There was, in fact, at least one scent that he had nearly forgotten. It was tucked in the far recesses of his memory, almost lost among the cacophony. He had been just a boy then, tucked innocently in Nayl’s shadow when she breached political matters. The on goings of Nerine meant little to Castile at that time, but he was sure to nestle scents and names into a box for one day to recall. That box has since collected dust and cobwebs, but he cracks it open and revisits the vague memory.
Heartfire.
The name is spoken from his mother’s lips, bearing a note of command and respect. She had been around during his childhood, and here she remains even as a decade passes by without hardly notice. A sheepish grin threatens to soften the sharp edges of his face, proud of his recollection when he swallows a lungful of her scent. Desperate for familiarity, Castile weaves through the shrubs and occasional tree, his wings neatly tucked to his sides. When she is within sight, his path straightens and he draws to a halt once he is within reach of her. ”Heartfire,” he replaces his memory of mother’s voice with his own gravely tone. He exudes confidence now, his body criss-crossed with battle scars and with a mind that has since (nearly) mastered the monster that lies deep in his core.
Blinking, he takes into consideration her own standpoint as she looks upon a face that may have just as easily escaped her mind. He wasn’t significant then, not really. He was a shadow, a quiet voice silenced by the immensity of his mother’s. ”You probably don’t remember me,” he shuffles his wings then as their eyes meet, ”I’m Castile.” That, he hopes, is enough. With a glimmer of hope, he eludes using mother’s name, trying to avoid carelessly dropping it in conversations.
Heartfire.
The name is spoken from his mother’s lips, bearing a note of command and respect. She had been around during his childhood, and here she remains even as a decade passes by without hardly notice. A sheepish grin threatens to soften the sharp edges of his face, proud of his recollection when he swallows a lungful of her scent. Desperate for familiarity, Castile weaves through the shrubs and occasional tree, his wings neatly tucked to his sides. When she is within sight, his path straightens and he draws to a halt once he is within reach of her. ”Heartfire,” he replaces his memory of mother’s voice with his own gravely tone. He exudes confidence now, his body criss-crossed with battle scars and with a mind that has since (nearly) mastered the monster that lies deep in his core.
Blinking, he takes into consideration her own standpoint as she looks upon a face that may have just as easily escaped her mind. He wasn’t significant then, not really. He was a shadow, a quiet voice silenced by the immensity of his mother’s. ”You probably don’t remember me,” he shuffles his wings then as their eyes meet, ”I’m Castile.” That, he hopes, is enough. With a glimmer of hope, he eludes using mother’s name, trying to avoid carelessly dropping it in conversations.