TW: mentioned murder (in reference to the legend of El Silbón)
El Silbón remained quiet for a long moment, his spectral form shifting faintly in the mist. His dark brown hair hung slightly over his face, and the sack of bones slung across his shoulder rattled softly with each subtle movement. His sunken, black eyes fixed on the ground, a shadow of pain flickering across his expression.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low and steady, as though reliving a memory he'd rather forget. "I was spoiled," he began, the words carrying a bitter edge. "My parents… they gave me everything I wanted. Everything I asked for. Always." His gaze hardened, his skeletal hands tightening briefly around the strap of his sack.
"And then one day," he continued, his tone sharpening, "I wanted something my father couldn't give me. I demanded it anyway. He told me no." El Silbón's head tilted slightly, the faint glow of the mist wrapping tighter around his translucent form. "So I killed him."
Morro blinked, his jaw tightening as the words settled in the air between them. His eyes studied the ghost boy with a mix of shock and unease, though he managed to keep his voice steady. "Do I want to know why?" he asked cautiously, his tone measured.
El Silbón's gaze lifted briefly, locking onto Morro's as the mist swirled faintly between them. His voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper, the words sliding past his lips like a shadow. "I don't think so."
The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive, and Morro found himself stiffening against the weight of it. The sack of bones rattled faintly as El Silbón shifted, his spectral form fading slightly back into the mist, as though the conversation had extracted more from him than he cared to admit.
Morro leaned back slightly, the ache in his wrists and legs suddenly feeling insignificant compared to the chill that settled in his chest. Whatever had led El Silbón to this cursed existence was shrouded in a darkness far deeper than Morro cared to explore.
A few moments later, the wind-master exhaled heavily, his gaze dropping to the ground as the weight of everything swirled in his chest. The mist clung to his form, and for a moment, the oppressive silence of the forest was the only thing between him and El Silbón. Finally, he shifted, his bound hands resting awkwardly on his lap as he spoke.
"Let's just say you're not the only one with a checkered past," Morro muttered, his voice low and edged with bitterness.
El Silbón tilted his head, his black eyes narrowing slightly as he repeated, haltingly, "Checkered? What does this mean?"
Morro scoffed softly, shaking his head. "It means messy. Complicated. Full of mistakes," he explained, his tone curt. "Not the kind of past anyone brags about, you know?"
The ghost boy nodded faintly, his translucent form still as he listened. Morro shifted again, glancing off into the swirling mist before he continued. "I wanted to be something I wasn't chosen to be," he said, his tone sharpening. "I thought I deserved it. And when I didn't get what I wanted, I got angry. Bitter." His jaw tightened as he added, "There was this kid… the one who was chosen. The one who got the power I thought was mine."
El Silbón's brow furrowed slightly, his eyes watching Morro intently. "And… what did you do?" he asked cautiously, his voice careful and quiet.
Morro hesitated for a brief moment, the memory clawing at the edges of his mind. "I overshadowed him," he said finally, his voice hard but quiet. At El Silbón's confused look, he sighed and elaborated. "It means I tethered myself to him. As a ghost, I could… latch onto someone. Get into his mind, his thoughts. I could take control of his body, make him do what I wanted—like a shadow clinging to his soul."
El Silbón's expression shifted slightly, unease flickering in his dark eyes. "You… took control?" he murmured, his voice tentative. "Like you… became part of him?"
Morro nodded stiffly, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Something like that," he admitted bitterly. "He was still there—still himself, deep down—but I could bend him. Twist his actions. I was desperate, alright? Desperate to prove I deserved the power I wanted. To prove I was better than him." He let out a hollow scoff. "All I really proved was how low I could sink."
Silence fell between them, the mist coiling tighter as the weight of Morro's confession settled in the air. El Silbón studied him quietly, his skeletal fingers shifting slightly on the strap of his sack. "And now?" he asked softly. "You regret this?"
Morro's eyes flickered toward the ghost boy, his expression guarded. "Sometimes," he muttered, his voice rough. "But regret doesn't change anything, does it?"
El Silbón didn't respond immediately, his eyes distant as he glanced out into the mist. The forest remained heavy with tension, the oppressive stillness pressing in on them as the moment stretched.
El Silbón shifted restlessly, his skeletal fingers tightening momentarily around the strap of his sack before he glanced toward the swirling mist surrounding them. His black eyes scanned the darkened forest, the tension in his translucent frame palpable. Then, without a word, he dropped the sack unceremoniously at his feet and dropped low to the ground, his movements shifting into something unnervingly animalistic.
Before Morro could say anything, El Silbón scuttled off on all fours, his spectral form darting into the shadows with an unsettling ease. Morro blinked, half sitting up in alarm. "What—where are you going?!" he hissed, his voice sharp but kept low, not wanting to disturb the fragile quiet of the forest.
El Silbón's voice drifted back from the mist, soft but still carrying a faint echo. "Blankets," he said simply, the word clipped as though it were more explanation than Morro deserved. "That thing might come back… with uglier friends. We need sleep."
Morro let out a huff of disbelief, slumping back against the underbrush as he watched the spectral boy disappear into the gloom. "Yeah, sure," he muttered to himself, his tone dry. "Because cozying up in a haunted forest sounds like the solution to all my problems."
The oppressive silence crept back in as Morro settled in, his bound wrists resting awkwardly on his lap. He tilted his head back, his gaze flickering toward the faint shimmer of stars barely visible through the canopy. "This is officially the worst day of my afterlife," he grumbled, though his voice lacked its usual venom.
The minutes stretched on, the quiet pressing heavily on his ears. The earlier encounter with the shadow beast still lingered in his mind, its guttural growls and ominous clicking reverberating faintly in his thoughts. As much as he hated to admit it, he was grateful for El Silbón's cautiousness. The boy might be unsettling, but at least he wasn't reckless.
Morro shifted slightly, his legs cramping again from the awkward position. His eyes darted toward the mist, where the ghost boy had vanished. "Hurry up, would you?" he muttered under his breath, though part of him wasn't entirely sure he wanted El Silbón back—or if the boy's return would bring something far worse along with him.