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
Their lives, for some strange reason, are destined to remain intertwined.
Through every twist, turn, and hurdle, they always come back together. Whether it is in anger or joy or comfort, there remains a gravitational pull.
It has been months – or has it been at least a year? – since they last met, but it hadn’t been in good taste. She was angry, her words barbed with irritation as he poked and prodded like a toddler. It was in his amusement that he persisted. He wanted to unseat the supposedly great eastern sanctuary. And it worked. It crumbled with the help of his friends, and now, slowly, it is being absorbed by Loess. It isn’t domination, no. Castile doesn’t aspire for dictatorship, but with help he is helping to recreate the world, to reform it to his own standards. Friends and family are the foundation; they have all contributed.
But Ilma will likely disapprove in her maternal way. She will scoff at his efforts because nothing was accomplished with a pacifist mindset. There has been war, bloodshed, and death. But now? Now, there is a lull and peace for the most part.
”Hello, stranger,” he murmurs into the frigid air, his hot breath a white plume coiling from his mouth. Despite the tension brimming in their last meeting, Castile pushes it aside and instead addresses her with a tone that is lighthearted and mirrors the relaxation and contentment that has blanketed his life as of late. ”You left in a hurry. Why?” His mismatched eyes search her face, wanting to know what exactly it was that chased her away. It could very well have been him and his eagerness to stir Beqanna, but he doesn’t jump to conclusions. ”Nonetheless, welcome back.” He doesn’t touch her, doesn’t even reach for her, but the softness in his gaze reflects and matches the sincerity of his voice.
castile
