"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
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.”
She is mid-hunt when she smells him coming, that thick, masculine scent of him weaving through the air. She pauses, losing track of the prey that she had but moments before been tracking and lifts her heavy head in the air, sniffing lightly. Risk and Spirit are away, for now. Being a mother has never stopped her from needing her alone time, after all, but she still contemplates running before Castile can find her. Slipping into the shadows and disappearing into the darkness—letting the rest fall away from her.
But she is no coward.
So instead he straightens and then shifts, shaking out the tangled mats of her hair onto either side of her curved neck, silvery eyes peering into the distance as she waits for him to find her.
When he does, she remains still, mercurial gaze not giving away whatever may live within her. The fury and the hurt, the frustration and confusion—all the things that she has let fester like a wound inside of her since her suspicions had been confirmed that day before the blue mare. It roars up the back of her throat but she swallows and instead forces herself to meet his gaze, studying them coolly for a second.
“Castile.”
His name feels like a stone in her chest and she feels that familiar need to run—to turn her back to the things that were so difficult to navigate and instead face the known instead. To lose herself to the fight or to the beautiful tragedy of a fight with a stranger. Instead she remains rooted, casting a glance over the familiar equine form of him before finding his gaze once more and rolling a dark shoulder.
“It seems that you have managed to find your way back to yourself.”
A slight pause, a shadow of a cruel smile before her lips flatten once more.
“How is your new family doing these days?”
she said a war ain't a war before both sides bleed
I was less than graceful, I was not kind
be out watching other lovers lose their spine
04-06-2020, 05:54 PM (This post was last modified: 04-09-2020, 07:37 AM by 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
His heartbeat pounds in his ears. There’s nothing easy about this, nothing simple. Uncertainty dries his throat the second their eyes meet. Part of him didn’t expect her to stay, but a shadow of a grin twitches the corners of his mouth in obvious relief to see her here, standing in front of him with her unruly mane. It takes everything in him to not pull her close or to press a tender kiss to the curve of her jaw.
A flinch of his shoulder is the only indication of his inward battle. It could be, perhaps, mistaken for a fly removal.
But she knows him too well to think that.
Despite everything, butterflies rise in the pit of his stomach instead of fire, but they fall when she asks about his new family. Impassively, he answers, ”Oceane is fine, as is Alcinder,” he doesn’t reiterate her term of a family. Although the diplomat has creeped higher into his regards, there is still a great hesitance. His heart isn’t in it, and isn’t that what’s supposed to guide that decision?
”And you? How are you and our children?” He almost says family now – because that’s what they were – but the conversation rides along a precarious edge that he fears tumbling from with such sensitive reminders and sentiments. Alas, there is nowhere else for their conversation to go except into what happened. They’ve run from it for a year now, if not longer, but it has caught up especially with his manic side suppressed, finally. Her comment went unanswered at first, but not at all ignored. It is the fulcrum at the base of his thoughts as they teeter back and forth. How does he trespass into this unchartered territory? How does he, for the first time, humble himself and admit all that he has done wrong?
They both know he isn’t eloquent; he is brash, blunt, impulsive. Volatile.
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he dives in by forcing his fears – since when has he been afraid? – aside. ”You told me to never to this, but listen,” perhaps not the best start by ordering a command, but his voice is far too gentle to indicate aggression or anger, or even dominance. ”I’m sorry for everything, but for mostly being an idiot when you’ve only been perfect.” Or should he say had? He told her then that he didn’t want to give up, and she claimed she wasn’t either, but he doesn’t know what has changed.
It would be expected, maybe even easier, for him to ask about her own new family, but he eludes his norm and skirts his usual, self-sabotaging trap. He pushes the man’s scent to the back of his mind; it isn’t constructive right now.
There’s so much more he wants to say, truths that exist deep within him, but he pauses in his attempt to quietly read her first while mustering the strength to continue.
It feels staged—like a play where she is meant to fall in line and carry out the movements that no longer belong to her. It feels hollow and wooden and the emotions that rage in her chest nearly tumble to the ground in an empty clatter. Instead, she holds them close, tucks them into her further, and keeps her gaze steady on him. She would not be weak in this moment, she thinks. She would not crumble before him simply because it was difficult to face your demons. Because it was difficult to walk back into the fire.
She is pleased that she can maintain eye contact.
That the sound of the woman’s name on his tongue, of their son’s name, does not send her spinning.
“How lovely,” she croons in her familiar rasp, swallowing anything that would cause it to shake. When he asks of their children, she rolls a shoulder—intentionally ignoring the first part of the question regarding herself. “They are adults,” she says cooly. “They are wild and smart and living their own lives.” She knows Reia is as self-sufficient and cruel as she had been as a child, Nikolaus as distant and introverted, and Villanelle as much her own person as the first two. They are perfect, to her, but not hers to own.
When he rushes headfirst into what he had clearly come here to say, she stiffens slightly, taking a step back out of instinct more than an actual reaction. Her foot grinds down though and she doesn’t turn on it. She grounds herself and forces herself to listen to his apology—to the words so difficult for him to say.
“I would hardly call myself perfect,” she says, nearly dismissive. She has no desire to be idolized or for her edges to be softened. She knows there are those who would have handled the situation in a better way than her, and she feels no regret for the mistakes that she made. “But you’re right that you were an idiot.” This is sharper, her silver eyes leveling with him, studying the man who had once been her home.
She feels that rush of familiarity in her chest—the burst of warmth.
She bites down until she nearly tastes blood and ignores it.
“Things can’t go back to what they were,” her voice is quieter, almost soft. “You know that, right?”
she said a war ain't a war before both sides bleed
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
Like the fierce tigress she is, Sochi fights it. She stands her ground and refuses to crumble in front of him, unyieldingly holding his eyes like she was never hurt to begin with. It shows more in her elusion as well and how she only answers for their children rather than herself. A lopsided, boyish grin still traces the edges of his lips despite how the conversation teeters back and forth. ”I have no doubt about that,” a half chuckle follows as he gaze casts down to the leaves at their feet, ”I’m surprised Reia hasn’t killed anyone yet or burned down Taiga.” Last he knew, she was there with Pteron, but since he abdicated the throne, she has disappeared amongst the trees. Perhaps their relationship was just as short-lived as her parents. Castile’s eyes blink painfully hard at the prospect but then he looks back up to Sochi with a raised brow.
”I didn’t say you were a fairytale,” because she has her barbed edges and ferocious bite, ”but you were nonetheless perfect in my eyes – teeth, attitude, and all.” His muscular shoulders roll in a haphazard shrug, almost in response to her own dismissiveness. It would be easier for both of them to turn away now and to forget everything, to move on and never see each other again, but for the first time, Castile isn’t keen on the idea. There’s still so much reeling in his thoughts, even if his sense of hope is minimal. Although she once said she wasn’t giving up so quickly, it seems as though she already has; she isn’t a forgiving woman and he cannot, truthfully, blame her. In his right mind, he understands his faults and mistake. Last they met, he was gaslighting and thrusting blame in every direction, his volatile anger in hot pursuit.
The faeries, finally, humbled the brute.
A low hum reverberates through him in initial response. ”Thanks for the confirmation,” his head bobs, deserving the reiteration, his name smeared with mud nowadays.
But it’s her next statement that grabs him, rattling everything through his body straight to his core. Of course, he doesn’t show her this. Like her, he remains unyielding and stubborn with only small bouts of humor poking through. He expected this; it isn’t at all a surprise. Yet, it’s the finality of her confession that stirs something in him, like she would never want him back, like what they had meant nothing and was never worth fighting for.
”I know that,” he says, his voice quieting to hers, matching her perfectly, ”because I thought I could own you and I took advantage of that – of you.” He sighs then, in realization and regret rather than pity. ”But yes, I know,” a frown finally shadows his handsome face. There’s a long moment of silence as Castile listens to the rustling of leaves and the whispers of a gentle breeze. There’s an inner struggle of what to say, of how to say it. Ineloquent, Castile just talks, his voice still considerably gentle. ”But, much to your disappointment, I can’t just… stop. I love you, Sochi,” he cannot help to shrug again, not expecting to hear it returned. He has accepted it. ”But I have no intention or will to control your actions anymore. Do as you have been, continue with your nature, with whatever and whomever… I just miss having you near, at the very least, even if it’s just once in a while. I miss just talking. We’ve been through too much to just… stop.” Castile takes a single step back, his expression drawn and resigned to his inner confessions. ”I’m sorry, Sochi, but I just can’t let everything go as quickly as you want,” as you can, he doesn’t say, reluctant to turn any of this onto her.
castile
@[sochi]
that unexpectedly turned into a novel as i watch austin play RDR2
He doesn’t make it easy on her. Doesn’t give her the out—doesn’t let her take what is admittedly the coward’s way out. Part of her is glad to know that this part of him is the same. Glad to know that whatever has transpired between them, this has remained the same. That he is just as stubborn as her and that he has not yet completely changed to where she could not recognize the reflection of him.
The other part grows frustrated that he blocks the exit, even if not unkindly.
She stays quiet for several moments, her thoughts reeling and her pulse jackhammering in her throat. She considers running because she always does. Because it would be so easy to slip into her feline form and then disappear into the shadows. Part of her knows that he would let her this time—that he wouldn’t chase her and wouldn’t fight her. That he would accept it as the final stamp in their story.
So she is surprised when she stays.
Her expression doesn’t give, she doesn’t bend at all, but she doesn’t sever the tie with him completely. She just absorbs what he tells her and lets it sink into the very marrow of her. She wonders just how much he means it. How much he understands everything fractured between them. How well does she?
“Who said I let go of anything?” she finally responds, her voice a familiar rasp—even more husky for the things unsaid in it. She shakes her head, obscuring her silvery eyes with the roping tangles of her forelock. “I didn’t say you needed to stop it,” her voice is a little quieter here, although not entirely sweet.
“I just said that it can’t go back to what it was.”
She has ambitions and a plan—and they don’t involve him. She has children too, she thinks, and they aren’t with him, but she doesn’t quite venture there yet. Even she doesn’t know what to make of that.
she said a war ain't a war before both sides bleed
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
Truthfully, Castile is surprised Sochi still stands before him.
There are opportunities to run, pauses and hesitations in their conversation that grants the seconds she needs to recede into the shadows. That would be her painful goodbye, her knife to sever what remains between them. It flashes across his eyes, the image of her backside as she abandons him, and he is startled by the emotion that chokes him in the false reality. He would force himself to stay behind and to accept her decision no matter how many pieces his heart shattered into. If that’s what she wants – truly wants – then there’s nothing he can do to stop her.
A sharp breath cuts the silence when Castile blinks and lifts his eyes to hers, reminding himself that she is here, still listening to him. The shadows have not yet reclaimed her, but it’s only a matter of time.
It’s like standing on a precarious edge when she speaks, his skin prickling like needles even when her voice softens. Corded muscles tighten when he clenches his jaws expectantly. ”I imagined it would be easier for you if I let go of everything, if I gave up and never found you again,” but that isn’t the promise he made on that fateful day in Loess. Even as dark cruelties eclipsed his better judgment, Castile still recognized how dear she was – is – to him, how unwilling he is to lose her forever. This is a battle that he has never before faced and he is far too stubborn to lose this early. There’s a kindling in Sochi’s eyes, a mirroring stubbornness, that keeps her rooted in place. There’s a reason she is still standing here, talking to him, applying the lightest balm to his gaping wounds. There is still a piece of her that cares, but he wonders if it’s enough to ever accept him back.
I just said that it can’t go back to what it was.
The reiteration cuts him, but Castile merely nods, accepting it. Somehow, his breathing remains steadily controlled, his body like a statue except for the occasional flutter of his locks when a breeze passes through. Her voice echoes inside him, the words being scrutinized and mulled over. Eventually, when it almost seems as though he will not say anything at all, Castile shifts his gaze from a nearby oak tree back to her face. ”I’m listening,” it was a weakness that he is strengthening, a change that he verbalizes as their eyes hold each other. ”Tell me what it is you want, what expectations you have,” he pauses to lick his chapped lips and to keep everything within him composed and checked, ”Tell me what you want… from me…” She didn’t tell him to let go or to stop loving her. She didn’t tell him to leave (yet) but she also didn’t say she still loves him.
Still standing – wobbling – on the cliff’s edge, Castile waits with bated breath whether he will fall or step safely away, whether his life will plunge into an abysmal hole forever.
The conversation is tangled, thorny, and she knows that she won’t get out of it completely without at least some cuts and bruises. She knows that she won’t get out of it completely without tearing at the softest parts of her—that she won’t be able to shield herself forever. It’s a truth that is branded on the innermost pieces of her. This knowledge that there are some things that she will never get back. There are some things that she will never be able to completely regain. Some wounds that will never heal.
But she doesn’t run away—not yet, not now.
Instead she just stands there, letting the silence speak for her. Letting that tension rise up between them and stretch. When did they get here? When did they lose one another so completely?
She doesn’t know the answer. Has no way of finding it out.
Instead she just inclines her head when she says that he is listening and then shakes it. “I don’t know what I want,” there’s something raw in her voice, something stripped down from the smoke and the husk. “I just know that I need to find it.” She needs to find it in the pack that she is slowly building around herself. She needs to find it in the roaming and the wilderness and the relationships blossoming around her.
She needs to find it in Spirit and Risk and the new child that grows within her now.
“I need the freedom and space to do that,” she says and this, too, is gentle. “I need to be given the chance to…” her voice trails off and her silvery eyes move to the horizon, to what lies beyond. They rest there for a second before they come back to him. “I don’t know what that means or what it looks like. I don’t expect you do either, but if you can accept that I can’t be tied down any longer, we may have something left.” Another pause as she brings her gaze back to his dual colored ones. “Eventually, at least.”
He broke the permanency of their relationship before. Shattered what she had once thought to be forever. She knows that she can’t go back to that. Can’t be the woman who patrols his borders. Who supports his claim to kingdoms she doesn’t care about. She can’t watch from the shadows and can’t pledge herself to him when he has made it clear his pledge matters little. She isn’t willing to lose what she has begun with Risk—to sever the tie that has let her survive this—but she knows that she isn’t completely done with Castile either. In what capacity and to what extent, she isn’t sure.
she said a war ain't a war before both sides bleed
![[Image: sochi.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/rs3xFJR0/sochi.png)