THE ARCHIATER.
Of course she notices him, trailing behind her like a phantom. Of course she hears his footsteps, hears his breath on the wind, knows exactly how many steps it would take for him to catch up - what kind of warrior would Marisol be if she had not learned to keep track of her surroundings? In the darkness, noise is amplified. The moon is a living thing. Every motion, every tiny change in the still earth, reverberates louder, sharper, longer. Her ear flicks at the sound of movement, but she does not turn. In the few puddles that line the streets she catches glimpses of her own high cheekbones, those steely gray eyes, the short, angry bristle of a mane cut with a hot blade. Then, moments later, the rippling reflection of Asterion as he comes to join her.
She does not speak first. She will not. Marisol is a woman of few words, and what words she does speak are carefully chosen. For some, she knows, the silence must feel awkward, but it is hers to keep and hers to offer, and she will not change it. She can only hope that Asterion is not one of those many. As they begin to fall into simultaneous step, she acknowledges him only with a look: her gray eyes are not dull, and they regard him with at least a modicum of respect, cool and interested under dark lashes. After one slow blink she looks forward again. The night, between them, is rent with possibilities, and Marisol does her best to avoid thinking of any of them.
Commander. At that, she almost cares to smile. She doesn’t.
All is not well, and Asterion must know that. Marisol sees him as nothing if not intuitive. The few times they’ve crossed paths - in meetings with Florentine, on Mari’s rare visits to the Terrastellan markets, or brushing shoulders as one or the other is caught sneaking in or out of the library - the conversation that has passed between them is brusque and business-like, collapsed, for the most part, by Marisol’s silence. Once every so often, she regrets it. Thinks that, perhaps, they could be friends. If Florentine trusts him then he must be worthy of something, and the look in his eyes is always one of warmth; once every so often she hates herself for picking the farthest quarters from the court, for leaving every festival early, or for cutting off every relationship at the root. Then she remembers the stripes on her wing, and the weight of them blows that hatred away like a petal on the wind.
They have reached a corner now, and Marisol slows to glance at Asterion over her shoulder as she turns it. Wellness wastes the skill of doctors. Her companion glistens almost like an oil-slick in the dim light. It’s so much easier to meet his eyes when it’s so dark out, when Marisol is sure he can’t see whatever turmoil lives inside her bones; she gazes at him for a moment, as if scrutinizing, then regains her previous pace through the streets. And where would Terrastella be without its doctors? Again she almost smiles - humor even tinges her voice - but it is lost in the darkness, in the way she turns away just to hide it. You know trouble stirs.
She does not speak of the fire in the Arma Mountains, nor of a certain Night King gone feral. Such words would be a waste, and woe be to those, she reminds herself, that waste anything.
@asterion
