✶✩☾My Love, the Moon☽✩✶

An imaginative composed by Milo (Year 12)

Castiel stood atop his tower carved from ancient stone, his crow-sharp eyes seeing all from above in his nest of a home.

    His cloak – woven from pure starlight and wishes left unanswered – billowed around him like wings, willing Castiel’s feet from the ground, beckoning him to give into the urge to fly–

    “You’re doing it again.” 

    The voice from behind him echoed gently, the smooth, tranquil tone pulling him into reality; a tide being drawn back.

    His love, the moon, wandered to stand just behind him, her hands on his shoulders, fingertips delicately grazing over. It caused all the tension to slowly seep from his body, leaking from his heart and being replaced by a perpetual calm.

    “Where do you go?” Eleanor hummed, her head tipping forward to rest against Castiel’s shoulder. Her gaze followed his, out to the skyline, “when you go into your head like that?”

    Castiel could see her near-white hair, blowing in the breeze alongside his own jet black and God, she was so beautiful that he could ignore the cliche of it all. 

    “No where,” he answered. 

    (“Everywhere,” he thought.)

    Eleanor knew him far better to take Castiel’s words at face value. But she didn’t push.

    (She never pushed.) 

    Instead, she just idly hummed in response, threading her dainty ivory fingers through his own calloused, dark ones. 

    (The contrast was no longer something that crossed Castiel’s mind.)

    The Crow and the Dove.

    That was what Eleanor had taken a liking to calling them.

    One bird, a bad omen. Something to be wary of. Eyes that always remembered. Another, an omen of love. Of gentleness. Of kind coos and soft eyes that that always forgave. 

    It had earned a chuckle from Castiel at the time. 

    Eleanor always found their differences something of a marvel.

    “You don’t have to tell me.” 

    Her voice broke through the silence plaguing Castiel’s mind and, in its wake, left a calmer quiet. 

    He nodded. 

    “Okay.” 

    A man of many words, Castiel.

    He’d always considered himself something of an illusionist. Castiel had woven sights out of stardust and shadow. He’d created lies so powerful that the mightiest of men had fallen into fools believing them full-heartedly. 

    Though, no matter how hard he desperately tried, Eleanor always seemed to see right through them – through him. The foundations of Castiel’s deceit were nothing but transparent fabric in her kind eyes, clinging desperately around the truth, screaming to be seen. 

    It must have sounded like nothing more than the petulant cries of a child to Eleanor.

    (For what is an illusionist to someone who can already see them for what they are?)

    Silence filled the air of Castiel’s nest for all of a breath. 

    “I need you,” he said simply.

    (“I love you,” he thought, but did not say. Castiel hoped that the way he was shaking with the unspoken promise was enough.)

    His hand moved up to the side of her face, lacing his umber fingers through her almost white hair, holding her close, as if – when he let go – she would disappear. Eleanor didn’t flinch away from his death-kissed, cold hands against her warm skin. Her chin stayed resting on his shoulder. 

    (If ever there was a time for her to see through his star-made words and half-truths, it was now.)

    “Okay,” she said simply. 

    (“I love you, too,” she thought.)