[P] claw marks and clouds

[Marisol]

heaven talks
but not to me

Right, Marisol says. Not yet. And if the timber of her voice shakes a little it’s not enough to be merited for discussion. She thinks he would know better, anyway, than to make a point of it, but Asterion has surprised her before, and so she feels a little pinprick of relief in her gut that he has taken her place as confidant, at least for today: it is a weight lifted off her shoulders.

Around them the wind sings of chill and the smell of rain, and the Commander braces herself for only a moment when Asterion’s shoulder meets hers and she hears his request. Her step does not falter at the pressure, but she does cut a dry sideways glance at the petition. It is a foolish question; his wish is by definition her command, nevermind her own reservations. But the way he asks it, like a real query, like she could say no, brings a fleeting smile to her dark lips. 

The whole thing makes her feel more human. For once she does not struggle against it.

I would hope not, Mari grumbles, and narrows her gaze at him in mock offense. A soft-hearted commander would make you look bad too, I’m sure. And that is true, too: she cannot imagine what the other courts would think of a warrior who spills more words than she does blood, and how weak it might make Terrastella look to the whole of the country. There is a reason, after all, that she keeps every part of her sheltered.

But Asterion is not an enemy. Time and time again she forgets this, wants to guard her heart, wants to wear her warpaint like a suit of armor, wants to look away from the dark softness of his gaze. But he is not an enemy. He may, in fact, be the closest thing she has to a friend. And so it is with not too much trepidation that she launches into a new line as they walk down the moonlit streets, silver and onyx and beautiful: The day is done, and the darkness falls from the wings of Night, as a feather is wafted downward from an eagle in his flight - 

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