THE ARCHIATER.
There is no shame in the calculated way she looks him over, no self-consciousness in the cool gray of her eyes. The Commander meets his gaze easily but perhaps not kindly, and as much as she wishes she could take the mead offered, act like a damn fool, dance as much as she wants to with whomever she wants to, it’s simply not the world that Marisol lives in, and so she is stubborn in her refusal, takes his teasing with an easy flick of the air and a drawling near-smile. Good for him, that he should ever feel so relaxed. Does he know the pain she’s suffered to keep him safe? The many nights she’s stayed awake by torchlight, stalking the borders of the Dusk Court like a predator? Does he know the fear tattooed in her chest like a heartbeat?
Of course he doesn’t. Of course not. She envies him for it.
The surprise that crosses his face when she speaks is off-putting. It’s a casual thing from out of Marisol’s mouth, the word well-worn against her tongue, familiar and even, sometimes, warm. Yet it does not seem to be the same for him. This man is a denizen of Terrastella, is he not? Should he not be comforted hearing Vespera’s name, instead of shying away from it like a colt from a snake? Strange. Suspicious, even. Mari tilts her head at him in unchecked curiosity. Of course she does not ask about it - in fact, does not even bother opening her mouth - but she does not hide her interest, either. Hiding is not something she does very often.
Thats the goddess of Terrastella, right?
The Commander blinks. The surprise that washes over her is so strong it’s unsettling. Right? Right? How could he not know? For the first time she thinks he might be an immigrant, that being the reason they’ve never crossed paths. Recent, too, if he doesn’t know the patron god of his own damn hometown. She relaxes slightly. As infuriating as their differences might be, the distinction between a heretic and an uneducated newcomer is huge and fundamental, and the idea that he is simply not initiated yet, rather than choosing to spit in the face of the gods, comforts her slightly. Marisol nods in confirmation. Did you take an oath in her name not to enjoy yourself at a festival?
And, as if by magic, a smile tugs at her lips, turns her eyes bright-warm, subtle and real.
There’s no way for Raymond to know how rare the sight of it is. If he did, Mari is sure he would be absurdly proud of himself.
You jest, but yes, I have. Smile already fading, she halfway unfurls her right wing. As it extends, the ripple of white silk stacked in three perfect stripes appears, fluorescent against layers of dense, shining mahogany feathers. Oath of the Halcyon commander.
