"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
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
Bones snap in his jaws as Castile clamps down on the remaining half of deer. Rivulets of blood meander down the length of his muzzle, plunging to the ground underneath. A deep breath, a sigh, and then a swallow until the carcass glides down the length of his gullet.
It’s enough to satisfy him for now, for perhaps a few hours until he craves more. It’s already the second hunt of the morning, the first having been equine. The only reason he decided on a deer this time is that somehow, amid the internal fray, Castile’s true self was able to surface for a fleeting moment to press the sense of remorse. It was enough to deter a second horse as the next meal, but the clear sense of judgment is once again slipping.
Day after day, his life spirals deeper into that of a predator. This is what he considered himself, he told the faerie. Being a dragon defines him, and so she granted him a taste of his claims. Little did he realize that the predatory nature – when in full control – has little regret or empathy. Hunt, breed, survive. Those are the simplistic measures and necessities of life. It was his true self, that as a prey animal, that granted him understanding of the world and his heart. Now, that great part of him fades.
The balance is gone as the hissing draconic voice becomes primary; heading his actions like a general in battle. It – his predatory self – thrives on mayhem and barbaric urges that have, naturally, ripped apart pieces of lands. Icicle Isle seethes and crumbles underneath the ashes. Loess gropes desperately for command until Oceane returns (although Lepis is being true to herself by unseating the proclaimed successor of the Dragon King). Realizing his inability to command as he struggles with himself, Castile finds a moment of solace here, far from political reach.
There’s no shade for his immense size, no hiding. The winter sun settles across his body, colored bronze with a porcelain underbelly as he placidly digests his meals and observes the ongoings surrounding him. No roar, no growl, no aggression. Basking in the mild winter day, Castile, for once, merely exists without acting. His tail coils around his feet as he lies down, embracing a rare moment of relaxation as he swallows another coppery tang of blood scraped from his lips.
Every time it swings with my motion, droplets of thick, dark blood ooze from around it, a wound that refuses to heal. I can see over the last few days, even as the new lacerations begin to lace themselves back together with sparks and lightning glow, the bolt in my breast will not be ignored. Nor will the voices that accompany it.
Thin as bones and winter's hunger, I walk without direction, without guide or care. What does it matter where I go? There is a trail of blood that follows my every step, if someone wanted to find me, they could.
(Vagabond. Unwanted)
The whispers don't give up, even in sleep. They take on the faces of those who haunt me then, vicious lies and more vicious truths pouring from their lips like snake venom. It's not so bad, though. At the very least, it is nothing new.
(Mad woman)
The meadow where I saw the sun rise for the first time in far too long kept me safe for short days, until the chill drove me on. And the stares. Did they know me, those empty eyes and empty minds that seemed to laugh behind their concerned glances. Had they heard of me, or have I at last faded beyond recent memory. Forgetting. Isn't that what people do best?
(Not worthy of remembrance. None cried at your grave)
When the waters halt me, I blink. Had I really walked so far? But he current is a familiar one, and the shadows that cling to its banks are as well. I drink, and it is an unexpectedly frightening thing. It takes a moment for the memory to settle in my mind. Of bleeding out into this very river, because my mind was so far gone. A careless request that was all too eagerly granted. My lips curled in disgust. Leilan. He would regret taking my life one day.
(You asked for it)
I snarl, because I know it's true.
And then I stop, frozen in my directionless tracks by an onslaught of scents. Blood. Gore. Charred flesh. Sulphur.
"Castile."The name is harsh on my tongue, bitter after all these years. His form is murky, hulking on the opposite bank of the river, but I know that scent. It's engraved on my mind as much as the lightning is on my skin.
I wanna be Immortal, like a God in the sky
I wanna be a silk flower, like I'm never gonna die
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 has never forgotten Sabra, or the life they had together. Another ruined heart because of him, another life that he destroyed. They were fire and gasoline, their relationship having begun on the Plains. They shed each other’s blood, and Castile understood regret in the days after. That was long before this happened, before the draconic nature consumed him.
Somehow, her scent lingered on the skin of his peers. A dream, he assumed, because how else would she still be here without his notice? It’s just his imagination playing with him, toying with his tattered heart.
Yet, he draws it in now. It latches onto the lining of his nostrils, clawing at him until he brings himself to look in her direction. Castile’s head cranes slowly to the left where the river gurgles past, and that’s when he sees her on the opposite bank, staring back at him. They lock on one another with a plethora of emotions knotting their stomachs. If not for her scent, Castile would no longer recognize her; he would just as easily slip his gaze across her in his aimless search of solace. Alas, that isn’t the case. Something within him stirs as her scent attaches itself with her fierce expression, bringing cobwebbed memories to the forefront of his mind. The images of their lives together are fragmented, incomplete. His other half tries forcing them back down, but they are as persistent as Sabra herself. They have sons together, and he recalls an evening underneath Sylva’s trees. There is also a flashback of her limp body on a rocky outcropping off Nerine’s shore.
But he doesn’t run to her as faint recognition returns.
With narrowed eyes – he cannot help to wonder if this is, in fact, still a dream – he watches her from afar before inclining his broad head. A silent invite toward him despite the exposed, jagged teeth just outside the reach of his lips.
Whether she acquiesces or not, a hum rolls through him. ”A long time,” he merely states while kneading the soil underneath his claws, his voice hazy with distant memories that have nearly been lost. Yet, he can’t quite identify what ripples through him – anger, confusion, aching, loneliness – as their eyes connect and hold. After a moment’s hesitation, he asks, ”How are you?” although a part of him fears for her answer.
I do not know if I would have gone to him, even if I could. The fact that I fear the pain of the current dragging at the javelin, that I do not trust my wings to hold me even for such a short glide is irrelevant. If he wants to see me closer, he shall have to make the move himself. The imperious tilt of his crowned head has never been enough to move me.
(Foolish pride)
It does not stop the bass rumbling of his voice from carrying across the tumbling waters. The words are low, unagressive, but the implication is still there. A long time. Yes, it has been. A long time since his wrath had driven me out, had left me homeless when the world seemed like it was coming to an end. A lifetime of regret slices through me. Across the distance, the gleam of his reptilian gaze holds me in place, as unyielding as it has ever been.
(He judges you, always)
I flinch away from the whispered condemnation, spear shaft swinging as the words cutting away at my icy facade. "It has," I answer without accusation, and let the phrase drift across the water between us. He is what he has always been. I cannot hate a hawk for diving after mice. After all this time, I find that I cannot hate a dragon for wanting more.
I can still scoff though, when he asks stupid questions.
"How do I look like I am, Cas?" A touch of my old acid tongue showing itself. Alive, is likely the best that could be said. But let him make his own decisions on that matter. The bony plains of my face catch the light as I tilt my head, glittering sharply. "And you? How are you, King?" I ask, thinking of the last time I'd seen the dragon. In a bid for leadership of an island, one that hadn't gone as planned, if I remember right.
(Where he set you aside)
He wouldn't have stayed down for long, though. Not the stallion I knew. There was always another plan, another plot for him. Always, he would get what he wanted, one way or another. Adding to the complex emotions already swirling, I found myself smiling vaguely.
I wanna be Immortal, like a God in the sky
I wanna be a silk flower, like I'm never gonna die
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
There are voices haunting her just as one has always haunted him. They sound of vague murmurs, soft whispers lost on the wind between them. Incomprehensible, faint. Castile does not try to understand them because his attention is more focused on her, on the physicality of her body rather than the turmoil haunting her mind. Life’s experiences have deepened the lines of her face, but she is still youthful, just like him. Untouched by time, they forever retain the appearance of their prime and youth. One day, they will watch their children and grandchildren die. They will have numerous loves only to lose them to death (or to betrayal, whichever comes first).
But he can see beyond the immortality preserving her face. He sees how the world has beaten her down and how she always fights back.
Idly, Castile licks his lips and tastes the remnants of his kills. A flick of his tail like a relaxing lion exposes the claw marks that have ripped beyond the scales. The gesture, however, wasn’t to parade his latest feats or battle wounds, but a sign of amusement as she stands, unmoved, on the opposite bank. Of course, she doesn’t bend to his will or invitation. It wouldn’t be Sabra if she obeyed.
A flashback of an argument. A battle of wills and anger.
His proud head slowly shakes to dismiss the fragmented image, casting it aside before his draconic self can implant falsifications to offset his placidity. It’s what happened to Icicle Isle, after all. The hissing voice poisoned what he remembered of the island and manipulated his thoughts to believe that destruction was the only way. It wasn’t, but by the time he realized, the sky was thick with black smoke. Ash from the southern tip fell like snow.
As a means of negotiation, Castile lifts himself and lumbers forward – toward her – a few steps, stopping at near mid-point before lying back down. His bronze scales catch the sunlight magnificently; he looks regal without ever trying. An observant hum vibrates through his core as he moves his head to scrutinize Sabra’s every angle before leveling almost to her height. ”You’ve survived this long,” he nearly mirrors her thoughts, but he cannot see them, cannot hear how she tells herself that she is simply alive.
(We can change that)
It’s easier for Castile to rise from the abysmal pool of his predatory thoughts, at least in these moments when his hunger has ebbed and there is no rage to act on. It shows in the subtle gleam of his mismatched eyes when they tunnel on Sabra, nearly forgetting about those surrounding them. The world, for just a moment, disappears. ”You don’t want to know,” a rolling chuckle escapes him, but it never reaches his eyes. The sound is shallow and weighted by his mistakes. ”And I resigned as Loess’ King. It was time.” Although the crown sat comfortably on his brow, he knew his reign needed to close. Change was necessary, and how can a dragon king truly lead them? For now, Castile doesn’t elaborate, keeping a vagueness to match her own as their lives weave together for the first time in years, the fates laughing at their broken souls.
03-05-2020, 08:28 PM (This post was last modified: 03-05-2020, 08:28 PM by Sabra.)
Sabra
An answering whicker ofamusement joins the thrumming sounds he makes. For a moment we stand as we always have, too stubborn for our own goods, especially when it came to each other. We are neither of us born followers.
(You would fail at that also)
The pink-tipped curves of my ears twist at the niggling voices, their softly spoken darkness heard no matter what I do. A shallow sigh makes the ache in my chest throb loudly for a few beats, before my heart resumes it's regular pounding rhythm. He is lazing on the other shore, black and white and shining in the sun. Beautiful like a finely crafted knife is, sharp edges and unmistakable purpose.
This conversation is slow thing. The words each are measured and poured with great care before I trust them to be heard. They must be, because I am unwilling to be the one who shakes this sudden truce.
(It will be you. It is always you)
I blink, amazed yet unwilling to show it when he moves. The massive coils of his draconic form unravel cat-like from where he's been resting, to resettle again much closer. A simple "huh" of air is my reaction. Lips pursed in doubt I nod, acknowledging his offering. It takes a moment of preparation, of steeling myself for the cold and the vision of crimson staining the snow melt, before I am able to move my legs into the flow of river.
Once my legs are knee deep in the ice-limned current, the ginger steps grow more urgent until I find myself gasping on the other side. The pain in my chest is wrenchingly present, all I can think about until the fear-quick beats slow again. And then I'm there. With him.
Up close now I can see that I'm not the only one bearing new scars, and fresher marks that will be scars soon. The Fallen One left his mark on me in more ways than a shaft in my heart. Castile looks battle worn too. A snort of black humor leaves a grin of irony on my lips. "Two grizzled warriors are we." I chime, knowing full well that our scar marks have yet to succeed in making us less beautiful. Wiser, I hope.
I nod once to his blunt observation. "Not for lack of trying,"my dry humor plays on. When he lays like this, we are nearly eye level, and I can see the stirring of emotions in his mercurial gaze. One silver, one vivid orange. I see our sons and our sins in his eyes.
He takes his own stab at humor, and it sounds as inauthentic as my own.
My eyes drift back to the icy river, tracking twigs and drifting chunks of snow as they pass us by. I haven't missed the blood that stains the dragon's maw, it was the scent of his kill that first caught my attention, after all. He must eat, just as we all do.
"And what if I do? Want to know. As you said, it's been a long time. All we have is time. May as well fill me in."It doesn't feel like prying. More like a long overdue discussion. The news that he had resigned seemed almost right, in a way. He had what he'd wanted, enjoyed it for a time. Now it was on to something new. The cycle would repeat itself, endlessly.
I wanna be Immortal, like a God in the sky
I wanna be a silk flower, like I'm never gonna die
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
Sphinx-like, Castile watches Sabra’s reaction to his movement. His legs are tucked underneath, his tail curling back around himself. The horns protruding from his skull are his crown, taking the place of Loess. Even in his resignation, he is proud. Arrogance brushes across his face when he turns to look across the river lands and catalogues the number of bodies surrounding them. In the time that Sabra takes to wade through the river, Castile opens his mind to their surroundings once more, but it once again tunnels as the space between them narrows.
They’re both stubborn, a trait reflected in their hesitation to bend. Their conversation thus far is calculated, facetious even, and yet it’s enough to recall more memories of what they once were – of what they will never be again. Neither want to buckle. They halt at arm’s length, refusing to open themselves to more pain. They’ve learned. Time and experience have made them wiser, but also colder. Scars web across their hearts. A coarseness edges their voices. Of course, they are guarded, but the touch of familiarity lifts the corners of their mouths in feeble grins. Is their laughter genuine? Perhaps not, but it’s more than Castile has shown as of late.
He notices how her eyes switch to his tail, and he turns his head to follow her gaze. A hum is his only response as he remembers Ruinam pulling him down through the sky. ”Fighters until the day we day,” he remarks, knowing that they will never truly fall to such mortality. Death has attempted to imprison Sabra more than once, and yet, she stands here today. ”What was it like?” He cannot help to ask her, disregarding how it may affect her. Will it grip her with fear, remembering it? Anger? ”To die,” he clarifies with a heavy sigh. Straia had told him in Loess that in order to live, one must die, and yet… he shies from the idea, unwilling to part with his physical body to float in an empty abyss where his ambitions will fall flat and irrelevant.
He’s not ready to give up the air he breathes to watch his body decay and become lost in history.
Shaking his neck, the bronze spines glint and reflect the sunlight. Flecks of color dot the space around him, his entire body having adopted the typical shade of his mane. It grants him a moment of thought, a moment to reminisce. ”Where do I even begin?” She confirms they have time, and he cannot help to agreeably shrug his shoulders. Immortals have all the time in the world, he supposes, but still he tries to abbreviate his life in just a few words. ”I’ve not changed,” he snips the end of the statement, torn between irritation and regret. ”Ambitious, making mistakes, and not learning my lesson.” A glance to the side offers him the opportunity to stare at a distant horizon where the river empties into the sea and where the sky never ends. ”It’s tempting to have the faeries rip out my heart, quite frankly,” it has only caused him anguish, after all. Such a fickle thing his heart has been. Even as he thought himself happy, settled, and content, it had different plans and once again betrayed him. Sochi is the first woman he confessed his love for. She may very well be the last, too.
It would be simpler to live and not follow the erratic whims of his heart. As much as he craves Sochi and yearns to mend what he has broken, seeing her steely, resolved face on the Mountain confirmed that she is done. She has given up on him.
And so he shall, too.
A deep sigh passes through him as mistakes play through his mind like a reel, switching quickly from one to the next. ”Still the same idiot,” he chides as an eyebrow lifts in disappointment before finally looking away from the horizon to Sabra. ”Hopefully, you’re not as dense as me,” but he cannot rip his gaze from the javelin or the way her ears twist to regard the voices haunting her. ”What happened?”
03-06-2020, 12:13 PM (This post was last modified: 03-06-2020, 12:14 PM by Sabra.)
Sabra
The brittle-boned sails of my wings rustle against the cold that permeates inside and out as I regard the cruel lines of his face. It's not so different from his equine one. There's the touches of regal indifference that would sit the same on any skin he could choose to wear.
There's an understanding between us. The familiarity borne of shared experiences, even if many of those had pitched us against one another. Still, there had been good times, even if the good often came at a price. There had been joy in each other's pride, before we had known it would be our downfall.
My nod is curt in response to his addition, the joke of mortality a stark thing. It is only natural then, that he would wonder about such a thing that he might never find. I shrug at the question, take a long moment to consider just how to describe it. The act of death.
(Better off dead)
My lips peeled back in disdain of the voices, eyes focused on the internal battle. My voice, when it came at last, was toneless. "It was lovely. Freeing. When I had driven away any and all who might have once cared for me? It was a blessing."Now I'm back, and adrift once again. The thought of yet again having to carve out a place for myself in the world is an exhausting one, but there's little choice, is there? Existence is battle.
(You were never a worthy opponent)
I watch with muted curiosity as he shakes and the bronze tint of his ridged spines bleeds across the rest of him. Fun little party trick. My brow arches as he speaks, and it seems I'm to get the abridged version of his history circa since we last parted ways. Not even a history, it is merely an overview of the ways life has not changed him. My expression goes a bit feral at the idea of him heart being ripped out. "Surely they'd have no complaints if you offered your heart to them. But then again, what have they done to deserve such a thing as a dragon's heart?" I think very little of the fairies.
It's none of my business though. He can rip his own heart out and feed it to the wolves in front of my own eyes, and it would still not be my business.
(You wish it was)
He's as haunted as I am, even if the voices aren't so clear.
"I wouldn't be so sure." I look away, tail whipping erratically against my hocks. The weight of his gaze draws my eyes back to his, when they follow the line of his sight to where it rests on the rod of wood nestled in the muscle of my chest. It's growing more blood stained where it meets my skin, the porous material absorbing the burgundy liquid hungrily.
The memory of the deepest caves, of the eldritch nightmare, where teeth and hateful memory were forced down my throat. A shiver of nausea coursed the length of my spine. "Oh. Well. You know me,"the words were quiet when they fell from my tongue. "I just can't seem to shake my knack for getting on the wrong side of monsters."
Maybe I hadn't learned as much as I'd thought.
I wanna be Immortal, like a God in the sky
I wanna be a silk flower, like I'm never gonna die
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
Freeing, she says. Lovely.
Castile doesn’t bother to hide his skepticism as his eyes narrow on her. ”Boring, I would think,” the statement blurts from his agape jaws, unable to mask the uncertainty he clutches in the topic of death. His life, albeit brimming with mistakes, has always been enthralling. He has fought and loved, fathered children, been a son, flown among the clouds, hunted, and lived. How frightening it would be, he imagines, to have nothing and to be nothing. His triumphant roars would no longer echo across the plains, and his adrenaline would never again course through his veins. Life – or lack thereof – would be hollow, meaningless. It’s a fate for those wanting rest, but Castile rarely stops. He isn’t ready for death.
But will he ever be?
Little does he realize that Sabra has died more than once, that the Fates seem to enjoy playing with her soul with each revival. There is a look on her face, one that piques Castile’s curiosity, but he says nothing of it as he considers the options of exchanging his heart. A sigh escapes from between his jaws. ”I doubt they would see much value in my heart,” they are such powerful beings; what could they possibly want with the organ of a monster? ”But it could save me from more anguish and more mistakes,” his heart, at this point, is held together with tape and Band-Aids. He hesitates to think using it again. It would break Oceane next; yet another undeserving victim on his list. ”It only causes more pain,” Sabra should know from experience. Although he has craved love and family since his childhood, his ability for monogamy is fleeting.
He wanted Solace until she found happiness in another’s arms.
He had Sabra, but their fiery passion was explosive together (though he does remember those few tender moments).
Sochi was a beautiful thing that he regrets destroying to this day, but he betrayed her and her trust.
Oceane… No, he must protect Oceane from himself.
With so much conflict tossing in his head, he desperately tries refocusing his energy on the battered woman in front of him. His eyes trace along the ridges of the spear, noting how her blood saturates the fibers. A deep inhalation wafts the scent of it into his nostrils; his tongue twists in his mouth, nearly tasting it and remembering it from years prior. Hunger slowly builds inside him, brick by brick, but he shifts his weight and swallows as a means of distraction. ”I suppose neither of us will ever learn,” half humor, half truth, ”but I guess that’s one way of keeping life exciting.” That’s one way to put it. Throughout all the trials and tribulations, at least things are fun right? They’re exciting in between the lows. Rustling his wings, Castile fails to unlodge the one question burning him. ”Does it hurt?” His chin tips in indication of the javelin. How cruel it would be to suffer daily from emotional pain as much as physical.
03-10-2020, 04:44 PM (This post was last modified: 03-10-2020, 05:36 PM by Sabra.)
Sabra
A hollow laugh bubbles past the wound in my chest, my head shaking ruefully. He has not changed a bit, and for the moment it doesn't seem like a bad thing. I'm reminded of why I felt such a heady attraction to the dragon stallion in the first place.
"You wouldthink that," I scoffed, wings fluttering against my sides. "If nothing else, I will say that life was not boring with you. Hellaciously annoying, violent and occasionally heartbreaking. But never boring." How many long and pointless days had I spent since then? Purpose, that was the difference between the two of us. One of them, anyway. The stallion I knew had always known what he wanted, even if the path forward was not always so clear. And he had never had a problem with razing that path when the need came.
I? I have never been so confident.
(Cowardly)
Yes, even cowardly.
Maybe that's why I've had such a long interlude with death. In a way, it's felt easier than facing the damaged reality I've built around myself. In fighting for the purpose that's so long eluded me.
The sigh lingers between us, crystal and cinder, glass and obsidian. The cracks are showing. Perhaps it's because even after all this time, we still know each other, and we can trace the fracture lines along each other's armor with deft precision. A shiver of nervous energy crackles along my spine, cold that no amount of sun or fire could cure. My teeth bare in a sardonic smile, eyes flashing as they blinked up at the dragon's scaled face. "Self-pity has never been a good look on you, Cas. That's my territory," I hesitate, looking away before I finish the thought. "Trust me. If you're not careful, it'll drown you."And we can't have that.
And then it's my turn to sigh, though mine is more a gust of exasperationthan sorrow. "For crying out loud, wyrm. Get it over with, touch it, sniff it, lick it, whatever. Just do what you've got to do to stop looking at me like a piece of meat." I grumbled, shoving closer until my chest is presented for his open examination under his nose. "Yes. It hurts. With every beat of my heart. But gods know I've dealt with worse, so it really doesn't matter."My gruff tone cloaks the anxiety thrumming through me. What else is new, though? He's right, it's likely neither of us will learn. Not really, not when it counts. The curse of stubborn, proud fools was ours to bear, as much a part of us as the wings on our backs.
Without thinking about it, I've begun to pace before him. A nervous tic I picked up on the mountain cliff cave, back when my world shrank to fifteen paces long and ten paces deep. Forty paces around. Here though, it's just a gentle rocking from side to side. A reminder that I can go further, if I want to. "Do you still live in Loess?" I ask, abruptly halting. I've found him in a common land, and I do not know the circumstances surrounding his abdication. Is it sad, that I'm not certain if the next words he says will be truth or lies.
I wanna be Immortal, like a God in the sky
I wanna be a silk flower, like I'm never gonna die
