when a tornado meets a volcano

[Castile]

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

He said he would find her.
 
That, he can at least hold himself to.
 
Uncertainty rises in his throat, a lump that nearly chokes him but doesn’t stop him. The engine controlling his legs doesn’t stop; he is a locomotive weaving among the pines with an unyielding determination settled across his face. There’s nothing scripted, no true plan to his actions as he pursues the familiar scent of her.
 
A left here, a right farther north.
 
She has been here, but certainly not alone. There is another scent that clings to her, but Castile focuses heavily on just her because that is all that matters now. Even as his blood rises to a boil when he distinguishes the male’s scent, he tries to shed away the badgering thoughts and scenarios that dig into his sides like thorns.
 
This was his fault, after all. All of it. Everything.
 
When he finds her, it is with his body reverted back to a horse. Last she saw him, he was gripped by his other self, spitting venomous words and threats that thickened the anger between them. He remembers, but wants so bad to forget. Drawing in a breath, he looks to her feet first, contemplating the undeniable urge to see her again. He warned her this would happen, that he would find her; but now that he is here, Castile hesitates. The rhythm of his heart quickens to a feverish tango, but he wills himself to meet her eyes and remembers how many nights he searched them before falling asleep. With a heavy breath, he finally speaks, but is able to only mutter her name, tasting it for the first time in a year. ”Sochi.”

castile

@[sochi]