Here it is almost easy to forget all of the things that weigh heavy on her lilac shoulders, all the things that may plague her mind; the darkness that sinks into her dreams when she rests her head, that creep into her thoughts when she rises into the chilly night air.
When she steps out of her board room, she feels the breeze cloying with the brittle taste of frost; the breathless sting that means winter's fingers have begun to spread across all of Novus. It has not affected the court, alive with the flurry of the festival’s activities. The cold only seems to make them happier, bundled in their scarves and sipping their warm cider. As she passes the gathering crowds, a cup is pressed into her vision; the steam rising delectably from its contents. The bearer grins from ear to ear as the liquid spills over the side and onto the snow.
“Here, miss, everyone must have a cup!” She’s reluctant to take it. The smirk on his face seems friendly enough, but she didn’t get where she was now by being trustful of every random stranger that flashed a pretty smile. Once, she might have laughed and took it anyway, she might have downed the whole cup right then and there and thought about the consequences later.
But she is no longer a girl with nothing to live for.
“Thank you.” Her voice is quiet as she grasps it, though she only carries it with her as she continues on through the court and down its long corridors. She only stops when she sees the tree. The lights shimmer and dance in front of her vision. There are children gathered around its base, lifting tinsel and small ornaments on to the large branches.
It's easy to get lost in the joy of Terrastella when there are things as beautiful as this.
@Marisol
i'm sorry this is such crap, hopefully the next one will be better with some more direction and actual grammar checking
There is a new pair of wings in her court tonight.
Marisol watches them bob above the rest of the crowd, rows of feathers patterned in pale, rosy brown. It seems as though whoever is wearing them might have a second pair, too; sometimes Marisol catches sight of another layer flashing underneath the first, but the crowd is too thick to really tell.
She chews absentmindedly on a mint leaf, situated in a position that feigns relaxation—one back hoof cocked—as the festival gains life around her. It is true dark now. The air is biting-cold, and underfoot the cobblestones are glazed with clear black ice. Some part of her, maternal or maybe just war-torn, is worried. Kids might slip and fall on such frosty ground.
But no one has been hurt yet; in fact her people are happy, happier than they have been since Asterion’s disappearance, and though concern gnaws like a hungry animal at the inside of her chest, Mari holds it back with a sigh and gazes thoughtfully out at the crowd. The festivalgoers are dazzling. They are decked out in glittering necklaces, wrapped in mountains of thick-knit fabric. Marisol herself has her nose buried in a scarf loosely wrapped around her neck.
Finally she watches the pair of wings breach the crowd. They rise like a predator from underwater, or a whale reaching to find air. The girl who hosts them is one Mari recognizes only vaguely, a tough, pretty thing half-rosy and half-pearl, hair floating loose down her neck.
Pretty.
The Commander blows out a breath, watching it collect like frost in the air. Children are hanging baubles on low branches; their parents watch, sipping hot drinks, and laugh.
Finally she steps forward.
“By Her hand,” the queen—queen?—says. Wearing half a smile, she dips her head in greeting.
She is wrapped in the festivities of Terrastella’s court. Their joy spreads across the faces of everyone around them and their smiles shine brighter than the stars in the sky. It is infectious.
And yet, it is hard not to feel alone.
There is no one to share a warm mug of cider with, no one to laugh with, no one to hold a little tighter to fight off the chill. It is only her and her threadbare cloak. She thinks about what it would have been like if things were different; if she had only held on to him a little bit harder, if he had not slipped between her fingers like sand, would she still be here? Would she still be so lonely?
By her hand, a voice greets.
She is immediately drawn from her daze, drawn to the voice that drips like mulled wine, drawn into the storm-gray eyes of a stranger. The woman is arrestingly beautiful, made sharp and taught like the edge of a knife or the string of a bow. Her body is dark like ink, the tops of her wings a mirroring reflection. But if she had to be honest, Euphrosyne would think the most beautiful thing about her was the sweet half smile on her lips or the confidence she wore so brazenly like, well, a queen.
“By her hand.” Euphrosyne replies in turn, though she has no idea whose hand they could be talking about. “I’m sorry, I-I just got here. Are they celebrating anything special?”
@Marisol
I said the second one would be better and I Lied
Marisol thinks she recognizes the look on this girl’s face.
It is a look of softness, the strange co-existence of hope and fear. Somewhere underneath it lies loneliness, too. It is a look she sees often on the faces of her cadets, and in the dark eyes that look back from her mirror; a look that makes her heart twist and ache in her chest when she meets the stranger’s warm eyes and is overcome by a crashing, choking wave of empathy.
How can someone be so alone?
Anselm slinks out of the crowd and presses himself against Mari’s back legs. He is shockingly warm, his thick fur bristling to new heights, radiating heat that seeps into her dark skin. Marisol flicks her tail over his narrow back, perhaps to comfort him or, equally as likely, to hold him back.
The three of them are their own little world, their own fragile bubble. Just feet away their court is celebrating, raucous and gleeful, in a way that is typically not ascribed to their court—a kind of joy that is not subdued, nor thoughtful, nor restrained. It is wide, flashing smiles; eyes that glint with mischief; spilled drinks, dances made from rapid twirls and songs that are sung in voices bubbling with laughter and the heat of the close-packed bodies always growing stronger.
By Her hand. The greeting is returned, and if Marisol’s dark ears prick up in surprise then the movement is overshadowed by a flashing, quicksilver smile. The night around them, the darkness, is interrupted by spots of firelight and the glint of gold and silver jewelry and the flare of the queen’s white heel, gleaming so much brighter than everything else.
She steps forward—a quick, fluid movement that snaps their distance in half. “The equinox,” Mari explains. “The longest night of the year. It’s superstition. But a good excuse to celebrate. I’m Marisol,” she adds, unthinkingly; she has already been distracted by the noise and fervor of her unruly court, watching with a sharp eye to make sure no one has been hurt.
Yet she is calm. Still and mostly unfazed. The sweetness of this stranger is something like a comfort.
Euphrosyne has been alone for as long as she could remember.
At least, she had always felt lonely. She was never truly by herself: her father had always made sure to give the two young princesses a chaperone (“to protect your honor,” he had insisted, although she knew it was for the sake of her bride price). At the House of Roses she had guards and clients and fellow blossoms that filled up her time and took up the space nearby. Even now, as the festivities swirl around her, she feels the ache of it in her chest.
Marisol’s presence, by contrast, feels warm and inviting. The hound that rests against the heel of his master is pale, and an imposing presence, but she pays him no mind. He is right to be wary of a stranger, though she can’t say she would do anything to incur the wrath of his bite. The equinox, the longest night of the year. It’s superstition. But a good excuse to celebrate. I’m Marisol. Her voice feels like wine, like honey, and Euphrosyne feels drunk already.
“I’m Euphrosyne,” she offers in reply.
She meets the stone gray eyes of the Commander with a certain mirth, a cheer that seeps in from the infectious crowd, and draws on her neatest smile. “Do you dance, Marisol?”
@Marisol
i am so sorry this is so short, if you need more pls let me know
Marisol thinks she recognizes the look in this girl’s eyes. It is a look of loneliness that shimmers like sunlight in her pale-blue gaze, a look that Mari has come face to face with too many times in mirrors, or the still, silver surface of a lake. In the faint dark of the plaza, lit only by the flickering of candles, the girl’s face is all pearl-white and soft lines. The two of them and the swirling crowd could make a lovely painting.
She introduces herself as Euphrosyne. Mari’s deep gray eyes seem to brighten—she even leans forward slightly, unconsciously. The murmuring of the crowd falls slightly closer to silent, their dance steps slowing along with the music. Unusual names have always intrigued her. For someone who has never left Novus (and hardly even left Terrastella), foreigners coming to visit always present a kind of thrill; they are her only window into the outside world, a gateway to the real and fantastical.
It is unusual, and exotic, but Marisol spent so much of her childhood reading that she recognizes the meaning of it as soon as Euphrosyne introduces herself. “Merriment,” she adds, smiling shyly. “It fits.”
The music is picking back up again. Mari casually sidesteps closer, ducking out of the way of the dancers with her usual neat grace. Anyone who knows her—anyone who has met her, even—knows that this is not her usual scene. Celebrations in general have never been her forte, and especially not ones like this, so full of… glee. But Novus is finally calm. There is no visible threat looming on the horizon. And what is more satisfying for a leader than to see her people happy?
When Euphrosyne asks if she dances, Mari can’t quite contain her laugh. It is a noise of incredulity, but good-humored; amusement flashes through the steel of her eyes when she turns sideways to meet the girl’s gaze. “Hardly,” she responds. Then realization dawns, and her face softens briefly as she adds: “Though if you do, I could use a teacher.”
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