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
I was a powerful Queen.
Castile’s skin prickles to life, invigorated by that single confession. Immediately, he pictures it – her regal head boasting a crown underneath a hot desert sun. He can see it so well now, and it answers the quiet question of her nature. She didn’t – doesn’t – bend to his demands; like the largest redwood, Craft stands unyieldingly before him, tall and defiant against the raging storm. ”That it does,” Castile agrees, subdued in his thoughtfulness. If nothing else, her murder alone affirms her statement. That’s more than Castile can fathom; he has always experienced opposition, but never murder attempts.
Countless more questions arise like bile in his throat, but Castile refrains when he sees the strain deepening her frown. A part of him wants to revel in cracking her wall, no matter how miniscule the victory, but there is another piece of him that falters in her uncertainty. A lump forms in his throat now, a quiet hesitation as he searches the lines of her face. Truly, she doesn’t know. What old world she once ruled has since crumbled into ruins.
Eloquence escapes him – it always has.
Castile swallows.
”There is not a desert here,” he pauses to consider it as though he hasn’t explored the far corners of Beqanna, ”at least, not anymore.” The barbs of his voice have dissipated, softening for feeble empathy as he tries imagining himself in her situation – a lost child in a world once known. This is the only Beqanna he has known. How different did it used to be? How old are these rolling hills and gnarled oak trees? A swift glance of their surroundings tries to give him an introspect, but her voice beckons him more strongly than the ideations of a world long ago.
There’s no warmth in the way she says his name, in the way it falls past her dried tongue, when she pulls him from the heaviness of his thoughts. She wants answers – like him – but he doesn’t deprive them of her, doesn’t hold the tantalizing treat outside of her reach. Perhaps its because he feels a connection to her tale that he so willingly replies, like he has the same mind and blood of the man that killed her. ”Orange,” he murmurs, casting his gaze to the ground for a moment before lifting it to once again meet hers, ”… like mine.”
Castile’s skin prickles to life, invigorated by that single confession. Immediately, he pictures it – her regal head boasting a crown underneath a hot desert sun. He can see it so well now, and it answers the quiet question of her nature. She didn’t – doesn’t – bend to his demands; like the largest redwood, Craft stands unyieldingly before him, tall and defiant against the raging storm. ”That it does,” Castile agrees, subdued in his thoughtfulness. If nothing else, her murder alone affirms her statement. That’s more than Castile can fathom; he has always experienced opposition, but never murder attempts.
Countless more questions arise like bile in his throat, but Castile refrains when he sees the strain deepening her frown. A part of him wants to revel in cracking her wall, no matter how miniscule the victory, but there is another piece of him that falters in her uncertainty. A lump forms in his throat now, a quiet hesitation as he searches the lines of her face. Truly, she doesn’t know. What old world she once ruled has since crumbled into ruins.
Eloquence escapes him – it always has.
Castile swallows.
”There is not a desert here,” he pauses to consider it as though he hasn’t explored the far corners of Beqanna, ”at least, not anymore.” The barbs of his voice have dissipated, softening for feeble empathy as he tries imagining himself in her situation – a lost child in a world once known. This is the only Beqanna he has known. How different did it used to be? How old are these rolling hills and gnarled oak trees? A swift glance of their surroundings tries to give him an introspect, but her voice beckons him more strongly than the ideations of a world long ago.
There’s no warmth in the way she says his name, in the way it falls past her dried tongue, when she pulls him from the heaviness of his thoughts. She wants answers – like him – but he doesn’t deprive them of her, doesn’t hold the tantalizing treat outside of her reach. Perhaps its because he feels a connection to her tale that he so willingly replies, like he has the same mind and blood of the man that killed her. ”Orange,” he murmurs, casting his gaze to the ground for a moment before lifting it to once again meet hers, ”… like mine.”
castile
@[craft]