this my blood, this my bone; castile / any

[Castile]

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

Castile has already tasted the relief of a healer’s touch.

Tiphon’s magic wove through his veins and threaded among the fibers of his muscles. Every inch of pain ebbed, and the blood threatening to dribble from his nostrils dried. His first clear breath of air sent his head spinning. It had been months – or has it already been years? – since Castile was initially infected. It was nearly instantaneous. When Beqanna fell in the face of Carnage’s magic, so did Castile and so many others. He has heard the distant coughs and delirious chatters.

More and more of Beqanna is succumbing to this plague.

And as selfish as it is, that’s why Castile is keen to maintain a grip on the healers while he can. At least he can rub a balm across those infected here in Loess. At least he can provide his home a sense of comfort and relief.

But by pursuing this, Castile realizes that it’s only a matter of time until foreigners are crawling to his borders begging for a taste of freedom from their sickness. Heavy with expectation, he has remained sentinel. His eyes reach across the hills and springs, searching for the next wave of stragglers.

And one eventually arrives.

Castile doesn’t hesitate to meet him at the border. A scrutinizing gaze sweeps across the Pegasus when only a few feet separate them. The boy – anyone younger than him is considered as such – is exhausted from his flight, and it reads in his steely expression. ”Welcome,” he begins, although the truthfulness of it is fleeting. ”What brings you to Loess?” But his instincts tell him the reason why.

The boy is smeared with the scent of Tephra (Castile is familiar with the arid, smoky odor of the kingdom) which piques an interest. A refuge seeking help, perhaps? Relaxed with sunlight pressed against his backside, Castile patiently waits.

castile