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
Their family expands. Each season, almost. Day after day, a new discovery, a new relative, a new child.
Tiphon said in passing of recent children he has sired, but there is not enough of an emotional tether to plant a drive within him to play the role. He is away now, dissipated with the seasons since there’s not since been a use for him. There is no plague to reverse, no souls to heal from the crawling shadows. With a feeble goodbye, Tiphon skirted away for now. It will not be permanent – it never is.
But it leaves a child at their doorstep, bleating as the snow descends upon her. Curious, and reliant on the strength of family, Castile mirrors the drifting flight of the snowfall from his mountainous peak toward the child bleating into the cold. Concern furrows his brow when his hooves settle onto the rocky earth, slipping once from the slick precipitation.
He had seen her as she was, before this, before her body shrunk to a foal. Her coat, her eyes, her every fiber, inclines him to accept what she is and to press his lips reassuringly to her poll. ”Hello,” he murmurs as his warm voice clouds around them just as another wintry gust nips their skin. The girl trembles in her solitude and although he cannot pull her to her feet, he tries to encourage her, to join him. ”I will warm you, but you need to get up,” his head turns and his eyes preen their surroundings, searching for someone that could be her mother, but he’s met by a white curtain and abandonment.
A plume of black smoke coils from his nostrils as he drops his head to touch her. ”Come, you are with family now,” one by one, he hoards them within his grasp. A fleeting glance is spared toward the rocky ledge above but it falls back to the porcelain girl – a beautiful light in the blizzard. ”Were you named?” He almost includes her abandonment, almost lets his tongue slip to remind her she is alone, but a quick notion suppresses the words before they ever reach his tongue. With a sweet nudge, he quietly adds, ”I’m Castile,” a relative, but perhaps a near enough replica of a father now.
Tiphon said in passing of recent children he has sired, but there is not enough of an emotional tether to plant a drive within him to play the role. He is away now, dissipated with the seasons since there’s not since been a use for him. There is no plague to reverse, no souls to heal from the crawling shadows. With a feeble goodbye, Tiphon skirted away for now. It will not be permanent – it never is.
But it leaves a child at their doorstep, bleating as the snow descends upon her. Curious, and reliant on the strength of family, Castile mirrors the drifting flight of the snowfall from his mountainous peak toward the child bleating into the cold. Concern furrows his brow when his hooves settle onto the rocky earth, slipping once from the slick precipitation.
He had seen her as she was, before this, before her body shrunk to a foal. Her coat, her eyes, her every fiber, inclines him to accept what she is and to press his lips reassuringly to her poll. ”Hello,” he murmurs as his warm voice clouds around them just as another wintry gust nips their skin. The girl trembles in her solitude and although he cannot pull her to her feet, he tries to encourage her, to join him. ”I will warm you, but you need to get up,” his head turns and his eyes preen their surroundings, searching for someone that could be her mother, but he’s met by a white curtain and abandonment.
A plume of black smoke coils from his nostrils as he drops his head to touch her. ”Come, you are with family now,” one by one, he hoards them within his grasp. A fleeting glance is spared toward the rocky ledge above but it falls back to the porcelain girl – a beautiful light in the blizzard. ”Were you named?” He almost includes her abandonment, almost lets his tongue slip to remind her she is alone, but a quick notion suppresses the words before they ever reach his tongue. With a sweet nudge, he quietly adds, ”I’m Castile,” a relative, but perhaps a near enough replica of a father now.
castile
@[clarissa]