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
Ivar’s rebuttal stuns Castile, silencing him as he stands in the shallow water. They are both, in fact, monsters. They cannot subdue their instincts and primal needs. Blood is on their hands – again, united again as brothers – but Castile had been ashamed of himself for months afterward. Ivar, it appears, is content with all that he has done. He has accepted what he is, what he has done. For a heartbeat, Castile is envious of how easily Ivar lets his mistakes, and crimes, slip through his fingers with hardly notice. A murder is just another grain of sand.
His confession had been so casual, his reasoning apathetic.
Of course, they both have changed over the years, but Castile debates how much. With a raised brow, he inches a single step closer. ”True,” he agrees with a mild shrug, knowing well how treacherous they are. ”Does that mean you would try to kill me, Ivar?” The question is eerily calm, leveled by his stoicism. He would never follow him into the water where the kelpie is strongest. How, he wonders, could Isobell have been so foolish as to pursue him into the murky depths. Somehow, she survived, but what if she hadn’t? Castile’s stomach roils at the thought. Anger builds like a wall around him until he reminds himself that she is here in Ischia, alive.
”As long as she is happy,” he resigns, knowing that he has no control of her – or their – actions. Ivar is possessive of Castile’s sister, a quality that he now exhibits over Sabra and Sochi since having lost his grip on Solace. At least, he muses, Ivar can horde them all here on this island. Sweeping an observant glance across his shoulder, he takes note of the palm trees and the lapping waves still kissing his legs and deepening with the hour. ”How did you end up here?” He asks idly, remembering years ago their last real conversation. ”You lured me to Loess, and then you left. I thought you had a grand scheme in mind, but I was wrong.” Again, he was alone. Poor choices, he decides, that have created such a turbulent path to his adulthood now. While Ivar lives lavishly as a king of an island, Castile is nomadic and scrambling around searching for his kin.
His confession had been so casual, his reasoning apathetic.
Of course, they both have changed over the years, but Castile debates how much. With a raised brow, he inches a single step closer. ”True,” he agrees with a mild shrug, knowing well how treacherous they are. ”Does that mean you would try to kill me, Ivar?” The question is eerily calm, leveled by his stoicism. He would never follow him into the water where the kelpie is strongest. How, he wonders, could Isobell have been so foolish as to pursue him into the murky depths. Somehow, she survived, but what if she hadn’t? Castile’s stomach roils at the thought. Anger builds like a wall around him until he reminds himself that she is here in Ischia, alive.
”As long as she is happy,” he resigns, knowing that he has no control of her – or their – actions. Ivar is possessive of Castile’s sister, a quality that he now exhibits over Sabra and Sochi since having lost his grip on Solace. At least, he muses, Ivar can horde them all here on this island. Sweeping an observant glance across his shoulder, he takes note of the palm trees and the lapping waves still kissing his legs and deepening with the hour. ”How did you end up here?” He asks idly, remembering years ago their last real conversation. ”You lured me to Loess, and then you left. I thought you had a grand scheme in mind, but I was wrong.” Again, he was alone. Poor choices, he decides, that have created such a turbulent path to his adulthood now. While Ivar lives lavishly as a king of an island, Castile is nomadic and scrambling around searching for his kin.
castile
@[Ivar]