Words promised these things, these objects. Actions provided them. But those words solicited him of his actions, he who stood so frozen and so finite. So much smoke without mirrors.
Castor had no such delusions. He had wants, goals, motivations, a discernible identity. He had a past full of actions, choices made, people lost. He had a measure of self-awareness. Could Faustite say the same, standing amongst hollow promises? Could starseed counts and kilojoules of energy drained define a past of which he was proud? Would murder help?
Faustite bowed his head. His hands locked together, pale and unmarred by the roughness of action, they contrasted the rest of his outfit. His shoes looked unscuffed as they stood stationary against concrete. But even Castor's shoes were pristine for all his moments spent wading through blood. Strange how much of a person is invisible. How much can never be known.
His gaze lifted to Castor, head straight, shoulders back. The muscles in his jaw worked forth an answer to the absent question, to the hung silence. "There's much to do before I see you again, but I will see you again." Sooner was, perhaps, a hopeful estimate.
And perhaps there was no better goodbye than an absence of one. The boy half-turned into a vanish — once solid, now smoke. Now silent.
istoleyurvamps
fin, which opens followup if you're down
