The Crossroads

[Unwillingly 11176]

“Hchh!” 

 

---

The icy gales of the mountain suffocated every breath Castiel took, coupled with the thick sludge of trepidation that seemed to weigh him down like bricks. He hauls himself through the crags of a steep ridgeline, and though he tries to step with precision, his heel keeps randomly catching on a rock. It sends him staggering every few meters, which only seemed to contribute to the all-encompassing pit in his stomach. 

 

When he falls, he can’t hold back last night’s offal. He sputters and hacks into the ground, breath coming and going in little more than fleeting gasps. Here, at least, he won’t suffer the shame of being seen in such a pathetic condition. Though his mind unrelentingly raced, the whistling wind reminds him how truly alone he is up here. The ridgeline is a desolate place, and so he allows himself the moment of composure he desperately needed. 

 

Shakily, Castiel lifts his head, realizing he’s reached the crest of the mountain on a long plane of scratchy grass. Any semblance of the forest below is shrouded by a veil of thick fog, the canopy just barely seen poking through the blanket. He begins to slowly walk.

 

The acolyte's words rattled in his head like a church bell, and he stifled the instinct to mull them and the pain that they brought. But some part of him knew better than to so readily believe this was a problem worth fleeing from, that it was a problem that could be snuffed beneath the heel of pleas and mercy. 

 

“When you said you wished to run away, young Prince,” a venomous voice coos. “Is this what you had meant?” 

 

The question inspires the memory of an ebony-haired witch in a drooping cowl, who stared with a devastating mix of betrayal and disbelief that made Castiel wish he had never spoken. Since then, he had tried to convince himself that the idea was a mere delusion. That it was never truly viable. But the possibility lingered like the aftertaste of a foul meal. Now, it was even more tempting than ever.

 

“Not like this.” he replies. “Not in a way that’s humiliating to confess to.” 

 

"Is it any less humiliating otherwise?"

"No."

“Then it’s a macabre ending to what were highs of your prowess. That you now walk the crest of utter despondence, with little promise of rebound.” 

 

“We have friends and allies.” he protests, as though clawing for what little hope he could strangle from the situation. “We can find help.”

“And why, Castiel, would they so quickly flock to the aid of a runaway Prince? You know better than that. And I know that when the world is dead and dark, they would have you buried beneath the rubble of it all if it meant one less craven bastard for them to cater to.” 

 

The serpent always had a way of lacing his words with riddle and prose, but he says it’s because Castiel has a habit of taking things at face value. That he needed to learn to look past the words themselves and instead focus on the merit of them and who they came from. It’s this notion that leads Castiel to a terrible, wretched idea that sends a shiver down his spine, that this serpent very well may seek to coax him right into the arms of inhumanity. This one time, he decides not to jump to conclusions, but he wished he had when the words were spoken.

 

“What are you saying?”

“That there is a sacrifice to be made, Castiel. A macabre, inhumane metamorphosis calls to you...” 

 

A pang of dread clamped his throat like barbed wire. 

 

“... And if you see fit to deny the end of all things infernal, then what is it that truly hunts you other than fate itself?”

To most people, the word “King” means a life of luxury and wealth. It means succession and adoration, something a child fantasizes for himself in play-pretend. To Castiel, this word means something much different. Kinghood is not a mere ascribed status or titleship, but instead inspires a deep, core-churning fear in him. It’s the embodiment of all things immoral, cruel, and selfish, and it’s these very concepts that beget things of nightmares. The reality was, he had a choice between the jaws of something corrupt and the zeal of something bloodthirsty, and he didn’t want to have to pick between either of them. 

 

As foreboding his options are, Castiel reminds himself the consequence of choosing neither at all and what would happen to everything and everyone he had. He loathed the idea of being cornered like a rabbit, and if truly mustering the gut to do something about it was not viable, then his refusal to have his legacy die in cowardice would be.

 

“Perhaps, young Prince, this is your opportunity to squander that wretched abomination Siegmund. Seize his vie for glory. He is undeserving of it. And once the hounds on your tail have lost the scent, sic them on him.”

Castiel knew the serpent knew how to pick his mind, but it didn't make the idea any less desirable. Like something fulfilling, something powerful sat on the tip of his tongue for years, but he could never speak it aloud. To confess that, deep down, Kinghood is a status to hunger for would relinquish any semblance of trust his peers had for him — a trust they did not have for Siegmund. That's what made them different . When everything logical and sensible would put Siegmund at the top of the hierarchy, Castiel's reluctance to acquire his status kept him ahead of the game. 

Perhaps he could have convinced himself of this before, but this is a different timeline. Now is not the time to consider the perception of his peers or Siegmund's standing. Now is a time to consider what is tangible and real, and right now, what is tangible and real will not show mercy in the face of deliberation. The thought sent a shudder down his spine. 

"Pick your poison, Castiel."

[Acostrob 256]

Ifan had found himself staring absent mindedly towards some unknown horizon, eyes unblinking, thoughts racing from the past to the future, then back to the past. Along this current of erratic thoughts floated Castiel, an old friend, a mentor. It reminded him of an empty room, its doors left wide open in a hurry, a cold breeze running through the halls. "Has it happened again?" Muttered he in a brief moment of recollection, of sentience. Such clarity faded into oblivion then, the prince lost within his thoughts, standing still like a gargoyle once more.