10-15-2019, 02:30 PM
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
It has been months – years? – since the field’s distant cold nipped at his heels. He walks into a haze, his legs tickled by the tall grass as his mismatched eyes dart back and forth. No one is comfortable here, not truly. Facetious small talk and bargaining, convincing words and deceit. That’s all that thrives in this open space and it sends a chill cartwheeling down his spine. This place, at least in his opinion, is not at all welcoming or warm. It’s a purgatory until nomads are sorted to their new home, to their awaiting fate.
His trip, he intends, is to be quick. In and out, he tells himself beneath the heat of a summer sun, but he knows how it always becomes a lie. Conversation lures him.
A placid hunter, Castile crests a few grassy knolls and whispers past occupied knots of conversation until his gaze sifts through the faces to find her own starkly contrasting. The vibrancy of her coat is a beacon, a gem surfacing from the mud. He blinks once, twice, but his legs never stop moving until he is among them. One by one, others trickled toward her as well – just as easily drawn to the flame – and he spares them curious glances. It dwells on the boy. Familiar yet foreign. A blip of his memory, but from where? Underneath his metallic forelock, a brow raises thoughtfully. ”Hello,” he says into the wind, sweeping his eyes away from the lost memory to Ruinam then to the woman that united them here.
”I’m Castile,” the name is honey on his tongue even with a voice like boulders scraping down a cliff – deep, gravelly, precarious. Innocent mischief flashes across his eyes but is dulled by the nonchalant shrug rippling through his shoulders. ”The field,” he echoes Ruinam in response to the confused boy, filling his mind with their location, ”of Beqanna.” The thorn of not remembering the boy pokes into his side, but still, nothing registers. Nothing comes to him. A fleeting glance acknowledges Ruinam more thoroughly, but rather than speak, he simply nods before returning his attention to the mare. ”What’s your name?” A place for the homeless is where she has found herself, whether she realizes it or not. With a dragged step back, he enables the slightest amount of additional space among them, but is pursed with curious silence.
His trip, he intends, is to be quick. In and out, he tells himself beneath the heat of a summer sun, but he knows how it always becomes a lie. Conversation lures him.
A placid hunter, Castile crests a few grassy knolls and whispers past occupied knots of conversation until his gaze sifts through the faces to find her own starkly contrasting. The vibrancy of her coat is a beacon, a gem surfacing from the mud. He blinks once, twice, but his legs never stop moving until he is among them. One by one, others trickled toward her as well – just as easily drawn to the flame – and he spares them curious glances. It dwells on the boy. Familiar yet foreign. A blip of his memory, but from where? Underneath his metallic forelock, a brow raises thoughtfully. ”Hello,” he says into the wind, sweeping his eyes away from the lost memory to Ruinam then to the woman that united them here.
”I’m Castile,” the name is honey on his tongue even with a voice like boulders scraping down a cliff – deep, gravelly, precarious. Innocent mischief flashes across his eyes but is dulled by the nonchalant shrug rippling through his shoulders. ”The field,” he echoes Ruinam in response to the confused boy, filling his mind with their location, ”of Beqanna.” The thorn of not remembering the boy pokes into his side, but still, nothing registers. Nothing comes to him. A fleeting glance acknowledges Ruinam more thoroughly, but rather than speak, he simply nods before returning his attention to the mare. ”What’s your name?” A place for the homeless is where she has found herself, whether she realizes it or not. With a dragged step back, he enables the slightest amount of additional space among them, but is pursed with curious silence.
castile