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
He has her attention now. Even as Sochi tries to walk away from him, his words are hooks. Slowly, she turns, and there is a nonchalance neutralizing her face. It unravels him more, and he cannot help to wish he could dive into her mind and thumb through her thoughts. Is she so far gone that anger drowns in her wake? Is this truly it – the end - , and she is a hollowed shell? The rhythm of his heart stutters – dare he say, fearfully? – as she threatens to take her leave, building the wall back around her heart and closing him out in the process. It all rattles him to his core, but he sits there, staring at her, defiantly. ”Part of me doubts that,” he growls, his voice trembling the ground beneath him as he tries everything to keep her here, even if it is by arguing still.
This will break her and destroy us… our family...
(Good)
Castile’s empathy gasps for air in its struggle to surface. ”We both—“ tried, he almost says. They looked for their boy, oblivious to where he could have been. ”I—“ there’s a softness in him that breaks the chains, but then it’s roped back down in a heated struggle between what is him – truly him – and what is monster. ”Perhaps your hunting skills aren’t as great as you think,” he seethes with a blazing stare that pierces into her while she observes the wings coiled against his sides. It obvious what she means, but Castile refuses to accept the responsibility as he is now.
He had accepted it initially, when it all happened. They searched, and they mourned together over their futile efforts. They were adamant, even after their failures. Castile is aware of that, the memories stabbing painfully through him. Alas, invulnerable threads of thought weave a blanket over what he knows. What his counterpart – what the creature – wants to think is what rises to the forefront, suppressing Castile’s better judgment and sympathy.
In front of her, the dragon falters with clashing effort, but it is the primal rage that spurs him forward and lands him in Sochi’s exiting path. ”That is where you are wrong,” he argues feverishly as the entire length of his body circles around her, the smallest of gaps left open between the edges of his tail and muzzle. ”It remains my business,” because you’re still mine, he doesn’t add with every ounce of his energy, tensing his jaw with the effort. ”Neither of us are letting go,” despite how tender that should be, how loving, the words are instead strained and aggressive, tainted by the tumultuous crash of emotions wracking his entire core. ”We are not done!” The magnitude of his voice claps the air like thunder, his eyes flash like lightning. An unyielding obstacle to her exit, Castile holds steadfast, smoke coiling from his nostrils, daring her.
”No,” he flatly demands, snarling and refusing to let her slip through his fingers.
castile
@[sochi]