in Hyaline?” But then something more pressing and worrisome bangs at the forefront of his mind. ”He can’t see us together, Ciri. No one can.” A few steps drag along the shore, willing himself to distance himself from her even as ever fiber of his being wants to still cradle her against his side.
Then, as though to reaffirm it to himself, he adds, ”You’re his.”
When he breathes in the salty air, Castile desperately focuses on the ocean and the scent of the exotic birds and trees, but Ciri’s is far more potent than them all – far more alluring. His eyes clamp shut as he faces the tide, wishing away the discomfort tingling down his spine. He could just as easily leave, but that would be too obvious, too heart-wrenching. The tendril of hope that he latches tightly to is that she didn’t notice his eyes rake across her or the frown that creased his lips when he stumbled over how to even broach the situation. Rather than face her, cowardice sunk its teeth into him – so, he turned away.
But she finds him just as easily as he had her. The musk of his scent slides across the delicate lining of her nostrils, and her eyes lace upon him like a wolf finding a lost lamb.
When she says hello, a sharp intake of air slashes down the length of his throat. Before he can turn around, her name slips from his tongue like velvet. ”Ciri,” it tastes so sweetly, tempting him to face her. The sand hisses underfoot as he pivots, the ocean now at his back. Nothing could have ever prepared him to see her pregnant, her stomach swollen with child. Castile’s mismatched gaze settles first on her stormy eyes, but then slides to her body as it screams of her pregnancy. He smiles – it’s forced, but passable – and inclines his head just slightly. ”Congratulations,” it would be Amet’s, he knows, and so he glances left, right, then back to her. ”Shouldn’t you be in Hyaline?” But then something more pressing and worrisome bangs at the forefront of his mind. ”He can’t see us together, Ciri. No one can.” A few steps drag along the shore, willing himself to distance himself from her even as ever fiber of his being wants to still cradle her against his side.
Then, as though to reaffirm it to himself, he adds, ”You’re his.”