"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
Winter begins and she does not forget. Does not forget the pain in his golden eyes, the way he had broken in front of her. Does not forget the way Castile had shunned her when she had reached for him, when she had tried to open him up to assess the depth of his feelings. If they had even been real to begin with… She doesn’t know anymore.
Perhaps she had thrown away her life with the Dragon-King for nothing. But she knows it had to be done. Even if what she had felt was only one-sided… It wouldn’t have been fair to Amet. He deserved her whole heart, not half of one. She doesn't seek either of them out, instead keeping to the warm island and close to the red mare and her wisdom. She notes that neither of them come find her either. The silver strands of her eyes remain still and every night she turns her head from the stars, feeling their silence and betrayal worse then even the constant ache of heartbreak in her chest. She misses Amet. His laugh, his kindness, the love they had made. And then there's the endless guilt for she also misses the way Castile had looked at her. The way he had said her name, the way he had wanted her to be his. How quickly that had changed though when she had mentioned Amet's name. King Arthur still ruled his golden lake, Lancelot still went around the world making hearts melt for him.... And Guinevere? Alone in the nunnery.
Instead of wasting away, her stomach slowly begins to swell. It is only with the constant nagging mothering of Jah that she bothers to take care of herself at all. She should care more but she can’t find it in her. Not when her world has completely shattered around her. Curling herself within the ferns, her metallic gaze forlornly watching the come and go of the tide and the sandpipers running amuck in the surf. It’s so peaceful here, it’s safe. Quiet. It’s paradise but it feels like hell. A purgatory with no light at the end of the tunnel, no way out.
all of time and space, everywhere and anywhere, every star that ever was
Ascending had been easy, but the flight was treacherous.
Castile’s wings carry him effortlessly, but his mind storms relentlessly. He should be contemplating this venture, of finding the leader, and informing her of Loess’ change in leadership, and yet, his mind reels and flashes with images of Ciri and of Amet. It causes a lurch in his stomach – or is it his heart that is still screaming? It would be easiest to forget, to move along, and to find joy elsewhere, but somehow Ciri has sunken her claws into him. It had been in those primary moments at Hyaline’s pond when their eyes locked. Perhaps Castile was too hopeful and optimistic. It could have been something, would have been something, if she did not eventually admit to belonging to Amet.
That evening in the river, Castile thought, ended it all.
He hasn’t seen her since; it was his attempt to heal, but it only granted his mind more time to contemplate the multitude of what if’s. It clouds his other thoughts, burrows into every crevice of his brain, and poisons him. She is often what he thinks about, but he also bristles when the wind whispers her name into his ears. He wants to be angry, to move on with life, and yet it’s the greatest struggle of his life thus far.
The shoreline of Ischia grabs hold of his hooves when he glides down, concluding his long flight across the bay. Winter’s bitter temperatures have spared him from a great sweat, but his coat slightly glistens along his neck from the exertion. He doesn’t notice until a coastal wind hits him broadside, but even then, his eyes have found something far more enrapturing. His ears tilt forward and his eyes blink once, twice, to focus and refocus. He thought for a fleeting moment that his mind was betraying him and playing tricks, but when he breathes in that familiar scent he realizes that all of this is real, that she is real.
With his wings tucked to his sides, Castile forces himself to look away and to pretend he has not yet seen her and that he awaits to be greeted like on any other diplomatic excursion.
It’s the sound of large wings that first makes her muscles clench beneath her sooty skin. Remembering the dragon who had found her, had pulled her to warm scales with leathery wings wrapping protectively around her. Plenty of horses have wings, it’s probably just Canaan. However, something is sensed that makes her heart start to pound rapidly in her chest before leaping into her throat. Slowly, she turns her head towards the sound of sand spraying. And it’s him.
His coat is glistening in the watery winter sun. He’s glancing around him but it almost seems as if he is purposely not looking towards her. As quickly as her heart has risen, it drops. Had she become that much of a monster? She wasn’t foolish enough to think that Amet and Castile had not seen each other. They were friends, had been perhaps, before all this. She had only tried to be honest. With them and herself. She can’t help the familiar sting of angry tears that line her eyes. Why was she being made into this monster that she wasn’t? A confused heart didn’t make her the devil did it?
There is a mix of anger and sadness broiling in her swelling belly. To be slighted so badly, to just be casted aside as if she was nothing. As if her feelings were nothing. For a moment she thinks to just ignore him as well, if that's what he wants. Her frustration wins out in the end. Slowly, the heavily scarred mare lurches to her feet heavily. Shaking the sand from the long tousled tresses of her mane, her stilled silver eyes find him. Trembling slightly but hoping her exterior seems calm and somewhat indifferent. ”Castile.” She calls softly from her raw throat, unable to keep the small flicker of hope that flits about her bruised heart while unable to force away the memory of their last encounter and his rejection.
all of time and space, everywhere and anywhere, every star that ever was
He didn’t expect to see her here. This was to be a mind-numbing excursion to inform Ischia of Ivar’s ascension to Loess’ throne; it wasn’t meant to be a personal visit to rip off and re-patch the Band-Aids on his feeble heart.
When he breathes in the salty air, Castile desperately focuses on the ocean and the scent of the exotic birds and trees, but Ciri’s is far more potent than them all – far more alluring. His eyes clamp shut as he faces the tide, wishing away the discomfort tingling down his spine. He could just as easily leave, but that would be too obvious, too heart-wrenching. The tendril of hope that he latches tightly to is that she didn’t notice his eyes rake across her or the frown that creased his lips when he stumbled over how to even broach the situation. Rather than face her, cowardice sunk its teeth into him – so, he turned away.
But she finds him just as easily as he had her. The musk of his scent slides across the delicate lining of her nostrils, and her eyes lace upon him like a wolf finding a lost lamb.
When she says hello, a sharp intake of air slashes down the length of his throat. Before he can turn around, her name slips from his tongue like velvet. ”Ciri,” it tastes so sweetly, tempting him to face her. The sand hisses underfoot as he pivots, the ocean now at his back. Nothing could have ever prepared him to see her pregnant, her stomach swollen with child. Castile’s mismatched gaze settles first on her stormy eyes, but then slides to her body as it screams of her pregnancy. He smiles – it’s forced, but passable – and inclines his head just slightly. ”Congratulations,” it would be Amet’s, he knows, and so he glances left, right, then back to her. ”Shouldn’t you be in Hyaline?” But then something more pressing and worrisome bangs at the forefront of his mind. ”He can’t see us together, Ciri. No one can.” A few steps drag along the shore, willing himself to distance himself from her even as ever fiber of his being wants to still cradle her against his side.
Then, as though to reaffirm it to himself, he adds, ”You’re his.”
