He must have known.

He must have known, when he asked her. The timing was too perfect. 

He must have known that he was going to—die, disappear, fall away from the world. She had hardly been regent for a a fortnight when they went missing. He must have known that he wanted to leave, or that some God was calling for his blood. Must have known that time was closing in on him like a big dark wing. Must have known the day was soon that Terrastella would wake up and find its king and ex-queen gone in a single quiet breath like the whoosh of wind as it rises up from the ocean.

He must have known. And oh, she would hate him for it—for leaving her alone with her teeth and her missing armor and her new title like a noose around her neck—if she didn’t miss him so much already.

When she had woken up to find him gone, her whole body had gone cold. Each nerve turned to perfect ice. The pit of her stomach clenched like a punching fist. The knock she banged against his door had grown louder and louder, until she was sure he could not simply be sleeping, and when she had finally (stiffly) pushed her way into the room, it had been as still and quiet as a grave. Still and quiet in the way of all wrong, dead things. 

Deserted. Silent. The windows closed and the blankets undisturbed. The candles burnt down to stubs. The whole castle was quiet—as if it knew, as if it was holding its breath. No impression of life at all. Not now, not recently. She’d figured, just by looking, that he hadn’t been back since going to explore the island, and that had been… long ago.

Too long ago for any comfort.

And Florentine’s room had been empty too, and Lysander’s, and by the time Marisol came plunging from the door of the castle she could not breathe, could not blink, could not cry. It was barely dawn; the sky was still mostly black, and colored light only just washed over the horizon. Sbe’d been frozen with panic. The world was spinning at ten times the normal speed, and even the cobblestones below her feet were starting to warp with the inertia. Breathe. She could not. Every heartbeat was less subtle and more painful than the last, now almost growing claws. The streets were empty, completely empty, and Marisol would have been thankful for it if she had the capacity to think about anything but he’s gone and I’m alone.

I’m alone I’m alone I’m alone.

The wind had picked up speed. Salt burned in the lining of her nostrils and down into her chest, teeth grew sharp against the inside of her mouth, tears burned hot against her eyelashes and streamed into the curve of her mouth. They were gone, gone, gone, her king, her queen, her best friend, and wherever they had gone, it was a place she could not reach.

Commander and Queen. She sank to her knees, hard against the cobblestone, and was briefly, painfully grateful that no one had come to save her yet. Her forehead came down to rest against one knee. Overhead, the sky had turned to foamy pink.


Now, Marisol bears no indication of any of this.

Her eyes are clear, her coat brushed, spear high against her ribs. Hair newly trimmed and chin tilted up as if in a dare. It is a hot, clear day with no semblance of a breeze, and as the Commander stands and raises one wing to call her people to the center of the field, she can hardly find the air to breathe.

Each heartbeat still throbs like a punishment; her head is still dry from so much agonizing. (They had not found her. Ever. By the time she had pulled herself up to her feet, the streets were still empty, the citizens still sleeping. Not a single soul had seen her shed her tears. And thank God for that. It would have been a less-than-subpar start to her rule.) She blinks hard against the streaming sunlight, and her breath rattles in her chest, like it doesn’t quite know where to go.

But when she speaks, it is calm, and cool, and measured. It does not shake at all.

“Asterion is missing,” she starts (with a wince), “As well as Florentine and Lysander. From what I understand, they were last seen on the island, and have not been back since. I…”

Guilt flashes oh-so-briefly in her eyes.

“I have no intention of disrupting the legacy that Athey left for us. Until Asterion returns—“ Her breath catches. “Or in the event that he does not, he has chosen me to stand in his place as sovereign. Everyone else will retain their current positions. I promise on my own blade that I will do everything I can to serve you, my people, and that even in grief we will not be broken. If you have any questions, or any requests, I would hear them now.”

Her throat hurts from the words; she blinks, and only barely manages to keep her lip from trembling.

There is no podium to step down from, no pride to relinquish. She only steps closer to the crowd.

“Speaking.”

There is something to be said about a world that is not yours, that becomes yours so completely, so wholly. A world whose people are not your people but become them, so easily, so simply, that one day you wake up and stop question when it happened, or why. It just is.

There is something to be said about a world that was never yours, even when you were born into it.

Sometimes where you are is not where you are meant to be, and the things that happen to you are putting you in the way of the things, of the people, that are meant to happen to you. That are putting you in the place where you belong.

Samaira feels that way about Novus, about Terrastella. She feels that way about the doctors and medics and patients at the hosptial, about the equines she has met here, and grown closer to. About Alaunus, who she never would have met—never would have needed—if it hadn’t been for the things that have happened to her.

And there are so many grateful songs in her heart, so many hopeful stars in her moon-bright eyes. Every sunrise is a new beginning, a new opportunity. A new chance to do something magical, to search for the thing her heart is aching for. To smile, to laugh, to dance. To heal.

When the meeting is called, Samaira goes to the court with Alaunus at her side and enters the throng of equines pressing toward Marisol. That’s when the pegasus realizes she hasn’t spoken to the other woman since the night Marisol had found her in the swamp. How long ago now had that been? How much had they changed, had everything around them changed, since then she wonders.

Unlike the others, she doesn’t know what is wrong here. She doesn’t look upon Marisol standing alone before a crowd and see the spaces around her that should be filled with, perhaps, others. She doesn’t think about the fact that Asterion, who wants nothing more than to be seen as a man and not a king, isn’t standing there addressing his people instead of her.

Until the first words are spoken, and something inside her bends, and sways and groans. It moans, and cracks and bursts open like wood beneath the pressure of a pounding wave. Her heart is no longer a dam but a flood plain, awash in water filled with debris like hurts and sorrows.

Florentine, who had come to her in search of aid for her broken wing. What of her, and the lives she had been carrying? Her, golden and flowered, whose friendship she had grown to cherish and whose smile she had looked forward to seeing each session the woman had returned to the hospital. What light had Samaira led her into, only for her to be lost to the world?

Most of all she thinks of Asterion, dancing with her on the streets when she had been nothing more than a complete stranger, and down on the beach sharing truths, even if they weren’t the ones their hearts had really wanted them to say. How had she known him, that she would never know him again? How had she wanted to know him, that she still did not fully understand?

But she had wanted to know him, certainly.

Oh, there is something to be said about a world that is never yours, and people who are not yours, but who take your breath away and who you open you heart to anyway.

Her heart ratchets inside her chest, an unsteady, thrumming, drumming, stumbling thing. And her moon-silver eyes are wide and bright and wet with liquid silver stars that want to rain down to land upon the soft earth of her skin. And she can feel Alaunus pressed close against her side, but there are so many things that her wonderful bird can heal, and this is not one of them.

Samaira does not stay to listen, she cannot listen. She cannot hear them speak of strength and healing and memory. Terrastella had been her healing, had been her salvation and sanctuary.

When she turns to go, she does not fly. She does not disappear into the sky, fast and far and distant and wide. Samaira pushes out of the crowd, but though she doesn’t know where to go, she walks.

She had told Asterion that once, love had almost cost her her wings.

She cannot find it within her to fly now.

"Speaking."

When the meeting was called, Israfel answered.

She arrived early but stood in the back, just as she always did, her posture relaxed but tall. Vermilion eyes scanned the crowd of gathering citizens, watching as familiar faces mingled with strangers. There was a buzz of curiosity that ran like electricity through the air, causing her hair to stand on end, but nothing could have prepared her for the reasons behind why this meeting was called.

Marisol addressed them, and while they had never been close in any sense of the word, the Warden found she appreciated the Commander’s blunt and straightforward handling of this abrupt situation. It made it no easier to hear, however, that Asterion was gone, along with Florentine and Lysander, stolen away by some nefarious means upon the island, far too abruptly and far too soon.

What? Why?

A dangerous ache grasped her heart, causing her breath to hitch and escape between parted, rose-kissed lips. It felt as though she had been kicked in the gut, air unable to be drawn back into gasping lungs even as she stood stock still, a pillar against the battalion of emotions that threatened to cripple her. Vermilion eyes narrowed as she stared hard at Marisol, hoping that by the sheer intensity of her stare she could force out more answers from the Halcyon Commander. Nothing came. It seemed that Marisol was just as perplexed, just as lost as the rest of them.

Murmurs graced the air; some of shock, some in outrage, some of sorrow. It was only natural that the people would react differently, Israfel surmised. Everyone grieved in their own way.

Still she did not wrench her bold, accusing stare from Marisol’s bay shoulders which were surely heavy from the mantle of her new title. A dark, twisted little voice in the back of the Warden’s head wondered just how long the Commander-turned-Sovereign would last. How many sovereigns had she seen, now? How many people had come and go?

Rannveig, Florentine, Asterion, and now? Marisol. It would only be a matter of time.

As the shock of the announcement began to wane, the people found their voices. They spoke, offering their words of support, their promise to continue on in this legacy left behind by so many others set before them, their comments of indifference. Israfel didn’t care, and so she listened, letting the others speak their pretty little promises and words of devotion while she listened with half an ear, waiting and watching, listening and learning. A lot could be learned by remaining silent. That was a lesson she had discovered the hard way, that fools spoke the loudest. Perhaps it was why the loudest of them all, a shrill screech of demanding nonsense that filled the air from a citizen that Israfel had never seen before, urged her to finally break away from her silent sentry.

The Warden strode forward with pinned ears lost amidst gilded strands of hair, the heavy weight of Solaris upon her back boosting her with confidence as she stalked through the crowd, letting her words carry without doubt, without the pointless need to shout and bellow. “By Solis’ left fucking testicle, shut up,” Israfel growled once she was just a few paces away, burning vermilion eyes narrowed at the prissy, obnoxious tawny creature who howled and hounded Marisol like an irate child-thing, “Whatever the hell you’re screeching about can wait.”

Almost violently the Sun Daughter tore her eyes away from the petite dappled buckskin to Marisol, her gaze still burning, smoldering in its intensity. Oh, but she had been here before, staring into the eyes of a new Sovereign. Marisol was just another in her long history. Neutral as she tried to be, the Warden could read her like an open book.

She grinned, rueful and soft. The words that escaped her lips lacked the vehement aggression that they held towards the petite, obnoxious buckskin, but while they also lacked respect for someone so newly ascended, the words were full of understanding. “I’ve seen that look in your eyes twice over, Commander. You can’t hide that from me.” She arched a brow, unabashedly holding Marisol’s slate grey eyes in an unrelenting stare. “Build your council, focus on the people. Seems like you’ve already got that in order. I’ll support where I can, and if you need me to take care of any annoying vermin, I’ll do it.”

Her gaze shifted, glancing momentarily sidelong towards the winged buckskin, before focusing on the former Halcyon Commander. Or was she the current? Did it matter?

“But remember my loyalty lies with the Court, for now.”

Sovereigns came and went, but Terrastella would always remain.

"Speaking."