04-02-2018, 09:27 AM
The questions he asked hang limply in the air between them, idle an unanswered. Castile looks at her, never realizing the intensity his metallic eyes possess, but she turns away from him with a beckoning gesture for him to follow. A glance finds the clouds overhead tempting, but with footsteps that whisper first across the sand then dirt, he follows. It doesn’t faze him how they cut across the kingdom so that she may show him how the residents acknowledge her; he is familiar with this. Every Queen, every ruler, is respected and adored by at least some. He had been but a boy when mother was Queen and he watched how the Nerinians responded to her, spoke to her, and respected her. The difference, he notes, is that Hestia glides among them with a tenderness and adoration; mother ruled with an iron fist.
Eventually, Hestia turns to face him, but it’s only when they’ve reached the farthest point of Nerine. Quizzically, Castile’s eyes narrow. He continues to wait, admittedly festering impatience toward her silence.
But then she responds and the distance that has separated them begins to melt away. Inch by inch, step by step, Hestia edges closer with searching eyes brimming with tales. With rising intrigue, Castile listens and weighs the heaviness of her words and confessions. She blinks, then turns away, but still he continues to watch her, scrutinizing the flexion of her muscles and the dancing of her fiery wings. ”What if you had stayed and fought longer,” he begins questioningly, ”what would have changed? Times change. Monarchies change.” It’s as though the weight of Nerine is on her shoulders, that the Jungle had been her undoing as well. ”Why are you blaming yourself for everything?” He never had great responsibility; he has never tried to change the world as Hestia seems to be implying she has.
When she looks up at him, finally, their eyes lock. Castile shakes his head slowly, uncertainly. ”Why do you think you need to save the world?” He pauses as he can almost see the way she is shattering in front of him under the weight of her truths. ”Some people don’t want to be saved, Hestia.” In that moment, he realizes that he is one of them.
His curse (is that what it truly is?) is a hindrance he fears. The monster that lurks beneath the domesticated surface that Beqanna sees of Castile is his own burden. Others have wanted to save him, to encourage him to overpower it, but he turned them away. He always rejects their aid.
He doesn’t want to be saved.
During his mulling, he doesn’t notice how Hestia moves across him and presses her cheek to the thick plane of his neck. When he blinks, withdrawing him his bottomless thoughts, Castile glances down and sees her. If he was startled by the closeness, he doesn’t show it. He is a statue standing with her weight against him, unmoving except for the tousling of his locks when another salty wind passes through. The need for contact seeps into him and he almost succumbs by pressing his lips to the ridge of her shoulder. Instead, he merely breathes her in and savors how the fire of her body dances alluringly in his metallic eyes. ”Are you sure that we are all going to break, or if it’s just you?” She is fretting about Nerine, about Beqanna, about herself, but when he looks around, peeling his gaze from her, he sees nothing wrong in the world around them.
Eventually, Hestia turns to face him, but it’s only when they’ve reached the farthest point of Nerine. Quizzically, Castile’s eyes narrow. He continues to wait, admittedly festering impatience toward her silence.
But then she responds and the distance that has separated them begins to melt away. Inch by inch, step by step, Hestia edges closer with searching eyes brimming with tales. With rising intrigue, Castile listens and weighs the heaviness of her words and confessions. She blinks, then turns away, but still he continues to watch her, scrutinizing the flexion of her muscles and the dancing of her fiery wings. ”What if you had stayed and fought longer,” he begins questioningly, ”what would have changed? Times change. Monarchies change.” It’s as though the weight of Nerine is on her shoulders, that the Jungle had been her undoing as well. ”Why are you blaming yourself for everything?” He never had great responsibility; he has never tried to change the world as Hestia seems to be implying she has.
When she looks up at him, finally, their eyes lock. Castile shakes his head slowly, uncertainly. ”Why do you think you need to save the world?” He pauses as he can almost see the way she is shattering in front of him under the weight of her truths. ”Some people don’t want to be saved, Hestia.” In that moment, he realizes that he is one of them.
His curse (is that what it truly is?) is a hindrance he fears. The monster that lurks beneath the domesticated surface that Beqanna sees of Castile is his own burden. Others have wanted to save him, to encourage him to overpower it, but he turned them away. He always rejects their aid.
He doesn’t want to be saved.
During his mulling, he doesn’t notice how Hestia moves across him and presses her cheek to the thick plane of his neck. When he blinks, withdrawing him his bottomless thoughts, Castile glances down and sees her. If he was startled by the closeness, he doesn’t show it. He is a statue standing with her weight against him, unmoving except for the tousling of his locks when another salty wind passes through. The need for contact seeps into him and he almost succumbs by pressing his lips to the ridge of her shoulder. Instead, he merely breathes her in and savors how the fire of her body dances alluringly in his metallic eyes. ”Are you sure that we are all going to break, or if it’s just you?” She is fretting about Nerine, about Beqanna, about herself, but when he looks around, peeling his gaze from her, he sees nothing wrong in the world around them.
I just don't even know lmao